ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Research Magnificent, by H. G. WellsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Research MagnificentAuthor: H. G. WellsPosting Date: August 3, 2008 [EBook #1138]Release Date: December, 1997Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT ***Produced by Donald LainsonTHE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENTby H. G.Wells(1915)CONTENTS     THE PRELUDE           ON FEAR AND ARISTOCRACY     THE STORY       I.  THE BOY GROWS UP      II.  THE YOUNG MAN ABOUTTOWN     III.  AMANDA      IV.  THE SPIRITED HONEYMOON       V.  THE ASSIZE OF JEALOUSY      VI.  THE NEW HAROUN AL RASCHIDTHE RESEARCHMAGNIFICENTTHE PRELUDEON FEAR AND ARISTOCRACY1The story of William Porphyry Benham is the story of a man who was ledinto adventure by an idea. Itwas an idea that took possession of hisimagination quite early in life, it grew with him and changed with him,it interwove at last completely with his being. Hisstory is its story.It was traceably germinating in the schoolboy; it was manifestly presentin his mind at the very last moment of his adventurous life. Hebelongedto that fortunate minority who are independent of daily necessities, sothat he was free to go about the world under its direction. It led himfar. It led himinto situations that bordered upon the fantastic, itmade him ridiculous, it came near to making him sublime. And this ideaof his was of such a nature that inseveral aspects he could documentit. Its logic forced him to introspection and to the making of a record.An idea that can play so large a part in a life mustnecessarily havesomething of the complication and protean quality of life itself. It isnot to be stated justly in any formula, it is not to be rendered by anepigram.As well one might show a man's skeleton for his portrait. Yet,essentially, Benham's idea was simple. He had an incurable, an almostinnate persuasion that he hadto live life nobly and thoroughly. Hiscommoner expression for that thorough living is "the aristocratic life."But by "aristocratic" he meant something very differentfrom thequality of a Russian prince, let us say, or an English peer. He meant anintensity, a clearness.... Nobility for him was to get something out ofhis individualexistence, a flame, a jewel, a splendour--it is a thingeasier to understand than to say.One might hesitate to call this idea "innate," and yet it comes sooninto a lifewhen it comes at all. In Benham's case we might trace itback to the Day Nursery at Seagate, we might detect it stirring alreadyat the petticoat stage, in variousprivate struttings and valiantdreamings with a helmet of pasteboard and a white-metal sword. We havemost of us been at least as far as that with Benham. Andwe havedied like Horatius, slaying our thousands for our country, or we haveperished at the stake or faced the levelled muskets of the firingparty--"No, do notbandage my eyes"--because we would not betray thesecret path that meant destruction to our city. But with Benham thevein was stronger, and it increasedinstead of fading out as he grewto manhood. It was less obscured by those earthy acquiescences, thosediscretions, that saving sense of proportion, which havemade most ofus so satisfactorily what we are. "Porphyry," his mother had discoveredbefore he was seventeen, "is an excellent boy, a brilliant boy, but, Ibegin tosee, just a little unbalanced."The interest of him, the absurdity of him, the story of him, is that.Most of us are--balanced; in spite of occasional reveries we docome toterms with the limitations of life, with those desires and dreams anddiscretions that, to say the least of it, qualify our nobility, we takerefuge in our senseof humour and congratulate ourselves on a certainamiable freedom from priggishness or presumption, but for Benham thateasy declension to a humorousacceptance of life as it is did not occur.He found his limitations soon enough; he was perpetuallyrediscovering them, but out of these interments of the spirit heroseagain--remarkably. When we others have decided that, to be plain aboutit, we are not going to lead the noble life at all, that the thing istoo ambitious andexpensive even to attempt, we have done so becausethere were other conceptions of existence that were good enough for us,we decided that instead of thatglorious impossible being of ourselves,we would figure in our own eyes as jolly fellows, or sly dogs, or sane,sound, capable men or brilliant successes, and soforth--practicablethings. For Benham, exceptionally, there were not these practicablethings. He blundered, he fell short of himself, he had--as you willbetold--some astonishing rebuffs, but they never turned him aside forlong. He went by nature for this preposterous idea of nobility as alinnet hatched in a cage willtry to fly.And when he discovered--and in this he was assisted not a little