In this issue: Re: Off-topic: Names for the Next Decade The Ballad of William Sycamore Cloak and Dagger Re: The Ballad of William Sycamore Re: The Ballad of William Sycamore Re: The Ballad of William Sycamore THE KING O'THE CATS (W. W. Jacobs, English version) Re: CHAT: Wild, wild waste OT: Any suggestions? 1930's Minor British Novelists liar museums Re: THE KING O'THE CATS (W. W. Jacobs, English version) King Of the Cats _Moving pictures_ and Nell Shipman's early career Re: OT: Any suggestions? 1930's Minor British Novelists Re: King Of the Cats Re: THE KING O'THE CATS (W. W. Jacobs, English version) RE: Mystery of a Hansom Cab Re: King Of the Cats Re: Re: THE KING O'THE CATS (W. W. Jacobs, English version) Joaquin Miller: Among the Pre-Raphaelites Blavatsky and Falkner etexts <WAS: RE: Vexing violins> Re: Gilbert Murray novel RE: Gilbert Murray novel Re: Off-topic: Names for the Next Decade -----------------------------THE POSTS----------------------------- Date: Mon, 15 Mar 1999 21:53:03 -0800 (PST) From: John Schilke <schilkej(at)ohsu.EDU> Subject: Re: Off-topic: Names for the Next Decade I'd be inclined to follow the examples I heard as a child, and say "naught-one," "naught-seven," etc., but I was brought up in New England. John
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 02:16:38 -0500 (EST)
From: Robert Champ <rchamp(at)polaris.umuc.edu>
Subject: The Ballad of William Sycamore
I guess 1923 is shaving it a bit close for our period, but this has
long been a poem I loved. Hope you enjoy it too.
Bob C.
The Ballad of William Sycamore, 1790-1871
by Stephen Vincent Benet - 1923
My father, he was a mountaineer,
His fist was a knotty hammer;
He was quick on his feet as a running deer,
And he spoke with a Yankee stammer.
My mother, she was merry and brave,
And so she came to her labor,
With a tall green fir for her doctor grave
And a stream for her comforting neighbor.
And some are wrapped in the linen fine,
And some like a godling's scion;
But I was cradled on twigs of pine
And the skin of a mountain lion.
And some remember a white, starched lap
And a ewer with silver handles;
But I remember a coonskin cap
And the smell of bayberry candles.
The cabin logs, with the bark still rough,
And my mother who laughed at trifles,
And the tall, lank visitors, brown as snuff,
With their long, straight squirrel-rifles.
I can hear them dance, like a foggy song,
Through the deepest one of my slumbers,
The fiddle squeaking the boots along
And my father calling the numbers.
The quick feet shaking the puncheon-floor,
And the fiddle squealing and squealing,
Till the dried herbs rattled above the door
And the dust went up to the ceiling.
There are children lucky from dawn till dusk,
But never a child so lucky!
For I cut my teeth on "Money Musk"
In the Bloody Ground of Kentucky!
When I grew tall as the Indian corn,
My father had little to lend me,
But he gave me his great, old powder-horn
And his woodsman's skill to befriend me.
With a leather shirt to cover my back,
And a redskin nose to unravel
Each forest sign, I carried my pack
As far as a scout could travel.
Till I lost my boyhood and found my wife,
A girl like a Salem clipper!
A woman straight as a hunting-knife
With as eyes as bright as the Dipper!
We cleared our camp where the buffalo feed,
Unheard-of streams were our flagons;
And I sowed my sons like the apple-seed
On the trail of the Western wagons.
They were right, tight boys, never sulky or slow,
A fruitful, a goodly muster.
The eldest died at the Alamo.
The youngest fell with Custer.
The letter that told it burned my hand.
Yet we smiled and said, "So be it!"
But I could not live when they fenced the land,
For it broke my heart to see it.
I saddled a red, unbroken colt
And rode him into the day there;
And he threw me down like a thunderbolt
And rolled on me as I lay there.
The hunter's whistle hummed in my ear
As the city-men tried to move me,
And I died in my boots like a pioneer
With the whole wide sky above me.
Now I lie in the heart of the fat, black soil,
Like the seed of a prairie-thistle;
It has washed my bones with honey and oil
And picked them clean as a whistle.
