Gustavo is himself the author of some of the best pages contained in the volume, as, for example, those of the Introduction and of the chapters on San Juan de los Reyes. He is likewise the author of many of the excellent sketches that adorn the work, notably that of the portada.
These sketches, as well as others published elsewhere, show how eminent his work as artist would have been, had he decided to cultivate that field instead of literature. Juan de la Puerta Vizcaino y D. Gustavo Adolfo Becquer. Tomo I, Madrid, Essentially an artist in temperament, he viewed all things from the artist's standpoint.
His distaste for politics was strong, and his lack of interest in political intrigues was profound. He felt at home in a complete civilization, like that of the Middle Ages, and his artisticopolitical ideas and his fear of the ignorant crowd made him regard with marked predilection all that was aristocratic and historic, without however refusing, in his quick intelligence, to recognize the wonderful character of the epoch in which he lived.
Indolent, moreover, in small things,—and for him political parties were small things,—he was always to be found in the one in which were most of his friends, and in which they talked most of pictures, poetry, cathedrals, kings, and nobles. Incapable of hatred, he never placed his remarkable talent as a writer at the service of political animosities, however certain might have been his gains. These he would bring written on odd scraps of paper, and often upon calling cards, in his usual careless fashion.
She died in January, His friends were not slow in discovering that the tall, dark, and beautiful Julia was the object of his adoration, and they advised him to declare his love openly.
But his timid and retiring nature imposed silence upon his lips, and he never spoke a word of love to her. It cannot be said, moreover, that the impression created upon the young lady by the brilliant youth was such as to inspire a return of his mute devotion. Becquer was negligent in his dress and indifferent to his personal appearance, and when Julia's friends upbraided her for her hardness of heart she would reply with some such curt and cruel epigram as this: "Perhaps he would move my heart more if he affected my stomach less.
The editor of this sketch is indebted to the courtesy of the Exc mo. Here is a list of the sketches:. A dream, or rather a nightmare, in which a man is pictured in a restless sleep, with a small devil perched upon his knees, who causes to fly as a kite above the sleeper's head a woman in graceful floating garments. A fat and jolly horned devil in the confessional box, with a confessor of the fair sex kneeling at one side, while at the extreme right two small acolytes point out to each other a suspicious looking tail that protrudes from beneath her skirts, thus stamping her as Satan's own.
Gustavo himself seated smoking, leaning back in his chair, and in the smoke that rises a series of women, some with wings. Actors standing apart in the wings. A visit to the cemetery. A skeleton thrusting out his head from his burial niche, and a young man presenting his card.
Becker sic. Fantastic frontispiece of skulls, bones, and leafy fronds, and two young lovers seated, sketching. A circus of skeletons, in two scenes: 1 Leaping through the hoop. A woman recently deceased, surrounded by skeletons offering their compliments.
They are presented by one of their number, with hat in hand. The word FIN in bones concludes the series of grotesque and uncanny sketches, which but emphasize a fact ever present in the poet's mind—that while we are in life we are in death.
He lived with his wife but a short time, during which period two sons were born to them—Gustavo, whose later career was unfortunately not such as to bring credit to the memory of his illustrious father, and, Jorge, who died young. Becquer was passionately fond of his children, and succeeded in keeping them with him after the separation from his wife. They were constantly the objects of his affectionate solicitude, and his last thoughts were for them.
Becquer entered upon his new labors inand was a fairly regular contributor until the suppression of the paper. Here he published the greater part of his legends and tales, as well as his remarkable collection of letters Desde mi Celda "From my Cell". The following year his brother Valeriano, who up to that time had exercised his talents as a genre painter in Seville, came to join him in Madrid. He too had been unfortunate in his domestic relations, and the brothers joined in sympathy to form a new household.
A period of comparative comfort seemed to open up before them. This period was of short duration, however; for Gustavo who was never strong soon fell ill, and was obliged to withdraw from the capital, in search of purer air, to the historic monastery of Veruela, situated on the Moncayo, a mountain in northern Spain.
His brother Valeriano accompanied him, and there they passed a year in complete isolation from the rest of the world. The next year the two brothers returned to the capital, and Gustavo, together with his friend D. Felipe Vallarino, began the publication of La Gaceta literariaof brief but brilliant memory. At the Baths of Fitero in Navarre, whither, with his inseparable brother, he had gone to recuperate his health in the summer ofGustavo composed the fantastic legend of the Miserereand others no less interesting.
At this time Luis Gonzalez Bravo, a man of fine literary discrimination, whatever may be thought of him politically, was prime minister under Isabel II. He had become interested in the work of Gustavo, and, knowing the dire financial straits in which the young poet labored, he thought to diminish these anxieties and thus give him more time to devote to creative work by making him censor of novels.
A new period of calm and comparative comfort began, and for the first time in his life Becquer had the leisure to carry out a long-cherished project, at once his own desire and the desire of his friends: that of gathering together in one volume all his scattered verse and of adding to the collection other poems as well that had not yet seen the light.
This he did, and the completed volume so charmed his friend and patron, Gonzalez Bravo, that he offered of his own accord to write a prologue for the work and to print it at his own expense. But in came the revolution which dethroned Isabel II, and in the confusion that followed the downfall of the ministry and the hasty withdrawal of Gonzalez Bravo to the French frontier the volume of poems was lost.
This was a sad blow to Becquer, but he courageously set to work to repair the loss, and with painful effort succeeded in recalling and rewriting his Rimaswhich were published after his death in the third volume of his works by his friend Correa.
Becquer, with extreme punctiliousness, tendered his resignation as censor of novels. A pension of 10, reals that the government had assigned to Valeriano for the study of national customs was withdrawn, and both brothers were again deprived of permanent employment.
They joined forces, and while the one sketched admirable woodcuts for the Almanac Anual of Gaspar y Roig, the other wrote such original articles as Las Hojas Secasor chafed under such hack work as the translation of popular novels from the French, which language he read with ease, though he did not speak it well.
An amusing account is given by Correa of an adventure that befell the two brothers one night in Toledo as they were wandering about its streets.
He says: "One magnificent moonlight night both artists decided to contemplate their beloved city bathed in the fantastic light of the chilly orb.
The painter armed with pencils and the writer with his souvenirs had abandoned the old city and on a ruined wall had given themselves up for hours to their artistic chatter They heard something of apses, squinches, ogives, and other terms as suspicious or as dangerous The staff en masse wrote to the mistaken jailer, and at last we saw the prisoners return safe and sound, parodying in our presence with words and pencils the famous prisons of Silvio Pellico.
The first number of this noteworthy paper appeared on January 12 of that year, and from its inception to the time of his death Gustavo was its director and a regular contributor. There remains for the future editor of his complete works a large number of such articles, which it would be well worth while to collect. Their life of hardship and anxiety was tearing to shreds the delicate health of the two young artists, and on September 23,Valeriano breathed his last in the arms of Gustavo.
His death was a blow from which Gustavo never recovered. It was as though the mainspring was broken in a watch; and, though the wheels still turned of their own momentum, the revolutions were few in number and soon ceased. Without any precise symptom, that which was diagnosed as pneumonia turned to hepatitis, becoming in the judgment of others pericarditis, and meanwhile the patient, with his brain as clear as ever and his natural gentleness, went on submitting himself to every experiment, accepting every medicine, and dying inch by inch.
In the Prologue of the first edition Correa relates the life of his friend with sympathy and enthusiasm, and it is from this source that we glean most of the facts that are to be known regarding the poet's life. The appearance of these volumes caused a marked effect, and their author was placed by popular edict in the front rank of contemporary writers.
Becquer may be said to belong to the Romantic School, chief of whose exponents in Spain were Zorilla and Espronceda. The choice of mediaeval times as the scene of his stories, their style and treatment, as well as the personal note and the freedom of his verse, all stamp him as a Romanticist.
His legends, with one or two exceptions, are genuinely Spanish in subject, though infused with a tender melancholy that recalls the northern ballads rather than the writings of his native land. His love for old ruins and monuments, his archaeological instinct, is evident in every line. So, too, is his artistic nature, which finds a greater field for its expression in his prose than in his verse. Add to this a certain bent toward the mysterious and supernatural, and we have the principal elements that enter into the composition of these legends, whose quaint, weird beauty not only manifests the charm that naturally attaches to popular or folk tales, but is due especially to the way in which they are told by one who was at once an artist and a poet.
Zorilla has been said to be Becquer's most immediate precursor, in that he possesses the same instinct for the mysterious. But, as Blanco Garcia observes, "Becquer is less ardent than Zorilla, and preferred the strange traditions in which some unknown supernatural power hovers to those others, more probable, in which only human passions with their caprices and outbursts are involved.
One is caught by the music of the prose at the first lines, enraptured by the weird charm of the story, and held in breathless interest until the last words die away. If Becquer's phrase is not always classic, it is, on the other hand, vigorous and picturesque; and when one reflects upon the difficult conditions under which his writings were produced, in the confusion of the printing-office, or hurriedly in a miserable attic to procure food for the immediate necessities of his little family, and when one likewise recalls the fact that they were published in final book form only after the author's death, and without retouching, the wonder grows that they are written in a style so pleasing and so free from harshness.
