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104 Without the natural shame which creatures feel When speaking on their level, to their like. There’s many a papist she, would rather die Than own to her maid she put a ribbon on To catch the indifferent eye of such a man,— Who yet would count adulteries on her beads At holy Mary’s shrine, and never blush; Because the saints are so far off, we lose All modesty before them. Thus, to-day. ’Tis I, love Romney Leigh.’ ‘Forbear,’ I cried. ‘If here’s no muse, still less is any saint; Nor even a friend, that Lady Waldemar Should make confessions’. . ‘That’s unkindly said. If no friend, what forbids to make a friend To join to our confession ere we have done? I love your cousin. If it seems unwise To say so, it’s still foolisher (we’re frank) To feel so. My first husband left me young, And pretty enough, so please you, and rich enough, To keep my booth in May-fair with the rest To happy issues. There are marquises Would serve seven years to call me wife, I know: And, after seven, I might consider it, For there’s some comfort in a marquisate When all’s said,—yes, but after the seven years; I, now, love Romney. You put up your lip, So like a Leigh! so like him!—Pardon me, I am well aware I do not derogate

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Rh In loving Romney Leigh. The name is good, The means are excellent; but the man, the man— Heaven help us both,—I am near as mad as he, In loving such an one.’ She slowly wrung Her heavy ringlets till they touched her smile, As reasonably sorry for herself; And thus continued,— ‘Of a truth, Miss Leigh, I have not, without a struggle, come to this. I took a master in the German tongue, I gamed a little, went to Paris twice; But, after all, this love! . . . you eat of love, And do as vile a thing as if you ate Of garlic—which, whatever else you eat, Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach Reminds you of your onion! Am I coarse? Well, love’s coarse, nature’s coarse—ah there’s the rub! We fair fine ladies, who park out our lives From common sheep-paths, cannot help the crows From flying over,—we’re as natural still As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly In Lyons’ velvet,—we are not, for that, Lay-figures, like you! we have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts, As ready for distracted ends and acts As any distressed sempstress of them all That Romney groans and toils for. We catch love And other fevers, in the vulgar way. Love will not be outwitted by our wit,

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106 Nor outrun by our equipages:—mine Persisted, spite of efforts. All my cards Turned up but Romney Leigh; my German stopped At germane Wertherism; my Paris rounds Returned me from the Champs Elysées just A ghost, and sighing like Dido’s. I came home Uncured,—convicted rather to myself Of being in love. . in love! That’s coarse you’ll say I’m talking garlic.’ Coldly I replied. ‘Apologise for atheism, not love! For, me, I do believe in love, and God. I know my cousin: Lady Waldemar I know not: yet I say as much as this— Whoever loves him, let her not excuse But cleanse herself; that, loving such a man, She may not do it with such unworthy love He cannot stoop and take it.’ ‘That is said Austerely, like a youthful prophetess, Who knits her brows across her pretty eyes To keep them back from following the grey flight Of doves between the temple-columns. Dear, Be kinder with me. Let us two be friends. I’m a mere woman—the more weak perhaps Through being so proud; you’re better; as for him, He’s best. Indeed he builds his goodness up So high, it topples down to the other side, And makes a sort of badness; there’s the worst I have to say against your cousin’s best!

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Rh And so be mild, Aurora, with my worst, For his sake, if not mine.’ ‘I own myself Incredulous of confidence like this Availing him or you.’ ‘I, worthy of him? In your sense I am not so—let it pass. And yet I save him if I marry him; Let that pass too.’ ’Pass, pass, we play police Upon my cousin’s life, to indicate What may or may not pass?’ I cried. ‘He knows what’s worthy of him; the choice remains with him; And what he chooses, act or wife, I think I shall not call unworthy, I, for one.’

‘’Tis somewhat rashly said,’ she answered slow. ‘Now let’s talk reason, though we talk of love. Your cousin Romney Leigh’s a monster! there, The word’s out fairly; let me prove the fact. We’ll take, say, that most perfect of antiques, They call the Genius of the Vatican, Which seems too beauteous to endure itself In this mixed world, and fasten it for once Upon the torso of the Drunken Fawn, (Who might limp surely, if he did not dance,) Instead of Buonarroti’s mask: what then? We show the sort of monster Romney is, With gód-like virtue and heroic aims Subjoined to limping possibilities

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108 Of mismade human nature. Grant the man Twice godlike, twice heroic,—still he limps, And here’s the point we come to.’ ‘Pardon me, But, Lady Waldemar, the point’s the thing We never come to.’ ‘Caustic, insolent At need! I like you’—(there, she took my hands) ‘And now my lioness, help Androcles, For all your roaring. Help me! for myself I would not say so—but for him. He limps So certainly, he’ll fall into the pit A week hence,—so I lose him—so he is lost! And when he’s fairly married, he a Leigh, To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful birth, Starved out in London, till her coarse-grained hands Are whiter than her morals,—you, for one, May call his choice most worthy.’ ‘Married! lost! He,. . . Romney!’ ‘Ah, you’re moved at last,’ she said. ‘These monsters, set out in the open sun, Of course throw monstrous shadows: those who think Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who but he? And who but you can wonder? He has been mad, The whole world knows, since first, a nominal man, He soured the proctors, tried the gownsmen’s wits, With equal scorn of triangles and wine, And took no honours, yet was honourable. They’ll tell you he lost count of Homer’s ships

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Rh In Melbourne’s poor-bills, Ashley’s factory bills,— Ignored the Aspasia we all dared to praise, For other women, dear, we could not name Because we’re decent. Well, he had some right On his side probably; men always have, Who go absurdly wrong. The living boor Who brews your ale, exceeds in vital worth Dead Caesar who ‘stops bungholes’ in the cask; And also, to do good is excellent, For persons of his income, even to boors: I sympathise with all such things. But he Went mad upon them. . madder and more mad, From college times to these,—as, going down hill, The faster still, the farther! you must know Your Leigh by heart: he has sown his black young curls With bleaching cares of half a million men Already. If you do not starve, or sin, You’re nothing to him. Pay the income-tax, And break your heart upon’t. . he’ll scarce be touched; But come upon the parish, qualified For the parish stocks, and Romney will be there To call you brother, sister, or perhaps A tenderer name still. Had I any chance With Mister Leigh, who am Lady Waldemar, And never committed felony?’ ‘You speak Too bitterly,’ I said, ‘for the literal truth.’

‘The truth is bitter. Here’s a man who looks For ever on the ground! you must be low;

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110 Or else a pictured ceiling overhead, Good painting thrown away. For me, I’ve done What women may, (we’re somewhat limited, We modest women) but I’ve done my best. —How men are perjured when they swear our eyes Have meaning in them! they’re just blue or brown,— They just can drop their lids a little. In fact, Mine did more, for I read half Fourier through, Proudhon, Considerant, and Louis Blanc With various other of his socialists; And if I had been a fathom less in love, Had cured myself with gaping. As it was, I quoted from them prettily enough, Perhaps, to make them sound half rational To a saner man than he, whene’er we talked, (For which I dodged occasion)—learnt by heart His speeches in the Commons and elsewhere Upon the social question; heaped reports Of wicked women and penitentiaries, On all my tables, with a place for Sue; And gave my name to swell subscription-lists Toward keeping up the sun at nights in heaven, And other possible ends. All things I did, Except the impossible. . such as wearing gowns Provided by the Ten Hours’ movement! there, I stopped—we must stop somewhere. He, meanwhile, Unmoved as the Indian tortoise ’neath the world Let all that noise go on upon his back; He would not disconcert or throw me out; ’Twas well to see a woman of my class

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Rh With such a dawn of conscience. For the heart, Made firewood for his sake, and flaming up To his very face. . he warmed his feet at it; But deigned to let my carriage stop him short In park or street,—he leaning on the door With news of the committee which sate last On pickpockets at suck.’

‘You jest—you jest.’

‘As martyrs jest, dear (if you read their lives), Upon the axe which kills them. When all’s done By me,. . for him—you’ll ask him presently The colour of my hair—he cannot tell, Or answers ‘dark’ at random,—while, be sure, He’s absolute on the figure, five or ten, Of my last subscription. Is it bearable, And I a woman?’ ‘Is it reparable, Though I were a man?’ ‘I know not. That’s to prove. But, first, this shameful marriage.’ ‘Ay?’ I cried. ’Then really there’s a marriage.’ ‘Yesterday I held him fast upon it. ‘Mister Leigh,’ Said I, ‘shut up a thing, it makes more noise. ‘The boiling town keeps secrets ill; I’ve known ‘Yours since last week. Forgive my knowledge so: ‘You feel I’m not the woman of the world

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112 ‘The world thinks; you have borne with me before ‘And used me in your noble work, our work, ‘And now you shall not cast me off because ‘You’re at the difficult point, the join. ’Tis true ‘Even if I can scarce admit the cogency ‘Of such a marriage. . where you do not love ‘(Except the class), yet marry and throw your name ‘Down to the gutter, for a fire-escape ‘To future generation! it’s sublime, ‘A great example,—a true Genesis ‘Of the opening social era. But take heed; ‘This virtuous act must have a patent weight, ‘Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell, ‘Interpret it, and set it in the light, ‘And do not muffle it in a winter-cloak ‘As a vulgar bit of shame,—as if, at best, ‘A Leigh had made a misalliance and blushed ‘A Howard should know it.’ Then, I pressed him more— ‘He would not choose,’ I said, ‘that even his kin,. . ‘Aurora Leigh, even. . should conceive his act ‘Less sacrifice, more appetite.’ At which He grew so pale, dear,. . to the lips, I knew I had touched him. ‘Do you know her,’ he inquired, ‘My cousin Aurora?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, and lied, (But truly we all know you by your books) And so I offered to come straight to you, Explain the subject, justify the cause, And take you with me to Saint Margaret’s Court To see this miracle, this Marian Erle, This drover’s daughter (she’s not pretty, he swears)

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Rh Upon whose finger, exquisitely pricked By a hundred needles, we’re to hang the tie ’Twixt class and class in England,—thus, indeed, By such a presence, yours and mine, to lift The match up from the doubtful place. At once He thanked me, sighing,. . murmured to himself, ‘She’ll do it perhaps; she’s noble,’—thanked me twice, And promised, as my guerdon, to put off His marriage for a month.’ I answered then. ‘I understand your drift imperfectly. You wish to lead me to my cousin’s betrothed, To touch her hand if worthy, and hold her hand If feeble, thus to justify his match. So be it then. But how this serves your ends, And how the strange confession of your love Serves this, I have to learn—I cannot see.’

