tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89374149694601479002024-03-17T20:00:05.044-07:00JSBlog - Journal of a Southern BookreaderRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.comBlogger1226125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-51179239067804965522015-06-08T12:02:00.000-07:002015-06-18T16:28:47.420-07:00The Hole in the Zero<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaHqup3N5YkKCRBaI8tMDk6W0Oza2X15jlVlVhlZkeJfDlg0PvSVZvmwmW9UkF40b4iJVUmkzEfPpb_UwX8LqVQkefjCfwa4zQx3aTdmecyrdv2E0FRqUuJZ_top06xGVWZZpS2nq13g/s1600/thitz_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaHqup3N5YkKCRBaI8tMDk6W0Oza2X15jlVlVhlZkeJfDlg0PvSVZvmwmW9UkF40b4iJVUmkzEfPpb_UwX8LqVQkefjCfwa4zQx3aTdmecyrdv2E0FRqUuJZ_top06xGVWZZpS2nq13g/s200/thitz_small.jpg" width="145" /></a></div>
“We aren’t going to get through,” said Kraag.<br />
“No,” said Paradine, rising to his feet.<br />
Merganser began to laugh uncontrollably. "You— Boss Kraag— Miss Helena—Warden— me— did we know— what we were looking for? Perhaps it's here— in the nothing."<br />
"Look," said Helena, "oh what does it mean?" She pointed to the monitor screens where the patterns had now frozen, but flickered slowly on and off.<br />
"Stasis," "said Paradine, "dimensional inversion, total instability."<br />
<a name='more'></a> "That's buggered it," said the voice of the ship's intercom. The robot jerked to its feet and began walking towards the far wall of the control deck, stripping off its mask and cladding as it did so. The room was changing shape, belling outwards at the end, and the walls vibrated and stank and dissolved, opening out onto a vast floor of darkness. The robot ran free, babbling in a last spasm of his tapes:<br />
"Do not come down the ladder mr pritchard i have taken it away look you bach and when the old troubleandstrife told me i couldn't adamandeve it till i'd taken a ballofchalk up the applesandpears and seen it with me own mincepies for ah belong tae glasgow and a man's a man for for a' that if you'll pardon the expression sir seeing as howcomewhatsoever five four three two one liftoff and who'll come a waltzing matilda with me . . ."<br />
As it leapt and ran, its body stretched taller and taller, an attenuated metal spider kilometres high, until there was nothing left but the giant head which melted, raining tears of white-hot metal through the void. The ship tilted suddenly, and without a sound Boss Kraag and Billy Boy, Miss Helen and the Warden spilled out. They fell for a symptotic time through infinite space toward the floor of darkness, which grew smaller, contracting to a point. When they met, they<br />
- MK Joseph, <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2008/02/hole-in-zero.html"><i><b>The Hole in the Zero</b></i></a>, London: Victor Gollancz, 1967.Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-69644549974096148432015-06-08T00:08:00.001-07:002015-06-18T16:36:35.559-07:00The Centauri Device<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-9Fn80fzfdY5xsZ2rqyTK48sD6Ws4xiw9GSZpjE4IMiHDGOjqA98S0PNY7emdl51bI7P_ip4UJGpSPuQWcF4gmK4UbM_h52r5SUiJTyuTokwRwzrJ5lGs6ZR4Hjr8MpsKKpdXNkD0A/s1600/14337133608431098520541.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-9Fn80fzfdY5xsZ2rqyTK48sD6Ws4xiw9GSZpjE4IMiHDGOjqA98S0PNY7emdl51bI7P_ip4UJGpSPuQWcF4gmK4UbM_h52r5SUiJTyuTokwRwzrJ5lGs6ZR4Hjr8MpsKKpdXNkD0A/s200/14337133608431098520541.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
Well, there's always a plus side. I'm in hospital again, and a bit stuck for reading. But among the books in Richard's Room, the little family/chillout room next to the Yeo Ward in Exeter's RD&E - amid Cookson, Cussler, King, Cornell, Helen Fielding ... aaargh! ... I did find just one good book, one I haven't read for around 35 years, M. John Harrison's classic SF novel <b><i>The Centauri Device</i></b>.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
This is an iconic novel that has a complex mix of many flavours. The cover blurb unfortunately wades straight in with GALACTIC ARMAGEDDON and "the most destructive and mysterious weapon ever made", but this is a cartoon-y summary that completely undersells the complexity of theme. The cover is particularly wrong to compare it to the naff outpourings of E.E. 'Doc' Smith and A.E. Van Vogt.<br />
At a broad level, with its standard tropes of galactic trade, travel, conflict and battle, <i>The Centauri Device</i> is bound to be classed as 'Space Opera'. But it also been viewed as proto-cyberpunk, with its general atmosphere of high-tech combined with low-life (its antihero John Truck, the down-at-heel loser of a space captain in combat jacket and leather hat, is as low-life as you get). It has elements of near-future dystopian SF, with still-relevant present-day politics writ large: the Earth is divided into two power blocs - the IWG (Israeli World Government) and the UASR (Union of Arab Socialist Republics) - which are skirmishing for control of the rest of the galaxy. And there's a general 60s-70s 'New Wave SF' / 'Beat' sensibility to the setting, with a focus on countercultural characters, artists and musicians. There's so much to the mix.<br />
Truck's central importance to the story is that his mother was a pure-bred Centauran, one of a diaspora of many similar low-lifers from a people (human, but not lately from Earth) whose culture had been destroyed in the Centauri Genocide two centuries before the setting of the book.. The Centaurans had one cosmic asset: the unused Centauri Device, an object known only to have immense power - various factions have mythologized it as a bomb, a propaganda broadcaster, even God.<br />
This adds a further level to the book: that it's a competitive Grail Quest. And Truck finds himself dragged along as a follower of that quest. In this there are quite strong thematic similarities to Samuel R Delany's 1968 <i><b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2009/03/nova-and-samuel-r-delany.html?m=1">Nova</a></b></i>, which I've mentioned previously. In that, even though the object of the quest is well-known at a mundane level - its "Illyrion" is an unspecified mix of superheavy elements - it's also "something else" ... "many things to many men".<br />
Back to <i>The Centauri Device</i>. The catch is that only a Centauran can activate it. It detects as characteristically Earth-human the urge to chase Grails, and furthermore even to specify what 'boon' the seeker might want. Truck lacks that faculty; and while that evidently accounts for his destiny as a loser with no great visions, it's ironically what also identifies him as a Centauran.<br />
<br />
Recommended.<br />
<br />
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-62707575142736156072015-06-06T05:02:00.003-07:002015-06-13T18:34:46.550-07:00Apart from that, how did you enjoy the visit?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXIum4JKJsGHQqruuLVJObL5AgSFr6DeRDnT42nQqBeCC2u0X40MxetPp9mOagLiANQt8BVO8CA9k-nBvRClws7RSbc1ZTuC4uVMjr5ckQvwa85uk6Ohhjr2aKbHiZT8XZXs_yLHUeNw/s1600/borneback00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXIum4JKJsGHQqruuLVJObL5AgSFr6DeRDnT42nQqBeCC2u0X40MxetPp9mOagLiANQt8BVO8CA9k-nBvRClws7RSbc1ZTuC4uVMjr5ckQvwa85uk6Ohhjr2aKbHiZT8XZXs_yLHUeNw/s1600/borneback00.jpg" /></a></div>
Sorry, but I keep finding Blackgang Chine out-takes. This one's from <i>The Quiver</i> and a serialised inspirational novel <i><b>Borne Back</b></i>, by Emma E Hornibrook, another late-Victorian writer with more credits than you'd think (cue bibliography).<br />
<a name='more'></a><blockquote class="tr_bq">
As we once more placed ice upon her head there was another change: she shuddered violently, and raved of a wondrous chasm we had visited in the Island.<br />
"The Blackgang Chine,'' she murmured, "the Blackgang Chine! Why must I live for ever there! All darkness—all gloom—and that dreadful water ever dashing down. I cannot climb those heights—I cannot escape. Desolate—most desolate! I will not stay. Why force me downward!"<br />
With a wild motion she sought to fling herself from the bed, but the nurse's strong detaining hand was upon her with a calming touch. She yielded to its influence and lay still.</blockquote>
This is from <i><b>Borne Back</b></i> (By the author of "Allie; or, Into the Light,", True to a Trust, etc, etc", [serial in] <i>The Quiver: An Illustrated Magazine for Sunday and General Reading</i>, Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co., London, Paris & New York, Vol. XVI, 1881).<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQ8b2kykT0-4xRZnBcnQKWxre8i_u0wTCdFNy-CeX0kYihghy8YkREnuXszxqpFST2fNzioNuo4AsewqQ9om-gJ94KwKF-eXHFkECSKUbjbEwXGnurlkzqhnD5gYC6v9T70qYGxKnMA/s1600/borneback01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyQ8b2kykT0-4xRZnBcnQKWxre8i_u0wTCdFNy-CeX0kYihghy8YkREnuXszxqpFST2fNzioNuo4AsewqQ9om-gJ94KwKF-eXHFkECSKUbjbEwXGnurlkzqhnD5gYC6v9T70qYGxKnMA/s400/borneback01.jpg" width="322" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'See, miss!' he exclaimed, 'there is no danger if they can swim.' </td></tr>
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Why all the Blackgang-xiety? Well, <i>Borne Back</i> is broadly a novel about (mild) loss of religious conviction: the narrator goes "frivolous" in some unspecified way, and recovers her faith at the end. It's also a real Mary Sue of a romance. It's not just a poor-but-pious outcome, but she ends up marrying the rich Hugh Capel, who has just inherited estates from his late father, General Capel.<br />
The problem with the Chine is that the family goes on a pleasant trip to the Isle of Wight (including its "singular chasms") ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
And then we went to Ryde; and in wanderings mid the lovely scenery of the garden isle, in the delightful breezes on the downs, in frequent excursions to its singular chasms, above all, in happy unhindered communion, my mind recovered its calm, and my fears were lulled to rest.</blockquote>
... but it all goes pear-shaped when the narrator’s brother drowns in a yacht race accident (the helmsman has “taken a draught from a secret flask”) and her mother is badly affected. All ends well, however, helped along by that convenient marriage into money.<br />
<br />
<i>A Guide to Irish Fiction </i>has this to say about the author:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
HORNIBROOK, Mrs Emma E., pseud. 'E.E.H.' ... Children's and religious fiction writer, possibly of Irish origin ... author of 15 works of fiction, at least two of which have clear Irish connections. <span class="st">She also was the author of 'Clouds', and 'Mad Phil', which have not been located.</span><br />
- <i>A Guide to Irish Fiction, 1650-1900</i> (Rolf Loeber, Magda Stouthamer-Loeber, Anne Mullin Burnham, Four Courts, 2006).</blockquote>
I think we can beat 15. I haven't got far with biographical details, but credits on many publications put her in America - Worcester, Mass. - in her later career, a supporter of peace and animal causes.<br />
<br />
Addendum, 7th June<br />
I have this from the 1915 Who's Who in New England:<br />
HORNIBROOKE, Isabel (Isabel Hornibrook). author; b. in Ireland, of English parents; d. Nicholls Cole-Bowen and Emma Emilia (Bates) Hornibrooke; ed. under pvt. tutors; unmarried. First story accepted for an English magazine at 14; came to America in 1892, and subsequently established home in Worcester, Mass. Address: 23 Hollywood St., Worcester, Mass.<br />
<br />
Isabel Hornibrook checks out separately as an author of the early 20th century - more later on that maybe - but this suggests that both mother and daughter were writers. But I don't get the chronology; and in fact I'm wondering if there was some overlap of pseudonyms and writing topics.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<hr />
<b>Bibliography for Emma E Hornibrook</b><br />
<ul>
<li><i><b>Borne Back</b></i> (serial, By the Author of "Allie; or, Into the Light," "True to a Trust," etc., etc. <i>The Quiver, An Illustrated Magazine for Sunday and General Reading</i>, Vol. XVI, 1881, page 239).</li>
<li><b><i>Through Shadow to Sunshine</i></b> ((by Emma E. Hornibrook, Author of "Into the Light," "Rynge Castle," "True to a Trust," "Borne Back," etc., etc.London: Nisbet & Co., 1883 [1882]). Accessible online via the Bodleian: <span class="EXLDetailsDisplayVal"><a href="http://solo.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=OXVU1&docId=oxfaleph014509463">014509463</a>.</span>
</li>
<li><i><b>Life's Music; or, My Children and Me</b></i>. [A story.] (by Emma E Hornibrook, author of "Maggie's Friend," "True to a Trust," "Borne Back," "Marvellous in our Eyes," "Through Shadow to Sunshine," "Faithful to the King," "Not a Stranger," etc., etc. London: Nisbet & Co., 1883). Accessible online via the Bodleian: <a href="http://solo.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=OXVU1&docId=oxfaleph014512492"><span class="EXLDetailsDisplayVal">014512492</span></a>.</li>
<li><i><b>Not a Stranger </b></i>(serial - <i>The Churchman's Penny Magazine</i>, starting January 1883) - ad in <i>Christian Progress</i> magazine, 1883. </li>
<li><b><i>Marvellous in our Eyes: a Story of Providence</i></b> (by Emma E Hornibrook, New York: Cassell & Co., 1886 - one of Cassell's "Rainbow Series"). (Also serial in <i>The Quiver</i>, Vol. 18, starting c. April 1883, page 33): "a commonplace little story, that will hardly interest any but those who read everything" - <i>The Critic</i>, June 19, 1886.</li>
<li><i><b>Masterful Manerman</b></i> (serial? - <i>The Churchman's Penny Magazine</i>, 1884?) - ad in <i>Christian Progress</i> magazine, 1884.</li>
<li><i>The Black Lady of Rynge Castle, and Other Sketches</i> (author uncredited, London: The Religous Tract Society, 1884) - including The Black Lady of Rynge Castle, The Missing Key, The Outcast, Happy Mary, "That's Just Where I be Done!". This is probably the "Rynge Castle" credited via title in <i>Through Shadow to Sunshine</i>.<br />The Black Lady of Rynge Castle, The Missing Key, The Outcast, Happy Mary, "That's Just Where I be Done!". </li>
<li><b><i>Life's Music</i></b> (by EE Hornibrook, <i>The Primitive Methodist Magazine</i>, Volume 65, 1884, page 58). </li>
<li><i><b>One Link in a Chain</b></i>. [A tale.] (London: Gall & Inglis, 1885). Accessible online via the Bodleian: <a href="http://solo.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=OXVU1&docId=oxfaleph014509549"><span class="EXLDetailsDisplayVal">014509549</span></a>.</li>
<li><i><b>Worth the Winning</b></i> (London: J. F. Shaw and Co., 1885). Accessible online via the Bodleian: <a href="http://solo.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=OXVU1&docId=oxfaleph014511090">014511090</a>.</li>
<li><i><b>Low in a Low Place</b>: A Story</i> - (S. W. Partridge & Co, 1886).</li>
<li><i><b>The Queen of the Family</b></i>. [A tale.] (London: J Nisbet & Co., 1886).</li>
<li><b><i>Transito: A Story of Brazil</i></b> (serial, Partridge & Co, 1887) - “a certain freshness in its abundant incidents of South American life in the forest and on the prairie, which may be attributed to the circumstance that its materials are not imaginary, but are derived from real records of missionary experiences” - Current literature, <i>Daily New</i>s, London, November 16, 1887). Accessible online via the Bodleian: <a href="http://solo.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=OXVU1&docId=oxfaleph014509528"><span class="EXLDetailsDisplayVal">014509528</span></a>.<i><b> </b></i></li>
<li><i><b>Cost What it May</b>: a Story of Cavaliers and Roundheads</i>
(London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1897, Girls' Select Library series) “relates the experiences of Mark
Hayward, an officer in the Puritan Army during the exciting times of the
Civil War.” - Literature, <i>Leeds Mercury</i>, December 21, 1887.</li>
<li><i><b>The Shadow of Nobility</b></i> (London: T. Woolmer, 1888).</li>
<li><i><b>More than Kin</b></i> (London: CH Kelly, 1889).</li>
<li><b><i>Send and See</i></b>. Miss De Broen's Belleville Mission in Paris. Edited by Mrs. E. E. Hornibrook. vol. 1. no. 1-16. Miss De Broen's Belleville Mission (PARIS), London, [1890-92].</li>
<li><i><b>Queen of the Ranche; or, Life in the Far West</b></i> (Illustrated by John Proctor. Emma E. HORNIBROOK, and HORNIBROOK (John Lawrence), London; Sydney: Griffith Farran Okeden & Welsh, 1890).</li>
<li><i><b>The Lost Bar</b></i> (by Mrs Emma E. Hornibrook, serial in <i>The Manaro Mercury</i>, and <i>Cooma and Bombala Advertiser</i>, New South Wales, 1890). Online: see National Library of Australia's <a href="http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/result?q=%22Hornibrook%22+%22lost+bar%22">Trove</a> for installments.</li>
<li><i><b>Look on this Picture and That</b> (A True Story</i>), (poem, as Mrs EE Hornibrook, <i>Advocate of Peace</i>, Boston: American Peace Society, Vol. XV, No. 3, March 1893, page 1). Online at Internet Archive via JSTOR: <a href="https://archive.org/details/jstor-27899855">jstor-27899855</a>.</li>
<li><i><b>All is Fair in War as in Love</b></i>, (poem, as Mrs EE Hornibrook, <i>Advocate of Peace</i>, Boston: American Peace Society, July 1, 1893, page 151). Online at Internet Archive via JSTOR: jstor-<a href="https://archive.org/details/jstor-27899928">27899928</a>. </li>
<li><b>Some Mother's Son</b>, (poem, as Mrs EE Hornibrook, <i>Advocate of Peace</i>, Boston: American Peace Society, August 1, 1894, page 175). Online at Internet Archive via JSTOR: <a href="https://archive.org/details/jstor-20665171">jstor-20665171</a>.</li>
<li><i><b>The Spanish Maiden</b>: A Story of Brazil</i> (illustrated by EC Walker, SW Partridge, 1895).</li>
<li><i><b>The Lady of Greyham: or, “Low in a Low Place,”</b> etc.</i> [A new edition of “Low in a Low Place.”] (SW Partridge & Co., 1900).</li>
<li><i><b>Allie; or The Little Irish Girl</b></i> (London: Gall and Inglis Edinburgh, 1900?). Credited also as “Allie; or, Into the Light" by E.E.H. The British Library provisional date of 1900 seems far too late; this title is credited in the 1881 <i>The Quiver</i>.</li>
<li><i><b>Changing Places</b></i> (article in Household section, Emma E Hornibrook, <i>The New York Observer</i>, October 26, 1905, page 539). <a href="http://hdl.handle.net/2027/nyp.33433003183674?urlappend=%3Bseq=1401">Online via Hathitrust</a>.</li>
<li><b><i>The Merit of Mirth</i></b> (article, Emma E Hornibrook, <i>Western Christian Advocate</i>, May 16, 1906, page 11). <a href="http://hdl.handle.net/2027/nyp.33433003081449?urlappend=%3Bseq=629">Online via Hathitrust</a>. </li>
<li><i><b>A Reason of the Hope</b></i> (article/letter from "Emma E Hornibrook, Worcester, Mass." <span content="The Epworth herald., v. 18 (1907-1908)." href="http://purl.org/dc/dcmitype/Text" rel="dc:type">The Epworth Herald. Vol. 18, July 1907, page 189)</span>. <a href="http://hdl.handle.net/2027/nyp.33433003115031?urlappend=%3Bseq=189">Online via Hathitrust</a>.</li>
<li><i><b>Pet of the Family</b></i> (poem, <i>Our Dumb Animals</i>, [Boston] Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, Vol. 41, No. 1, June 1908, page 107). <a href="http://hdl.handle.net/2027/umn.31951001900636x?urlappend=%3Bseq=95">Online via Hathitrust</a>.</li>
<li><b><i>Animal instinct</i></b> (article, <i>Our Dumb Animals</i>, [Boston] Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, Vol. 41, No. 1, June 1908, page 182).</li>
<li><i><b>Love's Moulding</b></i> (poem, Emma E. Hornibrook, <i>National Magazine</i>, Vol. XXX, No. 5, August 1909, page 546). <a href="http://hdl.handle.net/2027/uiug.30112110969315?urlappend=%3Bseq=582">Online via Hathitrust</a>.</li>
<li><b><i>The Fidelity Club</i></b> (fiction - a comedy of misunderstanding - as Mrs EE Hornibrook,<i> National Magazine</i>, Boston: Chapple Publishing Co., Volume 31, No. 3, December 1909, page 289). </li>
</ul>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_SzfmUr6GhpAYL2MBslKE93w34hkdqw8JBM1LBg-BPai9tzjdeFcn21oQvygeKLCEMLcmAXSvnGV_hEZ6v7k7IsGABAqkfW8Oxe47ie2eoyl8VvC1nA_7YbplNNBYzJRlDgnO1MBjA/s1600/fidelityclub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_SzfmUr6GhpAYL2MBslKE93w34hkdqw8JBM1LBg-BPai9tzjdeFcn21oQvygeKLCEMLcmAXSvnGV_hEZ6v7k7IsGABAqkfW8Oxe47ie2eoyl8VvC1nA_7YbplNNBYzJRlDgnO1MBjA/s400/fidelityclub.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Fidelity Club - Google Books scan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXTyln4mXgARDNtbnIgC858iuvP8uHGRkpgIp7FP8iApFRITGnNgXmlSD9MrlNUfTTx8i9ojRFVnn2sgTqEOJfiG8axHBuXAYQwgGSbMMIEqRBJB5jFrWhOA57enTe-rnkUTJ0Rxaiyw/s1600/ourdumbanimalschristmasparty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXTyln4mXgARDNtbnIgC858iuvP8uHGRkpgIp7FP8iApFRITGnNgXmlSD9MrlNUfTTx8i9ojRFVnn2sgTqEOJfiG8axHBuXAYQwgGSbMMIEqRBJB5jFrWhOA57enTe-rnkUTJ0Rxaiyw/s400/ourdumbanimalschristmasparty.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A Christmas Party" - image adjacent to <i><b>Pet of the Family</b></i> - Hathitrust source<i><b>.</b></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
- Ray
Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-2153035236136208262015-06-05T18:30:00.001-07:002015-06-06T19:18:00.678-07:00When London meets Japan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdoHM9nJX9CcTOt94g4B1nkpMoJrB1C5bAYIiDj43M1MI_BTUADYSdKZ0N0vy4npq3mPQmUZdOWFXIpx0f7gpqkDyaHARVTsvoZI-SxFoUvJGa9Ao3z2YeilPcY022d14rfKstr0bWw/s1600/johnbullesses00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsdoHM9nJX9CcTOt94g4B1nkpMoJrB1C5bAYIiDj43M1MI_BTUADYSdKZ0N0vy4npq3mPQmUZdOWFXIpx0f7gpqkDyaHARVTsvoZI-SxFoUvJGa9Ao3z2YeilPcY022d14rfKstr0bWw/s1600/johnbullesses00.jpg" /></a></div>
The author <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_Sladen"><b>Douglas Sladen</b></a> - writer of the May 1895 <i>Windsor Magazine</i> piece "Odd Scenes in Japanese Streets" - rang bells, though I've never written about him on JSBlog. It eventually dawned on me that I'd mentioned him in <a href="http://www.maxwellgray.co.uk/"><i><b>A Wren-like Note</b></i></a> as a neighbour of Maxwell Gray after she moved to Richmond.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Nor did I ever meet Miss M. G. Tuttiett, who, since she wrote her great Silence of Dean Maitland, has been known to all the world as " Maxwell Gray," until I became her neighbour at Richmond. These lost years have deprived me of a great pleasure, because, apart from my admiration for her novels, I share two of her hobbies—her enthusiasm for her garden and her enthusiasm for Italy.<br />
- <b><i>Twenty Years of my Life</i></b> (Douglas Sladen, New York: EP Dutton & Company, 1913, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft">twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft</a>). </blockquote>
Sladen's<i> Twenty Years of my Life</i> is a relentless name-drop-fest. Maybe he just got stuck in his working mode as editor of <i>Who's Who</i>, but I doubt it. If he wasn't showcasing his multitudinous celebrity friends (My Novelist Friends, Part 1 ... My Novelist Friends, Part 2 ... My Novelist Friends, Part 3 ... Other Author Friends ... Friends Who Never Came to Addison Mansions ... My Traveller Friends ... My Actor Friends) he was showcasing his home, 32 Addison Mansions, of which there are four colour portraits in the book.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYHgGBN6MYDGNAGucq19AamS68LjPSgyWD44GXweR4EdxShFF75y-ap45Ni4V1nUFH32w4uvMxFdXviZVQxsMbOadokxZXu2i5dZ6STXiteSNB9RBrY1GhBGiOD_3AHeyvT_CEUC4aw/s1600/twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft_0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYHgGBN6MYDGNAGucq19AamS68LjPSgyWD44GXweR4EdxShFF75y-ap45Ni4V1nUFH32w4uvMxFdXviZVQxsMbOadokxZXu2i5dZ6STXiteSNB9RBrY1GhBGiOD_3AHeyvT_CEUC4aw/s400/twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft_0008.jpg" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Roof Garden and Pompeian Fountain<br />
at 32 Addison Mansions<br />
(From the Painting by Yoshio Markino)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3p-OQOdRmV3k5m2iRjfAkarFXWs1QBwIwCCWEBrCs3xx3iASQUen8_gKqGz18SSKjBgB5elUuOko-qOQ71tj4viNfHquf1ZA0Mw27hGEAeteSJqyTdXHbGCc0gs9Jzf3lPD8N6l_wAw/s1600/twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft_0099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3p-OQOdRmV3k5m2iRjfAkarFXWs1QBwIwCCWEBrCs3xx3iASQUen8_gKqGz18SSKjBgB5elUuOko-qOQ71tj4viNfHquf1ZA0Mw27hGEAeteSJqyTdXHbGCc0gs9Jzf3lPD8N6l_wAw/s400/twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft_0099.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Moorish Room at 32 Addison Mansions<br />
(From the Painting by Yoshio Markino)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRc_uUKqerqSNlb7BROeTSRJqx_hmYcCVHxUwF3iSVpBbeIN8X3v-8t9JalI2FeZSonr_NXNzc1V7r09WXkoYWWE9Ed93sjzoeFUbMTeXBdxDHXl-wirSyLGSxX6s-ywt7I-xsd8fXhA/s1600/twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft_0245.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRc_uUKqerqSNlb7BROeTSRJqx_hmYcCVHxUwF3iSVpBbeIN8X3v-8t9JalI2FeZSonr_NXNzc1V7r09WXkoYWWE9Ed93sjzoeFUbMTeXBdxDHXl-wirSyLGSxX6s-ywt7I-xsd8fXhA/s400/twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft_0245.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dining Room at 32 Addison Mansions<br />
(From the Painting by Yoshio Markino)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkClS3hLJjhN618StSdD-Ldfk9HvakNDuRRijskLA58r6k9Z0Fk0Rb8eydvetnUxEZ7TFvPbdXGUaAB0e_YDB_CmcIDy8iwr3VqNfcPOMHREsJEQ5HDLyMdycA-zuZAMVC9iaKEYngg/s1600/twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft_0353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkClS3hLJjhN618StSdD-Ldfk9HvakNDuRRijskLA58r6k9Z0Fk0Rb8eydvetnUxEZ7TFvPbdXGUaAB0e_YDB_CmcIDy8iwr3VqNfcPOMHREsJEQ5HDLyMdycA-zuZAMVC9iaKEYngg/s400/twentyyearsofmyl00sladuoft_0353.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Japanese Room at 32 Addison Mansions<br />
(From the Painting by Yoshio Markino)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Sladen appears to have been a distinct Japanophile ... and yet there's a tone to it all. Check out the list: "Odd Scenes in Japanese Streets", <a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924011504762"><b><i>The Japs at Home</i></b></a> (1895), <a href="https://archive.org/details/ajapanesemarria00sladgoog"><b><i>A Japanese Marriage</i></b></a> (1895), <a href="https://archive.org/details/queerthingsabou03sladgoog"><b><i>Queer Things about Japan</i></b></a> (1903), <a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924023496510"><i><b>More Queer Things about Japan</b></i></a> (1904), <a href="https://archive.org/details/japaninpictures00sladgoog"><i><b>Japan in Pictures</b></i></a> (1904), <a href="https://archive.org/details/playinggamestory00sladrich"><i><b>Playing . . the Game : a Story of Japan</b></i></a> (1905, retitled <b><i>When we were Lovers in Japan</i></b> for the 1906 edition). SThere's no doubt that he's a meticulous observer of Japanese culture, a sympathetic admirer of Japan, aware of racism and culture shock (his novel <i>Playing . . the Game : a Story of Japan</i> in fact has a central character who overcomes his racist assumptions). But at the end of it, there's a still an edge to it - his over-riding reaction is "Look how deeply <i>weird</i> this place is", and he still falls into stereotypes, as in his <i>ameya </i>description where "the children stand round the stall in silent, stolid Asiatic expectation". And it looks the same when he directs his observation elsewhere: <a href="https://archive.org/details/queerthingsabou00sladgoog"><b><i>Queer Things about Sicily</i></b></a> (1905), <a href="https://archive.org/details/queerthingsabou02sladgoog"><b><i>Queer Things about Persia</i></b></a> (1907), and <a href="https://archive.org/details/queerthingsabou00slad"><b><i>Queer Things about Egypt</i></b></a> (1910).<br />
<br />
<b>The paintings of 32 Addison Mansions</b> in <i>Twenty Years of my Life</i>, as well as the monochrome line drawings of Sladen's friends, are by the Japanese artist <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yoshio_Markino">Yoshio Markino</a>, who's worth checking out in his own right. He has a very distinctive style: a kind of Impressionist take on lighting and the placement of figures in scenes, but with a precision combined with a receding misty visibility, mostly in the Japanese style of the time, but on occasion outright Turneresque. Probably his best-known work was the some 50 paintings illustrating WJ Loftie's 1907 <b><i>The Colour of London</i></b> ; the Internet Archive scans are either messed up with colour <span class="st">Moiré patterns</span> or irreparably undersaturated. But there are also nice examples in his own book, the 1910 <i><b>A Japanese Artist in London</b></i>; the gallery below<i><b> </b></i>is from this.<br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV_lQiGHhm7tmFb5QaP4WWn04GiiYOn8mpruPDPp0-LElJvbZclabbg7IfxhSGMMHCySEEfZixTS4VXwblHknSPJVmvnYxT5TcPpiHecPQFbto2iMJZ_bTYkderr5AZGmg9p-p6n29UA/s1600/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV_lQiGHhm7tmFb5QaP4WWn04GiiYOn8mpruPDPp0-LElJvbZclabbg7IfxhSGMMHCySEEfZixTS4VXwblHknSPJVmvnYxT5TcPpiHecPQFbto2iMJZ_bTYkderr5AZGmg9p-p6n29UA/s400/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0008.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fulham Road<br />
Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>A Japanese Artist in London</i> (1910)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiso3s6Bezmoc2NpkhjFxIJyn6EFcB3kMHajS4Na0WWpf1Z9rkpOj4GdX4PvH-e_fyWOQIJmcxkhx130dk0q7tCZoDWS3F3krFI6ZmqqQ4VKvIJP7uFYJkRxOVVIcB-RCn7HuW2H7-DKA/s1600/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiso3s6Bezmoc2NpkhjFxIJyn6EFcB3kMHajS4Na0WWpf1Z9rkpOj4GdX4PvH-e_fyWOQIJmcxkhx130dk0q7tCZoDWS3F3krFI6ZmqqQ4VKvIJP7uFYJkRxOVVIcB-RCn7HuW2H7-DKA/s400/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0039.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chelsea Embankment<br />
Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>A Japanese Artist in London</i> (1910)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59MC7Ii9WGITxiqZnxy4NJ5xvTakDU3Fi6CLC52wZa-AQpoOe6nDrzB4q9hr8GoTilDxkcjDbqPZ7PJUAvj-gNk2L5fbj99oQPBZxvyAi1W20cZEJkpMCACdxXQJfGPDmPAviq7Qi9g/s1600/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59MC7Ii9WGITxiqZnxy4NJ5xvTakDU3Fi6CLC52wZa-AQpoOe6nDrzB4q9hr8GoTilDxkcjDbqPZ7PJUAvj-gNk2L5fbj99oQPBZxvyAi1W20cZEJkpMCACdxXQJfGPDmPAviq7Qi9g/s400/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0089.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside St. George's Hospital<br />
Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>A Japanese Artist in London</i> (1910)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNJJ0i9xWXjmmvTGlhLX5vGztrz4Q_l-6RLS1Pg-ja46xYodAEk2XVyrvRlolH4tmvGx1q9ErbgwnmTqxw0mxBo4aL8xEcYshxwSfYvJkx75LACM38qGpv0p1H0qik1a6StTgWQqtiQ/s1600/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNJJ0i9xWXjmmvTGlhLX5vGztrz4Q_l-6RLS1Pg-ja46xYodAEk2XVyrvRlolH4tmvGx1q9ErbgwnmTqxw0mxBo4aL8xEcYshxwSfYvJkx75LACM38qGpv0p1H0qik1a6StTgWQqtiQ/s400/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0107.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hyde Park Corner<br />
Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>A Japanese Artist in London</i> (1910)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qNHqEWoBFe0B-eTJ0fGNn2FauWdesXxoYz_RALrIdYjBjHSowE_Zc4JJ0S4_HKaJAIeN6opBlh8FG0R5WbnS1jPtMf_GgtZmBUqW2omZS8M_YNdzJv9OlGU0efzdrS5f94JG1sv1Vg/s1600/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5qNHqEWoBFe0B-eTJ0fGNn2FauWdesXxoYz_RALrIdYjBjHSowE_Zc4JJ0S4_HKaJAIeN6opBlh8FG0R5WbnS1jPtMf_GgtZmBUqW2omZS8M_YNdzJv9OlGU0efzdrS5f94JG1sv1Vg/s400/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0123.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside South Kensington Museum<br />
Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>A Japanese Artist in London</i> (1910)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlj4DmH-RRMeQZF1_QU9JYFcn7lFh6N6FdpGAJstrKTZ87DqRcrcLJcMYqxs9x1SyZz7nerbQdkWvgH4N7q9ddKBDb_Ew82T2J96HI6NLKu3lcl0XfiJ51AwFVC6u20KsU5CvN334lzQ/s1600/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlj4DmH-RRMeQZF1_QU9JYFcn7lFh6N6FdpGAJstrKTZ87DqRcrcLJcMYqxs9x1SyZz7nerbQdkWvgH4N7q9ddKBDb_Ew82T2J96HI6NLKu3lcl0XfiJ51AwFVC6u20KsU5CvN334lzQ/s400/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0155.jpg" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chelsea Church<br />
Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>A Japanese Artist in London</i> (1910)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLtCFebFgkPK6lfYSw1rzO1liHeuYMPBOPWJneZLd1aFm6ZCeIAak9owP2lf-X5glF5GtIozv6AY2CU3ot7Y8GMC2Bwjvs_oFt_kmjLA8YkPzAXZiJj-SLLyEMSsnbLvfUDPEwr9JEw/s1600/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0187.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLtCFebFgkPK6lfYSw1rzO1liHeuYMPBOPWJneZLd1aFm6ZCeIAak9owP2lf-X5glF5GtIozv6AY2CU3ot7Y8GMC2Bwjvs_oFt_kmjLA8YkPzAXZiJj-SLLyEMSsnbLvfUDPEwr9JEw/s400/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0187.jpg" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Thames at Ranelaugh<br />
Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>A Japanese Artist in London</i> (1910)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWdNLG2SkVLIXKMuX1EKhTsg8qpXhWF28_MIQBwpwv3Gpb3uih2yrdHU4pSxt3vcwKGLP_nucDMIDv6SkKvA6qp4a5hq_7egcc6YKngN8d8Nz-yaOp5gqLJhQ9R8kB7T8MLbhgGxQ3w/s1600/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0245.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWdNLG2SkVLIXKMuX1EKhTsg8qpXhWF28_MIQBwpwv3Gpb3uih2yrdHU4pSxt3vcwKGLP_nucDMIDv6SkKvA6qp4a5hq_7egcc6YKngN8d8Nz-yaOp5gqLJhQ9R8kB7T8MLbhgGxQ3w/s400/japaneseartistin00markuoft_0245.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Earl's Court Station<br />
Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>A Japanese Artist in London</i> (1910)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li><b><i>The Colour of London, Historic, Personal, & Local</i></b> (William John Loftie, London: Chatto & Windus,1907, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/colourlondonhis00loftgoog">colourlondonhis00loftgoog</a>).</li>
<li><i><b>A Japanese Artist in London</b></i> (London: Chatto & Windus, 1910, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/japaneseartistin00markuoft">japaneseartistin00markuoft</a>). </li>
</ul>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kDFZ8evDGuA02SxNCVJT_ph-sngx3dT3RUERqixM919ZGfKt-rNLzgkqrnPs73SVyzplbqJkUgO4H_IAK4PMFrBqXxlOpJ-pENZN_8pbvfZ3i7jQmTSy8iDrVyjP3srQO8u0bb0woQ/s1600/myidealedjohnbul00markuoft_0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kDFZ8evDGuA02SxNCVJT_ph-sngx3dT3RUERqixM919ZGfKt-rNLzgkqrnPs73SVyzplbqJkUgO4H_IAK4PMFrBqXxlOpJ-pENZN_8pbvfZ3i7jQmTSy8iDrVyjP3srQO8u0bb0woQ/s640/myidealedjohnbul00markuoft_0008.jpg" width="328" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In London Fog - Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>My Idealed John Bullesses</i> (1912)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
His writing style (his own works have a deal of autobiographical material) is also very readable, though sometimes majorly weird, especially his <i>My Idealed John Bullesses</i>, which despite the social observation and commentary (he was a sincere supporter of the women's suffrage movement) still reminds me a lot of Mr Pinsky's magnum opus in <i>Throw Momma from the Train</i>.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
He painted misty and mysterious views of Edwardian London. He wrote four books of memoirs and philosophy in his own special style of English ... he was a Suffragette, ardently supporting the cause of Votes of Women. He fell in love, idealistically and platonically, with several English women.<br />
- Yoshio Markino, 1869-1956, Carmen Blacker, <i>Britain & Japan: Biographical Portraits, Vol. I</i>, ed. Ian Nish, Japan Libraries, 1994. </blockquote>
<ul>
<li><i><b>My Idealed John Bullesses</b></i> (Yoshio Markino, London: Constable & Company, 1912, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/myidealedjohnbul00markuoft">myidealedjohnbul00markuoft</a>). </li>
</ul>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roller Skating - Yoshio Markino<br />
Google Books scan<br />
<i>My Idealed John Bullesses</i> (1912)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-6885150658255539762015-06-05T10:53:00.000-07:002015-06-05T14:38:46.422-07:00The Amè-ya<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1Jxgya71XdlFTw2Yx_rBDVpxkd_eEYYN_SIbKjugbllr-FR_GKLi3xnVIm-Pilcf8tCE2P-dtMYGPvQydiPS5c5V9r-9jinknX7hH-ednOb_FGuJNaet0IHP_0NqxO7x1Dx1wlfBgQ/s1600/ameya00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1Jxgya71XdlFTw2Yx_rBDVpxkd_eEYYN_SIbKjugbllr-FR_GKLi3xnVIm-Pilcf8tCE2P-dtMYGPvQydiPS5c5V9r-9jinknX7hH-ednOb_FGuJNaet0IHP_0NqxO7x1Dx1wlfBgQ/s1600/ameya00.jpg" /></a></div>
Further to <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/blossoms-from-japanese-garden.html"><b>Blossoms from a Japanese Garden</b></a> (5 June 2015), I just had to check the context on this one. What exactly was an <b>Amè-ya</b>, the vendor celebrated in the first poem in Mary Fenollosa's 1913 illustrated collection of poems for children, <b><i>Blossoms from a Japanese garden</i></b><i>: A Book of Child-Verses</i>? I'll quote first.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE AMÈ-YA<br />
<i><b>Blossoms from a Japanese garden </b></i><br />
<i>A Book of Child-Verses</i> (1913)<br />
by Mary Fenollosa<br />
out of US copyright</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>THE AMÈ-YA </b><br />
<br />
Down the narrow streets of Yeddo <br />
Comes a peddler old and gray, <br />
On his back a wondrous outfit, <br />
In his mouth a pipe of clay. <br />
Loud he whistles, and the children. <br />
Crowding, haste from near and far. <br />
Clasp their little hands for pleasure, <br />
"Yonder comes the Amè-ya!" <br />
<br />
Gently down he sets the work-shop. <br />
On whose lacquered shelves is laid <br />
Rice-flour paste in lacquered vessels. <br />
Tinted every different shade. <br />
Marvellous are the things he fashions, <br />
Birds and beasts and moon and star. <br />
"Now what will you, bright-eyed youngsters?" <br />
Gaily asks the Amè-ya. <br />
<br />
"First a dragon." Soft and pliant <br />
Swells the red and yellow dough. <br />
Like a curious twisted bubble <br />
From his pipe they watch it blow. <br />
Eyes of bead, and fins of silver. <br />
There, 'tis finished, naught to mar. <br />
"Ah, it's mine!" the children clamor, <br />
"Give it to me, Amè-ya!" <br />
<br />
"Bring your rin, and bring your tempo, <br />
Cheap the price for such a sight. <br />
Every child shall have a wonder <br />
If I blow and blow till night." <br />
Fruit and flower, see them growing <br />
Planted in a tiny jar. <br />
'Tis no marvel that the children <br />
Love the kindly Amè-ya.<br />
<br />
- THE AMÈ-YA, <b><i>Blossoms from a Japanese garden</i></b><i>: A Book of Child-Verses </i>(Mary Fenollosa, New York: Frederick A.Stokes, 1913, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924023417839">cu31924023417839</a>).<br />
<br />
<small><i>Rin</i>. One-tenth of a cent. [A coin of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emperor_Meiji">Meiji</a> era - see <a href="http://currencies.wikia.com/wiki/Japanese_1_rin_coin">Currency Wiki</a>]<br />
<i>Tempo</i>. Eight cents, a long, oval copper coin with a square hole in the middle. [See <a href="http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/highlights/highlight_objects/cm/b/bronze_100_mon_coin.aspx">British Museum</a>]</small><br />
<hr />
<br />
The poem had previously appeared elsewhere, including an 1894 edition (Vol. 67, page 245) of <i>The Youth's Companion</i> children's magazine; and the 1902 spinoff compilation <i>The Wide World</i> (Youth's Companion Series, Boston: Ginn & Company / Athenaeum Press, 1902, page 39), with a monochrome illustration.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Amè-ya<br />
Google Books scan of<br />
<i>The Wide World</i> (1902)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As might be broadly guessed from the poem and images, an Amè-ya was a traditional vendor of inflated sugar/gluten novelties, a food-based version of animal balloons that could either be eaten or allowed to dry and used as ornaments/toys. (Gluten is the sticky protein left after you wash the starch away from cereal flour, although some accounts call it "dough", it's not dough in the usual sense, but more rubbery in texture).<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
... the <i>am</i><i>è-ya</i>, or jelly-man, who, from barley-gluten, will blow you, by a reed, rats, rabbits, or monkeys; ...<br />
- <i><b>Japonica</b></i> (Edward Arnold, illus. Robert Blum, New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1891, page 66, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/japonica00arnoiala">japonica00arnoiala</a>).</blockquote>
There are a number of more detailed accounts of the specifics:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4PoX8VCaZRlyUvRz3gwc3183gvl_px1pM3HQ4UNEQYB3GsJ3YxDw9kzSRg4MRn-n2BnF9F9UyW7CLa33pnsO7FXMEUwMPDR5AC64xCzhmB74VzfAH9JhdQwv76IoO3n2rucitwbjBQ/s1600/ameya04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4PoX8VCaZRlyUvRz3gwc3183gvl_px1pM3HQ4UNEQYB3GsJ3YxDw9kzSRg4MRn-n2BnF9F9UyW7CLa33pnsO7FXMEUwMPDR5AC64xCzhmB74VzfAH9JhdQwv76IoO3n2rucitwbjBQ/s320/ameya04.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Google Books scan<br />
<i>"Our Neighbourhood"</i> (1874)</td></tr>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The Améya is really a genius of a higher order. He combines painting and modelling together. He carries about with him his studio and appliances, and is prepared to execute any order, be it never so difficult. He'll stick you a bit of his tenacious barley gluten on a bamboo joint, and, puff-f-f-f—it's a white glistening balloon—pinch it in at the middle, fashion off the mouth, draw out a bit for a cord, wind it quickly twice round, and back again, tie it into a bow knot, and you have as well-shaped a gourd in a few moments as nature ever took months to produce. "Please, Sir! I want a couple of rats nibbling a bag of barley." Ah ! My chubby little master, that'll surely puzzle him you think. Not a bit of it. He does not even stop to consider how it is to be set about, but takes in a twinkling out of drawer No. 2, a lump of his plastic material of just the proper size. This he kneads, and rolls, and pulls out into long glistening threads, and rolls up again, and when of the right consistency dusts it with rice flour, to prevent it clinging to his fingers, and then, giving it a pyramidal shape, pinches out a bit at each side of the apex, snips out with scissors a pair of ears, lengthens out the snout, pulls out a tail a-piece, fashions the cone in the middle into a bag, a couple of dots for the eyes of the rats, a streak of red paint underneath them, a bar of blue below that again, a putf of gold dust and—"Now my little boy, where's your coin? Your rats are finished.<br />
"To try and puzzle the old Artist by devising difficult commissions for him to execute, is a favorite game with the youngsters. He's equal to any call on his ingenuity, however, whether he be required to fashion a monkey swinging by one hand from a branch, whilst it encircles a little one with its disengaged arm—a pair of rats in deadly combat with their tails for weapons,—or a frog on his hind legs, daintily pointing his toes and shading himself from the sun under a mushroom which he uses as an umbrella :—no flight of imagination seems too high for him. The thought once conceived, his execution of it is marvellously rapid. He's a rare old fellow, with his high bald forehead and twinkling eye, his face well bronzed by exposure to sun and wind, and the lines and curves about his mouth deepened by the ready smile, which he has for all comers. He's a great favorite with the little folks—most of whom he knows by name—and has a merry word for all whilst his fingers nimbly ply their trade.<br />
- <i><b>"Our Neighbourhood"</b>: Or, Sketches in the Suburbs of Yedo</i> ("T.A.P." [Theobald Andrew Purcell], Yokohama: 1874 - originally published in Japanese Weekly Mail, page 26). </blockquote>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fig. 6.<span class="st">—</span>The Travelling Ame-Ya.<br />
Google Books scan from Sladen,<br />
<i>The Windsor Magazine</i> (1895)</td></tr>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The very little children seem to like the dough toys, blown out as glass is blown by the travelling <i>ameya</i>, shown in Fig. 6. He sets up his wooden stall and with a little pipe blows out and moulds from flour paste gourds, cocks and hens, and flowers, and Japanese cupids, and what not, while the children stand round the stall in silent, stolid Asiatic expectation.<br />
In Fig. 6 the <i>ameya</i> has made a few of his toys and impaled them on the wooden spikes of his stand. On the right are seen the bamboo on which he slings the stand to carry it away, and the flour drawers and kneading tub, which he slings at the other end to balance it. The high kiri-wood clogs the Japanese use for wet weather show very clearly on the feet of the big boy. They are held in position by a looped thong, which passes between the first and second toes. Theatre Street, where we saw the <i>ameya</i> on our first visit to it, is naturally much frequented by him.<br />
- Odd Scenes in Japanese Streets, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_Sladen">Douglas Sladen</a>, Illustrated with Photographs by the Author, <b><i>Windsor Magazine</i></b>: An Illustrated Monthly for Men and Women, Vol. 1, May 1895, page 524, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/acd6136.0001.001.umich.edu">acd6136.0001.001.umich.edu</a>). </blockquote>
I also found a couple of related children's stories<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>The Spending of Two Sen.</b><br />
<br />
Oto had been busy all the morning. There was much work to be done in the Japanese home. The vase with the fox image on it must be dusted. Oto could dust very care. fill; Then the rice for dinner had to be dated. Oto helped with that, too.<br />
Now mother might rest. She gave Oto two sen. He held them tightly in his little brown fist. What should he buy with his money?<br />
We went to the door of the low house. Along the narrow street the sunshine lay on the doorsteps of other low houses. Our sun thines on the Japanese children, too. The wind brought the sweet smell of the cherrybloom.<br />
Far off some one was singing. The sound came nearer. It was the good Ameya. Oto danced with delight. The Ameya made sugar toys for children who had sen to spend. <br />
The Ameya wore a red and blue obi. He carried a wooden bench. On the front of the bench was a frame. The frame held many long sticks, with a toy on the end of each. Oh, to see the gay colors! Fish there were! Monkeys, flowers, everything!<br />
He stopped by Oto's door. He set down his bench. Little Isuna ran out from his house across the street. He looked with big eyes at the toys. Isuna had no money. Isuna's father was ill.<br />
The Ameya bowed low. “What will the little gentleman have?” he said.<br />
“Oh, a fish," shouted Isuna.<br />
“For two sen I make a fish,”—said the Ameya—“a yellow fish.”<br />
Isuna’s eyes filled with tears. He had not one sen.<br />
"I like fishes,” said Oto. “You may make me one.”<br />
The Ameya had barley sugar. He mixed water with it, and made a paste. He dipped a yellow bamboo-stick into the paste. He blew through the stick. A fish began to grow. Soom the Ameya used his finger. Now a head, fins and tail appear. There were cakes of paint in the drawer of the bench. The Ameya picked out one, yellow, like gold. He found a long-handled brush. He painted the fish with big spots of yellow.<br />
There never was such a beautiful fish. The Ameya put it, still soft, in Oto's hand. Isuna was watching. Oto might do many things with his fish. He could eat it now. He would lay it away. It would be hard in a few days. Then he would play with it. Isuna had no playthings. They had not enough rice, even.<br />
Isuna was going home now. Oto ran after him.<br />
“You may have my fish, Isuna,” he said. Then Oto went back, and sat down on his doorstep. He had spent his two sen. He could see Isuna showing the fish to his mother. Isuna was laughing.<br />
Far away, again, the Ameya was singing his wares. And the sun shone on everything.—<i>Exchange</i>.<br />
- The Spending of Two Sen, <i>The Christian Register</i> (Christian Register Association weekly from Boston, Mass.), February 9th, 1899, page 159.</blockquote>
There's a longer fictionalised scene of an <i>ameya</i> at work in <i><b>The Golden Lotus, and Other Legends of Japan</b></i> (Edward Greey, Boston: Lee and Shepard / New York: Charles T. Dillingham, 1883, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/goldenlotusother00gree">goldenlotusother00gree</a>). See <a href="https://archive.org/stream/goldenlotusother00gree#page/88/mode/2up">pages 89-93</a>.<br />
<br />
- Ray Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-7624486045736282302015-06-05T00:05:00.000-07:002015-06-05T12:43:24.177-07:00Blossoms from a Japanese Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwhCEVjz7SkavI9pqj7QO944gmEBEf-9ABWv6kKx2EaYgxM0Ab6aAbeevmyPSbm_WVQmvXJv5BoI9bBiUU5YFmtrbeufmGNkCrbjS-Z8nbnYFqqQEWoRiGs0579G8RQDRIrNM_bsEh3w/s1600/blossoms00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="81" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwhCEVjz7SkavI9pqj7QO944gmEBEf-9ABWv6kKx2EaYgxM0Ab6aAbeevmyPSbm_WVQmvXJv5BoI9bBiUU5YFmtrbeufmGNkCrbjS-Z8nbnYFqqQEWoRiGs0579G8RQDRIrNM_bsEh3w/s400/blossoms00.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<i><b>Blossoms from a Japanese Garden</b></i> by Mary Fenollosa: cover image found during a quick camera purge.<br />
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One of our rituals of Isle of Wight visits is to wander from the top end of Ryde (High Street) down to the Pier via the charity shops and a tea shop or two, and last time I spotted this pretty little book: one not enough in my territory to buy, but its content (Japanese-themed children's verse) and its beautiful and subtle colour plates struck me for their very authentically Japanese flavour.<br />
<br />
It turns out to be quite an unusual title to turn up in a Ryde charity shop, as it's a vintage book - <i><b>Blossoms from a Japanese Garden: a book of child-verses </b></i>-<i><b> </b></i>by the American novelist and poet <a href="http://www.encyclopediaofalabama.org/article/h-2346">Mary McNeil Fenollosa</a> (née Scott, 1865-1954), who did indeed know her field for this. As the <i>Encyclopedia of Alabama</i> entry explains, at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts she worked with (and later married) the eminent Asian art scholar <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernest_Fenollosa">Ernest Fenollosa</a>, whose Japanese connections included his appointment as Imperial Fine Arts Commissioner for the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emperor_Meiji">Emperor Meiji</a>. She also wrote novels as "Sidney McCall", though according to the <i>New York Times</i> <a href="http://query.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=9F07E6D71F3EE733A25756C1A96F9C946797D6CF">Boston Notes</a> (15th September, 1906) didn't identify as the author until the third, <i>The Dragon Painter</i>.<br />
<br />
Here's a gallery from the US first edition of <i>Blossoms from a Japanese Garden<b> </b></i>at the Internet Archive. It looks as if a previous owner must have picked the cover panel off the book I saw in Ryde (possibly the Heinemann edition - somehow I deleted my EverNote note without synching it).<br />
<br />
<hr />
<b><i>Blossoms from a Japanese garden</i></b><i> </i><br />
<i>A Book of Child-Verses </i><br />
by Mary Fenollosa<br />
Illustrated in colour by Japanese artists<br />
New York: Frederick A.Stokes, 1913<br />
Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924023417839">cu31924023417839</a><br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-SO5ieF8zsIYw4WwGzXBmAFPYFxE1NTftxuGFjyqq2qP5GMLZ2dcmkBkEklpt5tfoBTBktiqwFNRxcaKE3E_DvuRXDGijeF1D863dYvRXZlWWj4qUZmQUhQy3CStI5aHTVsIlATvuA/s1600/cu31924023417839_0000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-SO5ieF8zsIYw4WwGzXBmAFPYFxE1NTftxuGFjyqq2qP5GMLZ2dcmkBkEklpt5tfoBTBktiqwFNRxcaKE3E_DvuRXDGijeF1D863dYvRXZlWWj4qUZmQUhQy3CStI5aHTVsIlATvuA/s400/cu31924023417839_0000.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover, with detail from EXPERIENCE</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF691ujq1nojuSrgQFbTjE1z1H91fDh9McuF8ozSfMLBG9AHdB73B8w6SphYHlIuTiugxHYp8fiVogZQd6UqenYmFJjsjbH40N46qAD-mVgIxwR2OUBH-yrwlDqIrm1fCpra8OzgTetg/s1600/cu31924023417839_0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF691ujq1nojuSrgQFbTjE1z1H91fDh9McuF8ozSfMLBG9AHdB73B8w6SphYHlIuTiugxHYp8fiVogZQd6UqenYmFJjsjbH40N46qAD-mVgIxwR2OUBH-yrwlDqIrm1fCpra8OzgTetg/s400/cu31924023417839_0007.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE AMÈ-YA<br />
(a vendor of inflated gluten novelties)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqZdymbu7oQwoa2_6wnA9cXCj04jyVfhWPEsgSho8TqfaZnidWMow89bazvjpHWQruT_mBjZ9q19Gp0e-ZB3JGbOY_bv8J3HTYP5BAXJTCcVEmdJs33yAKbh_ALOiSG1TjU2qeSXInw/s1600/cu31924023417839_0022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqZdymbu7oQwoa2_6wnA9cXCj04jyVfhWPEsgSho8TqfaZnidWMow89bazvjpHWQruT_mBjZ9q19Gp0e-ZB3JGbOY_bv8J3HTYP5BAXJTCcVEmdJs33yAKbh_ALOiSG1TjU2qeSXInw/s400/cu31924023417839_0022.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A JAPANESE GARDEN</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0d_NmhK0Lv1kOuW_x6RZwbqtbECLhLpIEoNSGuJt7_VS4KOVsFJAIe8KSoe7cSUm9iw9g8esZyOOi4-6dnpDHaaO2UM_Z9Bmkife7zTIUWHIGPbeOLNqnJsgzV6Rep5T5jAyOBkrtsg/s1600/cu31924023417839_0030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0d_NmhK0Lv1kOuW_x6RZwbqtbECLhLpIEoNSGuJt7_VS4KOVsFJAIe8KSoe7cSUm9iw9g8esZyOOi4-6dnpDHaaO2UM_Z9Bmkife7zTIUWHIGPbeOLNqnJsgzV6Rep5T5jAyOBkrtsg/s400/cu31924023417839_0030.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE MISCHIEVOUS MORNING-GLORY</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3IYkL4B7qxgGBekOcShbnGMHolwOnHjXnz_jr8739G5XuF-bhadLVZFiE81fRhbhiHsAfdpgN0xnmKXfBxGGKYOngi0eJxNIEGa54jCTLJiWPMgHxlcK626tKPETCvnX4pr7rriqj-w/s1600/cu31924023417839_0036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3IYkL4B7qxgGBekOcShbnGMHolwOnHjXnz_jr8739G5XuF-bhadLVZFiE81fRhbhiHsAfdpgN0xnmKXfBxGGKYOngi0eJxNIEGa54jCTLJiWPMgHxlcK626tKPETCvnX4pr7rriqj-w/s400/cu31924023417839_0036.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GOING TO SCHOOL IN THE RAIN</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUJrlgsS8tD2EvlxBo-VhRZTNLgtyEWlIzP6BKsQfLzT6LvvVzF9_Xz4bF4N03mRlp5beRvPSvmoMtvvxczgm7RdXPF55y6bTwuUIX-yHfIhaRfDR1g4Ld24xT1zmBo0iR0wm2M32Kw/s1600/cu31924023417839_0044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUJrlgsS8tD2EvlxBo-VhRZTNLgtyEWlIzP6BKsQfLzT6LvvVzF9_Xz4bF4N03mRlp5beRvPSvmoMtvvxczgm7RdXPF55y6bTwuUIX-yHfIhaRfDR1g4Ld24xT1zmBo0iR0wm2M32Kw/s400/cu31924023417839_0044.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WHAT THEY SAW IN THE MOON</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPZnjec6DdwMzfO61j4torbDwgbEIvOyOvkXqDnITQA_NlkzJnjGo6EGYYiJmwNI4lQUtxcgkPDddZCOHKcb6F6ccqimxYOw0tOUcGdrCX1DJPrp48lxvXCazMVcD0whRIN14dsz4Lg/s1600/cu31924023417839_0050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPZnjec6DdwMzfO61j4torbDwgbEIvOyOvkXqDnITQA_NlkzJnjGo6EGYYiJmwNI4lQUtxcgkPDddZCOHKcb6F6ccqimxYOw0tOUcGdrCX1DJPrp48lxvXCazMVcD0whRIN14dsz4Lg/s400/cu31924023417839_0050.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE FIFTH OF MAY</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYe2hmSPun-jDzKji3A2a06E_9lR5NOQcDUXdIWg2HEIZJrbJ5ngRdkfWDoTm9-eVjwXbl1SM3Z8ReFWyPTkMdaMPhJmeec6hiGOEXZuc_jwLyGgmnno8YkwLsj3829G4Mlp_nHzcpxg/s1600/cu31924023417839_0056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYe2hmSPun-jDzKji3A2a06E_9lR5NOQcDUXdIWg2HEIZJrbJ5ngRdkfWDoTm9-eVjwXbl1SM3Z8ReFWyPTkMdaMPhJmeec6hiGOEXZuc_jwLyGgmnno8YkwLsj3829G4Mlp_nHzcpxg/s400/cu31924023417839_0056.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MIST ELVES</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5dGuSW8WC9skd7s-UvdbSLi1vLD0SyYiGjF0b6xM3cPc8tQTP2jtDkcfqT6vTFjWTib3ZCzpOPk9eiOwk5XGngOJQAU8MdMJy9_0l-MIrDhpnsS6U4gqzJCH2jvFrYv9uFIJH6fDtJg/s1600/cu31924023417839_0062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5dGuSW8WC9skd7s-UvdbSLi1vLD0SyYiGjF0b6xM3cPc8tQTP2jtDkcfqT6vTFjWTib3ZCzpOPk9eiOwk5XGngOJQAU8MdMJy9_0l-MIrDhpnsS6U4gqzJCH2jvFrYv9uFIJH6fDtJg/s400/cu31924023417839_0062.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE FADELESS FLOWERS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybt35K43HOvvjTaMRpp5QFqawwcCiEQpceNEfAEp83QbxgSLizBJNvWun4l1371oDbsYocae2WcxJQlmECoY8g823oCSRQxAhrzyaxjw91HAfrj10H-qiOhDnPFXaUa9Jg3XXML404w/s1600/cu31924023417839_0070.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybt35K43HOvvjTaMRpp5QFqawwcCiEQpceNEfAEp83QbxgSLizBJNvWun4l1371oDbsYocae2WcxJQlmECoY8g823oCSRQxAhrzyaxjw91HAfrj10H-qiOhDnPFXaUa9Jg3XXML404w/s400/cu31924023417839_0070.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A TYPHOON</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZA_OrcIUsRWw26-Ji8PCgl1BPlAcKqwJDbsnET_4MXmoxuJ1UrtnUYCY8Eff73YBhcb_It_n37Ah9xwwoaAV4wvZRzVyQ8d4GbtfUOzPJWMZFyAJQBIrHFYzlYxr0UWpU22dy7WUAtA/s1600/cu31924023417839_0078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZA_OrcIUsRWw26-Ji8PCgl1BPlAcKqwJDbsnET_4MXmoxuJ1UrtnUYCY8Eff73YBhcb_It_n37Ah9xwwoaAV4wvZRzVyQ8d4GbtfUOzPJWMZFyAJQBIrHFYzlYxr0UWpU22dy7WUAtA/s400/cu31924023417839_0078.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE SEED</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZY2zdO-6RygtlrZlQwa3KUjaS8Va5G2KAajOk6PrNXsddLm-IpuaAdlD9Ut14Ifm3ztkK1_o6UKwx4MHmpk8AEMLUN0bDdXZtDtad3HaS-7U3aytkOCj0G5MjJfqWBhipSypvg3HGg/s1600/cu31924023417839_0084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZY2zdO-6RygtlrZlQwa3KUjaS8Va5G2KAajOk6PrNXsddLm-IpuaAdlD9Ut14Ifm3ztkK1_o6UKwx4MHmpk8AEMLUN0bDdXZtDtad3HaS-7U3aytkOCj0G5MjJfqWBhipSypvg3HGg/s400/cu31924023417839_0084.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SNOW</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1RHHI2Lftq7kMXPoJfzLah8Bgph0Jhne-fo2MW9InEzsF6tiElK-l_ZJNbb6_ngjrusa54zEixjSLcFAXosdA_XAIJ6xyzeMQahuYKYAgaYeZgGqPdmVy2P3jX3jfLxTKGWea6AHxg/s1600/cu31924023417839_0090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1RHHI2Lftq7kMXPoJfzLah8Bgph0Jhne-fo2MW9InEzsF6tiElK-l_ZJNbb6_ngjrusa54zEixjSLcFAXosdA_XAIJ6xyzeMQahuYKYAgaYeZgGqPdmVy2P3jX3jfLxTKGWea6AHxg/s400/cu31924023417839_0090.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A SEA-SIDE STROLL</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrSJM937JQIzNdLGF87OreDB8OO1g6YOY-WMaob9_v9p4Y6gZHeqdNRK2uOl6xJT1uAPS6UJ8K5umspgI6CDSJ8mQwUyv6BHva92NNj2uoHCMt3ELYGsslPLTyc3q2DfqDl9nRLR6YgA/s1600/cu31924023417839_0098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrSJM937JQIzNdLGF87OreDB8OO1g6YOY-WMaob9_v9p4Y6gZHeqdNRK2uOl6xJT1uAPS6UJ8K5umspgI6CDSJ8mQwUyv6BHva92NNj2uoHCMt3ELYGsslPLTyc3q2DfqDl9nRLR6YgA/s400/cu31924023417839_0098.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE DOLL</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_c37IP5plRY4dK32uKseR8Et7bxyTus4En7FZIeoM1a3A6sTSGtWpPgJPa4ALxiX4hOucE71jCLDmJz0pGI6zTcOP8sybD0fROogy2228-McYd8Kriv7dftQoRihxQX_eu0zBTUDirg/s1600/cu31924023417839_0104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_c37IP5plRY4dK32uKseR8Et7bxyTus4En7FZIeoM1a3A6sTSGtWpPgJPa4ALxiX4hOucE71jCLDmJz0pGI6zTcOP8sybD0fROogy2228-McYd8Kriv7dftQoRihxQX_eu0zBTUDirg/s400/cu31924023417839_0104.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TAKÉ KAKUZO </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSfODi9IE7lhsx8bjglvo-6lFn31jt6882MTt-g81GoMtHJl2l4NMdaydmN-CVr9T9HzzLp_r4rwzXK63voEYA-0hDliNihuWfsXeV9oBJ9huJPshDcoRbmALy-8qkLLqQw58v6XvqA/s1600/cu31924023417839_0110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSfODi9IE7lhsx8bjglvo-6lFn31jt6882MTt-g81GoMtHJl2l4NMdaydmN-CVr9T9HzzLp_r4rwzXK63voEYA-0hDliNihuWfsXeV9oBJ9huJPshDcoRbmALy-8qkLLqQw58v6XvqA/s400/cu31924023417839_0110.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TAKÉ KAKUZO AS A PHILOSOPHER</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOFW_LTzPad4lKbowU7cTIFdRiC0tZ3DrikYCoojuRWquYHB5mijshFyZ-d_zajJkOaD1ByAWSUN_7UZqJNgJaoCe7ZCUUNuY1gXW1f3t8VdyFZEWGN9OHRH8AkWb57s8lbZOESdTKdQ/s1600/cu31924023417839_0118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOFW_LTzPad4lKbowU7cTIFdRiC0tZ3DrikYCoojuRWquYHB5mijshFyZ-d_zajJkOaD1ByAWSUN_7UZqJNgJaoCe7ZCUUNuY1gXW1f3t8VdyFZEWGN9OHRH8AkWb57s8lbZOESdTKdQ/s400/cu31924023417839_0118.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">EXPERIENCE</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekwREOaWPOma1VfG_d0G8IVLRths-t-8jyTYss1v0XNaF0lJ2IkD8JI3QPITH7Qf3Z3vFCKvhAiRJfZFvuewVYc416d1PgGKnl63IHSEzJY6JrSaikATo5UiPDfQZWLZCMIdT30-7LA/s1600/cu31924023417839_0126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekwREOaWPOma1VfG_d0G8IVLRths-t-8jyTYss1v0XNaF0lJ2IkD8JI3QPITH7Qf3Z3vFCKvhAiRJfZFvuewVYc416d1PgGKnl63IHSEzJY6JrSaikATo5UiPDfQZWLZCMIdT30-7LA/s400/cu31924023417839_0126.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">IRIS FLOWERS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwqJNmv6aGlvkd4e5BTVyQmHF9L_J5lBBTGX0_X54r4rnHzZLg7sM7bxUG16W2o1faUWkBr7avLxv_U0Nqe6FgLEbyWkRponA39KD0kP3TCBLrnJR7s5vRHBLmr8dofQsQpRbc5HG8w/s1600/cu31924023417839_0136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwqJNmv6aGlvkd4e5BTVyQmHF9L_J5lBBTGX0_X54r4rnHzZLg7sM7bxUG16W2o1faUWkBr7avLxv_U0Nqe6FgLEbyWkRponA39KD0kP3TCBLrnJR7s5vRHBLmr8dofQsQpRbc5HG8w/s400/cu31924023417839_0136.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JIRO AND TARO</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE MYSTERIOUS PUP</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfDuOCE0_T91k9JeXfQbzEo2XV3eZMOtmenkUpuXsz2dVVa_BtIbrL2TDYQ-YyQ8s5CY5VrXGUnqmdrdoxQYoDVKfB6KrfhHlMCVEagxGZLajYfxefdYxYA3MXfXF7YO8bZ8PHtwzEg/s1600/cu31924023417839_0148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfDuOCE0_T91k9JeXfQbzEo2XV3eZMOtmenkUpuXsz2dVVa_BtIbrL2TDYQ-YyQ8s5CY5VrXGUnqmdrdoxQYoDVKfB6KrfhHlMCVEagxGZLajYfxefdYxYA3MXfXF7YO8bZ8PHtwzEg/s400/cu31924023417839_0148.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MY NEIGHBOR'S BAMBOO</td></tr>
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<br />
And not forgetting the Ryde tea-shop (actually, Olivo's Italian Restaurant, which I recommend):<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clare</td></tr>
