Thomas Carlyle
Past and Present
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Table of contents
INTRODUCTION
Book I—Proem
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Book II—The Ancient Monk
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Book III—The Modern Worker
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Book IV—Horoscope
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
INTRODUCTION
Here
is Carlyle's new poem, his
Iliad of English
woes, to follow his poem on France, entitled the
History of the French Revolution.
In its first aspect it is a political tract, and since Burke, since
Milton, we have had nothing to compare with it. It grapples honestly
with the facts lying before all men, groups and disposes them with a
master's mind, and, with a heart full of manly tenderness, offers his
best counsel to his brothers. Obviously it is the book of a powerful
and accomplished thinker, who has looked with naked eyes at the
dreadful political signs in England for the last few years, has
conversed much on these topics with such wisemen of all ranks and
parties as are drawn to a scholar's house, until, such daily and
nightly meditation has grown into a great connection, if not a system
of thoughts; and the topic of English politics becomes the best
vehicle for the expression of his recent thinking, recommended to him
by the desire to give some timely counsels, and to strip the worst
mischiefs of their plausibility. It is a brave and just book, and not
a semblance. "No new truth," say the critics on all sides.
Is it so? Truth is very old, but the merit of seers is not to invent
but to dispose objects in their right places, and he is the commander
who is always in the mount, whose eye not only sees details, but
throws crowds of details into their right arrangement and a larger
and juster totality than any other. The book makes great approaches
to true contemporary history, a very rare success, and firmly holds
up to daylight the absurdities still tolerated in the English and
European system. It is such an appeal to the conscience and honour of
England as cannot be forgotten, or be feigned to be forgotten. It has
the merit which belongs to every honest book, that it was
self-examining before it was eloquent, and so hits all other men,
and, as the country people say of good preaching, "comes bounce
down into every pew." Every reader shall carry away something.
The scholar shall read and write, the farmer and mechanic shall toil,
with new resolution, nor forget the book when they resume their
labour.Though
no theocrat, and more than most philosophers, a believer in political
systems, Mr. Carlyle very fairly finds the calamity of the times, not
in bad bills of Parliament, nor the remedy in good bills, but the
vice in false and superficial aims of the people, and the remedy in
honesty and insight. Like every work of genius, its great value is in
telling such simple truths. As we recall the topics, we are struck
with force given to the plain truths; the picture of the English
nation all sitting enchanted, the poor, enchanted so that they cannot
work, the rich, enchanted so that they cannot enjoy, and are rich in
vain; the exposure of the progress of fraud into all arts and social
activities; the proposition that the labourer must have a greater
share in his earnings; that the principle of permanence shall be
admitted into all contracts of mutual service; that the state shall
provide at least schoolmaster's education for all the citizens; the
exhortation to the workman that he shall respect the work and not the
wages; to the scholar that he shall be there for light; to the idle,
that no man shall sit idle; the picture of Abbot Samson, the true
governor, who "is not there to expect reason and nobleness of
others, he is there to give them of his own reason and nobleness;"
the assumption throughout the book, that a new chivalry and nobility,
namely the dynasty of labour, is replacing the old nobilities. These
things strike us with a force which reminds us of the morals of the
Oriental or early Greek masters, and of no modern book. Truly in
these things is great reward. It is not by sitting so at a grand
distance and calling the human race
larvae, that men
are to be helped, nor by helping the depraved after their own foolish
fashion; but by doing unweariedly the particular work we were born to
do. Let no man think himself absolved because he does a generous
action and befriends the poor, but let him see whether he so holds
his property that a benefit goes from it to all. A man's diet should
be what is simplest and readiest to be had, because it is so private
a good. His house should be better, because that is for the use of
hundreds, perhaps of thousands, and is the property of the traveler.