She knit her restless forehead. ‘Then, despite, Aurora, that most radiant morning name, You’re dull as any London afternoon. I wanted time,—and gained it,—wanted you, And gain you! You will come and see the girl, In whose most prodigal eyes, the lineal pearl And pride of all your lofty race of Leighs Is destined to solution. Authorised By sight and knowledge, then, you’ll speak your mind, And prove to Romney, in your brilliant way, He’ll wrong the people and posterity (Say such a thing is bad for you and me,

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114 And you fail utterly), by concluding thus An execrable marriage. Break it up, Disroot it—peradventure, presently, We’ll plant a better fortune in its place. Be good to me, Aurora, scorn me less For saying the thing I should not. Well I know I should not. I have kept, as others have, The iron rule of womanly reserve In lip and life, till now: I wept a week Before I came here.’—Ending, she was pale; The last words, haughtily said, were tremulous. This palfrey pranced in harness, arched her neck, And, only by the foam upon the bit, You saw she champed against it. Then I rose. ‘I love love: truth’s no cleaner thing than love. I comprehend a love so fiery hot It burns its natural veil of august shame, And stands sublimely in the nude, as chaste As Medicean Venus. But I know, A love that burns through veils, will burn through masks, And shrivel up treachery. What, love and lie! Nay—go to the opera! your love’s curable.’

‘I love and lie!’ she said—‘I lie, forsooth?’ And beat her taper foot upon the floor, And smiled against the shoe,—‘You’re hard, Miss Leigh, Unversed in current phrases.—Bowling-greens Of poets are fresher than the world’s highways; Forgive me that I rashly blew the dust

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Rh Which dims our hedges even, in your eyes, And vexed you so much. You find, probably, No evil in this marriage,—rather good Of innocence, to pastoralise in song: You’ll give the bond your signature, perhaps, Beneath the lady’s work,—indifferent That Romney chose a wife, could write her name, In witnessing he loved her.’ ‘Loved!’ I cried; ‘Who tells you that he wants a wife to love? He gets a horse to use, not love, I think: There’s work for wives as well,—and after, straw, When men are liberal. For myself, you err Supposing power in me to break this match. I could not do it, to save Romney’s life; And would not to save mine.’ ‘You take it so,’ She said, ‘farewell then. Write your books in peace, As far as may be for some secret stir Now obvious to me,—for, most obviously, In coming hither I mistook the way.’ Whereat she touched my hand and bent her head, And floated from me like a silent cloud That leaves the sense of thunder. I drew breath, As hard as in a sick-room. After all, This woman breaks her social system up For love, so counted—the love possible To such,—and lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white;

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116 And thus she is better, haply, of her kind, Than Romney Leigh, who lives by diagrams, And crosses out the spontaneities Of all his individual, personal life, With formal universals. As if man Were set upon a high stool at a desk, To keep God’s books for Him, in red and black, And feel by millions! What, if even God Were chiefly God by living out Himself To an individualism of the Infinite, Eterne, intense, profuse,—still throwing up The golden spray of multitudinous worlds In measure to the proclive weight and rush Of his inner nature,—the spontaneous love Still proof and outflow of spontaneous life? Then live, Aurora! Two hours afterward, Within Saint Margaret’s Court I stood alone, Close-veiled. A sick child, from an ague-fit, Whose wasted right hand gambled ’gainst his left With an old brass button, in a blot of sun, Jeered weakly at me as I passed across The uneven pavement; while a woman, rouged Upon the angular cheek-bones, kerchief torn, Thin dangling locks, and flat lascivious mouth, Cursed at a window, both ways, in and out, By turns some bed-rid creature and myself,— ‘Lie still there, mother! liker the dead dog You’ll be to-morrow. What, we pick our way, Fine madam, with those damnable small feet!

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Rh We cover up our face from doing good, As if it were our purse! What brings you here, My lady? is’t to find my gentleman Who visits his tame pigeon in the eaves? Our cholera catch you with its cramps and spasms, And tumble up your good clothes, veil and all, And turn your whiteness dead-blue.’ I looked up; I think I could have walked through hell that day, And never flinched. ‘The dear Christ comfort you,’ I said, ‘you must have been most miserable To be so cruel,’—and I emptied out My purse upon the stones: when, as I had cast The last charm in the cauldron, the whole court Went boiling, bubbling up, from all its doors And windows, with a hideous wail of laughs And roar of oaths, and blows perhaps. . I passed Too quickly for distinguishing. . and pushed A little side-door hanging on a hinge, And plunged into the dark, and groped and climbed The long, steep, narrow stair ’twixt broken rail And mildewed wall that let the plaster drop To startle me in the blackness. Still, up, up! So high lived Romney’s bride. I paused at last Before a low door in the roof, and knocked; There came an answer like a hurried dove— ‘So soon! can that be Mister Leigh? so soon?’ And, as I entered, an ineffable face Met mine upon the threshold. ‘Oh, not you, Not you!’. . . the dropping of the voice implied, ‘Then, if not you, for me not any one.’

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118 I looked her in the eyes, and held her hands, And said ‘I am his cousin,—Romney Leigh’s; And here I’m come to see my cousin too.’ She touched me with her face and with her voice, This daughter of the people. Such soft flowers From such rough roots? The people, under there, Can sin so, curse so, look so, smell so. . . faugh! Yet have such daughters! No wise beautiful Was Marian Erle. She was not white nor brown, But could look either, like a mist that changed According to being shone on more or less. The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls In doubt ’twixt dark and bright, nor left you clear To name the colour. Too much hair perhaps (I’ll name a fault here) for so small a head, Which seemed to droop on that side and on this, As a full-blown rose uneasy with its weight, Though not a breath should trouble it. Again, The dimple in the cheek had better gone With redder, fuller rounds; and somewhat large The mouth was, though the milky little teeth Dissolved it to so infantine a smile! For soon it smiled at me; the eyes smiled too, But ’twas as if remembering they had wept, And knowing they should, some day, weep again.

We talked. She told me all her story out, Which I’ll re-tell with fuller utterance, As coloured and confirmed in aftertimes

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Rh By others, and herself too. Marian Erle Was born upon the ledge of Malvern Hill, To eastward, in a hut, built up at night, To evade the landlord’s eye, of mud and turf, Still liable, if once he looked that way, To being straight levelled, scattered by his foot, Like any other anthill. Born, I say; God sent her to his world, commissioned right, Her human testimonials fully signed, Not scant in soul—complete in lineaments; But others had to swindle her a place To wail in when she had come. No place for her, By man’s law! born an outlaw, was this babe; Her first cry in our strange and strangling air, When cast in spasms out by the shuddering womb, Was wrong against the social code,—forced wrong. What business had the baby to cry there?

I tell her story and grow passionate. She, Marian, did not tell it so, but used Meek words that made no wonder of herself For being so sad a creature. ‘Mister Leigh Considered truly that such things should change. They will, in heaven–but meantime, on the earth, There’s none can like a nettle as a pink, Except himself. We’re nettles, some of us, And give offence by the act of springing up And, if we leave the damp side of the wall, The hoes, of course, are on us.’ So she said.