Becquer's prose is doubtless at its best in his letters entitled Desde mi Celdawritten, as has been said, from the monastery of Veruela, in Read his description of his journey to the ancient Aragonese town of Tarazona, picturesquely situated on the River Queiles, of his mule trip over the glorious Moncayo, of the peacefulness and quiet of the old fortified monastery of Veruela, and you will surely feel inspired to follow him in his wanderings.
Writing of his life in the seclusion of Veruela, Becquer says: "Every afternoon, as the sun is about to set, I sally forth upon the road that runs in front of the monastery doors to wait for the postman, who brings me the Madrid newspapers. In front of the archway that gives entrance to the first inclosure of the abbey stretches a long avenue of poplars so tall that when their branches are stirred by the evening breeze their summits touch and form an immense arch of verdure.
On both sides of the road, leaping and tumbling with a pleasant murmur among the twisted roots of the trees, run two rivulets of crystalline transparent water, as cold as the blade of a sword and as gleaming as its edge. The ground, over which float the shadows of the poplars, mottled with restless spots of light, is covered at intervals with the thickest and finest of grass, in which grow so many white daisies that they look at first sight like that rain of petals with which the fruit-trees carpet the ground on warm April days.
On the banks of the stream, amid the brambles and the reeds, grow wild violets, which, though well-nigh hidden amongst their creeping leaves, proclaim themselves afar by their penetrating perfume. And finally, also near the water and forming as it were a second boundary, can be seen between the poplar trunks a double row of stocky walnut-trees with dark, round, compact tops.
At one end of the road the view is closed by the monastery, with its pointed arches, its peaked towers, and its imposing battlemented walls; on the other, the ruins of a little hermitage rise, at the foot of a hillock bestrewn with blooming thyme and rosemary. There, seated at the foot of the cross, and holding in my hands a book that I scarcely ever read and often leave forgotten on the steps of the cross, I linger for one, two, and sometimes even four hours waiting for the papers.
The first impression that I feel upon receiving it, then, is one of joy, like that experienced upon opening a letter on whose envelope we recognize a dear familiar handwriting, or when in a foreign land we grasp the hand of a compatriot and hear our native tongue again. The peculiar odor of the damp paper and the printer's ink, that characteristic odor which for a moment obscures the perfume of the flowers that one breathes here on every hand, seems to strike the olfactory memory, a strange and keen memory that unquestionably exists, and it brings back to me a portion of my former life,—that restlessness, that activity, that feverish productiveness of journalism.
I recall the constant pounding and creaking of the presses that multiply by thousands the words that we have just written, and that have come all palpitating from our pens. I recall the strain of the last hours of publication, when night is almost over and copy scarce. I recall, in short, those times when day has surprised us correcting an article or writing a last notice when we paid not the slightest attention to the poetic beauties of the dawn.
In Madrid, and for us in particular, the sun neither rises nor sets: we put out or light the lights, and that is the only reason we notice it.
At last he opens the sheet. The news of the clubs or the Cortes absorbs him until the failing light of the setting sun warns him that, though he has read but the first columns, it is time to go. The moon begins to appear in the east like a silver circle gleaming through the sky, and the avenue of poplars is wrapped in the uncertain dusk of twilight The monastery bell, the only one that still hangs in its ruined Byzantine tower, begins to call to prayers, and one near and one afar, some with sharp metallic notes, and some with solemn, muffled tones, the Album) bells of the hillside towns reply It seems like a harmony that falls from heaven and rises at the same time from the earth, becomes confounded, and floats in space, intermingling with the fading sounds of the dying day and the first sighs of the newborn night.
My soul is now as serene as deep and silent water. A faith in something greater, in a future though unknown destiny, beyond this life, a faith in eternity,—in short, an all-absorbing larger aspiration, overwhelms that petty faith which we might term personal, that faith in the morrow, that sort of goad that spurs on irresolute minds, and that is so needful if one must struggle and exist and accomplish something in this world.
This graceful musing, full in the original of those rich harmonies that only the Spanish language can express, will serve sufficiently to give an impression of the series as a whole. The broad but fervent faith expressed in the last lines indicates a deeply religious and somewhat mystical nature. This characteristic of Becquer may be noticed frequently in his writings and no one who reads his works attentively can call him elitist, as have some of his calumniators.
Beautiful as Becquer's prose may be considered, however, the universal opinion is that his claim to lasting fame rests on his verse. Humphrey Ward, in her interesting article entitled "A Spanish Romanticist," says of him: "His literary importance indeed is only now beginning to be understood.
Of Gustavo Becquer we may almost say that in a generation of rhymers he alone was a poet; and now that his work is all that remains to us of his brilliant and lovable personality, he only, it seems to us, among the crowd of modern Spanish versifiers, has any claim to a European audience or any chance of living to posterity.
Becquer has none of the characteristics of the Andalusian. His lyrical genius is not only at odds with that of Southern Spain, but also with his own inclination for the plastic arts, says Blanco Garcia. She doubtless inspired some of his verse; but the poet seems to sing the praises or lament the cruelty of various sweethearts.
The late Don Juan Valera, who knew Gustavo well, goes so far as to say: "I venture to suspect that none of these women ever lived in the world which we all corporeally inhabit. To enjoy or suffer really from such loves and to become ensnared therein with such rare women, Becquer lacked the time, opportunity, health, and money My affections are divided between the phantasms of my imagination and real personalities. My memory confuses the names and dates, of women and days that have died or passed away with the days and women that have never existed save in my mind.
Madrid,vol. I, pp. It is the fantastic love of the northern ballads, timid and reposeful, full of melancholy tenderness, that occupies itself in weeping and in seeking out itself rather than in pouring itself forth on external objects.
Bare of artificiality, free within a free form, it awakens by the aid of one kindred idea the thousand others that sleep in the bottomless ocean of fancy. The first has an acknowledged value; it is the poetry of everybody.
The second lacks any absolute standard of measurement; it takes the proportions of the imagination that it impresses; it may be called the poetry of poets. In this description of the short, terse, and striking compositions of his friend Ferran, Becquer has written likewise the apology for his own verse. His was a poetry of "rapid, elemental impressions.
This extreme simplicity and naturalness of expression may be well illustrated by the refrain of the seventy-third poem:. His poetry has often been compared to that of Heine, whom he is said to have imitated. Becquer did not in fact read German; but in El Museo Universalfor which he was a collaborator, and in which he published his Rimasthere appeared one of the first versions of the Intermezzo , and it is not unlikely that in imitation of the Intermezzo he was led to string his Rimas like beads upon the connecting thread of a common autobiographical theme.
In the seventy-six short poems that compose his RimasBecquer tells "a swiftly-moving, passionate story of youth, love, treachery, despair, and final submission. Some of these poems are extremely beautiful, particularly the tenth. They form a sort of prelude to the love-story itself, which begins in our selections with the thirteenth.
Not finding the realization of his ideal in art, the poet turns to love. This passion reaches its culminating point in the twenty-ninth selection, and with the thirtieth misunderstanding, dissatisfaction, and sadness begin. Despair assails him, interrupted with occasional notes of melancholy resignation, such as are so exquisitely expressed in the fifty-third poem, the best-known of all the poet's verse.
With this poem the love-story proper comes to a close, and "the melancholy, no doubt more than half imaginary and poetical, of his love poems seems to broaden out into a deeper sadness embracing life as a whole, and in which disappointed passion is but one of the many elements. Whatever Becquer may have owed to Heine, in form or substance, he was no servile imitator.
In fact, with the exception of the thirtieth, no one of his Rimas seems to be inspired directly by Heine's Intermezzo. The distinguishing note in Heine's verse is sarcasm, while that of Becquer's is pathos. Heine is the greater poet, Becquer, the profounder artist. As Blanco Garcia well points out, the moral inclinations of the two poets were distinct and different also.
Becquer's instinct for the supernatural freed him from Heine's skepticism and irreligion; and, though he had suffered much, he never doubted Providence.
The influence of Alfred de Musset may be felt also in Becquer's Rimasparticularly in the forty-second and forty-third; but in general, the Spanish poet is "less worldly and less ardent" than the French.
The Rimas are written for the most part in assonanced verse. A harmonious rhythm seems to be substituted for the music of the rhyme. The meter, too, is very freely handled. Notwithstanding all this, the melody of Becquer's verse is very sweet, and soon catches and charms even the foreign ear.
His Rimas created a school like that inspired by the Doloras of Campoamor. But the extreme simplicity and naturalness of Becquer's expression was difficult to reproduce without falling into the commonplace, and his imitators have for the most part failed. This letter is of particular interest, showing, as it does, the tender solicitude of Becquer for his children, his dire financial straits when a loan of three or four dollars is a godsend, and his hesitation to call upon friends for aid even when in such difficulties.
The letter was presented to the writer of this sketch by Don Francisco de Laiglesia, a distinguished Spanish writer and man of public life and an intimate friend of Becquer. Obras de Gustavo A. Three volumes. Juan de la Puerto Vizcaino y D. Becquer is the author of only a portion of this work—see Introduction, p. The same can be said of other periodicals for which Becquer collaborated. Traduction de Achille Fouquier, dessins de S.