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I'm glad we didn't delay about visiting Blackgang Chine. <br />
<br />
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-6409280011653594612015-06-04T04:59:00.001-07:002015-06-05T04:42:06.227-07:00The Reades' ministry: Blackgang and Punrooty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Another Blackgang, Isle of Wight, story: <b>"Mr. Charles Reid, at
Blackgang, in the Isle of Wight, is indefatigable in calling the sinner
to sobriety.”</b> notes the author of Drink: the Vice and the Disease, in the October 1875 <i>London Quarterly Review</i>. This one-liner spins off into an unusual saga of 19th century missionary activity by unlikely people in unlikely places.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Firstly, the anonymous author of Drink: the Vice and the Disease hasn't fact-checked: it's Charles Reade, not Reid (not to be mistaken for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Reade">Charles Reade</a>, the novelist and dramatist). A look at the broader story finds that the temperance angle refers to the the Isle of Wight Temperance and Band of Hope Union: the local chapter of a wider 19th century temperance organisation that still exists, rebranded as <a href="http://www.hopeuk.org/wp-content/uploads/History.pdf">Hope UK</a>. It wasn't, however, the sole angle of Reade's work, and furthermore his daughters are in many ways the more significant figures in the story.<br />
<br />
<b>Charles William Reade</b> was by career an administrator in the Madras Civil Service in colonial India, his tenure spanning the eras when India was directly<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Company_rule_in_India"> ruled by the East India Company</a> through to the time it was under the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_Raj">British Raj</a> - rule by the British Crown - following the Indian Rebellion of 1857. He'd been educated at Harrow and Haileybury, a public school near Hertford ... <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Reade, Charles William (The Head Master's). Cricket XL 1833 ; left 1833 2. Haileybury Coll. 1834-5; Madras C.S. [Madras Civil Service] 1835-71 ; Magistrate and Collector of South Arcot; of St. Catherine's Hall, Blackgang, Isle of Wight. DIED April 27th, 1884. <br />
- The Harrow School register, 1800-1911, 1911, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/harrowschoolregi00harruoft">harrowschoolregi00harruoft</a>).</blockquote>
.... and after starting out in 1835 as ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
... head assistant to collector and magistrate, Canara.<br />
- page 7, List of the East-India Company's Covenanted Civil Servants on the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madras_Presidency">Fort St. George Establishment</a>, <i>The East-India Register and Directory for 1842</i>, Google Books <a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=zwYLAQAAIAAJ">zwYLAQAAIAAJ</a>.</blockquote>
... by 1862 he had reached the rank of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/District_collector">Collector</a> (chief administrator and magistrate) for the populous agricultural region of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_Arcot_District_%28Madras_Presidency%29">South Arcot</a>. <br />
At some point during his stint in India, Reade got religion (according to the below <i>Sunday Magazine</i> piece by Rev. W. E. Boardman, after reading the same Rev. Boardman's 1872<i> </i><a href="https://archive.org/details/gladnessinjesus00boar"><i>Gladness in Jesus</i></a>). Although he wasn't allowed to evangelise on duty, he quit the post for health reasons, and before returning to England he set up a Christian mission at the town of Trivady, near Punrooty, now <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panruti">Panruti</a>, Cuddalore district, Tamil Nadu. An account by Miss Reade hints at an interesting story behind the founding, but it seems we're not destined to get it:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
This little Mission was commenced in May 1871 by my father Mr. C. W. Reade, M. C. S., who was led to it in a remarkable way but too long to enter upon in detail here.
<br />
- Punruti Mission, Miss C.M. Reade, <i>The Missionary Conference: South India and Ceylon, 1879</i>, Volume 2, 1880).</blockquote>
Once back in England, Reade, and his equally devout family of wife and two daughters, made what seems a very strange decision given the lack of population at the southernmost top of the Isle of Wight: to set up a mission at Blackgang, Isle of Wight.<br />
The <i>Sunday Magazine</i> for 1875 has an informative article about the circumstances of the Blackgang mission's founding and building in (you'll have to tune out the preaching, and ignore the well-trodden cod etymology about Blackgang’s name deriving from a "black gang" of ruffians haunting the ravine).<br />
"The Tap", outside which the Reade ladies began their preaching, refers to Blackgang Chine Hotel's old taproom and stables, now the Ship Ashore Tearooms just outside the entrance to the theme park. As a public house, "Blackgang Tap" was renamed The Ship Ashore Inn in 1963, and rebadged as a tearoom in 1995 (ref: page 149, <i>Island Life</i> magazine, <a href="http://www.visitilife.com/new-back-issues/back-issues/">April/May 2010</a>).<br />
<br />
<hr />
Asked of God, Rev. W. E. Boardman, <i><b>The Sunday Magazine</b> for Family Reading</i>, London: Daldy, Isbister, & Co., Volume 6, 1875, pages 196-199.<br />
<br />
<b>"ASKED OF GOD JULY, 1873; RECEIVED DECEMBER, 1873.”</b><br />
<br />
This title is the inscription upon the front of a hall at Blackgang on the Isle of Wight, and is the epitome of a very sweet story. <br />
The ministry in that hall is of the sort of which the prophet Joel must have had a vision when he said, "It shall come to pass in the last clays, saith the Lord, I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your daughters shall prophesy,” for of a truth the Lord is there fulfilling this promise in a wonderful way. The Spirit is poured out upon many more than all the local population of Blackgang, and it is our daughters chiefly, though not exclusively, who do the prophesying.<br />
It is quite a household affair, for there are five members of one family who each take part in the services, and four of them are women.<br />
The hall itself is neat and convenient, and it is very comfortable for an assembly of four hundred people. And it is in use every Sunday all the day long, for services of one sort or another, for grown folk or children, as well as at stated times on other days of the week, and is filled with the presence of Him who dwelt in the temple of old.<br />
Yet the hall is not the main feature of the work of God there by the ministry of his daughters. A great help it is undoubtedly, and a delightful monument to the faithfulness of the Lord to his promises, but it is only the new in-door feature of what was begun and is continued mainly out of doors, under the glory of the presence of Him who dwelt in the bush and in the cloud long, long before the temple was built.<br />
Blackgang was not named by its own people, but by others, as expressive of the estimation in which they held its inhabitants. It seems that in the olden time, when wrecking, smuggling, and piracy were lucrative, and by no means so disreputable as now, the gentry of this ilk nested there. And whether from their complexion, bronzed as they must have been by the sun and the wind, or from the colour of their deeds of darker hue, they became known as <i>the black gang</i>, and this <i>soubriquet</i> for the people fastened upon the place of their abode. Dark names do follow deeds of darkness, you know, and are apt to stick with Ethiopian tenacity.<br />
The drive from Shanklin—another awkward name for a lovely place—over the hills by the sea, to Ventnor, and along the under cliff from there to Blackgang is one of the loveliest in any country. The blue above and the blue below, with the green hedges, and grand old oaks, elms, ashes, and limes. And the curious nooks, dells, and corners, and the beautiful houses of every variety in form, and the grounds under such thorough and tasteful cultivation, make every hill-top and hollow, and each turn of the road an agreeable surprise.<br />
Blackgang itself is a little scattered village, perched here and there upon the broken declivity, not over steep, of the high undercliff overhanging the sea, with an outlook in the rear upon the face of the bold upper-cliff lifting itself far above in an uneven line along the sky. The upper cliff, however, breaks down just there, and falls off into a broad and beautiful valley, which extends from end to end of the isle, thus affording an onlook over the valley, covered with farms admirably improved, to the opposite line of hills terminating at the sea end in "The Needles." The view, whichever way you look, is charming, and it must be confessed that the piratical crew, whether they appreciated it or not, did choose a most delightful nest for themselves and their viper brood. Of course they have long since given place to better people. Yet it is said that until this work commenced a year or so since, the place has never been praised for its godliness. There is indeed a church about a mile away, and has been for hundreds of years, and the children have been christened, the dead buried, and the living joined in wedlock in a Christianly way—but then, what more?<br />
One among the chiefs of the parish said, in reference to this matter, when a stir began to be made in the way of the what more, ''Your children are christened, and your dying have the sacrament of the Lord's Supper administered to them, and <i>what more can you ask?</i>"<br />
This would certainly seem to show the urgent need for asking and receiving some light from above to dispel the gross darkness covering the people.<br />
A great light has come upon them. A wonderful transformation is in progress. And everything in it and about it would bear the same inscription as that written upon the front of the hall in everything but the dates. Each thing has been asked, and one by one they have been received in answer to prayer.<br />
Franke's Institute in Halle of Germany, and the Ashley Down Orphanage at Bristol in England, and the Home for Consumptives on the Highlands of Boston, America, do not testify one whit more truly for God as the hearer of prayer than this work at Blackgang.<br />
The simple story of some of the leading things in this work moved my soul so deeply to ask and expect in future greater things than ever before, that I feel constrained to tell it to others. May it do more good to many, many thousands than it has even done to me.<br />
To begin at the beginning, the household engaged in this work is that of Charles W. Reade, Esq., and consists of his wife and her sister, with himself and two daughters. The first notable thing after the facts already stated, is the way in which this family was led to Blackgang. They lived many years in India. Then Mr. Reade's health failed, and they returned and tried the vicinity of London. It soon became evident that this would not do, and he thought of Wales, which his physician recommended. At this point his eye fell upon the advertisement of a house at Blackgang, for rent at a moderate price, which called to memory a visit there before he went to India, and how he had been charmed with the spot. At once the doctor was consulted, and instantly said, "Ah ! that is the very place for you."<br />
Then Blackgang was visited, and the house found to be in every way suitable, and all things seemed favourable save one. But that one thing, as it appeared to him and his household, presented a very serious drawback indeed. It was just this, <i>there were few there to be saved</i>. <br />
A great change had been going on in the hearts of this Christian household. Through a little book [“Gladness in Jesus”], Mr. Reade himself had been led into abiding union with Christ, and filled with his peace. And about the same time, the younger of his two eldest daughters, a young lady of twenty, had been brought to the Saviour. A deep sweet tone of love and desire to do good pervaded the family. The two young ladies with their mother and aunt wished much to go where they might hope to win many lost ones to Jesus, and when Mr. Reade returned from Blackgang, with the report that though there was great need of the gospel there among the few, yet the whole population of the village itself did not include many if any more than twenty scattered families, the thought of going there to make home seemed like a quencher to all the bright hopes recently kindled in their hearts.<br />
No important movement is made by them as a family with out unanimous and cheerful consent. The whole matter was taken to the Lord and committed to Him for decision by the circle as one. Finally, the mother gave counsel in these words, "Let us try it six months and see." To this all agreed.<br />
The way in which they were cheered and strengthened to expect great things at Blackgang, notwithstanding the very limited extent of the field, as it appeared to them, is very beautiful.<br />
One day two evangelists called at their house, and when Mrs. Reade met them, she was so impressed with the worn and wearied look of one of the two, that she spoke of it with deep sympathy, and warmly invited him to come to them and rest awhile before going on his purposed journey to Scotland for work.<br />
The other evangelist exclaimed, "How wonderful! I have been asking the Lord to incline your heart to offer him a room, and we came to see whether you could do it or not, and now you have already invited him before we had time to tell you our errand. Truly God is good."<br />
The evangelist remained several days, till he had rested and grown strong. Meanwhile, very soon the whole state of the case concerning Blackgang became known to him, and he waited on the Lord day after day about it, until at last he said with a joyful confidence quite contagious, "Go to Blackgang, and the Lord will give you souls there not a few. Ask hundreds, and He will give them."<br />
This was wonderfully cheering. The problem did indeed still remain unsolved, for how could hundreds of souls be given them in a village of scarcely twenty families all told? Yet the words of the evangelist did fling over the field a sunlit cheeriness if they did not enlarge it.<br />
The Lord, who is wonderful in counsel and excellent in working, is the great solver of all the problems of faith; and when they went forward, trusting wholly in Him, it was not long before they began to see his solution of this one.<br />
They came to Blackgang, and the first Sunday after arriving one of the daughters said to her aunt, "Let us go out into the road and speak to any we may meet." This was the more remarkable because they had never done a thing of the kind before. The aunt said, "Yes," and they went. Near the "Tap," across the way, a little up the hill from the hotel to which it belonged, a little coterie of men stood talking, and the ladies approached them, and began—prophesying shall I say? —speaking very earnestly to them the things concerning salvation. At first the men laughed, then sobered, and listened for life, and others soon joined them.<br />
These all, as the work afterwards grew, and the harvest began to come in, were amongst the earliest sheaves, and they all give that first Sunday as the date of their first serious thoughts.<br />
The next Sunday, although no notice was given, about twenty assembled in the same place at the same hour, and the ladies spoke to them again, and the following Sunday thrice twenty were there. And so it went on growing until the out-of-door assemblies numbered hundreds, and comprised people from many miles around. Interest deepened every time, and it was perhaps the third Sunday that, after speaking to the people out of doors, the ladies invited them in-doors to hear more. The drawing-room filled, and then Mrs. Reade began speaking to them, as her daughters and sister had already been doing out of doors. Conversions clear and decided greatly encouraged them to go on asking and receiving, speaking and gathering in, and the converts themselves by their joyous testimony aided in extending and deepening the work until there was great joy in all the region round about.<br />
The numbers eager for the in-door instructions soon became so large that they were constrained to ask for ground on which to build a hall; to ask first of God, then of the only man in the village of whom they might hope for the privilege of purchasing. From this man they received a very decided negative, accompanied by the discouraging words, "You cannot buy a foot of land for the purpose within a mile of the place."<br />
This answer from the man did not dishearten them, but sent them afresh to the Lord. This was in July. Not a word more was said to the man, yet of his own accord he came and said, “<i>I have concluded to sell you the ground you want for a hall, and to build you the hall too</i>.”<br />
Then, when told plainly that they were not rich, and had not the money to pay, either for the ground or the hall, his generous answer was, "All right. Take your time. Pay me moderate interest from year to year, and take ten years, if you like, to pay the principal." So it was agreed, and so the hall was built. This was in December. And so it came about that it could be truthfully inscribed upon the front of the hall<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>"Asked of God July, 1873." <br />"Received December, 1873."</b></blockquote>
In the course of the year or so that this work had been in progress £195 in money has been sent to Mr. Reade in aid of it, and much of that from persons wholly unknown to any one of his household. And these things, both the hall and the money, are only incident to the greater things for which they have been asked and received. More than three hundred and sixty people, who before might have truthfully said, "No man careth for my soul," have been won to the confession of Christ as their Saviour; and so a great light has dawned upon the people filling many households with a peace and joy unknown before—a foretaste of bliss never ending above.<br />
And now, what of two things so wonderfully presented by these facts—our daughters in connection with the fulfilment of the prediction of Joel, and evangelizing by prayer as the primary thing?<br />
The Spirit has in this instance been poured out upon all flesh; yes, upon more than all; upon thrice over as many as all in the village of Blackgang, and it has been mainly in connection with the ministry of women. Nor have they lost so much as the bloom of womanliness in the process, or neglected domestic affairs in the least. Four women of one household, just the number of the daughters of Philip the Evangelist, refined, educated, womanly in presence and deportment, begin in the open air in front of the "Tap," with three or four men, and in a year gather between three and four hundred into the fold of salvation, and that in a place where the people of the village are scarcely one-third of that number.<br />
This is quite in keeping with the spirit of Joel in his glowing predictions. It needs only to be repeated in every locality, whether in city or country, and the words of the prophet would be grandly fulfilled.<br />
Why may it not be done? Are there not tens of thousands of households where there are hearts and tongues to ask and receive, and to speak as the Spirit should give them utterance, idle, or held back from asking, receiving, speaking; and that in tens of thousands of centres as hopeful, to say the least of it, as Blackgang?<br />
Are there to-day thousands upon thousands of desolate places which would speedily become gardens of beauty if only our daughters would do as this little band has done— ask and receive, go where the Spirit should lead, and do what He should bid?<br />
Is there any connection between the unwillingness of our daughters to <i>obey the Spirit</i> if He should be given to them, and the fact that they are not filled with his presence?<br />
What relation is there between the holding back on their part and the withholding on the Lord's part, of the outpouring of the Spirit upon all flesh? Can the prediction ever have its fulfilment until our daughters, as well as our sons, shall be willing to prophesy? Is the fear of offending the <i>human sense</i> of propriety, and so of losing caste before the world, preventing compliance with <i>divine</i> propriety as expressed by the prophet? And is it so that in very many instances we fathers, and brothers, and husbands could, if we would, but do not, encourage our daughters, and sisters, and wives as has been done in this family, to ask and receive, and obey the Spirit in whatsoever He may give them to do or to say? What is the relation between their unwillingness and ours? And what is the relation between the unwillingness to have the prophecy fulfilled in ourselves and our families, and its non-fulfilment in the communities around us? Can it ever be fulfilled abroad amongst the perishing until it has its fulfilment first in our families?<br />
Shall we pause and lift up our hearts for God's answer to these questions one by one?<br />
And now for the other matter. What about evangelizing by prayer? Here is a place which a few months ago would have been regarded by any ordinary pastor or evangelist as a very insignificant field, and an exceedingly hopeless one; and yet in a time so short it is already marvellously changed, and has become the centre of a work constantly extending, in which nearly four hundred lost ones have been saved. A great work for a lifetime of ministry upon the usual principle. And all this without a church, without a minister, without an evangelist, without any human planning, and without any daily continuous series of meetings, or any mission week even in the whole time; and all by the ministry mainly of four women who had never before spoken in public in or out of doors, or had any previous experience in work of the kind.<br />
How came it to pass?<br />
Has this household been led practically into the great secret of successful evangelization missed by so many?<br />
Is the-principle which lies at the foundation of the wonderful growth of such works as Franke's Institute, Müller Orphanage, and Dr. Cullis' Home for Consumptives, after all, the true principle of success in every work of God, and especially in the greatest of all works—evangelization?<br />
Will it be so, that when the prophecy of Joel shall have its <i>full-fill-ment</i>, there might be truthfully inscribed upon every instrument, every plan, and work, and word, as well as upon each saved one,—<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Asked of God, at such a time. <br />
Received, at such a time."</blockquote>
W. E. BOARDMAN<br />
<br />
<b>Out-of-copyright text transcribed from Google Books scan of <i>The Sunday Magazine</i>, Volume 6, 1875. Reproduced strictly for noncommercial use</b>.<br />
<hr />
<br />
<b>I haven't found an explicit location</b> for the 1873 Blackgang Mission Hall. It's <i>not</i> the well-known green-red-and-cream corrugated iron 'tin chapel' on Blythe Shute leading down to Chale village (see <a href="https://goo.gl/maps/Wclq5">Google Maps</a>) - now converted as <a href="http://www.oneoffplaces.co.uk/The-Mission">The Mission</a>, a holiday let. While this actually did see long service as hall for the mission founded by the Reades, it's a replacement dating from1898 ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
BLACKGANG
MISSION—Since the erection of the new Mission-Hall in 1898 …
the anniversary of the mission founded in 1873 and the annual harvest
thanksgiving have been commemorated together.</div>
- Official and Other Notices, <i>IWCP</i>, Saturday, October 12, 1901, page 6 (reproduced as fair usage, <i>Isle of Wight County Press</i> Archive <a href="http://archive.iwcp.co.uk/">archive.iwcp.co.uk</a>). </blockquote>
... because the 1873 "ASKED OF GOD ..." one had gone out of use by 1900:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
NOTICE IS
HEREBY GIVEN that a separate building named Blackgang Mission-hall,
situate at Blyths, in the civil parish of Chale, in the county of
Isle of Wight, in the registration district of Isle of Wight, being a
building certified according to law as a place of meeting for regular
worship, was on the 30th day of July, 1900, duly registered for
solemnising marriages therein, pursuant to the Act of 6th and 7th Wm.
4, c. 85, being in substitution for the Mission-Hall, Blackgang, now
disused.—Witness my hand this 30th day of July, 1900. FREDC.
STRATTON, Superintendent Registrar.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
- Official and Other Notices, <i>IWCP</i>, Saturday, August 4, 1900, page 4 (reproduced as fair usage, <i>Isle of Wight County Press</i> Archive <a href="http://archive.iwcp.co.uk/">archive.iwcp.co.uk</a>). </div>
</blockquote>
I suspect the "disused" part is down to the old hall becoming too close to the cliff edge. A harvest festival report prior to the new Mission Hall's building mentions a location adjacent to the now-destroyed Sealands, at the north-west end of Blackgang proper, directly adjacent to the Chine.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mrs. R. Pinnock of Sealands, which property adjoins the Hall, kindly threw open her grounds to the visitors, where they happily spend the brief interval between the tea and the meeting.<br />
- Blackgang, <i>IWCP</i>, Saturday, October 17, 1896, page 8 (reproduced as fair usage, <i>Isle of Wight County Press</i> Archive <a href="http://archive.iwcp.co.uk/">archive.iwcp.co.uk</a>).</blockquote>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3sTgvk3kUNa4nr_G95Sb7YVqdhxJe9SX6K8hPHG7pShPpzl6HQAobi12nKnj0HQCuwIDkPcKz3fupDqpKBv7sUHZZgFPR8XS0a4VjaVHLea6iU6hrglVucRMHqE0e9JKj8uVaVmlTg/s1600/missionhallguess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3sTgvk3kUNa4nr_G95Sb7YVqdhxJe9SX6K8hPHG7pShPpzl6HQAobi12nKnj0HQCuwIDkPcKz3fupDqpKBv7sUHZZgFPR8XS0a4VjaVHLea6iU6hrglVucRMHqE0e9JKj8uVaVmlTg/s400/missionhallguess.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://maps.nls.uk/index.html">National Library of Scotland Map Images</a></b><br />
Low-resolution screenshot for non-commercial illustration purposes<br />
<b><a href="http://maps.nls.uk/geo/explore/sidebyside.cfm#zoom=17&lat=50.5903&lon=-1.3157&layers=171&right=BingSat">Click here for navigable high-res comparison images</a></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Despite the unpromising catchment area, the Blackgang Mission Hall went on to a long and successful history, drawing congregations from around the Island on the basis of charismatic preaching by Charles Reade's daughters, and affiliation with other organisations, notably the Isle of Wight Temperance and Band of Hope Union, which met at the Mission Hall. Their popularity was maintained by touring other Island venues. For instance:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Yarmouth, Feb 12. BAPTIST CHAPEL..—Religous services have been conducted for the last fortnight at the Baptist Chapel here by Misses Reade and Hamilton, of Blackgang, and have attracted every evening large congregations, and among them many of the lower classes who have not attended any place of worship for years past.<br />
Baptist Chapel, <i>The Hampshire Advertiser</i> (Southampton, England), Saturday, February 12, 1876; pg. 8.</blockquote>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We know "Miss Hamilton" is Reade's youngest daughter from report of her marriage to Leslie Chapman on Oct. 5th 1892 ("Margaret Hamilton, youngest daughter of the late Charles William Reade, Madras Civil Service, of St Catherine's Lodge, Blackgang, I.W." - ref: <i>The Standard</i> (London, England), Monday, October 10, 1892). "Miss Reade" is a Miss EC Reade, who married Christopher William Smith. The Reade genealogy isn't clear to me at this stage.<br />
Reade and his wife had a son Charles Frederick Malcolm, born in India, who died in 1846 aged 7 months; a son born at "Sussex-square, Brighton" on 5th August 1850 (who appears also to have died young - "Charles Malcolm Blaine McCurthy, May 25th 1851, at Sussex-square, Brighton). <br />
<br />
<b>The mission story, however, doesn't stop in Blackgang in the 1870s</b>. After Charles Reade left India, things didn't go well for the Punrooty Mission he founded. Accounts differ on whether it actually failed or just "languished". One of Reade's daughters - she's inconsistently called "CM Reade" and "FM Reade" with no pattern I can detect - then took the radical step of going to India with a colleague, Clara MS Lowe, to reboot the Mission personally. There are a number of contemporary reports, such as this first-hand one, which is probably among the least objectionable ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14Bo7OJuovmZ2ntIni7NI3IbNbe4cSAhpxXxjmtmluuGTrUxPT5yeL9jDirmgBRDyCcGrgXhcIX0nXFso0BndfSgnoR93mpS3tY2mzNGwGV7SRuWRT1E4aXYPXqpzfgVV2Gt0RQxzBA/s1600/panrooty02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14Bo7OJuovmZ2ntIni7NI3IbNbe4cSAhpxXxjmtmluuGTrUxPT5yeL9jDirmgBRDyCcGrgXhcIX0nXFso0BndfSgnoR93mpS3tY2mzNGwGV7SRuWRT1E4aXYPXqpzfgVV2Gt0RQxzBA/s320/panrooty02.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Punrooty Mission plan<br />
Google Books scan<br />
from <i>Punrooty</i>, Lowe, 1880</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
PUNRÚTI MISSION.<br />
By Miss C.M. Reade.<br />
This little Mission was commenced in May 1871 by my father Mr. C. W. Reade, M. C. S., who was led to it in a remarkable way but too long to enter upon in detail here. It was at first carried on by native missionaries, but their method of work and other circumstances not proving quite to our satisfaction, it was decided that I should come out and take charge of the Mission. At the last the Lord raised up a valued friend and wise counseller to join me in Miss Lowe, daughter of the late General Sir Hudson Lowe. For three years she remained with me, till her health completely breaking down she was obliged to return home. Our desire being that the Mission should be purely evangelistic, from the time Miss Lowe and myself came out until the commencement of the famine in August 1877, our whole energies were expended in open-air preaching in Punrúti and the many villages around, instruction of inquirers who invariably followed these open-air services and Bible classes, together with medical work, which though at times, in visitations of cholera and fever, it became very heavy, we have only looked upon as quite secondary to the evangelistic work. Punrúti, the head station of the Mission, is a large native town 16 miles west of Cuddalore in the South Arcot District, chiefly inhabited by Chetties, though it contains a small number of the various other castes and a tolerably large community of Musalmans who have a mosque there. There are many villages surrounding it all sunk in the grossest heathen darkness, and about a mile east of it is a large town named Trivady, which contains heathen temples of remote antiquity.<br />
- The Punrúti Mission, Miss C.M. Reade, <i>The Missionary Conference: South India and Ceylon, 1879</i>, Volume 2, 1880, page 421.</blockquote>
.... as there's an overall racism in generally ascribing the Mission's problems to native incompetence. That includes Clara MS Lowe's own book on the Mission ("South Arcot Highways and Hedges Mission") which quotes remarks about "the inherent weakness of the native character, and its unfitness for the uncontrolled and irresponsible charge of a Christian Mission".<br />
Miss Lowe's book <b><i>Punrooty, or, The Gospel Winning its Way among the Women of India</i></b> (Clare MS Lowe, London: Morgan and Scott, 1880) is findable online via the Bodleian Library, Aleph System Number: <a href="http://solo.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=OXVU1&docId=oxfaleph014253362">014253362</a>. The server's down at this instant, but they say they're working on it; for the moment, here's a review:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYfuoPlc34CoNIXR_4eV129Ek2Z3MpWEA8Du33r8jN5QgPeY9v1LmsX5LU0cuOplnWkLK6O8V0LNX1J5nKOdeVM1nZz5o4v-NLyCtO22SmB-fuNtF82cGa1aTMyQzC6UYIOIbW0E8ig/s1600/punrooty01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYfuoPlc34CoNIXR_4eV129Ek2Z3MpWEA8Du33r8jN5QgPeY9v1LmsX5LU0cuOplnWkLK6O8V0LNX1J5nKOdeVM1nZz5o4v-NLyCtO22SmB-fuNtF82cGa1aTMyQzC6UYIOIbW0E8ig/s200/punrooty01.jpg" width="138" /></a></div>
<i><b>Punrooty; or, The Gospel Winning the Way among the Women of India</b></i>. By Clara M. S. Lowe. London: Morgan and Scott. Miss Lowe here narrates the remarkable success which has attended the labours of her friend, Miss Reade, and herself, daring their three years' occupancy of a secluded mission field in Southern India. The father of Miss Reade at one time occupied the post of highest authority in the district of South Arcot, in the Madras Presidency. Here, in the large native town of Punrooty, when his term of office was ended, he built a chapel and school-rooms, and established a native evangelist. Left to native superintendence, after its founder had returned to England, the mission languished, and seemed likely to become extinct, when Miss Reade, his daughter, bravely resolved to seek its revival and improvement by her personal care and effort. Accompanied by Miss Lowe, she undertook the task and accomplished it, with the most remarkable results. These two ladies were the only Europeans in the mission; and their solitary assistant, when they began their work, appears to have been a Bible-woman. But they gained access to the heathen of their own sex as they never would have done had they been accompanied by Christian men. After labouring about twelve months, a baptism took place of a little girl; and this, after a while, was followed by others, in quick succession. The native catechist and schoolmaster were soon brought into requisition. The physical ailments and the temporal wants, as well as the spiritual necessities, of the perishing around them were relieved by these devoted Christian ladies, and amid heathen darkness a centre of Christian light was established, which promises to become a source of future blessing. Some of the cases of conversion narrated are very touching, and the whole volume is one which must interest the friends of missions.<br />
- Literature, <i>Evangelical Christendom</i>, November 1, 1880, page 338.</blockquote>
It was evidently far from plain sailing. Like her colleague Miss Lowe (who returned to England to act as its local secretary from Upper Tooting, London), Miss Reade became seriously ill on at least one occasion, and needed time out at Malta in 1882..<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mr. and Mrs. Reade are preparing to leave for Punrooty early in March, calling at Malta to spend with Miss Reade the week's interval between one mail and the next. Of course, this expedition, in addition to the return of Miss Reade and her party, involves very considerable expense, which neither Mr. Reade nor the Mission has the funds to meet. It is hoped, therefore, that friends will be raised up to afford substantial and immediate help in this emergency.<br />
<br />
We have received the following note from Miss Reade herself, which will be read with great thankfulness by all her friends :—<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Dear Friend in Christ,—I feel led to send a few lines through my father to express my warm thanks to yourself and other kind friends who have Bo helped me by their prayers in my late severe illness. I am, indeed, very grateful, and thank God that He has most abundantly answered prayer in restoring me almost miraculously to comparative health and strength. Under Him it is due to the devoted love and care of my dear fellow-helper, Mus Groom.<br />
You will, I am sure, understand how deep a trial it has been to have to leave the beloved work in Punrooty at a moment's notice and without any preparation, and to take away another worker also—namely, Miss Groom: but my so quick restoration from the very valley of death assures as that the Lord means us very soon to return. May I ask the further prayers of the Lord's people, through The Christian, that He may be pleased to enable us to return in September next, by giving us both renewed health and strength, and sending us the necessary means.<br />
It may interest you to know that during our absence the Mission is in charge of Mr. F. Bowden, of Madras, who, though not able to reside there, has most kindly promised to visit it from time to time.<br />
One other request for prayer I am sure I may add, viz., that all the native helpers there may be kept very faithful, the dear orphans be kept "under the shadow of His wing" from all evil, and that God Himself may deal by his Spirit with the souls of the heathen and Mohammedans around who have heard his Word.<br />
In deep gratitude for all your interest and kindness in the post, I remain, yours truly in our Lord,<br />
Malta, Feb. 1. F. M. Reade.</blockquote>
We can well understand how deeply anxious Miss Reade is to return to the work which has been so wondrously blessed in her hands, and that six months seems to her a long while to look forward to ; but, considering the strain of the nervous system to which she has been subject, and the severe illness through which she has passed, it may be that a longer period will be necessary in order to such a restoration to health as would enable her to resume her arduous mission.<br />
- Notes and Comments, <i>The Christian</i>, Thursday, Feb. 16, 1882, page 12.</blockquote>
The final days of the Panrooty Mission and Miss Reade dwindle into statistics.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The Panruti, or Highways and Hedges, Mission was founded in 1871 by C. W. Reade, Collector of the district between 1862 and 1871. It was sold to the Danish Missionary Socety in 1911 and since then the Society has been managing it.<br />
- <i>Madras District Gazetteers: South Arcot</i>, Madras (India : State), B. S. Baliga (Rao Bahadur.) Superintendent, Government Press, 1962, page 166.<br />
...<br />
Miss C. M. Reade moved to Cuddalore, where she established her mission with a small reading room and free lending-library. Miss Reade died in April 1925 and was [<i>bnried at ???</i>?]<br />
- <i>Madras District Gazetteers, Statistical Appendix for South Arcot District</i>, Madras (India : State), Superintendent, Government Press, 1932.</blockquote>
The Blackgang Mission Hall enjoyed a late 19th century heyday that continued even after the death of its founder, particularly under the leadership of Christopher W Smith. Its service continued more quietly through until the mid-20th century (it became known as Christ Church, Blackgang - see <a href="http://www.isle-of-wight-fhs.co.uk/2013/mis_bis.html">IWFHS: Churches, Chapels and Cemeteries</a> and <a href="http://www.tintabernacles.com/Archive.html">www.tintabernacles.com</a>). A field visit in 1998 by the Isle of Wight County Archaeology and Historic Environment Service reported "appears disused" (see <a href="http://www.iwhistory.org.uk/HER/0806tinchapels.htm#MIW4842">#3327</a>), but <a href="https://www.iwight.com/planning/AppDetails3.aspx?frmId=16759">planning permission</a> was approved in 2008 for its conversation to the present holiday let. The brochure page for <a href="http://www.vintagevacations.co.uk/index.php/other-fab-places/the-mission/">vintagevacations.co.uk</a> has a nice merc clothing video showing the inside.<br />
The plannning <a href="https://www.iwight.com/planning/documents/temptifpdf/IMAGEPDF_z523gcdufeqfc1sqexkalbrp_04062015121714.pdf">Design Statement</a> (PDF) has a bit about the history, which confirms my view that the original 1873 Mission Hall has long since gone over the cliff, though I'm not convinced of its chronology; it says, for instance, that the 'tin chapel' is the third incarnation of a Blackgang Mission Hall, but bases this on dates that fail to mention the clear-cut <i>IWCP</i> news reports of the 1898 rebuild. The <i>IWCP</i> only goes back to 1884, unfortunately, so it's hard to trace 1870s building events.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">April 2015 - likely location of original 1873 Mission Hall</td></tr>
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- Ray
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Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-7829457354864033502015-06-03T00:05:00.000-07:002015-06-04T17:08:00.520-07:00At a Month's End: part 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Continuing with part 3 of <i><b>At a Month's End</b><b>: leaves from the diary of a man of the time</b></i>, told in three parts in <i>London Society</i> magazine in 1887: one of the less findable <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/bertha-thomas-bibliography.html"><b>Bertha Thomas</b></a> stories I decided to rescue from archive limbo, in part for its Devon interest.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>The story so far: Hubert Lane (better known as the
novelist "Lanerton Lee") has come to the South Devon village of
Conington to value the book collection of the impoverished Captain
Lister. Lister as hidden his insolvency, as well as his plans for the whole family to quit Britain,
from his possibly unstable niece Ella, fearing her reaction. Ella is
initially hostile to Lane, suspecting him to be a crooked book dealer,
and is shocked to find she has misjudged him, when his identity as the
famous Lanerton Lee is accidentally outed by a visitor</i>. <i>Their relations become more cordial - until Captain Lister breaks to Ella the news of their situation, and the move. After she needs to be talked down from possible suicide at a clifftop, Ella vows that she won't leave Conington.</i><br />
<br />
Text out of copyright. Credits to Google Books for scan used for transcript.<br />
<hr />
<br />
LONDON SOCIETY<br />
A Monthly Magazine of light and amusing literature for the hours of relaxation.<br />
London, F. V. White and Co.,31 Southampton Street, Strand, W.C.<br />
Volume 52, 1887<br />
At a Month’s End<br />
pages 307, 452, 564<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>AT A MONTH’S END</b><br />
<b>Leaves from the diary of a man of the time.</b><br />
A story in three parts.<br />
By Bertha Thomas,<br />
Author of “The Violin Player,” “Proud Maisie,” etc., etc.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
PART III.</div>
<br />
“Seulette,” Normandy, October 2.—I had expected to find the uninhabited villa at Conington a cheerless, lifeless spectacle. Instead, the bright flower garden, raised blinds, furniture exactly as usual, library unentered since I left it last week, made one forget the nest was vacant, the birds flown. I expected to hear Lister humming a tune, according to his habit, in the passage, Jack shouting to Bob in the garden, Ella's hand on the door. The crone who lodges at the ruins gave me the house key. I was free to remain till nightfall if I chose.<br />
I proposed to spend an hour or two in the library, looking through some columns of oddities as yet unexplored. Well alone in the house, I could not yet fix my attention. The Lister children, more especially Ella, were fond of assuring me the library was haunted. I could believe it this time. Dr. Lister's shade came and looked over my shoulder; the bookcases creaked; I was aware of strange intermittent raps and rustlings. I knew it was merely because the dead silence, as at night, brought out sounds that get lost in the hum and stir of day. Distinctly I seemed to hear Ella's low laugh in the garden. Here was witchcraft Her image fastened on my imagination with a kind of obsession. There was no moral obligation to resist it just then, I assured myself, since she was already far off. I dwelt long on the bewildering personality of one whose strength seemed in part the result of her singular deficiencies, and who had exerted all her power of personal attraction to carry me out of myself for a moment with an audacity that had succeeded; then came the puzzle of her subsequent avoidance.<br />
My distraction was complete. I was neither reading nor writing when, after a lapse of time of which I could give little account, a slight rustling in the bushes against the window made me look up. No ghost, but Ella, looking in at me out of the daphne sprigs behind the glass with eager and imperious eyes. With a quick movement she lifted the sash, sprang in, and stood beside me, saying in her old bright, resolute way:<br />
“Take me with you.” Had I been <i>expecting</i> the apparition? I could not even feign the surprise that in reason I should have felt.<br />
“I said I should haunt this place,” she said with a cool disdain and a careless glance round. “I have come to bid good-bye.”<br />
“Good-bye?” I repeated confusedly.<br />
“To it—not to you.” As she spoke, with a sudden change of voice—murmuringly, caressingly, I made an involuntary movement of my arms towards her. Like a dart she flew there, clung to me like a twining plant, in her face that absolute joy that is sufficient to itself—that will look no further. Neither did I. I kissed her fervently. Once of her own will she touched my lips with hers, lightly, almost reverently, at the same time throwing a passionate, imperious glance into mine, and saying:<br />
“Take me with you!”<br />
“Ella!”<br />
“Ah—you refuse ?” In an instant she had freed herself and stood before me with flashing eyes and a sort of wild anger that became her better than sweetness becomes most women.<br />
“What is your good pleasure ?” I asked unsteadily.<br />
“Listen,” she said, falling into a persuasive tone, and she laid her head on my shoulder, saying in a soft whisper that was like a kiss in itself: “You are to be fond of me for a little while—a little while—there, where there is nothing to come between us.”<br />
“Ella,” I faltered, “you will make me mad.”<br />
“Like me!” and she laughed. “I wish to. For a little while, I said, and then I ask nothing more; I am not afraid to look beyond. Need you?”<br />
I gazed at her, abandoning all attempt to fathom the mystery of a mature apparently simple, yet whose workings and motives eluded me even now. Who had unlocked for her those secret chambers of the soul, of whose very existence one supposed her unsuspicious—an ignorance which the least scrupulous of mankind would feel bound religiously to respect? She asked with triumph,<br />
“Isn’t it well done? It is just four days since I heard that that sick woman at Brighton was suddenly worse and couldn’t have me immediately. I never told <i>them</i>. I wrote back that uncle would be willing for me to sail with them and that I had arranged everything. So nobody knew. When, where the railway follows the coast, I saw across the sea-wall the masts of the steamer out on her way, I felt I was free. I left the train at a station six miles off and walked here across the fields. I met nothing. No one saw me come in. No one will ask after me, or know, or care to know, any more than if you caught that swallow darting about the lawn its mother would ask what had become of him. Take me with you to Normandy to-night.”<br />
“To Normandy?”<br />
“You are to think of me and nothing else for a month. Let me be your bride for that time. After that you are to forget me for ever.”<br />
<br />
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The <i>Mouette</i>, a small French vessel, left Dartcombe for Petit Port that night. The crew were all foreigners; the passengers —there were but two—remained on deck throughout the stillest and warmest of autumn nights. A dead calm out at sea, a light fog filling the air—now and then a black-masted, dark-sailed ship loomed suddenly out of the mist, phantom-like, close alongside. Looking back, the journey seems unreal—one long vivid impression of strangeness and wonder. I sit here in my study at Seulette, which we reached but an hour ago, journeying straight on from Petit Port, where we landed at noon. But that Ella, who, resting after a night and day of travel, has fallen asleep on the ottoman and is there before me, I could declare, even now, that our flight was a dream. <br />
<br />
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* * * * * *</center>
<br />
<br />
Seulette, November, 1880.–Ella had her will. For the space of time that now began I lived for her alone, dead to the existence of a world outside her presence—satisfied to find my world in her eyes and lips—an interlude, cut off on every side from past and future, —like an island in the sea. We had taken a trip from the earth to a star. Only we could not annihilate the earth nor stay in the star. The first would reclaim its truant subjects; the second cast us out sooner or later as runaway aliens, and then for a rude and dismal awakening. But if ever the shadow of forethought, afterthought or perplexity crossed my mind, Ella, quick to detect it, would resent it with mastering vehemence. “Haven’t I forbidden you to think? Haven’t you promised to forget there are such things as a world and society, and work and fame? For a little while, remember. You are to forget <i>me</i> afterwards.”<br />
“The first one can promise, Ella,” I said, “but the second--—”<br />
“I will take care of that,” was her reply. <br />
<br />
She too had her rare moments of musing and brooding. Where did her mind go to ? Of regret and anxiety never a trace. For her, will was paramount, to legitimatize desire—scruples, doubts, fears, hesitations not only scouted but annihilated. She shook off the sheath of social convention and custom and stepped forth as free and wild as the Russalka to which my fancy had likened her. Fresh as forest leaves in the spring time, wild and bright as the birds, perfect as a creature, full of natural but intractable intelligence, yet to whom certain common sympathetic qualities are utterly foreign. One of those in whom weakness excites no pity but cruel contempt. Self-absorbed, they will see their neighbour's house burn and sit by warming their hands. In revolt against the restrictions of a common-place lot, they will break through them to have their romance out, no matter the cost. And yet I think she had counted it.<br />
Her brief sovereignty was complete and assured by the singlemindedness of her self-devotion. She would pour forth all the treasure of her bright young spirit, all the attractions of her beauty to keep me to herself for an hour. The passion of admiration thus roused entangled reason and silenced it. But for her passion and reason were in unison—she shrank neither from looking back nor looking onward.<br />
One evening was wild and stormy. We did not take our usual ramble on the cliffs—grander and more desolate than those of Devonshire, but stayed in the châlet, which lay in a sheltered hollow on the side of a promontory. Ella stood at the window watching the lightning on the sea. I was at the table bending idly over some sketches of the coast. Suddenly I felt her beside me. She could be noiseless in her movements as a snake. She slid her arm round my neck. I drew her down on the ottoman where I was seated—she looked at me, bright and a little fierce, saying:<br />
“Are you mine still?” <br />
“Ella,” I said, in playful entreaty, “what are you going to do with me? I thought I was yours when we came—I know now I was not—you had made me forget all but you—you have made me despise it.”<br />
She laughed contentedly, leaned her head on my shoulder and looked up into my face. Was it a little panther that had taken a fancy to come and nestle in my arms, to caress and be caressed, yet remaining as untouched by sentimental influences as the wildest specimen of its race?<br />
I grew idle, as regardless as a lotus-eater of the lapse of time; whilst she seemed to prize and cling to every passing instant, as if determined to crowd the sensations of years into a single day. I had given up speculating, puzzling about her—she had forced me to take her and love her as to me she was—passionate, adoring, a little Lucifer of pride withal, but enchanting so long as you were satisfied to suffer her thus to hold you in thrall.<br />
Most of the fine autumn evenings we spent in exploring the lonely shores. She seemed insensible to cold or fatigue. Sometimes we sailed on the sea—her will prevailing over my judgment, for the coast is notoriously unsafe. But the rougher the weather, the crankier the boat, the greater for Ella the enjoyment. Once we had a narrow escape. Scudding along, we were approaching a dangerous sunken reef, and I barely noticed the breakers in time to call to Ella, who was steering, to shift the rudder. Quickly she looked up, saw, wavered; and then she was about, so I thought, to run us deliberately on the rocks. I threw myself forwards, and with difficulty, by good luck, averted a catastrophe, our boat just grazing the sunken reef.<br />
“Ella, are you mad?” I exclaimed.<br />
“Don’t!” she said, disarming sternness by her imploring tone and glance; then, presently, after we had sailed some minutes in silence: “You forget what a little while I have left me,” she said quite seriously, “but every moment counts. You are right; I should be mad to throw one away.”<br />
Then she talked and laughed in a merrier strain, setting herself to draw off my thoughts from the incident, until, looking back on it, it appeared insignificant. She had contrived to lay the ghost of a misgiving that never again started up until one evening, ten days later, she made me a strange scene.<br />
It was late, nearly midnight, but we were still sitting up downstairs in the châlet, I leaning back on the sofa, idle-headed, like the <i>fainéant</i> I had become, watching Ella as she moved about. I saw her take a bunch of flowers, gathered yesterday, from the vase where she had placed them, to throw them away.<br />
“Why destroy them?” I asked. “I hate to see things I like fade,” she said. “It is better to kill them off before they begin to look ugly.” And she threw them into the fire. She stood for some moments abstractedly watching them shrivel and crackle. I was absorbed in watching the blaze's play on her face, with its vivid colouring, and the rich auburn tints in her hair. She came up to me and sat on a cushion at my feet, saying:<br />
“Do you know when we came here, how long ago?”<br />
“Not in the least,” I replied. “Was it yesterday—or last year, perhaps?”<br />
“That is right,” she said approvingly. “Not too long—that means it has been long enough.”<br />
“Long enough?” I repeated vacantly.<br />
“Did you think I should wait until you got tired of it and of me, to make an end?”<br />
“Of what ?”<br />
She looked at me gravely, with something very like tenderness in her countenance, and said, almost wistfully:<br />
“And so you have really forgotten who you are, and that you do not belong to yourself, nor to me, nor could you ever.”<br />
“Ella,” I said, “you are certainly a witch. For I have entirely forgotten that life and I had anything to say to each other until a month ago.”<br />
The confession seemed singularly to content her. Her manner had something in it now of the generosity of the victor.<br />
“Well,” she said, coming closer, and speaking with an odd mixture of archness and sadness, “I must remind you. You were born one of the things they call men of the time—they crowned you long ago. You have your worshippers everywhere—oh, I know—I was one.”<br />
“<i>Was?</i>” I repeated, in playful reproach. She gave a provoking smile, and continued:<br />
“Of course the world will call you back, and you will want to go. I asked you to throw everything aside for me. For a little while —I said I would be your bride for a month—I was nobody— nothing—that you should care for me more than that. It was not much, but it was a thousand times better worth having than anything my life would ever bring me—it was all you could possibly give me, you know.”<br />
“Nay, Ella—” I began. She checked my reckless protest, saying:<br />
“You would not then, you could not now. Why should you try? Because you would not like another person to suffer through you?”<br />
“Who would?” said I.<br />
“I should not mind,” said Ella clearly. “But you are not to think of me as suffering. Look at me now-do I look unhappy, Hubert?”<br />
The face she turned to me was radiant—nay, exultant.<br />
“Then why, Ella,” I asked, “will you talk as though we could part?”<br />
Her reply was a passionate embrace. It was her way thus to lead your reason a dance, pique you on to an argument, then confound you by some unexpected turn, leaving you to surmise that she had been laughing at you.<br />
One o'clock—we were still there. Ella seemed possessed by a very demon of gaiety and wild spirits: she lit all the Chinese lanterns in the study, flitted about the room like an odalisque; she sang songs, wild old airs she had caught up from the fisherfolk, played fitful snatches on the piano. We watched the falling stars and meteoric lights from the window, then as I reclined on the sofa she pretended to mesmerize me with the light touch of her hand on my forehead.<br />
“Are you tired ?” she said in a hushed voice. “Sleep a little.”<br />
I sank into a deep sleep. Waking suddenly, as it were from an unremembered dream, I was conscious of a slight jarring shock, as though I had been struck. All was still, the wind had sunk— no sound in the châlet. I took out my watch, I had slept some hours; the Chinese lanterns had burnt out, but there was light in the room, for dawn was breaking. Ella was not there. Nor was she to be found anywhere in the châlet. There was nothing alarming in that. It would be just like her to finish up a <i>nuit blanche</i> by walking out at daybreak. I started off along the slope of the promontory. The sun was still below the horizon, but it was now fully light. From the point above, where there was a wide view, I could not fail to see, and should soon overtake her. But the single figure thence visible was that of a bent, decrepit old peasant woman gathering mushrooms in a meadow. I hastened towards her; she anticipated my inquiry:<br />
“Monsieur is looking for Madame?” she said.<br />
“You have seen her pass?”<br />
“I saw her come out of the châlet an hour ago. It was hardly light, but for the moon, which had not dropped. I said, Madame is early. She said she wanted, for once, to see the sun rise from the sea, but would not wake you. As she walked quickly along, near the cliff's edge, I called to her to have a care—my poor nephew Pierre lost his life there, the ground gave way, he fell into the abyss and was never seen again. Madame listened and nodded, but laughed as if she mocked my caution. All you English are thus—so full of temerity, I said to myself, and returned to my work. When next I looked she was out of sight. Which way she went I could not tell you. Is Monsieur anxious?”<br />
I strode on to the end of the promontory. Up and down the cliffs I looked. No sign of human life, nor visible trace of recent accident or disturbance of the soil.<br />
The sun rose up in splendour, flooding the waves that sparkled and glistened; then the light caught the fields, shedding glow and luminance over sea and shore.<br />
A single sea-bird was flying out eastward, as it were towards the sun. My eyes followed the flash of its white wings till to the dazzled sight it was lost in the golden blaze.<br />
Some words of Ella's had come suddenly back on my mind, spoken one day when we were watching the petrels, gannets and tern in one of their favourite rocky haunts:<br />
“When I am dead I should like my soul to go back into one of those sea-birds.”<br />
“Go back?” I repeated, laughing.<br />
“Yes,” she said musingly, following with envy their wild flight, as they skimmed the waters, or, soaring upwards, alighted on inaccessible crags; “I am sure it was from one of those that it came to me.”<br />
“You may say more,” I rejoined playfully, “for I think, Ella, the metamorphosis is incomplete.”<br />
<br />
Search was fruitless. Fears, first, of some fatal piece of rashness; then, the darker fear that she had voluntarily given up her life as the only end she could accept for herself to our brief madness, leaving me her memory safe and pure, as a legacy of intolerable regret for her loss, met with no scrap of direct confirmation.<br />
Returning to the châlet, I found the old servant who came daily to do the work of the house, and who had been there, it appeared, since sunrise. Ella had not come in.<br />
I walked into the sitting-room. Some word of writing or sign left behind might yet end the suspense. None; except that on the table by the sofa there lay a fresh white carnation flower, plucked that morning, for it was still wet with dew. She had gone out to gather it whilst I was sleeping, and placed it there— a token of farewell. <br />
<br />
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<br />
[The journal breaks off here. The following note appears to have been added five years later.] <br />
<br />
London, December, 1885.<br />
It was some six weeks after this that the first and last news—if news it can be called—came to me of Ella in a letter from Captain Lister, in New Zealand, to my London address. It found me still at Seulette, where the futility of my unremitting inquiries had well-nigh forced me to abandon hope and them.<br />
Captain Lister, in the course of his letter, related incidentally that the family had scarcely set foot in their new abode than they had been thunderstruck by a communication from Ella, despatched apparently immediately after their departure, and informing them of her extraordinary resolution, unsuspected for a moment by her relations, to bury herself in a French convent. She had concealed her intentions in order to avoid useless attempts at dissuasion. Further clue that might help to the discovery of her whereabouts she had given absolutely none. She was legally her own mistress; no one had the right to interfere, nor was there any one at hand to do so to any purpose. The death of her aunt at Brighton had occurred shortly after the Listers’ departure for the Antipodes. The captain, over there, had his hands full, and already when he wrote he and his were beginning to get over their surprise, and to recollect that Ella had always been eccentric—the very girl for a coup de tête such as this. That the inquiries he talked vaguely of making would lead to nothing was a foregone conclusion. Mine, which were now actively renewed, especially at Bordeaux, and other towns to which boats went from Petit Port, proved entirely unavailing.<br />