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120 Her father earned his life by random jobs Despised by steadier workmen—keeping swine On commons, picking hops, or hurrying on The harvest at wet seasons,—or, at need, Assisting the Welsh drovers, when a drove Of startled horses plunged into the mist Below the mountain-road, and sowed the wind With wandering neighings. In between the gaps Of such irregular work, he drank and slept, And cursed his wife because, the pence being out, She could not buy more drink. At which she turned, (The worm) and beat her baby in revenge For her own broken heart. There’s not a crime But takes its proper change out still in crime, If once rung on the counter of this world; Let sinners look to it. Yet the outcast child, For whom the very mother’s face forewent The mother’s special patience, lived and grew; Learnt early to cry low, and walk alone, With that pathetic vacillating roll Of the infant body on the uncertain feet, (The earth being felt unstable ground so soon) At which most women’s arms unclose at once With irrepressive instinct. Thus, at three, This poor weaned kid would run off from the fold, This babe would steal off from the mother’s chair, And, creeping through the golden walls of gorse, Would find some keyhole toward the secrecy Of Heaven’s high blue, and, nestling down, peer out—

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Rh Oh, not to catch the angels at their games, She had never heard of angels,—but to gaze She knew not why, to see she knew not what, A-hungering outward from the barren earth For something like a joy. She liked, she said, To dazzle black her sight against the sky, For then, it seemed, some grand blind Love came down, And groped her out, and clasped her with a kiss; She learnt God that way, and was beat for it Whenever she went home,—yet came again, As surely as the trapped hare, getting free, Returns to his form. This grand blind Love, she said, This skyey father and mother both in one, Instructed her and civilised her more Than even the Sunday-school did afterward, To which a lady sent her to learn books And sit upon a long bench in a row With other children. Well, she laughed sometimes To see them laugh and laugh, and moil their texts; But ofter she was sorrowful with noise, And wondered if their mothers beat them hard, That ever they should laugh so. There was one She loved indeed,—Rose Bell, a seven years’ child, So pretty and clever, who read syllables When Marian was at letters; she would laugh At nothing—hold your finger up, she laughed, Then shook her curls down on her eyes and mouth To hide her make-mirth from the schoolmaster. And Rose’s pelting glee, as frank as rain On cherry-blossoms, brightened Marian too,

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122 To see another merry whom she loved. She whispered once (the children side by side, With mutual arms entwined about their necks) ‘Your mother lets you laugh so?’ ‘Ay,’ said Rose, ‘She lets me. She was dug into the ground Six years since, I being but a yearling wean. Such mothers let us play and lose our time, And never scold nor beat us! Don’t you wish You had one like that?’ There, Marian, breaking off Looked suddenly in my face. ‘Poor Rose,’ said she, ‘I heard her laugh last night in Oxford Street. I’d pour out half my blood to stop that laugh,— Poor Rose, poor Rose!’ said Marian. She resumed. It tried her, when she had learnt at Sunday-school What God was, what he wanted from us all, And how, in choosing sin, we vexed the Christ, To go straight home and hear her father pull The name down on us from the thunder-shelf, Then drink away his soul into the dark From seeing judgment. Father, mother, home, Were God and heaven reversed to her: the more She knew of Right, the more she guessed their wrong; Her price paid down for knowledge, was to know The vileness of her kindred: through her heart, Her filial and tormented heart, henceforth, They struck their blows at virtue. Oh, ’tis hard To learn you have a father up in heaven By a gathering certain sense of being, on earth, Still worse than orphaned: ’tis too heavy a grief,

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Rh The having to thank God for such a joy!

And so passed Marian’s life from year to year. Her parents took her with them when they tramped, Dodged lanes and heaths, frequented towns and fairs, And once went farther and saw Manchester, And once the sea, that blue end of the world, That fair scroll-finis of a wicked book,— And twice a prison,—back at intervals, Returning to the hills. Hills draw like heaven, And stronger sometimes, holding out their hands To pull you from the vile flats up to them; And though, perhaps, these strollers still strolled back, As sheep do, simply that they knew the way, They certainly felt bettered unawares Emerging from the social smut of towns To wipe their feet clean on the mountain turf. In which long wanderings, Marian lived and learned, Endured and learned. The people on the roads Would stop and ask her how her eyes outgrew Her cheeks, and if she meant to lodge the birds In all that hair; and then they lifted her The miller in his cart, a mile or twain, The butcher’s boy on horseback. Often, too, The pedlar stopped, and tapped her on the head With absolute forefinger, brown and ringed, And asked if peradventure she could read! And when she answered ‘ay,’ would toss her down Some stray odd volume from his heavy pack, A Thomson’s Seasons, mulcted of the Spring,

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124 Or half a play of Shakespeare’s, torn across: (She had to guess the bottom of a page By just the top sometimes,—as difficult, As, sitting on the moon, to guess the earth!) Or else a sheaf of leaves (for that small Ruth’s Small gleanings) torn out from the heart of books, From Churchyard Elegies and Edens Lost, From Burns, and Bunyan, Selkirk, and Tom Jones. ’Twas somewhat hard to keep the things distinct, And oft the jangling influence jarred the child Like looking at a sunset full of grace Through a pothouse window while the drunken oaths Went on behind her; but she weeded out Her book-leaves, threw away the leaves that hurt, (First tore them small, that none should find a word) And made a nosegay of the sweet and good To fold within her breast, and pore upon At broken moments of the noontide glare, When leave was given her to untie her cloak And rest upon the dusty roadside bank From the highway’s dust. Or oft, the journey done, Some city friend would lead her by the hand To hear a lecture at an institute: And thus she had grown, this Marian Erle of ours, To no book-learning,—she was ignorant Of authors,—not in earshot of the things Out-spoken o’er the heads of common men, By men who are uncommon,—but within The cadenced hum of such, and capable Of catching from the fringes of the wind

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Rh Some fragmentary phrases, here and there, Of that fine music,—which, being carried in To her soul, had reproduced itself afresh In finer motions of the lips and lids.

She said, in speaking of it, ‘If a flower Were thrown you out of heaven at intervals, You’d soon attain to a trick of looking up,— And so with her.’ She counted me her years, Till I felt old; and then she counted me Her sorrowful pleasures, till I felt ashamed. She told me she was almost glad and calm On such and such a season; sate and sewed, With no one to break up her crystal thoughts; While rhymes from lovely poems span around Their ringing circles of ecstatic tune, Beneath the moistened finger of the Hour. Her parents called her a strange, sickly child, Not good for much, and given to sulk and stare, And smile into the hedges and the clouds, And tremble if one shook her from her fit By any blow, or word even. Out-door jobs Went ill with her; and household quiet work She was not born to. Had they kept the north, They might have had their pennyworth out of her, Like other parents, in the factories; (Your children work for you, not you for them, Or else they better had been choked with air The first breath drawn;) but, in this tramping life, Was nothing to be done with such a child,

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126 But tramp and tramp. And yet she knitted hose Not ill, and was not dull at needlework; And all the country people gave her pence For darning stockings past their natural age, And patching petticoats from old to new, And other light work done for thrifty wives.

One day, said Marian—the sun shone that day— Her mother had been badly beat, and felt The bruises sore about her wretched soul (That must have been): she came in suddenly, And snatching, in a sort of breathless rage, Her daughter’s headgear comb, let down the hair Upon her, like a sudden waterfall, And drew her drenched and passive, by the arm, Outside the hut they lived in. When the child Could clear her blinded face from all that stream Of tresses. . there, a man stood, with beasts’ eyes That seemed as they would swallow her alive, Complete in body and spirit, hair and all,— With burning stertorous breath that hurt her cheek, He breathed so near. The mother held her tight, Saying hard between her teeth—‘Why wench, why wench, The squire speaks to you now—the squire’s too good; He means to set you up and comfort us. Be mannerly at least.’ The child turned round And looked up piteous in the mother’s face (Be sure that mother’s death-bed will not want Another devil to damn, than such a look). . ‘Oh, mother!’ then, with desperate glance to heaven,

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Rh ‘God, free me from my mother,’ she shrieked out, ‘These mothers are too dreadful.’ And, with force As passionate as fear, she tore her hands Like lilies from the rocks, from hers and his, And sprang down, bounded headlong down the steep, Away from both—away, if possible, As far as God,—away! They yelled at her, As famished hounds at a hare. She heard them yell, She felt her name hiss after her from the hills, Like shot from guns. On, on. And now she had cast The voices off with the uplands. On. Mad fear Was running in her feet and killing the ground; The white roads curled as if she burnt them up, The green fields melted, wayside trees fell back To make room for her. Then, her head grew vexed, Trees, fields, turned on her and ran after her; She heard the quick pants of the hills behind, Their keen air pricked her neck. She had lost her feet, Could run no more, yet somehow went as fast,— The horizon, red, ’twixt steeples in the east, So sucked her forward, forward, while her heart Kept swelling, swelling, till it swelled so big It seemed to fill her body; then it burst, And overflowed the world and swamped the light, ‘And now I am dead and safe,’ thought Marian Erle— She had dropped, she had fainted. When the sense returned, The night had passed—not life’s night. She was ’ware Of heavy tumbling motions, creaking wheels, The driver shouting to the lazy team

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128 That swung their rankling bells against her brain; While, through the waggon’s coverture and chinks, The cruel yellow morning pecked at her Alive or dead, upon the straw inside,— At which her soul ached back into the dark And prayed, ‘no more of that.’ A waggoner Had found her in a ditch beneath the moon, As white as moonshine, save for the oozing blood. At first he thought her dead; but when he had wiped The mouth and heard it sigh, he raised her up, And laid her in his waggon in the straw, And so conveyed her to the distant town To which his business called himself, and left That heap of misery at the hospital.

She stirred;—the place seemed new and strange as death. The white strait bed, with others strait and white, Like graves dug side by side, at measured lengths, And quiet people walking in and out With wonderful low voices and soft steps, And apparitional equal care for each, Astonished her with order, silence, law: And when a gentle hand held out a cup, She took it, as you do at sacrament, Half awed, half melted,—not being used, indeed, To so much love as makes the form of love And courtesy of manners. Delicate drinks And rare white bread, to which some dying eyes Were turned in observation. O my God, How sick we must be, ere we make men just!

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Rh I think it frets the saints in heaven to see How many desolate creatures on the earth Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship And social comfort, in a hospital, As Marian did. She lay there, stunned, half tranced, And wished, at intervals of growing sense, She might be sicker yet, if sickness made The world so marvellous kind, the air so hushed, And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep; For now she understood, (as such things were) How sickness ended very oft in heaven, Among the unspoken raptures. Yet more sick, And surelier happy. Then she dropped her lids, And, folding up her hands as flowers at night, Would lose no moment of the blessed time.