Paris, Librairie de Firmin-Didot et Cie, Terrible Tales—Spanish. Gibbings, London, W. Francisco Blanco Garcia. Narciso Campillo. Achille Fouquier. An interesting sketch of Becquer's life and an excellent appreciation of his style.
This article contains important genealogical matter regarding Becquer, which had not until that time been published. Eduardo de Lustono. Becquer is the titie of a sketch by this writer, published in Alrededor del MundoNo. It is largely a copy of the article by Narciso Campillo, mentioned above, and of the following by Rodriguez Correa. This is the principal biography of Becquer and the source of all the others. Its author was Becquer's most intimate friend.
Juan Valera. Restituto del Valle Ruiz, Agustino. In his Estudios Literariospp. Becquer, which contains an interesting critique of his poetry. Mary A. Humphrey Ward, in Macmillan's MagazineNo. The basis for the following remarks on Spanish prosody is, for the most part, E.
Benot's Prosodia Castellana y Versification3 vols. Other works which have been consulted are the Ortologia y Arte Metrica of A. Bello, published in his Obras Completasvol.
Spanish versification has nothing to do with the quantity of vowels whether long or shortwhich was the basis of Latin prosody. There are four important elements in Spanish versification. Of these four elements two are essential, and the other two are usually present. When such is the case, intricacies arise, for sometimes the contiguous vowels are pronounced in a single syllable and sometimes they are divided into separate syllables.
The contiguous vowels may belong to a single word see A ; or they may be the final vowel or vowels of one word and the initial vowel or vowels of a following word or words see B. Diphthongization ,—If two contiguous vowels of a single word are pronounced in but one syllable they form a diphthong, e. Since Spanish verse depends upon a determined number of syllables per line, diphthongization and synalepha are important factors in versification.
Mute h between vowels is disregarded and does not prevent diphthongization, e. The separation of two vowels that are usually united in one syllable is called diaeresise. The union in one syllable of two vowels that are usually in separate syllables is called synaeresise. He's stayed here a coupla times.
But he's not here now. Checked out over a month ago. You wanna see the register? Las Vegas was the first of three places that his employers wished him to visit. Each had been chosen because of its connection with the history of Perry Smith.
The two others were Reno, where it was thought that Smith's father lived, and San Francisco, the home of Smith's sister, who shall here be known as Mrs. Frederic Johnson. Though Nye planned to interview these relatives, and anyone else who might have knowledge of the suspect's where-abouts, his main objective was to obtain the aid of the local law agencies.
The lieutenant had then written a memorandum ordering all police personnel to be on the alert for Hickock and Smith: "Wanted in Kansas for parole violation, and said to be driving a Chevrolet bearing Kansas license JO These men are probably armed and should be considered dangerous. Specifically, Nye hoped to find a Zenith portable radio believed to have been stolen from the Clutter house on the night of the crime, but he had no luck with that.
One broker, though, remembered Smith "He's been in and out of here going on a good ten years"and was able to produce a ticket for a bearskin rug pawned during the first week in November.
It was from this ticket that Nye had obtained the address of the rooming house. The ornateness of it, the mannered swoops and swirls, surprised him - a reaction that the landlady apparently divined, for she said, "Uh-huh. And you oughta hear him talk. Big, long words coming at you in this kinda lispy, whispery voice. Quite a personality. What you got against him - a nice little punk like that? Came all the way from Kansas on a parole case. Well, I'm just a dizzy blonde.
I believe you. But I wouldn't tell that tale to any brunettes. Couldn't be. I never saw the man yet I couldn't gauge his shoe size. This one, be only a punk. Little punk tried to sweet-talk me out of paying rent the last week he was here. The Album) asked how much Smith's room had cost. Nine bucks a week. Plus a fifty-cent key deposit. Strictly cash. Strictly in advance. Does he have any friends? I'm not interested.
I got a daughter married big-big. Least, I never noticed him run around with anybody special. This last time he was here, he spent most every day tinkering with his car. Had it parked out front there. An old Ford. Looked like it was made before he was born. He gave it a paint job.
Painted the top part black and the rest silver. Then he wrote 'For Sale' on the windshield. One day I heard a sucker stop and offer him forty bucks - that's forty more than it was worth.
But he allowed he couldn't take less than ninety. Said he needed the money for a bus ticket. Just before he left I heard some colored man bought it. But you don't know where it was he wanted to go? Any money on the table? A reward? That he meant to cut back here.
Sorta been expecting him to turn up any day. Gray halls. Nye sniffed the odors, separating one from another: lavatory disinfectant, alcohol, dead cigars. Beyond one door, a drunken tenant wailed and sang in the firm grip of either gladness or grief. Turn it off or out you go! She switched on a light. That box. He asked would I keep it till he came back. A declaration, a warning somewhat in the spirit of an Egyptian curse, was crayoned across the top: "Beware! Property of Perry E.
He parted the flaps. A cockroach emerged, and the landlady stepped on it, squashing it under the heel of her gold leather sandal. That's my towel. Still, Nye was glad to have seen it; each item - the palliatives for sore gums, the greasy Honolulu pillow - gave him a clearer impression of the owner and his lonely, mean life.
The next day in Reno, preparing his official notes, Nye wrote: "At 9: 00 a. After being briefed on the circumstances of this case, Mr. Driscoll was supplied with photographs, fingerprints and warrants for Hickock and Smith. Stops were placed in the files on both these individuals as well as the automobile. At 30a. Feroah and the reporting agent checked the police files. Neither the name of Smith or Hickock was reflected in the felon registration file.
A check of the pawnshop-ticket files failed to reflect any information about the missing radio. A permanent stop was placed in these files in the event the radio is pawned in Reno. The detective handling the pawnshop detail took photographs of Smith and Hickock to each of the pawnshops in town and also made a personal check of each shop for the radio.
These pawnshops made an identification of Smith as being familiar, but were unable to furnish any further information. That afternoon Nye set forth in search of Tex John Smith. But at his first stop, the post office, a clerk at a General Delivery window told him he need look no farther not in Nevada - for "the individual" had left there the previous August and now lived in the vicinity of Circle City, Alaska. That, anyway, was where his mail was being forwarded.
Now, there's a tall order," said the clerk in response to Nye's request for a description of the elder Smith. He calls himself the Lone Wolf. A lot of his mail comes addressed that way - the Lone Wolf. He doesn't receive many letters, no, but bales of catalogues and advertising pamphlets. You'd be surprised the number of people send away for that stuff - just to get some mail, must be.
How old? I'd say sixty. Dresses Western - cowboy boots and a big ten-gallon hat. He told me he used to be with the rodeo. I've talked to him quite a bit. He's been in here almost every day the last few years.
Once in a while he'd disappear, stay away a month or so - always claimed he'd been off prospecting. One day last August a young man came here to the window. He said he was looking for his father, Tex John Smith, and did I know where he could find him. He didn't look much like his dad; the Wolf is so thin-lipped and Irish, and this boy looked almost pure Indian - hair black as boot polish, with eyes to match.
But next morning in walks the Wolf and confirms it; he told me his son had just got out of the Army and that they were going to Alaska.
He's an old Alaska hand. I think he once owned a hotel there, or some kind of hunting lodge. He said he expected to be gone about two years. Nope, never seen him since, him or his boy.
On the afternoon of December 18,young Mrs. Johnson was expecting guests; three women of the neighborhood were coming by for coffee and cake and perhaps a game of Christmas Eve - The Sparrows - Rattle Creak And Murmur (File.
The hostess was tense; it would be the first time she had entertained in her new home. Now, while she was listening for the doorbell, she made a final tour, pausing to dispose of a speck of lint or alter an arrangement of Christmas poinsettias.
The house, like the others on the slanting hillside street, was a conventional suburban ranch house, pleasant and common place. Johnson loved it; she was in love with the redwood paneling, the wall-to-wall carpeting, the picture windows fore and aft, the view that the rear window provided - hills, a valley, then sky and ocean. And she was proud of the small back garden; her husband - by profession an insurance salesman, by inclination a carpenter - had built around it a white picket fence, and inside it a house for the family dog, and a sand-box and swings for the children.
At the moment, all four - dog, two little boys, and a girl - were playing there under a mild sky; she hoped they would be happy in the garden until the guests had gone. When the doorbell sounded and Mrs. Johnson went to the door, she was wearing what she considered her most becoming dress, a yellow knit that hugged her figure and heightened the pale-tea shine of her Cherokee coloring and the blackness of her feather-bobbed hair.
She opened the door, prepared to admit three neighbors; instead, she discovered two strangers - men who tipped their hats and flipped open badge-studded billfolds. This is Inspector Guthrie. We're attached to the San Francisco police, and we've just received an inquiry from Kansas concerning your brother, Perry Edward Smith.
It seems he hasn't been reporting to his parole officer, and we wondered if you could tell us anything of his present whereabouts. Johnson was not distressed - and definitely not surprised to learn that the police were once more interested in her brother's activities.
What did upset her was the prospect of having guests arrive to find her being questioned by detectives. She said, "No. I haven't seen Perry in four years.
