A Man of Two Countries — Text and Context

(0 User reviews) 134

In Category - Science Fiction Utopias

Authors: Harriman, Alice, 1861-1925, Dowling, Colista Murray, 1881-1968 [Illustrator] Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2009 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Political fiction; Montana -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 61,012

Reading time 266 min

Text sections 8

Before opening A Man of Two Countries — Text and Context, the edition data offers a quick orientation: 61,012 words, 4 hr 26 min estimated reading time, and 8 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 13.8 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Political fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #28070

Alice Harriman's 1910 novel follows Philip Danvers across Montana and Alberta, weaving political intrigue with personal drama. The narrative shifts from frontier action to tense interior scenes, using varied pacing and a third-person voice that mirrors the region's transformation.

Editorial Edition Score 4.7/5

★★★★★ ★★★★★

Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.

How this score is calculated

Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg28070

Read the Text

The Hot Blood of Youth

The spring warmed into summer, the summer melted into autumn. Autumn, in turn, chilled into the white world of winter. All thoughts of the little girl on the _Far West_ had slipped from the mind of Danvers, and even the memory of Miss Thornhill became faint--obliterated by the strenuous life of the service. Promotion came in his third year of service as a reward for intelligence and efficiency. Danvers was offered and accepted a commission. He felt that life was good. Fears and homesickness had long since disappeared; the longings for other and more congenial, refined and feminine associates came but seldom; still, the desire for the understanding of one alone, for a loved wife and a son to bear his name was not dead--it was simply dormant in that womanless land.

"The doctor will be here next week," announced Arthur Latimer, who had been bookkeeper in one of the trading-posts ever since he had come to Macleod, soon after Danvers was made a second lieutenant. "Colonel Macleod, I hear, has invited quite a party to visit him from Fort Benton."

"Yes. I heard from the doctor, too." Philip smiled at thought of his friend's surprise at his new rank.

It was not long before the visitors arrived, and, greatly to Danvers' surprise, Miss Thornhill, accompanied by her father, the major, was among them.

The first white woman that he had seen for three years! He had never before realized how dainty a lady is in comparison with her sisters of the lodges. They may be kin in the world relationship, but, oh! the difference one from the other. The squaws, standing stolidly by, were intolerable. As Eva walked consciously past with Colonel Macleod, attended by the staff officers, she gave no sign of recognition other than a heightened color and lowered eye-lashes; but Philip felt that she recognized him. Before the girl reached the barracks Mr. Burroughs entered the stockade. With the assurance of a favored acquaintance, he advanced and pressed the hand of Miss Thornhill.

Danvers turned away. So new a mood assailed him that he went outside the stockade and prowled along the outer wall, not waiting to do more than greet the doctor. How he longed for a touch of that dainty hand, for a word from Eva--from _any_ young woman of his own race! All the manhood, all the heart-hunger of the isolated years, surged within him. He smiled rather piteously. He had not realized that he was starving for the sight of fair skin, sunny hair and slender hands; for a bonny white face--white--white! That was it! A white face, a womanly face! He hardly noticed the muttered "How" of Pine Coulee as she passed, her young babe slung over her back. But he returned her salutation, and after they passed each other he recalled a look on her usually expressionless face that he had never seen there before.

"Here, Phil! Wait for us!" Latimer was calling, and Danvers soon forgot his perturbation in the pleasure of the doctor's presence and congratulations, as he came up with Arthur.

"Got so you can talk, eh?" asked the doctor, noting how the young men vied in their efforts to entertain him. "I told the colonel that I was coming up here to see you, fully as much as him--good friends as we are. You are good to look at, both of you."

"Arthur always could talk," smiled Danvers, "and I can--with my friends."

"How is Burroughs getting along?" asked the doctor, as the trader passed them, too absorbed, apparently, in the recollection of his meeting with Miss Thornhill to note either them or Pine Coulee, who followed him.

"Remarkably well, from a financial standpoint. His living with a squaw makes him popular with the Indians, and the colonel swears by him--thinks he's perfect."

"And the trade in whiskey?"

Latimer shrugged his shoulders expressively.