And my youth returns, like the rains of Spring,
And my sons, like the wild-geese flying;
And I lie and hear the meadow-lark sing
And have much content in my dying.
Go play with the towns you have built of blocks,
The towns where you would have bound me!
I sleep in my earth like a tired fox,
And my buffalo have found me.
_________________________________________________
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Robert L. Champ
rchamp(at)polaris.umuc.edu
Editor, teacher, anglophile, human curiosity
Whatever things are pure, whatever things are
lovely, whatever things are of good report, if
there is any virtue and if there is anything
praiseworthy; meditate on these things
Philippians 4:8
rchamp7927(at)aol.com robertchamp(at)netscape.net
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 08:55:21 -0500 From: "Richard L. King" <rking(at)INDIAN.VINU.EDU> Subject: Cloak and Dagger I see the Cloak and Dagger club is online. They are devoted to Jack the Ripper studies. Here is their Victoriana links site, in case anyone is interested (the buttons at the top will take you to their other sites, like The Ripperologist publication). http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Academy/7020/victoriana_links.html Best wishes, Richard King rking(at)indian.vinu.edu
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 08:38:03 -0600 From: Chris Carlisle <CarlislC(at)psychiatry1.wustl.edu> Subject: Re: The Ballad of William Sycamore Bob, thanks a lot for this wonderful old gem. I remember it well from my childhood, though I don't know where I encountered it. I had a 40's vintage children's encyclopedia (the 20 volume Book of Knowledge) which was stuffed with poetry. (I developed my passion for Pre-Raphaelite verse and art from those books!) Somehow, I don't quite think that's where I found it though. I seem to hear it in someone's voice, and I don't quite know whose. Did someone record it? Was there a kid's record with stuff like this on it? I'm going to print the poem out to mull over it, and maybe the memory will emerge fully. Kiwi Carlisle carlislc(at)psychiatry.wustl.edu
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 09:12:13 -0600 From: Ann Hilgeman <eahilg(at)seark.net> Subject: Re: The Ballad of William Sycamore I'm sending my thanks to Bob as well. I seem to remember a whole series of Benet poems about American heroes. Wasn't there one about Daniel Boone? And does anyone know the name of the book which included those poems? A lot of Benet's work was performed on radio during WWII, and I think that NPR has rebroadcast some of those old tapes (particularly around the Fourth of July). Ann Hilgeman
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 10:42:43 +0300 From: cbishop(at)interlog.com (Carroll Bishop) Subject: Re: The Ballad of William Sycamore >I guess 1923 is shaving it a bit close for our period, but this has >long been a poem I loved. Hope you enjoy it too. > >Bob C. > >The Ballad of William Sycamore, 1790-1871 >by Stephen Vincent Benet - 1923 My favorite Stephen Vincent Benet is a tale called THE KING O' THE CATS, which was based on a famous Irish fairy tale of the same name. This one has the cat as an orchestral conductor, very famous, who conducts with his tail. While he's on stage he receives a message he has long awaited -- and, _con brio_ e con fumo_ he vanishes from the stage shouting "Then I am the only King o' the Cats1" I believe there's a Jacobs version of the original, and also one by Padraic Colum. The Jacobs one is probably our period. Carroll Bishop (cbishop(at)interlog.com)
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 16:07:04 +0300 From: cbishop(at)interlog.com (Carroll Bishop) Subject: THE KING O'THE CATS (W. W. Jacobs, English version) One winter's evening the sexton's wife was sitting by the fireside with her big black cat, Old Tom, on the other side, both half asleep and waiting for the master to come home. They waited and they waited, but still he didn't come, till at last he came rushing in, calling out, "Who's Tommy Tildrum?" in such a wild way that both his wife and his cat stared at him to know what was the matter. "Why, what's the matter?" said his wife. "And why do you want to know who Tommy Tildrum is?" "Oh, I've had such an adventure. I was digging away at old Mr. Fordyce's grave when I suppose I must have dropped asleep, and only woke up by hearing a cat's meow." "Meow!" said Old Tom in answer. "Yes, just like that! So I looked over the edge of the grave, and what do you think I saw?" "Now, how can I tell?" said the sexton's wife. "Why, nine black cats all like our friend Tom here, all with a white spot on their chestesses. And what do you think they were carrying? Why, a small coffin covered with a black velvet pall, and on the pall was a small coronet all of gold, and at every third step they took they cried all together, 'Meow --'" "Meow!" said Old Tom again. "Yes, just like that!" said the sexton. "And as they came nearer and nearer to me I could see them more distinctly, because their eyes shone out with a sort of green light. Well, they all came towards me, eight