Johnson," Nye said. Johnson said, "I haven't seen Perry in four years. Or heard from him since he was paroled. Last summer, when he came out of prison, he visited my father in Reno. In a letter, my father told me he was returning to Atlanta and taking Perry with him. Then he wrote again, I think in September, and he was very angry. He and Perry had quarreled and separated before they reached the border.
Perry turned back, my father went on to Alaska alone. I don't care. I'm afraid of him. Or so the Kansas authorities tell us," Nye said. The second man, Inspector Guthrie seemed content to occupy the sidelines. I hoped I might change a few of his ideas. Now I know better. The rights of other people mean nothing to Perry. He has no respect for anyone. Do you know of any with whom he might be staying? No, she was not personally acquainted with him, but she understood that he and his family were generous people who had often been kind to Perry in the past.
The only friend of Perry's she had ever met was a young lady who had appeared on the Johnsons' doorstep in June,bringing with her a letter from Perry in which he introduced her as his wife. The girl looked twenty; it turned out she was fourteen. And of course she wasn't anyone's wife.
But at the time I was taken in. I felt sorry for her, and asked her to stay with us. She did, though not for long. Less than a week. And when she left, she took our suitcases and everything they could hold - most of my clothes and most of my husband's, the silver, even the kitchen clock.
I've never been to Kansas. My only sister. He said, "You understand, Mrs. Johnson, we're working on the assumption that your brother will contact you. Write or call. Or come to see you. As a matter of fact, he doesn't know we've moved. He thinks I'm still in Denver.
Please, if you do find him, don't give him my address. I'm afraid. Hurt you physically? I always have been. He can seem so warm-hearted and sympathetic. He cries so easily. Sometimes music sets him off, and when he was a little boy he used to cry because he thought a sunset was beautiful. Or the moon. Oh, he can fool you. He can make you feel so sorry for him - " The doorbell rang. Johnson's reluctance to answer conveyed her dilemma, and Nye who later wrote of her, "Through-out the interview she remained composed and most gracious.
A person of exceptional character" reached for his brown snapbrim. But if you hear from Perry, we hope you'll have the good sense to call us. Ask for Inspector Guthrie. She fought it, delayed its full impact until the party was done and the guests had gone, until she'd fed the children and bathed them and heard their prayers. Then the mood, like the evening ocean fog now clouding the street lamps, closed round her.
She had said she was afraid of Perry, and she was, but was it simply Perry she feared, or was it a configuration of which he was part - the terrible destinies that seemed promised the four children of Florence Buckskin and Tex John Smith? The eldest, the brother she loved, had shot himself; Fern had fallen out of a window, or jumped; and Perry was committed to violence, a criminal. So, in a sense, she was the only survivor; and what tormented her was the thought that in time she, too, would be overwhelmed: go mad, or contract an incurable illness, or in a fire lose all she valued - home, husband, children.
Her husband was away on a business trip, and when she was alone, she never thought of having a drink. But tonight she fixed a strong one, then lay down on the living-room couch, a picture album propped against her knees. A photograph of her father dominated the first page - a studio portrait taken inthe year of his marriage to the young Indian rodeo rider Miss Florence Buckskin. It was a photograph that invariably transfixed Mrs.
Because of it, she could understand why, when essentially they were so mismatched, her mother had married her father. The young man in the picture exuded virile allure. Everything - the cocky tilt of his ginger-haired head, the squint in his left eye as though he were sighting a targetthe tiny cowboy scarf knotted round his throat - was abundantly attractive. On the whole, Mrs. Johnson's attitude toward her father was ambivalent, but one aspect of him she had always respected - his fortitude.
She well knew how eccentric he seemed to others; he seemed so to her, for that matter. All the same, he was "a real man. He could make a tree fall precisely where he wished. He could skin a bear, repair a watch, build a house, bake a cake, darn a sock, or catch a trout with a bent pin and a piece of string.
Once he had survived a winter alone in the Alaskan wilderness. Alone: in Mrs. Johnson's opinion, that was how such men should live. Wives, children, a timid life are not for them. She turned over some pages of childhood snapshots - pictures made in Utah and Nevada and Idaho and Oregon. Berries or stale bread soaked in sweet condensed milk was often all they had to eat.
Barbara Johnson remembered that once the family had lived for days on rotten bananas, and that, as a result, Perry had got colic; he had screamed all night, while Bobo, as Barbara was called, wept for fear he was dying. Bobo was three years older than Perry, and she adored him; he was her only toy, a doll she scrubbed and combed and kissed and sometimes spanked. Here was a picture of the two together bathing naked in a diamond-watered Colorado creek, the brother, a pot-bellied, sun-blackened cupid, clutching his sister's hand and giggling, as though the tumbling stream contained ghostly tickling fingers.
In another snapshot Mrs. Johnson was unsure, but she thought probably it was taken at a remote Nevada ranch where the family was staying when a final battle between the parents, a terrifying contest in which horsewhips and scalding water and kerosene lamps were used as weapons, had brought the marriage to a stopshe and Perry are astride a pony, their heads are together, their cheeks touch; beyond them dry mountains burn.
Later, when the children and their mother had gone to live in San Francisco, Bobo's love for the little boy weakened until it went quite away.
He wasn't her baby any more but a wild thing, a thief, a robber. His first recorded arrest was on October 27, - his eighth birthday. Ultimately, after several confinements in institutions and children's detention centers, he was returned to the custody of his father, and it was many years before Bobo saw him again, except in photographs that Tex John occasionally sent his other children - pictures that, pasted above white-ink captions, were part of the album's contents.
Johnson, looking at the picture, was reminded of a "scene" that Perry had made once when he had visited her in Denver. Indeed, it was the last time she had ever seen him - the spring of He was gone from those parts when I came along.
According to the same story, he made a showing up there on at least two counts—his aptitude at military strategy and his quarrelsome disposition. The daughter of a man who ran a ferry between Garrison and the Point told her father Cadet Saunders had been intimate with her and the father made threats.
Naturally suspicion fell on young Saunders. First thing though was to get away. All he had to do was to climb the mountains behind West Point and strike off into the wild country to the southwest. Most of it was still Indian country. He was swarthy and black-haired. He spoke at least one Indian language, probably had smatterings of others.
Although Santa Anna was a prisoner of the new Republic of Texas, the Texans, by some mysterious means, induced the United States Government to take over custody of him. With a guard of dragoons he was carried across country to Washington and later was sent back on a naval vessel to Mexico.
He was one of the greediest, cruelest men that ever lived on this continent, I reckon, but he was a scientific soldier and a genius in his twisted way, and he left his mark in history.
Eventually we split up and I came on back to Kentucky and he went to New York. But as they broke into the room where he was quartered and he sat up in bed, the leader of the delegation almost dropped dead from surprise when the man in the bed called out his name and, as a blood relation, pleaded for mercy. But he excused these wholesale executions on the ground of military necessity. He begged hard. I reckon he must have been a good talker. Besides, he was talking for his life.
Then they went back out to where the main crowd was and successfully argued that to hang a man under the protection of the United States flag would probably involve, not alone them, but Kentucky, with the Federal authorities. So the mob broke up and scattered. It leaked out although always there were efforts, by denial or by ridicule, to suppress it, especially on the part of those belonging to our own family.
When he was a middle-aged man my father told me the alleged details, not vouching for them but just repeating the version which had been confided to him. I was afraid I might spoil a most dramatic product by disproving it. In a history of certain Blue Grass counties I read that there was much confusion in the town on that evening and that after dark a disorderly and threatening assemblage, with torches and weapons, trooped up the hill to listen to an impassioned harangue by one John U.
Waring, a violent-minded orator who subsequently died a violent death, but that it disbanded without offering any indignity to General Santa Anna—which would seem to give some faint color of plausibility to one phase of the account even though it offers no actual corroboration. So much for that. At its beginning West Point had several false starts; was established, abandoned, re-established, then sadly languished.
In it authentically was reopened—with ten cadets; but ten years later was without a single authorized instructor and students still were being admitted without regular appointment and with no sort of examination and at any age between twelve and thirty-four.
As for me, I prefer to include it with such shadowy, speculative myths as the unbelievable one about the fate of the Lost Dauphin and the one about the escape of Marshal Ney from his executioners and the preposterous story that John Wilkes Booth was not shot down after he killed Lincoln, but hid away somewhere in the Southwest.
Famous assassins are always escaping death to live out their lives under assumed names—take Jesse James and Billy the Kid. Eventually Johnnie Dillinger ought to turn up somewhere. My grandfather died at eighty-two. You might say he died prematurely, because one of his brothers lived to be nearly a hundred, and two of his sisters were in their nineties when they passed on.
But before day of a chilly December morning he got up out of a warm bed and in his nightshirt went forth, carrying an old derringer pistol, to deal with a rooster which, from under his window, insisted on crowing too shrilly for dawn and too frequently. He eliminated the rooster at one shot, but he caught pneumonia and that was the end of him.
Afterward, the craze for brass atrocities and gimcracky monstrosities laid its horrid grip on an aunt of mine who had inherited the furnishings of the old home place and that massive heirloom of solid rosewood disappeared. A long time later a local antique hunter reclaimed it.