Five years ago now. I shall never know more. No; though the door has been left open to surmise, to stray conjecture. Only last autumn, passing through A—, in the heart of France, I listened to the idle town tittle-tattle concerning a certain large Sisterhood there established, and one among them, reputed to be of English origin, but who, according to the current gossip, bade fair to dominate the community, as the community by their successful activity in education and nursing and other public services practically dominated the town. But the strict rules of the Order stood in the way of any attempt I might be prompted to make to find here a solution of the mystery. Be this as it may, our union, by her own unfettered choice, was ended that morning she left me as irrevocably as though I knew what I surmise—that her life was cut short the same hour.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
THE END.</div>
<br />
Text transcribed from Google Books scan of <i>London Society</i>, Volume 52, 1887.<br />
<ul>
<li><i><b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/at-months-end-part-1.html">At a Month's End: part 1</a> </b></i></li>
<li><i><b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/at-months-end-part-2.html">At a Month's End: part 2</a></b></i> </li>
<li><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/at-months-end-part-3.html"><i><b>At a Month's End: part 3</b></i></a> </li>
</ul>
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-42316497084779885582015-06-02T00:05:00.000-07:002015-06-02T02:06:29.306-07:00An Episode at Blackgang Chine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJZ4tcH9cuRXzDgAAIVekTv_NNlciKDga4WcY1YPxs3VkYl1RUhYbm4UT-fnwW1r2JEEYPLvT6YEgiGMYSp3OK2BEhXHIyR2IOfm_26BxL4I_DdGxbg3VUXP53zikcU36FvuX_-goRGg/s1600/episodeatblackgangchine00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="55" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJZ4tcH9cuRXzDgAAIVekTv_NNlciKDga4WcY1YPxs3VkYl1RUhYbm4UT-fnwW1r2JEEYPLvT6YEgiGMYSp3OK2BEhXHIyR2IOfm_26BxL4I_DdGxbg3VUXP53zikcU36FvuX_-goRGg/s400/episodeatblackgangchine00.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
A purge of 'out-takes' from a recent post series - see <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/04/blackgang-chine-march-2015.html"><b>Blackgang Chine, March 2015</b></a> - finds this rather static romance story in an 1878 <i>Tinsleys' Magazine</i>, and a slight bibliographic puzzle relating to the authorship of two obscure 1870s novels.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>An Episode at Blackgang Chine</i> concerns the meeting between Amory (a very stiff bachelor of independent means who is paranoid about being hit on by impoverished widows) and a lady from his past, Maida (an improverished widow), when Amory is staying at the Blackgang Chine Hotel to recover his health.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.victoriansecrets.co.uk/victorian-fiction-research-guides/tinsleys-magazine/"><i>Tinsleys' Magazine</i></a> was something of an advertising wing of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Tinsley_%28publisher%29">Tinsley Brothers</a> publishing firm, showcasing works and authors to be published by the Tinsleys. Its general catchment and business practices were a little more off-the-wall than many of the literary magazines of that era, sensational stuff such as <i>How They Lynched Me: A Tale of the Far West</i> sitting next to major names and titles; Thomas Hardy's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Pair_of_Blue_Eyes"><i>A Pair of Blue Eyes</i></a> first appeared serialised in <i>Tinsleys'</i>.<br />
<br />
So, the story first. Skip if you want; the following bibliography bit is about its authorship, and that of a couple of related works.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMwQXSvUKZks04bu09VgxZy6qOHGVHAwJvcetSjakHNqNP5D-xDrZkNii1gaQs2C-YmhV10jhl5-DBWXmT_GdGHfT4VxAlUOY6oVZ_doObikBL1QM9lGrQo7vgwDZU0q_DHtqCclJoA/s1600/blackgangwhale04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMwQXSvUKZks04bu09VgxZy6qOHGVHAwJvcetSjakHNqNP5D-xDrZkNii1gaQs2C-YmhV10jhl5-DBWXmT_GdGHfT4VxAlUOY6oVZ_doObikBL1QM9lGrQo7vgwDZU0q_DHtqCclJoA/s1600/blackgangwhale04.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blackgang Chine Hotel, 1843<br />
(somewhat earlier than the story setting)<br />
<i>The Pleasure-Visitor's Companion to the Isle of Wight</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<hr />
<b><i>Tinsleys' Magazine</i></b><br />
Volume XXIII, August 1878, page 214 <br />
London: Tinsley Brothers<br />
<br />
<b><i>AN EPISODE AT BLACKGANG CHINE</i>. </b><br />
<b><small>By The Author Of 'Marley Castle,' 'Corrafin,' Etc.</small></b> <br />
<br />
I am a bachelor, but be it distinctly understood by no means a very old one. I merely want to present myself as an individual of ripe judgment and large experience, contradistinguished from the raw material which we call a youth. Indeed it at first occurred to me to say that I was a man pure and simple; but on reflection I feared that my friends (?) might take exception to that brace of adjectives, and pronounce it a double-barrelled misstatement. So I have left it unsaid.<br />
With regard to my outer man, I must confess that Nature dealt rather handsomely with me on the whole; for she not only accorded me my proper allotment of limbs and features, but finished them all off in such a careful and painstaking manner, that the result was eminently satisfactory, and gave no evidence whatever of being a piece of workmanship on which she had merely tried her ‘’prentice han'.'<br />
As to my circumstances, they were always so very easy, that the only embarrassment I ever experienced was an embarrassment of riches; for in addition to succeeding to a large fortune on my father's death, there was also a great mortality amongst my other relatives, who, of course, would have lived for ever and a day if I had had a very fruitful vine on the walls of my house, and an extremely limited exchequer; but who, because I did not in the least want their money, all insisted on dying and leaving me handsome legacies and bequests.<br />
It thus came to pass that at rather an early age I felt myself the natural prey of unscrupulous spins and designing widows; and the consciousness of being so, tinged and coloured and gave a peculiar bias to my whole life. For, owing to the extreme and morbid dread I felt of being run down and captured <i>nolens volens</i>, I was always more or less ill at ease and out of my element when with the other sex, and only thoroughly comfortable and at home when with my own.<br />
I, however, ran the danger—yea, and I am proud to add escaped it too—for many years; and when I was at last delivered from it, it was by accident, and not design. For a party of friends who were going on an exploring expedition to equatorial regions asked me to join them; and I not only went, but became so interested in the work that I remained abroad until my health broke down utterly, and I was at length told that I must hasten back to England at once, unless I wished to leave my bones to bleach on the sands of the desert.<br />
Now, as ill-luck would have it, I took fever whilst on my way home; and by the time I arrived in London I was so emaciated, and had got such a bad cough, that the doctor whom I consulted advised me to go to the Isle of Wight for change of air, particularly recommending Black<br />
gang Chine, where, he assured me, I should find a climate exactly suited to my requirements in every respect.<br />
To Blackgang Chine, therefore, I accordingly went; and having put up at the charming hotel there, before many days were over I had begun to feel decidedly better and stronger; for the gorse-scented atmosphere is not only singularly pure and fresh, but so soft and balmy as well, that every breath seems to come with health and healing on its wings.<br />
But besides that, I revelled in the wild beauty of the surrounding scene, which, though bare and rugged certainly, and rather sombre as regards colouring, with its fantastic lights and shadows, its grand old green-sand cliffs rising layer upon layer and higher and higher until they culminate in the majestic escarpment of St. Catherine's Hill, and the ceaseless chime of the waves as they break in solemn music on the shore, is peculiarly striking and impressive, and has a wondrous charm for one who, like myself, prefers Nature under her sterner and sublimer aspects.<br />
Of course each day when the coach came over from Ventnor, and disgorged itself of its occupants at the hotel, the solitude of the place was invaded, and I might almost say desecrated. For that the name of the visitors to Blackgang Chine is legion is abundantly shown by the testimony of the rocks, which are literally engraved from base to summit in all directions with the autographs of Brown, Jones, Robinson, Smith, &c. But during the forenoon I generally had the shore all to myself, and every day regularly I used to take my lonely matutinal stroll there until the following incident occurred:<br />
One morning, when I went down as usual, although it had only been breezy up at the hotel, I found that on the beach it was blowing half a gale of wind. Indeed so strong was the blast, that it was as much as I could do, in my then weak state, to keep on my feet; while as to walking steadily, it was out of the question. However, the breeze was so refreshing and exhilarating that I mightily rejoiced in it for some time, and would no doubt have continued to enjoy it too—for the sensations it produced were indescribably pleasant—had not a sudden gust come and blown off, not only my hat, but also my wig; for during the fever my head had been shaved.<br />
Now it is admitted that no man, however grand or imposing he may be, can possibly look stately or dignified when running after his own hat; but when an unfortunate wight has to give chase to his wig as well, the case is of course additionally ignominious. Still such things must be done sometimes; and as I knew I should have to return to the hotel—which was very full at the time—in a crestfallen condition, and with my diminished head looking as smooth and as bare as a billiard-ball, unless I could catch the fugitive articles, I pursued them for a time, and with as much celerity as I could exercise. But I was so unequal to running fast just then that I was soon obliged to slacken my speed; and, in a state almost bordering on despair, I was each instant expecting to see my head-gear blown into the water, when to my unbounded surprise some one else joined in the pursuit—namely a lady, who had been sitting behind a ledge of rock which had hidden her from my view, and whose lungs and limbs were evidently in good working order; for she soon succeeded where I had failed, and in a few moments more came running up to me with my hat in one hand and my wig in the other.<br />
As she approached, I noticed that she was small and slight, that her figure was beautiful, and that she was dressed in black, with that pretty little coquettish white border under her bonnet which denotes widowhood, but does not disfigure the widow, as those heavy monumental-looking piles of white muslin which our grandmothers wore used to do. However, all desire to make further notes and commentaries on her was merged in astonishment when she drew near and raised her head; for directly she did so, <i>she</i> started and <i>I</i> started; and, with an exclamation which was almost a cry of surprise, she said,<br />
'Amory Smythe!—Amory! Is it, can it really be you, or am I only dreaming?'<br />
Now after having been called 'old fellow' and 'old man' for so many years that I had nearly forgotten the sound of my own Christian name, to hear it thus uttered by a very sweet woman's voice almost electrified me; but as soon as speech became a possibility I answered,<br />
'Yes, Maida; it is indeed I myself. But where have <i>you</i> fallen from ?—the clouds I should think; for I heard that you were in India.'<br />
'Oh, I have been home for two years. But do tell me why you have taken to wearing wigs already! Why not go bald? Men do not look any worse for being bald; in fact I rather like it.'<br />
I could not help laughing at this; but I said,<br />
'There is baldness and baldness, you must remember; but when a man hasn't got a single hair on any part of his head, I quite agree with the old proverb, that he may lawfully wear a wig. I've had a fever, and my hair has not grown yet.'<br />
'Then 1 suppose you are here for your health?' she added.<br />
'Yes; and you? <br />
'Oh, every one comes to this place for health, and finds it too, for the climate is wonderful. But I am with aunt Jane, who still fancies she has every disorder under the sun, and her last craze is that she has lung-disease. We only arrived very late last night, so that is why you did not see us before.'<br />
My eyes then rested on her border with an inquiring look, and perceiving the direction of my glance, she answered the mute query cheerfully and said,<br />
'Yes, I am a widow—have been for four years; and now I should be quite alone in the world only for aunt Jane, for when I came home I found all my people dead and gone. But then it's no wonder, after such a time. Would you believe it, it's eighteen long years since I saw you last!'<br />
'God bless me, so it is!' I replied. 'What a gap in one's life!'<br />
'A tremendous one,' she assented. 'But do tell me all about yourself. I hope you haven't married and grown stupid. I always remark men are never worth much once they marry. Women, of course, are quite different'<br />
'Oh, I am perfectly unmarried,' I answered; 'but for the rest you must judge for yourself.'<br />
'Well,' she said, 'I remember I used to think you one of the pleasantest men I ever met—that is when you would venture to talk to me, which wasn't often, for you were terribly afraid of me in those days, don't you remember? But now, since I've grown old and ugly, I am not in the least dangerous, so I hope you won't be afraid of me any longer. I assure you I'm warranted harmless now, perfectly harmless.'<br />
When she said this I could not help laughing again; and as her pleasant voice, so long unheard, echoed in my ear, the tide of time appeared to flow back to the day when I heard that she was going to be married, and I seemed to feel once more the keen pang of regret I experienced when I found she was actually lost to me for ever. For it was the narrowest possible shave that I had not fallen in love with her myself, as I always tacitly admitted that she was the prettiest, pleasantest, and most original girl of my acquaintance, and, compared to all others, she invariably seemed to me like a diamond amongst common stones. But my wretched pride, tenacity, and over-sensitiveness held me back, because, as she was poor and I was rich, I feared she might possibly marry me for my fortune and not for myself, and that I could not stand the notion of. So I let old Colonel Freyne carry off the prize and take her to India, where I lost sight of her so completely that, with the exception of a vague rumour that she was not happy in her married life, I had heard nothing of her from the day we parted, eighteen years before, up to the time then present.<br />
Meanwhile we had got up to aunt Jane, to whom I had to be reintroduced. And then Maida and I sat down together, and began to compare notes and exchange confidences. That is to say, she gave me a sketch of her life, and I gave her one of mine. And whilst thus employed the time passed so pleasantly and imperceptibly away that we were both somewhat surprised when the arrival of the coach-people tacitly reminded us that it was time to go back to the hotel for lunch.<br />
Of course I dined with my old friends in the public room that evening, and after dinner we went out for a walk, during which I fancied the scene seemed much brighter and fairer than it used to do when I was lonely and companionless. And then for many succeeding days we were so constantly together that we were hardly ever apart; and to me the change was so delightful, and the existing state of things so satisfactory, that in looking back at that September now it appears to me the pleasantest month I ever spent in my life—a veritable green spot in the waste of memory.<br />
Nor, so far as I could judge, was Maida's enjoyment less great than my own either. But then why should it be? For though it is true she was not young, though her morning song was hushed, and the early dew no longer glistened on the world around her, spring and summer have not an entire monopoly of bloom and blossom; autumn has its flowers as well, and though their fragrance is peculiar it is very sweet; all the sweeter, perhaps, because we know that winter is so near at hand.<br />
Thus time glided by smoothly, uneventfully, and delightfully, until one evening towards the end of the month—I shall never forget that night as long as I live—a large party having started from the hotel for a moonlight walk on the shore, Maida and I, who soon found ourselves a little in the rear of the others, sat down on the second seat to enjoy the charming view spread out before us. (Fair and friendly reader, should you ever go to Blackgang Chine, pray linger at that particular seat for a moment— remember it is the second as you descend from the hotel—and cast a sympathetic thought on me; for I assure you I suffered horribly whilst sitting there on the occasion in question.)<br />
But to return to the night—I must admit that it was not only warm, but exceedingly bright and fine as well, and with such an affluence of light that even the most minute objects were distinctly visible, while as for the full moon, it looked—as usual. Of course, <i>I</i> could say that it was 'cold' and 'round,' like 'a silver shield,' and an ' isle of the blest,' &c., as well as others, if I chose; but the old man who lives in it has so often had his residence described that I fancy he will esteem my reticence of imagery rather as a compliment than otherwise, so I forbear.<br />
Now from the moment we started I noticed that Maida was not in her usual good spirits this evening. In fact she seemed so absent and <i>distraite</i> that I at last began to fancy that she must have something to tell me which she was reluctant to communicate. But, then, what the deuce could it be? I asked myself; for she had no relatives to trouble her, and her position in the world was almost as isolated as my own. However, before I had time to answer this question satisfactorily she opened fire herself by informing me that she had just received a foreign letter, and asking me to guess from whom it came.<br />
Of course the solution of such a puzzling question quite transcended my powers; so she then told me that it was from her uncle, who was on his way home from Jamaica, and who, being a childless widower, had written to say that she must come and live with him, and keep house for him for the future.<br />
'Well?' I said; and very thankful I felt that I had thought of so short a word with which to fill up the hiatus; for I was so utterly stultified and astonished by this most unexpected news that 1 knew I should have floundered hopelessly if I had ventured on anything lengthy or dissyllabic .<br />
'Oh, of course I shall have to do it,' she answered.<br />
'And do you like the idea of it?' I asked.<br />
'Not at all; for uncle Will was always extremely cross and sour,' she said; 'and it's not likely that his temper has grown any better.'<br />
'Then why do you intend complying with his request?' I inquired.<br />
'For very cogent reasons,' she replied somewhat sadly; 'I am not in a position to refuse so good an offer.'<br />
Not in a position! Here was a revelation indeed. Then she was still poor; and what a chance it was for me! For surely under existing circumstances nothing could be pleasanter than to devote my useless wealth to making her comfortable for the rest of her life. You see, since I had grown older and wiser my views on the subject of matrimony had been modified a good deal; and often latterly, especially since I had come to Blackgang, I had not only called myself an ass for not having gone in for her in the days of my youth, but also felt that I had thus cheated myself out of many happy years by my own folly. Now, however, an opportunity was afforded me, by her own chance admission, of making a tardy <i>amende</i>; but how to set about making it was the question; and one, too, involving a difficulty out of which I could not in the least see my way. Yes, reader, strange as it may seem, I swear it is nevertheless perfectly true that I, a gold-medal man, who was supposed to know all about quaternions and transcendental mathematics, who had the reputation at Oxford of being an acute dialectician, a profound thinker, and all the rest of it, and who really <i>was</i> a very tolerable linguist, had no more idea of how I ought to convey my wishes and feelings to the little woman by my side (and she was not by any means a formidable little woman either) than I had of how to make the wig on my head.<br />
Meanwhile, I was so long silent, pondering over and speculating about this puzzling matter, that Maida, thinking I had fallen asleep, at length roused me from my reverie by bidding me 'Good-night.' Whereupon I said that I was not asleep, and that I had only been thinking.<br />
'Of what?' she asked.<br />
'About you,' I answered.<br />
'Well,' she said, 'of course, <i>I</i> think you couldn't have a better subject. .But what was the nature of your thoughts?'<br />
'I was just thinking how little use my fortune was to me, and wishing you would let me share it with you.'<br />
There, the words were said at last; and surely a more abrupt and <i>un</i>eloquent proposal never was made! Furthermore, it left her in the dark as to my real meaning, too; for she exclaimed,<br />
'What! endow me like a charitable institution ? My dear Amory, you are very kind to think of such a thing; but I'm afraid it wouldn't quite do.'<br />
'I didn't mean that,' I said hurriedly; 'I meant—that is—I—but —only—'<br />
'Why, Amory, you are growing positively incoherent!' she cried. ‘Has the moon anything to do with it? What can you mean, or want to say?'<br />
'That I shall be so lonely when you are gone, and that I wish you would stay with me always—'<br />
But when I had got thus far, the real state of the case having dawned upon her, instead of answering she burst into such a hearty laugh that I felt quite nettled, and, if the truth must be told, rather hurt too.<br />
'Good Heavens! you surely don't mean that!' she exclaimed, as soon as she was able to speak once more. 'Excuse me for laughing; but the idea is so ludicrous that I cannot help it.'<br />
'Oh, I know, of course, I was presumptuous,' I was beginning— for by this time I was really angry as well as hurt—when she interrupted me by saying,<br />
'Now, Amory, you mustn't be sarcastic; and you know very well it's not a case of presumption, but merely of unsuitability.'<br />
'In what way?' I asked, in a tone which was rather below freezing point; for I had felt so perfectly certain that my offer would be accepted with joy and gladness that the fact of its being laughed to scorn in such a manner mortified me extremely.<br />
'I hardly know how to describe it to you,' she returned; 'but you would not satisfy me at all, because you have got such a cold heart. The mild preference, which is all you are capable of feeling, wouldn't content me the least in the world.'<br />
'How do you know what I am capable of feeling?' I then said; 'and it seems to me you have been thinking a good deal about marrying again.'<br />
'On the contrary, I don't think I ever shall marry,' she rejoined. 'For <i>me</i> to marry again would be really the triumph of hope over experience; and I assure you I never will do so until I meet a man who loves me with the most exclusive and rapturous devotion, and who firmly believes there is only one nice woman in the world, and he has got her—meaning myself. No, Amory, I am very fond of you as a friend, but you wouldn't at all suit my taste as a lover; besides, it would be a thousand pities for you to spoil yourself by marrying; you are much nicer as you are. And now I hear the others coming towards us, so I think we had better go and meet them.'<br />
Saying which, <i>she</i> rose and <i>I</i> rose, and as in a few moments more the rest of the party had joined us, our moonlight <i>tête-à-tête</i> thus came to an abrupt conclusion.<br />
When we met at breakfast the next morning I noticed that Maida coloured as we shook hands, and I certainly felt rather awkward also. But though I started with being silent and glum, and really did feel both out of humour and out of spirits, there was no resisting the effect of her sparkling gaiety; and owing to the efforts she made to dissipate my gloom I certainly did brighten up after a time; though she could not succeed in banishing care from my heart, or in making me forget either the summary way in which she had rejected me, or that I was so soon to lose her society, which had become so necessary to me that what I should do without it when she was gone I could not imagine. However, no time had been fixed for her departure, which was still comparatively in the distance, and of course something might yet happen to prevent her going at all; for instance, the vessel in which the ogre was coming over might go down. So I accordingly resolved to think only of, and live only in, the present; and I did so—enjoying those last days with that superadded zest which we always feel in reference to any precious possession which we know we are about to lose. But I was at last rudely awakened from my dream; for one day about the middle of October a telegram came from Maida's terrible relative informing her that he had arrived in London, and begging that she would join him there without delay, as he wanted her to help him in selecting a house.<br />
This was indeed a blow to me; but I was too proud to let her see how I suffered; and, as if by mutual consent, both she and I avoided the subject of her departure all through the day. That evening, however, when I went in to talk to her in aunt Jane's little sitting-room—the old lady had gone to bed with a headache—she told me she was obliged to leave so early in the morning that she would have started before I was up, I being still so much of an invalid that I never rose before nine o'clock.<br />
'Then I suppose I had better leave you,' I said, 'as of course you have a great deal of packing to do?'<br />
'Oh, no; pray don't go yet!' she cried. 'I have ever so much to say to you; and you know we are not likely to meet again for a long time, as of course you will be too lazy to come so far to see me.'<br />
This was an imputation on my activity certainly; but I had not energy or spirit enough to rebut it; and as I sat down once more in compliance with her request I asked myself could those be <i>my</i> pulses which were moving so fast? could this be <i>my</i> heart which was beating so violently against my waistcoat? and was this really my usual calm unexcitable self, or had I undergone my metempsychosis before my time? Yes, all my wonted imperturbability was gone, and instead of being any longer the perfectly cool hand which I had always hitherto prided myself on appearing, I was now as nervous and discomposed as the veriest schoolboy as I waited for her to speak again. Indeed I must admit that I by no means distinguished myself as a conversationalist that evening either; and my replies were so very brief and inapposite that Maida at last said,<br />
'Well, Amo'—this was her old name for me—' I certainly can't congratulate you on the brilliancy and variety of your remarks tonight. Four times in succession you've said, "That's very pleasant;" and on one occasion it was when I was telling you how wretched I should be when living with my uncle.'<br />
'Oh, it's very easy for <i>you</i> to make jokes and talk coherently,' I rejoined, somewhat savagely, 'for you don't mind; but though you do not feel for me I cannot help feeling for myself, when I think of what I shall be to-morrow, and indeed for the rest of my life—'<br />
But before I had time to finish my sentence she came over to me, and placing her hand on my shoulder, she said,<br />
'Dear old friend, you wrong me; if you were in need, sickness, or any other adversity, there is no one who would feel more or do more for you than I would; but I know you better than you know yourself; and though to-morrow may seem rather blank, after that you'll begin to say, "Well, it <i>is</i> very pleasant to be quiet once more, and I'm rather glad that that plaguy little woman has gone."'<br />
And as the 'plaguy little woman' said this she bent down her face, which was still fair and pleasant with the reflection of former beauty, and looked into mine as searchingly as though she expected to be able to read it like a book. But I interrupted her employment by saying that I was much disappointed in her, as I expected that she would at least have been sincere, 'for,' I added, 'you know perfectly that I shall never feel glad that you are gone. But your sex are always the same; you have made me like you too well, and now you laugh at me for doing so.'<br />
'Self-convicted !' she exclaimed, in an entirely different tone. 'You <i>like</i> me too well! How right I was all the time! Well, Amory, I see it is growing late now, so I must dismiss you at last. I shall certainly write and tell you of my safe arrival; and now good-night and good-bye.'<br />
I took the hand which she extended to me, but instead of relinquishing it I said,<br />
'Is this the correct way for old friends to part?'<br />
'I think so,' she answered. 'I cannot say about young people, for I had no tender partings in my own youth. You know <i>I</i> never was "in Arcadia;" but I am sure that the correct thing for old people like you and me is just to shake hands and say good-bye.'<br />
'Well,' I said, 'to me there seems to be a certain amount of incompleteness about it; but of course I am not a very good judge of such matters either, for the only woman I ever remember kissing is my aunt Skinner, who—'<br />
'Then I'm not surprised you never tried it again, for she was the ugliest woman I ever saw in my life!' interpolated Maida, laughing. 'But I can assure you,' she added, 'it's not at all according to the latest authority to hold an aged and decrepit hand so tight that the rings hurt the withered fingers. You really <i>are</i> hurting my hand, Amory!'<br />
'Forgive me,' I cried, 'but I hardly know what I am doing. You haven't one spark of feeling, Maida; if you had you would feel some pity, some little tenderness for me now, for I swear to you I never felt so wretched in my life but once before, and that was the day I heard you were going to be married. Talk of <i>my</i> heart being cold, yours must be as cold as ice!'<br />
'Take comfort, Amo,' she replied, in a low and almost inaudible tone; 'if the truth were known, I feel a <i>great deal</i> more at parting with you than you do at my leaving you. And now I really must go. Good-night and farewell!'<br />
And as she said this she wrenched her hand from my grasp, and the next moment, before I had time to add another word, she darted from the room.<br />
The next day, spent without Maida, was fully forty-eight hours long, while the succeeding one was even of longer duration. Indeed, instead of her prediction being fulfilled, my sense of loss and feeling of utter loneliness increased instead of diminishing, and at that juncture it appeared to me that Time must be moulting very hard, for there was not as much as a single feather in his wing. However, I did not reach the <i>comble</i> of my misfortune until, my brother-in-law having thought proper to die, as well as every one else belonging to me, I was summoned over to Ireland to attend his funeral Now at the time of his death he and my sister were living in a God-forsaken little place called Courtmacksherry. I remember quite well when I first heard that they were going there, as he was in the service and I knew of Pondicherry, I looked on the map of India for it; and in addition to its remoteness and other drawbacks, as I had to go over in November, it was so perpetually enshrouded in gloom, mists, and fogs, that though I spent five weeks in the green isle I can truly say I never actually saw it, and the conclusion I came to was that Ireland was a very pleasant country indeed to live <i>out</i> of. But then I owed the climate a deep grudge, for it played Old Harry with my lungs, and made me so ill that when I got back to London I was ordered off at once to the south of France.<br />
This was startling and by no means pleasant. But though I at first felt that it would be better to die at home than live abroad, on second thoughts I decided that, after all, life was sweet, and as I had by no means exhausted it yet, I would not only do as I was bidden, but start as soon as possible too. I, however, had to return to Blackgang for my effects, where I found aunt Jane still in the enjoyment of her bad health, and having got her to furnish me with Maida's address—she was out of town when I was passing through—I telegraphed to her to come down, even if it were but for a day, adding that I was very ill, and about to leave England for a long and indefinite period.<br />
This summons she obeyed at once; and when she came into the room where I was lying—it was one of those charming little sitting-rooms at the back of the hotel which look right down on the sea—and saw how worn and wasted I had become, the colour fled from her cheek and the light faded from her eye; and though she knelt down beside the couch and took my hand, she seemed quite unable to utter a word.<br />
'It was very good of you to come, Maida,' I said, 'but I felt sure that you would; and you know I could not go without seeing you once more, for in all probability we shall never meet again in this world.'<br />
'O Amory, it's unkind, it's cruel of you to say that; and I think, if you knew what pain it gives me, you wouldn't. I know of course that I have had to live all my life without you—that was <i>your</i> fault, though, and not mine—but now I feel that the world would not have the least charm for me if you were not in it.'<br />
'Do you indeed feel that, Maida?' I asked, starting up, and hardly able to believe the evidence of my senses as I listened to this acknowledgment.<br />
'I do indeed,' she said. 'It's not likely that I would say what I didn't mean at such a time.'<br />
'Then, in Heaven's name, why did you not tell me before?' I said. 'Think of all you might have spared me; for I know that a great deal of my illness has been caused by what I have suffered since you rejected me. Now, of course, it's too late; my doom is sealed, and I must die as I have lived, alone; but it is you who have been cruel, Maida, and not I.'<br />
Instead of replying to this, however, she bent her head until her face rested on the hand she still held in her own; and as she did so I felt something very like a tear trickling through my fingers. After that it was all over with me, for no man can withstand the irresistible logic of a tear, provided it be shed by the woman he loves. And at that moment I was conquered—fully and entirely conquered. Gone were all the coldness and impenetrable reserve of years, vanished the stubborn pride which had spoilt my whole life, and even up to the present had held such a sway over me; and drawing the kneeling figure still closer to me, I whispered, in a tone which faltered in spite of my most strenuous efforts to keep calm and composed,<br />
'Maida, <i>I love you</i>! "Like" was not the word I ought to have used that night; but I was too proud even then to reveal the whole truth, and acknowledge that you have crept into my <i>cold</i> heart—cold no longer, but now, when it's too late and my life is nearly over, filled with a love for you as deep and ardent as even <i>you</i> could desire.'<br />
'Why should it be too late, dear Amo?' she cried, raising her head and fixing her eyes inquiringly on my face as she spoke. 'If you indeed <i>love</i> me you shall not go abroad alone. <i>I</i> will bear you company, not only in your journey, but for the journey of life, if you like; and in the care that I shall take of you I do not despair of your getting better too. May I go ?—will you let me?'<br />
Might she?—would I let her? Would I accept my heart's desire when it was offered me? Yes, I should rather think I would. But I need not tell you what I said in reply. I will only say that my answer was spoken on her lips—the feat, though difficult, is by no means impossible—and then, as we sat together that day, talking of the past and the curious chain of circumstances which had brought us together at Blackgang after so many years of separation, although the retrospect was saddening and the future cloudy and uncertain, hope triumphed over despair; and in the fullness of our present joy we both came to the conclusion that autumnal love is, after all, much stronger and deeper, and more of a reality, than the evanescent <i>dream</i> which comes in spring.<br />
<br />
Several weeks have gone by since that happy day; and I must add a line to say that, though still ailing and still under sentence of expatriation, my new-found happiness has already had a most favourable effect on my health; and banishment no longer has any terrors for me, as, before I enter on it, I am to exchange single for double blessedness.<br />
<br />
<i>Out-of-copyright text transcribed from Google Books scan of <b>Tinsleys' Magazine</b>, Volume XXIII, </i><span class="st"><i>January-October 1878</i>.</span><br />
<hr />
<br />
And as the allegorically-named Amory and Maida disappear into the luminous future (luminous apart from his ominous recurring health breakdowns), on to the bibliographics ...<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKfsHiQ-hDL0kxaVhmecIfUy4oo_f9TB7TAkgUkmgATJEjUcg5asiczZz4-UADDl9WWbvLOgT5Y9D_Fyb8JIcTzzahONxs-1zShW3SsIR8P-oaktZvjlHOMZM41dzkNmsryHL7EPhZ7w/s1600/garnetwolseley01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKfsHiQ-hDL0kxaVhmecIfUy4oo_f9TB7TAkgUkmgATJEjUcg5asiczZz4-UADDl9WWbvLOgT5Y9D_Fyb8JIcTzzahONxs-1zShW3SsIR8P-oaktZvjlHOMZM41dzkNmsryHL7EPhZ7w/s320/garnetwolseley01.jpg" width="254" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">then Lieut.-Colonel GJ Wolseley<br />
frontispiece from his 1862 memoir<br />
<i>Narrative of the War with China in 1860</i><br />
Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/narrativeofwarwi00wols">narrativeofwarwi00wols</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><i>An Episode at Blackgang Chine</i></b> is credited just as "By The Author Of 'Marley Castle,' 'Corrafin,' Etc.", and it's still not entirely known who wrote these two novels. <i>Marley Castle: A Novel</i> (London: Remington and Co., two vols., 1877) was billed as "edited by Sir Garnet Wolseley, G.C.M.G., K.C.B., &c"; and <i>Corrafin</i> (London: Tinsley Bros, 2 vols., 1878) as "by the author of <i>Marley Castle</i>".<br />
<br />
Sir Garnet Wolseley is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garnet_Wolseley,_1st_Viscount_Wolseley">Field Marshal Garnet Joseph Wolseley</a>, 1st Viscount Wolseley KP, GCB, OM, GCMG, VD, PC, who is historically notable as leader of the 1882 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nile_Expedition">Nile Expedition</a> to relieve General Gordon at Khartoum. Either this much-decorated Anglo-Irish military veteran was a closet romance writer, or he was fronting for a friend or relative. While continuing suspicion attached to Sir Garnet himself, the strongest candidate for authorship is his sister Matilda.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
A novel edited by Sir Garnet Wolseley, entitled 'Marley Castle,' willl shortly be published by Messrs. Remington and Co. Various conjectures have been made as to its authorship. One seems to be the most likely and the most obvious.<br />
- Variorum Notes, <i>The Examiner</i> (London, England), Saturday, July 14, 1877.<br />
...<br />
Week after week passes away, and "Marley Castle" continues to be a target for the cannons and penny pop-guns of criticism. In some quarters Sir Garnet Wolseley is referred to as the actual author of the book, an in others is burdened with undue responsibility as its nominal editor. I should like the critics in question to know that Sir Garnet never read a line of "Marley Castle" before it appeared in print. It is the work of a lady, a near relative of Sir Garnet's, whose publisher made it a <i>sine qua non</i> that the gallant soldier's name should appear on the title page. The result is known. Sir Garnet must be added to the already long list of those whose good nature has joined them to the company of martyrs.<br />
- London gossip (quoting the <i>Whitehall Review</i>) <i>Hampshire Telegraph</i> and <i>Sussex Chronicle</i> etc (Portsmouth, England), Wednesday, October 10, 1877.<br />
...<br />
It seems a pity that Sir Garnet Wolseley should not have been a real, rather than a nominal editor of this novel, written by his sister and bearing his name upon its title-page; but we can trace very few signs of editorship throughout its pages. <br />
- <i>The Dublin University Magazine</i>: A Literary and Philosophic Review, Volume 90, December 1877, page 761. <br />
...<br />
LORD WOLSELEY .... It will be news to most of you readers that this great soldier tried his hand at writing fiction. In the year 1877 appeared a novel entitled "Marley Castle," "edited" by Sir Garnet Wolseley, as he then was; but it was common talk that "editor " was a pious fiction for "author." In spite of his future fame, the book made no mark, and is not mentioned in his autobiography or in any life.<br />
- AN OLD SOLDIER, Curragh, letter, The Irish Book Lover, Volume 4, 1913, page 174.<br />
...<br />
The two novels probably were written by an unidentified author, who may have been a friend of Sir Garnet Wolseley.<br />
- <i>A Guide to Irish Fiction, 1650-1900</i>, Rolf Loeber, Magda Stouthamer-Loeber, Anne Mullin Burnham, Four Courts, 2006<br />
...<br />
Matilda Wolseley [one of Sir Garnet Wolseley's sisters] tried her hand at being a novelist, publishing
<i>Marley Castle: A Novel</i> (1877) and <i>Corafin</i> [sic] (1878). The former appeared as
'edited' by Wolseley himself to his intense embarrassment as he
considered it 'rubbish': : see SLCM [<span class="st">South Lanarkshire Council Museum]</span>, Wolseley Diaries, CAM.H.22. Entry for 8 Aug. 1877.<br />
- footnote in <i>Wolseley and Ashanti</i>: the Asante war journal and correspondence of Major General Sir Garnet Wolseley 1873-1874, Viscount Garnet Wolseley Wolseley, Ian Frederick William Beckett, Army Records Society (Great Britain), History Press for the Army Records Society, 15 May 2009. </blockquote>
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<i>Marley Castle</i> attracted extensive and hostile reviews. I guess reviewers were drawn to it initially by the high-profile and out-of-character name associated with it, and when they found it was poor stuff, they piled on - often compounded with the sexism of the time, the worst reviews tending to be from those who suspected it was written by a woman. The writing isn't bad in an illiterate sense: quite the opposite. It's far too consciously 'literate', peppered with attributed and unattributed quotations ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In Schiller's well-known words: "Man can never from himself divide." ... "<i>S'abstenir pour joir</i>," says Rousseau, "<i>c'est l'épicurisme de la raison</i>." ... "kisses never seem so sweet as when long-parted lovers meet." [<a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=XqtcAAAAcAAJ&pg=PA219#v=onepage&q&f=false">Phoebe Cary</a>]<br />
- <i>Marley Castle</i>, vol 2. </blockquote>
... and with absurdly inflated turns of phrase, as noted by the <i>Westminster Review</i>'s comments on <i>Marley Castle</i>:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
... the penny-a-line style that pervades the book. Thus a silver spoon is called a "buccal ornament" (i. 3). How a spoon can be called an ornament of any kind we cannot imagine, still more how it can be called a "buccal ornament," which, if it means anything, means an ornament for the cheek. A savage might perhaps call .an ear-ring an "aural ornament," or his nose-ring a "nasal ornament, but even he would hardly call a spoon a "buccal ornament." In much the same strain whiskers are termed an "hirsute appendage" (ii. 98), whilst a wig is a "capillary attraction" (ii. 97), and a member of Parliament is "a fractional portion of the wisdom of Parliament" (ii. 102). This wretched would-be-witty style was first begun by Dickens, and has been followed by all his imitators who possess none of his genius and all of his faults. It has now become the property of penny-a-liners, provincial newspaper correspondents, and the writers in fifth-rate comic journals.<br />
- Belles lettres, <i>Westminster Review</i>, [Vol. CVIIL No. CCXIV.]—New Series, Vol. LII. No. II, 187, page 561.</blockquote>
<i>Marley Castle</i> is weighty with dull exposition: lengthy formal accounts of where characters are going and why and where they'll go next, and what they're thinking and why they're thinking it. The intro to volume 2 gives something of the flavour:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Major Vere, in succeeding to Marley Castle and part of the property thereunto appertaining, obtained a very goodly heritage. But as a rule Fortune only sells the favours she seems to bestow—so manifold are the drawbacks with which they are attended, and so high is the price we have oftentimes to pay for them. And this case was no exception to the rule; for the recipient of the favours in question, though he by no means undervalued them, felt that they had come too late so far as his power of enjoying them was concerned, and he proved that he did so by bidding adieu to all his fair possessions as soon as he possibly could, and going abroad.<br />
- <i>Marley Castle</i>, vol 2., page 1.</blockquote>
<b><i>Marley Castle</i></b> chiefly concerns the wanderings of said Major Vere in pursuit of the love of his life, Blanche (who he doesn't know is already married, until he proposes). After Vere has wandered all around Europe, Blanche's husband conveniently dies of drink, and the lovers are happily united.<br />
<br />
<b>Volume 2 of <i>Marley Castle</i> (Digby, Long and Co, 1897) can be read at, or downloaded from, the British Library website: <a href="http://explore.bl.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=BLVU1&afterPDS=true&institution=BL&docId=BLL01014824824">BLL01014824824</a> (click <i>I want this</i> for links to the PDF viewer options)</b>. <br />
<br />
<i><b>Corrafin</b></i>, which got marginally better reviews, is a multi-threaded Irish novel following the fates of four gentleman officers in the same regiment in Limerick barracks. It comprises one central storyline about complications surrounding an arranged marriage, and a body of anecdote:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">Sir
Herbert Corry is told off to marry an heiress</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;">;
of course, it being in a novel, he falls in love with her, and
equally of course refuses to marry her; in fact, it is “Uncle's
Will” over again …<i> </i></span><i><span style="font-style: normal;">The
remaining</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"> nine-tenths of
the </span><i><span style="font-style: normal;">work</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;">
are padding, relating the </span><i><span style="font-style: normal;">practical
jokes</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"> played upon a
miserable little creature [a young third officer] called Medge. These jokes are venerable for
their antiquity, having been originally invented, we believe, by Adam
to relieve the monotony of Eden.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">-
<i>Vanity Fair</i>, Volume 20, 1878, page 119.</span></div>
</blockquote>
Nevertheless, <i>The Examiner</i> thought distinctly well of it:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Half-sunshine, half-tears,” is the motto on the title-page of ‘Corrafin,’ and it serves well to describe the contents of the two volumes. The sunshine is somewhat artificially mixed with the tears, there being but slight connexion between the serious main-plot of the story and the rollicking underplot and collateral incidents by which it is diversified, but the mixture is the reverse of unpleasant, the different ingredients being all excellent of their kind. Both the humour and the pathos of ‘Corrafin’are genuine. The writer undoubtedly has the peculiarly Irish faculty of making “the weeper laugh, the laughter weep.” We find ourselves often laughing heartily and grieving tenderly over the pages of ‘Corrafin’ than over those of many tales more artfully constructed. The two volumes, though the title implies a unity, are really composed of three separate stories and a choice selection of racy Irish anecdotes, but we readily forgive the author for treating us to so simple an alternation of comic chapters in consideration of her rare sense of fun and her delicate handling of painful themes. That the writer is a lady, though she shelters herself under the ambiguous gender of the word “author,” seems to be indicated by many little circumstances. Her first novel, ‘Marley Castle,’ which, it may be remembered, was edited by Sir Garnet Wolseley, was rather overloaded with quotations and similitudes from the classics. There is none of this misplaced learning in her present venture, which is light and interesting from the first page to the last.<br />
- Literature, <i>The Examiner</i> (London, England), Saturday, June 15, 1878. </blockquote>
However, the <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i> reviewer, who compared it unfavourably to the works of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Lever">Charles Lever</a>, wasn't keen ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
... more or less uninteresting throughout … viewed as a whole, it is impossible to discover anything in “Corrafin” to raise it above the level of indifferent novels.<br />
- New books and new editions, <i>The Pall Mall Gazette</i> (London, England), Tuesday, July 23, 1878.</blockquote>
.... and nor was FM Owen (the poet Mrs Francis Mary Owen, regular reviewer for the <i>Academy</i>):<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
author of </span><i>Corrafin</i>, <span style="font-style: normal;">if
asked whether he could write a novel, would assuredly have answered
as the Frenchman did about hunting, "I do not know, but I will
try." He has apparently made up his mind that there shall be a
book, and that it shall be an Irish one. So he proceeds to write down
everything funny that he can think of, not considering it necessary
to arrange his plot or to give any sequence to his incidents. The
mirth grows uproarious sometimes, and is not always in the best
taste, and the pathos is seldom very pathetic, but two volumes are at
last filled with the most commonplace jokes of barrack-rooms, a
little hunting and lovemaking, and a good many moral reflections. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">-
FM Owen, Corrafin, New novels, <i>The Academy and Literature</i>, Volume 14,
Nov. 2, 1878, pages 425-6.</span> </div>
</blockquote>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Still, in the light of the <i>Examiner </i>review, it looks worth at least a glance. It has, judging by a few direct quotes in that review, some vivid description and weird incident, as when the lead character, Sir Herbert, is introduced to Laurie Harden, a lady brought up in India he is expected to marry, and finds she has caught jaundice during the voyage home and looks like</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
... a little ghost—and a very yellow ghost, too, for her face and hands were dyed orange colour, and in addition to that she was thin to emaciation; all her features were pinched and drawn, and her lips were perfectly purple.” … “Good Heavens, is <i>that</i> what they want me to marry?”</blockquote>
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-73376066746015230862015-06-01T00:30:00.000-07:002015-06-04T17:07:32.120-07:00At a Month's End: part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Continuing with part 2 of <i><b>At a Month's End</b><b>: leaves from the diary of a man of the time</b></i>, told in three parts in <i>London Society</i> magazine in 1887: one of the less findable <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/bertha-thomas-bibliography.html"><b>Bertha Thomas</b></a> stories I decided to rescue from archive limbo, in part for its Devon interest.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>The story so far: Hubert Lane (better known as the novelist "Lanerton Lee") has come to the South Devon village of Conington to value the book collection of the impoverished Captain Lister. Lister has hidden his insolvency, as well as his plans for the whole family to quit Britain, from his possibly unstable niece Ella, fearing her reaction. Ella was initially hostile to Lane, suspecting him to be a crooked book dealer, and is shocked to find she has misjudged him, when his identity as the famous Lanerton Lee is accidentally outed by a visitor</i>.<br />
<br />
Text out of copyright. Credits to Google Books for scan used for transcript.<br />
<hr />
<br />
LONDON SOCIETY<br />
A Monthly Magazine of light and amusing literature for the hours of relaxation.<br />
London, F. V. White and Co.,31 Southampton Street, Strand, W.C.<br />
Volume 52, 1887<br />
At a Month’s End<br />
pages 307, 452, 564<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>AT A MONTH’S END</b><br />
<b>Leaves from the diary of a man of the time.</b><br />
A story in three parts.<br />
By Bertha Thomas,<br />
Author of “The Violin Player,” “Proud Maisie,” etc., etc.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
PART II</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
CHAPTER 1 </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
THE CAPTAIN SPEAKS</div>
<br />
CONINGTON COURT, September 12.—Often enough during the past month I have found my thoughts running on the Listers and Conington Court. The short break has not impaired the interest of this acquaintance, chance and slight though it is, and dissociated from every other tie. Curiosity must be a powerful incentive to companionship. Had the Listers been my oldest friends I should scarcely have felt more, and might have felt less, willing to revisit their hermitage than when this afternoon I alighted at a small station some three miles off. Jack met me on the platform, and outside stood the Conington pony-chaise with Ella holding the reins. She signified to me to take the seat beside her. Jack and my portmanteau got in behind, and we drove off.<br />
The <i>enfant terrible</i> strikes me as agreeably changed; I observe in her an added animation, as though a more brilliant and becoming light had been turned on her beauty; and her manner, though original to say the least, is rather less brusque and more prepossessing. Coquetry is too foreign to her nature ever to be implanted there, any more than music in the constitutionally unmusical. But what is perceptible and new is a frank desire to please, arising from a natural longing to atone to "Lanerton Lee" for past rudeness to Hubert Lane, that compels you to meet it half way. So much concession was unexpected, and Ella on her good behaviour a fresh study. We were approaching Conington before—whilst merrily discussing such mighty matters as the pony's paces and the shower that threatened to break—I made the silent reflection that that cloudless young face, radiant eye, laughing mouth (Ella has a delightful mouth and laugh, but no smile), bespoke a free and heedless mind that had experienced no sort of grave shock or trouble since last I saw them. I lost all patience with Captain Lister. It is criminal, simply, to keep the girl so long in the dark, and perfectly well he knows it. He could not look me in the face as he met me in the hall.<br />
Ella, only, of the young people dined this evening. She came down looking uncommonly handsome in black with jasmine flowers in her hair—a young queen of night—Astrifiammante. Her mood was brilliant and talkative, and when the fit is on her her society is charming. Although imperfectly educated and perfectly ignorant of the world—perhaps because of these deficiencies—her remarks have that directness and originality which incessant friction with miscellaneous minds so commonly destroys. In her elation she never noticed how far were her uncle and aunt from sharing her high spirits. The evening was wet and we played round games by a cheerful fire. Ella's holiday humour spread to her cousins—to us all—but the contrast between appearances and realities at Conington struck me uncomfortably, and when the ladies and children had retired Lister invited me to smoke with him in the dining-room. I taxed him with his inexcusable continued shilly-shally and dissimulation.<br />
"You have not yet broken the bad news to your niece," I said.<br />
"But all the others know," he urged in shuffling apology. "They have taken it very well indeed."<br />
"But Miss Ella Lister knows nothing?"<br />
"Not yet. The fact is we dare not tell her. Every day her aunt resolves and half promises, then shrinks from breaking the ice. We hoped the truth would ooze out through the children, but they keep the secret as close as wax—of their own accord. They feel as we do about her. We all dread the effect on one of her temperament."<br />
Provoked, I asked him sarcastically:<br />
"Pray, do you intend to wait till you begin packing up to let her know of your intention of leaving Europe?"<br />
"Well, it may prove to have come to that," he confessed with incredible cool jauntiness and calm; " but for this, at least, I am not to blame. Only yesterday I had a communication asking if I could make it possible to push forward our movements, as the deputy who is temporarily discharging the duties of the appointment has fallen seriously ill. In that case we may have to sail three months earlier than I told you—in October, in short. Personally I shall be delighted. Hanging on here when everything gets known will be very unpleasant. If only the affair with Ella were over!"<br />
I tried not to look the contempt I felt for the shifty, weak Blind that having caused the calamity now shirked the merited reprobation. I felt glad Ella was no Griseldis—one to take wrong for right when coming from her male relations.<br />
"I shall have to tell her myself," he said with mournful heroism, "but I would rather take hold of a red-hot iron."<br />
"Don't let imagination make a coward of yon," I said. "What on earth do you apprehend?"<br />
"She might do something desperate," he muttered with vague uneasiness.<br />
"Jump out of the window or take laudanum? Who ever heard of a young lady breaking her heart because her home was broken up? Girls are born to have their homes broken up. All must when they marry. If you are afraid of a scene "—this was the literal truth—"well, women's words and women's tears soon exhaust themselves. Come, look upon it as a light price to pay for past imprudence."<br />
He shook his head. "You don't consider my sympathy with what she may suffer."<br />
"She must learn to suffer, if she is to live. As for this blow, however deeply she may feel it, be sure she will get over it."<br />
I purposely made light of the matter to entice the man, as be would not be driven, into doing his duty.<br />
"You are quite right,'' he said at last. "I will speak to her to-morrow," and he added, " she is under no necessity to share our exile. There is another home always open to her with an invalid aunt at Brighton, who to my certain knowledge would be ready to receive Ella if she preferred to leave us. We should miss her terribly! Still, she must choose for herself."<br />
"There," said I, " the situation is not so alarming if you face it."<br />
"Not so alarming!" he repeated, laughing nervously. "Tomorrow morning I shall tell her. It was weak to procrastinate. It is entirely my fault."<br />
Of course it was. But there was something conscience-relieving in so magnanimous an acknowledgment, and with it on his lips Lister walked off quite happily to bed.<br />
The coward has waited for my coming, I am convinced, to go through the ordeal, trusting to my presence in the house, as an honoured guest, to restrain the exhibition of feeling in her that he dreads, or to give him the courage of shame!<br />
<br />
Conington, September 13.—Whether from these causes or a timely fall of the temperature—there had been almost a waterspout in the night—or the dismally wet day that followed, making even Conington look like a spot you might quit without keen regret, something braced the captain's nerves and screwed up his courage to the needful point. When after a quiet mornings work in the library I joined the luncheon party, I understood from the cast-down countenances of all that the interview had come off. Ella did not appear. Dead silence, broken by fits and starts of conversation, when the still melancholy became too oppressive, prevailed during the meal. There was no call for reserve on my account; and once pale Mrs. Lister raised her mild eyes to her husband's and asked faintly:<br />
"How did she take it?"<br />
"Don't talk of it," was the hasty rejoinder. "It was far worse than even I had expected."<br />
I was not sorry to escape from the family gloom to the shelter of the library, where, selfishly absorbed in trying to decipher the faded marginal notes in a curious volume, I forget the troubles of the household.<br />