She lay and seethed in fever many weeks, But youth was strong and overcame the test; Revolted soul and flesh were reconciled And fetched back to the necessary day And daylight duties. She could creep about The long bare rooms, and stare out drearily From any narrow window on the street, Till some one, who had nursed her as a friend, Said coldly to her, as an enemy, ‘She had leave to go next week, being well enough,’ While only her heart ached. ‘Go next week,’ thought she, ‘Next week! how would it be with her next week, Let out into that terrible street alone

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130 Among the pushing people,. . to go. . where?’

One day, the last before the dreaded last, Among the convalescents, like herself Prepared to go next morning, she sate dumb, And heard half absently the women talk, How one was famished for her baby’s cheeks— ‘The little wretch would know her! a year old, And lively, like his father!’ one was keen To get to work, and fill some clamorous mouths; And one was tender for her dear goodman Who had missed her sorely,—and one, querulous. . ‘Would pay those scandalous neighbours who had dared To talk about her as already dead,’— And one was proud. . ‘and if her sweetheart Luke Had left her for a ruddier face than hers, (The gossip would be seen through at a glance) Sweet riddance of such sweethearts—let him hang! ’Twere good to have been as sick for such an end.’

And while they talked, and Marian felt the worse For having missed the worst of all their wrongs, A visitor was ushered through the wards And paused among the talkers. ‘When he looked, It was as if he spoke, and when he spoke He sang perhaps,’ said Marian; ‘could she tell? She only knew’ (so much she had chronicled, As seraphs might, the making of the sun) ‘That he who came and spake was Romney Leigh, And then, and there, she saw and heard him first.’

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Rh And when it was her turn to have the face Upon her,—all those buzzing pallid lips Being satisfied with comfort—when he changed To Marian, saying, ‘And you? You’re going, where?’— She, moveless as a worm beneath a stone Which some one’s stumbling foot has spurned aside, Writhed suddenly, astonished with the light, And breaking into sobs cried, ‘Where I go? None asked me till this moment. Can I say Where I go? When it has not seemed worth while To God himself, who thinks of every one, To think of me, and fix where I shall go?’

‘So young,’ he gently asked her, ‘you have lost Your father and your mother?’ ‘Both’ she said, ‘Both lost! My father was burnt up with gin Or ever I sucked milk, and so is lost. My mother sold me to a man last month, And so my mother’s lost, ’tis manifest. And I, who fled from her for miles and miles, As if I had caught sight of the fires of hell Through some wild gap, (she was my mother, sir) It seems I shall be lost too, presently, And so we end, all three of us.’ ’Poor child!’ He said,—with such a pity in his voice, It soothed her more than her own tears,—‘poor child! ’Tis simple that betrayal by mother’s love Should bring despair of God’s too. Yet be taught;

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132 He’s better to us than many mothers are, And children cannot wander beyond reach Of the sweep of his white raiment. Touch and hold! And if you weep still, weep where John was laid While Jesus loved him.’ ‘She could say the words,’ She told me, ’exactly as he uttered them A year back,. . since in any doubt or dark, They came out like the stars, and shone on her With just their comfort. Common words, perhaps; The ministers in church might say the same; But he, he made the church with what he spoke,— The difference was the miracle,’ said she.

Then catching up her smile to ravishment, She added quickly, ’I repeat his words, But not his tones: can any one repeat The music of an organ, out of church? And when he said ‘poor child,’ I shut my eyes To feel how tenderly his voice broke through, As the ointment-box broke on the Holy feet To let out the rich medicative nard.’

She told me how he had raised and rescued her With reverent pity, as, in touching grief, He touched the wounds of Christ,—and made her feel More self-respecting. Hope, he called, belief In God,—work, worship. . therefore let us pray! And thus, to snatch her soul from atheism, And keep it stainless from her mother’s face,

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Rh He sent her to a famous sempstress-house Far off in London, there to work and hope.

With that they parted. She kept sight of Heaven, But not of Romney.He had good to do To others: through the days and through the nights, She sewed and sewed and sewed.She drooped sometimes, And wondered, while, along the tawny light, She struck the new thread into her needle’s eye, How people without mothers on the hills, Could choose the town to live in!—then she drew The stitch, and mused how Romney’s face would look, And if ’twere likely he’d remember hers, When they two had their meeting after death.

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Rh Tomato, who, he feared, might be allured by their fascinating promises and gaudy presents. He, therefore in a subtle and cunning speech, broke the subject to Tomato and his sons, saying that the white man with the cunning and treachery of his race, sneaked like a shark into Pamul's sacred retreat to deceive her, and then gain possession of their land. This statement aroused the rage of Tomato, when they all rushed to the cave for the purpose of dispatching the intruder at once, and thus save their country as well as Pamul. They were not, however, prepared for the affecting devotion which she displayed towards the stranger. She became a bold advocate of the defenceless, whom she declared to be a helpless castaway on their shore, and ridiculed their actions, particularly her father and brothers, for taking a mean advantage of an inoffensive creature, who deserved their hospitality instead of their rage.

When Honi Hiki heard this unexpected and forcible appeal, and saw the effect it had produced on her father and brothers, he became more enraged than ever lest his plans should fail, and sneeringly exclaimed—"Tomato is a woman when he listens to the ravings of his daughter, who foolishly pleads for the life of a Pakeha."

At these words, Pamul sprung up and declared that the white man had never shown the slightest disrespect towards her, and said that if he was a fair specimen of the pakehas, whom the calumniator described as a race of robbers, she believed that that character was more applicable to Honi Hiki than to them; and sooner than become his (Honi Hiki's) bride, she would suffer the most terrible death to which she could be put. On hearing this, Honi Hiki left the cave vowing vengeance on Tomato and his new allies, the pakehas.

With a heart relieved from apprehension, Charlie followed Tomato and his children, and after ascending the cliffs by an intricate and narrow path, soon gained the native village, which was situated in a romantic spot on the banks of a beautiful lake, from which ran a river navigable by canoes, and which emptied itself into the ocean.

Through the assistance of Pamul, Charlie was able to give a more accurate account of his shipwreck, the

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116 cargo on board, and the probability of yet saving some portion of it, as the weather had become quite calm. Tomato immediately ordered all the available canoes to be manned, and started for the scene of the wreck.

Charlie accompanied Tomato and his sons in the principal and leading canoe, and upon rounding the rock great was his joy at seeing the ship dry and unbroken. On going on board they found also that the cargo was uninjured.

He felt that he could now recompense Tomato for the mercy that had been extended towards him, and reward the noble Pamul for her heroic conduct in saving his life at the imminent peril of her own.

All the cargo and every valuable were taken safely to the village. When this was completed, they broke the hull up, and conveyed that also to the village.

The whole of the cargo was carefully stored by orders of Tomato for Charlie, but who was afterwards prevailed upon to take a large piece of land in exchange.

The chief and his tribe considered that they had by far the best of the bargain, as the principal portion of the cargo consisted of fire-arms and ammunition, which they were deficient of, owing to which he had suffered many defeats in engagements with Honi Hiki. Charlie then commenced a course of instruction in the use of the weapons, with which every able-bodied man was supplied; they then enrolled themselves under Charlie's command. Honi Hiki, true to his threat, invaded their district but suffered such a defeat that he never annoyed them after.

A year had passed, during which time the tribe made rapid progress in civilization through the exertions of Charlie, who gave information to them upon any subject which would tend to their happiness. The only sorrow which weighed upon their minds, and in which Charlie shared to a great extent, was the indisposition of Pamul. This great change in her health was noticed by Charlie while holding a conversation with her, which he did at the suggestion of her father, the subject upon which Charlie was speaking to her, was her stern and steady refusal to accept the hand of Honi Hiki; a match which had been approved of by her father, and

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Rh which promised great advantages to her father and the whole tribe. In reply to Charlie's questions, and having listened attentively to all his remarks, Pamul hung down her head for a while, when Charlie observed large tears coursing down her cheeks; then, as if determined to check them, she wiped them away with her hand, raised her eyes to his, and said:—

"Do the white women always marry those whom their parents recommend?"

"In some cases they do, and they frequently turn out good matches," replied Charlie.

"And would you now, marry a woman you did not like?" she inquired.

"Certainly not," replied her companion unhesitatingly.

"Oh! then, you consider females an inferior sex, and are to obey you like slaves," she continued.

Charlie, who was not prepared for this, turned his eyes towards the sea, which would now have been rolling over his remains were it not for a female, and that his questioner. A gush of heartfelt thankfulness and generous acknowledgement took possession of him, and seizing her hand with enthusiasm, he said:—

"My brave and noble Pamul, far be it from me to hold your sex in such estimation; were it not for you, yonder billows would now have been rolling over me; such kindness and devotion I could hardly have expected from my own countryman, much less a female—save one."

"Ah! there is one then," cried Pamul, eagerly catching the last words, which were not intended for her ear, and which was uttered in a lower key.

"Yes, there is one," resumed Charlie with more than usual agitation; "but, although that one might have the wish, I doubt whether she would be able to accomplish such a feat, not being a swimmer like you Pamul."

"And she must indeed be faithful to you," replied Pamul, with an anxious and inquisitive expression; "is she a mother or a sister?"