For two dollars it had been sold as junk by a secondhand dealer to an old negress in the county, but it was too big for her cabin so she used it for a roost in her chicken shed. It was covered inches deep with the accumulated droppings of years. I understand the present owner recently refused a considerable sum offered for it by an eastern collector. Some sixty-odd years later, one of his sons-in-law, prowling through a secondhand shop at Cincinnati, found two quaint-looking tomes and bought them.
When he got home and showed them to Dr. Saunders, as relics of a bygone time, the oldster grunted. I have both these copies in my library. They were written by the first Humphrey Marshall, a United States senator and a unique figure in border politics.
He called his work The History of Kentucky. He devoted practically all of one volume to lambasting his enemies of whom there were a copious supply, and the other volume to proving that Kentucky was the site of the Garden of Eden—a conclusion with which few of his fellow Kentuckians quarreled then or thereafter. It was a great town to be born in, being a colorful town and one of character and individuality.
And surely that flat-faced, high-shouldered old house and what appertained thereto made a grand place for a child to spend a childhood. My grandfather built it in the early forties, it being then the largest dwelling in town and the finest. Historically it had another hold on local fame. With his gunboats and a flotilla of transports, Grant came from Cairo and took it after dumping over a few shells at a Confederate flag defiantly floating from a tall staff on the waterfront.
Central Kentucky was divided and the mountains of eastern Kentucky might be overwhelmingly for the Federal cause, as they were, but these counties down in the toe of the sock showed their sentiments in the latest election before avowed hostilities began, by sending to Washington as their representative an ardent advocate of secession—with a thumping big plurality behind him.
To this modern day, Democratic spellbinders love to proclaim that of all the congressional districts in the whole country, this is the only one which, neither when armed troops held the polling places, nor in the Carpetbagger period following, nor in any subsequent political upheaval, ever went Republican, although when Al Smith ran init did have rather a close call from going Baptist.
Indeed, it was said certain unreconstructable veterans insisted on voting for Jeff Davis every presidential election—until weaned on William Jennings Bryan. So as I was saying, Paducah, having promptly fallen into Northern hands, seethingly remained in those hands until the end, although twice Forrest invaded it, coming up from Tennessee with his cavalry, and drove the Unionists behind the shelter of their barracks and temporarily held dominion of the streets while his men collected horseflesh and supplies and the members of one of his units, the Third Kentucky Mounted Infantry, which had been recruited in that immediate vicinity, hugged their homefolks and their sweethearts before the withdrawal southward.
At their first time of coming the sweat of fierce fighting yet was on them. Two weeks more and he would have been a brigadier; his commission was awaiting signatures and seals at Richmond.
And some of the ragged gray-jackets who followed him had come back that day to die—as he died—in a rutted byway which as boys they had frolicked through. They still were boys, most of them, with no thatch of beard on their chins; and in that breathing space between the charge and the retreat they whooped and they caroused and told worshiping sidewalk audiences how the blue-bellies had skedaddled from the surprise attack at sunup.
At eighteen he came out, a top sergeant and a professional gambler of parts. Let us get back to the main line: On the heels of the original seizure, the churches and the schools, the larger factories and warehouses had been taken over and converted into makeshift hospitals and very soon these overflowed with sick and wounded soldiers, including many prisoners. Being the foremost physician of the community, my grandfather tendered his services to the military authorities and for more than three years, as an unpaid volunteer, he ministered among the sufferers without regard for the uniform which they might have worn.
Behold now, how his merciful labors were as bread cast upon the waters. This was a sadistic tyrant whose name almost to this present hour was an abomination in the mouths of the few tottery survivors of those times—they spat when they spoke it.
My mother often told me how in fear she and her three sisters and her two stepsisters quaked behind curtained and shuttered windows as darkness came on. Presently they were in complete blackness since their twice-widowed father had forbidden that even so much as a tallow tip should burn beneath his roof. My grandfather answered the summons. He had been standing by in expectation of it.
On the wide porch behind a young lieutenant were ranged a file of soldiers. I will not go through with this mockery. Granddad shook his obstinate head.
Last year my younger brother was brought here, wounded in both legs. One of these slaughter-house hands they call a contract surgeon wanted to operate on him—wanted to amputate. You stepped in; took him over as your own patient. You not only saved his legs for him, you saved his life. That damned butcher would have killed him. We owe you an eternal debt of gratitude—he does, I do, our old mother up in Michigan does.
Doctor, go inside and stay there—you and your whole household. Stay there no matter what you may hear outside here. Next morning the proofs of what had gone on during the night were revealed in scorched and smoke-blackened patches upon the clapboarded walls. At risk of a court-martial for himself, that Michigan lad had sent a corporal to kindle a blaze against the foundations at the end and the sides, then following along behind the torchbearer, he had, with his own hands, put out the flames.
The charred evidences showed that a dozen times he must have done this. Of course, the men under him were bound to know what was afoot. But they must have liked their lieutenant mighty well, for he was not reported on, was never punished.
Verily, it must have been through my two grandmothers that the aristocratic affection got into our strain. And by all I ever heard, my paternal grandfather Robert Livingston Cobb was genuinely pleased to call himself a commoner.
Many of us unwittingly reveal the vanity we would hide under a cloak of falsified humility. He may have taken a suitable satisfaction in his estate as a successful merchandiser and exporter and steamboat owner and, before comparative adversity came upon him, as the wealthiest taxpayer and the largest landowner in a wideish area, but he appeared rather more gratified that his progenitors mainly had been plain yeomen and honest artisans than that on the distaff side certain remoter ancestors had figured actively in the making-over of a neglected poor dependency of the Crown into a sturdy little state.
For this high-headed grandmother of mine claimed for herself a line of Old Dominion planters and warriors and statesmen who, in their turns, invariably had wed with seemly ladies.
Back inwhen there was a tragic break in the gubernatorial succession, her father, Colonel Linah Mims, for a period of weeks had, as a sort of stopgap functionary, bridged the vacancy and occupied the executive mansion at Richmond, and by her estimates one acting temporary governor of such a high-toned commonwealth as Virginia—even though without official title or actual warrant of authority—outranked, for family-tree purposes, any given number of regularly elected governors of such a huckstering state as Vermont.
But they all moved out here to Kentucky. By all reports, neither was she behindhand in taking merit unto herself for patrician lineage. I imagine it must have been because of her wishes, that my Grandfather Saunders built for her the most imposing house in the then small and straggly river landing of Paducah. Nowhere on the American map, I insist, could there have been a playground more admirably devised to fulfill the cravings of healthy, adventure-seeking youngsters of half a century ago, or thereabouts.
Those were the good old days before germs were formally recognized. Concerning that same flag there was a little epic. The ladies of the town had donated their silk dresses for its making. So old Mrs. She had with her a scared negro boy.
She forced him to climb the tall pole and fetch down the precious colors. He feared mightily the shells whistling past, but feared more his grim mistress standing down below with the long snapper of her buggy whip flicking up at his naked shanks. So she got the Christmas Eve - The Sparrows - Rattle Creak And Murmur (File and got away with it. Some Northern sympathizers betrayed her identity to the first landing party and a squad went to her big rambling house up on Island Creek.
They came away thwarted. When she died—as a shaver I went to the services—it served her for a shroud. They were still alive.
The elder, Dr. John Bartlett Saunders, who had been a regimental surgeon, went to Honolulu—a tremendous pilgrimage for those days—and having regained the health which had been impaired in service, made a name for himself there doing research on leprosy, and when he died was court physician to the King of the Sandwich Islands. The younger brother, Lewis, wandered westward and eventually disappeared without trace. First though, according to a tale which filtered back, he did some distinguished gun-fighting in Arizona mining camps and gambling houses.
Six days out of seven the jumbled enclosure which I have sought to describe yielded forth its pleasures: fit dens for robbers, slanted ship-decks for pirates, delightful ambuscades for lurking Indians. But on the seventh day it turned to a prison compound and reasonably indulgent mothers and aunts were transformed as the keepers of an unyielding and rigorous code. For, mind you, this household then all at once became as straitly blue-stockinged as any to be found this side of Aberdeen.
Through the morning we were pressed for most unwilling attendance at a certain old meetinghouse. This was a gaunt, slab-sided, hopelessly homely structure with a spire like a chiding finger and an entryway like a dark tunnel and a balcony that suggested an overgrown martin box.
It was aloft there that the negro worshipers sat, mostly old family servants who followed the faith of their employers. The window panes were painted a numb cold gray, the idea, I take it, being to shut out the paganish sunshine or perhaps to provide a matching gloom for the spirits of troubled Fundamentalists. Its pews truly were penitential perches for uncomfortable, dangle-legged youth, being high-seated and straight-backed and very hard on juvenile flesh.
But I do recall the passionless congregational singing and the pastoral prayers that ran as serials, and the blistering potbellied stoves in the winter, and in summer the slow-timed hypnotizing movements of a whole forest of palm-leaf fans. If a woman were in mourning or if she were matured in age, the blade of her fan invariably had a border of black tape sewed on it.