by hisfriend at his elbow--when he discovered that Nobility was not the simplething hehad at first supposed it to be, he set himself in a mood onlyslightly disconcerted to the discovery of Nobility. When it dawned uponhim, as it did, that one cannotbe noble, so to speak, IN VACUO, he sethimself to discover a Noble Society. He began with simple beliefs andfine attitudes and ended in a conscious research. Ifhe could not getthrough by a stride, then it followed that he must get through by aclimb. He spent the greater part of his life studying and experimentingin thenoble possibilities of man. He never lost his absurd faith inthat conceivable splendour. At first it was always just round the corneror just through the wood; to thelast it seemed still but a little waybeyond the distant mountains.For this reason this story has been called THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT. Itwas a real research, itwas documented. In the rooms in Westhaven Streetthat at last were as much as one could call his home, he had accumulatedmaterial for--one hesitates to call ita book--let us say it was ananalysis of, a guide to the noble life. There after his tragic deathcame his old friend White, the journalist and novelist, under apromise,and found these papers; he found them to the extent of a crammedbureau, half a score of patent files quite distended and a writing-tabledrawer-full, andhe was greatly exercised to find them. They were,White declares, they are still after much experienced handling, anindigestible aggregation. On this point Whiteis very assured. WhenBenham thought he was gathering together a book he was dreaming, Whitesays. There is no book in it....Perhaps too, one might hazard,Benham was dreaming when he thought thenoble life a human possibility. Perhaps man, like the ape and the hyaenaand the tapeworm and many other of God'snecessary but less attractivecreatures, is not for such exalted ends. That doubt never seems to havegot a lodgment in Benham's skull; though at times one mightsuppose itthe basis of White's thought. You will find in all Benham's story,if only it can be properly told, now subdued, now loud and amazed anddistressed, butalways traceable, this startled, protesting question,"BUT WHY THE DEVIL AREN'T WE?" As though necessarily we ought to be.He never faltered in his persuasionthat behind the dingy face of thisworld, the earthy stubbornness, the baseness and dulness of himselfand all of us, lurked the living jewels of heaven, the light ofglory,things unspeakable. At first it seemed to him that one had only just tohammer and will, and at the end, after a life of willing and hammering,he was stillconvinced there was something, something in the nature ofan Open Sesame, perhaps a little more intricate than one had supposedat first, a little more difficult tosecure, but still in that nature,which would suddenly roll open for mankind the magic cave of theuniverse, that precious cave at the heart of all things, in whichonemust believe.And then life--life would be the wonder it so perplexingly justisn't....2Benham did not go about the world telling people of thisconsumingresearch. He was not the prophet or preacher of his idea. It was tooliving and intricate and uncertain a part of him to speak freely about.It was hissecret self; to expose it casually would have shamed him. Hedrew all sorts of reserves about him, he wore his manifest imperfectionsturned up about him like anovercoat in bitter wind. He was contentto be inexplicable. His thoughts led him to the conviction that thismagnificent research could not be, any more than anyother researchcan be, a solitary enterprise, but he delayed expression; in a mightywriting and stowing away of these papers he found a relief from theunpleasanturgency to confess and explain himself prematurely. So thatWhite, though he knew Benham with the intimacy of an old schoolfellowwho had renewed hisfriendship, and had shared his last days and been awitness of his death, read the sheets of manuscript often with surpriseand with a sense of addedelucidation.And, being also a trained maker of books, White as he read was moreand more distressed that an accumulation so interesting should be soentirelyunshaped for publication. "But this will never make a book,"said White with a note of personal grievance. His hasty promise in theirlast moments together hadbound him, it seemed, to a task he now foundimpossible. He would have to work upon it tremendously; and even then hedid not see how it could be done.Thiscollection of papers was not a story, not an essay, not aconfession, not a diary. It was--nothing definable. It went into noconceivable covers. It was just, Whitedecided, a proliferation. A vastproliferation. It wanted even a title. There were signs that Benham hadintended to call it THE ARISTOCRATIC LIFE, and that he hadtried at someother time the title