"Neither," replied Charlie; "but far dearer, and we are under a solemn vow to be faithful to each other while we live."

Pamul heaved a deep sigh, turned her face towards

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118 the sea, and said mournfully, "She must, indeed, be beautiful, and possessing all the fine qualities you have so often described to me, with which your country-women are blessed, and which you wished me to imitate; would that I were able to do so to please you." Then, looking at her hands, she continued dispondinglydespondently [sic], "But, ah! what a fool I am, she is of a different colour to me."

Charlie, who was greatly affected at this touching remark, replied, encouragingly, "The difference of colour, Pamul, has nothing to do with the nobleness and uprightness of the mind, and there beats as many good hearts under a dark skin as under a fair one."

"Now, since you think so much of the small favor I have extended towards you," (resumed Pamul, somewhat soothed,) "by preserving your life, I must ask you one favor in return; that is, never to breathe a word on this subject again, as I am resolved to remain single; and, further, I will ask you to use your influence with my father, and beg of him not to force me."

Charlie could not refuse this earnest appeal, which was made with such candour, and promised never to mention the subject again.

A visible change from this time took place in Pamul, and a lingering illness seized her. She resolutely avoided all company and amusement, and even shunned her former instructor, Charlie.

All her friends and relations became greatly alarmed at the change in her; her appearance soon became emaciated by the ravages of disease, which appeared to be decline.

One afternoon Charlie met her. She was then in the dress she had the first day he saw her, and, on his enquiring anxiously as to her health, she feebly awsweredanswered [sic], with a forced smile, that "she would soon be well," and proposed a walk to their old favourite spot.

Charlie was delighted at the proposition, as this was the first occasion on which she had spoken to him since their last visit to that place.

On their way he felt sorry that he had consented to take such a walk, which appeared too much for her strength, but he could not prevail upon her to return.

They at length arrived at the spot, and having seated

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The New International Encyclopædia/Parker, Peter (officer)

PARKER, (1721-1811). A British naval officer, born probably in Ireland. He entered the navy and became lieutenant in 1713, and captain in 1747. He served in the West Indies, and took part in the capture of Belle-Isle in 1761. For ten years he was out of the service on account of the reduction of the navy. He was knighted and restored in 1772, and on October, 1775, with a small squadron, was sent to coöperate with Sir Henry Clinton in the reduction of the Southern colonies of America. The attempt of Josiah Martin to arouse the Tories of North Carolina failed, and Parker proceeded to Charleston and made the unsuccessful attack on Fort Moultrie June 28, 1776. He aided Lord Howe in the capture of New York in September, and commanded the squadron which afterwards took possession of Rhode Island. In April, 1777, he was promoted to rear-admiral and placed in charge of Jamaica, in 1778. He became vice-admiral in 1779, was made a baronet when he returned to England in 1782, and became admiral in 1787. From 1793 to 1799 he was commander-in-chief at Portsmouth and succeeded Lord Howe as admiral of the fleet. He is perhaps best remembered as the friend and patron of Nelson.


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Rh themselves, gazed around on the familiar scenery, and when she had regained sufficient strength, Pamul, looking earnestly into his face, said, "I am glad to be able once more to visit this place, as I think it a befitting spot, and free from interruption, having something weighty on my mind for some time, and which I wish to communicate to you before I die, for feel that my time in this world is very short." During a short pause, for she appeared too weak to say more, Charlie endeavoured to cheer her. He told her that her health might again return, and then they would be enabled to resume their walks, and spend many happy days on the same spot. Pamul, however, interrupted him by giving a mournful motion of the head, and saying, "Never again in this life, whatever happiness may be store for me in that other world which you have taught me to look to, there is none in this, for my hours are numbered. I know that you, as well as my anxious relatives, have been uneasy and ignorant of the cause of my complaint. I thought that even you would never know it, and that the secret would go with me to the grave. However, my illness has caused me to throw off such foolish thoughts, as I consider, by confessing it to you, I may be doing what I can to prevent any unpleasantness on my decease. You will remember, the last time we visited this spot, that you confessed your love to one of your countrywomen. Little did you think that that admission would be the foundation of an illness and sorrow that would soon carry me to the grave. Had I known earlier of such a circumstance, I might have smothered my foolish hopes and grief; but, alas, it was then too late. I was ignorant that the hopeless flame which your first appearance struggling feebly in the water enkindled in my heart, had taken such a deep root, and which all earthly powers were unable to extinguish. Poor simpleton as I then was, I did not think of the insurmountable barrier which exists between our races. Your kindness, partiality, and interest in instructing me was stored up in my bosom, and added to my passion, until the fatal chasm which separates the white race from the coloured yawned before me."

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User talk:Yair rand

— billinghurst  sDrewth  11:51, 14 June 2012 (UTC)

Author on American Convention on Human Rights
Hey there, I noticed you did a revert on an edit I made to override the author on American Convention on Human Rights. I added the override because we do not have Author pages for organizations, this way we could point it to the portal for the United States. Did I misunderstand the organization that published this or is there another way we can resolve the redlink? Marjoleinkl (talk) 08:11, 16 February 2017 (UTC)
 * The Organization of American States is an international organization including 35 countries. I don't think it would be appropriate for the link to point to one particular member state. --Yair rand (talk) 08:13, 16 February 2017 (UTC)
 * Thanks for letting me know, I completely misunderstood/misread the author. I will add a plain override without linking to any particular portal. And will add the interwiki link to the organization to the description of the text. Sound ok to you? Marjoleinkl (talk) 08:18, 16 February 2017 (UTC)

title: User talk:Yair rand


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120 Charlie was so much moved at this disclosure that he could not restrain his tears, when Pamul again checked him, and added—"Do not be moved; it was no fault of yours; all the attention and interest you took in me, and which led to my hopeless misery, were only the outpourings of a benevolent mind. The ignorance and barbarity of our race raised your pity, which was extended with such liberality towards me in return for the services I had rendered you. Hence the cause of the trouble you have taken in instructing me, and to some extent modelling my mind, and opening that mind as to the realities of a future state, a state to which I am now hastening. And although your generosity would perhaps humble itself to that extent to take me as your wife, I would never consent were I as hale and happy as formerly; for, thanks to you, I now understand the nature of a solemn promise or vow."

Pamul here described Bella's looks with such minuteness that Charlie was greatly surprised; but she soon explained all by telling him that on the morning she saved him from drowning, and while he was insensible on the beach, she uncovered his bosom to admit the rays of the sun in order to warm him; she saw something which hung by a ribbon around his neck, and upon her opening it she saw it contained the portrait of a female. Not believing then that any living creature could be so beautiful, she thought it was a relic or talisman which would save him from from drowning, until the day on which he told her of his vow, when she detected him drawing it from his bosom and placing it to his lips.

"Yes!" continued Pamul, "the least motion or change in your countenance was observed by me, and your simplest wishes were law to me, and found an echo in my heart; and you may tell your beautiful intended that however great her devotion and love for you, it never did or will exceed that of Pamul, the Maori girl."

She now gave her reason for making this touching confession, for which she could not find courage for a long time—that lest her relations should guess or discover the cause of her disease and seek revenge on Charlie after her death, she advised him to dispose of his

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The New International Encyclopædia/Parker, Peter (missionary)

PARKER, (1804-88). A medical missionary and diplomat, born in Massachusetts; graduated at Yale College in 1831; studied theology and medicine at New Haven; was ordained and went to China as a missionary in 1834. He established a hospital at Canton, principally for eye diseases, but soon for other diseases. Dr. Parker possessed great surgical skill, and his fame spread rapidly. War breaking out in 1840 between England and China, the hospital was closed, and Dr. Parker returned to the United States. In 1842 he went back to China and re-opened the hospital, which was soon crowded. In 1845 he resigned his connection with the American Board, and became secretary to the United States legation and interpreter of the new embassy, still having charge of the hospital. In the absence of the minister he acted as chargé d'affaires. In 1855, his health having failed, he again visited the United States, but by request of the Government he returned the same year to China as commissioner with full power to revise the treaty of 1844. This position he held until a change of administration in 1857, when, his health again failing, he returned to the United States, and settled in Washington. He published Reports of the Ophthalmic Hospital at Canton (Canton, 1836-52); Statements respecting Hospitals in China (London, 1841); Notes of Surgical Practice Among the Chinese (Edinburgh, 1846).


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Rh land to some of his countrymen who were living a little distance off, for which they would give him a large sum of money, and then to leave New Zealand for ever; and lastly as a favor, she asked him, when she was no more, to bury her remains near the place they were then sitting.

The approaching evening warned them to return home, and on leaving the spot Pamul cast a lingering look around as if bidding a last adieu to scenes where she passed so many hours; then leaning on her companion's arm they retraced their steps slowly.

That night about twelve they were aroused by the mournful intelligence being brought them that the invalid was much worse, and wished to see them all. Her father, brothers, and Charlie, were just in time to receive her final adieu, and the noble Pamul breathed her last amidst the lamentations of her friends and relations.

Charlie was much affected by her loss, and strictly complied with her last wishes by interring her remains in her chosen resting place. The bereavement caused him also to follow her directions in the disposal of his land, which he succeeded in doing; he sold it to some British settlers who were flocking to that colony, and shortly afterwards took his passage in a vessel bound to Sydney, bidding farewell to the land of the Maories for ever.