of them carrying the coffin and the biggest cat of all walking in front for all the world like -- but look at our Tom, how he's looking at me. You'd think he knew all I was saying." "Go on, go on," said his wife. "Never mind Old Tom." "Well, as I was a-saying, they came towards me slowly and solemnly, and at every third step crying all together, 'Meow --'" "Meow!" said Old Tom again. "Yes, just like that, till they came and stood right opposite Mr. Fordyce's grave, where I was, when they all stood still and looked straight at me. I did feel queer, that I did! But look at Old Tom. He's looking at me just like they did." "Go on, go on," said his wife. "Never mind Old Tom." "Where was I? Oh, they all stood still looking at me, when the one that wasn't carrying the coffin came forward and, staring straight at me, said to me -- yes, I tell 'ee, said to me -- with a squeaky voice, 'Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toldrum's dead,' and that's why I asked you if you knew who Tom Tildrum was, for how can I tell Tom Tildrum Tim Toldrum's dead if I don't know who Tom Tildrum is?" "Look at Old Tom! Look at Old Tom!" screamed his wife. And well he might look, for Tom was swelling, and Tom was staring, and at last Tom shrieked out, "What -- old Tim dead! Then I'm the King o' the Cats!" and rushed up the chimney and was never more seen. Carroll Bishop (cbishop(at)interlog.com)
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 13:27:09 -0800 From: Patricia Teter <PTeter(at)getty.edu> Subject: Re: CHAT: Wild, wild waste Stephen wrote: <<I'm probably behind in realizing this, but a recent movie promo mag shows the upcoming movie _Wild, wild West_ (1999) is going to be a techno-bang movie instead of a western.>> After hearing the recent results of a poll indicating that the majority of theater-goers are teenagers, I guess this change is not a complete surprise. The majority who attend this movie will know nothing about the original anyway....and, I suspect the majority of the people making the film also know very little about the original. best regards, Patricia -- who finally saw Terrence Malick's painful, yet beautiful film _The Thin Red Line_; this movie gets my vote for the Best Picture. Great to see the actor Elias Koteas in a mainstream film -- he usually appears in films directed by Atom Egoyen, one of my favorite non-conformist directors.
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 16:13:29 -0600 From: Chris Carlisle <CarlislC(at)psychiatry1.wustl.edu> Subject: OT: Any suggestions? 1930's Minor British Novelists I'm asking you folks because I feel sure at least SOMEONE on the list can direct me to another venue or knowledgeable person for an obscure inquiry of mine. I need to find a good source of information about minor British novelists of the 1930's, more specifically the novelist Richard Oke, best known to posterity for several references to his novel, Frolic Wind, in Dorothy L. Sayers' Gaudy Night. Does anyone know where I might dig for information on this author? Kiwi Carlisle carlislc(at)psychiatry.wustl.edu
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 15:44:06 -0700 From: Deborah McMillion Nering <deborah(at)gloaming.com> Subject: liar museums Anyone interested in Julia Margaret Cameron's photos and was waiting for the show to come to the San Francisco museum of modern art will be disappointed. Despite advertisements from the Boston MFA and Chicago Inst. of Fine arts that said this show's 3rd leg would be SFMOFA it somehow ended up at MOMA in New York. If you are lucky enough to be near this institution--don't miss her beautiful photos (used as model for the lovely photos in the Minnie Driver period movie "The Governess"). Don't know if this is the last leg but those of you like me who can't make it be happy there is an exquisite book out for the show called JULIA CAMERON'S WOMEN. Deborah Deborah McMillion deborah(at)gloaming.com http://www.gloaming.com/deborah.html
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 17:57:32 -0500 (EST) From: Zozie(at)aol.com Subject: Re: THE KING O'THE CATS (W. W. Jacobs, English version) Yay! Thank you thank you, Carroll. loved it. grand story of a tuesday twilight... phoebe
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 18:44:48 -0500 From: Linda Anderson <lpa1(at)ptdprolog.net> Subject: King Of the Cats Ya had me going, Carroll. I missed the header and thought I was reading a post by Bob Burr on Hounds, who usually posts very funny little vignettes. It took me to the end of the post (still looking for Holmes and Watson to enter) to realize it was a totally different story. Now if those musically inclined could find web sites with the music.... <G> Linda Anderson
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 17:05:20 -0700
From: sdavies(at)MtRoyal.AB.CA
Subject: _Moving pictures_ and Nell Shipman's early career
A new play has premiered in Calgary, from the pen of Sharon "Blood relations"
Pollock. Called _Moving pictures_, it is the story of Nell Shipman who was a
silent film star and director. She specialized in plots set in the Canadian
wilderness.