of AN ESSAY ON ARISTOCRACY. Moreover, it wouldseem that towards the end he had been disposed to drop theword"aristocratic" altogether, and adopt some such phrase as THE LARGERLIFE. Once it was LIFE SET FREE. He had fallen away more and more fromnearlyeverything that one associates with aristocracy--at the end onlyits ideals of fearlessness and generosity remained.Of all these titles THE ARISTOCRATIC LIFEseemed at first most likea clue to White. Benham's erratic movements, his sudden impulses, hisangers, his unaccountable patiences, his journeys to strangeplaces, andhis lapses into what had seemed to be pure adventurousness, could all beput into system with that. Before White had turned over three pages ofthegreat fascicle of manuscript that was called Book Two, he had foundthe word "Bushido" written with a particularly flourishing capitalletter and twice repeated."That was inevitable," said White with thecomforting regret one feels for a friend's banalities. "And it dates...[unreadable] this was early....""Modern aristocracy,the new aristocracy," he read presently, "has stillto be discovered and understood. This is the necessary next step formankind. As far as possible I will discoverand understand it, and asfar as I know it I will be it. This is the essential disposition of mymind. God knows I have appetites and sloths and habits andblindnesses,but so far as it is in my power to release myself I will escape tothis...."3White sat far into the night and for several nights turning over papersand


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                             eightmillimeter                            written by                            Andrew KevinWalker                                                      5/06/97                                                      first     INT.  MIAMI AIRPORT, TERMINAL --DAY     Amongst the weary tourist families and solitary businessmen     sits TOM WELLES, middle-aged, hair neat, suit crisp and     gray.  He's eatingcrackers from a cellophane package,     sipping soda from a paper cup, watching an ARRIVAL GATE.     AT THE GATE     PASSENGERS arrive: thepaunchy, graying men of First Class     leading the pack, except for a handsome YOUNG REPUBLICAN     poster boy hurrying along.     ACROSS THETERMINAL     Welles gets up and FOLLOWS...     EXT.  MIAMI AIRPORT, CURBSIDE -- DAY     Welles comes outside, squinting in the sun, movingdown the     sidewalk, looking back over his shoulder...     The Young Republican is lead to a waiting LIMO by a DRIVER.     Welles moves to the nearby TAXISTAND...     INT.  TAXI -- DAY     Welles gets in, turning in his seat to watch behind.                             CAB DRIVER               Whereto?     Welles keeps watching, sees the limo pull away and pass.                             WELLES               Follow that limousine.  Don't get               tooclose, don't let it get too far               away.  Just keep with it.                             CAB DRIVER               You


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ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Kempton-Wace Letters, by Jack London and Anna StrunskyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost andwithalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook oronline at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Kempton-Wace LettersAuthor: Jack London        Anna StrunskyRelease Date: February 27, 2010 [EBook#31422]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KEMPTON-WACE LETTERS ***Produced by Curtis Weyant, Martin Pettit and theOnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)THE KEMPTON-WACE LETTERS       *       *       *       *       *JACK LONDON'S BOOKS"_He opened windows for them upon the splendour and thesavagery, thepomp and the pitifulness that he had found in many corners of the earth.He saw that in every scene, in every human activity there was anelementwhich lifted it into the region of the beautiful, and he made all hisreaders see it, whether he was learned or ignorant; cultivated or onlyjust able to read.Full justice has never been done to him. There was nosilver in his purse, only gold._"--Hamilton Fyfe in "The Daily Mail."The Valley of the Moon              7s. 6d.net and 4s. netJerry of the Islands                7s. 6d. net and 2s. 6d. netMichael, Brother of Jerry           7s. 6d. net and 2s. netHearts of Three                     6s.net and 2s. 6d. netIsland Tales                        7s. 6d. netThe Red One                         6s. net and 2s. netThe Acorn-Planter                   3s. 6d. netThe LittleLady of the Big House    6s. net and 2s. 6d. net[A]The Mutiny of the Elsinore       6s. net and 2s. netThe Strength of the Strong          6s. net and 1s. 6d. netTheNight-Born                      6s. net and 2s. net[A]A Daughter of the Snows          