Bella McKay's uneasiness at the apprehension and conviction of Donald may be imagined, when taking into consideration the state of mind Charlie would be in, leaving under the belief that his hands had been imbued with the blood of a fellow creature, and that her forgiveness was withheld, which would have been cleared up had her letter been delivered, and would have assisted to lighten his sorrow on his long voyage.

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text: Lindigo, the White Woman/Chapter 15

title: Lindigo, the White Woman/Chapter 15


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122 Her maid added to her unhappiness by her despair at the fate of Donald.

Lord Lundy, on recovering from his wound, seeing the coast clear, resumed his addresses with redoubled perseverance, and aided by her uncle, forced her to seek once more the protection of her father.

On arriving in the Highlands, she threw herself on her knees before him, claiming his pity, and begging him not to force her to a marriage which she would sooner suffer death than endure.

Her father was greatly moved at the earnestness of her appeal, but could not understand her objection to such a brilliant match. He took his daughter on his knee, and coaxingly asked her to unburthen her bosom, requesting her to tell him whether her heart was otherwise engaged, since she so strenuously opposed such a splendid offer, which would improve her position as well as that of her relations. If her heart was really bestowed upon another, by her making him her confidant, he promised her all the protection in his power in order to secure her future happiness.

The blushing girl affectionately embraced her father, and hiding her streaming eyes in his bosom, confessed, without reserve, her long and ardent love for Charlie Stuart.

Mr. McKay started with astonishment and anger at the announcement, pushing her from him, and told her in a stern voice that he was surprised to hear her acknowledging affection for one who would at one time have received his sanction, but one who had on two occasions insulted her, and had forfeited all sympathy and claim to her hand.

It was now Bella's turn to be surprised; she gazed with a vacant look into her father's frowning countenance for an explanation, when he told her all he had heard from Lord Lundy.

To describe Mr. McKay's feelings on learning the real facts of the case, as described by his daughter, would be impossible.

The disappointments and sacrifices they had suffered through the malicious calumnies of Lord Lundy, the

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User talk:TheCircleSquared

— billinghurst  sDrewth  12:43, 14 June 2012 (UTC)

 * Cheers, Billinghurst. TheCircleSquared (talk) 13:36, 14 June 2012 (UTC)

title: User talk:TheCircleSquared


text:
User talk:31.6.131.158

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title: User talk:31.6.131.158


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Ishtar

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Ishtar


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Rh artists agree that a well-done nude is the highest form of artistic expression. And Finlay and Brundage—especially the former—seem capable of doing them well. But back to the magazine itself: I don't think I'm unfair to Thing of Darkness, the featured story, when I say that it has the oldest spooky-story plot on the face of the globe. Since the time of Charles Dickens—and where he got it I can't say—it has been used so many times in books, plays, short-stories, movies, radio dramas, etc., etc., that you could get out a magazine of twice the thickness of WT every week from now to 2000 A. D., and still not reprint more than half of them. This is the only one that really got my ire up, but there were several others that I thought rather mediocre. The Abyss Under the World seemed to be written more in the style of a pulp detective thriller than a real weird story; and perhaps I'm being a bit hasty, inasmuch as there is another installment to be printed, but isn't it a bit strange that the Egyptians under the ground should speak nothing but English? I thought World of the Dark Dwellers was pretty good, although the idea of mechanical masters who had once been men living underground and preying on the 'light dwellers' is strangely like H. G. Wells' The Time Machine. I enjoyed The Mandarin's Ear, The Last Pharaoh, and the Lovecraft reprint, though, and according to the 'trailer' of next month's issue, WT seems destined to return to its former high level. Here's hoping."

Reginald A. Pryke, of Kent, England, writes: "Since way back in 1925 we (that means three of us) have been your loyal followers and admirers. In the days of Senf's covers, monthly Jules de Grandins, Henry S. Whitehead and Dunwich Horrors, into Rankin's era with his clouded, evil, misty illustrations, bursting into Howard's pulsating epics, Depression days and bimonthly issues—terrible time of famine—and so into the present day. Per ardua ad astra! You have a record to be proud of, a future to encourage you to even greater efforts, and a spirit to take the sad blows Fate has dealt you unflinchingly. A moment to think of The Fallen. Whitehead: Who


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Rh He cannot stand in with two stable feet. Remember then!—for Art's sake, hold your life.'

We parted so. I held him in respect. I comprehended what he was in heart And sacrificial greatness.Ay, but he Supposed me a thing too small to deign to know: He blew me, plainly, from the crucible, As some intruding, interrupting fly Not worth the pains of his analysis Absorbed on nobler subjects.Hurt a fly! He would not for the world: he's pitiful To flies even.'Sing,' says he, 'and teaze me still, If that's your way, poor insect.'That's your way!

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508 writes obi stories as he used to do? West Indies, Haiti, voodooism, witchcraft—nobody can match his flawless literary style and tingling terms. Arlton Eadie: The teller of ghost stones, par excellence. Howard: Howard the great, the incomparable, the master. Howard, whose tales were breathless sagas snatched vibrant with life from the mouths of the scalds of old. Howard, who lifted his characters out of the dust and decay of times long forgotten, breathed eager, lusting, laughing, fighting life into them, clapped swords in their fists, and sent them tramping the witch-haunted, battle-strewn roads; men, every one, revelling in life and its joys, wine, women and the mad exhilaration of combat. Howard is dead. Solomon Kane, King Kull, Conan the Barbarian who set a crown upon his black head and defied all this world and the next to deprive him of it. Three real literary achievements, three who will live now that he is gone and the hand writes no more Revive Conan? Never, never, never! No, the sagas are finished. There was a hint of finality about Howard's last Conan story, Red Nails; a knitting-up of loose strands, a rounding-off as if he somehow knew he was completing a task. In that story I thought Conan found at last his mate, his long-sought-for companion. Together they left that evil place; together (but only in our imaginations) let them travel on towards whatever lies ahead. Let each true lover of the great barbarian dream his own tales of battle, love and brooding witchcraft. Any other course savors of sacrilege. Read and read again what has been written, but let no other man try and wield that pen or gird on that sword. Bury them with him. He will sleep the quieter. And Lovecraft; Let the men who knew and loved him as a friend pen his obituary. I, who only knew him through his matchless pen, bid farewell to an artist who knew how to play upon man's sense of fear as Kreisler plays upon his violin. Those long, brooding, almost somnolent opening paragraphs of his, almost devoid of conversation—somehow, Lovecraft's pen seemed to falter when he attempted to put his words into a personal mouth—impersonality was his keynote. With a sense of nightmare, barely glimpsed, the reader's eye fled from paragraph to paragraph, almost chased or driven, until the grotesque climax was attained, the spell broken, the pursuit lifted, leaving him weakened yet strangely exhilarated. Fear, like fire, is cleansing. Whitehead, Eadie, Howard, Lovecraft. Each in his own field such an undisputed master that the loss seems unbearable. Each, of course, has his disciples. Robert Bloch, for instance, seems a fit proselyte of Lovecraft, who, with experience, may yet equal his master, but no disciple can fill the place of his teacher in the mind and heart of any who knew that teacher's genius. I'm afraid this letter has spun itself out to an immoderate length. I can only plead my faithful service of years as an excuse and draw it to a conclusion As to your authors, I have already spoken of Robert Bloch. His tales are real gems and should get even better as he gains experience. Good old Seabury Quinn, almost the last of the old brigade, wrote a real winner, The Globe of Memories I believe it was called. Jack Williamson usually shows perfect taste, but his last was downright pitiable. I never thought to read such a hodgepodge of vile villainy and putty make-up, 'orrible plotting and dastardly scheming in your magazine. That stuff does not belong in the aristocratic. Repeat not the offense. The Last Pharaoh reads well, is exceedingly and fluently written and promises a fine climax. And who is this Clifford Ball? His Duar the Accursed was a neat piece of craftsmanship, and should develop into a first-class series."

Donald A. Wollheim, of New York City, writes: "May I offer congratulations on your August issue which is a first-rate job? Lovecraft's yarn was one I had never read before; Kuttner's was a superb little fable; Frank Owen is a true master in his own right; The Last Pharaoh is thoroughly intriguing and worth while. Wellman's Necronomiconic is a honey. But it won't end Necronomicon tales. I, for one, want to see the Necro grow bigger and bigger. It was one of the factors contributing to the making of WT's vivid and unique personality."

Joseph Allen Ryan, of Cambridge, Maryland, writes: "Wellman's short, The Terrible Parchment, was especially interesting to me; for I believe I was on hand when the idea for the tale was born. Otto Binder, Julius Schwartz, Mort Weisinger and I (as usual, I was the small frog in the big


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Rh pond) were standing at the corner of West 48th Street and Broadway in New York City last summer, chewing the rag a bit before departing on our various ways. The conversation drifted to, and to H. P. Lovecraft and the Necronomicon in particular. Mort glanced at the near-by news stand and remarked: 'Suppose you went over to that stand and asked for a copy of the Necronomicon, and the fellow handed it to you. What would you do?' None of us knew exactly what course he would follow under the unusual circumstances. Otto remarked: 'Pay for it, I guess.' Mort digested this for a moment or so, then continued: 'That would make a good plot for a story—for some fan magazine, that is. You could explain that Lovetraft's readers had thought so much about the mythical Necronomicon that their combined thought-force materialized it.' As Weisinger knows Manly Wade Wellman quite well, it may be that the idea got around to the latter, who developed it into a short for WT. How about it, Manly?"