Here's the InfoCulture article based on a CBC Radio Arts report broadcast:
http://www.infoculture.cbc.ca/archives/theatre/theatre_03151999_pollockm.html
The article ends with more links to Shipman websites. Taken all together they
make a very interesting picture.
Stephen
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 18:01:36 -0600 From: Marta Dawes <smdawes(at)home.com> Subject: Re: OT: Any suggestions? 1930's Minor British Novelists I have been likewise looking for a story by British detective novelist C. H. B. Kitchin, called "The Maze", from probably the 20's or 30's. If anyone knows where I can find this, let me know. Marta Chris Carlisle wrote: > > I'm asking you folks because I feel sure at least SOMEONE on > the list can direct me to another venue or knowledgeable person > for an obscure inquiry of mine. I need to find a good source of > information about minor British novelists of the 1930's, more > specifically the novelist Richard Oke, best known to posterity > for several references to his novel, Frolic Wind, in Dorothy L. Sayers' > Gaudy Night. Does anyone know where I might dig for information > on this author? > > Kiwi Carlisle > carlislc(at)psychiatry.wustl.edu
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 20:11:52 +0300 From: cbishop(at)interlog.com (Carroll Bishop) Subject: Re: King Of the Cats >Ya had me going, Carroll. I missed the header and thought I was reading a >post by Bob Burr on Hounds, who usually posts very funny little vignettes. >It took me to the end of the post (still looking for Holmes and Watson to >enter) to realize it was a totally different story. > >Now if those musically inclined could find web sites with the music.... <G> > > >Linda Anderson Isn't that a fine eerie story? Good for Hallowe'en. Musical research -- oh yes yes yes. I'm looking for a theme in Stravinsky's Apollon Musagetes, towards the end, I KNOW I've heard before on some television series with Miranda Richardson...DER KINDER. It turned out to be something else, something quite old....and I can't remember what. Damn! Carroll
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 20:13:07 +0300 From: cbishop(at)interlog.com (Carroll Bishop) Subject: Re: THE KING O'THE CATS (W. W. Jacobs, English version) >Yay! Thank you thank you, Carroll. loved it. grand story of a tuesday >twilight... > >phoebe Good story, hey? You'll never forget it. Neither will your cat, who knows all about it. You do have a cat? A dog, I know.... Carroll
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 21:01:01 -0500 From: "James E. Kearman" <jkearman(at)mindspring.com> Subject: RE: Mystery of a Hansom Cab Several weeks ago, Christa Ludlow wrote: > > This is my first post and something some of you may find of interest - an > article from the Sydney Morning Herald to mark the republishing of Fergus > Hume's 'A Mystery of a Hansom Cab'. Based on her recommendation, I obtained a copy of the 70s edition from Dover, via Bibliophile. It's a good read, and I think Gaslighters will like it. The ending is rather patronizing of the lower classes, but I guess that was the prevailing attitude. The action includes a police chase, via horse-drawn carriages. Thanks, Christa, for the tip! Cheers, Jim
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Date: Tue, 16 Mar 1999 22:35:35 +0300 From: cbishop(at)interlog.com (Carroll Bishop) Subject: Re: King Of the Cats >>Now if those musically inclined could find web sites with the music.... <G> >> >> >>Linda Anderson >Musical research -- oh yes yes yes. I'm looking for a theme in Stravinsky's >Apollon Musagetes, towards the end, I KNOW I've heard before on some >television series with Miranda Richardson...DER KINDER. It turned out to >be something else, something quite old....and I can't remember what. I remembered! DIE KINDER -- it's Lasciate Mi Morire, sung in German. That is very far from Gaslight time but it sure was one hell of a show. Miranda R. and Frederic Forrest. Now I have to see if it is the same theme I thought I heard in Apollo. Carroll Bishop
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Date: Wed, 17 Mar 1999 07:31:51 -0500 (EST) From: Zozie(at)aol.com Subject: Re: Re: THE KING O'THE CATS (W. W. Jacobs, English version) In a message dated 3/17/99 1:06:48 AM, Caroll wrote: <<Good story, hey? You'll never forget it. Neither will your cat, who knows all about it. You do have a cat? A dog, I know.... >> Yes good story. My catboys Maxer and Mouse loved it. Dog slept through the reading. Turtle was in another room. Definitely a story for felines. smiling, phoebe