But his speech is a perpetual and public instrument; let that always
side with the race and yield neither a lie nor a sneer. His
manners,—let them be hospitable and civilising, so that no Phidias
or Raphael shall have taught anything better in canvas or stone; and
his acts should be representative of the human race, as one who makes
them rich in his having, and poor in his want.It
requires great courage in a man of letters to handle the contemporary
practical questions; not because he then has all men for his rivals,
but because of the infinite entanglements of the problem, and the
waste of strength in gathering unripe fruits. The task is superhuman;
and the poet knows well that a little time will do more than the most
puissant genius. Time stills the loud noise of opinions, sinks the
small, raises the great, so that the true emerges without effort and
in perfect harmony to all eyes; but the truth of the present hour,
except in particulars and single relations, is unattainable. Each man
can very well know his own part of duty, if he will; but to bring out
the truth for beauty, and as literature, surmounts the powers of art.
The most elaborate history of today will have the oddest dislocated
look in the next generation. The historian of today is yet three ages
off. The poet cannot descend into the turbid present without injury
to his rarest gifts. Hence that necessity of isolation which genius
has always felt. He must stand on his glass tripod, if he would keep
his electricity.But
when the political aspects are so calamitous that the sympathies of
the man overpower the habits of the poet, a higher than Literary
inspiration may succour him. It is a costly proof of character, that
the most renowned scholar of England should take his reputation in
his hand and should descend into the ring; and he has added to his
love whatever honour his opinions may forfeit. To atone for this
departure from the vows of the scholar and his eternal duties to this
secular charity, we have at least this gain, that here is a message
which those to whom it was addressed cannot choose but hear. Though
they die, they must listen. It is plain that whether by hope or by
fear, or were it only by delight in this panorama of brilliant
images; all the great classes of English society must read, even
those whose existence it proscribes. Poor Queen Victoria—poor Sir
Robert Peel—poor Primate and Bishops—poor Dukes and Lords! There
is no help in place or pride or in looking another way; a grain of
wit is more penetrating than the lightning of the night-storm, which
no curtains or shutters will keep out. Here is a book which will be
read, no thanks to anybody but itself. What pains, what hopes, what
vows, shall come of the reading! Here is a book as full of treason as
an egg is full of meat, and every lordship and worship and high form
and ceremony of English conservatism tossed like a football into the
air, and kept in the air, with merciless kicks and rebounds, and yet
not a word is punishable by statute. The wit has eluded all official
zeal; and yet these dire jokes, these cunning thrusts, this darning
sword of Cherubim waved high in air, illuminates the whole horizon,
and shows to the eyes of the universe every wound it inflicts. Worst
of all for the party attacked, it bereaves them beforehand of all
sympathy, by anticipating the plea of poetic and humane conservatism,
and impressing the reader with the conviction that the satirist
himself has the truest love for everything old and excellent in
English land and institutions, and a genuine respect for the basis of
truth in those whom he exposes.We
are at some loss how to state what strikes us as the fault of this
remarkable book, for the variety and excellence of the talent
displayed in it is pretty sure to leave all special criticism in the
wrong. And we may easily fail in expressing the general objection
which we feel. It appears to us as a certain disproportion in the
picture, caused by the obtrusion of the whims of the painter. In this
work, as in his former labours, Mr. Carlyle reminds us of a sick
giant. His humours are expressed with so much force of constitution
that his fancies are more attractive and more credible than the
sanity of duller men. But the habitual exaggeration of the tone
wearies whilst it stimulated.It
is felt to be so much deduction from the universality of the picture.
It is not serene sunshine, but everything is seen in lurid storm
lights. Every object attitudinises, to the very mountains and stars
almost, under the refraction of this wonderful humorist; and instead
of the common earth and sky, we have a Martin's Creation or Judgment
Day. A crisis has always arrived which requires a
deus ex machina.