And always somebody coughing or else a blowing of the human nose in a subdued and half-hearted way. I place just two patches of color to relieve the drabbed austerity of that antique kirk. One was a pulpit cushion of dark red velvet upon which The Book rested and the other, framed in black walnut and hung above the inner door lintel where all coming hither might see and heed, was a scroll audaciously done in blue and green letters, which read:.
By which, of course, was meant gentlemen who chewed. Most gentlemen did, and some there were moreover who dipped snuff. First off, to the dismal accompaniment of bells sounding from the steeple, came Sunday school and that, or such was the feeling, lasted for month on weary month.
Then the smaller children were taken away and Nature or their nurses revived them out of their comatose state. But the rest of us must stay on to be sermonized by Dr. Now he was a dominie out of Scotland herself and behaved as such.
He never preached for less than a century. Sometimes, or so it seemed to me, he preached on and on until the present Christian Era threatened to run out before he ran down. He was a dear kindly gentle old man with the face of a saint and delighted in good deeds, and so lavishly he dealt out such doctrinal beatitudes as Infant Damnation and Predestination and on occasion painted a graphic picture of that most awful nethermost pit of the Calvinistic Gehenna wherein demons, all hoofed and horned, stoked the flames, and tormented souls, like squirming frog legs, grilled eternally on the red-hot hobs of a Hell which had no fire escapes to it.
How kindly folk, otherwise compassionate and charitable toward their fellow creatures, ever swallowed down such bitter theological boluses without gagging is a matter which will puzzle me as long as I live. But they did, for many a long year, until a tempered and more merciful interpretation of the Laws and the Scriptures came to be accepted, and their creed lost some of its harrow teeth.
From church, with the lardy smell of sinners fried on both sides still warm in our impressionable young noses, we marched homeward, two by two along the narrow pavement, like so many downcast lambkins going into the Ark and, if it were warm weather, hating every tortured step we took because of our toes that were so cramped and burning. Arriving, we ate of the enormous Sunday dinner—all the vegetables available, up to nine or ten separate varieties; chicken or pork products or both; at least two kinds of hot bread, usually fat biscuits and crunchy corn pones; and dessert and preserves and the like; and, as inevitable as the cruet stand rising like a lighthouse in the center and the moored regatta of pickle dishes surrounding it, a pitcher of New Orleans molasses and a cold-boiled ham.
Indeed, no matter what else might be provided, the molasses pitcher and the boiled ham were staple fixtures on that table, three times a day, every day in the year.
Howsomever the scope of this vast meal never daunted me. From my earliest recollectable moment I was ever a sincere and earnest eater, and while with age my hair has thinned and the few remaining teeth have become stately ruins, I am proud and happy to announce that my gastric juices are still quite boyish. Observe now how Sunday from the nooning on became one prolonged endurance trial: We might not play at indoor games because such would be grievous affronts before the watchful eyes of the late John Knox and all the lesser luminaries of a hand-picked Heavenly Host.
We might not cavort about or whistle or make loud outcry. We might not even scratch ourselves, or at least not in an open manner, yet under the twin spells of humidity and monotony, we itched mightily, as who would not?
In sheer desperation I read it through from cover to cover. So I learned about glanders from there, also distemper, farcy and the botts. As a great concession, one which tottered on the verge of downright evil-doing and only granted after a grave counsel of our elders, we were permitted to frequent an old and creaky wooden swing which, providentially shielded from the public gaze, stood behind the kitchen.
But this boon had its deadening limitations. Then again my father would scheme on our behalf, for he had been raised in the Episcopal flock—with Catholicism further back—and privately entertained heretical views touching on the stricter dogmas. But not too often did he dare repeat this outrageous kidnaping for fear of stout disapproval at home and the criticisms of properly scandalized neighbors.
Still and all, for every seventh day of stiff statutory discipline, there were six compensating weekdays made all the sweeter by contrast, when within limits, we might live our own natural, unruly lives amid the facilities of that cluttered venue. Two who aided and abetted us in these endeavors were Mandy and Uncle Rufus. Right now I can shut my eyes and see her, all gnarled and painfully kinked, and so bossy and loudmouthed and competent.
The moderns were licked then; they had no word for that combination. She was chronically rheumatic and what was rare among negroes, a dyspeptic, and she was as cranky as all get-out; but for forty-two uninterrupted years she served one branch or another of our family and died, an enfeebled pensioner, in that service.
Two weeks before she went where the faithful loving souls of this earth go, my uncle wrote her will for her. Of this she decreed that one hundred dollars be spent in burying her tired-out body. There was a punitive justice in the disposition Mandy made of her hoard. She left out her only blood kin and for a reason. A few months earlier she went, lamed as she was, on the first extended journey of her entire career.
So I have my top 3 tips plus 2 bonus items. All the information is Sunburnt Quilts. A Bit Of A Yarn. I have been making a few bits and pieces for gifts and have accumulated a little Happy Cottage Quilter. Regina Scott has written another compelling story full of adventure and historical f Carina's Craftblog. This is one of my efforts from last Saturday. My Heart's Song. Fall Fashion Favorites - As the days are getting colder it is time again for warm sweaters, cardigans and coats.
Here some of my fall fashion favorites! Above: Belted Wool Coat Abo Expect Moore. There are lots of quilting-themed quilt blocks that have be Posies block 10 and planning ahead Every year about this time I seem to be saying "goodness, the year is flyin I was SO not Tazzie Quilts.
Welcome to October! I surely can't, it seems like this year is flashing by! And I'm not certain exactly what I've managed to achie The Last Piece. Why I love books - part 2 - Missed part 1? You can read it here. When I was little I wan Centsational Girl. Sculptural Mirrors in Organic Shapes - On that model home tour I shared earlier this week, I spied an amazing live edge wood mirror on the wall in the dining room of one of the staged homes.
Gum Valley Patchwork. October already! Where on earth did that month go?! It's been a busy time Teaginny Designs. Textile Art - It's been a while. Good to be back to my creative space. I've got a bunch of textile art pieces floating around in my head. They are small and perfect fo Frenchless in France. Sunset - I think Paris has the best sunsets in the Autumn which has just begun. I like the light early and late in the day as well.
Here are a few sunsets I saw in Lisa Bongean's Weblog. Block 17! What the video…it has to be seen! Here is our Cross stitch pattern…Katie has finished Paikka oli Has fall arrived to where you live? We've had some cool, quite autumn-y weather last few days and it felt Plowing the Hay Fields Bake this cake in the mug in a microwave for a magical dessert treat! Perfect for My Favorite Things. I've got a fun post for you today featuring the the new ornament stitching kit releasing tomorrow morning at 10am EDT, at Poshta Design!
I am so excited to share the newest stitching kit and products that are coming soon to Poshta Design! When I saw the new offering that Lizzi Random - Random My hair will never look this good again. Jenny, Hannah's writing partner, and v We had lots of girls on for most of the time Plenty of regulars Marina hasn't been on for ages so Between Naps on the Porch. I had Visit my website for full links, other content, and more! Jaybird Quilts. Rock Candy Sew Along - Rock Candy is one of my favorite patterns, and it's the perfect fast finish for this time of year.
I've made it more than 20 times. It can be made from s Jennifer Rizzo. Decoupaged Dried Flower Pumpkins - Have you ever wondered what to do with pressed flowers or do you need a new idea for upgrading your foam faux pumpkins? This project combines the best of Modern Prairie Girl.
Boundless Enjoyment Provided By Online Slot Gambling Website - You appear at barge in with changed card sharks inside a guaranteed gambling, which can cause Baked Bree. Ginger simple syrup, frozen peaches, orange liqueur, and Ohza Classic Bellini blend Today I am sharing a project Ashley came over and helped me with! It was so much fun shooting videos This coming weekend, October 1st and 2nd, RAIN o Mornings - Scho-ka-kola; Check. Coffee; Check. Computer on; Check.
You know what this means? It means I'll wake up soon. By the way, Scho-ka-kola or, as Jan Patek Quilts. Happy Blockheads Wednesday - It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood or on the farm.
After starting the coffee each morning the first thing I do is sweep the leaves and water the p Step inside our cozy bedroom and bathroom remodel with warm rustic touches.
The post Our New Bedroo Dear Lillie. I hope you all are having a lovely Tuesday! I have been plugging away on adding floor to ceiling board and batten to our guest bedroom and Hans Memling: The Naughty Priest - Something to think about when you look at old portraits is that they were usually the product of several sittings, providing the artist ample time to cons David Lebovitz. Quiche Lorraine - Quiche got a peculiar rap back in the s when eating it was described as something that was not masculine.
Rostrosige September-Tage - Servus ihr Lieben! The Free Motion Quilting Project. The post 12 Years Machine Quilting with Pin Tangle. Welcome back from our break week. I hope everyone is energised for the final push towards the end of the year. This week I have The Polka Dot Chair. Quilting Giveaway Winner - Just a quick post this Monday morning to announce the winner of the quilting giveaway sponsored by David of Quilting By David.