Towards four I was roused by the opening and shutting of the door. Turning, I saw Ella standing there, looking pale and unstrung, like some one under the effect of a nervous shock, such as being flung from a carriage or seeing a passer-by run over. Constrainedly she spoke—a sentence evidently framed beforehand.<br />
"Mr. Lane, my uncle has been saying things to me I do not understand. He declares he has squandered his whole fortune and is obliged to leave the country "—her version (the correct one), but hardly Captain Lister's, I imagine. "I must know," she continued, " if this is true. If he has really done all this how can I trust his word, his account of things? I ought not to believe him."<br />
"Your uncle has been unfortunate," I said moderately. "So long as any hope remained of retrieving his disasters he concealed the facts from you, from kind though mistaken motives. His fear of distressing you has kept him silent till further silence was impossible."<br />
"Then it is all true ?" she repeated emphatically, regarding me fixedly. The fact for her was all, and so overwhelmingly much, that his withholding of it sank into insignificance as the merest particular.<br />
"It is true that he has lost money, and that, in consequence, he has consented to accept an excellent colonial appointment—under the circumstances perhaps the best thing he—"<br />
She cut me short, saying "Thank you," as if I had imparted some geographical or historical fact, and left the room immediately, with well but clearly feigned composure.<br />
I had to abandon the attempt to resume my cataloguing; my thoughts wandered, their current broken. Poor girl!<br />
I am furious with the captain. He has forfeited his niece's regard, as he deserves. Folly, to treat her as a child who is a child no longer. I was feeling painfully impressed by the whole thing—unaccountably so, for, after all, these family affairs are no concern of mine.<br />
Ella did not show herself again. She had locked herself into her room, said her cousins, after dinner. No one ventured to molest her there. One knows what will—must happen. The violence of her agitation will exhaust itself very quickly. A spell of dull depression will ensue, after that, the force of habit, natural routine—much stronger in the end than passion—will reassert itself and she by degrees become herself again.<br />
But till then a dead weight—a black shadow—rests on the family circle. The void is intolerable. Neither prospective poverty nor expatriation have affected them individually so much as the shock Ella's feelings have received from the news.<br />
"She refuses to go abroad with us," her uncle told me to-night when we separated. "I asked if she really preferred to goto her aunt at Brighton. She said 'Certainly.' I could not pressher to alter her mind. But we shall miss her sadly."<br />
How can family tyrants ever cease to exist, whilst whole households voluntarily embrace slavery to one member? Here are the Lister family, without exception, deploring their coming emancipation from the thraldom of Ella's will!<br />
<br />
September 15.—That girl will give trouble. She is bent on making her presence felt—on straining her home influence to disturb and torment up to the end. She is full of surprises. The last bit of freakish behaviour I shall not immediately forget.<br />
<br />
Yesterday morning passed, bringing no sign of Ella. She had not gone to bed at all, Miss Lister told us at breakfast, and had been seen to go out quite early. Long solitary walks were no new pastime of hers, and nobody showed surprise at her erratic conduct. Only when luncheon time passed and she did not come in her aunt and uncle began to look uneasy. It was raining hard. She would catch her death, remarked the captain. Privately, I thought that a long trudge through the lanes in the soaking rain might prove an excellent antidote to over-excitement. "She will come in at sundown," I thought, " very wet, very muddy, very tired, very hungry, and very cross; sleep very soundly, wake tomorrow to her sober, practical self—and lead her uncle a life for the next three weeks. He will have his deserts."<br />
Dusk came on early. At tea-time Lister, who had been reconnoitring from an upper window, announced that there was a high gale blowing out at sea. He was getting seriously anxious about Ella.<br />
“She has probably taken shelter in some cottage," I said.<br />
“There are none hereabouts beyond the village."<br />
I thought their uneasiness exaggerated, their fears imaginary.<br />
“I’ll engage she is hiding somewhere in the ruins," I said. “She wants to frighten you. Come," I suggested to the boys, let us go and find her out and persuade her to come in to tea. You know her haunts.”<br />
In the ruins she was not. We next proceeded a little way down the lane beyond the village in the direction of the sea. To us males in mackintoshes the drizzle and heavy roads mattered little, but it struck me that the truant, if, as I suspected, her object were to give her relatives a scare, would find the game hardly worth the candle.<br />
About a mile onward we met a coastguard and questioned him. He had seen Miss Ella, about half-an-hour ago, he told us, trying to cross the sands from Mariners' Cove. He had just crossed them himself, but the sea was running high, the tide sweeping in; and he had shouted from the top of the cliff to warn her to turn back and not make the attempt. She had turned back and begun climbing one of the hill-side paths leading up the cliff. If we walked on we should meet her for sure.<br />
We neared the coast cliffs without meeting any one. Halfway down the steep grassy slopes a footpath led on for a mile or more, running irregularly—now high, now low—till at Mariners' Cove it wound down to the shore of the bay.<br />
"She'll have stopped to rest down in the cove," opined Jack; "there are plenty of shelter places under the rocks."<br />
The way there was the Listers’ favourite stroll, a walk they had often taken me in fine weather, when the marbled pinks and greys of the rocks, contrasting with the green overgrowth, the gorse, briars, fern and ivy that covered the hill-side, the sea view, the fir-trees in the rifts of the line of rocks, offered much to admire. But the path was little better than a sheep track at the best, and had in places been washed away by the downpour of last night. The rain had ceased for the present, but the struggle to keep one's footing on the steep incline was severe, for the strong squalls of wind that blew from the sea made progress so fatiguing that by-and-by it became as much as the two boys could do to put one foot before the other. They battled on to a point high above the little bay, where we halted to reconnoitre. The tide was rising, the boisterous waves breaking round the jutting headlands on either side.<br />
"Does the sea ever wash up to the cliffs in the hollow?" I inquired.<br />
"Only in the roughest weather," said Jack. "She isn't down there, Mr. Lane, or we must see her."<br />
We shouted without response ; but the din of wind and breakers was enough to drown the sound of our voices. The descent was long and stiff and the youngsters were dead-beat, I saw.<br />
"Wait here, you boys," 1 said, "and get your breath, whilst I run down and make sure she is nowhere about."<br />
Nothing loth they agreed, and I lost sight of them as I tramped down the windings of the rough, straggling path. At every step the havoc wrought by the bad weather called for fresh caution. The path was choked with rocks of stumbling, the clayey soil specially treacherous in overhanging places, where a fall might involve consequences more than disagreeable, and at one point where it was intersected by a creek running up into a cavern in the rocks, the shaky handrail of the rough wooden construction that bridged the deep narrow gorge had disappeared,only a couple of planks la-id across remaining. When after some ten minutes of this I got down to the sands I was half relieved, half provoked, to descry Ella sitting there, safe and sound, in the shelter of a projecting rock. She shrank away as I neared her, my impatience betraying itself somehow, I suppose, for she began hurriedly, as in instinctive self-excuse:<br />
"I was crossing the sands when the tide caught me, and I had to come back; I was tired and sat down to rest."<br />
"Well," said I, as good-humouredly as I could, " I have come to tell you that your cousins Jack and Bob are above; we came out to look for you. I hope you will consent to join them and let us see you home."<br />
She made no answer. I repeated my words.<br />
"I have no home," she answered curtly.<br />
"Come," said I," we need not dispute about terms. Your aunt and uncle grew so uneasy that I and the boys set off to hunt for you. They have kept it up pluckily, but I think they are pretty well at the end of their tether."<br />
"Oh, they are tired, are they?'' she said, absently watching the sea, which was sweeping towards us, sucking in the black masses of seaweed and driftwood that strewed the sands.<br />
"Ella," I said, quite involuntarily driven to try what this unceremonious mode of address, and with it a grave, peremptory tone as of semi-paternal authority would do, "you are behaving like a child. That you should feel the sudden impending break up of your home more deeply than your cousins," I sermonized on, "I understand well, because of the greater tenacity and strength of your nature. But these in their turn should help you to show more fortitude in a misfortune which has arisen through no fault of yours."<br />
I looked her full in the face as I spoke. Her expression, as she listened, with her glance fastened on mine, underwent a singular, though scarcely reassuring change—the hopeless, childish moodiness still settled on her lips, whilst a freakish, unchildish gleam sparkled in her eye.<br />
"Well," she said at length, and rose, faced the hill, and began the ascent. The increasing difficulty and exertion the climb involved she tried determinedly to hide. My offered help was vehemently declined. Yet as I followed in her steps I saw she could hardly get on. Small wonder; she had not slept that night nor tasted food all day; the marvel was that she could stand, much more keep her head and foot steady in the gale on the narrow, uneven path. She was perfectly fearless as usual, and perfectly heedless —here, where a false step might mean broken limbs or worse. Just as we approached the plank bridge over the ravine she tripped in a briar, barely recovering her balance; her step faltered slightly and she put her hand to her head as if dizzy. It was a dead certainty that she would risk her life sooner than confess that her nerve had failed her. Regardless of the displeasure I should incur, and with no more apology than if she had been a little child, I lifted her in ray arms and carried her across. One instant she resisted, but, conscious it was fruitless, suddenly relaxed and lay as if dead in my grasp. Looking down, I thought she had fainted, she was so pale; then I saw her closed eyes open, a vivid light in them, the omen of some trick of revenge? Immediately across the creek came a curve in the path, here a mere thread overhanging a steep drop to the rocky shore. The wind came eddying round the point, which had to be passed before I could set her down in security. At that moment Ella made a sudden rash movement as if to spring out of my arms, which all but sent us headlong. I can hear now the startled sound of my voice, saying:<br />
"For God's sake, Ella, be still, or we shall both be over the cliff."<br />
And her reply:<br />
"I should not care."<br />
Distinctly, lingeringly spoken, in a tone vibrating with — impatience, I suppose.<br />
The next instant I landed her on safe ground. The path here widened, and we walked on side by side. Suddenly resuming, I hardly know why, for the last ebullition did not look like docility, the sermon I began on the sands:<br />
"You are wrong," I persisted, " to take for granted that your young life must be spoilt by the change in your future. A new future may begin for you, which you may make worth what you have lost."<br />
"Oh, I know," she murmured absently, with a smile, the first I remember to have seen on her face. Her voice and manner were softened and subdued, but she appeared to be walking in a dream and bore passively the guidance and help I imposed upon her at slippery and precipitous places. So we presently rejoined her cousins higher up. The colour had come back to her cheek, and she declared she could walk home. By sheer force of will, I believe, she accomplished her purpose, without giving in for a moment till we reached Conington, Ella, naturally, in a state of prostration that almost alarmed her relations. However, this morning she came down to breakfast, having slept off her fatigue, and quite herself again, the open disapprobation and violence of her mood yesterday being replaced by a kind of dignified reserve. Lister breathes more freely, glances stealthily at her, scarcely venturing to believe what appearances seem to denote, that the storm has blown itself out and that the worst is over. Somehow its violence is arrested, they thank God for that, and ask no questions.<br />
To speak for myself, a thing or two might start a conjecture, but that with this girl you can be sure of nothing but that, whatever you conjecture about her, she will if she can prove you wrong. The frenzy of excitement that had possessed her all day ere I found her in Mariners' Cove would of itself more than account, of course, for her singular behaviour. Yet the impression remains, half persuaded though I am that it is false, and that a day or two will dispel it.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
CHAPTER II.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
AWAKING.</div>
<br />
September 18.—Ella is an inexplicable creature, very beautiful and very singular. She keeps my attention continually on the <i>qui vive</i>, fascinating it as a curious study, an interesting aberration. Heaven forbid that our English homes should ever be peopled with Ellas, any more than our woods with ocelots and handsome snakes, things to be admired, from a safe distance. And their lot in the conditions of modern society is a hopeless one. Submit to be caged and have their fangs drawn, else to hunt or to be hunted to the end—bitter end for somebody. Or is fancy playing me a practical joke? Possibly. And yet<br />
Is she really the simple, unthinking girl that as a matter of course one would presuppose, treating her accordingly? Whose fault is it, mine or hers, that I have come to ask myself the question?<br />
This afternoon, whilst exploring the ruins with the whole tribe, I took Ella to task, aside, for the fool-hardy gymnastic feats she delights in to the torment of her unfortunate aunt and cousins, prophesying that short though the time left her now, she would infallibly contrive to break her neck before she had done with Conington Court.<br />
"Should you mind?" she said abruptly, as in play, the savage play she enjoys, adding quickly, "If I thought so, I would"<br />
"Hush," said I, laying my hand lightly before her mouth to check the coming threat. She was not angry. Directly she has succeeded in thoroughly provoking my impatience by her childish ways she relaxes into the mock submission of one who has gained a victory.<br />
<br />
September 19.—She puzzles, enchants, and repels me all at once, as I think she is perfectly aware. I am frank to rudeness with her besides. It should be clear to her by this time that I neither like nor approve of her <i>naturel</i>. This may be unalterable, or she may be careless to please; the idea of curbing it for that purpose is the last to enter her head for a moment.<br />
She has decided beauty. It impressed me distantly at first, like the picture of a handsome face, but its charm comes out on a nearer intimacy, instead of diminishing, as with those accustomed to make constant parade of their personal advantages. But I could declare that hers have really increased, an added bloom and life drowns what appeared childish and unfinished in her countenance, so fresh and bright that its want of gentleness is unfelt.<br />
She talks quite coolly of the coming family dispersion. Having once accepted the break up as inevitable, her impatience would hasten it on. She takes pains to impress on her uncle how disagreeable it is for him to remain at Conington now that the extent of his reverses is becoming known. There is more force in her arguments than she is aware of.<br />
<br />
September 22.—The girl has actually carried her point. The Listers have taken berths in the mail boat that leaves Dartcombe on the 1st of October. Lister is really wanted at Dunedin, the ordeal of cross-questioning and condolences from friends and neighbours he is overjoyed to shirk; and there seem no practical hindrances in the way of this rapid flitting. The furniture here belongs to the landlord, his cousin, and will pass, as it stands, to the next tenant, the library excepted, the sale of which I am negotiating for him with a London firm. He has asked me to oblige him by seeing it through, a small return I am glad to make for his courtesy, to which as a book collector I am inestimably indebted. Thus my visit has been prolonged a few days. With the library off his hands there is nothing to detain him at Conington. But this pressing on of the move is all Ella's doing. She will stay with them till they go; and I daresay that to a proud girl, like her, the comments of the curious Conington gossips and, above all, the compassion of people she has looked down on all her life would be felt quite unendurable. She has made her own arrangements to leave on the same day, but for Brighton. They all admire her fortitude. I cannot perceive that it costs her anything. You would say she had become suddenly, absolutely, unaccountably indifferent to what only the other day was a matter of life and death. If I were her relations I should prefer storms and sulks to this miraculous <i>insouciance</i>. But easily transplantable themselves, they thankfully accept the miracle of her conversion with no more than a transient wonder. It has fired my curiosity more than once, I confess.<br />
Her behaviour when, which is seldom, we are alone is increasingly whimsical. She has come to monopolize a good deal of my time—so much appears from this diary. Well, I take care to remind myself, a dozen times a day, that it would be the part of a blackguard to play with the feelings of a young girl, so isolated and so inexperienced that her romantic imagination made of<br />
"Lanerton Lee" the object of a frank, exaggerated hero-worship, of which it appears the shortcomings and inferiority of Hubert Lane have yet left some sparks alive. So I shroud myself in reserve. Then at other times her capricious demeanour upsets all considerations of the sort, making them seem utterly superfluous. And now at the close of my visit—the day after to-morrow I leave for Dartcombe—when I retrace actually all that has passed between her and myself, the only natural interpretation to put upon it is a perfectly insignificant one. And I think I may say unequivocally that I have preserved a mask of severity, of austerity, though under much stronger temptations to let it drop, than some one has any idea of. To do otherwise would have beeu to mislead her seriously as to my sentiments, which here would be a cruel piece of dishonesty—a thing a man stops short of when he can. After all there is no harm done if she should set me down as a prig or a Puritan.<br />
<br />
Dartcombe, Sept. 30.—The truth—did I ignore it? Hardly: say rejected it, for its monstrous improbability. Even now, when I recall the scene, I could swear it must be a trick of memory and sense.<br />
During the last days of my visit Ella now and then. invaded the library, where I was still at work. She seldom spoke except when addressed, but moved noiselessly about, collecting bits of book-property of hers from the shelves where the modern literature was now ranged decently and in order. Her company did not conduce to industry, as she must have seen; yet I did not protest, nor was it mere politeness that deterred me, as she may have seen also. Her presence occupies you, like a riddle that haunts you till you know the key. What did Nature mean by her? No vestal, not Dian herself, more haughtily fastidious, self-reliant, inviolable in her exalted and unyielding pride— pride that refuses to make that compromise with circumstances we have mostly to make sooner or later. Something of a boy's straightforwardness and narrow line of vision, with, underneath, a woman's passionate heart and ardent imagination.<br />
No wonder the old poets must invent dryads and mermaids— half human things, as we understand humanity, mythical counterparts of freaks of human nature such as this.<br />
On the afternoon of the 25th—my last at Conington — as I was finishing in the library, she came in. My pen rested on the paper, but my eyes and consciousness did nothing but follow her, as she moved lightly about the room, restored a book to the shelf, took some dead roses from a vase and replaced them by some fragrant sprigs of daphne she gathered from the flowering shrub that grew close up to the open window. I had only a few notes to fill in, but I blotted and made mistakes in every line.<br />
"How do you get on ?" she asked of a sudden, provokingly.<br />
"Not particularly well," I admitted, laying down the pen.<br />
"I interrupt?"<br />
"Perhaps."<br />
"You are very easily distracted. Yes; I know." "How do you know?"<br />
"I read it in the papers. When you want to begin a new novel you betake yourself to a desert island." "That is a figure of speech."<br />
"Well, to an undiscovered chalet you call 'Seulette,' on the Normandy coast."<br />
"Let me assure you the post comes there regularly."<br />
She frowned impatiently at the contradiction, saying, "I suppose, then, solitude everywhere now is a pretence—a figure of speech as you said."<br />
"Quite the contrary. From the best beaten tracks a few steps often take you into a wilderness. So with my hermitage. Certain near—not too near—seaside resorts draw to themselves all visitors to the neighbourhood. 'Seulette' might lie within a charmed circle, it could hardly be safer from intruders."<br />
"Have you no friends there, no neighbours?"<br />
"None but a few peasants, who class me as a <i>savant</i> because I bring home plants and bits of rock occasionally. I hold the chalet under another name, for greater security, and need fear no disturbing influence, native or foreign."<br />
"Are you fond of the place?"<br />
"Very. I hope to go there shortly."<br />
"When?"<br />
"In five or six days' time, perhaps. About when you leave Conington. Boats go to France from Dartcombe as well as to New Zealand. There is one on the evening of the 1st, by which I am inclined to leave for Normandy."<br />
"To write there?"<br />
"I suppose so."<br />
"About a Devonshire family of foolish girls and boys?" "And a proud fire-side queen," said I rallyingly, "who ruled them all."<br />
"Dethroned !" she said, with mock earnest, adding carelessly, "Well, after all, what was the kingdom worth?"<br />
"Neither more nor less than most human possessions," I said, perversely, since I had made light to her of the change and the loss.<br />
"Sure of that?" she said, with sudden insinuating banter and a look of laughing, audacious defiance very hard to meet.<br />
"You are quite unaccountable," I said. "With most persons we can foretell in some slight degree how this and that will strike them, and what they will do next. But you—you remind me of those wild young women of Russian romance, the Vilas and Russalkas— 'children of the hills, cradled in the green leaves, rocked by the winds, refreshed by the dews'—if their poets are to be trusted—and as apart from the world of men and women as the forest creatures—the squirrels and falcons themselves. Who knows from one moment to another whether you will laugh or cry, speak or be silent, coax or strike? Not I."<br />
"You think about it sometimes?" she said, low, and with an earnestness that forced me to look up at her. She was leaning her arm on the table, her head on her hand, in a listening attitude. Her glance, eager and penetrating, made me forget what I was going to say. I looked long, much too long, before replying—long enough for her to draw from me the words she wanted.<br />
"You know I do. Most often you make it impossible for me to think about anything else, my young Russalka!"<br />
"Say that again," she said with a quick backward movement of her head, and turning to me fully a face suffused with extreme exultation that had yet no touch of tenderness in it.<br />
Instead, I rose disturbedly and paced the room. She sprang up with a laugh and a scornful:<br />
"Ah! you are afraid."<br />
"Of you? Very likely," I answered at random.<br />
"No; not of me—but—"<br />
With this mysterious monosyllable on her lips she left the room.<br />
I don't know if I was most longing or dreading to see her again. Characteristically she kept out of sight, making only fleeting appearances in the family group, taciturn and pre-occupied. When next morning I bade the Listers a cordial farewell she was nowhere to be found. They made excuses for her incivility— her forgetfulness, they supposed—and I left at the height of perplexity.<br />
Here I have been for four days at Dartcombe, in a state of mental derangement that hitherto has kept me even from writing my journal, rigidly resisting the impulse that would draw me over to Conington, on the plausible but utterly false excuse of one or two matters still unattended to in the library, whose keepership and whose key I hold. The mail steamer lies in the harbour that is to take the Listers from England to-morrow. They will come over early to start Ella on her journey to Brighton before they go on board. I have written to Lister, wishing him good speed, and have told him that when they are well on their several ways I shall go over for a last look at the library and to give up the key.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>(To be concluded.)
</b></div>
<br />
Text transcribed from Google scan of <i>London Society</i>, Volume 52, 1887.<br />
<ul>
<li><i><b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/at-months-end-part-1.html">At a Month's End: part 1</a> </b></i></li>
<li><i><b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/at-months-end-part-2.html">At a Month's End: part 2</a></b></i> </li>
<li><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/at-months-end-part-3.html"><i><b>At a Month's End: part 3</b></i></a> </li>
</ul>
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-35551114168844906592015-05-31T15:45:00.001-07:002015-05-31T18:54:40.580-07:00Ouida: The Little Earl, Bimbi, and an elegy for Shanklin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-6rT5sUAkEaFnMjEeg6SfL7faRrQJZzrC2WjTIyhnFt4_8auhmgDzPQF-oLiG5CqKpwV3kDVSejDKxWHntMQPFtT9Go8WUpeR2YEGsfWZrqmtTf3wbpAmo9abKqLUuEtKDR8tmLl9fQ/s1600/littleearl00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-6rT5sUAkEaFnMjEeg6SfL7faRrQJZzrC2WjTIyhnFt4_8auhmgDzPQF-oLiG5CqKpwV3kDVSejDKxWHntMQPFtT9Go8WUpeR2YEGsfWZrqmtTf3wbpAmo9abKqLUuEtKDR8tmLl9fQ/s1600/littleearl00.jpg" /></a></div>
<i><b>The Little Earl</b></i> is a fable by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ouida">Ouida</a> (Maria Louise Ramé) telling of a young French earl's 'walkabout' in the Isle of Wight - a kind of 'Prince and the Pauper' experience that teaches him a hard lesson to take on at eight: "I see <i>I</i> am nothing. It is the title they give me, and the money I have got, that make the people so good to me. When I am only <i>me</i>, you see how it is."<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
The story appeared in Ouida's 1882 anthology of children's stories, <i><b>Bimbi</b></i>, a bit of whose background is that:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The Royal Family of Italy had shown Ouida much kindness, and she dedicated <i>Bimbi</i> to "S.A.R. Vittorio Emanuele Principe di Napoli." ... "The Little Earl," had been written for a small boy of Ouida's acquaintance, and she sent him the book with this note : — <br />
...<br />
" Dear Bertie, — Here is the book. Like a loyal subject, vous rendez place au Prince in your rights to the Little Earl. Perhaps some day when he is King and you are his grand scudiere you and he will talk of me and tell your children of Ouida." <br />
...<br />
The boy in question was Herbert Danyell, Cavaliere Tassinari's little grandson, to whom Ouida took a great fancy.<br />
- page 114, <i><b>Ouida: a Memoir</b></i> (Elizabeth Lee, London: T Fisher Unwin, 1914, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/stream/ouidamemoir00leee">ouidamemoir00leee</a>).</blockquote>
("Bertie" - uncoincidentally the nickname of the Little Earl in the story - was the son of Ouida's friend Alice Danyell, and formally Count Berto Danyell Tassinari, a.k.a. Herbert Danyell-Tassinari. He grew up to become a stage actor working under the name Herbert Dansey, 1870-1917, and also illustrated, and wrote a little: articles such as About an Actor in <i>The Smart Set: A Magazine of Cleverness</i>, 1902; At the Academy, <i>ditto</i>, 1904; <i>Roman Candles</i>, London: Henry J Drane, 1910 - "a novel 'written from the inside' dealing largely with the doings of the Roman aristocracy ... Dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. George Alexander").<br />
<br />
<b><i>The Little Earl</i></b> had previously appeared in Mary Elizabeth Braddon's <i>Belgravia: an Illustrated London Magazine</i>, Vol. XLIV, 1881. The original London: Chatto and Windus edition had monochrome illustrations by the acclaimed and prolific illustrator <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edmund_H._Garrett">Edmund H Garrett</a> (as later reprinted in <b><i>Bimbi. Stories for children.</i></b> Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott company, 1892 - see <a href="http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/007936682">Hathitrust 007936682</a>). Further impressions, of which there were many, included <i><b>A Dog of Flanders, The Nürnberg Sove, and Other Stories</b></i> (1909 Lippincott, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/dogofflandersnrnouida">dogofflandersnrnouida</a> / 1913 Lippincott, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/dogofflandersnrn00ouid">dogofflandersnrn00ouid</a>) which upgraded these to colour plates by <a href="http://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/webbin/book/lookupname?key=Kirk%2C%20Maria%20Louise%2C%201860-">Maria Louise Kirk</a>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSM6UyJnMwEsngnAksSvN35OUWzFtr_S9n_diJecf-yxmvGNrTTInCX-wn69Rdpz9Z1EFc43A1Klxe5zbM9k9fDsi3z0G5TkXujU8-DB0D8RvKWnHiMB7rQEjXwYLmrtqWMuo5faS2ZQ/s1600/littleearl01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSM6UyJnMwEsngnAksSvN35OUWzFtr_S9n_diJecf-yxmvGNrTTInCX-wn69Rdpz9Z1EFc43A1Klxe5zbM9k9fDsi3z0G5TkXujU8-DB0D8RvKWnHiMB7rQEjXwYLmrtqWMuo5faS2ZQ/s640/littleearl01.jpg" width="380" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Will you be so kind as to let me know what you are eating?"<br />
- Edmund H Garrett illustration for <i>Bimbi</i>, Lipincott, 1892</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
So he ran on through Bonchurch and out of it, leaving its pleasant green shade with a little sigh, half of impatience, half of hunger. He did not go on by the sea, for he knew by hearsay that this way would take him to Ventnor, and he was afraid people in a town would know him and stop him; so he set forth inland, where the deep lanes delve through the grassy downs , and here, sitting on a stile, the little Earl saw the ploughboy eating something white and round and big that he himself had never seen before.<br />
"It must be something very delicious to make him enjoy it so much," thought the little Earl, and then curiosity entered so into him, and he longed so much to taste this wonderful unknown thing, that he went up to the boy and said to him, — <br />
"Will you be so kind as to let me know what you are eating ?" <br />
The ploughboy grinned from ear to ear.<br />
"For certain, little zurr," he said, with a burr and a drawl in his speech, and he gave the thing to Bertie, which was neither more nor less than a peeled turnip. <br />
The little Earl looked at it doubtfully, for he did not much fancy what the other had handled with his big brown hands and bitten with his big yellow teeth. But then, to enjoy anything as much as that other had enjoyed it, and to taste something quite unknown ! — this counterbalanced his disgust and over-ruled his delicacy. One side of the great white thing was unbitten; he took an eager tremulous little bite out of that. <br />
"But, oh !" he cried in dismay as he tasted, "it has no taste at all, and what there is is nasty !" <br />
"Turnips is main good," said the boy. <br />
"Oh, no!" said the little Earl, with intense horror; and he threw the turnip down amongst the grass, and went away sorely puzzled. <br />
"Little master," roared Hodge after him, "I'll bet as you aren't hungry."<br />
- <i>The Little Earl </i></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_qbXC_o3uauJqXm2NchxJYXiHZdk7r5LEw58mSSilH8-Ixw0wOKx_Qec9-BQB4VYloupzeQuooXCPYjXsT_aKU0rbYbNbFhD0t5ncgTOjR7Kz3hqwGDJwK5ToW0Z4-C8MTmhcKultwg/s1600/littleearl02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_qbXC_o3uauJqXm2NchxJYXiHZdk7r5LEw58mSSilH8-Ixw0wOKx_Qec9-BQB4VYloupzeQuooXCPYjXsT_aKU0rbYbNbFhD0t5ncgTOjR7Kz3hqwGDJwK5ToW0Z4-C8MTmhcKultwg/s640/littleearl02.jpg" width="466" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Little girl, why do you cry?" he said.<br />
Maria Louise Kirk illustration for 1909 Lipincott</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
An illustrated 1884 French translation, <i>Le Petit Comte</i>, is available from the Bibliothèque nationale de France <b><i>Gallica</i></b> archive (<i>Le petit comte</i>
/ par Ouida ; contes traduits de l'anglais... par J. Girardin ; et
illustrés de 34 vignettes par Tofani et G. Vuillier. Hachette (Paris),
1884, public domain, ID <a href="http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k65677472">ark:/12148/bpt6k65677472</a>). The picture style is much more robust, I guess portraying more vividly than the UK/US editions the Little Earl's impression that the real world was full of degenerates.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAz-enipD-AxiEOkFD1yr5RsEobhNGbdRsD2QjUEQmpd4r4TAEmhuqJ2yazflNRi97k51aH0WL2S2yFIAzVzaxtaDgdpwplqWbNlgD8aX40KXOQ03E146GU458bgBWor2EtlqNQTF3Q/s1600/lepetitcomte11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAz-enipD-AxiEOkFD1yr5RsEobhNGbdRsD2QjUEQmpd4r4TAEmhuqJ2yazflNRi97k51aH0WL2S2yFIAzVzaxtaDgdpwplqWbNlgD8aX40KXOQ03E146GU458bgBWor2EtlqNQTF3Q/s640/lepetitcomte11.jpg" width="379" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">C'était un petit lord, bien petit.<br />
This was a little lord, very small.<br />
Source: gallica.bnf.fr</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWN-q4DAhcn1dHXD7jwS6bef76KJgZJW-NFtOsBut0CVef1a3H3AKB4mVGmPWDRuB0hi6jo-7TOGomM7OUm2fEf5jIp69Qj1Y6ujVbks9-dqVaBumTUo1yGaY-R6P0qBXn_uwLjsRYyA/s1600/lepetitcomte37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWN-q4DAhcn1dHXD7jwS6bef76KJgZJW-NFtOsBut0CVef1a3H3AKB4mVGmPWDRuB0hi6jo-7TOGomM7OUm2fEf5jIp69Qj1Y6ujVbks9-dqVaBumTUo1yGaY-R6P0qBXn_uwLjsRYyA/s640/lepetitcomte37.jpg" width="385" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La femme le regarda avec surprise.<br />
The woman looked at him with surprise.<br />
Source: gallica.bnf.fr</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigT_2jZjQQdmuAWN5Db8JLyHL_jRGXN84Wm-tNL78l6Fcr5gPOyVOsckFV5U-_PT5_tct-hpHCiis1JV3HzzSe0lRsULIFnTJbGI6FBN-Tu2fRsDJYT2-NCKBmmhA3LEznp-Ri9SQWRQ/s1600/lepetitcomte47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigT_2jZjQQdmuAWN5Db8JLyHL_jRGXN84Wm-tNL78l6Fcr5gPOyVOsckFV5U-_PT5_tct-hpHCiis1JV3HzzSe0lRsULIFnTJbGI6FBN-Tu2fRsDJYT2-NCKBmmhA3LEznp-Ri9SQWRQ/s640/lepetitcomte47.jpg" width="382" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Il retira du leu fer chauffé a blanc.<br />
He drew out the white-hot iron.<br />
Source: gallica.bnf.fr</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdaxVPrNJYfoNEEUtmZ65x2MPPScOGSmbHLsU7Gv3M9ZurStCxcTpfP2UjKSiz_mJemfk6mZlwkUADtsqcVVL18IYYXsVnXyxv6Of1hAGuy-5QgQk9yUPzTDfFwIvZjAlZSsgKoDyosg/s1600/lepetitcomte53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdaxVPrNJYfoNEEUtmZ65x2MPPScOGSmbHLsU7Gv3M9ZurStCxcTpfP2UjKSiz_mJemfk6mZlwkUADtsqcVVL18IYYXsVnXyxv6Of1hAGuy-5QgQk9yUPzTDfFwIvZjAlZSsgKoDyosg/s640/lepetitcomte53.jpg" width="384" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dick s'empara des souliers.<br />
Dick grabbed the shoes.<br />
Source: gallica.bnf.fr</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1l7Trw6ZlIhE7svPvcQnRVnCvEHyIS6P0qpAo_bcQOhyphenhyphenl8gZQ61agXZ7tqF-6_57HQhCJmleT-74YsQbJdnmAlYyMQx-Vp87VHLQeEQcScKzpe_yHRLj7i44s94QglyHaO7LZRviug/s1600/lepetitcomte73.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1l7Trw6ZlIhE7svPvcQnRVnCvEHyIS6P0qpAo_bcQOhyphenhyphenl8gZQ61agXZ7tqF-6_57HQhCJmleT-74YsQbJdnmAlYyMQx-Vp87VHLQeEQcScKzpe_yHRLj7i44s94QglyHaO7LZRviug/s640/lepetitcomte73.jpg" width="372" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Il mit rudement la main sur le petite Comte.<br />
He rudely put his hand on the Little Earl.<br />
Source: gallica.bnf.fr.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XSKzSoXIU4TKGDKrceOyz14TYqKByINDsAfRa73foydCP4JelTNEn1eudl0l7MZaFj1Xc6oPZQjAJ73wCLBeo3yYcMWdJKQK_xNoWu_9Evi8eciLA-jHK-JWaw345UCogEclxplY-Q/s1600/lepetitecomte91.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XSKzSoXIU4TKGDKrceOyz14TYqKByINDsAfRa73foydCP4JelTNEn1eudl0l7MZaFj1Xc6oPZQjAJ73wCLBeo3yYcMWdJKQK_xNoWu_9Evi8eciLA-jHK-JWaw345UCogEclxplY-Q/s640/lepetitecomte91.jpg" width="354" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Je suis lord Avillion.<br />
I am Lord Avillion.<br />
Source: gallica.bnf.fr</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>I didn't know that Ouida had ever used an Isle of Wight settin</b>g, nor if the locations - Shanklin, Bonchurch and the Undercliff - were directly known to her, or just so familiar as to be generic (the southern Island was immensely popular with the literati of the time). But she did have at least one indirect acquaintance with the area via a friend she made in Italy, the Isle of Wight physician Dr Joseph Glenfield Groves (author of <a href="http://www.bmj.com/content/2/1086/663">The Isle of Wight as a Health-Resort</a>, <i>BMJ</i> 1881;2:663).<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
On May 21st Dr. Joseph Groves died at his residence at Carisbrooke in the Isle of Wight ... He was born in the year 1839, being the eldest son of Mr. Joseph Groves
of Newport. and was descended by the maternal line from one of the
oldest island families. His mother belonged to the Roach family, who for
several hundreds of years have farmed the lands of Arreton and Great
and Little Standen ...<br />
...<br />
He was living in Paris at the time of the Communist barricades, and witnessed the death of a close friend who was shot down by the soldiery on the top of a barricade whilst attempting to disperse his riotous student friends. This incident was afterwards introduced into a novel [<i>Under Two Flags</i>], the hero of which was Dr. Groves’s friend, by “Ouida," whose acquaintance Dr. Groves made at this time. In these years of foreign travel Dr. Groves made lifelong friendships with many people of note, he laid up a store of ever-fruitful knowledge and pleasant memories, and he developed his unerring taste in works of art. Returning to the Isle of Wight, at first in charge of a single patient who suffered from mental derangement, he sought, on the recovery of his patient, no practice, but for a year or two attended only his friends at their urgent request. In 1883, however, he was appointed Medical Officer of Health to the Isle of Wight Rural Sanitary Authority From that date, twenty-four years ago ... he has discharged
his numerous duties ... as Medical Officer of Health and as a highly esteemed medical practitioner, winning
the confidence and admiration of all.<br />
- Obituary, Joseph Groves, B.A, M.B.Lond., M.R.C.S., <i>British Medical Journal</i>, June 1, 1907.</blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-stwrUwemAJxaD7o6gLn95U0PgynAXyhyphenhyphenjsCpX0jONLWHDbX_y0eU-I5Gq-3WQhwsXUApEO4IdF86d0dPahtw6Ris5UhPtIiXER1G0lWETn-JJ6eg3xRAgyfMhaWRlmEeQokVmO5Yiw/s1600/littleearl03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-stwrUwemAJxaD7o6gLn95U0PgynAXyhyphenhyphenjsCpX0jONLWHDbX_y0eU-I5Gq-3WQhwsXUApEO4IdF86d0dPahtw6Ris5UhPtIiXER1G0lWETn-JJ6eg3xRAgyfMhaWRlmEeQokVmO5Yiw/s640/littleearl03.jpg" width="408" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He shared it willingly.<br />
Maria Louise Kirk illustration for 1909 Lipincott</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hXJU-xasezb8g4M60MufJjx1prVVo4Bdqd33uBhAZOkgvV0ByFrXUSK-nUkLRw3a8QRWAlfu4uiRJdu-XqepXDvBcsBesz6kWJ6CEPJl_L3Rjk3EzrvwMQiWmkxlKWbcziUZVEyZTw/s1600/ouidapic_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hXJU-xasezb8g4M60MufJjx1prVVo4Bdqd33uBhAZOkgvV0ByFrXUSK-nUkLRw3a8QRWAlfu4uiRJdu-XqepXDvBcsBesz6kWJ6CEPJl_L3Rjk3EzrvwMQiWmkxlKWbcziUZVEyZTw/s1600/ouidapic_01.jpg" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ouida: 1874 photo by Adolphe Beau<br />
from <i>Ouida: a Memoir</i>, Elizabeth Lee<br />
(Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/cu31924013470319">cu31924013470319</a>).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Ouida's children's stories attracted pretty well universal acclaim. While her novels were popular, not everybody liked their general flavour - sagas of laidback aesthetes hovering on the edge of amorality. With the children's stories, she dropped into the charming and evocative. These reviews were typical:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When Ouida has scenery, or art, or animals, or children in her head, there is nothing else there one could wish absent. Her passion for justice, her love of helpless childhood, her reverence for defenceless animals, are so great and rare, that while thinking of them one cease to remember she she has ever written books containing much that is less admirable … Although the stories are written for children, and are such as children of a certain age and some education will thoroughly enjoy, they are excellent reading for “grown-ups.” … “Findelkind” and “The Little Earl” are full of the pathetic aspiration of childhood after serviceableness, and are very beautiful.<br />
- Recent novels, <i>Daily News</i> (London, England), Thursday, July 6, 1882.<br />
...<br />
Ouida is hardly a name with which the ordinary reader associates children’s stories, and yet we venture to say that one of the most charming works for the young which has appeared for some years is “Bimbi; Stories for Children” (Chatto and Windus). No author probably equals Ouida for word-painting and exquisite pathos. Her descriptions of children and animals have always been striking features of her works; and once get her away from the bad and gloomy side of human nature, there are few writers who can touch the tenderer chords of a reader’s heart more easily. “Moufflon” … and the “Little Earl” are simply idylls of innocent child-life, which will give equal pleasure to parents and to children, and in which the most hypercritical could only find a thoroughly wholesome moral.<br />
- The Reader, <i>The Graphic</i>, (London, England), Saturday, July 1, 1882<br />
...<br />
It is a thousand pities that “Ouida” will not always write as she has written in “Bimbi.”<br />
- <i>The Literary News</i>, August 1882.<br />
...<br />
This volume would be worth the money (according
to the slang phrase) were it only for the concluding story, ‘The Little Earl,” which, though last, is certainly not the least. It is not only full of interest and well told, but it carries a fine lesson.<br />
- Contemporary Literature, <i>The British Quarterly Review</i>, July 1882.</blockquote>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsx7UCsycIlV-FXcuY2rfk_JbbaA-p4adNQiW4aNttof7ihb4wiOcTlyfU9RNbvM-Dhj0-t2Ucfy_yljJc0KTfBkcixpfLot_MDRwFJj2gp_h_eIhZZcBKmLJNx7O-pkJ0foFyli4fRQ/s1600/lepetitcomte47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsx7UCsycIlV-FXcuY2rfk_JbbaA-p4adNQiW4aNttof7ihb4wiOcTlyfU9RNbvM-Dhj0-t2Ucfy_yljJc0KTfBkcixpfLot_MDRwFJj2gp_h_eIhZZcBKmLJNx7O-pkJ0foFyli4fRQ/s320/lepetitcomte47.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from <i>Le Petit Comte</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But even <i>Bimbi</i> got the occasional hostile review. Check out <i>The Month</i>, whose reviewer berates Ouida for having an insufficiently Catholic stance on the issue of animal cruelty and rights ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Bimbi</i> strikes us as the attempt of one whose moral sense is perverted, and who is half conscious of the perversion, to throw aside the taint of evil and to be childlike, innocent, simple, at least for once. There is no moralizing in the book, no straining after moral effect, no effort to inculcate religious truths through the medium of the tales—perhaps it is all the better for this. There is a great deal of natural beauty in some of the pictures painted, and of the characters that are drawn. But just as he who is used to a rolling deck cannot walk straight upon the land, so Ouida's perverted moral sense crops out, especially when she attempts to introduce some "improving" incident into the story she is telling. In one only of the stories is there any trace of what we must call the prevalent vice of Ouida's novels. The rest are in this respect harmless enough. But over and over again the little readers of these stories are taught to esteem as a virtue that exaggerated devotion to animal pets which is compatible with, and very commonly found along with, an entire absence of any kind of supernatural charity. Many of the cruel sensualists of Ouida's novels, like the Roman ladies of Pagan times, would shudder at the very idea of the slightest pain inflicted on their lap-dog, and would make considerable personal sacrifices for the health and comfort of their petted darling. The spirit of kindness to the dumb animals, the hatred of any wanton cruelty to them, is a sort of overflow of the spirit of true charity, but it is on a different footing altogether, and to ignore the difference, or to represent the brutes as sharing the "rights" of men, is directly at variance with the spirit of the Catholic Church. <br />
In "The Little Earl," Ouida goes further still. The hero of the story (and a very pretty story it is), a child of seven years old, wanders away from home, gets lost, and among other adventures comes across a shed where pigs are being branded.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Bertie saw the man take the red-hot iron and go up to the pig. Bertie's face grew blanched with horror.<br />
"Stop, stop! what are you doing to the pig?" he screamed, as he ran in to the man, who looked up and stared.<br />
"I be branding the pig; get out, or I'll brand you," he cried. Bertie held his ground; his eyes were flashing.<br />
"You wicked, wicked man! Do you not know the poor pig was made by God?"<br />
"Dunno," said the wretch, with a grin. "She'll be eat by men, come Candlemas! I be marking of her, cos I'll turn her out on the downs with t'other. Git out, youngster; you've no call here." </blockquote>
Here again the childish mind is trained to exaggerate the consideration due to animals, and to regard it as a sin to inflict on a pig the momentary pain of the hot iron marking his thick skin.<br />
- Ouida's stories for children, page 294,<i> The Month: A Catholic Magazine and Review</i>, Vol. XLVI, 1882.</blockquote>
... though I wonder if the reviewer simply disliked Ouida, and also if there was a bit of politics going on about the dedication to the Royal Family of Italy.<br />
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<b><i>The Little Earl</i> contains an authorial passage</b> that's a heartfelt elegy for pre-development Shanklin:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
You have never seen Shanklin, for you have never been in England; and if you do go now, you will never see it as it was when Bertie walked there, when it was the prettiest and most primitive little place in England; now, they tell me, it has been made into a watering-place, with a pier and an esplanade.<br />
Shanklin used to be a little green mossy village covered up in honeysuckle and hawthorn; low long houses, green too with ivy and creepers, hid themselves away in sweet-smelling old-fashioned gardens; yellow roads ran between high banks and hedges out to the green down or downward to the ripple of the sea; and the cool brown sands, glistening and firm, twice a day felt the kiss of the tide. The cliffs were brown too, for the most part; some were white ; the gray sea stretched in front; and the glory of the place was its leafy chine and ravine that severed the rocks and was full of foliage and of the sound of birds. It used to be all so quiet there; now and then there passed in the offing a brig or a yacht or a man-of-war; now and then farmers' carts came in from the downs by Appuldurcombe or the farms beyond the Undercliff; there were some fishing-cabins by the beach, and one old inn with a long grassy garden, where the coaches used to stop that ran through the quiet country from Ryde to Ventnor. It was so green, so still, so friendly, so fresh; when I think of it I hear the swish of its lazy waves, and I smell the smell of its eglantine hedges, and I see the big brown eyes of my gallant dog as he came breathless up from the sea.<br />
Alas! you will never see it so. The hedges are down, they tell me, and the grand dog is dead, and the hateful engine tears through the fields, and the sands are beaten to make an esplanade, and the beach is noisy and hideous with the bray of bands and the laughter of fools. <br />
What will the world be like when you are twenty? Very frightful, I fear. This is progress, they say?<br />
But what of the little Earl? you ask.<br />
Well, the little Earl knew Shanklin as I knew it, — when the blackbirds and thrushes sang in the quiet chine, and the sense of an infinite peace dwelt on its simple shores. His grandmamma had taken for the summer the house that stands in its woods at the head of the chine and looks straight down that rift of greenery to the gray sea. I know not what that house is now; then it was charming, chalet-like, yet spacious.<br />
- <i>The Little Earl</i></blockquote>
This, I assume is the Ouida reference that "Monopole" mentions in the 1903 <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/shanklin-spa.html"><b>Shanklin Spa</b></a> guide:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
These were the days which "Ouida" once wrote about, and regretted that they had passed away—passed away in Shanklin's progress—many would still say, perhaps without regret.<br />
- page 21, <i>Shanklin Spa: A Guide to the Town and the Isle of Wight</i> ("Monopole", Shanklin: Silsbury Brothers, 1903, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/shanklinspaagui00monogoog">shanklinspaagui00monogoog</a>).</blockquote>
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-44754768312496071762015-05-30T18:42:00.001-07:002015-05-31T02:58:50.560-07:00London Society: a Devonshire Savages sighting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>The Devonshire Savages</b>: a me-too hatchet job on a Devon rural family from an 1878 edition of <i>London Society</i>, a monthly periodical billed as publishing "light and amusing literature for the hours of relaxation", but which often had features and fiction that were anything but.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
This is a well-known story on the Devon history/folklore circuit, but I was surprised to run into a rehash of it in the same volume of <i>London Society</i> that serialised <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/bertha-thomas-bibliography.html">Bertha Thomas</a>'s second novel, the 1878 <i>Cressida</i>. The anonymous account of the "Savages" was news a decade old: the equivalent of a tabloid scare story that started in the <i>Times</i> in 1869 and spawned a series of morally outraged accounts of the 'North Devon savages': a <a href="http://genuki.cs.ncl.ac.uk/DEV/NymetRowland/index.html">Nymet Rowland</a> farming family called the Cheritons. More context at the end: but first, here's the story as <i>London Society</i> tells it.<br />
<br />
<hr />
<b>LONDON SOCIETY</b><br />
A Monthly Magazine of light and amusing literature for the hours of relaxation.<br />
London, F. V. White and Co.,31 Southampton Street, Strand, W.C.<br />
VOL. XXXIII. NO. CXCVIII, 1878<br />
Miscellaneous Papers<br />
Devonshire Savages, The, by a Native … 510<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE DEVONSHIRE SAVAGES.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><small>BY A NATIVE.</small></b></div>
<br />
There are spots on the moon and there are flies in amber. It need not, then, be a matter for great surprise that there are 'savages' in beautiful Devonshire. In fact it might not be difficult to find savages in many other parts of the country, judging by the testimony—the recent testimony unfortunately—of our police, petty sessional, and assize courts. There are young savages and old ones among us. For the former there is some hope whilst School Boards continue to exercise their functions. The old savages are, it is to be feared, irreclaimable, for the reason that they are mostly beyond civilising influences, and society can only look forward to their gradual extinction by the process of natural decay.<br />
The savages who are the subject of this paper are of a peculiar type. They are in fact landed proprietors, living on their own freehold estate, and in a detached residence situated in a picturesque part of the country. It was rather more than six years since that they first brought themselves prominently under general public notice, though they had for some time previously made their influence 'felt' in their own immediate neighbourhood; and they have since done their best from time to time to maintain their reputation. It was about a couple of years after the special occasion to which I have alluded that, being about to pay a visit to Devonshire, it occurred to me that I would endeavour to see the notorious savages of the county. I had, however, forgotten the exact locality in which they lived, and thinking that a lady friend of mine—who I thought was specially ‘well up' in West-country lore, and who had, I believed, specially studied the habits and goings-on of West-country people—might be able to assist me, I wrote to ask her if she had ever heard of' the Devonshire savages,' and could remember their whereabouts. Not knowing, evidently, that I was a 'native,' she informed me that she had no recollection of any particular community of savages in Devonshire, but she believed that the expression ' the Devonshire savages' was applied very generally to the common people of Devon, in order to indicate the roughness of their manners. This was a terrible slander, for which I was totally unprepared; for I will venture to say— 'though I,' as a native, 'say it who shouldn't'—that throughout the British Islands there does not exist a finer, a gentler, and a more simple-hearted race of men than your genuine Devonshire peasants. I am, however, quite free to confess that this character does not apply to the singular family of Devonians of whom I propose to give some account in this place.<br />
One of their not very remote ancestors was, it is averred, a kind of Diogenes. He at any rate, if not a philosopher, was eccentric, and lived in a tub. Common report indeed says that he was a lunatic, and it has been suggested that the tendency of lunacy to become hereditary may account for the strange doings of the existing family of savages. Local opinion, however, inclines to the belief that the noun plural which implies the reverse of honest people would more fittingly explain the peculiarities of this family than any other expression.<br />
I have said that they are landed proprietors, living in their own 'house' on their own freehold. How they came into possession of this property I have never been able to discover. But in spite of their notorious misdoings there they are, and there they appear likely to remain. Their estate consists of some thirty or forty acres of land, which they farm—its value, I have been given to understand, being about 40/. per annum. They have, or recently had, live stock in horses, sheep, pigs, bullocks, ducks, and fowls. The 'estate' consists of eleven fields, besides an orchard, and it has been 'in the family' for about a quarter of a century. There is a cottage-garden attached to the family mansion, in which are grown various vegetables that supply the family with what they cannot easily steal from their neighbours. When, for whom, or under what circumstances the cottage was built I have never been able to discover. Some people say that it was originally an old barn with an extemporised chimney. It might have been at one time a labourer's cottage; but I incline to the belief that it was erected by the savages themselves after an artistic model of their own. The 'oldest inhabitant' of the parish in which it is situated, not a hundred miles from the Lapford station of the North Devon Railway, cannot remember to have seen glass in the 'windows;' and it is very many years since that the apertures, which by courtesy may claim that designation, were known to retain anything like window-shape. Their fine airy and <span class="st"><i>négligée </i></span>condition in their best days may be seen by the illustration. The savages never appear to have liked the confinement and restraint imposed by glass, and it was only during exceptionally cold or exceptionally rough weather that they cared to fill the apertures in the walls with an unhinged door, an old board, a sack or two, or other temporary makeshifts.<br />
On the occasion of my visit to the hovel, however, it had become such a ruin as to have almost lost the appearance of a dwelling-place. Here it is, just as I saw it. The stones and cob of which the walls consisted were torn and rent in all directions, as if the structure had been subjected to a furious bombardment. Huge gaping apertures were seen on all sides. What had been doorways had become widened, shapeless, and ragged breaches in the walls. The' front' doorway had assumed the shape of a rough irregular archway, the upper part of which was so torn and loose that it had to be supported by a beam placed crosswise, and kept up against the stones and cob by wooden props. The upper parts of the walls were especially ruinous, whilst the thatch was broken and torn in all directions.<br />
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The substructure of this miserable ruinous dwelling stood in a hollow or depression in the ground, and was situated at about the centre of a kind of clearing surrounded by a hedge and skirted by tall trees. Admission to this yard or clearing was gained through a gateway which led in from one of the high-roads of the village. The hovel itself consisted of two apartments, one over the other. The lower one, the deepest part of which was something like a hole or pit in the ground, was the den of the savages—drawing-room, dining-room, kitchen, scullery, and bedroom in one. Here the whole family ate, drank, washed, cooked, and slept. Bed or bedstead, as these things are generally understood, there was none. When I saw it the whole room was filled with straw, and here, as I have said, every member of the household slept—father, mother, sons, daughters, and the children of the latter. The family consisted, in fact, of eleven persons when I made their acquaintance. The grandfather of the circle was at that time, I believe, about sixty years of age. His wife as perhaps a few years younger. Their eldest son was somewhere between thirty and forty. The next was a daughter of thirty summers. Then followed two other intereting young ladies, aged respectively, I believe, twenty-five and twenty-three. Next below these came a boy about twelve, one of about eight, another between five and six, and a baby boy of two summers.<br />
The eleven herded together in the manner I have stated; and their character and propensities were just what their mode of life would suggest. No respectably-dressed person could venture to pass their hovel without being assailed with the most horrible epithets, and not unfrequently assaulted brutally with mud, sticks, stones, or in fact anything that came first to hand. They soon became the terror of the whole country-side; and curiously enough the worst of the set were the female members of the family. At one time the latter actually attended the parish church, dresssed in the most gaudy style imaginable, and accompanied occasionally by their brothers. But a feud arose between them and the vicar, who on one occasion was so incensed by the conduct of the eldest of the sons, that he seized him and administered severe castigation. From this time the savages ceased attending church altogether; but they took every opportunity of insulting the parsou whenever he chanced to pass their way, and swore eternal vengeance against this good man in particular, and against his profession in general. The suspiciousness with which they greeted me on the occasion of my visit to them arose, I believe, from their having at first mistaken me for a 'passen,' and they appeared both pleased and relieved on my informing them, in reply to a query to that effect, that I was not of the cloth.<br />