7s. 6d. net and 2s. 6d. netLost Face                           6s. net and 1s. 6d.netSouth Sea Tales                     6s. net and 1s. 6d. netWhen God Laughs                     6s. net and 1s. 6d. net[A]Smoke Bellew                     6s. net and 1s.6d. netThe Kempton-Wace Letters            2s. 6d. netSmoke and Shorty                    6s. and 2s. 6d. netThe Cruise of the Snark             2s. netThe Cruise of theDazzler           1s. 6d. netTurtles of Tasman                   1s. 6d. netBefore Adam                         1s. 6d. netThe Scarlet Plague                  1s. 6d. netThe God ofHis Fathers              1s. 6d. netAdventure                           2s. netThe House of Pride                  1s. 6d. netLove of Life                        1s. 6d. netA Son of theSun                    6s. net and 2s. netAn Odyssey of the North             1s. 6d. netChildren of the Frost               1s. 6d. net[A]John Barleycorn                  6s. netand 2s. net[A]The Jacket                       6s. net and 2s. netRevolution                          2s. netWar of the Classes                  2s. netThe HumanDrift                     6s. net and 2s. netThe Iron Heel                       2s. netThe Road                            2s. net[A] Films have been founded on these novelsMILLS& BOON, Ltd., 49 Rupert St., London, W.1.       *       *       *       *       *THE KEMPTON-WACE LETTERSBYJACK LONDONANDANNA STRUNSKY     "_And ofnaught else than Love would we           discourse._"--DANTE, Sonnet II.MILLS & BOON, LIMITED 49 RUPERT STREET LONDON, W.1_Copyright in the UnitedStates of America, 1903, by the MacmillanCompany Printed in Great Britain by Love & Malcomson Ltd. London andRedhill._KEMPTON-WACE LETTERSIFROM DANEKEMPTON TO HERBERT WACELONDON,3 A QUEEN'S ROAD, CHELSEA, S.W.August 14, 19--.Yesterday I wrote formally, rising to the occasion like theconventionalhappy father rather than the man who believes in the miracle and livesfor it. Yesterday I stinted myself. I took you in my arms, glad of whatis andstately with respect for the fulness of your manhood. It isto-day that I let myself leap into yours in a passion of joy. I dwell onwhat has come to pass and inflatemyself with pride in your fulfilment,more as a mother would, I think, and she your mother.But why did you not write before? After all, the great event wasnotwhen you found your offer of marriage accepted, but when you found youhad fallen in love. Then was your hour. Then was the time forcongratulation, whenthe call was first sounded and the reveille of Timeand About fell upon your soul and the march to another's destiny wasbegun. It is always more important to lovethan to be loved. I wish ithad been vouchsafed me to be by when your spirit of a sudden grewwilling to bestow itself without question or let or hope of return,whenthe self broke up and you grew fain to beat out your strength in praiseand service for the woman who was soaring high in the blue wastes. Youhave knownher long, and you must have been hers long, yet no word ofher and of your love reached me. It was not kind to be silent.Barbara spoke yesterday of yourfastidiousness, and we told each otherthat you had gained a triumph of happiness in your love, for you are notof those who cheat themselves. You chooserigorously, straining for theheart of the end as do all rigorists who are also hedonists. Because weare in possession of this bit of data as to your temperamentalcosmos wecan congratulate you with the more abandon. Oh, Herbert, do you knowthat this is a rampant spring, and that on leaving Barbara I trampedout of theconfines into the green, happier, it almost seems, than Ihave ever been? Do you know that because you love a woman and she lovesyou, and that because youare swept along by certain forces, that I amhappy and feel myself in sight of my portion of immortality on earth,far more than because of my books, dear lad, farmore?I wish I could fly England and get to you. Should I have a shade less ofyou than formerly, if we were together now? From your too much green ofwealth, abarrenness of friendship? It does not matter; what is her gaincannot be my loss. One power is mine,--without hindrance, in freedom andin right, to say to Ellen'sson, "Godspeed!" to place Hester Stebbins'shand in his, and bid them forth to the sunrise, into the glory of day!Ever your devoted father,DANE KEMPTON.IIFROMHERBERT WACE TO DANE KEMPTONTHE RIDGE,BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA.September 3, 19--.Here I am, back in the old quarters once more, with the oldafternoonclimb across the campus and up into the sky, up to the old rooms, theold books, and the old view. You poor fog-begirt Dane Kempton, could youbuthave lounged with me on the window couch, an hour past, and watchedthe light pass out of the day through the Golden Gate and the nightcreep over theBerkeley Hills and down out of the east! Why should youlinger on there in London town! We grow away from each other, itseems--you with your wonder-singing, Iwith my joyful science.Poesy and economics! Alack! alack! How did I escape you, Dane, when mindand mood you mastered me? The auguries were fair. I, too,should havebeen a singer, and lo, I strive for science. All my boyhood was singing,what of you; and my father was a singer, too, in his own fine way. Dearto me isyour likening of him to Waring.