I. O. Evans writes from Tadworth, in Surrey: "As one of your many British readers, I have greatly enjoyed the stories that appear in your excellent magazine, and I look forward to reading many more of them. I was, however, surprized to find a rather startling error in a story which appeared in a recent issue—I forget its name and that of the author, but it dealt with the worship of an Egyptian beast-god in a Cornish mine. [The story was The Brood of Bubastis, by Robert Bloch, in our March issue.—] In this the author speaks of the 'Cornish countryside' as 'a region of mystic mountains, and purple peaks that towered above wild forest glens and green-grottoed swamplands.' I don't think any description could be less accurate! The highest hill in the duchy is Brown Willy, of only 1,368 feet; rhere are no forests—the bulk of the country is moorland; and rhe only 'peaks' are those of the hills of spoil from the numerous mine-workings, which can hardly be said to 'tower.' Later your author mentions local faith in 'leprechauns,' which are Irish fairies, and 'kelpies,' which are Scottish! The joke is that the 'scenery of Cornwall has eery qualities, and the people faith in spirits, which would have suited your author's story admirably had he got them right. What he


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The New International Encyclopædia/Spitta, Karl Johann Philipp

SPIT'TA, (1801-59). A German religious poet, born in Hanover. He was educated at Göttingen, and from 1824 to 1828 he was a tutor at Lüne, and there wrote the best of his hymns. Afterwards he was vicar or pastor in several churches, and in 1859, shortly before his death, was made superintendent at Burgdorf. His hymns, contained in Psalter und Harfe (1833; revised with biographical note by his son, Ludwig, 1890; ‘Jubilee’ ed., 1901), and in the Nachgelassene geistliche Lieder (1861 and often), rank high in the German spiritual song of the century, and attained great popularity by their freshness of thought, purity of style, and depth of sentiment.


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 The position in Sarawak, on the other hand, is rather different. This is probably one of the reasons why the Communist influence there has been greater than in North Borneo. I did not agree with the hon. Member for Eton and Slough when he said that the Sarawak United People's Party had not been heavily infiltrated by Communism. He said that this infiltration was only at a low level. I can only assume that he has not followed over the months the important members of the Sarawak United People's Party who have been identified with Communist infiltration. The results of the ballot box have been excellent and offer tremendous hope for the future.

The new Federation is an area right in the middle, between Indonesia and the Philippines, with Communist China above. It may be only a small nation of about 9 million people but it will have a tremendous stabilising effect on the whole political and economic situation of South-East Asia. We would all love to see a wider Federation develop in the long run. If it is to develop it must do so upon sound foundations which, I believe, exist in Malaysia.

It would do ill to this concept if one were to suggest now that Indonesia is in an internal state where it could be closely associated with a federation of this type. In Malaysia we will at least have partners who are working in real harmony. This cannot be said of the present state of the Indonesian Republic. The Central Government there are ill able to exert their influence, and until Indonesia is able to put its own house in order it would be dangerous to canvass the thought actively of a large Federation.

We have seen in Sarawak, as a result of what I call the revolt in Brunei earlier this year, many Chinese—who were previously sitting on the fence, supporting the Sarawak United People's Party or tending to look towards Communist China believing that that side would eventually win—suddenly beginning to realise where their bread and butter lay and what would benefit their economic future. The situation in Sarawak changed almost overnight when these people saw the results of the revolt.

Mr. Sorensen Would not the hon. Member agree that there were riots in Djakarta and that a number of Malays destroyed Chinese shops and other property?

Mr. Turner I agree—and that was a useful intervention. These things play a tremendous part, particularly in Chinese politics. It is only in recent years that the Chinese have taken an interest in world politics. In the past they preferred to look after their businesses in their usual efficient way, leaving politics to others. The incident mentioned by the hon. Member was one of the things which contributed to make the Chinese realise that it is important for them to be prepared to play a part in public life and to take some responsibility in their own society if it is to be democratic. The incident in Djakarta and the revolt in Brunei brought many Chinese to realise that unless they were prepared to play an effective part in the life of their territory there would be no future for their businesses in the area.

I turn to North Borneo, or Sabah, as we are to know it. We have heard today about the suggested danger of Islamic influence spreading to North Borneo and Sarawak. I do not pretend to be an expert on this subject but I know that there is a slight difference between the supporters of Islam—the Muslims in North Borneo—and those in Malaya. It is fair to say that the Islamic faith is much more strongly held and practised in certain States in Malaya than it is among the Muslim peoples of North Borneo, to whatever sect they belong.

Religion has been worrying the people of North Borneo. In the talks and correspondence I have had with people of all races in North Borneo, they have been emphatic in pointing out that Islam should not be the State religion of North Borneo. Another thing they, particularly the Chinese, have been concerned with in North Borneo is the use of the English language. Many of my Chinese friends in the area have always felt that their ability to use English counterbalanced the greater economic and business experience of some of their fellow Chinese in Singapore. They have felt that this ability to speak, write and understand English would act as a sort of insurance policy should they come together with the business and economic communities of Singapore, which is the trading centre of the whole area.


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The New International Encyclopædia/Spitzbergen

SPITZ'BERGEN. A group of islands in the Arctic Ocean, situated about 430 miles north of the northern extremity of Norway, between 76° 30' and 80° 48' north latitude, and between 10° and 30° east longitude (Map: Arctic Regions, H 3). The group consists of three large islands, West Spitzbergen, North East Land, and Edge Island, whose areas are, respectively, about 15,000, 4000, and 2500 square miles, and a number of smaller islands. All of them are of a rocky and mountainous character and very irregularly indented. West Spitzbergen has an ice-covered plateau running along its eastern coast and eroded toward the west into deep and narrow valleys terminating in fiords, and carrying the overflow of ice in the form of glaciers to the sea. These valleys and fiords are separated by rugged and rocky mountain spurs, here and there forming a network of craggy peaks and ridges interspersed with glaciers. The highest point is the Horn Sund Tind with an altitude of 4560 feet. North East Land is almost wholly covered with an ice sheet, while the other islands are free from permanent ice, or carry only isolated glaciers on their eastern slopes. The mean monthly temperatures range from 10° below zero in February to 37° above in August. Snow falls at all seasons, but in summer a considerable herbaceous growth covers the lower western

slopes. This consists largely of mosses, though there are 130 species of flowering plants and ferns, with sedges predominating along the shores. The fauna includes the reindeer, which, however, is fast disappearing, the polar bear, and the fox. The walrus is still found along the coast, but the birds are becoming fewer.

Spitzbergen has no permanent inhabitants, and no country claims possession of it. The islands were discovered by the Dutch in 1596. The interior was first explored in 1892 by Rabot, and in 1896 by Sir Martin Conway, who was the first to cross the large island. Spitzbergen has been an important base for polar expeditions, and in 1897 Andrée made it the starting point in his ill-fated attempt to reach the Pole by balloon. In recent years the west coast has been visited by a number of tourists, and in 1896 a weekly steamship service during summer was established from Norway, and a small hotel was built on the coast.

. Nordenskjöld, Die schwedischen Expeditionen nach Spitzbergen und Bären Eiland (Jena, 1869); Zeppelin, Reisebilder aus Spitzbergen, Bäreneiland und Norwegen (Stuttgart, 1892); Conway, The First Crossing of Spitzbergen (London, 1897); Hafter, Briefe aus dem hohen Norden (Frauenfeld, 1900).


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 I have always believed that the English language was the key to the success of not only the Federation of Malaya but the greater Federation of Malaysia. It provides a common link of races, and people fine it of tremendous value in business arid commerce. It is the one thing that will more than help to keep the Chinese closely associated with these territories and tend to keep them from looking, as they naturally desire to do, back to China. I hope that as the Malaysian Government look to the future they will not try, when the 10 years are up, to substitute Malay or some other language as the language of the territory. I hope that if this country leaves anything behind in that part of the world, as I am sure it will, one of the great things we leave will be the almost universal use of the English language.

In my many tours of the area I have never found the slightest difficulty in being able to converse in English wherever I have been, even in some quite remote parts. In fact, wherever one goes in the area, if one is prepared to wait long enough, someone is bound to turn up and be able to converse in English. This is particularly so if one is in a Chinese shop and the owner considers that he is going to sell something. In that case, he will always manage to find someone who can converse in English. This has frequently happened to me and it is a good thing: that it has because my knowledge of Malay leaves much to be desired.

Freedom of religion and a continuance of English as the basic language in that Territory are the two things of fundamental importance to the people of North Borneo. As my hon. Friend the Member for Plymouth, Devonport (Miss Vickers) pointed out, they are also anxious that the expatriate staff—officers in North Borneo—should be persuaded to remain in as large numbers as possible until more North Borneans have been trained to take their part in the Civil Service of the area.

I appreciate that in the long run Malaysia must interchange with the Civil Services of the three territories—and I am assuming that eventually Brunei will decide to join the Federation. After all, how can Brunei stay out? It is a key economic little State stuck between North Borneo and Sarawak and holding most of the means of communications between those areas. Despite the remarks of the hon. Member for Eton and Slough about the roads not being passable, one can now drive all the way from Brunei to Miri on moderately adequate roads. For this and other reasons, how can one possibly say that this small State of Brunei can remain outside the Federation? It is linked with the refinery at Miri and it is to be hoped that the Sultan will decide to take his part in the Federation. Let us hope that he will make that decision soon.