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Date: Wed, 17 Mar 1999 12:36:44 -0500 (EST)
From: Robert Champ <rchamp(at)polaris.umuc.edu>
Subject: Joaquin Miller: Among the Pre-Raphaelites
The California Reader is a website devoted, as you might have guessed
to writers from California. Two of these are from our period: Bret
Harte and Joaquin Miller. I have taken the liberty of "borrowing" one of
the site's featured pieces of writing--an account of a dinner at the home
of Dante Gabriel Rossetti--to give you an idea of the kind of work
you might find there. The URL is
http://www.notfrisco.com/calmem/index.html
Good reading!
Bob C. (who takes no responsibility for the dubious moral message in
the verse epigraph)
Dinner at Rossetti's
by Joaquin Miller
There is no thing that hath not worth;
There is no evil anywhere;
There is no ill on all this earth,
If man seeks not to see it there.
September 28. I cannot forget that dinner with Dante Gabriel Rossetti,
just before leaving London, nor can I hope to recall its shining and
enduring glory. I am a better,larger man, because of it. And how nearly
our feet are set on the same way. It was as if we were all crossing the
plains, and I for a day's journey and a night's encampment fell in with
and conversed with the captains of the march.
But one may not gave names and dates and details over there as
here. The home is entirely a castle. The secrets of the board and fireside
are sacred. And then these honest toilers and worshippers of the beautiful
are shy, so shy and modest. But I like this decent English way of keeping
your name down and out of sight till the coffin-lid hides your
blushes--so modest these Pre-Raphaelites are that I should be in
disgrace forever if I dared set down any living man's name.
But here are a few of the pearls picked up, as they were tossed about the
table at intervals and sandwiched in between tales of love and lighter
thoughts and things.
All London, or rather all the brain of London, the literary brain, was
there. And the brain of all the world, I think, was in London. These
giants of thought, champions of the beautiful earth, passed the secrets of
all time and all lands before me like a mighty panorama. All night long.
We dined so late that we missed breakfast. If I could remember and write
down truly and exactly what these men said, I would have the best and the
greatest book that ever was written, I have been trying a week in vain, I
have written down and scratched out and revised till I have lost the soul
of it, it seems to me; no individuality to it; only like my own stuff. If
I only had set their words down on the next day instead of attempting
to remember their thoughts! Alas! the sheaves have been tossed and beaten
about over sea and land for days and days, till the golden grain is gone,
and here is but the straw and chaff.
The master sat silent for the most part; there was a little man away down
at the other end, conspicuously modest. There was a cynical fat man, and a
lean philanthropist: all sorts and sizes, but all lovers of the beautiful
of earth. Here is what one, a painter, a ruddy-faced and a rollicking
gentleman, remarked merrily to me as he poured out a glass of red wine at
the beginning of the dinner:
"When travelling in the mountains of Italy, I observed that the pretty
peasant women made the wine by putting grapes in a great tub, and then,
getting into this tub, barefooted, on top of the grapes, treading them out
with their brown, bare feet. At first I did not like to drink this wine.
I did not think it was clean. But I afterward watched these pretty brown
women" and here all leaned to listen, at the mention of pretty brown
women--I watched these pretty brown women at their work in the primitive
winepress, and I noticed that they always washed their feet after they got
done treading out the wine."
All laughed at this, and the red-faced painter was so delighted that he
poured out and swallowed another full glass. The master sighed as he sat
at the head of the table rolling a bit of bread between thumb and finger,
and said, sitting close to me: "I am an Italian who has neven seen Italy.
