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"The Prince de la Paix arrives this evening," wrote Napoleon to Talleyrand on the 25th of April; "he has been for a month between life and death, always menaced with the latter. Would you believe it that, in this interval, he has never changed his shirt, and has a beard seven inches long? The most absurd calumnies have been laid to his charge.
And their agitation was a pitiful thing to see. In vain they pressed about him, in vain they even pulled the fringe of his shirt to gain his attention. And then they went about among the other chiefs, but these dared not intercede. Uneasiness was written on every man's face, and the talk went haltingly. But Clark was serenity itself.
Kirkland, ghastly pale, bleeding, with his woollen shirt torn, and his blue eyes wide open with terror, was clinging to the bars. "Oh, Mr. North! Mr. North! Oh, Mr. North! Oh, for God's sake, Mr. North!" "What, Kirkland!" cried North, who was ignorant of the vengeance of the Commandant. "What do you do here?" But Kirkland could do nothing but cry, "Oh, Mr. North! For God's sake, Mr.
His dress was rustic, but simple almost to affectation; you would not have found a seal on his white bulging shirt, search as you might, and he wore his cap, with a tuft of meadow-sweet in it, as gallantly as any cavalier.
All this I trickery of art, brought into comparison or contrast with the simple beauty of nature, is offensive. Yet a little beggar boy, with an old straw hat on, and with bare, brown feet, and a burnt shoulder which his torn shirt refuses to cover, would be a painter's joy. Here would be drapery that he would delight to paint, simply because there would be no formality about it.
His nose was large and thin, and when he turned his face square upon me, I saw that his eyes were gray and clear. He wore no coat, his shirt sleeves were rolled back, and though he must have been more than fifty years old, I could see that he had enormous strength in his arms. And he was looking at me admiringly, for he said, "You must be pretty much of a man."
I'd come home, and she'd see what I'd been doing, and she'd up with her sleeves, and " In horrible pantomime, the boy lifted the cuff of his shirt, and pressed his right thumb against the wrist of his other arm. At the memory of it, he gave a shiver and, with a blow, roughly struck the cuff into place. "God!" he muttered, "I couldn't stand it. I begged, and begged her not. I cried.
This is so mystified and clouded with high-sounding words that the poor devil nods at every time the reader stops for breath, or to expectorate tobacco juice, and the ceremony is concluded, and the candidate, respectable for the good clothes which he wears this night as a rarity, follows his conductor to another door, where he hopes for admission, the only impression on the candidate being, that his right arm is weary from being elevated so long, and that he is coming rapidly into good fellowship with men of high judicial standing, who propose to give Abolitionists and Lincoln particular "hell under the shirt tail."
"Tell the man and all whom it may concern," he said in an angry voice, "that I am ready to fight him as he will, on horse or on foot, with lance or sword or axe or dagger, or any or all of them, in mail or without it; or, if it pleases him, stripped to the shirt.
It was so unusual for Miss Georgie to make conversation with him that Saunders was almost pitifully eager to be agreeable. "If it didn't sound cruel, this weather," said Miss Georgie lightly, still looking at him or, more particularly, at the crumpled, soiled collar of his coarse blue shirt "I'd advise you to get out of Hartley once a day, if it was no more than to take a walk.
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