For a certain period they attempted a little farming, and even took their produce to dispose of it to a market which was not very distant from their abode. But after a time they appear to have reflected that it would be easier to purloin their neighbours' goods than to work for themselves; so they pilfered and robbed their neighbours in eveiy possiblo way and on every possible occasion. They made no distinction, robbing the poor cottagers as well as the wealthy farmers in all the country round. They would even steal vegetables from labourers'gardens. One of their favourite amusements—suggested, no doubt, by the desire to combine business with pleasure—was to drive the cattle of neighbouring farmers into their own fields, and then, upon the pretence that these cattle had 'strayed,' demand compensation from the owners. Indeed, one of the most recent of the public appearances of these North Devon savages—at the sessions held at the Castle of Exeter, not many months ago, before the Earl of Devon and other magistrates— was to answer a charge of obtaining money—to wit, the sum of two shillings and sixpence—by false pretences from a farmer in the neighbourhood, whose pigs, the savages declared, had, to the number of six, been ' trespassing' amongst their ricks. The sum was claimed, and, it seems, paid by the farmer in question, who was under the belief that his pigs had in reality committed the damage which was alleged. He was subsequently informed, however, that the savages had themselves driven his pigs amongst their ricks in order to extort money from him. Three of the notorious family were on this particular occasion indicted for cheating the farmer in the manner indicated, but two of them escaped owing to some technical flaw in the indictment, the third being convicted and sentenced to two months' hard labour—a very slight punishment, considering the numerous occasions on which this particular savage—the ringleader of the whole set—had been convicted of similar and worse offences.<br />
It will be supposed from what has been stated that these notorious people were, before the date of the particular prosecution just referred to, no strangers to the processes of the law. Indeed, prior to the year 1873 they had been so frequently 'summoned' before the county magistrates, that a special representation on their account was made to the Home Secretary. Inquiry was then instituted, and a return was ordered of the number of convictions which up to the date of the inquiry had been recorded against the savages. It actually appeared from this return that, for divers offences too numerous to particularise here, they had been between them convicted no less than fifty times. But their repeated incarcerations had produced no beneficial effect upon them, and indeed they only became hardened in their sins and wrong-doings.<br />
It appears that every inducement which has been offered to these people to sell their land has proved unavailing, and hence there is no means of driving them forth from the neighbourhood in which their presence has become an intolerable infliction. The most perfect isolation exists between them and the inhabitants of the parish in which they live. Their hovel has sunk into a most ruinous condition, and it cannot long withstand the assaults of the weather. How the tenants will fare when, on some more than usually stormy night, it is laid in a ruinous heap, it is impossible to say. There is no one in the neighbourhood of the savages who would let them a house, nor could a house be built in a day. They would have to take refuge in one of their own hayricks until they could extemporise other shelter.<br />
Such as these abandoned people have been described they appear likely to remain; for they have resisted every civilising and humanising influence which has been brought to bear upon them with the object of improving them. They are in very truth irreclaimable savages, having, unhappily, no one redeeming quality as a set-off against their viciousness and depravity—savages, in fact, of the utterly bad type which is, alas, still to be found in certain parts of civilised countries.<br />
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<b>Public domain material transcribed from Google Books scan of <i>London Society</i>, 1888.</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6xZAhXe2R5YxIgPybZSScszcsAvOpcYP5_eGNf-joRcNaFwtxt_6bIeHIWqyF118XcFsa1BH6lZKayEJ31r3wgv5BTCBIRLitstyGe73FohLN251Fo09k2N17X11auNJJkKjcUc7vw/s1600/baringgouldsavageshouse01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6xZAhXe2R5YxIgPybZSScszcsAvOpcYP5_eGNf-joRcNaFwtxt_6bIeHIWqyF118XcFsa1BH6lZKayEJ31r3wgv5BTCBIRLitstyGe73FohLN251Fo09k2N17X11auNJJkKjcUc7vw/s400/baringgouldsavageshouse01.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Cottage of the Savages" - by F. Bligh Bond<br />
Baring-Gould's <i>An Old English Home and Its Dependencie</i>s. <br />
Note the sensational extras: pig in doorway, and naked suckling figure.<br />
From the detail of the cart, it seems that both this and the uncredited<br />
image with the <i>London Society</i> piece were based on a photo c.1860<br />
by William Hector. See <a href="http://www.heardfamilyhistory.org.uk/A%20Criminal%20Past.html">A Criminal Past</a>, Heard Family History.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFrKX_moBuhq0u7M_GYlQ3CsIUqfycuNPH1WQzdONqcoLE3VuZKEJlXnsI-uuxat0wMWgfy20Vc6dJgFYtLiiZ0G0xJEo_nMGLMbvpa-qg_fx518G4qYUe8DRH9CL0LYcUQEXH8SnUw/s1600/baringgouldsavageshouse02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFrKX_moBuhq0u7M_GYlQ3CsIUqfycuNPH1WQzdONqcoLE3VuZKEJlXnsI-uuxat0wMWgfy20Vc6dJgFYtLiiZ0G0xJEo_nMGLMbvpa-qg_fx518G4qYUe8DRH9CL0LYcUQEXH8SnUw/s1600/baringgouldsavageshouse02.jpg" /></a><b>For a compilation of contemporary accounts</b>, see the Devon History Society: <a href="http://www.devonhistorysociety.org.uk/2009/11/north-devon-savages.html"><b>The North Devon Savages</b></a> (November 2009 - I wrote it, so forgive any similarity of phrasing).<br />
<br />
The short of it is that the story seems to have launched with a <i>Times</i> piece, "Heathenism in Devonshire" (page 9, November 17, 1869), and particularly escalated with an October 1871 <i>Telegraph </i>expose, "A Family of Savages in Devonshire" (syndicated as far afield as the <a href="http://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/cgi-bin/paperspast?a=d&d=NOT18720126.2.23&l=mi&e=-------10--1----0-all"><i>North Otago Times</i></a>). There was outraged commentary - the <i>London Society</i> piece is pretty mild - such as that of "Tickler" (George Philip Rigney Pulman) in the <i>Devon Weekly Times</i> (reprinted in the 1870 <a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=Uh1bAAAAcAAJ"><i>Devonshire Sketches including Pixy Lore</i></a> as "... some Account of Ancient and Modern Savages in Devon").<i> </i>This is turn drew probably libellous correspondence alleging further misdeeds such as incest, going near-naked, and the Cheriton women corrupting, and infecting, the local youth ("to which fact medical men in the neighbourhood can bear revolting testimony"). A few decades later, the Cheritons were fast fading into folklore, but they got a mention in books such as Baring-Gould's <i>An Old English Home and its Dependencies </i>(London: Methuen, 1898, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/oldenglishhomeit00bariuoft">oldenglishhomeit00bariuoft</a>) and Sarah Hewett's <i>Nummits and Crummits : Devonshire customs, characteristics, and folk-lore</i> (London: Thomas Burleigh, 1900, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/nummitscrummitsd00heweuoft">nummitscrummitsd00heweuoft</a>). Peter Christie's 1992 paper is the most complete modern reanalysis, and the abstract says it all:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The 'North Devon Savages' were a notorious family living in the small
parish of Nymet Rowland in the nineteenth century whose story has
entered the realms of folklore. This study explores the truth behind
their reputation and suggests that their notoriety, though based to some
extent on fact, was deliberately exagggerated by local landed interests
in order to force them off their land. <br />
_ Christie, Peter. 'The true story of the north Devon savages'. <i>Devonshire Association Report and Transactions</i>, 124 (1992), 59-85. ISSN 03097994.</blockquote>
Ultimately the story may come down to a land ownership war conducted by slur, in which the
underclass Cheritons were less able to play the media than their rich
and well-connected opponents.<br />
<br />
- Ray Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-19836549108646081632015-05-30T03:46:00.000-07:002015-06-04T17:07:06.742-07:00At a Month's End: part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As a follow-up to <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/bertha-thomas-bibliography.html"><b>Bertha Thomas: bibliography</b></a>, I decided to rescue one of her less findable stories from archive limbo: <i><b>At a Month's End</b><b>: leaves from the diary of a man of the time</b></i>, told in three parts in <i>London Society</i> magazine in 1887.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I chose it because it's of local interest: another work by Bertha Thomas with a Devon setting, and even more specifically, the South Hams: its fictional village of Conington (near "Dartcombe") can't be far from the "Orestone" in her 1890 novel <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/the-house-on-scar-tale-of-south-devon.html"><b><i>The House on the Scar: A Tale of South Devon</i></b></a>. (whose hero and heroine both went to "Bexeter" art school). <i>At a Month's End</i> also mentions Exeter, and even the <i>Western Morning News</i>. I strongly suspect that Bertha Thomas had some close connection with South Devon at some time in her life, though such biographical details I can find don't show up anything obvious.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_Society"><i>London Society</i></a> was a monthly periodical billed as publishing "light and amusing literature for the hours of relaxation", but I'm not sure its self-description is accurate. It had already serialised Bertha Thomas's 1878 novel <i>Cressida</i>, the saga of the many relationships of a clergyman's daughter, ending in an unsatisfactory marriage and she and her husband's double death. And <i>At a Month's End</i> is a very bitter-sweet story of a novelist's affair with an insolvent ex-mariner's over-protected and fey (if not unstable) niece.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, here's part 1. The text, being from 1887 and its author dead since 1918, is undoubtedly out of copyright. Full credit, however, to Google as source of the scan I transcribed it from.<br />
<hr />
<br />
LONDON SOCIETY<br />
A Monthly Magazine of light and amusing literature for the hours of relaxation.<br />
London, F. V. White and Co.,31 Southampton Street, Strand, W.C.<br />
Volume 52, 1887<br />
At a Month’s End<br />
pages 307, 452, 564<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>AT A MONTH’S END</b><br />
<b>Leaves from the diary of a man of the time.</b><br />
A story in three parts.<br />
By Bertha Thomas,<br />
Author of “The Violin Player,” “Proud Maisie,” etc., etc.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
PART I</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
CHAPTER 1</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A chance acquaintance</div>
<br />
DARTCOMBE, Devon, June 19,1880. "<i>For Sale—part of the, library of the late Dr. Lister, comprising many scarce works, valuable editions, &c. Apply by letter to Captain Lister, Conington Court.</i>" <br />
Two days ago the above notice caught my eye in the corner of the local paper. Though I have put off "Lanerton Lee " the author whilst rusticating in this remote nook, the book-fancier's mania still has hold of Hubert Lane the private individual. Every book-fancier has heard of Dr. Lister's library, and heard that of it which induced me to write to Captain Lister at once. I received a courteous reply, inviting me to come over this morning and inspect the books at leisure. "Be so good," thus ran the P.S., "as not to speak openly here of the sale."<br />
From Dartcombe to Conington was a measureless drive, through the beautiful monotony of South Devon. Miles upon miles of steep narrow lanes, with high untrimmed hedges, full of dogwood and spindle berries, ivy-mantled elms and sycamores behind, and then field upon field to infinity, but never a human habitation. Quite suddenly Conington village cropped out—a dozen cottages and a toy church, scattered in a hollow, looking as though they had been dropped there by accident and forgotten. Conington Court, a strikingly picturesque stone-gabled building, faced me, standing at a stone's throw from the road, across a strip of lawn planted with shrubs and fenced off by a light iron railing. The driver stopped before a wicket gate. I walked up, admiring the singular, irregular frontage, the broken line of buttressed walls, fantastic variety in the shape of the windows, the ivy-grown turrets, with embattled parapet, and machicolations over a large bricked-up archway, pierced by a small door, in old Gothic fashion.<br />
I rang, and the door swung open. Stepping inside, I stopped short, taken aback^at a jarring surprise.<br />
For I stood in a ruin. The tine stone front is a mere screen for the remains of what was once a castellated mansion. But the screen is so well preserved as in no degree to prepare you for the dilapidation that lies behind it. Skeleton walls, fallen, halfburied arches, roofless chambers, crumbling turrets overlaid with a century of ivy-growth. Such is Conington Court.<br />
An old crone, who is lodged in some habitable corner of the place, which she shows to sight-seers, hobbled forward, key in hand, curtseying.<br />
"Captain Lister," said I, mystified, "where does he live?"<br />
She pointed to a plain stuccoed dwelling-house I had overlooked, visible through the trees behind the ruin, and explained.<br />
Conington Court, an old family possession of the Listers, has for half a century been as I saw it to-day, abandoned to owls and bats and stray tourists. The villa adjacent, formerly the bailiffs house, has been let to Captain Lister for the last fifteen years by the head of the family, his cousin. She piloted me through the ruins to a gate in an old wall communicating with the villa garden. I had turned for another look at the picturesque scene. High aloft, through the loop-hole of a turret, fluttered something white. The housekeeper followed my glance.<br />
"That will be one of the young ladies," she said.<br />
"Young ladies here ?" I asked, with mixed feelings. I had bargained only for old books.<br />
"Five Miss Listers and Miss Ella," was her disconcerting reply.<br />
The plain-looking villa proved the picture of lavish comfort and elegance within. Captain and Mrs. Lister received me with frank hospitality, and in ten minutes we were on e isy terms. He is one of those affable, gentlemanly beings whom you get to know wonderfully well in half-an-hour, and wonderfully little better though you know them for years. The way was agreeably smoothed for my errand.<br />
He told me how long years ago his great-uncle's library had come into his—professedly unworthy—hands. He knows little about books—cares less, and " circumstances," as he puts it, now make of the sale a pressing necessity. His sweet, sympatheticlooking wife is clearly not the presence in which secrecy is enjoined.<br />
I found the famous library in a deplorable state of disorder and neglect. A glance showed me that examination here would take time. The captain courteously left me by-and-by to pursue my researches alone. It was as well. I was brimming over with indignation at what I saw. Trash and treasures jumbled indisgriminately together. Great Heaven, what sacrilege! Old Ollendorff grammars, nursery rhyme books, cheap issues of modern novels (including two or three of my own), side by side with original editions of "Paradise Lost," of "The Faerie Queene," of Gower and Chaucer, rare manuscripts and Elzevirs. Here and there the covers, detached, had got mixed, and I found "Piers Plowman's Vision" encasing an old " Quarterly Review," and a Caxton-printed " Confessio Amantis" within the binding of my last-published romance! In this maze I had got no further than the conviction that my host has here a more valuable possession than he is aware of, when I was summoned to lunch.<br />
Captain and Mrs. Lister are such a young-looking couple that the sight of their eight children, two of them grown up, impressed me with surprise. Not otherwise profoundly. The Miss Listers are like blurred and unflattering replicas of their mother—a pretty person. They are irreverently nicknamed by their voung brothers, "Elizabeth, Elspeth, Bet, Betsy, and Bess!"<br />
"Is there a ninth olive branch?" I wondered, as we seemed to be waiting for somebody.<br />
"Where's Ella ?" inquired the captain. A chorus responded:<br />
"Up in the turret. She's been there all the morning."<br />
"Call her, Jack," said his father to the eldest boy.<br />
"She don't like to be disturbed when she's reading up there," Jack objected stoutly, and effectually, for a pause ensued.<br />
"You go, mamma," suggested a Miss Lister; " she won't mind you."<br />
The French windows were open. Mrs. Lister stepped out on the lawn and called " Ella!" The white thing up aloft fluttered, a tail young lady rose abruptly, walked along the top of the wall with surprising steadiness of nerve, and came to join the party. "Miss Lister, my niece," said the captain, introducing us. She bowed with a silent impatience of manner, as if I somehow were to blame for her unpunctuality.<br />
"Miss Lister, my niece," must be a handsome girl when she is in a good temper. That was not to-day. Still, <i>not</i> to select her for notice among her cousins would be impossible. Like an antelope in a herd of kine, a tiger-lily in a buttercup field, she stands out from the rest. She has the stock-in-trade of a professional beauty, and a patent contempt for it. Richly shaded tints of golden brown blend in her abundant hair; her bright dark blue eyes, splendid eyebrows, milk-and-red complexion, full, curled, clearly moulded lips, would strike notice even in a London ball-room. Even, indeed! Such a wealth of natural, healthful colouring bears no transplantation from the country. And yet, plain and ill-dressed though " Elizabeth, Elspeth," and sisters are, there is more of instinctive feminine grace and gentle charm about the plainest of them than in their handsome cousin. At least their countenances are agreeable. Hers plainly bespeaks a pride, perhaps becoming in some Muscovite mistress of a thousand souls, but misplaced in Miss Ella Lister, the impecunious ward of a ruined ex-captain in the army—too proud to be vain of her beauty, or to care to appear to advantage.<br />
Mistress of Conington Court and the souls that are therein she undoubtedly is, and by common consent. This I learnt during lunch. They cannot so much as order the carriage or alter the dinner hour without referring to her. She is an interesting study of the natural tyranny exercised by a strong will and superior practical ability. Her remarks show her to be sensible and acute, but impatient of the slower intelligence and vacillation of those she lives with. They seem delighted for her to save them the trouble and responsibility of making up their minds.<br />
After lunch I was reinstalled in the library. The window was imperceptibly ajar, and presently, from the lawn beneath, the low and imperious voice of "Miss Lister, my niece," caught my ear.<br />
"Jack!"<br />
"Well," Ella?"<br />
"<i>Who is he?</i>" <br />
"Some fellow who wants to have a look at the library." "Uncle allows it?"<br />
"Rather! He's been rummaging there hours already." "Uncle is much too careless about letting in strangers. Anybody has only to ask, like this Mr. Lane—he knows nothing about him—who he is."<br />
"How should he ?" asked Jack obtusely.<br />
"He leaves them alone—keeps no watch. I believe some of the books are very valuable; a dishonest dealer or collector— why, a common swindler—might get in, passing himself off for a gentleman."<br />
"Oh, gemini, what a lark! Walk off with his pockets stuffed!" A good joke, the idea, in Jack's opinion. Not so for Miss Ella.<br />
"I shall tell uncle what I think—that is, if he doesn't wish to have his books tampered with—perhaps stolen."<br />
"Insolent little puss!" thought I, half incensed, half amused, as the voices were lost in the distance. I was soon re-absorbed in my researches; every ten minutes I came upon some fresh "find," <i>perdu</i> in a litter of tattered rubbish. I was hard at work when at five the captain came in to report progress. My day's work, I confessed, had shown me, in the first place, that a proper investigation, with the sifting it involved, would occupy a week at least. He caught at my hints concerning the value of the collection with an eagerness that surprised me. Pressed for ray estimate, I named two thousand pounds as a rough guess, rather under than over the market worth of his possession.<br />
"Two thousand!" he repeated,with sudden,undisguised elation. "Are you serious, Mr. Lane?" I named two London firms, either of which, I could vouch, would readily bid that amount. The news brought an absolute gaiety into his countenance. He saw what I was thinking, and rejoined:<br />
"Ah, you don't understand, Mr. Lane, how that sum could be of vital consequence to a person in my position. You take me for a rich man. Well, really, now and then, when I look round me, I can hardly persuade myself I am not."<br />
"Then my mistake, if such it were," I answered, "was natural, inevitable, in a stranger."<br />
"Perfectly!" He drew a long breath. "Mr. Lane, I am deeply indebted to you. But for your timely hint I should have let the collection go for a song to a rascally country dealer, who presumed on my ignorance to try and cheat me out of fifteen hundred pounds. How can I repay you?"<br />
"Easily !"—the opportunity was irresistible. He looked up, and I told him:<br />
"By allowing me to complete my inspection and purchase some £200 or £300 worth for myself, at a fair valuation, before the whole goes into the market. I shall esteem it a favour."<br />
He caught at the idea, and invited me most hospitably to be their guest for the next week; he pressed me to accept, saying frankly:<br />
"It will be a favour to us; a visitor to enliven our solitude is a veritable godsend out here in the desert. Why, after all, one should dread the prospect of leaving such a hermitage I really don't know. Our children must gain by the exchange."<br />
"You are leaving Conington?" I inquired. He hesitated. The confidence had slipped out unawares. But Lister is the very man to confide his dead secrets to any stranger who may happen to take his fancy.<br />
"I am a ruined man," he said meditatively, "and have been for three years."<br />
I should have felt concern had he shown any. Nothing seems to impress him very deeply, which is, perhaps, why he looks so little the worse for wear. Over a cigar he let me into further particulars, and an hour later I left with a pretty perfect knowledge of the private affairs of the gentleman who is to be my host for the coming week. His parting remark was a gentle reminder:<br />
"You are coming to make notes in the library, remember. My wife knows all, but the children, so far, nothing whatever.''<br />
Captain Lister's position is just that of old Conington Court. He has continued to present the same flourishing exterior to the world, but the shell is hollow. For years he has kept up the same old high standard of hospitality, elegance, luxury, charity, with less and less means to sustain it—living more and more above his income, borrowing at ruinous rates of interest, kept afloat by doles from relations, till a last luckless speculation brought things to direful extremity. A cousin, appealed to for pecuniary aid, had offered to extricate the captain, but, knowing his man, on condition that the bankrupt and his family should emigrate. A good appointment in New Zealand was promised to Captain Lister, who is anxious to go—easier there to start his household life again on a footing of economy than here, where his reputation and habits, put together with his disposition, made the thing next to impossible.<br />
But one debt, unowned to, fatally clogged his steps. His orphan niece Ella's little fortune of some £2,000, left in his trust, had, through no fault of his own, as he assured me, but the rascality of a financing agent, got involved in his losing speculations. She was now just of age, and he dreaded precipitating inquiry and exposure. The discovery that the proceeds of the library would enable him to pay what was due to his ward without asking for delay was a real weight off his mind.<br />
His folly has been unpardonable, but he seems so amiably unconscious of deserving blame that you forget it yourself in talking to him. His unreserve to myself, a stranger, whilst keeping his own family in the dark, is characteristic. I have promised to put him in communication with a firm of booksellers who will treat him liberally, and in return he is liberal of his courtesies. The week I am to spend with him will not be too long for the task I have set myself of reducing the treasure heap to the semblance of order, and making a rough list of the plums in the collection.<br />
<br />
Conington Court, June 20.—On arriving here this morning, with bag and baggage, I saw signs that a family breeze had intervened. Miss Ella, no doubt, has protested against my intrusion, and her uncle, contrary to custom, has neither yielded nor given his reasons. She is too pretty for the rudeness of her manner to repel you merely, yet no prettiness can condone it. Her sentiments are undisguised. She ignores me, in look and speech. I see: I am an impudent interloper—here against her will and injunctions. The five Miss Listers are kindness itself—bring me tea, press me to come and play lawn tennis for a change, pilot me over the grounds and the ruins. Like their parents, they fraternize easily with chance acquaintance. Miss Ella sat up in the turret and read. I was but moderately flattered to discover that her companion was "Charmian," my first romance. For though unquestionably the most popular, it is the one of my novels least esteemed by myself; and admiration, from certain quarters, rather irritates than gratifies you. But hers suggested a playful experiment in revenge. The second volume I had seen on a shelf in the library. I removed it thence to the unlikeliest drawer.<br />
Late in the afternoon, enters Jack, commissioned to fetch it. He returns empty-handed and gets rated for stupidity. At length the young lady comes in person, with evident reluctance.<br />
Seated at the writing-table, I neither looked round nor offered my help as she searched one dusty shelf after another. When I thought she had hunted long enough to expiate her previous incivility, I relented, turned, and was going to speak, but she anticipated me, saying with a frank, childlike courtesy of tone that routed previous conceptions:<br />
"Have you by chance seen the second volume of this?" upholding Part I.<br />
"Somewhere, I think," said I, pretending to look, and pulling open three wrong drawers first, then the right one. "It is difficult," I added severely, as I handed her the book, " to find anything in this chaos—the priceless treasures collected with infinite pains by Dr. Lister tossed and tumbled together with modern rubbish!"<br />
"You like the old ones best ?" she said, with lofty disdain; much as if I had expressed an eccentric preference for very old hats or gloves.<br />
"I am afraid so," I said with mock humility. "I like them extremely."<br />
"So did Dr. Lister, but he never touched one, except to dust it."<br />
"Cannot you understand the reverence it is possible for these white vellum-bound volumes to inspire? the horror all book lovers must experience on seeing them profanely thumbed or jostled?"<br />
"I suppose even old books were made to be read, not kept under a glass case, like stuffed birds."<br />
"It is certain few modern works will live long enough to merit such respectful treatment," said I, with as meaning a glance at "Charmian" as I could .throw—to signify "that trash for instance."<br />
"This?" she caught me up quickly. "What have you to say against it?"<br />
"Nothing," I replied with polite irony, "if it has the honour to please you."<br />
"You have an opinion, I suppose," impatiently. "Do you find it dull?"<br />
"1 find it unreal," I said. "The chief character—the chief incident"<br />
"Uncommon," she interrupted me; "but that is another thing. Would you call the oleander hawk-moth Jack caught yesterday in the garden yesterday unreal because it has never been taken in England more than once or twice?"<br />
"Practically so, since to all but a very few such a capture is an unfamiliar or unknown experience. Better keep to your cabbage butterflies and gamma moths—to homely reality"<br />
"To what is commonplace, third-rate, insignificant," she put in.<br />
"And above all," I concluded," beware of' high-falutin'; dreams leading you to despise what lies within your reach."<br />
"And why not, if it is despicable?"<br />
"Its worth depends upon how you turn it to account."<br />
"No, on the height of your standard. Should people be contented with what is mean and trite?"<br />
"They should accept from the outset the very narrow limits within which—with the rarest exceptions—their lots lie. Books" —with another look at "Charmian"—"that put people out of conceit with their actual life and possibilities have a great deal to answer for."<br />
"It has nothing to answer for," she said proudly, accepting the application to herself. "If it is a crime to desire the best, and to care for that only, even though "She stopped short suddenly, aware that I was watching her with some amusement, and that she had allowed herself to be drawn out, carried away by the heat of the argument. Brusquely she left the room.<br />
At dinner I made a third, with Captain and Mrs. Lister. The young people had tea, and only the eldest girl appeared in the drawing-room after dinner. The rest were out of doors: Mrs. Lister made their excuses—it was such a fine night, and then a nightingale—a phenomenon in Devonshire—was reported to have been heard singing yesterday in the ruins, where the eight truantf were now disporting themselves.<br />
"The old place looks wonderfully well by moonlight," remarked the captain. "I am a sad Philistine myself where the picturesque is concerned, and am subject to rheumatism besides. But if you are not afraid of damp"<br />
"And care for the nightingales," suggested his daughter.<br />
I am not musical, but accepted the nightingales.<br />
The summer night was magnificent indeed. Three brilliant planets shone out in a rare conjunction, to which I directed my companion's attention. She guided me across the garden to the gate communicating with the ruins. A fair, pale, slender girl, who—like Conington Court—looked wonderfully well by moonlight; and with just that insinuating gentleness of demeanour that launches you on the track of mild flirtation.<br />
"Wait," she whispered, as we stood inside the enclosure, under the sycamore's shade, with the grey tottering ivy-wreathed walls facing us in the gloom.<br />
Her name, though I must have heard it, I could not, cannot now, recall. She stood with her hand resting lightly within my arm. Was it the romantic background that compelled me to act up to it? There was a certain sentimentality in the situation— the moonlight creeping round the ruins, casting mysterious shadows, the fallen house, the falling family. Every art-student of human nature is apt to encourage his personal susceptibility to outward influences, though of the slightest.<br />
"Hush," said Mary—I will call her so. I had not spoken. A faint chirp came from the thicket. "Hark," she whispered, and we stood expectant of the ecstatic strain.<br />
Instead, the loud hooting of an owl in the turret overhead startled us out of our reverie. The wildest, most mournful of all founds of Nature. From the distant wood came the answering echo of its mate. The cry from the tower was repeated twice; then the bird from the wood flew over, hovered near, flapped its wings, and settled in the ivy overhead.<br />
A human laugh greeted it there. A tall white figure rose up on the turret—the scared bird fluttered away.<br />
"It's Ella!" said my companion. "Oh, Ella, child, don't!"<br />
The false owl had no wings, but winged feet, methought. Standing erect on the ledge of a high unparapeted wall, she laughed again at her cousin's cry of terror, ran along to where a flight of shaky steps led down below, and joined her boy cousins in another part of the ruin.<br />
"How dangerous," I remarked.<br />
"She likes to frighten us," sighed Mary," but she never comes to harm."<br />
The nightingale remained obstinately mute. We soon discovered that the grass was dripping, and went indoors to hot coffee. Presently Ella reappeared, looking wild and distant, but admirably handsome—her eyes glistening like jewels, her cheeks aglow. As a piece of furniture nothing can be finer. As Mary smilingly brought me a cup of coffee I chanced to look at her<br />
cousin. I caught a contemptuous glance Upon my soul, such a one as a young Queen Eleanor might throw upon Rosamund and the King, first suspected of weakness in that quarter. A passing<br />
flash of light, betraying well, after all, what is more natural? My young lady is sovereign at home, and claims to monopolize the consideration of women and the attentions of men.<br />
A stranger, looking in on us this evening, would have seen a ttmily circle as untroubled, as firmly established, on the face of it, «any in the land. Captain Lister, pleasant and <i>debonnaire</i>, as light-hearted as though he had five thousand a year coming in from the Funds—his wife, placidity in person; his children, untroubled by the least suspicion, as thoughtless for the moment M their household pets, the kittens and canaries.<br />
<br />
Conington Court, June 25.—Everything here is strange and contradictory; I have constantly to remind myself that things are the reverse of what they seem. Here is Captain Lister, nominally well-to-do country squire, a pauper in point of fact, accounted a gentleman of honour, yet preserved by the narrowest chance from a shameful <i>exposé</i>; an old, happy, and seemingly stable home on the brink of a break-up. And a fireside queen whose kingdom nay go to pieces any moment. A few days have placed me on familiar terms with everybody. As with a visitor to settlers on a desert island, formalities may be skipped. I take long walks with the young people, who introduce me to the country round. The plus is extraordinarily lonely. Of the few neighbours some are persons of eccentric habits and reputation, whom nobody visits, the remainder old-fashioned couples or maiden ladies—no enlivening company for the girls and boys at Conington Court. But they make company for each other. Their development has been as free and easy as that of the ivy on the ruins. Seclusion and license, the regime of all others to give the forces of a wilful nature full play.<br />
Ella has seen fit to unbend to me after all. The contrast of her lively, agreeable ways, when she desires to please, with her normal brusquerie and proud reserve is certainly piquant, an unstudied effect. She appears satisfied by this time that I am no picker or stealer, with nefarious designs on her uncle's library. The conversation, when we walk out, a party of five and six, is mostly between her and myself, and on general topics; her cousins prefer listening. She has evidently thought a great deal; her ideas are fresh and naive, but she is absolutely impatient of contradiction, and even in the merest trifles repels as intolerable any sense of failure or defeat. She has the soul of a savage in the sheath of an English girl. The strangest compound of passion, intractability of impulse, with pride and an uncompromising temper of mind; interesting, but scarcely attractive, except as a study.<br />
I am fated to hear a good deal of my other self. I have seen no reason for announcing what no one here suspects, the identity of Hubert Lane with "Lanerton Lee," whose works they hold in a most exaggerated esteem. That one's fame should have penetrated to Conington is gratifying to vanity, of course; but I have not come to Devonshire to be lionized, but to snatch a holiday from the doubtful pleasures of notoriety. Every day I might fear to read in the <i>Western Morning News</i>, alongside with a puff of "Hop Bitters," a sale of shorthorns, and last night's charity concert at Exeter, "Mr. Hubert Lane (Lanerton Lee) is at Dartcombe, collecting material for a new novel," if, indeed, plot and personages be not given. The signal for an amateur to call at the hotel with a manuscript I am expected to read, approve and get accepted for a magazine, or for an old lady to pounce on me for a subscription. My own name is luckily too common to tell tales. As for the Listers, they are not even aware that "Lanerton Lee" is a pseudonym. And really they have placed me on such a pinnacle in their imagination that I would rather not break the illusion by forcing the stubborn fact on their notice that "Lanerton Lee" eats, drinks, sleeps, and talks about the weather like any other poor mortal of their acquaintance.<br />
Captain Lister is doing wrong in keeping the fact of his insolvency from his children. He believes, and has over-persuaded his wife, that it is kindest to spare them the blow as long as possible. The real truth is that he is afraid of his niece. Ashamed of himself, he dreads what she will say or think when she knows all. Lister is a wretched moral coward; still, when the cloud bursts, I pity him under the scathing comments, spoken or implied, of one member of his household. Her temperament and surroundings together have made of her a strange product. Her imagination has run riot, unchecked by the friction of experience; her strong will had its way till she feels its thwarting intolerable. Her over-exalted idea of what life has to give fore-dooms her to direful disappointment.<br />
<br />
Dartcombe, June 30.—The murder is out, Lanerton Lee is unmasked; by mere accident the secret was told an hour or so before I took leave.<br />
This afternoon we met for tea out-of-doors, pic-nic fashion, among the ruins of old Conington Court. I joined the party late to-day, the last of my visit. On the very eve of concluding my researches I had come upon a pile of curious volumes and MSS. of value buried behind a mass of old newspapers in a cupboard, proving that my work was still incomplete. As I approached the tea-table I heard young voices, or rather Ella's young voice, holding forth to the rest. It ceased, and one of her cousins asked her:<br />
"When you rebuild Conington Court, shall you take away the ivy and leave none of those arches standing?"<br />
"What do you mean? I shall pull down nothing I can help. Every bit shall be repaired that can be, and the parts wanting must be added, just as they were to begin with."<br />
"And what shall you do with the villa ?" asked Jack.<br />
"I haven't decided," she said gravely. "It is ugly, but it would be hateful to destroy the place where one has always lived. Perhaps uncle will like to live on there. If not, you shall settle there with your wife."<br />
Here I showed myself through an archway. Ella's colour rose, she was vexed, aware somehow she must have been overheard.<br />
Said Miss Lister, who when a stranger's presence keeps her cousin in bounds rather enjoys teasing, " You find Ella at her old amusement of building castles in the air."<br />
"Is it your favourite one ?" I asked of the castle-builder.<br />
"Of course," she said. "What else should I care for so much?"<br />
"Well, I should pull down the villa," persisted Jack. "It's like the Royal Yacht Hotel at Dartcombe, and will look awful if Conington Court is restored."<br />
"I shall not pull it down," said Ella definitely, " nor take away a stick or a stone, nor cut down a tree. I want to know the place again as I remember it always."<br />
"Poor girl!" I was thinking. Unlike her cousins, who inherit their parents' volatility, she has taken deep root in her surroundings—her fibres have grown into them—her affections and associations belong here alone. The shock for her will be severe. I thoroughly understood at that moment how her uncle should recoil from the ordeal before him. Afraid of and used to submit to her, he feels their new relation will be a false one, and eminently disagreeable on several counts.<br />
Just then the man himself came hastening from the villa towards us with an animated, elated air and step, and holding an open letter in his hand. What was the pleasant news? What could the post have brought him except duns? He marched straight up to me and shook hands with me demonstratively, saying:<br />
"Mr. Lane, my wife and I have had a great surprise. We had no idea, no suspicion—how could we? It was hardly fair of you to keep us in the dark; still, I suppose it was our fault not to guess."<br />
At a glance I had recognized the writing of the letter he had been reading as that of an acquaintance, a common acquaintance it turned out, and there was an end of my incognito.<br />
"Children," began the captain to his flock,seriously—ludicrously so to the subject of his harangue; "what would you think if I were to introduce you to a friend—I may say a literary idol in this household—whom we supposed ourselves to know only through his works, as all the world knows him, Lanerton Lee, but whom it has been our privilege to know as Mr. Hubert Lane?"<br />
The silent awe of the young people, then the low, long-drawn "Oh !" of the younger girls, such as rises from a crowd when a rocket bursts and descends in a glittering shower, was something to remember. The Listers, clearly, still retain that superstitious reverence for print and literary fame that now lingers only in remote districts. The boys remained mum; the elder girls shy and diffident. I glanced at Ella with a slight curiosity to see how she took it. She was dumb and still and her countenance told no tales. Captain Lister re-engaged me in conversation, for learning of my just-made discovery in the library he pressed me to stay on to investigate it. That was impossible. For many weeks to come, as I told him, my time was not my own, but when he suggested I should return for a few days in September I closed with the invitation. He said jokingly he should keep the library locked in the interval and I might keep the key if I liked. At this point he was summoned away; the tea party meantime had dispersed. Only Ella had not stirred; her expression as I turned towards her was so strangely disturbed and so singular that I asked her what was the matter.<br />
"Why did you not tell us who you were?" she asked rather huskily.<br />
"I see no compulsion to proclaim the fact of one's authorship, and every reason to refrain from the least appearance of blowing one's own trumpet. And in first forming acquaintance it is far better to be unsurrounded by a false halo of fame."<br />
"False ?" she repeated indignantly.<br />
"No such fame, for good or ill, is absolutely true. A man's writings, whatever their accounted worth, are no fair criterion of his own, and he may prefer that this should be judged on its own merits. For instance, one ought not to need brilliant literary credentials to show people competent to judge that one is neither a common swindler nor a dishonest dealer, nor even an unprincipled book collector."<br />
She reddened deeply and averted her face.<br />
"Let me assure you," I said with mock gravity, "that I have sacredly respected every leaf in your library. 1 don't speak of Dr. Lister's Caxtons and Elzevirs, which I engage have not been so reverently handled since his decease, but the Ollendorff grammars and almanacs and French exercise books. In winnowing the wheat from the chaff I have not so much as destroyed last year's ' Bradshaw.' Your uncle will have no cause to repent having generously taken me upon trust."<br />
I stopped, repentant myself, for she was sobbing violently, as from mixed excitement and mortification. Before I could add a word she rose hurriedly and went away, still shaken from head to foot with passionate, suppressed vexation.<br />
It was like a child's shame. I had had no sort of wish to distress her by my teasing speech, still less to make her hate me, as she does now to a certainty. When after dinner I took my departure, she did not come with the others to wish me good-bye.<br />
Poor child! A sad time for her is coming. It is cruel in her guardian to disguise it, and before leaving I presumed so far as to drop a plain hint to Captain Lister to that effect. He took it in good part. He is going to tell everybody everything without delay. When I return—some six or eight weeks hence—I shall find the whole household duly apprized of the facts carefully kept back hitherto. Considering that there is every prospect of their sailing for the Antipodes at Christmas, his resolution has come none too soon.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>To be continued</b></div>
<br />
Text transcribed from Google scan of <i>London Society</i>, Volume 52, 1887.<br />
<ul>
<li><i><b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/at-months-end-part-1.html">At a Month's End: part 1</a> </b></i></li>
<i><b>
</b></i>
<li><i><b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/at-months-end-part-2.html">At a Month's End: part 2</a></b></i> </li>
<i><b>
</b></i>
<li><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/at-months-end-part-3.html"><i><b>At a Month's End: part 3</b></i></a> </li>
</ul>
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-45987577667801080692015-05-29T14:54:00.000-07:002015-05-29T17:33:44.209-07:00A Wren-like Note: important update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuA2rZm5C-5KRxaht4T9mY7S8ev4foA9DU79Swpil5mZxqbSWE8TugHA1K4DsnnROPqFatzyU1jQSR_mHpIWvv__KSAaXwcMYy4z9IwS8m3upPVAL11L_swFAvJdUF8p_tOYjTET5QQ/s1600/coverimage_02_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuA2rZm5C-5KRxaht4T9mY7S8ev4foA9DU79Swpil5mZxqbSWE8TugHA1K4DsnnROPqFatzyU1jQSR_mHpIWvv__KSAaXwcMYy4z9IwS8m3upPVAL11L_swFAvJdUF8p_tOYjTET5QQ/s1600/coverimage_02_small.jpg" /></a></div>
I've released my book <i><b>A Wren-like Note: the life and works of Maxwell Gray (Mary Gleed Tuttiett)</b></i> on a Creative Commons license, as an electronic version that allows its sharing and copying, without modification and retaining attribution to me as author.<br />
<a name='more'></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJufn7km2hCIkHBl5rRmdT5EnOHQ9ELs28XFNcMZccVImHTG_eup-1Bp6OM8ktDI9KbpAc0mQe5D68u3eNElhl-SkxLMlTq4znXvuWKfcPHLCgqav8oeqeA1I5UYB2eq9x47JNgwSjBA/s1600/coverimage_verysmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJufn7km2hCIkHBl5rRmdT5EnOHQ9ELs28XFNcMZccVImHTG_eup-1Bp6OM8ktDI9KbpAc0mQe5D68u3eNElhl-SkxLMlTq4znXvuWKfcPHLCgqav8oeqeA1I5UYB2eq9x47JNgwSjBA/s1600/coverimage_verysmall.jpg" /></a></div>
The license I chose is Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-ND 4.0) which is summarised <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/">here</a> and specified in full <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/legalcode">here</a> at the Creative Commons website.<br />
<br />
This is a long-considered decision for a point when I'm no longer around to manage the book: a way of continuing a wider distribution without delegating anyone else to be responsible for it. It's such a niche book that it's had very few sales, so throwing it into the nonprofit sea isn't going to hurt anyone. And I still think it has some significance in being the only full-length work to collate what's known about Mary Tuttiett in general, and particularly about her as a distinctively Isle of Wight author. You could also view it as my gesture to give something back to a region that's a cherished part of my earliest memories, and has given me great happiness since returning to it - and my father's family - in what, unfortunately, has turned out to be in later life.<br />
<br />
<b>You can download the PDF from the dedicated Maxwell Gray Google Drive here:</b><br />
<b>(<a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B5-E2mcNtgpsUkZVT3BYOF91aU0/view?usp=sharing">awrenlikenote_cc2015.pdf</a> - 119Mb. Note that this is a big file that may break your normal preview option - nothing sinister)</b>.<br />
<br />
If you want a gift or a library copy, you can still buy the softback from Blurb.com:<br />
<a href="http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/6245131-a-wren-like-note"><b>A Wren-like Note: the life and works of Maxwell Gray (Mary Gleed Tuttiett)</b></a>. <br />
<br />
See also <a href="http://www.maxwellgray.co.uk/"><b>maxwellgray.co.uk</b></a> - my official site for the book - for various valued-added material: resources such as links to online Maxwell Gray works; Catherine J Hamilton's interview of Mary Tuttiett (probably the only one existing); news and 'out-takes' that have since arisen; maps and graphics, and so on.<br />
<br />
- Ray Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-32136419435638350592015-05-29T07:15:00.001-07:002015-05-30T00:58:11.803-07:00Brinjal dumbdown!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi66d2uq0ku3zRnoTpZcOnWncXjYIrvI31r8KwBOgEN-KmLqIrQqAdVv9s9lyWpddgsIBY0Tzofh1sWPapwU8HbZ5gZrUwKg7biF0tC1uzDPo0b2mNOkCQmdbteAYJmo8cWX1ruor8WSg/s1600/brinjaldumbdown00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi66d2uq0ku3zRnoTpZcOnWncXjYIrvI31r8KwBOgEN-KmLqIrQqAdVv9s9lyWpddgsIBY0Tzofh1sWPapwU8HbZ5gZrUwKg7biF0tC1uzDPo0b2mNOkCQmdbteAYJmo8cWX1ruor8WSg/s1600/brinjaldumbdown00.jpg" /></a></div>
I don't normally peeve about such things, but I'm a trifle disappointed at the decision of Patak's to rebadge their veteran brand of Brinjal Pickle as Aubergine Pickle. I take it they've always assumed that <i>aficionados </i>of Indian cuisine know what a brinjal is, and find resonances in the traditional name. But ... <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ws2hKn-MwI76z_SDTarwTwbb1ieyopGzTxcmJTC36btTKBuOf3cUxMrDCHo19FNWxdsiBOPVZky6Go9ZBLt1ictGU8aIiAIxVd-YnBQtC7x_ov2RDXB_5-xiTVOfdR9gpeI3jUrkJg/s1600/brinjaldumbdown01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ws2hKn-MwI76z_SDTarwTwbb1ieyopGzTxcmJTC36btTKBuOf3cUxMrDCHo19FNWxdsiBOPVZky6Go9ZBLt1ictGU8aIiAIxVd-YnBQtC7x_ov2RDXB_5-xiTVOfdR9gpeI3jUrkJg/s320/brinjaldumbdown01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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... now, for the hard of understanding, we get the full explanation:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>AUBERGINE PICKLE</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<small>KNOWN IN INDIA AS 'BRINJAL PICKLE',<br />A UNIQUE SWEET PICKLE MADE<br />WITH AUBERGINES</small></div>
<br />
<a href="http://pataks.co.uk/products/brinjal-pickle.aspx">Patak's Brinjal</a> - as of 29th May, still called that one their website - is a wonderful product, whose versatility even Patak's downplay in the jar description, which focuses on its use as a side offering "as an accompaniment to your favourite curry and ... great with a naan or pappadum. Or enjoy in a sandwich, salad or with cold meats to give to give an everyday meal a delectable Indian bite". In fact it's readily used in dishes, either (if you've nothing more specific in mind) as starter paste for a generic curry sauce, especially tomato-based; and in fact any soup or stew where you want a subtle chili-and-spice edge. We even use it in, say, tomato macaroni cheese. Give it a go - by whatever name.<br />
<br />
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-88478232210220775582015-05-29T04:19:00.002-07:002015-06-01T19:29:34.965-07:00JSBlog on British Library's UK Web Archive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8Xk70nUEUznl9p72acCkcfKKelPo9mHpeDlz9UoN95iPC3cmHcI5hLyMEhHGdm-1xyZlxwIlIn-wUK8FtrduMoFKn1FfRFnLvqJarnNc-Kp6MgVj29PP308pyVRbLN5kCi0L8aDLyg/s1600/ukwebarchive00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8Xk70nUEUznl9p72acCkcfKKelPo9mHpeDlz9UoN95iPC3cmHcI5hLyMEhHGdm-1xyZlxwIlIn-wUK8FtrduMoFKn1FfRFnLvqJarnNc-Kp6MgVj29PP308pyVRbLN5kCi0L8aDLyg/s1600/ukwebarchive00.jpg" /></a></div>
The <b>British Library UK Web Archive</b>, I'm pleased to report, has accepted JSBlog (Journal of a Southern Bookreader) for archiving in its Literature section. Actually, this happened a few months ago, but it slipped my mind. I thought I'd mention it now, as I'm engaged in a spot of 'posterity management' for the site and other work, such as the Maxwell Gray biography, that seems worth recording.<br />
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Angela Williams suggested the BL web archive to me a while back (she runs the excellent <b><a href="http://www.literaryplaces.co.uk/">Literary Places</a></b> - excellent in terms of well-researched content, photography, and general polish of presentation) which has been archived by the BL, as ID <a href="http://www.webarchive.org.uk/ukwa/target/59441224">59441224</a>, since 2011. I didn't do anything at first, as I wasn't sure of JSBlog's worthiness for inclusion. But I reviewed the content last year, and applied on basis of its long-running 'crossover' coverage of southern English historical, literary and topographical topics, especially those related to the Isle of Wight and the coast of south Devon.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtyX6hs0VGnq7UOg9S6hkuYTX5p9oCI1QRasygRm8MFeVAb2QTDpirMYIq9cYajQOGt6Kwjg0Tna0CQqEyOBo5KeVx04Mm75fP9I-tSIrZ0mV8QLPheFXeyfq9pp9jkXnQW_UqlkWvDQ/s1600/ukwebarchive01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtyX6hs0VGnq7UOg9S6hkuYTX5p9oCI1QRasygRm8MFeVAb2QTDpirMYIq9cYajQOGt6Kwjg0Tna0CQqEyOBo5KeVx04Mm75fP9I-tSIrZ0mV8QLPheFXeyfq9pp9jkXnQW_UqlkWvDQ/s400/ukwebarchive01.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Literary Places entry suggests the BL crawls sites twice a year.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In the light of the UK Web Archive terms and conditions about copyrighted material, it felt safer to do a little work first. With some older posts, I found I'd been a little cavalier about copyright, assuming large chunks of quotation to be invariably OK under fair use (which isn't true - there are limits), as well as assuming it OK to repost unattributed but ubiquitous images (e.g. postcard pictures that crop up on every amateur site about a place). 'Found' images are always problematical: the physical originals are often clearly out of copyright, but people are within their rights to assert fresh copyright on their own scan, and they don't always make clear the status on that front.<br />
<br />
I've also put in solid thought about the exact conditions even when those are known: for instance, issues such as what precisely is "fair use for the purposes of criticism/review" for some situation, and making sure attribution/use is exactly as specified by third-party sources that allow conditional use (such as the National Library of Scotland maps site).<i> The Isle of Wight County Press</i> has been brilliant in this area: they have a system for paid-for reproduction of pages from their superb archive, but hadn't fully specified text use conditions. We came to a useful agreement allowing reasonable text quotation of older <i>IWCP</i> stories (since the actual text is long out of copyright) conditional on attribution to the newspaper's archive site.<br />
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Anyhow, I'm very pleased to say that the BL went for it, and it's in the Arts & Humanities > Literature section among what I still think is far better company.<br />
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This blog jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk should be stable; but you never know if Google might discontinue Blogger sites in the future, or majorly mess with the format in a way that breaks a site unless the owner revises the template. (They have done this in the past, with a change from largely HTML "old templates" to newer ones extensively based on customisable CSS). You can find JSBlog archived at the UK Web Archive ("preserving uk websites") under ID 286294200. Either search "JSBlog" from the archive front page ...<br />
<a href="http://www.webarchive.org.uk/ukwa/"><b>www.webarchive.org.uk</b></a><br />
... or go direct to:<br />
<b><a href="http://www.webarchive.org.uk/ukwa/target/286294200">www.webarchive.org.uk/ukwa/target/286294200</a></b>.<br />
<br />
And don't forget the <a href="https://archive.org/web/">Internet Archive Wayback Machine</a>, which has done 30 site crawls since April 2012: <b><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/*/http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk">https://web.archive.org/web/*/http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk</a></b>.Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-50412329481526425182015-05-29T04:17:00.000-07:002015-05-29T09:59:04.772-07:00Devon Garden: RD&E Exeter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKMn2ddhkLZfZFSQrROoW5FlOiNuMSE_lN5tZNkyNPicArS0BeZ72FPJI878YSJ-AvKjYEJmnvDc5TFFWBjx2bZKYXcjecOWhA9tJoLksNy977YyoQwjp8cLCwEWCXR-9J6isPKydgg/s1600/devongarden00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKMn2ddhkLZfZFSQrROoW5FlOiNuMSE_lN5tZNkyNPicArS0BeZ72FPJI878YSJ-AvKjYEJmnvDc5TFFWBjx2bZKYXcjecOWhA9tJoLksNy977YyoQwjp8cLCwEWCXR-9J6isPKydgg/s1600/devongarden00.jpg" /></a></div>
Clare and I had a potter around the "Devon Garden" - a sensory / memory garden for dementia sufferers - at the RD&E yesterday. Neither of us is a sufferer; this is more serendipity of the sort that got me to see Yeo Ward's lovely Tree of Life courtyard mosaic in June 2014.<br />
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I was in hospital yesterday - oncology-related problems, which are piling up at the moment - and owing to general intake pressures on the
RD&E at the moment, for the overnight stay they had to shift me to
the Torridge Ward until I was discharged the next
afternoon. Torridge Ward specialises in medical care of elderly inpatients, and
dementia is of course a frequent issue in that demographic. Consequently this made the ward a natural focus for the Exeter Healthcare Arts bid to develop the
adjacent courtyard as a therapeutic garden - and as a nominal patient of
Torridge Ward, I was allowed the access code. <br />
<br />
Designed by Toby Buckland, the garden is built around impressions of a
Devon village, but with many sensory aspects such as scented flowers
and foliage (for instance, catmint); a shed of drawers containing
pleasant smellable, textural objects such as pomanders and lavender;
concrete benches with reliefs of memorable songs and events over the
decades; and an old-style payphone booth (I'm just old enough to remember the <a href="http://www.1900s.org.uk/1940s50s-public-phones.htm">"Button A / Button B" system</a>) that houses a sound system with a
playlist of popular music over those same decades.<br />
<br />
<b>For background on the garden, see the press releases</b>:<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.rdehospital.nhs.uk/trust/pr/2013/dementia_garden.html">Trust wins Government money for dedicated therapy garden</a>.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.rdehospital.nhs.uk/trust/pr/2015/New%20scents%20unlock%20forgotten%20memories%20at%20hospital.html">New scents unlock forgotten memories at hospital</a>.</li>
</ul>
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<br />
You may be wondering about the odd 16:9 aspect ratio. This goes with the very nice camera on my new phone, a Vodafone Smart Prime 6 (a very affordable G4 pay-as-you-go). I don't make much use of mobile data services, but I wanted an Android phone with a reasonable camera and display size, and it was a good deal. (My camera's not Internet-connected, and a phone camera, where I can download photos by Google Drive, saves messing around with cables). I've found Vodafone straightforward to deal with, and my previous Vodafone Smart Mini very inexpensive to run for the purpose I've chiefly used it: as a portable terminal, only accessing the Web via free WiFi spots, that I can synch back to my laptop.<br />
<br />
<b>See previously</b>:<br />
<ul>
<li><b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2014/08/tree-of-life.html">Tree of Life</a></b> - a precautionary RD&E stay last year that gave me sole access to a courtyard with a beautiful mosaic, also an Exeter Healthcare Arts project.</li>
</ul>
- Ray Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-71223575669981935352015-05-29T04:15:00.000-07:002015-06-13T05:05:29.907-07:00It ain't that kind: three years on<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="st">Hwæt</span> ... (well , Seamus Heaney thought it was a
good equivalent to "So ...") ... it's been near enough three years. I
was first investigated for <a href="http://www.cupfoundjo.org/">metastatic cancer of unknown primary</a> (CUP) in June 2012, and
"three months ... to three years" was one of the few explicit figures
anyone mentioned along the way. I had a scan yesterday and a solid case review today, and the news is far from good.<br />
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<b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/it-aint-that-kind-1.html">It ain't that kind #1</a></b> (23 Sep 2012)<br />
<a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/it-aint-that-kind.html"><b>It ain't that kind: 18 months on</b></a> (20 Mar 2014)<br />
<a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2014/08/it-aint-that-kind-two-years-on.html"><b>It ain't that kind: two years on</b></a> (31 Aug 2014)<br />
<a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/03/it-aint-that-kind-two-and-half-years-on.html"><b>It ain't that kind: two-and-a-half years on</b></a> (19 March 2015) <br />
<br />
Various new problems, appearing over as little as the past three weeks - such as a suddenly swollen left arm, and a spreading Cronenberg-movie metastatic rash over the left collar-bone - brought me to the hospital on 27th May for a CT scan, and a solid case review the day after.<br />
These confirmed what I'd have to be stupid or in denial not to know already: that things have finally started rapid escalation (new lung nodules, as well as the obvious stuff I can see). That's one bit of bad news. The other (a strong clinical consensus of the duty consultant oncologist and my regular oncologist) is that third-line 'salvage' chemotherapy would be very unlikely to give any benefit. What's more - in hindsight - they were of the view that the benefits of my two earlier chemo treatments were "modest" -<i> never</i> as radical as I thought at the time. Largely, it seems I owe the two-and-a-half energetic years after diagnosis to having an indolent (i.e. slow-growing) form of CUP in lymph nodes nowhere vital.<br />