--"What's become of Waring?" He_was_ Waring. I can think of him only as one who went away, "chose landtravel orseafaring."Gwynne says I am sometimes almost a poet--Gwynne, you know, ArthurGwynne, who has come to live with me at The Ridge. "If it were not foryourdismal science," he is sure to add; and to fire him I lay it to thedefects of early training. I know he thinks that I never halfappreciated you, and that I do notappreciate you now. If you willrecollect, you praised his verses once. He cherishes that praise amongsthis sweetest treasures. Poor dear good old Gwynne,tender, sensitive,shrinking, with the face of a seraph and the heart of a maid. Never weretwo men more incongruously companioned. I love him for himself.Hetolerates me, I do secretly believe, because of you. He longs to meetyou,--he knew you well through my father,--and we often talk you over.Be sure at everyopportunity I tear off your halo and trundle it about.Trust me, you receive scant courtesy.How I wander on. My pen is unruly after the long vacation; mythoughtyet wayward, what of the fever of successful wooing. And besides, ...how shall I say?... such was the gracious warmth of your letter, of bothyour letters,that I am at a loss. I feel weak, inadequate. It almostseems as though you had made a demand upon something that is not in me.Ah, you poets! It would seemyour delight in my marriage were greaterthan mine. In my present mood, it is you who are young, you who love; Iwho have lived and am old.Yes, I am going tobe married. At this present moment, I doubt not, amillion men and women are saying the same thing. Hewers of wood anddrawers of water, princes andpotentates, shy-shrinking maidens andbrazen-faced hussies, all saying, "I am going to be married." And alllooking forward to it as a crisis in their lives? No. Afterall,marriage is the way of the world. Considered biologically, it is aninstitution necessary for the perpetuation of the species. Why should itbe a crisis? Thesemillion men and women will marry, and the work ofthe world go on just as it did before. Shuffle them about, and the workof the world would yet go on.True, amonth ago it did seem a crisis. I wrote you as much. It did seema disturbing element in my life-work. One cannot view with equanimitythat which appears to betotally disruptive of one's dear little systemof living. But it only appeared so; I lacked perspective, that was all.As I look upon it now, everything fits well and allwill run smoothly Iam sure.You know I had two years yet to work for my Doctorate. I still havethem. As you see, I am back to the old quarters, settled down inthe oldgroove, hammering away at the old grind. Nothing is changed. And besidesmy own studies, I have taken up an assistant instructorship in theDepartmentof Economics. It is an ambitious course, and an importantone. I don't know how they ever came to confide it to me, or how I foundthe temerity to attemptit,--which is neither here nor there. It is allagreed. Hester is a sensible girl.The engagement is to be long. I shall continue my career as charted. Twoyears fromnow, when I shall have become a Doctor of Social Sciences(and candidate for numerous other things), I shall also become abenedict. My marriage and thepresumably necessary honeymoon chime inwith the summer vacation. There is no disturbing element even there. Oh,we are very practical, Hester and I. And weare both strong enough tolead each our own lives.Which reminds me that you have not asked about her. First, let me shockyou--she, too, is a scientist. It was inmy undergraduate days that wemet, and ere the half-hour struck we were quarrelling felicitously overWeismann and the neo-Darwinians. I was at Berkeley at thetime, acocksure junior; and she, far maturer as a freshman, was at Stanford,carrying more culture with her into her university than is given theaverage studentto carry out.Next, and here your arms open to her, she is a poet. Pre-eminently sheis a poet--this must be always understood. She is the greater poet, Itake it, inthis dawning twentieth century, because she is a scientist;not in spite of being a scientist as some would hold. How shall Idescribe her? Perhaps as a George Eliot,