Belle Italia!..."
By and by he quietly said that silence was the noblest attitude in all
things; that the greatest poets refused to write, and that all great
artists in all lines were above the folly of expression. A voice from
far down the table echoed this sentiment by saying:"Heard melodies
are sweet; but unheard melodies are sweeter." "Written poems are
delicious; but unwritten poems are divine," cried the triumphant cynic.
"What is poetry?" cries a neighbor. "All true, pure life is poetry,"
answers one."But the inspiration of poetry?""The art of poetry is in
books. The inspiration of poetry in nature." To this all agreed.
Then the master very quietly spoke: "And yet do not despise the books
of man. All religions, said the Chinese philosophers, are good. The only
difference is, some religions are better than others, and the apparent
merit of each depends largely upon a man's capacity for understanding it.
This is true of poetry. All poetry is good. I never read a poem in my
life that did not have some merit, and teach some sweet lesson. The
fault in reading the poems of man, as well as reading the poetry of
nature, lies largely at the door of the reader. Now, what do you call
poetry?" and he turned his great Italian eyes tenderly to where I sat at
his side.
"To me a poem must be a picture," I answered.
Proud I was when a great poet then said: "And it must be a picture--if a
good poem is so simple that you can understand it at a glance, eh? And
see it and remember it as you would see and remember a sunset, eh?"
"Aye," answered the master, "I also demand that it shall be lofty in
sentiment and sublime in expression. The only rule I have for measuring
the merits of a written poem, is by the height of it. Why not be able to
measure its altitude as you measure one of your sublime peaks of America?"
He looked at me as he spoke of America, and I was encouraged to answer:
"Yes, I do not want to remember the words. But I do want it to remain
with me a picture and become a part of my life. Take this one verse from
Mr. Longfellow:
"And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.'"
"Good!" cried the fat cynic, who, I am sure, had never heard the couplet
before, it was so sweet to him; "Good! There is a picture that will
depart from no impressible clay. The silent night, the far sweet melody
falling on the weary mind, the tawny picturesque Arabs stealing away in
the darkness,the perfect peace, the stillness and the rest. It appeals to
all the Ishmaelite in our natures, and all the time we see the tents gathered
up and the silent children of the desertgliding away in the gloaming."
A transplanted American, away down at the other end by a little man among
bottles, said: "The poem of Evangeline is a succession of pictures. I
never read Evangeline but once." "It is a waste of time to look twice at a
sunset," said Rossetti, sotto voce, and the end man went on: "But I
believe I can see every picture in that poem as distinctly as if I had
been the unhappy Arcadian; for here the author has called in all the
elements that go to make up a perfect poem."
"When the great epic of this new, solid Saxon tongue comes to be written,"
said one who sat near and was dear to the master's heart, "it will embrace
all that this embraces: new and unnamed lands; ships on the sea; the
still deep waters hidden away in a deep and voiceless continent; the fresh
and fragrant wilderness; the curling smoke of the camp-fire; action,
movement, journeys; the presence--the inspiring presence of woman; the
ennobling sentiment of love, devotion, and devotion to the death; faith, hope
and charity,- and all in the open air."
"Yes," said the master thoughtfully, 'no great poem has ever been or
ever will be fitted in a parlor, or even fashioned from a city. There is not
room for it there."
"Hear! hear! you might as well try to grow a California pine in the
shell of a peanut," cried I. Some laughed, some applauded, all looked
curiously at me. Of course, I did not say it that well, yet I did say it
far better, I mean I did not use the words carefully, but I had the
advantage of action and sympathy.
Then the master said, after a bit of reflection: "Homer's Ulysses, out of
which have grown books enough to cover the earth, owes its immortality to
all this, and its out-door exercise. Yet it is a bloody book--a bad
book, in many respects--full of revenge, treachery, avarice and wrong. And
old Ulysses himself seems to have been the most colossal liar on record.
But for all this, the constant change of scene, the moving ships and the
roar of waters, the rush of battle and the anger of the gods, the divine
valor of the hero, and, above all, and over all, like a broad,
white-bosomed moon through the broken clouds, the splendid life
of that one woman; the shining faith, the constancy, the truth and
purity of Penelope--all these make a series of pictures that pass before
us like a panorama, and we will not leave off reading till we have seen
them all happy together again, and been assured that the faith and
constancy of that woman has had it reward. And we love him, even if
he does lie!"