I do not wish to detain the House. I must comment on the question which has been asked as to whether or not the local civil servants in North Borneo and Sarawak did not influence the people too greatly in favour of Malaysia. I believe that the information services of these two territories have played a magnificent part in getting the people to understand the problems involved. It was not possible for the newspapers or any other form of communication, except those controlled by the Government, to reach the people in the interiors. A shortage of wireless sets and poor communications mean that the newspapers are generally restricted to the main towns and surrounding areas. It was only by the use of the civil servants, the district officers, and the information department machine that it was possible to get any form of understanding to the interior peoples of this idea of Malaysia. Far from criticising them for influencing people one way or the other, I should like to pay my tribute to those people for the magnificent job they did in getting over the idea of Malaysia and then letting the people decide what it was they wanted to support.

These people, particularly in North Borneo, have their feet firmly on the ground, and I see a great democratic future for this country of Sabah and great potential development. It has rich land waiting to be developed and the development that has taken place since 1946 is quite fantastic when we consider the devastated state that North Borneo was in after the Japanese war. There was not a solitary permanent building in existence in North Borneo. To look at it today, and to visit it as I have done about every other year since that time, is to see these developments taking place. The British Government, the commercial interests, and the people of North Borneo themselves have a lot to feel proud of in their co operation between all the three sections during these years. Having paid that tribute to the civil servants in the two Borneo territories—


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 Mr. Bottomley I think that the hon. Member would be doing a disservice to the civil servants if he said that they were trying to influence Malaysia. What they were doing was urging the importance of registering their votes.

Mr. Turner The right hon. Gentleman is quite correct. They were enabling people to hear something about these proposals. Up to that time, they had no means of understanding anything about politics or voting or doing anything together. I believe that the civil servants did a magnificent job in creating a picture and letting the people decide when they went to the ballot what they wanted to do.

Finally, I should like to pay a very sincere tribute to the great ability, wisdom and understanding of Tunku Abdul Rahman, the Prime Minister of Malaya. I think that he has emerged as one of the great statesmen of the Commonwealth, a man who in the years to come will play a tremendous part in peace and the securing of it in South-East Asia. I should also like to pay my tribute to the new—and they are practically all new—leaders of political opinion in Sarawak and North Borneo for the way in which they have shown moderation and understanding of each other's problems. I hope that in the months and years that lie ahead they will all continue to show this understanding of each other's problems, because I believe that if they do this we shall have a great and new emerging nation in the Commonwealth which will play a tremendous part in the years, that lie ahead.

 * 1.54 p.m.

Mr. Arthur Creech Jones (Wakefield) I want to say only a few words because in this admirable debate most of the ground has been covered. Of course, I accept the principle of the Bill. I believe this area to be highly vulnerable, of great strategic importance, and that greater unity in this area will promote the well being of the countries of the area and the welfare of the people of the respective Territories.

I have in the past been associated with some of the changes which have occurred in this part of the world. I was the responsible Minister when we were trying to secure some degree of unity in Malaya, and I must carry some responsibility for the severance of Singapore from Malaya. I agree with the statement made earlier in the debate that probably we were rather ham-handed in the way in which we conducted the MacMichael discussions.

I believe that it was essential if any political progress were to be made in Malaya that Singapore should be cut from it, and also, of course, that we should try to lay a democratic basis of Government in Malaya itself. That was what we were endeavouring to do, although it was exceedingly difficult with the Chinese insurrection in Malaya and also the revolution which was still being worked out in China itself.

I ought to say that when we severed Singapore from Malaya, we wrote into some of the papers that were made public at the time our desire to see at a later date the restoration of Singapore in Malaya. Perhaps, too, it is fair to say that later when the Chartered Company finished its administration in North Borneo and when Rajah Brooke transferred the administration of Sarawak to the British as a Crown colony we felt even then that at some distant date there ought to be federation of at least these four territories. I think that the Secretary of State will find in the papers in the Colonial Office a note by me to this effect, that we looked forward to a time when, now these four territories were under the British Crown, at least some close association could be formed between them. In my period of office, I held discussions with Mr. Malcolm Macdonald for the purpose of ascertaining the best way of achieving this. I say this because one hon. Member spoke of the Federation not being conceived until a couple of years ago and chiefly for strategic reasons. I want to say that in the minds of many of us there was always some idea of a close association of these four territories. Therefore I am more than glad that at last that purpose has been achieved, although it may be that in the latter stages the process has been somewhat hurried.

I rise, however, to say two or three short comments in regard to the proposals which are before us. We are all conscious that there is not unanimity for this great project and that in Singapore, too, there is strong opposition and also, I believe, to some extent, in Sarawak. I hope that the Government will be tolerant and understanding of this


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68 disasters, such as have of late years shocked the public mind, rendered impossibilities; suppose, moreover, that these means, like the charts, should involve only simple directions which, being once uttered, would from their nature be available alike to all, and therefore become the common property of the world; now, instead of making known this discovery and proceeding to let the world have the benefit of it, as he did of the charts, suppose he were to come to compound with the Government, maintaining that the moment his secret was divulged it would, from its nature, become common property, and he would get nothing for his discovery from those individuals who were benefited by it, and therefore he must have from the public treasury so much money in hand, or his discovery should perish with him?

"Which of the two courses, the actual or the hypothetical, best becomes the American officer, and which would Congress most approve?

"The policy of the country in some cases, as in that of prize money, dictates extraordinary rewards to its public servants. Men of war are provided, and officers are paid to cruise against the enemy; yet the law provides not only pensions, but prize money for their efforts in the strict line of their duty.

"Your Committee, upon a full examination of the subject of the resolution referred to them, think that both justice and policy dictate that Congress should bestow upon the author of the Wind and Current Charts some substantial evidence of its appreciation of the benefits he has, by his labours, conferred upon his country. In view of the character of the work, and of the vast amounts which it has, and is, saving to the navigating, commercial, and agricultural interests of the country, independent of its benefits to these interests of other countries, it is impossible to find, or to adopt any rule or measure of reward to which exceptions may not be taken.


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Rh

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Rh Against our just damnation. Stand aside; We’ll muse for comfort that, last century, On this same tragic stage on which we have failed, A wigless Hamlet would have failed the same.

And whosoever writes good poetry, Looks just to art. He does not write for you Or me,—for London or for Edinburgh; He will not suffer the best critic known To step into his sunshine of free thought And self-absorbed conception, and exact An inch-long swerving of the holy lines. If virtue done for popularity Defiles like vice, can art for praise or hire Still keep its splendour, and remain pure art? Eschew such serfdom. What the poet writes, He writes: mankind accepts it, if it suits, And that’s success: if not, the poem’s passed From hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand, Until the unborn snatch it, crying out In pity on their fathers’ being so dull, And that’s success too. I will write no plays. Because the drama, less sublime in this, Makes lower appeals, defends more menially, Adopts the standard of the public taste To chalk its height on, wears a dog chain round Its regal neck, and learns to carry and fetch The fashions of the day to please the day; Fawns close on pit and boxes, who clap hands,

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Rh Commending chiefly its docility And humour in stage-tricks; or else indeed Gets hissed at, howled at, stamped at like a dog, Or worse, we’ll say. For dogs, unjustly kicked, Yell, bite at need; but if your dramatist (Being wronged by some five hundred nobodies Because their grosser brains most naturally Misjudge the fineness of his subtle wit) Shows teeth an almond’s breath, protests the length Of a.modest phrase,—‘My gentle countrymen, ‘There’s something in it, haply of your fault,’— Why then, besides five hundred nobodies, He’ll have five thousand, and five thousand more, Against him,—the whole public,—all the hoofs Of King Saul’s father’s asses, in full drove,— And obviously deserve it. He appealed To these,—and why say more if they condemn, Than if they praised him?—Weep, my Æschylus, But low and far, upon Sicilian shores! For since ’twas Athens (so I read the myth) Who gave commission to that fatal weight, The tortoise, cold and hard, to drop on thee And crush thee,—better cover thy bald head; She’ll hear the softest hum of Hyblan bee Before thy loud’st protesting.—For the rest, The risk’s still worse upon the modern stage; I could not, in so little, accept success, Nor would I risk so much, in ease and calm, For manifester gains; let those who prize, Pursue them: I stand off.

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Rh And yet, forbid, That any irreverent fancy or conceit Should litter in the Drama’s throne-room, where The rulers of our art, in whose full veins Dynastic glories mingle, sit in strength And do their kingly work,—conceive, command, And, from the imagination’s crucial heat, Catch up their men and women all a-flame For action all alive, and forced to prove Their life by living out heart, brain, and nerve, Until mankind makes witness, ‘These be men As we are,’ and vouchsafes the kiss that’s due To Imogen and Juliet—sweetest kin On art’s side. ’tis that, honouring to its worth The drama, I would fear to keep it down To the level of the footlights. Dies no more The sacrificial goat, for Bacchus slain,— His filmed eyes fluttered by the whirling white Of choral vestures,—troubled in his blood While tragic voices that clanged keen as swords, Leapt high together with the altar-flame, And made the blue air wink. The waxen mask, Which set the grand still front of Themis’ son Upon the puckered visage of a player;— The buskin, which he rose upon and moved, As some tall ship, first conscious of the wind, Sweeps slowly past the piers;—the mouthpiece,where The mere man’s voice with all its breaths and breaks Went sheathed in brass, and clashed on even heights

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