"That's Bob's squaw," said Arthur, after an awkward pause. "She's as proud as a peacock of that papoose. She rather lords it over her former associates of the lodges."

The doctor whistled. He knew Pine Coulee's story, but had not heard of the child. "Bob will want to marry some day," was his sole comment. "Has Me-Casto ever been caught?"

"No. When he does turn up, Robert Burroughs may look out for trouble."

"Why did Toe String Joe leave the Force?" asked the doctor presently. "He has been in Fort Benton for some little time."

"Drummed out of the service. But he wouldn't tell who supplied him with the whiskey. What is he doing now?"

"Joe is mining. He declares he will be a millionaire."

Continue Reading →

Alice Harriman's A Man of Two Countries opens with a brisk, westward gallop: Philip Danvers and his horsemen round a curve, and the prose matches their momentum. The novel is structured in three books—The River, The Prairie, The State—each altering the narrative's rhythm. Early chapters lean on action and landscape, while later ones tighten into political maneuvering and psychological confrontation. Harriman's third-person narrator moves between external description and internal reflection, often shifting pace within a single scene. The excerpt from Book III, for instance, slows to a near standstill as Danvers finds Judge Latimer contemplating suicide, the dialogue halting and weighted. This editorial note examines how Harriman modulates voice and tempo to underscore the tension between personal crisis and regional change.

From Gallop to Stillness: Pacing as a Narrative Tool

The novel's opening sentence—"Philip Danvers, heading a small party of horsemen, galloped around the co"—establishes a swift, kinetic pace. Harriman sustains this through Book I, where river journeys and prairie crossings dominate. Action is rendered in short, declarative clauses: "He did not repeat it." Yet by Book III, the tempo decelerates markedly. In the scene with Latimer, the prose fragments into hesitation: "Why—why——" and "I couldn't take a run to Fort Benton, Phil." The contrast is deliberate. Harriman uses physical movement to mirror emotional states: Danvers's early restlessness gives way to a stillness that signals crisis. The pacing is not uniform but responsive to character psychology, making the reader feel the weight of each pause.

Voice and the Shifting Register of Dialogue

Harriman's dialogue shifts register between social ease and raw tension. In the salad scene, Winifred's speech is light and fragmented—"I should think—I mean——"—matching the flirtatious mood. Danvers replies with deliberate formality: "I ate it, and I liked it because you made it for me." Later, Latimer's voice becomes impersonal and cold: "I was in possession of what sanity I've had since Arthur——" The dash and ellipsis are recurring typographical cues; they signal emotional fracture. Harriman also uses dialect sparingly, as in "Whoop Up Country," but keeps most characters in standard English, reserving colloquialism for collective description. The narrator's own voice remains steady, never intruding with judgment, which allows the characters' tonal shifts to carry the drama.

Recurring Details: The River, the Prairie, the State

Harriman anchors each book with a recurring detail that shapes its atmosphere. In Book I, the river is a constant presence—mentioned in chapter titles and as a route of travel. Book II shifts to the prairie, described as open and isolating. Book III moves indoors: offices, hotel rooms, and legislative halls. These settings are not mere backdrops; they dictate the narrative's pace. The river scenes are fluid and continuous; the prairie scenes are sparse, with long views; the state scenes are claustrophobic, filled with closed doors and whispered threats. Harriman also repeats the motif of the international boundary—"that invisible line which now draws together instead of separating men of a common tongue"—to underscore the novel's central tension between division and unity. These structural choices give the novel a cohesive geography of mood.

Readers attentive to Harriman's craft will notice how she calibrates sentence length to match emotional stakes. The novel rewards those who track its shifts in tempo—from the rush of the river to the stillness of a loaded revolver. Pay particular attention to the dashes and ellipses; they are not errors but signals of hesitation and rupture. This is a novel that moves as its characters do: sometimes fast, sometimes halting, always with purpose.

Philip Danvers’ restless shifts between Montana and Alberta left me thinking about how place shapes a person’s quiet choices, much like the hidden currents beneath Edwardian currency in A Coin of Edward VII: A Detective Story — Themes and Context. Both stories feel less like plots and more like remembered afternoons, where every glance carries its own weight.