I said even before the case review that I was game for more chemo if it should be clinically judged worth doing, but if not, I wouldn't take offence. The latter is how it is. I can't pretend it's not a major blow to come to the point where the options run out, and also to find the final escalation kicking off far faster than I'd imagined. I'm OK with that part. From now on, we go with symptomatic treatment only (of issues such as cough, breathlessness, inflammation, and pain). It's definitely late game now ... and perhaps very late game.<br />
I'm not going to alter the tone of JSBlog and soul-search about that. But let's just say I'd so much rather be chilling out with Clare after a long cliff walk, sitting in a sunny tea garden on a clifftop at Shanklin with a visit to my Dad to follow, than sitting here writing on a Vodafone Smart Prime 6 like an updated M. Valdemar from Poe:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
He spoke with distinctness—took some palliative medicines without
aid—and, when I entered the room, was occupied in penciling memoranda in
a pocket-book.</blockquote>
It seems only the hardware changes.<br />
<br />
<b>1st June, 2015</b><br />
Oh, blimey! This is getting confusing and very stressful on top of everything else. I had a follow-up oncology appointment today, and they've done a review of the review. They now think that the two chemo treatments I had <i>were</i> successful: significant tumour shrinkage and good remission from the first; and a definite 'hold' from the second. That means they now think that after all it's worth trying another chemotherapy (paclitaxel), and I'm scheduled to start next week. The aim will be clinical benefit: we stop if it's doing nothing or making me very much worse. Benefits are more likely to be in terms of life quality rather than life extension. (My big problem at the moment, physically, is some kind of upper airway spasm that's not terribly explicable, and is making me very short of breath despite lung function checking out as perfect, as well as interfering with eating). If they can do something about that, it'll be useful. But the whole thing leaves me in a "processing that ..." state. It ought to be good news, but a major change of plan is very hard to take in at this point.<br />
<br />
<b>4th June, 2015</b><br />
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<br />
My Dad and Sim, one of my sisters, have been visiting over the past couple of days. Lovely time.<br />
I don't have the least idea how things are going to play out with the treatment. As I said, the deal is about possible quality improvement, not longevity, and I'm getting the scary paperwork to look at now - "decision to refuse treatment" scenarios, and such like. But time to sit having tea with my Dad and Sim has been bliss. Dad has been through a lot, including conscription at 19 into the worst phase of the Korean War - last year I wrote a little about him <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/fathers-day.html">here</a> - and I'm sorry to add all this to it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCI6hwOY8fKzDA-UHwAYQeE8ulpDbmWF8qXx-W1Ky_6yaN6kuiGnTY9BuriVML4Oex-aOeV8BoQiImtjfbVZG04clC24WWTQcxVUjWzEulgow_-KNQrEOo4b92d_-UhdxBEPmWAqGqhw/s1600/dadandsim0_majorfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCI6hwOY8fKzDA-UHwAYQeE8ulpDbmWF8qXx-W1Ky_6yaN6kuiGnTY9BuriVML4Oex-aOeV8BoQiImtjfbVZG04clC24WWTQcxVUjWzEulgow_-KNQrEOo4b92d_-UhdxBEPmWAqGqhw/s400/dadandsim0_majorfield.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My father Morris and my sister Simone</td></tr>
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<br />
And not forgetting the most loved and valued person in my life: my wife Clare. This is a repost from the recent Blossoms from a Japanese Garden piece, taken over a cup of tea in Ryde. We've been married 27 years, which is quite good going, considering we started quite late in life. I can't imagine how she'll cope.<br />
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- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-9538517812176451472015-05-26T20:56:00.001-07:002015-05-26T20:56:12.049-07:00Mrs. Disney Leith: bibliography<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkVWdYq9mrZonAIB9qXWBvsdfHsRzZiK5FNDzW_JsPfCzAakVN3e711aBI2oSkJEUXAQyBDGasB5gC8gxz5ysl0EXM6dx4LmvZQ7GYtmPlQz-VmQtMkzH7LvA20XPBxJCJusakMsLwg/s1600/mrsdisneyleith_poetsofthewight00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkVWdYq9mrZonAIB9qXWBvsdfHsRzZiK5FNDzW_JsPfCzAakVN3e711aBI2oSkJEUXAQyBDGasB5gC8gxz5ysl0EXM6dx4LmvZQ7GYtmPlQz-VmQtMkzH7LvA20XPBxJCJusakMsLwg/s1600/mrsdisneyleith_poetsofthewight00.jpg" /></a></div>
Another annotated bibliography with an Isle of Wight connection: <b>Mrs. Disney Leith</b> is one of the several names in the literature for the Scottish author Mary Charlotte Julia Leith (née Gordon, 1840-1926) a.k.a. Mary Gordon a.k.a. "M. C. J. L." a.k.a. Mary Leith. Her chief route into history is as the first cousin of the poet <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algernon_Charles_Swinburne">Swinburne</a>, who she corresponded with, and later recalled in memoirs.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mrs Disney Leith<br />
CJ Arnell's <i>Poets of the Wight</i> (1933)<br />
See <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/poets-of-wight.html"><b>Poets of the Wight </b></a>(7 February 2013)</td></tr>
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<br />
A brief biography from the <i>Times</i> obituary:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>MRS. DISNEY LEITH </b><br />
<b><small>A LINK WITH SWINBURNE</small></b><br />
Mrs. Disney Leith, who died yesterday at her residence at Niton, Isle of Wight, from pneumonia, at the age of 85, was a cousin and friend with Swinburne, who was only three years older. She published, in 1917, some personal recollections of the poet’s boyhood, with extracts from his private letters, which are of real biographical interest and value. More than 60 years ago he had contributed a morality play to one of her books. <br />
Mrs. Leith was Mary Charlotte Julia Gordon, only daughter of the late Sir Henry Percy Gordon, F.R.S., second and last baronet of Northcourt, Isle of Wight. Her mother was Lady Mary, youngest daughter of the third Earl of Ashburton, and sister of Lady Jane, who was the mother of Algernon Charles Swinburne. She as married in 1865 to General Robert William Disney Leith, C.B., of Glenkindle and Westhall, Aberdeenshire. This gallant officer served in the Persian Gulf in 1838 to 1841, and led the forlorn hope at Mooltan in 1849, when the fortress fell to British attack. He lost an arm in that action, but saw further active service in the suppression of the Indian Mutiny. He died in 1892. <br />
For many years Mr. Leith had been known as a writer. To her story called “The Children of the Chapel,” that is, the choirboys of the Chapel Royal, published in March, 1864, Swinburne contributed a morality play, entitled “The Pursuit of Pleasure,” but without including his name as author. She wrote other stories, including “A Black Martinmas,” “Champion Sandy,” and “Lachlan’s Widow,” but probably her best was “Auld Fernie’s Son,” in which she made effective use of the racy Scots tongue. She was fond of visiting Iceland, and translated much modern Icelandic poetry and prose, also writing books descriptive of the wild coast scenery of the island and the lives of the fisher folk. When she was 70 years old, she bathed in the Arctic Sea from the shore of Iceland. Mrs Leith illustrated many of her books with her own drawings, and she was also an accomplished musician.<br />
- Obituaries, Mrs. Disney Leith, <i>The Times</i> (London, England), Saturday, Feb 20, 1926; page 14.</blockquote>
An <i>Isle of Wight County Press</i> account adds:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mrs. Disney Leitch, when she was over 60 years of age, rode 300 miles across Iceland on a pony, and the Vectensians now stationed there will be able to judge what a feat of endurance that was for a lady of her age. She also bathed in the Arctic Sea from Iceland when over 70. Mrs. Disney Leith was in Iceland when the last war broke out, and the vessel on which she returned was escorted by destroyers.<br />
- <i>IWCP</i>, Saturday, July 12, 19417, page 3, (reproduced as fair usage, <i>Isle of Wight County Press</i> Archive <a href="http://archive.iwcp.co.uk/">archive.iwcp.co.uk</a>). </blockquote>
Mrs Disney Leith's works divide more or less into a) a creditable body of Icelandic translation and very readable Iceland travel writing; b) independent works including poetry and novels, many with ecclesiastical or Scottish settings; and c) in late life, dining out on what appears to be a bowdlerised version of her relationship with Swinburne before she married General Leith. (Bowdlerised in the sense that many respectable accounts have suggested that she encouraged Swinburne's sadomasochistic interests via their enciphered correspondence, and noted that her earlier novels repeatedly feature flagellation). Even without this sensational aspect, it seems unfortunate that her other work - notably her Icelandic travel and translation - has been overshadowed by her relatively small output of Swinburne hagiography.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHshBt3hMxWpEflDGV6GZqi0Sf4JPKbyaM9vYfuEgBl3ST0iW6LAR4sd7sYPw2IEdQryFXtJ1eBGeeNgYgAbiSMwfWsyy6s19LQeU7tNJd0Zk6e8mFBvjSrsCXLrWa4IAJI-phE8DvQ/s1600/disneyleithad_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHshBt3hMxWpEflDGV6GZqi0Sf4JPKbyaM9vYfuEgBl3ST0iW6LAR4sd7sYPw2IEdQryFXtJ1eBGeeNgYgAbiSMwfWsyy6s19LQeU7tNJd0Zk6e8mFBvjSrsCXLrWa4IAJI-phE8DvQ/s320/disneyleithad_large.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ad for the AD Innes editions<br />
The Episcopal Church in Scotland<br />
Year Book for 1899</td></tr>
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I compiled my list from various sources including Internet Archive, Hathitrust, OCLC WorldCat, British Library, <i>British Books in Print</i>, and Halkett's <i>Dictionary of Anonymous and Pseudonymous English Literature</i>; and verified it primarily against this paper ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
POWNEY, Janet; MITCHELL, Jeremy.
A Forgotten Voice: Moral Guidance in the Novels of Mary Gordon (Mrs. Disney Leith), with a Bibliography.
<b>The Victorian</b>, [S.l.], v. 2, n. 1, mar. 2014.
ISSN 2309-091X.
Available at: <<a href="http://journals.sfu.ca/vict/index.php/vict/article/view/82" target="_new">http://journals.sfu.ca/vict/index.php/vict/article/view/82</a>>. Date accessed: 26 May. 2015. </blockquote>
... which is currently the best single annotated bibliography for Mrs Disney Leith (and it's online under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/" rel="license" target="_new">Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License</a>). However, I thought the exercise worth re-doing for the addition of online sources (where they exist); the inclusion of a spot more colourful detail from contemporary blurbs and reviews; and the general freedom for digression and crossover that a blog allows compared to an academic paper. <br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
<b><big>BIBLIOGRAPHY: MRS. DISNEY LEITH</big></b>
<br />
<br />
<b><big>Mark Dennis; Or, The Engine-driver. A Tale of the Railway</big></b> (London: Rivingtons, 1859)<br />
Novel. Identified by credit: "To A.S. the following tale is inscribed by her affectionate cousin, M.C.J.G."<br />
There's a deliciously hostile review in <i>The Literary Gazette</i>. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="western">
“Mark Dennis” appears to be an early—if not
actually the first—publication of a lady, who is introduced to the
reading world by the advice and under the sanction of a clergyman.
The story is, therefore, as may be concluded, unexceptionable in
taste, and of a style of morality which will render it acceptable to
all teachers and trainers of the young. Beyond this the design and
enterprise of the writer do not aspire; though here and there we
trace, or fancy we trace, symptoms of deeper feeling and observation
than have ventured to make themselves manifest in these retiring
pages. Should the authoress again resolve to appear in print, we
would suggest to her to throw more light and shade into her pictures,
to break the placid flow of narrative with more incident, and rather
to paint her engine-drivers and the ir wives from the life, than to
present tame ideals of good men and women. Such conversations, also,
as that at page 142 should be avoided, consisting mainly of "How
d'ye do's?" and "Very well, thank you's;" "What's
become of Nep?" "Ah! poorfellow! hedied." "Really?
Poor dog! What did he die of?" "I think it must have been
of old age." The reader, athirst for excitement, of course
begins to think that the dog has been maliciously poisoned by an
immoral character for some occult purpose. Not a bit of it. That is
the truth and the whole truth—at p.20 the dog is found lying across
the threshold, basking in the rays of the evening sun, and at p.142
his fate is recorded as above. That is all. Now, is this incident
worth writing, composing, correcting, printing, with notes of
interrogation and admiration, and publishing by Messrs. Rivington?
Indeed, were this particular page a fair or ordinary specimen of the
whole book, we might have doubted the discretion of the clerical
friend who suggested the publication. But there is really much more.
The death of the hero of the tale, though mournful, has interest
enough to atone for long tracts of level writing, and among the
causes of the railway accident, vaguely hinted, we observe the
conception of motives which might have given a guilty origin to the
fatal collision. But from carrying out this idea, wih its
consequences, the resolution of the writer appears to have shrunk,
and at this we need not be surprised. We would further pray the
authoress to eschew all aims at supporting small conventional
moralities, such as the impropriety of poor people calling their
children by the same Christian names as their betters, as though
"Amelia" were by some divine right of more aristocratic
significance than "Jane." Where is the line to be drawn, as
the barber suggests in "Nicholas Nickleby?" Is "Amelia"
not to go below bakers? Considering also that there was a Princess
"Amelia" not long ago, the name is, by the same reasoning,
as far above Mrs. Forster's rank in society, as that estimable lady
was inferior to Mrs. Dennis. We hope, however, to find the author of
"Mark Dennis" engaged hereafter upon sorao more important
points of social improvement, and adhering to a closer delineation of
the life and manners of the upper working class of society, which
seems to have engaged (and most worthily so) her sympathy and
attention.</div>
<div class="western">
- New novel, <i>The Literary Gazette</i>, No, 34, New
Series, February 19th, 1859</div>
</blockquote>
<b>Online: Google Books <a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=L0dWAAAAcAAJ">L0dWAAAAcAAJ</a></b>.<b></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><big>The Children of the Chapel</big></b> (London: J. Masters, 1864, London: Chatto & Windus, 1910)<br />
Novel, credited as <span class="st">"By the Author of <i>Mark Dennis</i>".</span> The 1910 edition credits a segment to Swinburne: "including <i>The Pilgrimage of Pleasure</i>, a morality play by Algernon Charles Swinburne".<br />
This is a historical novel set from 1559 onward, and is set among the choristers of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chapel_Royal#United_Kingdom">Chapel Royal</a>, in an era when it had the power to conscript boys from local churches, and the novel's protagonist is one such victim.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
A charmingly written tale, <i>The Children of the Chapel</i>, by the author of <i>The Chorister Brothers</i>, was published by Joseph Masters in 1864. It recounts the experiences of Arthur Savile, who is represented as one of the boys impressed by "Thomas Gyles," and by whom he is subjected to much brutal treatment. Gyles is erroneously described as Master of the Children of the Chapel Royal, and is thus confused with his son Nathaniel.<br />
- <i>A History of English Cathedral Music, 1549-1889</i> (John Bumpus, London: T Werner Laurie, 1908, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/historyofenglish01bumpuoft">historyofenglish01bumpuoft</a>).</blockquote>
I'm not sure how Bumpus manages to read both "brutal treatment" and "a charmingly written tale" into the same text. The biographical and bibliographical issue is that right from the start, <i>The Children of the Chapel </i>sets the scene for repeated scenarios of flagellation in the early works of Mrs Disney Leith.<i><br /></i><br />
<b>Online: <a href="https://archive.org/details/childrenchapelb00leitgoog">childrenchapelb00leitgoog</a></b> (1864) or<b> <a href="https://archive.org/details/childrenofchapel00leituoft">childrenofchapel00leituoft</a></b> (1910).<br />
<br />
<b><big>The Chorister Brothers: A Tale</big></b> (London: J. Masters, 1867)<br />
Novel. Unidentified author, as <span class="st">"By the Author of <i>The Children of the Chapel</i>".</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="st">We strongly recommend The Chorister Brothers ... as one of the best books for young people which have appeared for a long time,—the story is very interesting, the natural and lifelike, and the truest and best principles are taught with all the earnestness and simplicity of a thoroughly refined and devout mind.<br />- Reviews and notices, <i>The Churchman's Companion</i>, pages 88-9, 1869</span><br />
<span class="st">... </span><br />
<span class="st">The Church press continues to teem with religious tales. A new one, entitled <i>The Chorister Brothers</i> (London: Masters) is equal in interest and ability to the usual run of such publications, and will no doubt be especially acceptable to boys who may be choristers themselves. Some of the characters are very life-like and well </span>drawn, and not quite so unreal and Utopian as often is the case in
these kind of stories, while the principles enunciated are true and
sound.<br />
- Literary Notices, <i>The Union Review: A Magazine of Catholic Literature and Art</i>, J.T. Hayes, Volume 5, page 423.<br />
...<br />
The story is told with liveliness and simplicity, and we follow it with interest to the end. The manner is much more than the matter in this sort of books, and in this instance the manner is very good."—<i>Guardian</i> (regular selective quote in advertisement)
</blockquote>
<b>Online: </b>no.<br />
<br />
<b><big>The Incumbent of Axhill</big>: a sequel to the "Chorister brothers."</b> (London: J. Masters and Co., 1875)<br />
Novel. Author uncredited, but identified by the subtitle as author of <i>The Chorister Brothers</i>.<br />
A novel about the social and romantic complications of religious differences, when a London-trained Anglo-Catholic minister is assigned to the rural village of Axhill, where they view such a stance as "ritualism and Popery". This, it should be remembered, is more or less the era of Trollope's Barsetshire series, which explored very similar territory. The action later moves to a Northern indusrial town.<br />
<b>Online: digitised copy available from the Bodleian Library, via <a href="http://www.europeana.eu/portal/record/9200143/BibliographicResource_2000069399643.html">Europeana <span class="notranslate ">014173193</span></a></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><big>A Martyr Bishop</big>, and Other Verses</b> (London: J. Masters and Co., 1878)<br />
Anthology of largely religious poetry. By the author of "Chorister brothers," etc.<br />
The backstory to the title poem is very interesting: the "martyr bishop" is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Patteson_%28bishop%29">John Coleridge Patteson</a> (1827-1871), who was killed by local people on Nukapu, Solomon Islands, 20 September 1871. He had been involved in work to suppress 'blackbirding' - trade in slaves run as quasi-legal recruitment of indentured workers - and the theory at the time was that he had been mistaken for a blackbirder. However, Kolshus and Hovdhaugen (2010), on the basis of examining oral history and mission documents, have suggested alternatives: either that he was killed as a missionary, because of resentments over missionaries taking children away to remote mission schools; or that he'd made some major social blunder (cf. Jack Vance's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Moon_Moth"><i>The Moon Moth</i></a>) by breaking norms such as patriarchal hierarchy or rules of precedence when gift-giving.<br />
The first poem in the anthology commemorates Patteson; the second the return mission of the ship <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_Cross_%28Melanesian_Mission_ship_series%29"><i>Southern Cross</i></a> to the scene; and the third the death of the Rev. Joseph Atkin, who died of arrow wounds sustained in the same incident (see transcript Project Canterbury / <a href="http://anglicanhistory.org/oceania/halcombe_atkin1872.html">In Memoriam. Joseph Atkin</a>).<br />
<b>Online: Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/amartyrbishopan00leitgoog">amartyrbishopan00leitgoog</a></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Auld Fernies' Son</big>: a story in five parts</b> (London: J Masters, 1881)<br />
Novel. By the author of "Chorister brothers," "The Incumbent of Axhill," &c.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
This seems to us an advance on the author's former writings. It is a very quiet story of middle-class life in Scotland ; the hero the agent for an agricultural company, and son to a farmer, one heroine being of the same stamp, the other a dressmaker. Goodness and refinement of feeling make Edmund Allardyce and Isobel Donald a true gentleman and lady, and their Scotch tongues, manners, and customs carry us through a good deal that possibly might seem tedious and commonplace if it were in plain English. The troubles of a choir in a small Episcopal Chapel are very well described, and it is about a harmonium in playing which neither is a great proficient, that poor faithful Isie learns to view Edmund as the noblest of mankind; while he, poor fellow, has given his whole honest heart to a far less worthy love. His constancy, almost in spite of himself, is the main object of the story, which is a delightful one and ought to charm all those who do not call for much incident, or for that species of truthfulness that delights in the grotesque and ugly, rather than the tender and noble. There are those who may think the tale long, for there is more in this one volume than in many three-volume novels, but the story is so like living with good people, that we could not weary of it.<br />
- Notices, <i>The Literary Churchman and Church Fortnightly</i>, February 18, 1881, page 78.</blockquote>
Minor typographic peeve: bibliographic sources repeatedly 'correct' the title to <i><b>Auld Fernie's Son</b></i>. In the book, the nickname of the titular character Mr. Allardyce is actually "Fernies", so the apostrophe placement in <i><b>Auld Fernies' Son</b></i> is correct.<br />
<b>Online: Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/auldferniessonb00leitgoog">auldferniessonb00leitgoog</a></b>.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b><big>Ruthieston</big>: some notes by a brother and sister</b> (London: Walter Smith (late Mozley), 1882)<br />
Novel. By the author of 'The Chorister Brothers,", "Auld Fernies' Son," etc. etc.<br />
This is one of the several novels by Mrs Leith examining the personal and romantic conflicts arising from the division between mainstream and nonconformist churches, in this case via the situation of an English clergyman in a Scottish village. Apparently this is supposed to be for a younger readership.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Although a High Church clergyman is the hero of the story, it is interesting to readers of every denomination, and describes the lives of a young English clergyman and his sister, who were stationed at "Ruthieston." a small Scotch village. Characters of almost ever denomination appear in its pages.<br />
- Books for the young, <i>The Literary News</i>, Volume 7, January 1886, page 26.<br />
...<br />
This is a story of an English clergyman who has taken a cure in a little Scottish town. The first half of the narrative is supposed to be his own, the second to be his sister's. It is altogether very characteristic and interesting as a picture of the work of the struggling Scottish Church. The mixture of ranks is to our notions rather perplexing. The clergyman lodges in the post-office together with the agent son of a wholesale dealer in coals, Joseph Macaldowie, the hero of the tale in fact. Both go together to a pic-nic given by the county people of the neighbourhood, and are accompanied by an exceedingly second-rate lady with an artist niece, who makes violent love to Mr Macaldowie. He on his part is in love with Tibbie, niece to the post-mistress, but daughter of a substantial farmer. The character and story of Tibbie are very touching and full of interest, and there is much that is instructive in the picture of the working of the Scottish Church in this remote parish. We greatly recommend the book, and to those who have complained of the dialect of 'Auld Fernie's Son' we would say that the Scotch when spoken is not so broad, nor is there nearly so much of it as in that very pretty story. <br />
- <i>The Literary Churchman and Church Fortnightly</i>, Vol. 28, September 1st, 1882, pages 352-3.</blockquote>
<b>Online: Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/ruthiestonbyaut00leitgoog">ruthiestonbyaut00leitgoog</a></b>.<b></b><br />
<br />
<b><big>Like his own daughter</big>: a story</b> (London: Walter Smith (late Mozley), 1882)<br />
Novel. By the author of "The Chorister Brothers," "The Incumbent of Axhill," &c.<br />
<b>Online: Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/likehisowndaugh00leitgoog">likehisowndaugh00leitgoog</a></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><big>From over the Water</big>: a story of two promises</b> (London: Walter Smith (late Mozley), 1884)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wD-CTtB0NUIKAoU6Br4ewLFW7dqAXy3PIHhGrljUlfmdxoRjo2-RnbmgJi44KZ24lpZ4FAwdE1DshhwIZDXUKDULG7dtdmzF83eAnkJGk_oacTZLTxbWBNq7fQkWgE6Eo3bI9ILs-g/s1600/fromoverthewatercover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wD-CTtB0NUIKAoU6Br4ewLFW7dqAXy3PIHhGrljUlfmdxoRjo2-RnbmgJi44KZ24lpZ4FAwdE1DshhwIZDXUKDULG7dtdmzF83eAnkJGk_oacTZLTxbWBNq7fQkWgE6Eo3bI9ILs-g/s320/fromoverthewatercover.jpg" width="201" /></a></div>
Novel. By the author of "The Chorister Brothers," "Like His Own Daughter," etc etc.<br />
This is a novel set in twin locations: the Isle of Wight (in the fictional "old world village" of Cheveley) and the North of Scotland (in the equally fictional Ardhill). .<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In no part of southern England is the hand of spring more lavish, her reign more beneficient and genial, than in that sea-girt tract—so narrowly divided from the mainland, yet in all its attributes so essentially and unconquerably insular—whose primrose-garlanded knolls, and violet-sprinkled banks, and greenest fields shining and twinkling with cowslips, buttercups, and daisies, have deservedly gained for it the appellation of the “Garden Isle.”<br />
- opening paragraph, <i>From over the Water </i></blockquote>
The story, as far as I can tell from a skim, is another examining issues of the divide between mainstream Church and nonconformist "Chapel", both in the Isle of Wight and in Scotland.<br />
<b>Online: Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/fromoverwaterby00leitgoog">fromoverwaterby00leitgoog</a></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Rufus</big>: a story in three books</b> (London: J Masters and Co., 1886)<br />
Novel. By the author of "The Chorister Brothers."<br />
The advertisement in <i>The Standard</i> (Tuesday, July 14, 1896; pg. 9) describes <b><i>Rufus</i></b>, <b><i>Nora’s Friends</i></b> and <i><b>Under Cliff</b></i> as “Popular Tales, the Scenes of which are laid in the Isle of Wight”. <br />
"<span class="st">Rufus is an Isle of Wight fisherman who falls in love with a pretty little Scotch girl" (desc. from <i>Literary Churchman</i>).</span> <br />
<b>Online: </b>no.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Nora's Friends: Or, a Little Girl's Influence. A Story for the Young</big></b> (London: J. Masters and Company, 1889)<br />
Novel. By the author of "The Chorister Brothers", also set in the Isle of Wight.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Every girl who can appreciate a capital sketch of one like herself will enjoy following the life history of Nora in these pages—<i>Bookseller</i><br />
Avowedly designed for the
young, it might with advantage be read by many who could hardly lay
claim to juvenility. It teaches in an indirect way and in the course of
an engaging narrative many lessons of forbearance, selfdenial,
gentleness of manner, and goodness of disposition which may profitably
be laid to heart.—<i>Aberdeen Journal</i><br />
- selective blurbs from ad in <i>Tib and Sib: A Story for Children</i>, Stella Austin, J. Masters, 1892 </blockquote>
<b>Online: </b>no.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Under Cliff. A sequel to Nora’s Friends</big></b> (London: J Masters, 1890)<br />
Novel. By the author of “The Chorister Brothers."<br />
The third of this trio set in the Isle of Wight. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Nora's charming disposition is further developed in this excellent story, which with all the interest of a novel is full of good and profitable reading. The numerous characters are well drawn, and both old and young will follow their old friend's career with pleasure and instruction.”—<i>Church Times</i><br />
In this volume the subsequent movements of Nora are set forth, and man good lessons are put before the reader. It is altogether a story which 'will enhance the writer's reputation.—<i>John Bull</i><br />
To those who have perused the original work we can heartily recommend this new one as an interesting and pleasantly written sequel.—<i>Stationery and Bookselling</i><br />
- selective blurbs from ad in <i>Tib and Sib: A Story for Children</i>, Stella Austin, J. Masters, 1892</blockquote>
<b>Online: </b>no.<br />
<b> <big><br />Trusty in Fight: Or, the Vicar's Boys. A Story</big></b> (London: J Masters, 1893)<br />
Novel. By the author of “The Chorister Brothers."<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
With a frontispiece. This is a very good story of home life, which should find many readers; the various children are well described, and their doings interestingly set forth by the anonymous author.<br />
- <i>The Publishers' Circular and Booksellers' Record of British and Foreign Literature</i>, Sampson Low, Marston & Company, 1893, Volume 59, 1893<br />
... a long and somewhat shapeless familt history; it begins at no particular point, ans there seems to be no reason why it should ever end. The vicar has ten children, whose trivial lives and misfortunes are chronicled at great length and with much detail. The story, though dull, is quite harmless, and may find some readers.<br />
- Books for the Young, <i>The Athen<span class="st"><i>æ</i></span>um</i>, No. 3460, February 17, 1894</blockquote>
<b><i>Like The Children of the Chapel</i></b>, <b><i>Trusty in Fight</i></b> has been remarked upon in a number of critical commentaries as a "flagellation novel"; and furthermore one with relationships and characterisation highly applicable to those of Algernon Swinburne. See, for instance, <a href="http://www.jstor.org/stable/40754073">Swinburne in Love: Some Novels by Mary Gordon</a>, FAC Wilson, <i>Texas Studies in Literature and Language</i>, Vol. 11, No. 4 (Winter 1970), pp. 1415-1426, whose author comments that<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
... Mary was not much of a novelist, and we shall see that the stories tend to be thinly fictionalized reworkings of events that had come her way in real life ...</blockquote>
<b>Online: </b>no.<b><br /></b><br />
<br />
<b><b><big>The stories of Thorwald the far-farer, and of Bishop Isleif</big></b></b> (London: J Masters, 1894)<br />
Translation from the Icelandic of Gunnlaugur Leifsson, "by the author of <i>The Chorister Brothers</i>".<br />
See the 1895 <i><b>The Stories of the Bishops of Iceland</b></i>.<br />
<b>Online: </b>no.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Original Verses and Translations</big></b> (London: J Masters, 1895)<br />
By Mrs. Disney Leith, author of "The Chorister Brothers," etc.<br />
Comprising: 1. Miscellaneous Verses; 2. Ballads; 3. In Memoriam Verses; 4. Songs from the Sagas; 5. Translations from Modern Icelandic Poets. A quick skim finds one or two Isle of Wight topics: <i>The Wreck of the 'Sirenia,' March 1888</i>, and <i>Shorwell Spire</i>.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mrs. Disney Leith has long been known among her friends and neighbours as a writer and thinker, but hitherto we believe most of her writings … have been published for private circulation alone.<br />
…<br />
Mrs. Disney Leith, who is just now at Northcourt [Isle of Wight], where she passes the winter, resides during the summer months at Westhall, Oyne, where her natural kindliness of heart has endeared her to the tenants. Her largeness of heart and intellect is fully displayed in the volume before us; and as we read we have presented to us the inmost imaginings of one who has been trained to both think and feel.<br />
…<br />
We congratulate Mrs. Disney Leith on the excellent work she has produced. Aberdeen cannot boast of many poets of high merit among her sons and daughters, and our patriotic feelings make use proud to count among our number the talented authoress of the volume of verses before use. One piece<span class="st">—</span>"Our Vicar's Son," a soldier’s letter (a true episode of the Kaffir War<span class="st">—</span>possesses a melancholy interest in the light of recent events in South Africa.<br />
- Literature, <i>Aberdeen Weekly Journal</i> (Aberdeen, Scotland), Monday, January 6, 1896<b>.</b></blockquote>
<b>Online: Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/originalversestr00leit">originalversestr00leit</a></b>.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><big>Stories of the Bishops of Iceland</big></b> (London: J Masters, 1895)<br />
Translated from the Icelandic "Biskupa sögur" by the author of "The Chorister Brothers."<br />
This is actually the same text as the earlier <i><b>The stories of Thorwald the far-farer, and of Bishop Isleif</b></i> (ref: Halkett, <i>Dictionary of Anonymous and Pseudonymous English Literature</i>).<br />
<b>Online: Hathitrust <a href="http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/100654437">catalog record only 100654437</a></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Three Visits to Iceland: Being Notes Taken at Sea and on Land</big></b> (London: J Masters, 1897)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEL6w3mLSOTPJ28-EsURql0C7H7l-jesv0ZYqWFz0Dg3HSsxQx-C2JspQBSEVDoFU24iFfVSU5CHI4-oSjTAKH4I-p6PpUh5V_zcZ_-L8_cGWOOrvK7A6i_0cabmFfD14uU7cT4Ifwg/s1600/threevisitstoiceland01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEL6w3mLSOTPJ28-EsURql0C7H7l-jesv0ZYqWFz0Dg3HSsxQx-C2JspQBSEVDoFU24iFfVSU5CHI4-oSjTAKH4I-p6PpUh5V_zcZ_-L8_cGWOOrvK7A6i_0cabmFfD14uU7cT4Ifwg/s320/threevisitstoiceland01.jpg" width="201" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cover from British Library PDF</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Comprising a Pilgrimage to Skalholt, and Visits to Geysir and the Njala District" .. "With a translation of J. Hallgrimsson's <i>Gunnar's Holm</i>".<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Nothing from the pen of Mrs Disney Leith can fail to be interesting. She is an admirable observer of man and manners, and has a wonderful power of assimilating the ideas of the people around her. Hence the charm of her fascinating narrative of her visits to Iceland. She has described the people and the natural features of the island with a graphic pen, and since the death of William Morris, probably knows as much of the language and literature of Iceland as any one now living in the British Isles. This knowledge will be found embodied in some excellent translations from the Icelandic, which form a valuable appendix to the book. There are numerous illustrations, and the altogether the book is deserving of the highest praise.<br />
- Literature, <i>Aberdeen Weekly Journal</i>, Monday, July 12, 1897.</blockquote>
<b>Online: <i>Three Visits to Iceland</i></b> can be read at, or downloaded from, the British Library website: <a href="http://explore.bl.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=BLVU1&afterPDS=true&institution=BL&docId=BLL01014815806"><b>BLL01014815806</b></a> (click <b>I want this</b> for links to the PDF viewer options).<br />
<br />
<b><big>Iceland</big></b> (London: Adam & Charles Black, 1908)<br />
Children's book in A&C Black's "Peeps at Many Lands" series, illustrated "with twelve water-colour illustrations by M.A. Wemyss and the author".<br />
<b>Illustrations</b>: <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland01leitgoog#page/n8/mode/2up">A Dairy Maid</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n25/mode/2up">High Street, Reykjavik</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n35/mode/2up">An Icelandic Horsewoman</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n41/mode/2up">A Farm</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland01leitgoog#page/n48/mode/2up">Great Geysir in Eruption</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n55/mode/2up">Seogaposs</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n63/mode/2up">A Hay Carrier</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n69/mode/2up">The Ewe Pen</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n73/mode/2up">A Fair Icelander in Ordinary Dress</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n79/mode/2up">A Girl in Holiday Dress</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n91/mode/2up">An Iceand Pony</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/iceland00leitgoog#page/n99/mode/2up">Gullfoss</a>.<br />
<b>Online: Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/iceland00leitgoog">iceland00leitgoog</a></b> or <a href="https://archive.org/details/iceland01leitgoog"><b>iceland01leitgoog</b></a>.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Champion Sandy</big>: a story</b> (<b>
</b>
<span class="EXLDetailsDisplayVal"> Aberdeen: A. Murray ; Dumfries: R. G. Mann, 1910</span>).<br />
Novel. "With three illustrations by E. Earle". <br />
A Scottish-set story in which a couple marry despite religious differences.(Presbyterian vs. Episcopalian).<br />
<b>Online: </b>no.<br />
<br />
<b><big><b>The Boyhood of Algernon Charles Swinburne</b></big></b> (<i>The Contemporary Review</i> Vol. 97<span class="EXLDetailsDisplayVal">, April 1910</span>, page 385).<br />
Along with poem <i><b>A Year’s Mind</b></i>.<br />
This was a collection of recollections and letters that Mrs Leith later expanded into the 1917 book editions. It's the first source to bring to light Swinburne's letter describing his (unverified) climb of the chalk Culver Cliff to prove to himself his physical fitness. She writes ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Years after he described it to me by letter, and I think it is only fair to give it as far as possible in his own words, prefacing that Culver Cliff<span class="st">—</span>the great white promontory to the S.E. of the Isle of Wight<span class="st">—</span>is about as unassailable to ordinary mortals as any of our island ramparts.</blockquote>
... and Culver gets a mention towards the end of her poem:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The fame he craved not, courted not, abides, <br />
The songs he sang shall hardly pass away <br />
While Culver's stark white steep withstands the tides,<br />
Or little children in the Landslip play <br />
As once he played there: eve and crystal dawn <br />
Seem goodlier now on shore and sea and lawn <br />
That hence such music and such might were drawn. <br />
<br />
But fairer than the light on field and foam, <br />
And brighter than his fame which fills the land, <br />
His love of kindred and his love of home <br />
And all things true and beautiful, shall stand <br />
Immortal; and the mists of pain and gloom <br />
Approach not, nor shall mar the fadeless bloom, <br />
Of Love that hallows and that guards his tomb.<br />
- <i>A Year's Mind</i>. , section quoted in <i>Aberdeen Journal Notes and Queries</i>, Vol. 6, 1913, page 40, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/aberdeenjournaln1913aber">aberdeenjournaln1913aber</a>.</blockquote>
See JSBlog previously: <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2010/11/swinburne-culver-climber.html"><b>Swinburne, Culver climber</b></a> (19th November, 2010); <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/over-culver.html"><b>Over Culver to Shanklin</b></a> (6th November, 2011); and <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/bonchurch-and-singer-asleep.html"><b>Bonchurch: and a singer asleep</b></a> (21st September 2012).<br />
<br />
<b><big>A Black Martinmas: A Story</big></b> (London: Lynwood, 1912)<br />
Novel - "<span class="st">a Romance of Scottish Village Life, by Mrs. Disney Leith"</span>.<br />
Its heroine Mollie is of "rather unusual height" (<i>Victorian Poetry</i>, Volume 9, 1971) and<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
... often regretted that she had not been born a boy. Hers was one of those girl-natures which have a good deal of the boy or man in their composition . . . neither a tomboy nor a hoyden, she cared for and sympathised with the aims and pursuits of men, while those of women, as such, did not actually appeal to her.<br />
- <i>Black Martinmas</i></blockquote>
But despite these unpromising traits<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Molly is the daughter
of a North Country grieve [a manager or farm steward] who is wooed by a widowed gardener with
four children, and finds in him the love of her life. The story is
simply and naturally told, and indeed is much more like human life
than such novels usually are.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
- <i>The Review of
Reviews</i>, Volume 47, 1913, page 98</div>
</blockquote>
<b>Online: </b>no.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Lachlan's Widow</big></b> (London: Lynwood & Co., 1913)<br />
Novel. "A Scottish romance ... a sequel to <i>A Black Martinmas</i>".<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"pleasant domestic story brightly written"<br />
- <i>Hull Daily Mail</i>, 25th March 1914<br />
...<br />
This is a very simple, rather goody-goody story of Aberdeenshire country folk, somewhat full of dialect which can have little interest to any but Scottish people. Lachlan's widow married him on his deathbed, took charge of her three step- children, and returned home to manage her father's household. Then came a woman, whom the widow's father eventually married, to upset the peace of the home, and eventually Mollie Lachlan married again—the lover of her girlhood. Before this happened, however, she assisted in smoothing out her brother's love affair, and refused the young Scots “meenister” who very cautiously allowed himself to become in love with her. We take leave of her at a point when all promises well for her future, and since the story gives us some good insight to her character, we wish her all success and trust that her second husband will have less trouble with the dialect she speaks than we had.<br />
The book is not innocent of weak grammar; it is avowedly a sequel to the authoress’ “Black Martinmas,” though in justice it must be said that there is no harking back to the interests of the previous story. Still, it shares the usual fate of sequels in that its author seems unable to work up a creative interest; we are able to feel the identities only of Mollie, the widow, and of Midge, the little girl of whom we would fain have seen more. The rest of the characters are shadowy folk, and the book is likely to be popular only among such readers as like a homely tale which makes slight demands on their imaginative and intellectual capabilities.<br />
- <i>The Academy and Literatur</i>e, Volume 85, Odhams Limited, 1913, page 814 </blockquote>
<b>Online: </b>no.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b><big>Algernon Charles Swinburne</big></b> (New York and London: G.P. Putnam's Sons, The Knickerbocker Press, 1917)<br />
"Personal recollections by his cousin Mrs. Disney Leith, with extracts from some of his private letters".<br />
<b>Illustrations</b>: <a href="https://archive.org/stream/algernoncharles00swingoog#page/n8/mode/2up">A.C. Swinburne, Ætat 25</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/algernoncharles00swingoog#page/n24/mode/2up">East Dene, Bonchurch</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/algernoncharles00swingoog#page/n34/mode/2up">Rear-Admiral C.H. Swinburne</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/algernoncharles00swingoog#page/n60/mode/2up">The Lady Jane Swinburne</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/algernoncharles00swingoog#page/n110/mode/2up">Miss Alice Swinburne</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/algernoncharles00swingoog#page/n182/mode/2up">Swinburne's Handwriting and Autograph, 1860 </a>/ <a href="https://archive.org/stream/algernoncharles00swingoog#page/n240/mode/2up">Miss Isabel Swinburne</a> / <a href="https://archive.org/stream/algernoncharles00swingoog#page/n256/mode/2up">Swinburne's Handwriting and Autograph, 1907</a> 228<br />
<b>Online: Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/algernoncharles00swingoog">algernoncharles00swingoog</a></b>.<b></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><big>The boyhood of Algernon Charles Swinburne</big></b> (London: Chatto & Windus, 1917)<br />
"Personal recollections by his cousin Mrs. Disney Leith, with extracts from some of his private letters".<b> </b>Different compilation of same material as previous title.<br />
<b>Online: Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/boyhoodofalgerno00swin">boyhoodofalgerno00swin</a> or <a href="https://archive.org/details/boyhoodofalgerno00leituoft">boyhoodofalgerno00leituoft</a> </b>or<b> <a href="https://archive.org/details/boyhoodofalgerno00swinuoft">boyhoodofalgerno00swinuoft</a></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><big>Northern Lights and Other Verses</big></b> (London: Arthur L Humphreys, 1920)<br />
Verse comprising a <b>Northern Lights</b> collection focusing on a journey from Scotland to Iceland, and <b>Verses: various</b> on mixed themes.<br />
<b>Online: full view via Hathitrust <a href="http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/009408822">009408822</a></b>.<br />
<br />
And that is mostly it. I'm pleased to have independently arrived at nearly the full set as identified by Powney and Mitchell, except for a final batch of articles/monographs that I doubt I've have found. These include:<br />
<ul>
<li><b>Hvit the Fosterling</b>, <i>Monthly Packet</i> (<i>The Monthly Packet of Evening Readings for Younger Members of the English Church</i>), London: John and Charles Mozley, Volume 27, February 1864, <a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=rmkJAAAAQAAJ&pg=PA179#v=onepage&q&f=false">page 179</a>, Google Books <a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=rmkJAAAAQAAJ">rmkJAAAAQAAJ</a>). This is an anonymous retelling of elements of the Gísla saga, its authorship identified in 2003 by Helen Schinske, librarian and editor in Seattle, Washington, via a reference in the correspondence between the <i>Packet</i> editor, Charlotte Yonge, and the Reverend Algernon Wodehouse ("I shall be delighted to see another story of Miss Gordon's. I am in hopes that her icelandic one will appear in the Packet in February or March" - <i>The Princeton University Library Chronicle</i>, Volume 62, Issue 3, 2003).</li>
<li><b>Iceland Ponies</b>. <i>The Stable</i>, 4 Feb. 1899. - some very obscure horse-y magazine. I haven't even been able to verify its existence as a publication; maybe it's a mountweazel.</li>
<li><b>Notes on some Icelandic Churches</b>, <i>Saga-Book of the Viking Society for Northern Research</i>. IV, 1904-05 (see <a href="https://www.le.ac.uk/ee/viking/sagabookindex.htm">Index to Saga-Book Volumes 1-23</a>, JAB Townsend, Viking Society for Northern Research, University College London, 1999) .</li>
<li>A series of monographs on Icelandic topics in <i>The Scottish Standard Beare</i>r - "an illustrated monthly magazine for Scottish Churchmen" (in fact, for Scottish Episcopalians) including: <br />"The Children of Lund", "A Visit to the Waterfalls of Southern Iceland.", "The Children of Thingvellir", "With Royalty at Thingvellir: the King of Denmark in Iceland", "Tryppa-Gisli: A Reykjavik Character" and "Climb to the Crater of Hekla".</li>
</ul>
See <a href="http://journals.sfu.ca/vict/index.php/vict/article/view/82"><b>Powney and Mitchell</b></a>, as referenced above, for the full attributions on these.<br />
<br />
<hr />
- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-38563372485746723782015-05-25T01:25:00.000-07:002015-05-25T10:35:17.295-07:00Mrs Harcourt Roe<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9r7g6eTuyKJMyyANcb55VUHAhVzt_NtgklH8uZWntnTv0idMjlLS9ukVEfqhhLzFqL1X-NgJ7s-hTHRepE0YXPTHUYh80RC_YhQV18FAnqQ0-6vMqFQAv2CqUHbGNoEzGiiBDeJR3zg/s1600/picturesqueguide05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9r7g6eTuyKJMyyANcb55VUHAhVzt_NtgklH8uZWntnTv0idMjlLS9ukVEfqhhLzFqL1X-NgJ7s-hTHRepE0YXPTHUYh80RC_YhQV18FAnqQ0-6vMqFQAv2CqUHbGNoEzGiiBDeJR3zg/s1600/picturesqueguide05.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/shaws-tourists-picturesque-guide-to.html">Ryde, <i>Shaw's Tourist's Picturesque Guide to the Isle of Wight</i>, 1873</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"<b>Mrs Harcourt Roe</b>" is another forgotten novelist with an Isle of Wight connection. She's described in an 1893 <i>Isle of Wight Observer</i> review of her novel <i>A Man of Mystery</i> as "a lady, well-known in the Island”, and she lived at Ryde in the 1890s. I just researched a bit (well, more than a bit) on her life and works.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I'll expand on her biography in a moment, but firstly, her credits I've found so far:<br />
<ul>
<li><b><i>A Friend in Ten Thousand</i></b> (Remington & Co., 1884).<b><i></i></b> Novel.</li>
<li><b><i>The Bachelor Vicar of Newforth</i></b> (Fisher Unwin, 1885).<b><i> </i></b>Novel.</li>
<li><b><i>My Twin-Brother Richard</i></b>, <i>Home Chime</i>s, Vol. 3, 1885, page 344). Short story. <b><i><br /></i></b></li>
<li><b><i>Whose Wife?</i></b> (W. H. Allen, 1888).<b><i> </i></b>Novel.</li>
<li><b><i>A Balloon Story</i></b> (<i>Belgravia: a London Magazine</i>, Volume 69 (Holiday Number), page 65, 1889. Short story.<b><i><br /></i></b></li>
<li><b><i>A Man of Mystery</i></b> (Blackwood, 1893). Novel.</li>
<li><i><b>The Naval Officer's Mistake: a story of war and peace</b></i> (<i>Hampshire Telegraph</i>, 1894). Serialised novel.<b><i><br /></i></b></li>
<li><b><i>The Silent Room</i></b> (Skeffington, 1895).<i><b> </b></i>Novel.</li>
<li><i><b>The Romance of Mrs Wodehous</b>e</i> (Hutchinson & Company, 1896). Novel.</li>
<li><i><b>"That Figure-head"</b></i> (<i>Temple Bar</i>, 1901). Short story.</li>
<li><b><i>The Shadow of a Fear</i></b> ("accepted in the <i>Chicago Daily News</i> competition", 1908). Serialised novel - unverified.</li>
<li><b><i>The Sacrifice of Enid</i> </b>(<i>Observer</i>, Adelaide, 1909). Serialised novel.</li>
</ul>
<i>The Literary Year Book</i> confirms the magazine credits: "<i>Temple Bar</i>, <i>Court Journal</i>, <i>To-day</i>, <i>Home Chimes</i>, &c" (1905) and “&c. C. to many magazines. Several recent long serials" (1915), which I haven't traced apart from <i>The Naval Officer's Mistake</i> and <i>The Sacrifice of Enid</i>. From context and era, <i>To-Day</i> is probably <i>To-Day's Magazine</i>, a monthly general women's magazine published 1905-1910 by Daterson of Warren, PA.<br />
There's one other credit - <b><i>Jenetha's Venture</i></b> (Cassell) - listed for her in <i>The Literary Yearbook and Bookman's Directory</i> for 1900, but this turns out to be a mistaken attribution to the 1899 <i>Jenetha's Venture: A Tale of the Siege of Delhi</i> by Colonel AFP Harcourt, who was a colonial official in India and wrote various travel and topographical accounts.<br />
<br />
My impression from skimming the reviews is that she specialised in novels in middle-class social settings, often with clergy and naval characters, with the staple scenario of major consequences arising from conflicts or misunderstandings. But she wrote at least one that was quite ground-breaking in its theme; there can't be many English Buddhist antiheroes - the "man of mystery" of her 1893 book - in 19th century fiction.<br />
<br />
There are a handful of personal descriptions findable. The <i>Hampshire Telegraph</i> (September 9, 1893) review of <i>A Man of Mystery</i> says she was “a native of Southsea, and a lady intimately associated with the naval service”, and the <i>Dundee Evening Telegraph</i> for Thursday 1st July 1909 describes her rather patronisingly as "to ordinary acquaintances, an unaffected Englishwoman of homely instincts, with simple kindliness inherited from generations of naval officers". But prize for useful detail has to go to the <i>Whitehall Review</i> biography which, despite the <i>Hello!</i> magazine flavour of its relentlessly positive spin, is massively informative:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The daughter of a naval officer who was never on half-pay, the earlier part of the life of Mrs Harcourt-Roe, one of the most popular of the lady novelists of the day, was spent in constantly moving about. At 12 years old she went to reside in Melbourne, Victoria, her father being at that time senior naval officer in the Australian colonies. She was always a voluminous reader, and had an unlimited run of books. At 15 her education, so-called, was concluded; after which she read more than ever, for hours of a day, from sheer pleasure. Although now a writer of fiction solely<span class="st">—</span>believing that fiction is the most powerful factor of the present day<span class="st">—</span>she never selected novels for perusal, not caring for them. She read essays, travels,, poetry, history, all and everything; Mullins’ library (the Melbourne Mudie’s) providing well for the large demands made. At 16 she entered the gay society of the colony, and at 18 returned to England, where she married, and lived in London until three years ago, since when she has resided at Ryde, I.W. Her first novel appeared almost 10 years ago, but met with little attention, and for some considerable time she had nothing out. Since then she has written for many periodicals—<i>Temple Bar</i>, <i>Belgravia</i>, and others. Her principal novels are: “The Bachelor Vicar of Newforth,” “Whose Wife?,” “A Man of Mystery” and the “Silent Room.” “The Bachelor Vicar,” a story of social life, has been most warmly received by the Church and the Navy. “Whose Wife?” being a psychological roman with a good deal of metaphysical conversation, is considered by some people her best work, but is not so generally popular. “A Man of Mystery” has been, and still is, very warmly received by people of all sorts and conditions. We have had occasion to highly eulogise this remarkable tale in the <i>Whitehall Review</i>. The authoress had the most extravagant letters of praise from the public, people constantly telling her they could not put the book down, but read far into the night. Almost all the reviews united in appreciation of this powerful work. The subject being an unusual one, and the hero an English Buddhist, may have aroused interest. “The Silent Room”—a weird and impressive tale—appeared in March last, since when 4000 copies have been brought out. It has been very well received. Until Mrs Harcourt Roe wrote her first long novel, she had neither desire nor intention of becoming an author, being quite unaware of any taste in that direction. Her work is a delight to her. She writes only when a story seems given to her to tell which she is compelled to pen down, knowing no rest until this has been fully accomplished. Her work usually plans itself in the middle of the night, and she has little trouble with it.—<i>Whitehall Review</i>.<br />
RYDE, SATURDAY, AUGUST 3RD, 1895, <i>Isle of Wight Observer</i> (Ryde, England), Saturday, August 03, 1895; pg. 4 (quoting then current <i>Whitehall Review</i> piece).</blockquote>
(The <i>Portsmouth Evening News</i> for Thursday 1st August, 1895, notes that the <i>Whitehall Review </i>piece has "an excellent portrait" too).<br />
<br />
The reference to letters of praise leads to an interesting detail: that Mrs Harcourt Roe was a correspondent with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isabel_Burton">Isabel, Lady Burton</a>, wife of the soldier and explorer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Francis_Burton">Sir Richard Burton</a>. Their letters were triggered by the mystical angles in <i>A Man of Mystery</i>.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The history of the late Lady Burton was a very.strange one. She is said to have .met her husband, Sir Richard Burton, a total stranger, on the ramparts of Boulogne, but so strong was the magnetic influence between them that she said at once to her sister, 'That man will marry me,' while the same idea instantly dominated him.' With reference to this incident she, not long ago, wrote to Mrs. Harcourt-Roe concerning 'A Man of Mystery,' saying, 'I cannot tell you how much I thank you for your very remarkable book. I could not put it down. I read far into the night, and again all next day. I think it is simply splendid. It very much applied to my own case, and I was greatly struck with many portions of it. . . . You and I know things that they (the general public) never dreamt of.' This letter was the beginning of a warm correspondence.<br />
- Table Talk, <i>The Literary World</i>, James Clarke & Co, Volume 53, page 316, April 3, 1896</blockquote>
<i> The Literary Yearbook</i> shows that Mrs Harcourt Roe (and her husband) continued to move around, giving her address as: Rosehill, Ryde, Isle of Wight (1897); Rothesay, Netley Abbey, Hants (1900 and 1903); The Nest, Twyford, Berks (1905); and<span style="font-size: small;"> Hovenden, Hurst, Berks (1915).</span><br />
These details were enough to help fill out a general biography with census and BMD records, with only minor complication: "Harcourt Roe" / "Harcourt-Roe" turns out to be her husband's name - Harcourt James Roe - rebadged into a gentrified double-barrel pseudonym: there's no relation to the aristocratic Harcourts who were around Ryde in that era (who proved an irrelevant sidetrack). She's furthermore credited sometimes as "A. Harcourt Roe" and sometimes "J. Harcourt Roe", with or without the hyphenation.<br />
<br />
<b>Mrs Harcourt Roe</b> was born in January 1848 at Portsea Island, Hampshire (that is, the main island the city of Portsmouth occupies); the district of Southsea was then outside the city walls. She was christened Elizabeth Augusta Sibella Cox.. She was the youngest daughter of Henry Laird Cox, R.N. (1809-1872), a naval officer who joined the Navy in 1824, reached the rank of commander in 1857, and commanded coastal surveying of Victoria (hence the Australian connection) until his retirement with the rank of captain in 1866. His daughter married Harcourt James Roe - 22 years older, and then an insurance clerk living in the parental home at East Dulwich (though he was born in Newport, Isle of Wight) - at the parish church of Camberwell on 22nd August 1871.<br />
The couple appears on the 1881 census still at Camberwell - as “Harcourt J Roe” (55), commercial clerk and life insurer (?) - now for some reason saying he was born in West Cowes - and “Elizabeth A. S. Roe” (33) born in Southsea. But by the early 1890s, they were living in Ryde; the <i>Isle of Wight Observer</i>'s List of the Principal Residents of Ryde and Environs shows a "Mr & Mrs Harcourt Roe and family" (their daughter Isobel) living at Rosehill, Wood Street, Ryde, from May 1892 to May 1898. This was where she wrote the last three of her novels. None of the census returns make any mention of her occupation as a writer.<br />
As <i>The Literary Yearbook</i> confirms, they later moved on; in 1911 (84/63) they're living at "St Nicholas Hurst", Berkshire; and in 1913, "Hovenden Hurst", Berkshire, where she died (aged 65) on 25 April 1913. Despite his greater age, her husband outlived her for over a decade, dying in Bath on 12th June 1926 (10 days after his 100th birthday, according to the <i>Wells Journal</i>, 18 June 1926). <br />
<br />
<small><b>Refs, variously</b>: <i>The Literary Yearbook</i>; <i>The Navy List</i>; England & Wales, FreeBMD Birth Index, 1837-1915; <i>Hampshire Telegraph</i> Births, Deaths, Marriages and Obituaries; <i>Wells Journal</i>; <i>Isle of Wight Observer</i>; censuses 1871-1911; and the England & Wales, National Probate Calendar (Index of Wills and Administrations), 1858-1966.</small><br />
<br />
Let's have a more detailed look at the works.<br />
<br />
<hr />
<b>MRS HARCOURT-ROE (a.k.a. HARCOURT ROE) BIBLIOGRAPHY</b><br />
<br />
<i><b><big>• A Friend in Ten Thousand: A Novel</big></b></i> (1884)<br />
(Remington & Co., 1884). Novel in 2 vols. by "Mrs J. Harcourt".<br />
The story largely focuses on the complications when the heroine wavers between two men of very different personality, and the circumstances - such as one being thought dead - keep changing.