Anita Sharp…. Su Blackwell. Weeds, - 5 days ago. A Fine Seam. Notes from A Cottage Industry. Weekly words to live by. Vrac de Week-end Val Laird. It's never too early for Christmas sewing! I raise my eyebrows when the shops start draping tins The type of roof on your chicken coop plays a significant role in choosing chic The TomKat Studio. Decorate Your Home For Fall!
This is one of our favorite times of the year, especially when the tem In Color Order. Thought I'd pop in here at the end of the week and share a lined drawstring bag that I made recently. I used my Wine Bottle Drawstring Gift This week, the fall equinox rolled through which always feels like a great time to press refresh. For me, per Importance of Business Debt Help - One of the key reasons for a debt is company and commercial factors.
These are taken with the objective of service expansion as well as diversity into more Win a Three-Week Stay in Provence! Darling Halloween Portfolio - It's been a while, but I'm still here, and actually making again! This sweet folio is full of young witches and trick-or-treaters. There's p This lightly sweetened spiced pumpkin spread is pack Moda Lissa. Several of you asked for the pattern, so I am sharing my Sugar Swings!
Serve Some. Peach Shaped Cookies - [image: peach shaped cookies] I've been trying to actually make some of my saved pins lately. Are you like me and have a million pins and pin boards but La Table De Nana. I made it once. I made it again! I did amend the Dream, Create, Inspire. Fall Crafting - I taught my granddaughter how to make these cloth pumpkins using rolls of toilet paper. Terry's Treasures. Snap bag needs a new home - I'm cleaning house and have this adorable snap bag I'd like to rehome.
Everyday Artist. Week 6 Giveaway Winner! Thibeault's Table. The Gardener's Cottage. The other day I posted this photo and IG and it got a lot of attention. Lots of people private messaged me as well as left comm Read these d Floating On Cloud9.
Now in Stores Bloom Together by Meenal Patel - A daydream collection of garden gatherings, communing with petals and plants, and stretching towards the sun. The post Now in Stores Bloom Together by Red Pepper Quilts. I finished this quilt top back in Ma Bourne is well-known for his interpretations of Sleepin Candied Fabrics.
Janice Elaine Sews. Long Time - I haven't been posting at all. If you're still curious about my life you can follow along via IG, janprytz. May your bobbins always be full, 3 weeks ago. My Three Sons. Spending lots of time getting all my things loaded back onto Etsy. Seriously takes forever. I can sew all of this The Metropolitan Museum Upcoming Exhibits - There are some very cool exhibits coming up at the Met that I wanted to inform you about.
They are also expanding their hours as of tomorrow so wanted you New Website - Hello! I'm very excited to announce the launch of my new website. You can find it here: lorettagrayson. Lorrie's Recipes. Vegetable Quinoa Patties - Faced with a glut of zucchini last summer, I spent some time searching out zucchini recipes on the internet.
I came across several variations of quino Purple Chocolat Home. A Little Bit French. August Studio Memories - August was a very busy time in the studio I was able to create a lot and use up scraps of images The ideas were flowing 2 petite junk journals Christmas in August - Best intentions for a Christmas in July quilt showing or August for that matter, but you know how that goes.
Biljana Shabby. Photowall je umjetnost na zidu, imate 22 motiva tapeta, zidnih murala, uokvirenih prin Projects by Jane. Slowly over the years, I've thrown away some tiny scraps which aren't useable but there's so Michelle Palmer. My new studio is finally coming together! I think it was really about time I finished unpacking andputting together my new art studio!
I had unpac Todays Creative Blog. Becoming Lola. If yes, I can totally empathize and don't blame you. Your fears are justified because we all kn In addition you can change the color easily with just one click.
Lily Pad Quilting. It's show time! There's a live show today Tuesday and there will be drawings and prizes The Silly BooDilly. Contemplating Texture and the Quilted Stitch. A Few Things to Think About. It determines so much of what the quilt will be, what it will say, how it will look, Walking Through the Garden of Don Brooks - I sincerely appreciate the gardeners who open their gardens for us to see.
A Little Bit Biased. Jackson, the lodging-house keeper at Budmouth, labelled them. Cytherea thought it would be useless to attempt to conceal facts any longer. Did he ever visit in Gower Street, Bloomsbury, one Christmas, many years ago? Huntway, a curate somewhere in that part of London, and who died there, was an old college friend of his. And is it really? And you knew that face I showed you?
Yes, I see you did. She was a little agitated. Saying this Cytherea left the room before her companion had answered. Miss Aldclyffe, then, had recognized her at last, and had been curious about her name from the beginning. The other members of the household had retired to rest. As Cytherea went along the passage leading to her room her skirts rustled against the partition. A door on her left opened, and Mrs. Morris looked out. How have you got on with Miss Aldclyffe?
Her family is a branch of the old Aldclyffe family on the maternal side. Her mother married a Bradleigh--a mere nobody at that time--and was on that account cut by her relations. Cytherea entered her bedroom, and flung herself on the bed, bewildered by a whirl of thought. Starvation itself should not compel her to hold such a humiliating post for another instant.
She jumped up and began making ready for her departure in the morning, the tears streaming down when she grieved and wondered what practical matter on earth she could turn her hand to next. All these preparations completed, she began to undress, her mind unconsciously drifting away to the contemplation of her late surprises.
But she directly checked her weakness by sympathizing reflections on the hidden troubles which must have thronged the past years of the solitary lady, to keep her, though so rich and courted, in a mood so repellent and gloomy as that in which Cytherea found her; and then the young girl marvelled again and again, as she had marvelled before, at the strange confluence of circumstances which had brought herself into contact with the one woman in the world whose history was so romantically intertwined with her own.
She almost began to wish she were not obliged to go away and leave the lonely being to loneliness still. In bed and in the dark, Miss Aldclyffe haunted her mind more persistently than ever. Then the secret meetings between Miss Aldclyffe and the other woman at the little inn at Hammersmith and other places: the commonplace name she adopted: her swoon at some painful news, and the very slight knowledge the elder female had of her partner in mystery.
Then, more than a year afterwards, the acquaintanceship of her own father with this his first love; the awakening of the passion, his acts of devotion, the unreasoning heat of his rapture, her tacit acceptance of it, and yet her uneasiness under the delight. Then his declaration amid the evergreens: the utter change produced in her manner thereby, seemingly the result of a rigid determination: and the total concealment of her reason by herself and her parents, whatever it was.
It would have made her bearing towards the mistress of the mansion more awkward, and would have been no benefit to either. Thus conjuring up the past, and theorizing on the present, she lay restless, changing her posture from one side to the other and back again. Finally, when courting sleep with all her art, she heard a clock strike two. A minute later, and she fancied she could distinguish a soft rustle in the passage outside her room.
To bury her head in the sheets was her first impulse; then to uncover it, raise herself on her elbow, and stretch her eyes wide open in the darkness; her lips being parted with the intentness of her listening. Whatever the noise was, it had ceased for the time. It began again and came close to her door, lightly touching the panels.
Then there was another stillness; Cytherea made a movement which caused a faint rustling of the bed-clothes. Before she had time to think another thought a light tap was given. Cytherea breathed: the person outside was evidently bent upon finding her awake, and the rustle she had made had encouraged the hope. The cold sweat of terror forsook her, and modesty took the alarm.
She became hot and red; her door was not locked. Only one being in the house knew her Christian name, and that was Miss Aldclyffe. The young woman paused in a conflict between judgment and emotion. It was now mistress and maid no longer; woman and woman only. Yes; she must let her come in, poor thing. She got Album) light in an instant, opened the door, and raising her eyes and the candle, saw Miss Aldclyffe standing outside in her dressing-gown. I came to ask you to come down into my bed, but it is snugger here.
But remember that you are mistress in this room, and that I have no business here, and that you may send me away if you choose. Shall I go? The instant they were in bed Miss Aldclyffe freed herself from the last remnant of restraint. She flung her arms round the young girl, and pressed her gently to her heart. She could not bring her soul to her lips for a moment, try how she would. Well, perhaps I am; but I have had grief more than you can think or dream of. Here was a solution.
I am a very fool, I believe. How old are you? I am forty-six; and it gives me greater pleasure to tell you this than it does to you to listen. I have not told my age truly for the last twenty years till now. But I suppose that you, too, will, prove to be not worth a thought, as every new friend does on more intimate knowledge.
Have you said your prayers? A wicked old sinner like me! No, I never do. I have thought all such matters humbug for years--thought so so long that I should be glad to think otherwise from very weariness; and yet, such is the code of the polite world, that I subscribe regularly to Missionary Societies and others of the sort I should like to hear you very much.
Will you? Cytherea was embarrassed, and her embarrassment arose from the following conjuncture of affairs. She wished to keep her love for him a secret, and, above all, a secret from a woman like Miss Aldclyffe; yet her conscience and the honesty of her love would not for an instant allow her to think of omitting his dear name, and so endanger the efficacy of all her previous prayers for his success by an unworthy shame now: it would be wicked of her, she thought, and a grievous wrong to him.
Under any worldly circumstances she might have thought the position justified a little finesse, and have skipped him for once; but prayer was too solemn a thing for such trifling. It struck her then that this declining altogether was the same cowardice in another dress, and was delivering her poor Edward over to Satan just as unceremoniously as before. She turned her face to the pillow and repeated in low soft tones the simple words she had used from childhood on such occasions.