One can hardly credit, whilst under the spell of this magician, that
the world always had the same bankrupt look, to foregoing ages as to
us—as of a failed world just re-collecting its old withered forces
to begin again and try to do a little business. It was perhaps
inseparable from the attempt to write a book of wit and imagination
on English politics, that a certain local emphasis and love of
effect, such as is the vice of preaching, should appear, producing on
the reader a feeling of forlornness by the excess of value attributed
to circumstances. But the splendour of wit cannot out—dazzle the
calm daylight, which always shows every individual man in balance
with his age, and able to work out his own salvation from all the
follies of that, and no such glaring contrasts or severalties in that
or this. Each age has its own follies, as its majority is made up of
foolish young people; its superstitions appear no superstitions to
itself; and if you should ask the contemporary, he would tell you,
with pride or with regret (according as he was practical or poetic),
that he had none. But after a short time, down go its follies and
weakness and the memory of them; its virtues alone remain, and its
limitation assumes the poetic form of a beautiful superstition, as
the dimness of our sight clothes the objects in the horizon with mist
and colour. The revelation of Reason is this of the un-changeableness
of the fate of humanity under all its subjective aspects; that to the
cowering it always cowers, to the daring it opens great avenues. The
ancients are only venerable to us because distance has destroyed what
was trivial; as the sun and stars affect us only grandly, because we
cannot reach to their smoke and surfaces and say, Is that all?And
yet the gravity of the times, the manifold and increasing dangers of
the English State, may easily excuse some over- colouring of the
picture; and we at this distance are not so far removed from any of
the specific evils, and are deeply participant in too many, not to
share the gloom and thank the love and the courage of the counselor.
This book is full of humanity, and nothing is more excellent in this
as in all Mr. Carlyle's works than the attitude of the writer. He has
the dignity of a man of letters, who knows what belongs to him, and
never deviates from his sphere; a continuer of the great line of
scholars, and sustains their office in the highest credit and honour.
If the good heaven have any good word to impart to this unworthy
generation, here is one scribe qualified and clothed for its
occasion. One excellence he has in an age of Mammon and of criticism,
that he never suffers the eye of his wonder to close. Let who will be
the dupe of trifles, he cannot keep his eye oft from that gracious
Infinite which embosoms us.As
a literary artist he has great merits, beginning with the main one
that he never wrote one dull line. How well-read, how adroit, what
thousand arts in his one art of writing; with his expedient for
expressing those unproven opinions which he entertains but will not
endorse, by summoning one of his men of straw from the cell,—and
the respectable Sauerteig, or Teufelsdrockh, or Dryasdust, or
Picturesque Traveler, says what is put into his mouth, and
disappears. That morbid temperament has given his rhetoric a somewhat
bloated character; a luxury to many imaginative and learned persons,
like a showery south-wind with its sunbursts and rapid chasing of
lights and glooms over the landscape, and yet its offensiveness to
multitudes of reluctant lovers makes us often wish some concession
were possible on the part of the humorist. Yet it must not be
forgotten that in all his fun of castanets, or playing of tunes with
a whip-lash like some renowned charioteers,—in all this glad and
needful venting of his redundant spirits, he does yet ever and anon,
as if catching the glance of one wise man in the crowd, quit his
tempestuous key, and lance at him in clear level tone the very word,
and then with new glee return to his game. He is like a lover or an
outlaw who wraps up his message in a serenade, which is nonsense to
the sentinel, but salvation to the ear for which it is meant. He does
not dodge the question, but gives sincerity where it is due.One
word more respecting this remarkable style. We have in literature few
specimens of magnificence. Plato is the purple ancient, and Bacon and
Milton the moderns of the richest strains. Burke sometimes reaches to
that exuberant fullness, though deficient in depth. Carlyle in his
strange, half mad way, has entered the Field of the Cloth of Gold,
and shown a vigour and wealth of resource which has no rival in the
tourney play of these times—the indubitable champion of England.
Carlyle is the first domestication of the modern system, with its
infinity of details, into style. We have been civilising very fast,
building London and Paris, and now planting New England and India,
New Holland and Oregon—and it has not appeared in literature; there
has been no analogous expansion and recomposition in books. Carlyle's
style is the first emergence of all this wealth and labour with which
the world has gone with child so long. London and Europe, tunneled,
graded corn-lawed, with trade-nobility, and East and West Indies for
dependencies, and America, with the Rocky Hills in the horizon, have
never before been conquered in literature. This is the first invasion
and conquest. How like an air-balloon or bird of Jove does he seem to
float over the continent, and stooping here and there pounce on a
fact as a symbol which was never a symbol before. This is the first
experiment, and something of rudeness and haste must be pardoned to
so great an achievement. It will be done again and again, sharper,
simpler; but fortunate is he who did it first, though never so
giant-like and fabulous. This grandiose character pervades his wit
and his imagination. We have never had anything in literature so like
earthquakes as the laughter of Carlyle. He "shakes with his
mountain mirth." It is like the laughter of the Genii in the
horizon. These jokes shake down Parliament-house and Windsor Castle,
Temple and Tower, and the future shall echo the dangerous peals. The
other particular of magnificence is in his rhymes. Carlyle is a poet
who is altogether too burly in his frame and habit to submit to the
limits of metre. Yet he is full of rhythm, not only in the perpetual
melody of his periods, but in the burdens, refrains, and returns of
his sense and music. Whatever thought or motto has once appeared to
him fraught with meaning, becomes an omen to him henceforward, and is
sure to return with deeper tones and weightier import, now as threat,
now as confirmation, in gigantic reverberation, as if the hills, the
horizon, and the next ages returned the sound.