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“I was engaged to Captain Vincent. When I heard that he was dead I became engaged to our dear, good, kind Rector. Then, only the day before yesterday, we heard that Captain Vincent was alive, and I am now engaged to him again.” This terse and candid statement of her position, made by the heroine to a friend, gives a much better résumé of this rather rigmarole story than a critic could convey in many pages. The “dear, good, kind Rector” is a saintly aristocrat, who has a Duke for the head of his family, and to whom the last sacraments are administered by a bishop; he leaves all his money to his successful rival. There is a great deal, too, in this novel about a Mr. Fortescue, who at the age of thirty makes an income of two thousand pounds a year as Secretary to twenty City Companies, and who becomes the husband of a woman who drinks herself to death.<br />
- New Novels, <i>The Standard</i> (London, England), Thursday, June 26, 1884; pg. 2.</blockquote>
Both volumes can be read at, or downloaded from, the British Library website:<b> <a href="http://explore.bl.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=BLVU1&afterPDS=true&institution=BL&docId=BLL01014812661">BLL01014812661</a> / <a href="http://explore.bl.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=BLVU1&afterPDS=true&institution=BL&docId=BLL01001591127">BLL01001591127</a> </b>(click <b>I want this</b> for links to the PDF viewer options). The title has quite nice ornamental graphics, and the British Library has also uploaded scans to its Flickr pages: see <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/britishlibrary/tags/sysnum001591127"><b>001591127</b></a>.<br />
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<br />
<b><big>• The Bachelor Vicar of Newforth</big></b> (1885)<br />
(Fisher Unwin, 1885).<b><i> </i></b>Novel, by "Mrs. J Harcourt-Roe".<br />
This is the story of an eligible and charismatic vicar, <span class="st">Theophilus Manley, </span>who comes to a small coastal town and turns around the fortunes of its shabby church and ailing church community, as well as becoming engaged to be married. That is, until his career crashes and burns when he's seen kissing a unknown woman. (He can't explain that she's his sister, because this would expose her to scandal / prosecution over money her ailing husband has mislaid). He exiles himself to ministry among the aboriginals in the Australian outback, where he nearly dies, but is eventually vindicated when the explanation comes out.<br />
This is an Isle of Wight novel in all but name. I find the descriptions of the cliffside harbour town "Newforth" (whose name recalls Newport) a portmanteau of Ventnor and Ryde, and there are other highly applicable locations such as a "Fisherman's Cove" that's not unlike Steephill Cove, and a “Seafort” whose name strongly recalls Seaview and the Solent sea forts. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
An English country town, with the usual accompaniment of love and gossip, forms the background for a clever, well-written story. The Rev. Theophilus Manley, the vicar, comes to Newforth in the prime of life, with good birth, fair means, and great intellectual power. He finds the church and congregation dying of apathy and indifference. He inspires both with new life, and raises himself to the highest pitch of popularity. A foolish scandal, based upon a misunderstanding of facts, ruins his character, and he loses both his church and his lady love. His subsequent wanderings and sufferings and final reinstatement are full of pathos. <br />
- <i>Publishers Weekly</i> (American Book Trade Journal), Vol. XXIX, No.727, January 2, 1886.<br />
...<br />
How many novels, romances, poems, dramas, have turned upon mistaking a young woman’s brother or a young man’s sister for a sweetheart or lover? This fine old anecdote constitutes the entire plot ... A superhumanly good, intellectual, and beautiful vicar, adored by a parish which he rules as a benevolent despot, and engaged to be married to the most charming of his parishioners, is seen to be kissing a lovely and mysterious stranger. He, influenced by a point of honour, refuses any explanation even to his fiancée, is turned out of her father’s house, driven to resign his living, and goes out as a missionary into the Australian bush where at last even his faith in Providence wavers. However, a very simple explanation ensues, and he returns in triumph to Newforth and Ethel. To have made two long volumes out of this trite and venerable episode is a feat of ingenuity; and apart from a sort of abject worship on Mrs. Roe’s part towards her own hero, the feat is crowned with better success than might have been expected. The means by which the Vicar transformed the benighted place he found into a model parish are certainly well described, and convey several sensible suggestions. Full enjoyment of the tale demands an even exceptional interest in Church work and clerical personality; but given the latter, the former is tolerably sure to follow. We are not sure, however, that the real moral of the story is exactly what Mrs. Roe intends. According to her, it is “Trust your vicar.” What it amounts to really is that not even a vicar<span class="st">—</span>a rank which Mrs. Roe seems to rate considerably higher than archangel<span class="st">—</span>can fairly ask for confidence unless he gives it in return.<br />
- New novels, <i>The Graphic</i> (London, England), Saturday, January 23, 1886<br />
...<br />
The story of the Vicar is so innocently and naively silly that one hesitates to condemn it. The Vicar is a model of perfection, adored by his parish; falls under a most flimsy suspicion, evidently concocted with much care by the simple-minded lady who writes the book, as the best way she can contrive to break him down; is rejected by his parish and his sweetheart, subjected to extreme trials as a missionary among the savages; cleared of suspicion, and brought back in meek triumph to distribute forgiveness. The intended theme is evidently the saint-and-martyr one—always highly effective in an emotional novel, if half-way well done; but the effort under review is merely comical.<br />
- Recent fiction, <i>Overland Monthly and Out West Magazine</i>, page 210, February 1886.</blockquote>
<b>The New York, G. Munro [1885] edition is available via <a href="http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000245697">Hathitrust 000245697</a></b>.<br />
<br />
<b><i><big>• My Twin-Brother Richard</big></i></b><i> </i>(1885)<br />
(<i>Home Chime</i>s, Vol. 3, 1885, page 344). As "J. Harcourt Roe". 5000-word short story from the viewpoint of a stupid egotistical man who with difficulty impersonates his smarter, more sensible, identical twin in order to pursue the lovely Sophonisba Jones - then lives to regret it when she finds out the imposture, shortly after their marriage.<br />
<br />
<b><i><big>• Whose Wife?: A Novel</big></i></b> (1888)<br />
(W. H. Allen, 1888). Novel in 2 vols., by "Mrs. Harcourt-Roe".<br />
"A tale of bigamy and marital abuse" (<i>Varieties of Women's Sensation Fiction, 1855-1890: Sensationalism and the sensation debate</i>, Andrew Maunder, Sally Mitchell, Pickering & Chatto, 2004).<br />
<span class="st">The central scenario is that the heroine Elma first marries the abusive Mr Brownrigg, then later, thinking him dead, remarries the nicer Percival - only find herself a bigamist, because Brownrigg turns up alive. Along the way, there's a deal of metaphysical sidetracking in expositions from an author character, Mr Courtney; it's kind of tempting to suspect that Mr Courtney is channelling his own author.</span><br />
<span class="st"> All this happens on a distinctly globetrotting scene, Elma being at the start a naive girl of 16, from New Zealand. The action starts on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Tarawera">Lake Tarawara</a> [sic], then is off from Auckland aboard the <a href="http://www.southernoceanexploration.com/projects/ss-queensland/">SS Queensland</a> via Honolulu to England and "Arlyme ... a small town on the borders of Devonshire and Dorsetshire ... separated from Axminster by a lofty ridge". This places Arlyme as Lyme Regis - one scene visits the nearby Trinity Hill - though we don't actually go to Lyme, but to "Arlyme Hall" (somewhere in the vicinity of Uplyme). Elma and Percival have a honeymoon in Japan, visiting Yokahama and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zenk%C5%8D-ji">Zenkō-ji</a> temple; and later the story takes off again to Barcelona Cathedral and Palma de Mallorca. Ultimately, Elma and her good husband (the bad bigamous one having been shot while threatening to horsewhip her again) do the sensible thing and return to New Zealand to take up sheep farming.</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="st">Both the plot and the style of Whose Wife? are somewhat commonplace, and here and there we have such a vulgarism as the use of "transpired " for "happened;" but the story has a briskness and celerity of movement which make it quite readable. The heroine leaves New Zealand, where she has been born and brought up, to take possession of her English property, and bids farewell to the hero, with whom she has an understanding which is morally equivalent to a betrothal. In the course of the voyage she makes the acquaintance of two other men, one of whom is destined to play the part of guardian angel, the other to undertake the role of the villain The villain makes love to her, and she is false to her troth, so that when, after two years, the hero comes to England to claim his bride, he finds her on the point of marriage with another man. After gambling his wife's money away and otherwise misconducting himself, the villain goes to America, whence comes the usual apparently well-authenticated report of his death. The heroine, who has long ere this discovered her mistake, makes haste to rectify it by marrying the hero, and, of course, soon after the marriage the villain returns. After allowing him to make things very unpleasant for the hero and heroine for a sufficient time to fill up the story, he is at last really despatched, and the troubled pair are married again and live happily ever afterwards. There is not much to be said of Whose Wife? beyond the remark that it is a moderately good specimen of the not very valuable class of fiction to which it belongs.<br />- <i>The Spectator</i>, 29th September, page 22, 1888<br />...<br />The answer to the question which Mrs. Harcourt-Roe has chosen for her title is not difficult. Elma Tremaine's husband does not die till the end of the book, and although she married Percival Murray in the belief that George Brownrigg was dead, that piece of inadvertence on her part could not, of course, get rid of George as a "hard fact." The story turns upon what the virtuous but unlucky Elma ought to do when she discovers that she is not Mr. Murray's wife. As, however, there is no explanation of the almost incredible levity with which she had accepted the at first unwelcome attentions of Brownrigg while in honour bound to Murray, the sympathy of the most tender-hearted reader in her subsequent and consequent misfortunes is a good deal diminished. Mrs. Harcourt-Roe has a great passion for matrimonial complications, though her book is not in the least improper, and the reader who does not share the taste had better avoid Whose Wife?. Elma, it may be said in extenuation, as Mr. Disraeli said of Byron, was "very young." She was only sixteen when she came from New Zealand in the same ship with Mr. Brownrigg, and she had plenty of money, which, we are told, she could not " touch" till she was eighteen. How she could " touch" it then, not being of age, Mrs. Harcourt-Roe does not explain. Mr. Brownrigg wanted the money, and, after being some time disliked and despised, suddenly found himself its possessor along with the hand of its mistress. Of Mr. Brownrigg's breeding a single specimen may suffice. When Percival returned from the antipodes, and met Elma, her husband remarked, "No flirting with him, young lady, remember that; for I won't have it." The Brownriggs speedily quarrelled, and Mr. B threw political economy at her. This degradation was more than the cultivated Elma well could bear, and she retorted, with proud intelligence, "I do not in the least care for political economists; if one attended to them, one would never do a kind action." After this one partly understands why Mr. Brownrigg left her and sought in the more congenial society of Utah that repose which the flippancy of an ignoramus can never afford. Some time after his departure Elma heard that he was dead, and made up for lost time by promptly marrying Percival. The circumstances of Mr. Brownrigg's supposed demise were communicated to her, in a singularly businesslike manner, by Major Poole, a famous traveller. Elma bore it calmly, as was perhaps natural; but, by way of a likely hypothesis, took it into her head that the worthy George had been buried alive. She consulted the Major on this point, who hastened to reassure her by saying "He was as dead as a door-nail." "He felt this comparison," we are informed, " to be irreverent, but made it simply from the fact that he knew of no other to express an equal amount of deadness." After marrying, or doing her best to marry, Percival, Elma became a mother. It was a boy, and the father's emotion found vent in a passionate outcry. "I thought no man cared about a baby," he exclaimed; "but if I lost this little chap, it would be an actual grief to me." Could paternal love go further? We need not pursue the narrative of Mrs. Brownrigg's trials when George turns up, as odious as ever and just as much in want of money. He is a violent ruffian, but a good deal more lifelike than John Newcastle, the famous author, or his uncomfortable, mysterious wife, with a concealed title. Mrs. Harcourt-Roe's pages may amuse an idle hour, and she is sometimes most amusing when she means to be most serious. But she describes herself in speaking of some imaginary personage as "simply a manufacturer of something to read, not a living writer."<br />- <i>The Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science and Art</i>, Volume 65, March 31, 1888. </span></blockquote>
<b><i>Whose Wife? </i></b>can be read at, or downloaded from, the British Library website: <a href="http://explore.bl.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=BLVU1&afterPDS=true&institution=BL&docId=BLL01014828480"><b>BLL01014828480</b></a> (click <b>I want this</b> for links to the PDF viewer options).<br />
<br />
<i><b><big>• A Balloon Story</big></b></i> (1889)<br />
(<i>Belgravia: a London Magazine</i>, Volume 69, Holiday Number, 1889, page 65). Story, as "A Harcourt Roe".<b> </b><br />
This is rather an odd story, with mildly SF elements, in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belgravia_%28magazine%29">Belgravia</a>, the London illustrated monthly magazine founded by Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Somewhere in the French mountains, a balloon terrifies the villagers; it comes down, carrying the corpse of a beautiful woman, and then a distraught and near-skeletal man arrives, saying that he killed her. The villagers are all for lynching him, but the local Curé persuades them to put the man into his custody until proper justice has been served. The man explains: he's a Parisian scholar who moved out to the sticks, where he met his wife, to work on his project of developing an indestructible self-guiding balloon. He became so obsessed with this that he neglected his wife, not buying food or fuel, until she died of starvation. Stricken with guilt, he decided to destroy the invention (and simultaneously dispose of the corpse) by sending it out to sea. But the wind blew it back to the mountains, which he takes as karma for his crime of neglect. Having confessed to the Curé - and being starved, exhausted, and generally on self-destruct - he too dies.<br />
<br />
<b><big>• A Man of Mystery</big><i></i></b> (1893)<br />
(Blackwood, 1893). Novel, by "Mrs. Harcourt-Roe".<br />
This is probably the book by Mrs Harcourt Roe that attracted most interest and attention. It presents a highly unusual central character - in modern terms, an ascetic cult leader as antihero - whose beliefs are presented in a not unsympathetic light. The novel chiefly concerns how his status quo unravels when he falls in love with one of his female students, Dorothea.<br />
This is another of Mrs Harcourt Roe's novels with a Westcountry setting. Part of the novel is set in "Penlist", a Cornish coastal village close to Saltash; and Fellerman's Buddhist community is in a granite farmhouse "in one of the most secluded parts of Dartmoor". It also visits Newforth, the setting of the earlier <i>The Bachelor Vicar of Newforth</i>, making it a crossover novel.<br />
Mrs Harcourt Roe was evidently interested in Buddhism and issues of religious philosophy; she'd already devoted much of a chapter in <i>Whose Wife?</i> ("A Man without a Body") to an exposition - via the author character Mr Courtney - on contrasts between Buddhism and Christianity, and the whole question of "What is <i>I</i>?".<br />
The reviews were generally positive. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mrs. Harcourt Roe introduces us to a very remarkable character in the hero of A Man of Mystery. She is fond of drawing ideal types; in the present instance she has chosen to portray a character raised to the highest point of virtue that can be attained by adherence to the tenets of pure Buddhism, and, while doing full justice to both, she very well contrasts with it the Christian ideal as shown forth in the person of Mr. Manly. It is an error, from our point of view, to have presented Mr. Fellerman in a distinctly unpleasant light at the opening of the volume; such a character, though likely to call out feelings of antagonism and suspicion, should hardly awaken dislike in the mind of the reader, and we are haunted by this first disagreeable impression to the end of the book. Though far from resembling the ordinary tale of mystery, there is plenty of mystery in the story, and the reader is carried through a series of extraordinary scenes painted with considerable vigour. The author has a dramatic power of presenting strong feeling that raises the book above the ordinary level, and its tone is always pure and pleasant. It is impossible not to read it through from beginning to end, and even then we bid a regretful farewell to Fellerman and Dorothea. The self denial exercised by the former in obedience to his religion, and the suffering entailed on both, affects us keenly. The marriage in tho churchyard at dead of night is drawn with a graphic and weird power that chills us to the bone. We are grateful to the author that she brings us into calm waters at the close, and that the troubled careers end together. The final scenes are full of pathos and simplicity.<br />
- New novels & new editions, <i>The Literary World</i>, Volume 48, page 233, October 6, 1893.<br />
...<br />
A title goes for much—sometimes for too much, and the book (proves a disappointment. This is not the case with Mrs. Harcourt Roe's novel, A Man of Mystery. Such a title, though not startling from its novelty, cannot fail to awaken interest, and in this instance the author has not aimed at setting that interest to rest. The man is mysterious and does not cease to be so even after the strange circumstances of his birth and life are explained to us. Mr. Fellerman, alias Lord Mountain, was son of an English peer, but, being wrecked off the coast of "India, or Burmah, or somewhere"—such is the explicit narrative of a certain Mrs. Worsley—at the age of seven, he is picked up by a wealthy native and educated in the Buddhist faith. When of age, he returns to Europe with the intention of preaching that religion in Christian countries. Finding that the weaker sex are the most amenable to his teaching (he was "a singularly attractive, handsome man "), 'he organizes a kind of girls' college, whence the pupils, after a strict and careful preparation, are to go forth and reform the world. His early training of severe self-abnegation, his unknown parentage, an iron will, and the peculiar manner of propagating his religion, are facts in themselves sufficient to veil him in mystery, and the succession of events in the story are well contrived to allure the curiosity of the reader yet more. After remaining obdurate to the charms of numerous fair collegers, he falls a complete victim to his last acquisition. It is a relief to read of the fall of this severe stoic, and it is a good touch of human nature that he squares the matter to his conscience by the discovery that love—though only human love—has an ennobling and not a degrading effect upon its votaries. The novel is well constructed until the last few chapters, in which the reader is wearied out by a detailed account of the trial, imprisonment, and eventual release of a character of only secondary interest, after the man of mystery and his wife have married, lived long, died, and been buried. The passages relating to Buddhism—its difference from and resemblance to Christianity—are written with a .genuine open-mindedness. It is clear that the author has studied the Buddhist religion, and is better acquainted with the subject than she has occasion to prove in so limited a space.<br />
- Novels, <i>The Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science and Art</i>, Volume 76, page 302, September 9, 1893.<br />
...<br />
Mrs. Harcourt-Roe's "A Man of Mystery" is not a good specimen of her work. The character Felterman [sic], Bhuddist, enthusiast, and certainly more than half a maniac, is too improbable to enlist either sympathy or interest. As much may be said of the vacillating heroine, Rose Challoner. It is easy to understand the feeling of exasperation excited in honest Jack Ashworth by the "man of mystery," and many will be inclined to share in it.<br />
- <i>The Morning Post</i> (London, England), Tuesday, September 05, 1893; pg. 6</blockquote>
The <i>Scottish Law Review</i> commented on the legal aspects of the rather strange denouement, in which a character charges himself with manslaughter:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
English Fiction And Scottish Law.—Apropos of the article on this subject in the August number of the <i>Review</i>, the following excerpt from a review in the <i>Glasgow Herald</i> of 17th August may interest our readers:—</blockquote>
<blockquote>
A Man of Mystery. By Mrs. Harcourt-Roe. (London: James Blackwood & Co.)—This is by way of being a remarkable novel; we have an altogether wonderful man as hero, who is something of a theosophist and a great deal of a charlatan, and of whom we are very tired before his rehabilitation when he dies in the odour of Christian sanctity. After his death the one fairly sensible man in the book up to that point charges himself with the manslaughter of the "Man of Mystery," and then the authoress thoroughly enjoys herself in describing the trial. It must, indeed, have been a remarkable trial; for irregularity we have never known of a more remarkable. The counsel for the prosecution gives evidence on his own account, causing "great sensation in Court" (which we do not doubt); the witnesses' evidence meanders over all sorts of irrelevant matters, and the prisoner's counsel, not to be outdone, also enlivens the proceedings by his personal recollections of various interesting circumstances which come to his recollection. As it appears that the prisoner (who is himself a barrister), when charged, pleaded guilty, the jury's finding that he was guilty is not surprising, but what the judge can have been about we cannot imagine; perhaps he slept. At the end, however, his lordship rose nobly to the level of the counsel and witnesses, and triumphantly crowned the amazing proceedings by sentencing the criminal to "three months as a first-class misdemeanant." Mrs. Harcourt-Roe may not be a novel writer of the best, but as a legal humourist it is difficult to excel her. Lawyers will, indeed, find her concluding chapters a feast of fat things.<br />
- <i>The Scottish Law Review and Sheriff Court Reports</i>, Volume 9, 1893 [quoting in full the review from the <i>Glasgow Herald</i>, Thursday, August 17, 1893].</blockquote>
<b><i>A Man of Mystery </i></b>can be read at, or downloaded from, the British Library website: <a href="http://explore.bl.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=BLVU1&afterPDS=true&institution=BL&docId=BLL01014828478"><b>BLL01014828478</b></a> (click <b>I want this</b> for links to the PDF viewer options).<br />
<br />
<i><b><big>• The Naval Officer's Mistake: a story of war and peace</big></b></i> (1894)<br />
Novel "by Mrs. Harcourt-Roe" serialised over seven issues of the <i>Hampshire Telegraph</i> between March-April 1894. It was syndicated elsewhere, such as in the <i>Sunderland Weekly Echo</i>.<br />
The story concerns a romantic triangle comprising Marietta Franklin and her two rival suitors, the cousins Arthur Westmoreland (a naval officer) and Frank Heathcote (an army officer). Arthur is rather the better catch, and Marietta used to like him more. But she's engaged to Frank by default, Arthur having messed up his prospects ten years previously - this is the titular "mistake" - by a) having a silly argument with his uncle and being disinherited, and b) then whingeing to Marietta about it in a way that came across as unpleasantly money-obsessed. The novel follows how all this plays out.<br />
The novel is very heavy on exposition and drawing-room conversations, but it'll be of local interest to readers familiar with Portsmouth, the Solent and the Isle of Wight, as Mrs Harcourt Roe makes undisguised use of these settings.<br />
The instalment dates were: March 10, 1894; March 17, 1894; March 24, 1894; March 31, 1894; April 7, 1894; April 14, 1894; and April 21, 1894. I read it via the <a href="http://infotrac.london.galegroup.com/itweb/dls_earl">19th Century British Library Newspapers</a> database; the whole set will come up if you do an internal text search for "naval officer's mistake". If you have a Devon library ticket or an Athens account you can log on remotely; otherwise you'll need to enquire at your own library/institution about access methods.<br />
<br />
<b><i><big>• The Silent Room</big></i></b> (1895)<br />
(Skeffington, 1895). Novel. This one isn't findable online, but it looks an interesting Gothic psychological mystery. Treloar House is an isolated mansion, whose middle-aged mistress has a repeated compulsion to go to a particular room at night, emerging in a traumatised state. Eventually, she pays a down-at-heel young man a large sum of money to take her place. The explanation, the reviews indicate, is to do with mesmerism.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The title of Mrs. Harcourt Roe’s story … suggests mystery, and it does not belie the expectations aroused by its name. It is drenched in mystery. Treloar Hall is a lonely mansion surrounded by neglected grounds. Its mistress is a middle-aged unmarried woman, direct of speech, abrupt of manner, addicted to rising in the dead of night and making her way to a remote room, in which she remains for hours, and from which she emerges with face “white and bloodless” and lips “that seemed glued together.” Chance causes the lady to meet Godfrey Wilkinson, a young man ruined in fortune. She bribes him with large sums of money to take her place in the mysterious chamber. What is the nature of those vigils is the secret of the Silent Room. We shall not disclose that secret. The author knows how to stimulate curiosity and keep it wakeful to the end.<br />
- Novels, <i>Daily News</i> (London, England), Wednesday, June 5, 1895. </blockquote>
But <i>The Literary World</i> is far less coy about what's going on - and it turns out that the mistress of Treloar is the perpetrator, not the victim, of the Silent Room's secret. The reference to Westminster Aquarium - an entertainment venue - alludes to the then recent two-year run by the comedy mesmerist "Professor" TA Kennedy.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In The Silent Room ... the author has utilised the latest sensation at the Westminster Aquarium as the leading idea. We are first introduced to a young gentleman who is very much on his last legs, and seems to have nothing before him save suicide or enlistment. He encounters temptation in the form of an old lady, who bribes him by splendid offers to aid her in a scheme by which she is keeping the rightful heiress out of her inheritance very much to the old lady's own advantage. It would be unfair to the author to detail the plot or the method in which it is carried out. Involving as it does a young and handsome girl, it is small wonder that the young man's wife, who is obtained as one of the results of his unexpected fortune, grows suspicious, and from the secrecy necessitated and the probings of a not too rigid conscience the hero soon sickens of his bargain. The wife conveniently dies, and his love is transferred to the object of his care and surveillance; but nothing comes of it, and a dreary succession of deaths ends the story. The Silent Room has some original features in plot and some weaknesses in construction; but the story being obviously intended for the enjoyment of a spare hour, hardly justifies the expenditure of adverse critical effort, and may be left for those who can still find the shilling shocker a satisfying form of literary recreation.<br />
- <i>The Literary World</i>, Volume 51, March 29, 1895.<big> </big></blockquote>
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<br />
<i><b><big>• The Romance of Mrs. Wodehouse</big></b></i> (1896)<br />
(Hutchinson & Company, 1896). Novel, by "Mrs. Harcourt-Roe".<br />
The novel is a tapestry of the unsatisfactory family relationships of the Bayner family: Colonel Bayner at loggerheads with Mrs Bayner, who's a violent drunk, and their daughter Mabel caught unhappily between. All this is shaken up and resolved through the catalyst of the arrival of a Mrs. Wodehouse, who is Colonel Bayner's lover from the past.<br />
Followers of southern UK topographic references could find it of interest, as although the action is largely divided between London and a Yorkshire village called Tessle, it makes some very specific excursions to Portsmouth harbour and the HMS Victory, as well as to Exeter Cathedral and Yes Tor near Okehampton. (I'm wondering what, if any, Devon connection Mrs Harcourt Roe had, as her later <i>The Sacrifice of Enid</i> also has a Dartmoor location).<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The Romance of Mrs. Wodehouse" is an old lover, who lives near her, married to some one else, and a further and somewhat surprising development which it were unfair to mention here, as it is the keynote to the whole plot. It is a pleasant little book, and ends in the overpowering happiness of all the deserving characters. <br />
- T<i>he Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science and Art</i>, Volume 82, 7th November, 1896.<br />
...<br />
The Romance of Mrs. Wodehouse is another story which, by reason of its weak spots and insufficient handling, it is not possible to grow very enthusiastic over. At the outset we have a girl who is hated and maltreated by her mother for no better reason than that the marriage has been a loveless one on the part of the man, and that the child has a share of his love which she herself has never obtained. Early in the story a Mrs. Wodehouse — who is, we are assured, 'by no means perfect; a very woman, and, therefore, full of failings'— comes on the scene, and turns out to be an early lover of Mabel's father. After the somewhat irritating mystery of the woman with a fiend's temper and disposition, it is a relief when a gentlemanly young bagman appears on the scene and proceeds to make ample compensation to Mabel for the love that is lacking towards her on her mother's part. An elopement ensues, and the story proceeds to deal indiscriminately with the practical history of the young man, and the rising attachment between Mrs. Wodehouse and Colonel Bayner, ending up with a series of astounding revelations of parentage into which we have not space to go. As the matter is crude and amateurish, so is the telling frequently ungraceful, such phrasing as 'you do not evidently know my mother' for 'you evidently do not,' &c, lying continually in the way to irritate the mildest of sticklers for literary observances. To leave the story thus, with the added assurance that there are many readers who could find the family history of the Bayners of an absorbing nature, seems preferable and kinder to our mind than to damn it with the very faintest of faint praise.<br />
- New novels & new edtions, <i>The Literary World</i>, Volume 54, page 327, October 23, 1896<br />
...<br />
“The Romance of Mrs. Wodehouse” … is at least the lady’s fifth novel, and, though the construction of the story is poor, the drawing of the characters even weak, the book has a naturalness that many far better ones lack, and the characters, even in their defects, give the reader the impression that they have been drawn from life. There are, too, some clever bits of observation and analysis scattered up and down its pages. The story itself drags occasionally, and seems to have been put together in a somewhat haphazard fashion, but it is interesting all the same. The heroine, if Mrs. Wodehouse is intended to fill that part, does not by any means monopolise the chief interest. That is given rather to the Rayner family. Colonel Rayner’s wife is a woman of violent and jealous temper, who ill uses her daughter to such an extent that that young lady’s elopement with the supposed commercial traveller, Denham Smith, is not surprising. Mr. Smith is a young man in the employment of a large firm of florists. By an accident he finds his way to the Rayner luncheon table, where he displays an unexpected knowledge of the manners of good society, and of Chateau Latite and Veuve Monnier. This is remembered against him afterwards in so offensive a speech that the Colonel, who is really an excellent fellow, never wholly recovers from it in the reader’s eyes, any more than he does in his son-in-law’s. The Admiral and the Flag Captain are drawn with clever and humorous touches, and so are kindly Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, whose behaviour to the very refined servant-of-all-work is admirable. As for the actual “romance,” it is the least successful and least pleasant part of the book; it is even a little preposterous. However, it all works in, everything ends happily, and the story, as a whole, is not bad reading.<br />
- Some new novels, <i>The Standard</i> (London, England), Friday, November 13, 1896; pg. 6. </blockquote>
<b><i>The Romance of Mrs. Wodehouse </i></b>can be read at, or downloaded from, the British Library website: <a href="http://explore.bl.uk/primo_library/libweb/action/dlDisplay.do?vid=BLVU1&afterPDS=true&institution=BL&docId=BLL01014828479"><b>BLL01014828479</b></a> (click <b>I want this</b> for links to the PDF viewer options).<br />
<br />
<i><b><big>• "That Figure-head"</big></b></i> (1901)<br />
(<i>Temple Bar</i>, Vol. 124, page 517 D, 1901). Story, as "A Harcourt Roe". Spooky tale of a guilt-ridden ship's captain, Wilson, who is haunted by the glaring eyes of the figure-head on a mysterious hulk his ship encounters when becalmed off Central America. As i'm 99.99% sure it's out of copyright now (Mrs Harcourt Roe having died in 1913), I've posted a transcript here on JSBlog: <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/that-figure-head.html"><b>"That Figure-head."</b></a><br />
<br />
<b><i><big>• The Shadow of a Fear </big></i></b>(1908) - unverified<br />
Serial "accepted in the <i>Chicago Daily News</i> competition" according to a news item in the Literary, dramatic, and musical notes section of <i>The Author</i>, Vol. XVIII, June 1st, 1908. I haven't so far found this one; perhaps it was never used, or not used under that title.<br />
<br />
<b><i><big>• The Sacrifice of Enid</big></i></b> (1909)<br />
Novel in serial form "purchased by the Northern Newspaper Syndicate", according to the same <i>The Author</i> news item above. The Northern Newspaper Syndicate handled British newspaper syndication; it seems to have run in at least the <i>Dundee Evening Telegraph</i> and <i>Hartlepool Mail</i>. But it also turns up syndicated in Australia,<i></i> where it ran over 13 issues in the Adelaide-based <i>Observer </i>in the summer of 1909.<br />
Its Devon setting has, I think, a bit of a thematic hat-tip to <i>The Hound of the Baskervilles</i>. It's a romantic melodrama set around a Dartmoor paper mill. Louise Ormonde has set her sights on Ronald Westlake, son of the mill owner. Jealous of his growing friendship with a young woman called Enid (who, for her own reasons, is going incognito as "Mary Williams"), Louise contrives to frame Ronald for aiding Enid's convict lover in escaping from Dartmoor Prison.<br />
<br />
You can read it online via the National Library of Australia's <b>Trove</b> archive:<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116469">Saturday 24 July 1909, page 10</a>: I - Her request / II - A curious resting place. </li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116529">Saturday 31 July 1909, page 10</a>: III - Dartmoor. </li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116589">Saturday 7 August 1909, page 10</a>: III (Continued) / IV - The factory.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116649">Saturday 14 August 1909, page 10</a>: V - The typist's office / VI - Arrangements.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116709">Saturday 21 August 1909, page 10</a>: VI (continued) / VII - A declaration / VIII - The chief butler / IX - Alarm. </li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116769">Saturday 28 August 1909, page 10</a>: X - Henry Jackson / XI - His arrival.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841699">Saturday 4 September 1909, page 10</a>: XII - His conduct / XIII - Sir Thomas Tredale.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841759">Saturday 11 September 1909, page 10</a>: XIII (Continued) / XIV - An important interview / XV - A gloomy outlook / XVI - Satan's suggestion. </li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841820">Saturday 18 September 1909, page 11</a>: XVI - (Continued) / XVII - Flight.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841878">Saturday 25 September 1909, page 9</a>: XVIII - Danger / XIX - Search / XX - The terror that walked by night.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841942">Saturday 2 October 1909, page 9</a>: XXI - A cat's paw / XXII - A lonely bride / XXIII - The wedding.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19842000">Saturday 9 October 1909, page 11</a>: XXIV - Her honeymoon / XXV - Escape or capture / XXVI - His escape / XXVII - Explanation / XXVIII - Awaiting the trial.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19842060">Saturday 16 October 1909, page 11</a>: XXIX - The trial / XXX - The verdict / XXXI - Ronald's fate. </li>
</ul>
<b>The Sacrifice of Enid. (1909, October 16). <i>Observer</i> (Adelaide, SA : 1905 - 1931). Retrieved May 23, 2015 from National Library of Australia <a href="http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper">Trove</a> digitised newspaper database</b>.<br />
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- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-47638754183386854852015-05-24T09:53:00.000-07:002015-05-25T18:19:23.176-07:00More Holme Lee children's illustrations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Further to <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/harriet-parr-bibliography-tuflongbo-and.html"><b>Harriet Parr: bibliography, "Tuflongbo", and a dog's life</b></a>, here are some more of the off-the-wall illustrations from the handful of 1860s children's fairytale books by the prolific Shanklin, Isle of Wight, novelist Parr (who wrote as Holme Lee).<br />
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These come from<b> Legends From Fairy Land</b>: Narrating The History Of Prince Glee and Princess Trill (and "the cruel persecutions and condign punishment of Aunt Spite, the adventures of the great Tuflongbo, and the story of the Blackcap in the Giant's Well"), London: Smith, Elder
and Co, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/legendsfromfair00leegoog">legendsfromfair00leegoog</a>.<br />
The first of the Holme Lee books of distinctly allegorical fairytales, it was illustrated by H Sanderson in a style that might be described as 18th century camp: very different from both W Sharpe's weird mix of mediaeval and Highland ghillie for <i><b>The Wonderful Adventures of Tuflonbo and His Elfin Company in Their Journey with Little Content Through the Enchanted Forest</b></i> (1861) and Sanderson's very Victorian illustrations to <b><i>Tuflongbo's journey in search of ogres</i></b> (1862).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihsR96RXnit2BbJ_ygGmgs4R2L7YVAssdMbji1zyhGm6sjgj0ZSAKJ1Vl3noHm1u74YA7fUVoMG1JL5xBCJjkeIJRZfRg0C_TB1smHn9Oam0eyfS3NrINvnUEagR0lSgtYMLVfMtqQtw/s1600/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihsR96RXnit2BbJ_ygGmgs4R2L7YVAssdMbji1zyhGm6sjgj0ZSAKJ1Vl3noHm1u74YA7fUVoMG1JL5xBCJjkeIJRZfRg0C_TB1smHn9Oam0eyfS3NrINvnUEagR0lSgtYMLVfMtqQtw/s400/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0009.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Traveller Crossing the Sea to the Shores of Aplepivi</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlFP-DCjbjRMhoSeGXCO5Iuta7Pzb4gtwksixAJ7lfGitX42Uq2Y9Yl7dEdQYlgxsisYcKNEwELIx3LYcHuEPOYAZq32x6rvOjB-DAGVYfZ6WXO3tetoX2GMgpIJ_1WNOVk8h-iWNww/s1600/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlFP-DCjbjRMhoSeGXCO5Iuta7Pzb4gtwksixAJ7lfGitX42Uq2Y9Yl7dEdQYlgxsisYcKNEwELIx3LYcHuEPOYAZq32x6rvOjB-DAGVYfZ6WXO3tetoX2GMgpIJ_1WNOVk8h-iWNww/s640/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0022.jpg" width="392" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Old Woman in the Hollow Tree and her Little Maid Idle</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Spite in the Custody of Pierce, Deep and Keen</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6LfZNM2eWleKV81HK6tzA9JS1yIH_eRc5M-OWI0YpnY2fzJj1Q4wbI8qHxETen7z78Pf13t221oCDYWocAXqAszqJ1VGEQa9Y0_4tutnfYxpUULCjm8dXKuf-f4sJa9R1_wDFUUU3A/s1600/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6LfZNM2eWleKV81HK6tzA9JS1yIH_eRc5M-OWI0YpnY2fzJj1Q4wbI8qHxETen7z78Pf13t221oCDYWocAXqAszqJ1VGEQa9Y0_4tutnfYxpUULCjm8dXKuf-f4sJa9R1_wDFUUU3A/s640/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0109.jpg" width="394" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great Tuflongbo received at Elfin Court<br />
by Muffin, Master of the Ceremonies</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJhZJeSnnE2TSH9D_x5GvIV_8t6xcZx31Sx9tC3npkCP4ILyhKGuCZcK0Sl5_C9z3dWQtDOoOKeYvqwWleXQ0LvswCfl61H7r0oJ_ouEaJx0oZdjNgVHfDPvHO2BKuA292hXuDqJN-Q/s1600/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJhZJeSnnE2TSH9D_x5GvIV_8t6xcZx31Sx9tC3npkCP4ILyhKGuCZcK0Sl5_C9z3dWQtDOoOKeYvqwWleXQ0LvswCfl61H7r0oJ_ouEaJx0oZdjNgVHfDPvHO2BKuA292hXuDqJN-Q/s640/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0150.jpg" width="388" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prince Glee and Princess Trill meeting the stranger from the Country</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgST79ijln1sMi3XPqQUiyAjw9ouXx2uGJ7ZoageYWME9R7A58qvpLXXkEPT5of7kOXdppNQd5jxV7zR5wedYy2O3ra-x_N_XgJAQMNB1LLO7Ggz-18lIPDB_Wc7qG6zTVLNfbZIXl5AQ/s1600/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgST79ijln1sMi3XPqQUiyAjw9ouXx2uGJ7ZoageYWME9R7A58qvpLXXkEPT5of7kOXdppNQd5jxV7zR5wedYy2O3ra-x_N_XgJAQMNB1LLO7Ggz-18lIPDB_Wc7qG6zTVLNfbZIXl5AQ/s640/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0210.jpg" width="394" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prince Glee and Tuflongbo Captured by the Giants</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWDrBZDFeYJPNmsQ7fRQIMaDPheheIlpr8eNbMPFGsTiPDrzPVt9Jyp8LpUqjDfEuRVFttYVpOw4fwAc6EFFFxWFKyxsWr2Ru1z3lEhuYkjyoIFeinzcihXsZhqU_sQYQtW5tNJ7QyA/s1600/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWDrBZDFeYJPNmsQ7fRQIMaDPheheIlpr8eNbMPFGsTiPDrzPVt9Jyp8LpUqjDfEuRVFttYVpOw4fwAc6EFFFxWFKyxsWr2Ru1z3lEhuYkjyoIFeinzcihXsZhqU_sQYQtW5tNJ7QyA/s640/legendsfromfair00leegoog_0250.jpg" width="384" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Battle of the Giants</td></tr>
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All of the Tuflongbo images - he's an out-of-genre explorer character I've described previously as a kind of elfin <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allan_Quatermain">Allan Quatermain</a> - were recycled in the collected edition of Parr's Tuflongbo stories: <i><b>Holme Lee's Fairy Tales</b></i> (London: Frederick Warne & Co., New York: Scribner, Welford & Co., 1869, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/holmeleesfairyt00leegoog">holmeleesfairyt00leegoog</a>).<br />
<br />
- Ray Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-7717578148522675132015-05-23T18:56:00.000-07:002015-05-25T07:24:01.547-07:00"That Figure-Head." <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRyry7n3nWtJu9nEqZw1NKNkN_Mpvmv6JsQjG1XLo6FibM6dr_37JBTfbIpxdoAF1VqJX6ApOUyEaKjFkmWeBNsTKy7DKi_2OIswJbDXz3qVsRnO8A45jHRvdTjtiQkZV7iEIDwSa5WQ/s1600/figureheadmadagascar00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRyry7n3nWtJu9nEqZw1NKNkN_Mpvmv6JsQjG1XLo6FibM6dr_37JBTfbIpxdoAF1VqJX6ApOUyEaKjFkmWeBNsTKy7DKi_2OIswJbDXz3qVsRnO8A45jHRvdTjtiQkZV7iEIDwSa5WQ/s1600/figureheadmadagascar00.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>"That Figure-Head."</b> is a short story by <b><a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/mrs-harcourt-roe.html">Mrs Harcourt Roe</a></b> that originally appeared in 1901 in the London-based literary magazine <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temple_Bar_%28magazine%29"><i>Temple Bar</i></a>. I was interested to read it while researching Mrs Roe's works, but ran into problems: it's not hosted anywhere straightforward, and there's a glitch with Google Books that for some reason makes it impossible to retrieve in full, even via the usual workaround of a proxy server (Poe springs to mind: "<span class="st">er lasst sich nicht lesen"<i>). </i></span><span class="st"><i></i></span>I couldn't resist the puzzle of hacking it by 'jigsaw method' from the Google Books snippet view.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifX6dp0XLVo1SACSbrYeprd9aL-csSmUpCijy7A41i5-ceGlIObsWrAkjQPVEhAUSB_wcShRG2uhykCJ8GLihF3ti4r5azUBstMmJWEOXogPI3Q7u2WviaTG_v_CS4ehIQ6osl4pKo1w/s1600/figureheadmadagascar01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifX6dp0XLVo1SACSbrYeprd9aL-csSmUpCijy7A41i5-ceGlIObsWrAkjQPVEhAUSB_wcShRG2uhykCJ8GLihF3ti4r5azUBstMmJWEOXogPI3Q7u2WviaTG_v_CS4ehIQ6osl4pKo1w/s200/figureheadmadagascar01.jpg" width="165" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figurehead of<br />
HMS Madagascar (1822)<br />
<a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Figurehead_of_HMS_Madagascar_%281822%29.JPG">Wikimedia Commons</a><br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GNU_Free_Documentation_License">GNU Free Documentation License</a></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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I don't find much need to do this any more, as so much research material is hosted accessibly via sites such as Hathitrust, The Internet Archive and the British Library, but it can be handy on occasion. You just expand known content by using Google Books to search at the edges of a known string to find what's adjacent - and then paste it together in a word processor document as you retrieve, with format guidance from the snippet view. It can need a bit of intelligent guesswork if Google Books refuses or doesn't show the extrapolation, but for something like an article or short story, it's neither wildly laborious nor wildly time-consuming.<br />
Anyhow, it worked, except for one page that's completely inaccessible. Maybe a broken source file is the problem? It proves, however, not to be a crucial segment. I'm 99.99% sure that the story is out of copyright. <i>Temple Bar</i> was British-published, and the author Mrs Harcourt Roe died in 1913, so we're well past the "lifetime of author plus 75 years" of UK copyright. Full credits, however, go to Google, whose scan was source data for the transcription.<br />
It's a very dark story: a claustrophobic psychological thriller aboard a becalmed ship off Central America, in a very racist era. The guilt-ridden captain, Wilson, encounters tribal magic - or it just his paranoia? - and finds himself drawn into a courtroom drama of the soul as he struggles to retain command of his ship, and of his own destiny.<br />
<br />
<hr />
<br />
<big><b>“THAT FIGURE-HEAD”</b></big><br />
<big><b>by A. Harcourt Roe </b></big><br />
<br />
<b>Chapter I. The lonely bay</b><br />
It was a lonely spot—horribly lonely. In the distance the high tablelands were traversed by mountain ridges, and overtopped by volcanic cones; but in the foreground there were flat oozy marshes and gigantic reeds, amongst which the water lapped sullenly. A dreadful stillness hung over the bay, which was landlocked save for a narrow entrance. The day had been sultry in the extreme, the sun—blood red—had set in a bank of grey mist. But towards midnight the haze lifted, and the stars shone out. At half-past twelve a large schooner slowly entered the bay, manned by a motley, foreign-looking crew. As they cast anchor the captain, who was a stalwart and handsome Englishman, exclaimed in a tone of alarm, “By Jove!”. For, her bow to the stern of his own vessel, lay the battered hulk of a dismasted three-decker, without a sign of life on board.<br />
She was absolutely motionless. To all appearance To all appearance she might have been there for years; weeds encircled her hull, the anchor chain was rusted, but the figure-head, which represented a dark-skinned Asiatic, was perfect; there was not a touch of decay, apparently not even a scratch on the paint; the smooth cheeks glistened in the starlight, the dark eyes shone. <br />
“How in the world did she come here?” exclaimed the captain.<br />
“I suppose,” responded the chief mate, a tall, lanky, powerful American—“I suppose she has as much right to be here as we have; at the same time, it is a little awkward.”<br />
“Santon," said the captain, " I wish I had never gone in for this cursed business. It weighs on my mind morning, noon, and night." <br />
“But you have gone in for it, so there is an end of it. Tomorrow we must get aboard that old hulk to make sure it's all right." <br />
“We are a great deal too close to her for safety. Should a storm come up there would be a great risk.”<br />
"There won't be any storm to-night. I'm going to turn in; the lambs are safe enough."<br />
As Santon spoke a noise was heard, accompanied every now and then by groans. He ran below, and then shrieks resounded in the clear air.<br />
The captain paced the deck, his brow clouded. "I hate the whole business," he muttered, "and now I am completely in that devil Santon's power."<br />
He looked towards the hulk. Was it his imagination, or did the eyes of the figure-head gleam? It must be the moonlight shining on them. He was getting absurdly nervous. He walked up and down, faster and faster. But at each turn his gaze was fascinated by the figure-head; he could have sworn the eyes looked into his with malicious triumph.<br />
"By daybreak I board that hulk," he said. " Who would have thought of finding an old man-of-war in this, the very loneliest spot of Central America?”<br />
<br />
<b>Chapter II: The fetish man</b><br />