How all at that board leaned and listened. Yet let me again and again
humbly confess to you that I do him such injustice to try thus to
quote from memory. After a while he said: "Take the picture of the old,
blind, slobber-mouthed dog, that has been driven forth by the wooers to
die. For twenty years he has not heard the voice of his master. The master
now comes, in the guise of a beggar. The dog knows his voice,struggles to
rise from the ground, staggers toward him, licks his hand, falls, and dies
at his feet."
Such was the soul, heart, gentleness of this greatest man that I ever
saw walking in the fields of art....
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Robert L. Champ
rchamp(at)polaris.umuc.edu
Editor, teacher, anglophile, human curiosity
Whatever things are pure, whatever things are
lovely, whatever things are of good report, if
there is any virtue and if there is anything
praiseworthy; meditate on these things
Philippians 4:8
rchamp7927(at)aol.com robertchamp(at)netscape.net
_________________________________________________
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Date: Wed, 17 Mar 1999 10:47:34 -0700
From: sdavies(at)MtRoyal.AB.CA
Subject: Blavatsky and Falkner etexts <WAS: RE: Vexing violins>
Craig W. asks about the availability of the following two pieces in plain ASCII:
_The lost Stradivarius_ (1895)(288 kb) by John Meade Falkner, and "The ensouled
violin" (65 kb)(1892) by Mme. Blavatsky. They can both be obtained via the
FTPmailer.
To retrieve the plain ASCII file send to: ftpmail(at)MtRoyal.AB.CA
with no subject heading and completely in lowercase:
open aftp.mtroyal.ab.ca
cd /gaslight
get loststrd.nvl
get ensoulvn.sht
Stephen D
mailto:SDavies(at)mtroyal.ab.ca
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Date: Wed, 17 Mar 1999 10:31:02 -0800
From: "Robert T. Eldridge" <rfx(at)earthlink.net>
Subject: Re: Gilbert Murray novel
Robert Champ wrote:
>
> If you have ever taken in a course in ancient Greek literature, you
> have undoubtedly run across the name of Gilbert Murray, one of the
> century's premier scholars in that field (he was also a first-rate
> translator of his favorite playright, Euripides).
>
> Today, while proofreading an article about Murray, I happened to
> discover that at one point in his life he had written a novel. Here
> is the relevant passage:
>
> <<Less to be expected for a man of 23 was a sudden call to the Chair
> of Greek in Glasgow, which became vacant in 1889 when the distinguished
> Sohophoclean scholar Sir Richard Jebb moved to Cambridge. Murray's
> brilliant promise at Oxford was his chief recommendation (a fantastic
> novel called _Gobi_ about a lost Greek civilization in Tibet was the only
> manuscript he had completed at the time)...
> <<
>
> Now, I have never heard that Murray wrote a novel, and wonder if this
> one was ever published and if so, whether anybody on Gaslight has heard of
> it or read it. A man of Murray's intellectual prowess and undoubted
> literary ability should have produced a very interesting book.
> Unfortunately, though in existence in 1889, the novel would not lend
> itself to much e-texting because Murray lived for a very long time
> and the copyright is still in effect.
>
> Bob C.
>
> _________________________________________________
> @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
>
> Robert L. Champ
> rchamp(at)polaris.umuc.edu
> Editor, teacher, anglophile, human curiosity
>
> Whatever things are pure, whatever things are
> lovely, whatever things are of good report, if
> there is any virtue and if there is anything
> praiseworthy; meditate on these things
> Philippians 4:8
>
> rchamp7927(at)aol.com robertchamp(at)netscape.net
> _________________________________________________
> @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Dear Bob and others,
Re: Gilbert Murray's lost race fantasy novel.
The book is titled _Gobi or Shamo_ and was published by Longmans, Green
in London in 1889. The first edition is much sought after by collectors,
and nice copies run $200-300, but it was reprinted by Arno in their Lost
Race series, and may well still be in print from them (now owned by Ayer
in New Hampshire).
The novel is annotated by Bleiler in his _Science Fiction: The Early
Years_, where he compares it to the work of Haggard, but with "a lighter
touch."
I hope this information isn't redundant by now; I've been out of town
for two weeks and am just starting to go through my email.