Book I—Proem
Chapter I
MidasThe
condition of England, on which many pamphlets are now in the course
of publication, and many thoughts unpublished are going on in every
reflective head, is justly regarded as one of the most ominous, and
withal one of the strangest, ever seen in this world. England is full
of wealth, of multifarious produce, supply for human want in every
kind; yet England is dying of inanition. With unabated bounty the
land of England blooms and grows; waving with yellow harvests;
thick-studded with workshops, industrial implements, with fifteen
millions of workers, understood to be the strongest, the cunningest
and the willingest our Earth ever had; these men are here; the work
they have done, the fruit they have realised is here, abundant,
exuberant on every hand of us: and behold, some baleful fiat as of
Enchantment has gone forth, saying, "Touch it not, ye workers,
ye master-workers, ye master-idlers; none of you can touch it, no man
of you shall be the better for it; this is enchanted fruit!" On
the poor workers such fiat falls first, in its rudest shape; but on
the rich masterworkers too it falls; neither can the rich
master-idlers, nor any richest or highest man escape, but all are
like to be brought low with it, and made 'poor' enough, in the
money-sense or a far fataller one.Of
these successful skillful workers some two millions, it is now
counted, sit in Workhouses, Poor-law Prisons; or have 'out-door
relief' flung over the wall to them,—the workhouse Bastille being
filled to bursting, and the strong Poor-law broken asunder by a
stronger.* They sit there, these many months now; their hope of
deliverance as yet small. In workhouses, pleasantly so named, because
work cannot be done in them. Twelve hundred thousand workers in
England alone; their cunning right-hand lamed, lying idle in their
sorrowful bosom; their hopes, outlooks, share of this fair world,
shut in by narrow walls. They sit there, pent up, as in a kind of
horrid enchantment; glad to be imprisoned and enchanted, that they
may not perish starved. The picturesque Tourist, in a sunny autumn
day, through this bounteous realm of England, describes the Union
Workhouse on his path. 'Passing by the Workhouse of St. Ives in
Huntingdonshire, on a bright day last autumn,' says the picturesque
Tourist, 'I saw sitting on wooden benches, in front of their Bastille
and within their ringwall and its railings, some half-hundred or more
of these men. Tall robust figures, young mostly or of middle age; of
honest countenance, many of them thoughtful and even
intelligent-looking men. They sat there, near by one another; but in
a kind of torpor, especially in a silence, which was very striking.