At the name of Edward she stammered, and her voice sank to the faintest whisper in spite of her. You are a good girl, I think. Miss Aldclyffe reflected a moment. Cytherea was surprised to hear how quickly the voice had altered from tenderness to harshness, vexation, and disappointment.
No, no. I love you more sincerely than any man can. Find a girl, if you can, whose mouth and ears have not been made a regular highway of by some man or another! If men only knew the staleness of the freshest of us! O Cytherea, can it be that you, too, are like the rest?
You are as bad as I--we are all alike; and I--an old fool--have been sipping at your mouth as if it were honey, because I fancied no wasting lover knew the spot.
But a minute ago, and you seemed to me like a fresh spring meadow--now you seem a dusty highway. She wished Miss Aldclyffe would go to her own room, and leave her and her treasured dreams alone.
Though it was generous, it seemed somewhat too rank and capricious for endurance. He rowed you round the bay with your brother. I only saw you from the Esplanade, in common with the rest of the people. I often run down to Budmouth. He was a very good figure: now who was he? You are very foolish to treasure up his name and image as you do.
Why, he has had loves before you, trust him for that, whoever he is, and you are but a temporary link in a long chain of others like you: who only have your little day as they have had theirs. It may be that though he loves you heartily now--that is, as heartily as a man can--and you love him in return, your loves may be impracticable and hopeless, and you may be separated for ever.
She wept bitterly. I will be exactly as a mother to you. Now will you promise to live with me always, and always be taken care of, and never deserted? Companion--that was a new idea.
Cytherea could not resist the evidently heartfelt desire of the strange-tempered woman for her presence. The love of an inconstant man is ten times more ardent than that of a faithful man--that is, while it lasts. Miss Aldclyffe seemed to give herself over to a luxurious sense of content and quiet, as if the maiden at her side afforded her a protection against dangers which had menaced her for years; she was soon sleeping calmly.
With Cytherea it was otherwise. Unused to the place and circumstances, she continued wakeful, ill at ease, and mentally distressed. But sounds were in the ascendant that night. Her ears became aware of a strange and gloomy murmur. She recognized it: it was the gushing of the waterfall, faint and low, brought from its source to the unwonted distance of the House by a faint breeze which made it distinct and recognizable by reason of the utter absence of all disturbing sounds. She began to fancy what the waterfall must be like at that hour, under the trees in the ghostly moonlight.
Black at the head, and over the surface of the deep cold hole into which it fell; white and frothy at the fall; black and white, like a pall and its border; sad everywhere.
She was in the mood for sounds of every kind now, and strained her ears to catch the faintest, in wayward enmity to her quiet of mind. Another soon came. The second was quite different from the first--a kind of intermittent whistle it seemed primarily: no, a creak, a metallic creak, ever and anon, like a plough, or a rusty wheelbarrow, or at least a wheel of some kind.
Yes, it was, a wheel--the water-wheel in the shrubbery by the old manor-house, which the coachman had said would drive him mad. She determined not to think any more of these gloomy things; but now that she had once noticed the sound there was no sealing her ears to it.
She could not help timing its creaks, and putting on a dread expectancy just before the end of each half-minute that brought them. To imagine the inside of the engine-house, whence these noises proceeded, was now a necessity. No window, but crevices in the door, through which, probably, the moonbeams streamed in the most attenuated and skeleton-like rays, striking sharply upon portions of wet rusty cranks and chains; a glistening wheel, turning incessantly, labouring in the dark like a captive starving in a dungeon; and instead of a floor below, gurgling water, which on account of the darkness could only be heard; water which laboured up dark pipes almost to where she lay.
She shivered. Now she was determined to go to sleep; there could be nothing else left to be heard or to imagine--it was horrid that her imagination should be so restless. Before the thought had well passed through her brain, a third sound came. The third was a very soft gurgle or rattle--of a strange and abnormal kind--yet a sound she had heard before at some past period of her life--when, she could not recollect.
To make it the more disturbing, it seemed to be almost close to her--either close outside the window, close under the floor, or close above the ceiling. The accidental fact of its coming so immediately upon the heels of her supposition, told so powerfully upon her excited nerves that she jumped up in the bed.
The same instant, a little dog in some room near, having probably heard the same noise, set up a low whine. The watch-dog in the yard, hearing the moan of his associate, began to howl loudly and distinctly.
His melancholy notes were taken up directly afterwards by the dogs in the kennel a long way off, in every variety of wail.
One logical thought alone was able to enter her flurried brain. The little dog that began the whining must have heard the other two sounds even better than herself.
He had taken no notice of them, but he had taken notice of the third. The third, then, was an unusual sound. It was not like water, it was not like wind; it was not the night-jar, it was not a clock, nor a rat, nor a person snoring.
She crept under the clothes, and flung her arms tightly round Miss Aldclyffe, as if for protection. She remembered her position instantly. It was dreadful. Time, with his wings, hour-glass, and scythe, coming nearer and nearer to me--grinning and mocking: then he seized me, took a piece of me only How those dogs howl! People say it means death. She dismissed the third noise as something which in all likelihood could easily be explained, if trouble were taken to inquire into it: large houses had all kinds of strange sounds floating about them.
She was ashamed to tell Miss Aldclyffe her terrors. A nervous creature. The first glimmer of dawn was now visible. Miss Aldclyffe arose, put on her dressing-gown, and went softly downstairs to her own room. Cytherea awoke, quiet in mind and refreshed.
A conclusion to remain at Knapwater was already in possession of her. The dismal and heart-breaking pictures that Miss Aldclyffe had placed before her the preceding evening, the later terrors of the night, were now but as shadows of shadows, and she smiled in derision at her own excitability. She felt how much she would like to share his trouble--how well she could endure poverty with him--and wondered what his trouble was.
But all would be explained at last, she knew. Miss Aldclyffe was already out of bed. Though practical reasons forbade her regretting that she had secured such a companionable creature to read, talk, or play to her whenever her whim required, she was inwardly vexed at the extent to which she had indulged in the womanly luxury of making confidences and giving way to emotions. It is both painful and satisfactory to think how often these antitheses are to be observed in the individual most open to our observation--ourselves.
We pass the evening with faces lit up by some flaring illumination or other: we get up the next morning--the fiery jets have all gone out, and nothing confronts us but a few crinkled pipes and sooty wirework, hardly even recalling the outline of the blazing picture that arrested our eyes before bedtime.
Emotions would be half starved if there were no candle-light. Few that remain open to catch our glance as we rise in the morning, survive the frigid criticism of dressing-time. The subjects uppermost in the minds of the two women who had thus cooled from their fires, were not the visionary ones of the later hours, but the hard facts of their earlier conversation.
After a remark that Cytherea need not assist her in dressing unless she wished to, Miss Aldclyffe said abruptly The inundation Album) colour upon the younger lady at hearing a name which to her was a world, handled as if it were only an atom, told Miss Aldclyffe that she had divined the truth at last.
His example shows that I was not so far wrong in my estimate of men after all, though I only generalized, and had no thought of him. Why that all the world knows him to be engaged to be married, and that the wedding is soon to take place. She sank back into a chair, and buried her face in her hands.
I cannot upset the fact I have told you of, unfortunately. But I believe the match can be broken off.
I liked him much as a youth, and I like him now. I have got over my absurd feeling of last night in not wanting you ever to go away from me--of course, I could not expect such a thing as that. But Miss Aldclyffe did not answer. It mattered not, Cytherea thought. Another woman--that was enough for her: curiosity was stunned. But you are one of those precipitantly fond things who are yearning to throw away their hearts upon the first worthless fellow who says good-morning.
To hasten away at the end of the toilet, to tell Mrs. Morris--who stood waiting in a little room prepared for her, with tea poured out, bread-and-butter cut into diaphanous slices, and eggs arranged--that she wanted no breakfast: then to shut herself alone in her bedroom, was her only thought. She was followed thither by the well-intentioned matron with a cup of tea and one piece of bread-and-butter on a tray, cheerfully insisting that she should eat it.
To those who grieve, innocent cheerfulness seems heartless levity. Despite the incivility of the action, Cytherea could not bear to let a pleasant person see her face then. Immediate revocation--even if revocation would be more effective by postponement--is the impulse of young wounded natures.
It was then the bitterest of anguishes to look upon some of the words she had so lovingly written, and see them existing only in mutilated forms without meaning--to feel that his eye would never read them, nobody ever know how ardently she had penned them.
The meaning of all his allusions, his abruptness in telling her of his love, his constraint at first, then his desperate manner of speaking, was clear.
They must have been the last flickerings of a conscience not quite dead to all sense of perfidiousness and fickleness. Now he had gone to London: she would be dismissed from his memory, in the same way as Miss Aldclyffe had said.
The landscape, yesterday so much and so bright to her, was now but as the banquet-hall deserted--all gone but herself. Miss Aldclyffe had wormed her secret out of her, and would now be continually mocking her for her trusting simplicity in believing him.
It was altogether unbearable: she would not stay there.
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