Best wishes,
Bob Eldridge
PS. I have a copy of the first of this book in stock if anyone wants
further details on it.
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Date: Wed, 17 Mar 1999 14:59:28 -0500 From: "Roberts, Leonard" <lroberts(at)email.uncc.edu> Subject: RE: Gilbert Murray novel Ayers Press has the book in stock. LC: 77-84259 London 1889 ISBN: 0405110022 $34.95 web page: http://www.scry.com/ayer/ayerctlg/4415403.htm Len Roberts > -----Original Message----- > From: Robert T. Eldridge [SMTP:rfx(at)earthlink.net] > Sent: Wednesday, March 17, 1999 1:31 PM > To: gaslight(at)MtRoyal.AB.CA > Subject: Re: Gilbert Murray novel > > Robert Champ wrote: > > > > If you have ever taken in a course in ancient Greek literature, you > > have undoubtedly run across the name of Gilbert Murray, one of the > > century's premier scholars in that field (he was also a first-rate > > translator of his favorite playright, Euripides). > > > > Today, while proofreading an article about Murray, I happened to > > discover that at one point in his life he had written a novel. Here > > is the relevant passage: > > > > <<Less to be expected for a man of 23 was a sudden call to the Chair > > of Greek in Glasgow, which became vacant in 1889 when the distinguished > > Sohophoclean scholar Sir Richard Jebb moved to Cambridge. Murray's > > brilliant promise at Oxford was his chief recommendation (a fantastic > > novel called _Gobi_ about a lost Greek civilization in Tibet was the > only > > manuscript he had completed at the time)... > > << > > > > Now, I have never heard that Murray wrote a novel, and wonder if this > > one was ever published and if so, whether anybody on Gaslight has heard > of > > it or read it. A man of Murray's intellectual prowess and undoubted > > literary ability should have produced a very interesting book. > > Unfortunately, though in existence in 1889, the novel would not lend > > itself to much e-texting because Murray lived for a very long time > > and the copyright is still in effect. > > > > Bob C. > > > > _________________________________________________ > > @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ > > > > Robert L. Champ > > rchamp(at)polaris.umuc.edu > > Editor, teacher, anglophile, human curiosity > > > > Whatever things are pure, whatever things are > > lovely, whatever things are of good report, if > > there is any virtue and if there is anything > > praiseworthy; meditate on these things > > Philippians 4:8 > > > > rchamp7927(at)aol.com robertchamp(at)netscape.net > > _________________________________________________ > > @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ > > Dear Bob and others, > > Re: Gilbert Murray's lost race fantasy novel. > > The book is titled _Gobi or Shamo_ and was published by Longmans, > Green > in London in 1889. The first edition is much sought after by collectors, > and nice copies run $200-300, but it was reprinted by Arno in their Lost > Race series, and may well still be in print from them (now owned by Ayer > in New Hampshire). > > The novel is annotated by Bleiler in his _Science Fiction: The Early > Years_, where he compares it to the work of Haggard, but with "a lighter > touch." > > I hope this information isn't redundant by now; I've been out of > town > for two weeks and am just starting to go through my email. > > Best wishes, > > Bob Eldridge > > PS. I have a copy of the first of this book in stock if anyone wants > further details on it.
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Date: Wed, 17 Mar 1999 12:11:53 -0800 From: "Robert T. Eldridge" <rfx(at)earthlink.net> Subject: Re: Off-topic: Names for the Next Decade John Schilke wrote: > > I'd be inclined to follow the examples I heard as a child, and say > "naught-one," "naught-seven," etc., but I was brought up in New England. > John I was also brought up in New England, and recall "ought-one," "ought-seven," etc. Also: "double-ought", as in what to call fine steel wool of a #00 grade. My hunch about what will emerge as nomenclature for the new decade and the new century: "Two k" will be the prefix, to be followed by the number of years added to it. Thus: 2000 = "Two k" 2001 = "Two k one" 2007 = "Two k seven" 2011 = "Two k eleven" 2099 = "Two k ninety-nine" I'm not saying I like this (though I can't say what I'd prefer), just that I predict it. What people will do when 2100 rolls around is a problem, fortunately, that most of us will not have to deal with. Bob Eldridge ------------------------------ End of Gaslight Digest V1 #55 *****************************