In silence: for, alas, what word was to be said? An Earth all lying
round, crying, Come and till me, come and reap me;—yet we here sit
enchanted! In the eyes and brows of these men hung the gloomiest
expression, not of anger, but of grief and shame and manifold
inarticulate distress and weariness; they returned my glance with a
glance that seemed to say, "Do not look at us. We sit enchanted
here, we know not why. The Sun shines and the Earth calls; and, by
the governing Powers and Impotences of this England, we are forbidden
to obey. It is impossible, they tell us!" There was something
that reminded me of Dante's Hell in the look of all this; and I rode
swiftly away.So
many hundred thousands sit in workhouses: and other hundred thousands
have not yet got even workhouses; and in thrifty Scotland itself, in
Glasgow or Edinburgh City, in their dark lanes, hidden from all but
the eye of God, and of rare Benevolence the minister of God, there
are scenes of woe and destitution and desolation, such as, one may
hope, the Sun never saw before in the most barbarous regions where
men dwelt. Competent witnesses, the brave and humane Dr. Alison, who
speaks what he knows, whose noble Healing Art in his charitable hands
becomes once more a truly sacred one, report these things for us:
these things are not of this year, or of last year, have no reference
to our present state of commercial stagnation, but only to the common
state. Not in sharp fever-fits, but in chronic gangrene of this kind
is Scotland suffering. A Poor-law, any and every Poor-law, it may be
observed, is but a temporary measure; an anodyne, not a remedy: Rich
and Poor, when once the naked facts of their condition have come into
collision, cannot long subsist together on a mere Poor-law. True
enough:—and yet, human beings cannot be left to die! Scotland too,
till something better come, must have a Poor-law, if Scotland is not
to be a byword among the nations. O, what a waste is there; of noble
and thrice-noble national virtues; peasant Stoicisms, Heroisms;
valiant manful habits, soul of a Nation's worth,—which all the
metal of Potosi cannot purchase back; to which the metal of Potosi,
and all you can buy with
it, is dross and
dust!Why
dwell on this aspect of the matter? It is too indisputable, not
doubtful now to any one. Descend where you will into the lower class,
in Town or Country, by what avenue you will, by Factory Inquiries,
Agricultural Inquiries, by Revenue Returns, by Mining-Labourer
Committees, by opening your own eyes and looking, the same sorrowful
result discloses itself: you have to admit that the working body of
this rich English Nation has sunk or is fast sinking into a state, to
which, all sides of it considered, there was literally never any
parallel. At Stockport Assizes,— and this too has no reference to
the present state of trade, being of date prior to that,—a Mother
and a Father are arraigned and found guilty of poisoning three of
their children, to defraud a 'burial-society' of some
31.8s. due on the
death of each child: they are arraigned, found guilty; and the
official authorities, it is whispered, hint that perhaps the case is
not solitary, that perhaps you had better not probe farther into that
department of things. This is in the autumn of 1841; the crime itself
is of the previous year or season. "Brutal savages, degraded
Irish," mutters the idle reader of Newspapers; hardly lingering
on this incident. Yet it is an incident worth lingering on; the
depravity, savagery and degraded Irishism being never so well
admitted. In the British land, a human Mother and Father, of white
skin and professing the Christian religion, had done this thing;
they, with their Irishism and necessity and savagery, had been driven
to do it. Such instances are like the highest mountain apex emerged
into view; under which lies a whole mountain region and land, not yet
emerged. A human Mother and Father had said to themselves, What shall
we do to escape starvation? We are deep sunk here, in our dark
cellar; and help is far.—Yes, in the Ugolino Hungertower stern
things happen; best-loved little Gaddo fallen dead on his Father's
knees!—The Stockport Mother and Father think and hint: Our poor
little starveling Tom, who cries all day for victuals, who will see
only evil and not good in this world: if he were out of misery at
once; he well dead, and the rest of us perhaps kept alive? It is
thought, and hinted; at last it is done. And now Tom being killed,
and all spent and eaten, Is it poor little starveling Jack that must
go, or poor little starveling Will?— What an inquiry of ways and
means!In
starved sieged cities, in the uttermost doomed ruin of old Jerusalem
fallen under the wrath of God, it was prophesied and said, 'The hands
of the pitiful women have sodden their own children.' The stern
Hebrew imagination could conceive no blacker gulf of wretchedness;
that was the ultimatum of degraded god-punished man. And we here, in
modern England, exuberant with supply of all kinds, besieged by
nothing if it be not by invisible Enchantments, are we reaching
that?—How come these things? Wherefore are they, wherefore should
they be?Nor
are they of the St. Ives workhouses, of the Glasgow lanes, and
Stockport cellars, the only unblessed among us. This successful
industry of England, with its plethoric wealth, has as yet made
nobody rich; it is an enchanted wealth, and belongs yet to nobody. We
might ask, Which of us has it enriched? We can spend thousands where
we once spent hundreds; but can purchase nothing good with them. In
Poor and Rich, instead of noble thrift and plenty, there is idle
luxury alternating with mean scarcity and inability. We have
sumptuous garnitures for our Life, but have forgotten to
live in the middle
of them. It is an enchanted wealth; no man of us can yet touch it.