Captain Wilson's sleep was troubled. His dreams were vivid, so vivid that in the morning he could not persuade himself that had not in the spirit visited the land of his visions.<br />
He thought that he was in the Congo country, where every house was stuck inside and out with fetishes. There were figures of men, their bodies covered with bits of iron, feathers, and old rags, looking like scarecrows. There were red, round balls of cloth, in which the priests had sewn a strong medicine ; there were strings of poison beans, padlocks with a cowrie set in them, iron-tipped poles, birds’ beaks and claws, skins of snakes and leopards.<br />
In his sleep Wilson was conscious that he shared the faith of these people; he believed with them that idols and talismans averted ill luck, destroyed enemies, were of sovereign power. One fetish especially attracted his attention—a horrible figure carved in the crudest style, with misshapen limbs, enormous mouth and ears, staring round eyes. He dreaded this image even more than the figure-head with the calm handsome Asiatic features. As he gazed a party of natives came forward bowing low before the horrible fetish, and finally seating themselves on the ground. A tall man now advanced; his head-dress was of feathers, snakes hung from his girdle, a necklace encircled his throat. He began to dance until frenzy took possession of him; he <br />
… <br />
<i>Missing segment: page 519, where Captain Wilson, having woken from his dream of the Congo and tribal magic, rows the schooner's dinghy over to investigate the derelict ship</i>.<br />
...<br />
recall whether in former days men-of-war were ever sent to these regions. The captain's large cabins looked horribly desolate; what had been chintz hangings were partly devoured by rats, the furniture was piled up in the middle as if it had been ransacked. The wardrooms and gunrooms were in even worse condition.<br />
“Perhaps there was a storm and the crew took to the boats; perhaps the men mutinied; perhaps the ship got into this bay and could not get out again,” he mused. “Pshaw! Why should I trouble my head about what happened so many years ago?”<br />
But his heart stood still when he suddenly heard a loud noise as of a heavy body descending on the deck over his head. A cold dew broke out on his forehead, for some one was uttering words in a dialect totally unknown to him.<br />
He braced up his courage and called out "Who's there?"<br />
It was Sambo, his black servant, dripping wet. He had swum from the schooner.<br />
"Why do you dog my footsteps in this way?" asked the skipper. The black raised his arm and pointed down to the figure-head; no reply could have alarmed Wilson so much. “I will have an answer,” he said loudly.<br />
“In my own country I fetish man.”<br />
Leave the vessel this moment," Wilson exclaimed; "you can return in the same manner as you came, and if you go out of the schooner again without permission from me, Mr. Santon shall look after you." <br />
He meant no empty threat; there was not one amongst the ship's company that did not dread Santon, but on this occasion the black laughed and repeated, “In my own country I fetish man.”<br />
He jumped over the side as he spoke, and, with a sigh of relief, Wilson regained the dinghey. A few strokes of the oars brought him to his own vessel, but not before he had time to ponder over the sudden appearance of Sambo and ask himself what it meant especially in connection with his dream of the night before.<br />
“Hullo, Captain!” exclaimed Santon, “you look uncommon gloomy. What did you see yonder?”<br />
“Nothing at all. She is quite empty and deserted. But I will have the anchor up at once: we are too close, as I said last night; we must get away far as possible before we anchor again.”<br />
“It will be terrible waste of work,” rejoined the chief the chief mate; “we are only here for one day to get water, and we are safe enough for the present.”<br />
"I will have it done," returned the skipper in a tone that Santon knew admitted of no dispute, for he was now in a state of excitement and rage rare to him.<br />
At this moment Sambo clambered up the chains and appeared at the bow, ruining the appearance of the clean deck as he shook himself like a dog.<br />
Santon came forward and was about to use vile language, for the captain would never allow a rope's end to be used on his own servant, when to his astonishment Wilson called out, “Give him half a dozen for spoiling the look of the deck.”<br />
The order was obeyed, although Santon said at the conclusion of the punishment, “She isn’t a dandy yacht now, skipper.”<br />
Sambo bore the lashes in silence, but as he passed Wilson he said in a low voice, “Very good, Massa; I no forget.”<br />
<br />
<b>Chapter III: An awful warning</b><br />
The crew went ashore, the casks were filled; the schooner would have gone on her way had this been possible. But there was not a breath of air. The haze of the day before hung over the bay, the stillness was even more brooding and intense, the heat was glaring. But in spite of the soft mist, as nightfall came on again the eyes of the figure-head began to glow and glare into those of Wilson; again the same unreasoning terror took possession of him. He called up Forbes, the second mate, who was as unimaginative man as ever lived.<br />
“Look at that figure-head and tell me if you see anything strange about it,” said the skipper.<br />
"The only thing I see strange about it is that it's a nigger; it's a disgrace to an English vessel to have a nigger figure-head," replied the second mate, replied the second mate, whose contempt for all coloured races was unbounded.<br />
"It isn't a nigger, it's a Hindu. Look again!”<br />
“One's as bad as another. No, I see nothing remarkable at all."<br />
As he turned away Sambo came forward, whispering in the captain's ear, "Some people like log of wood, they no see, they no hear. Dog know more than he.”<br />
He pointed to Wilson’s dog, who was trembling, his hair bristling in affright. “I tell you,” continued the man, “same devil in him as in fetish man in my country,” and once more pointed to the figure-head making some strange passes with his hands.<br />
“I tell you what it is, Sambo,” said Wilson, speaking in low suppressed tones, “I’m sorry I had you flogged this morning, for you have been a good servant to me; but if you go on in this way I will order you four dozen, and see that you get them, too." <br />
“If I hab four dozen four times over I say same thing,” Sambo rejoined before disappearing. Wilson looked up. He cold have sworn the eyes of the figure-head were flaming; the light reached his own as the rays of a candle reach those who regard it from a distance.<br />
The next day the same stillness prevailed, and the next day again. More water was obtained, but the schooner could not be moved. Wilson’s nerve had now completely given way; he ordered the sweeps to be manned, and said he would leave the bay. But to this course both Santon and Forbes strongly objected. <br />
"I know the coast," said the former, "and if there isn't a mighty storm brewing I know nothing. What chance do you suppose this craft would have on the coast outside? In here we are sheltered. Do you want to drown us all?”<br />
So the skipper withdrew his order, but all sleep had now left him. He spent the whole of the night on deck, his eyes seldom removed from the figure-head. An uncomfortable influence pervaded the vessel ; the men, who were mostly Catholics, muttered and crossed themselves; with the exception of the mates and Sambo, all were anxious to leave the bay. And each night the same groans and shrieks resounded from below.<br />
<br />
<b>Chapter IV: Retribution</b><br />
Yet one more sultry day of oppressive calm, and then came a change. Instead of being bright blue, the water assumed a dull, dark, awful hue of green and grey. It was motionless, but the colour alarmed the men ; they said it looked as if the end of the world was at hand. Even those who know the sea well seldom observe this appearance more than once or twice in a lifetime, and both Santon and Forbes were uneasy. But the captain declared that he alone would keep watch throughout the entire night, and the mates went below. The figure-head was now menacing. At last Wilson could bear it no longer. As soon as all was quiet below he dropped over the side and swam to the hulk.<br />
His terror was so great that it gave him courage ; nothing could be worse than his present situation, he thought. He would endeavour to grapple with this demon and demand of him what he wanted.<br />
He ascended the deck with the calm of a man who feels that he has nothing further to lose, when once more a dreadful feeling overcame him. Something—It—some unseen Power was advancing towards him.<br />
“What do you want?” he managed to ask.<br />
“I want from you the lives of the men you have already murdered, the lives of those men and women you are now murdering.”<br />
“I have murdered no one,” said Wilson.<br />
“How about the men who died during the former infamous voyages of your vessel? You murdered them as surely as if you had been on board yourself, as surely as you are know murdering those poor wretches through want of air, bad food, and cruelty."<br />
"I abhor what I have done; I will release them," replied the skipper, the horror of that dim shapeless something overcoming him; "I have always hated what I was forced to do."<br />
"No man is forced to do evil. Restitution comes too late; you are a doomed man. Look yonder.”<br />
He looked. One of the volcanic mountains behind him was in eruption; there was a blaze of fire, a roar of thunder, then once more complete stillness.<br />
"Go back whence you came,” said the awful voice. “You are a doomed man.”<br />
Wilson needed no second command to return. He ran to the side, scrambling into the water he knew not how, and regained his own vessel. He called up the chief mate.<br />
"Santon," he said vehemently, " I will go to the nearest port and release these poor wretches." <br />
“And so sure as you do so I will put that forged bill into your father's hands, and I will ruin you with the girl you love and hope to marry.”<br />
“It was for her sake I did it," returned Wilson, "because I was in difficulties, and you tempted me, like the devil you are. Whatever the consequences to myself I now withdraw, for we are, as I was told just now, murderers.”<br />
“Who told you such rot?”<br />
But Wilson made no reply.<br />
“Cargo after cargo of these people have been taken and safely deposited, and are being made to work. We shall become enormously wealthy. The risk has been very great, but, allow me to remind you that although you took no part in the actual capture of the slaves and have not sailed with them before, everything has been done in your name. You are owner and master, and the law would punish you far more heavily than it would us.”<br />
“Let it; I will do as I have said.”<br />
“Then your name will be held up to execration throughout England; while if you hold your tongue and go on with the work you can retired in a year or two’s time as rich as Crœsus, and I will tear up the bill. I’ll do that now if you like and will promise to go on, for I know you keep your word. Your yacht came in uncommon handy and I owe you something.”<br />
“You know as well as I do that it is illegal to keep slaves.”<br />
“The law doesn’t come to the parts we settle in. Slaves, bless you? Hired servants, most comfortable and happy. You <i>shall</i> go on.”<br />
“I will sooner be hanged than do it,” retorted Wilson, whose courage had now returned. " I will get out of this place, and go to the nearest civilised port, set these men and women at liberty, and then and there tell all I know."<br />
"And hanged you will certainly be."<br />
But further parley was put an end to by a loud and awful explosion. The crew rushed on deck, the unhappy captives below shrieked. Sambo alone seemed unmoved; he stood in the bow, his eyes gleaming with joy.<br />
The volcano was spouting into the air a column of black smoke, fire, and an immense body of stones; the sea began to be troubled, the schooner trembled in every plank. The clothes of those on deck were soon white with fine ash, which fell on deck with a noise like the sprinkling of rain. There was blue vapour from the crater, sheets of flame, then a moment of stillness.<br />
Then a horrible phenomenon occurred. It was morning, but suddenly the vessel was enveloped in darkness. The crew, sure that the end of the world had come, sank on their knees, and began to utter such frenzied prayers as they could recall. Then a terrific cloud advanced from the sea, accompanied by a violent wind. The cloud became fiery red, thunder crashed, the lightning was awful. Rain fell in torrents, but it was no ordinary rain; it was brilliant red, and the men declared it was blood. The darkness had lifted, and on shore they could see the leaves and grass all stained crimson.<br />
"It is because of those people that died on the voyage," said the crew; "it is their blood.” They threw themselves on the deck in abject terror, but Wilson was calm, his face was grand in its resignation. “The hour has come,” he said, “ and it is better than being hanged or imprisoned for life."<br />
Then for a moment he thought yearningly of the girl he loved, of his old father who loved him, of his honoured name, and as he did so he glanced at the figure-head, which was calm and expressionless. The volcano was now sending forth streams of fire; with every burst loud crashes were heard. Suddenly there was a shock of earthquake, the sea began to upheave , enormous billows rolled in. The schooner broke from her moorings; she was caught in the edge of a whirlpool caused by the earthquake. Another loud crash, another violent shock, and the hulk, which had remained motionless for so long, broke loose also. Slowly both vessels began to spin round, then faster and faster. Sambo at the bow of one, the Asiatic at the bow of the other, apparently looked into one another's eyes ; the eyes of both were glowing. They were sucked further within the whirlpool, faster and faster they spun round, faster, faster still—then came a crash, and both sank into the same watery grave.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/mrs-harcourt-roe.html"><b>A. Harcourt Roe</b></a><br />
<b>(Originally published in<i> Temple Bar</i>, Vol. 124, page 517 D, 1901)</b>.<br />
<br />
- Ray Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-68708119746698397142015-05-23T03:08:00.000-07:002015-05-24T06:25:59.100-07:00The Sacrifice of Enid: a Dartmoor melodrama<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZ6nXEgqmmHnTnmrqDhR5y-1xrVzyaKyABy4wFjC_3JRjsM7zaesZyH9VpkD2PyAj2-Z5oYlHhTGldHcWFQ4Zn7vvHCMvf8BZhjmp_GQCpV-feZzvlcXjs0nOqDbunWpe1_yQAX4FTw/s1600/Wallis_The_Stonebreaker_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZ6nXEgqmmHnTnmrqDhR5y-1xrVzyaKyABy4wFjC_3JRjsM7zaesZyH9VpkD2PyAj2-Z5oYlHhTGldHcWFQ4Zn7vvHCMvf8BZhjmp_GQCpV-feZzvlcXjs0nOqDbunWpe1_yQAX4FTw/s1600/Wallis_The_Stonebreaker_small.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>The Sacrifice of Enid </b>(1909) is a romantic melodrama - one, I think, with a strong thematic hat-tip to <i>The Hound of the Baskervilles</i> - set around a paper mill in the fictional Dartmoor village of Willowbridge. I'm just compiling a bio-bibliography for the author, "Mrs Harcourt Roe", who lived in Ryde, Isle of Wight, in the 1890s and wrote several novels (again, more than appear at first sight). Pending that, here's a sampler of one of them.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
The central plotline of <i>The Sacrifice of Enid</i> is that the scheming Louise Ormonde has set her sights on Ronald Westlake, son of the mill
owner. Jealous of his growing friendship with a young woman called Enid
(who, for her own reasons, is going incognito as "Mary Williams"),
Louise contrives to frame Ronald for the crime of aiding Enid's convict lover in
escaping from Dartmoor Prison.<br />
According to a news item in the Literary, dramatic, and musical notes section of <i>The Author</i>, Vol. XVIII, June 1st, 1908, Mrs Harcourt Roe sold the novel to the Northern Newspaper Syndicate, which generally handled British newspaper syndication. However, for whatever reason it seems only to have seen publication in Australia, in the Adelaide-based <i>Observer</i>, where it ran as a 13-issue serial in the summer of 1909.<br />
<br />
You can read it online via the National Library of Australia's <b>Trove</b> archive:<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116469"><b>Saturday 24 July 1909, page 10</b></a>: I - Her request / II - A curious resting place. </li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116529"><b>Saturday 31 July 1909, page 10</b></a>: III - Dartmoor. </li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116589"><b>Saturday 7 August 1909, page 10</b></a>: III (Continued) / IV - The factory.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116649"><b>Saturday 14 August 1909, page 10</b></a>: V - The typist's office / VI - Arrangements.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116709"><b>Saturday 21 August 1909, page 10</b></a>: VI (continued) / VII - A declaration / VIII - The chief butler / IX - Alarm. </li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19116769"><b>Saturday 28 August 1909, page 10</b></a>: X - Henry Jackson<b> / </b>XI - His arrival.<b><br /></b></li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841699"><b>Saturday 4 September 1909, page 10</b></a>: XII - His conduct / XIII - Sir Thomas Tredale.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841759"><b>Saturday 11 September 1909, page 10</b></a>: XIII (Continued) / XIV - An important interview / XV - A gloomy outlook / XVI - Satan's suggestion. </li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841820"><b>Saturday 18 September 1909, page 11</b></a>: XVI - (Continued) / XVII - Flight.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841878"><b>Saturday 25 September 1909, page 9</b></a>: XVIII - Danger / XIX - Search / XX - The terror that walked by night.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19841942"><b>Saturday 2 October 1909, page 9</b></a>: XXI - A cat's paw / XXII - A lonely bride / XXIII - The wedding.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19842000"><b>Saturday 9 October 1909, page 11</b></a>: XXIV - Her honeymoon / XXV - Escape or capture / XXVI - His escape / XXVII - Explanation / XXVIII - Awaiting the trial.</li>
<li><a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page19842060"><b>Saturday 16 October 1909, page 11</b></a>: XXIX - The trial / XXX - The verdict / XXXI - Ronald's fate. </li>
</ul>
<b>The Sacrifice of Enid. (1909, July 24 - October 16). <i>Observer </i>(Adelaide, SA : 1905 - 1931). Retrieved May 23, 2015 from National Library of Australia <a href="http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper">Trove</a> digitised newspaper database</b>.<br />
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- RayRay Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-37461271312500707562015-05-21T15:58:00.002-07:002015-05-21T21:15:54.315-07:00Harriet Parr: bibliography, "Tuflongbo", and a dog's life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harriet Parr</td></tr>
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While we're on Shanklin topics: I've expanded the 2014 <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/harriett-parr-in-shanklin.html"><b>Harriet Parr in Shanklin</b></a> post to include a detailed bibliography, and I'm also delighted to say that I've finally found a portrait of her! Parr is another of those low-key writers who've turned out to be astonishingly prolific (in her case mostly as the pseudonymous "Holme Lee"). En route, I encountered her mid-career children's stories such as the odd "Tuflongbo" elf-saga, and the canine tear-jerker <i>The true pathetic history of Poor Match.</i> I'll only inflict the pictures on you.<br />
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<b>The atmosphere of the "Tuflongbo" stories is strange</b>. The text starts off very gently as nursery fantasy with twee botanical names, but once Tuflongbo turns up - I can only describe him as a kind of elf <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allan_Quatermain">Allan Quatermain</a> - the characters subsequently get into a lot of hard-edged politics, exploration and battles (not to mention an encounter with "Electrical Serpentes"). The costume of W Sharpe's artwork is a weird mix of mediaeval and Highland ghillie (it reminds me of the faux-mediaeval <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eglinton_Tournament_of_1839">Eglinton Tournament</a> of 1839). It's really hard to tell what readership it's aimed at, with its blend of the highly robust - characters do get killed - and the completely innocent. Some contemporary reviews say it's allegory of some sort, but I don't really see that; it doesn't seem to have the sustained identification of character with concept that goes with allegory.<br />
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Whatever Harriet Parr intended by it all, the Tuflongbo stories certainly made an impression on the Scottish lawyer, criminologist and crime writer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Roughead">William Roughead</a> (1870–1952) who commented on Tuflongbo's world in his 1939 <i>Neck or Nothing</i>:<br />
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Most prized of all, by reason of being my first love, was Holme Lee's <i>Fairy Tales</i>. I have the book still, and unless old affection blinds me, I esteem it one of the best and most original of its kind ever written for the delight of deserving childhood.<br />
Why such masterpieces should have been suffered to go out of print, and have to be sought for like Elizabethan quartos, I cannot tell. I know not what form of intellectual pabulum is nowadays provided for the sustainment of our young. Doubtless they would find but little savour in these old-fashioned feasts, which I was wont to devour with gusto. For the drone of no aeroplane ever disturbs the silence of the Forbidden Forest; the Granite Castle is innocent alike of sanitation, wireless, and central heating; and there are neither tubes nor escalators in the Underground City. Tuflongbo's journey, while beset by most engaging perils, does not expose him to the common daily risk of being slain or mangled by some ruthless or incomplete motorist. Even more damning than such defects, the heroes and heroines of these tales are, like the angels, refreshingly unconcerned with Sex, whether in its physical, fictional, or filmic aspects.<br />
- William Roughead, <i>Neck or Nothing</i> (Cassell, 1939). </blockquote>
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Maybe Roughead read an edition without illustrations, because that's far from the impression I get. Tuflongbo and his companion Hawkweed, who go exploring in tweed and collar-and-tie, look more to me like upper-middle-class 19th-century gentlemen transplanted into the world of fairy tale. <i>The Contemporary Review</i> for 1868 spotted this clash of genres.<br />
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<b><i>Tuflongbo's Life and Adventures</i></b>. By Holme Lee.<br />
<i><b>Tuflongbo and Little Content</b></i>. By Holme Lee. London: F. Warne & Co.<br />
Allegory is perhaps the most difficult of all forms of fiction. The temptation to strain points for the sake of completeness is great, and very often the necessity of humanizing, through consciously pressing upward and forward a moral lesson, has the effect of so cutting nature in twain, that neither man nor child could preserve interest through the long detail in which all seems forced save the inner purpose. Now Holme Lee's exquisitely easy, graceful manner of writing, and her minute knowledge of natural history, saves her from too obviously falling into this fault. Yet Tuflongbo, tho offspring of Mulberry and Lupine, will not claim interest from the children so much as even the old pilgrim of Bunyan, because here we have two lines of interest running parallel, and disputing the claim of each other on our notice. The books are a sort of crosses between the "Water Babies" and "Dealings with the Fairies." On the whole, we prefer " Tuflongbo's Life;" there is less straining in it, and some of the touches are very clever. The books are beautifully illustrated, and should meet with favour.<br />
- Notices of Books, <i>The Contemporary Review</i>, Vol. 7, February 1868).</blockquote>
Anyway, on to the images:<br />
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<li><i><b>The Wonderful Adventures of Tuflonbo and His Elfin Company in Their Journey with Little Content Through the Enchanted Forest</b></i> (1861) - (London: Smith, Elder and Co, Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/wonderfuladvent00parrgoog">wonderfuladvent00parrgoog</a>).</li>
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Tuflongbo's adventures continue in the prequel, <i>Tuflongbo's journey in search of ogres</i>, illustrated in very Victorian style by H Sanderson, a regular book and magazine illustrator of the period. It tells of Tuflongbo's school-of-hard-knocks upbringing and education. While the picture style is a little different, there's still far more of the grizzled Victorian gentleman explorer to Tuflongbo than elf.<br />
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The <i>Athenæum</i> liked the Tuflongbo stories a little more than<i> The Contemporary Review</i> did. But the reviewer still mentioned the incongruously sophisticated elements, such as Tuflongbo's trial for high treason, and fairies who act "like the reasonable and rational beings we meet with in the novels of Miss Young and Miss Sewel" [<i>sic - I assume deliberate misspellings of Yonge and Sewell</i>].
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><i>The Wonderful Adventures of Tuflongbo and his Elfin Company in their Journey with Little Content through the Enchanted Forest</i></b>. By Holme Lee. With Illustrations. (Smith, Elder 8 Co.)</blockquote>
<blockquote>
We may as well make our confession before we begin our criticism. We took up these ‘Adventures of Tuflongbo‘ with a great contempt for <i>parvenu</i> fairies and new settlers in fairyland, where we spent the days of our childhood; indeed, we were honoured with the intimate companionship of all the real old fairies and their god-children. ‘We were brought up amongst the fairies of the ancien régime, and we were not disposed to transfer our But we gradually became interested in the fortunes of the heroic Tuflongbo, though he came of quite a modern family, and was nothing like such a fine gentleman as the beautiful Prince in ‘The White Cat,’ or Prince Riquet with the Tuft, or Prince Fortunatus; indeed, he was quite vulgarly able to take care of himself, and did not need a fairy godmother at all. But his adventures interested us more and more as we went on; and though we are old enough to have known better, we confess that from the moment we began to read we never laid down the book until we came to the last page; and we like Tuflongbo quite as well as any of the ancient old heroes of fairy tales, and we hope he never came to any harm, and we would be very glad to hear more about him, and we hope Holme Lee will make haste and tell us about his further history. Holme Lee may be satisfied with her day's work; for she has written a very charming book, full of fancy and good feeling; and most readers will feel regret when they come to the end of it: nevertheless, we have a little criticism to offer. In the first place, there are too many characters, and the incidents are confused. The story would have been better if it had been broken up into several stories. The journey through the Enchanted Forest of Stone is very good, though it gets too much into allegory; but after the adventurers get back to fairyland the story becomes confused and rather heavy. The trial of Tuflongbo for high treason is not managed according to the precedents of fairy tales; it might be the report of a case in the Central Criminal Court. In the latter part there are too many allusions to incidents and personages of other stories; and readers like to feel that they have a complete story; it is not treating them well to allude to matters which do not enter into the story before them. It is like talking of family affairs before visitors, and making them feel they are strangers. There is no poetical justice executed upon Aunt Spite and Lobelia; and we need not remark that in fairy tales we expect the strictest punishment for the wicked characters. It would be an improvement if Holme Lee would forget that she is writing in the nineteenth century, and make her fairies a little less like the reasonable and rational beings we meet with in the novels of Miss Young and Miss Sewell. Fairies and the dwellers in fairyland have always been a peculiar people; but their morals were of the very simplest, and their chroniclers had a. simplicity and unconsciousness of intention, which is one great point in which the old fairy tales and old nursery rhymes surpass, in grace and attraction, all that have followed in their track. It will be observed that we have not said one word to give an idea of what the story is about. We should consider it a breach of confidence; and no persuasion shall induce us to tell what readers may learn for themselves.<br />
- <i>The Athenæum: A Journal of Literature, Science, the Fine Arts</i> (No. 1781, December 14, 1861No. 1781, December 14, 1861).</blockquote>
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<br />
<ul>
<li><i><b>Tuflongbo's journey in search of ogres</b></i> (1862) - "with six illustrations by H. Sanderson" - Internet Archive <a href="https://archive.org/details/tuflongbosjourn00parrgoog">tuflongbosjourn00parrgoog</a>). </li>
</ul>
On acquaintance so far, I think I'll leave <i>Legends From Fairy Land: Narrating The History Of Prince Glee and Princess Trill</i> and <i>Holme Lee's Fairy Tales</i> for another time...<br />
<br />
<b><i>The true pathetic history of Poor Match</i></b> is a bit mis-sold. It's not at all the relentless tragedy the original title suggests - probably why they changed it for the later Warne edition - but actually a very readable, and frequently amusing, picaresque cradle-to-grave story of a dog's life (with four illustrations by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Crane">Walter Crane</a>, one of the iconic children's book illustrators of the era). But the feisty dog protagonist does die at the end, and we get an elegy.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
POOR MICK <br />
Died, April 20, 1853. Greengates, <br />
<br />
Poor Mick is dead! Alas! for poor old Mick,<br />
The wisest dog, the faithfulest, the best!<br />
Tramps, you are free to come without a stick,<br />
Your steadfast foe lies there, for aye at rest.<br />
Your rags may flutter loosely in the blast,<br />
They won't disturb his dignity down there;<br />
His crusty voice has barked its very last;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You're free to come and go without a care.<br />
...<br />
- <i><b>Poor Match: his life, adventures and death</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(London: Frederick Warne edition., 1870?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Google Books <a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=Z8IBAAAAQAAJ">Z8IBAAAAQAAJ</a>) </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Anyhow, check out the <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/harriett-parr-in-shanklin.html"><b>Harriet Parr in Shanklin</b></a> post for the bibliography update at the end. It came as a surprise to me both in its sheer extent, and, considering that Parr (aka Holme Lee) is now a moderately obscure writer, that the vast majority of her known works turn out to be findable online. Some of her books - notably <i>Against Wind and Tide</i> (1859) and <i>For Richer, for Poorer</i> (1870) - use highly identifiable Shanklin settings, disguised only in name. Fans of Isle of Wight topographical connections in fiction might find the whole corpus worth a skim.<br />
<br />
- Ray
Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8937414969460147900.post-90583154652442891932015-05-20T07:57:00.000-07:002015-05-23T09:45:25.282-07:00Shanklin Home of Rest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioCXji_57lAZfpUM75-SsGL9kREBVcVTwpwoFkky2Khl-H29KQg4bkTrzrG4JI6hXPT3Nug5I_2m0l07COlKhENkYBkSN9djeTnwSB9J4BBsy_cpWBFnQ6Yq7uhwfQRTmVoX-Q4hVvNw/s1600/shanklinhomeofrest00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioCXji_57lAZfpUM75-SsGL9kREBVcVTwpwoFkky2Khl-H29KQg4bkTrzrG4JI6hXPT3Nug5I_2m0l07COlKhENkYBkSN9djeTnwSB9J4BBsy_cpWBFnQ6Yq7uhwfQRTmVoX-Q4hVvNw/s1600/shanklinhomeofrest00.jpg" /></a></div>
Further to the previous post, I checked out <b>Shanklin Home of Rest</b> as planned. Its history turns out to be quite well-documented. But I'm always of the opinion that there's never any harm in another take on a topic - especially as this, it turns out, ties in with a previous Shanklin post on JSBlog.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oAGnK6eUogDQEBD2kOeY_uO7JNBYzV9I88YxSMy5z68fpqK8vXBT7oxt0ghp-qSPlcKVh9WKb5D7mpYdKc9hU0Uwk2GxXckGkLvomyuehnLaB2TaWTN5cFjWLosVYIaUAZmqG51Iew/s1600/shanklinhomeofrest01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oAGnK6eUogDQEBD2kOeY_uO7JNBYzV9I88YxSMy5z68fpqK8vXBT7oxt0ghp-qSPlcKVh9WKb5D7mpYdKc9hU0Uwk2GxXckGkLvomyuehnLaB2TaWTN5cFjWLosVYIaUAZmqG51Iew/s400/shanklinhomeofrest01.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://maps.nls.uk/index.html">National Library of Scotland Map Images</a></b><br />
Low-resolution screenshot for non-commercial illustration purposes<br />
<b><a href="http://maps.nls.uk/geo/explore/sidebyside.cfm#zoom=18&lat=50.6404&lon=-1.1699&layers=171&right=BingHyb">Click here for high-res comparison images</a></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
An immediate observation is that the building complex that was the former Home of Rest - at Lake, between Sandown and Shanklin - still exists. It's above Hope Beach, adjacent to the zigzag descent at Little Stairs, the only beach access route at Lake. The complex is now <a href="http://www.ymca-fg.org/for-groups/isle-of-wight-2/">YMCA Winchester House</a>, a YMCA accommodation centre with various community functions such as nursery and pre-school services. It original function, however, was as an affiliate branch of a different organisation, the <a href="http://www.gfsplatform.org.uk/our-history.php">Girls' Friendly Society</a>.<br />
<br />
Although both Shanklin Home of Rest and <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/ferny-bank-house-of-rest-for-women-in.html">Ferny Bank House of Rest for Women in Business</a>
in Babbacombe provided affordable holidays for working women, they had a
rather different basis. Ferny Bank was an independent venture of
specific - if not idiosyncratic - intake: 'blue-collar' working women
who weren't too genteel (no governesses), nor too downmarket (no
domestic servants). The Girls' Friendly Society, which ran Shanklin
House of Rest, had a much broader membership: in its early days,
primarily young women who were domestic servants, teachers, nurses,
clerks, students, and factory/warehouse workers.<br />
<br />
I haven't been able to find a very early prospectus, but the 1903 <i>Burdett</i> shows the infrastructure: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Shanklin, Isle of Wight</b>.—<b>Home of Rest</b>.—Opened 1893. <i>Patroness</i>.—Princess Henry of Battenberg. <i>Patron</i>.—The Bishop of Winchester. <i>President</i>.—Sir Wyndham S. Portal, Bart. <i>Treasurer</i>.—Rev. A.G. Joyce. <i>Hon. Secretary</i>.—Miss Lee, The Rectory, Botley, Hants. <i>Hon. Med. Staff</i>.—J. Groves, E.S. Thomson, R.A. Gibbons, J.H. Morgan and J. Ellis. <i>House Phys</i>.—Charles Fryer. <i>Lady Superintendent</i>.—Miss Willoughby. <i>Beds</i>.—73. <i>Inmates</i>.—856. <i>Income</i> (1901-1902).—£2624. <i>Expenditure</i>.—Ordinary, £2497; Extraordinary, £256. <i>Terms</i>.—For women and girls over 8; single bedrooms, £1 1s. to £1. 5s. a week; cubicle rooms, 13s. a week with subscriber’s letter; 15s. Without (G.F.S. Members 1s. less); Dormitories, 7s. 6d. with letter; 11s. without (G.F.S. 2s. 6d. Less). Hospital patients in Winchester diocese, 6s. 6d. London cases admitted. <i>Subscribers’ privileges</i>.—Subscribers are entitled to send one patient for every £1 1s. Subscribed. Donors of £21 = subscribers of £1 1s. The Home takes girls for industrial training from 13, at 5s., and over 14, at 4s. Per week, for a period of not less than 6 months. <i>Duration of stay</i>.—1 to 6 weeks. <br />
- page 665, Convalescent homes, <i>Burdett's Hospitals and Charities</i>, 1903.</blockquote>
The 1914 <i>The Englishwoman's Year Book and Directory</i> lists the much wider disparity in costs once the Home of Rest included upmarket residents staying in a separate wing.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Shanklin, Isle of Wight – Home of Rest. With letter, 5s.; without, 8s. to 30s ... A few gentlewomen at 30s</blockquote>
There are, naturally, contemporary newspaper accounts of the 1893 opening of the Home of Rest.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
SHANKLIN<br />
OPENING OF THE SHANKLIN HOME OF REST BY T.R.H. THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF CONNAUGHT.<br />
A MUNIFICENT GIFT.<br />
On Saturday afternoon Shanklin was <i>en fete</i>, the interesting event being the opening ceremony with the Home of Rest, at Shanklin, built on the cliff, and furnished through the munificence of Mrs. Harvey, at a cost of around £12,000. Prior to the arrival of T.R.H., the Rev. W.H. Nutter, M.A. (Vicar of St. Paul’s, Newport), gave an organ recital in the chapel. The Misses Nutter, too, assisted in the carrying out of the musical programme. The Shanklin Town Band played selections at intervals during the afternoon. The following information, anent the new building, will not be without interest to our readers:—the donor has presented the building to the Winchester Diocese Council of the Girls’ Friendly Society. It is intended for the reception of ladies and others who need rest and change of air, particularly for members of the G.F.S. convalescents from hospitals in the Diocese of Winchester. Beautiful for situation on the cliff, the home is substantially built in three blocks, and contains seventy-three beds besides accommodation for the necessary staff. A chapel, which contains an organ, has been erected at the end of the principal corridor. A verandah more than 100 feet in length (closed at each end) on both the ground, and first floor facing the sea forms a delightfully sheltered promenade. <br />
THE ISLE OF WIGHT, <i>The Hampshire Advertiser</i> (Southampton, England), Wednesday, May 24, 1893; pg. 4; Issue 4899. 19th Century British Library Newspapers: Part II.</blockquote>
I haven't quoted it in full. If you want to know a lot more - who attended, what was said at the speeches, etc - the above is the source to go for, along with SHANKLIN HOME OF REST - <i>Hampshire Telegrap</i>h and <i>Sussex Chronicle</i> etc (Portsmouth, England), Saturday, May 27, 1893.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYc97NpJ1dGRHUJojIdghCSPpKv_gWQGfe4sQTuqQrGDw2Cor1-cj7c6doHCwdxrzMIQtUlNeD51fZ_LEh3Lq478MeI8GWQ4ltMsVQNhVPG-WRM7MK77qwc-kjwVwTArzT7gbvVZRSQ/s1600/shanklinhomeofrest02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYc97NpJ1dGRHUJojIdghCSPpKv_gWQGfe4sQTuqQrGDw2Cor1-cj7c6doHCwdxrzMIQtUlNeD51fZ_LEh3Lq478MeI8GWQ4ltMsVQNhVPG-WRM7MK77qwc-kjwVwTArzT7gbvVZRSQ/s400/shanklinhomeofrest02.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The G.F.S. Home of Rest, Shanklin, IW<br />
from found eBay postcard image<br />
unprintably low-res image reproduced as fair use</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As to further background, I won't reinvent the wheel here: childrenshomes.org.uk gives the basics of the history, with photos - <a href="http://www.childrenshomes.org.uk/ShanklinGFS/">GFS Home of Rest, Shanklin, Isle of Wight</a> - and Wootton Bridge Historical has a page about the central benefactor, <a href="http://woottonbridgeiow.org.uk/harveymn.php">Mrs Mary Nunn Harvey 1835 — 1897</a>. She paid for the building and furnishing of the Home of Rest, funding the project from her late father's fortune from his Newport lacemaking factory - he was also a noted philanthropist - and then donated the premises to the Girls' Friendly Society. But the plan does seem to have been slightly less linear than that. Some accounts, for instance, EF Laidlaw's 1994 book <i>A History of the Isle Of Wight Hospitals</i> (see website - <a href="http://iowhospitals.org.uk/book8.php">The Shanklin Hospitals</a>), mention that the place was originally envisaged (who by?) as a children's hospital. I wonder what the story there is? Maybe the Local Board didn't go for it; the self-funding Home of Rest, paid for by its guests, would presumably have been a financially more attractive option than supporting a children's hospital.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Mrs. Harvey, of the Cliff, Shanklin, Isle of Wight, has offered to present to the Council of the Girls' Friendly Society a substantially built house near Shanklin, standing in its own grounds of about two and a half acres, and containing 100 beds, for the purpose of a convalescent home. The only condition attached to the gift is a ground rent of £40, to provide from which a guarantee fund of £800 is being raised, towards which Bro. Wyndham S. Portal has contributed £100.<br />
<div class="western">
- page 36, Masonic and General Tidings. <i>The Freemason</i>, Jan
21, 1893. </div>
</blockquote>
The same offer is reported - "A generous offer" - in the editorial correspondence section of <span class="mini"><i>The Hampshire Advertiser</i> (Southampton, England, Saturday, January 07, 1893; pg. 3), with follow-up news of its rapid acceptance - ACCEPTED WITH THANKS (A SHANKLIN LADY'S BOUNTY) <i>Hampshire Telegraph</i> and <i>Sussex Chronicle</i> etc (Portsmouth, England), Saturday, January 21, 1893 - and the meeting to establish the institution - LOCAL AND DISTRICT NEWS (A MAGNIFICENT GIFT), <i>The Hampshire Advertiser</i> (Southampton, England), Wednesday, January 18, 1893; pg. 4. The acceptance story explains the ground rent condition: to pay for the lease on the land, which was under a 999-year lease held by a Colonel Atherley.</span><br />
<br />
Mrs Harvey died, at only 62, a few years later on 11th October 1897. Her home, The Cliff, is also still extant, now as the long-established Cliff Hall Hotel; its website has a good <a href="http://cliffhallhotel.co.uk/page/about-history.html">historical summary</a>.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tbMHQAeHPgtNISP45i9N1pQ9ySKWZ04X0iDNF0y3oPlaDvuBhMWHBvo6g-6fZ5olJIXx80PIB6lCRSFoBrE40HjEpeHRAcNB1GTht2bTjqKHUmm9aWy2Ov4vrfvOoPvaoeb9J0sKmA/s1600/shanklinhomeofrest03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0tbMHQAeHPgtNISP45i9N1pQ9ySKWZ04X0iDNF0y3oPlaDvuBhMWHBvo6g-6fZ5olJIXx80PIB6lCRSFoBrE40HjEpeHRAcNB1GTht2bTjqKHUmm9aWy2Ov4vrfvOoPvaoeb9J0sKmA/s400/shanklinhomeofrest03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the conservatory at "The Cliff", Shanklin, Isle of Wight<br />
Gardeners' Chronicle, March 28, 1898</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
(Mrs Harvey was a keen horticulturalist. A <i>Gardeners' Chronicle</i> supplement for March 1898 has the above very nice image of the conservatory at her home).<br />
<br />
A 1968 <i>Isle of Wight County Press</i> feature - "75 years of service" - has a good rundown on the subsequent general history of the Home of Rest.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The original intention was for a children’s hospital, but for various reasons the plan was abandoned, and the house and its furnishings were presented to the Winchester Diocesan Council of the Girls’ Friendly Society “for the benefit of those belonging to the society and also for others who want rest and change of air." ... The house was officially handed over on May 20th, 1893 ... The Ministry of Health took over from June, 1940, until July, 1946, and the house was used as an emergency hospital. Otherwise it has remained under the control of the Girls’ Friendly Society since its opening. The original title<span class="st">—</span>Shanklin Home of Rest<span class="st">—</span>remained until 1907, when it was changed to The Home of Rest (Winchester House). The present title was adopted in September, 1952, when responsibility was handed over to the Central Council of the G.F.S. Changes come hard to some people, and the term “Home of Rest” is still frequently heard on the buses, and by passers-by. Even the ordnance survey show it as The Home of Rest on their maps.<br />
- 75 years of service, <i>IWCP</i>, Saturday, June 8, 1968 , page 10 (reproduced as fair usage, <i>Isle of Wight County Press</i> Archive <a href="http://archive.iwcp.co.uk/">archive.iwcp.co.uk</a>).</blockquote>
I found a couple of early independent descriptions of the general architecture and decor. This one's from the previous post ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
A house of rest at Shanklin, built by the
munificence of Mrs. Harvey, and presented by her to the Winchester
branch of the Girls' Friendly Society, was opened last year, and will
doubtless prove a haven of rest to many a worn and weary woman who
has found the burden of life too heavy for her. This large house,
which has seventy-three beds, in addition to the accommodation for
the staff, is intended for ladies, as well as poorer women and girls
who require change of air and quiet, and the three classes whom it is
to benefit will pay small weekly sums in proportion to their
requirements. The house is situated at the edge of the cliff, and
there are extensive views by sea and land. It is prettily decorated
and furnished. The sitting-rooms are large, and the bedrooms,
entrance hall and corridors light and airy. Along the front of the
house, and looking seaward, run two verandahs, each one hundred and
twenty-six feet long, one on the ground floor and the other on the
first floor, which will be invaluable to invalids for exercise; and
in the little chapel, with its quaint fittings of oak and its
sweet-toned organ is a stained-glass window, which diffuses a dim
religious light around. Indeed, the house has been a work of love to
the generous donor, and everything connected with it is as perfect as
possible, as she has personally superintended and taken the keenest
interest in every detail.<br />
- <i><b>Rambles Through England: Isle of Wight</b></i> (in contents as "ISLE OF WIGHT, The ... illustrated from Photographs"), <i>The Ludgate Monthly</i>, March 1894, page 502 in bound Vol VI compilation (Nov 1893 - Apr 1894).</blockquote>
... and this one from the <i>Shanklin Spa </i>guidebook - see <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/shanklin-spa.html"><b>Shanklin Spa</b></a> ... (23 March 2014) - by the pseudonymous (and so far unidentified) Shanklin writer <a href="http://jsbookreader.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/and-mysterious-monopole.html">"Monopole"</a>, who notes quite early on the detail about the Home of Rest accepting gentlewomen too.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The Home of Rest is situated between Shanklin and Sandown, but so rapid has been the growth of the town in this direction that it may rightly be considered to be an integral part of Shanklin. It is built not far from the edge of the cliffs, has a commanding view of the sea, and an approach to the beach. To the munificence of the late Mrs. Mary Nunn Harvey the Girls' Friendly Society owe this generous gift, and although it is very largely used as a Home of Rest, it is also frequented as a seaside resort by gentlewomen, who have a wing to themselves. Those whose circumstances only allow them a limited expenditure, will find here a luxurious and beautiful home, enabling them to recruit their health by payment of a moderate sum of money. It was built in 1890, and has two acres of land attached to it, the main entrance is on the north, and you will note that the reception hall is exceptionally fine. <br />
On the north of the doorway is a very pretty chapel, which contains two valuable windows. On the first floor of the Home there are several drawing rooms, &c., and the whole of the building is heated throughout with hot water. A lift has been provided, in fact the Home may be said to be fitted up with every requisite for comfort and for health. It was designed, as was the Post Office, and the Club on the Cliff, by Mr. Lewis Colenutt, to whose genius Shanklin owes its principal buildings, the architectural beauty of which meets with universal admiration. It must be conceded that this Institution is doing a vast amount of good; it will be a lasting tribute to the generosity of the donor, for its cost approaches the sum of twenty thousand pounds; it is a permanent advertisement of the salubrious climate of Shanklin, for hundreds yearly enter the portals of this well-managed Home, weary, worn or overworked, or needing rest and change, and finding it here, after a short stay return home robust and strong. <br />
<b><i>Shanklin Spa: A Guide to the Town and the Isle of Wight</i></b> ("Monopole", pub. Silsbury Bros, Shanklin, 1903 edition: Internet Archive ID <a href="https://archive.org/details/shanklinspaagui00monogoog">shanklinspaagui00monogoog</a>). </blockquote>
If you Google "Shanklin home of rest", you'll find a few galleries with images largely from early 20th century postcards. Notably:<br />
<ul>
<li><i><b>The Card Index</b></i>: <a href="http://www.thecardindex.com/postcards/shanklin-home-of-rest-idl-series-the/7841">The Chapel</a> (altar end) / <a href="http://www.thecardindex.com/postcards/shanklin-home-of-rest-martin-s-library/7842">The Chapel</a> (showing organ and altar) / <a href="http://www.thecardindex.com/postcards/shanklin-home-of-rest-idl-series-the/7843">Ladies' dining hall</a> / <a href="http://www.thecardindex.com/postcards/shanklin-home-of-rest-idl-series-the/7844">Royal Drawing Room</a> /<a href="http://www.thecardindex.com/postcards/shanklin-home-of-rest-idl-series-the/7845"> The Chapel</a> (outside view) / <a href="http://www.thecardindex.com/postcards/shanklin-home-of-rest-idl-series-the/7846">Girls' sitting room</a>. </li>
<li><a href="http://www.shanklin.shalfleet.net/"><i><b>shanklin.shalfleet.net</b></i></a>: this Shanklin gallery has a very nice Photochrome c.1910.</li>
<li><i><b>Isle of Wight Family History Society</b></i>: the <a href="http://www.isle-of-wight-fhs.co.uk/pho_sha.html">Shanklin</a> gallery has a similar one c.1905.</li>
</ul>
<i>I've excluded sites that place obtrusive copyright assertions directly on the images for no good reason. An unobtrusive watermark is fine, if you really must. But I largely take the view that long-out-of-copyright historical images belong in the public domain or at least under a Creative Commons license - not in someone's scheme to market them or to co-opt them as exclusive to a website (especially if they came from an out-of-copyright original anyway). Unless, that is, it's done by a professional organisation that provides some seriously worthwhile derivative use of the images. Such use could include high-quality prints by mail order, or high-resolution digital images with legally reliable usage terms that authors/researchers can buy into without worries about the legal status. The best companies with image-related services combine a generous and altruistic attitude to noncommercial use with excellent value-addded services for commercial use</i>.<br />
<br />
<hr />
- Ray
Ray Girvanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05556764642402680159noreply@blogger.com0