The class of men who feel that they are truly better off by means of
it, let them give us their name!Many
men eat finer cookery, drink dearer liquors,—with what advantage
they can report, and their Doctors can: but in the heart of them, if
we go out of the dyspeptic stomach, what increase of blessedness is
there? Are they better, beautifuller, stronger, braver? Are they even
what they call 'happier? Do they look with satisfaction on more
things and human faces in this God's Earth; do more things and human
faces look with satisfaction on them? Not so. Human faces gloom
discordantly, disloyally on one another. Things, if it be not mere
cotton and iron things, are growing disobedient to man. The Master
Worker is enchanted, for the present, like his Workhouse Workman;
clamours, in vain hitherto, for a very simple sort of 'Liberty:' the
liberty 'to buy where he finds it cheapest, to sell where he finds it
dearest.' With guineas jingling in every pocket, he was no whit
richer; but now, the very guineas threatening to vanish, he feels
that he is poor indeed. Poor Master Worker! And the Master Unworker,
is not he in a still fataller situation? Pausing amid his
game-preserves, with awful eye,—as he well may! Coercing
fifty-pound tenants; coercing, bribing, cajoling; doing what he likes
with his own. His mouth full of loud futilities, and arguments to
prove the excellence of his Corn-law;* and in his heart the blackest
misgiving, a desperate half-consciousness that his excellent Corn-law
is indefensible, that his loud arguments for it are of a kind to
strike men too literally
dumb.To
whom, then, is this wealth of England wealth? Who is it that it
blesses; makes happier, wiser, beautifuller, in any way better? Who
has got hold of it, to make it fetch and carry for him, like a true
servant, not like a false mock-servant; to do him any real service
whatsoever? As yet no one. We have more riches than any Nation ever
had before; we have less good of them than any Nation ever had
before. Our successful industry is hitherto unsuccessful; a strange
success, if we stop here! In the midst of plethoric plenty, the
people perish; with gold walls, and full barns, no man feels himself
safe or satisfied. Workers, Master Workers, Unworkers, all men, come
to a pause; stand fixed, and cannot farther. Fatal paralysis
spreading inwards, from the extremities, in St. Ives workhouses, in
Stockport cellars, through all limbs, as if towards the heart itself.
Have we actually got enchanted, then; accursed by some god?—Midas
longed for gold, and insulted the Olympians. He got gold, so that
whatsoever he touched became gold,—and he, with his long ears, was
little the better for it. Midas had misjudged the celestial
music-tones; Midas had insulted Apollo and the gods: the gods gave
him his wish, and a pair of long ears, which also were a good
appendage to it. What a truth in these old Fables!
Chapter II
The
SphinxHow
true, for example, is that other old Fable of the Sphinx, who sat by
the wayside, propounding her riddle to the passengers, which if they
could not answer she destroyed them! Such a Sphinx is this Life of
ours, to all men and societies of men. Nature, like the Sphinx, is of
womanly celestial loveliness and tenderness; the face and bosom of a
goddess, but ending in claws and the body of a lioness. There is in
her a celestial beauty,— which means celestial order, pliancy to
wisdom; but there is also a darkness, a ferocity, fatality, which are
infernal. She is a goddess, but one not yet disimprisoned; one still
half-imprisoned,—the inarticulate, lovely still encased in the
inarticulate, chaotic. How true! And does she not propound her
riddles to us? Of each man she asks daily, in mild voice, yet with a
terrible significance, "Knowest thou the meaning of this Day?
What thou canst do Today; wisely attempt to do?" Nature,
Universe, Destiny, Existence, howsoever we name this grand unnameable
Fact in the midst of which we live and struggle, is as a heavenly
bride and conquest to the wise and brave, to them who can discern her
behests and do them; a destroying fiend to them who cannot. Answer
her riddle, it is well with thee. Answer it not, pass on regarding it
not, it will answer itself; the solution for thee is a thing of teeth
and claws; Nature is a dumb lioness, deaf to thy pleadings, fiercely
devouring. Thou art not now her victorious bridegroom; thou art her
mangled victim, scattered on the precipices, as a slave found
treacherous, recreant, ought to be and must.
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!