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                         ARSENIC AND OLD LACE                              Written by                     Julius J. & Philip G.Epstein                        Adapted from the play by                           Joseph Kesselring   CREDITS   Credits roll, in white letters, on several funnycartoons, all of   them about witches and witchcraft (a caldron over a fire, with two   witches on either side of it - A close-up of one of the witches -   A witchesfalling down from the sky on her broomstick, and loosing   her hat in the fall - A furious black cat spitting at an owl   seated on a branch - A carafe with twoglasses, actually a direct   reference to the film - An Halloween pumpkin pressing her two   forefingers in its ears, with music notes around it - Black bats   flyingover a village).   BROOKLYN - GENERAL OVERVIEW - EXTERIOR DAY   A general overview of Brooklyn, near New York, seen from the roof   of a veryhigh building. Written in white letters on this   overview, the following words :                         This is a Hallowe'en                       tale of Brooklyn,where                        anything can happen--                         and it usually does.   Then :                           At 3 P.M. on this                         particular day,this                             was happening-   Several white circles move on the screen, then the whole screen is   covered by a huge base ball, with «Brooklyn»written on it in   black letters.   BASEBALL GAME - SPECTATORS - EXTERIOR DAY   Close-up of the face of man, screaming :          BASEBALLFAN          I'll knock your block off, you big stiff ! You're a bum !   The camera moves away, so we can see the other baseball spectators   behind the first


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                            ARBITRAGE                                                                             Written by                        Nicholas Jarecki                                                                                4/17/11          BLACK.                                   Over CREDITS we HEAR:                                    MARIA (O.S.)           ...but you took a huge bet on the           housing crisis in themiddle of the           biggest boom anybody'd ever seen. Why?                                    ROBERT (O.S.)           I'm a child of the 50's. Myfather           welded steel for the Navy. And my           mother worked at the VA.                                                            INT. ROBERT'S MANSION -DAY                                   As the conversation continues we see:                                   1. A MAID clean an expansive living room, waxing amahogany          table.                                   2. A BUTLER open sliding doors to an empty grand sitting          room.                                   3. An overhead shotas a SERVANT carries packages up a long          winding staircase.                                                   ROBERT           They lived through theDepression,           Pearl Harbor, and the Bomb. And they           didn't think bad things might           happen; they knew they wouldhappen.                                                   MARIA           Is that what's happeningnow?                                                   ROBERT           When I was a kid my favorite           teacher was Mr. James. Mr. James           said that world


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                   STRANGERSON A TRAIN                             by             Raymond Chandler and Czenzi OrmondeFINAL DRAFTOctober 18, 1950Converted to PDF bySCREENTALK                                       FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLYwww.screentalk.orgFADE IN:EXT. UNIONSTATION, WASHINGTON, D.C. DAYLONG SHOT THE CAPITOL DOME IN THE B.G. AND THE AUTOMOBILEENTRANCE TO THE STATION IN THEF.G. LOW CAMERAActivity of cars and taxis arriving and discharging passengerswith luggage, busy redcaps, etcetera.We FOCUS on a taxi pulling up andstopping, The driver handsout modest looking luggage, including a bunch of tennisrackets in cases to a redcap. CAMERA PANS DOWN as thepassenger gets out ofthe taxi so that we see only his shoesand the lower part of his trousers. He is wearing darkcolored brogues and a conservative suit apparently. Thefeet movetoward, the entrance to the station and out ofscene. Immediately a chauffeur-driven limousine drives upand an expensive place of airplane luggage is handed outofthis, and the passenger alighting from the back is seen tobe wearing black and white sport shoes which, as before, areall we see of him. The sport shoes startoff in the wake ofthe brogues.INT. STATION LOBBYCAMERA FOLLOWS the sport shoes and the brogues across thelobby into a passenger tunnel. Thereis the usual activityof passengers walking to and from, a loud-speaker announcingtrains, etc.EXT. PASSENGER TUNNELAs the brogues and the sportshoes emerge to the trainplatform, CAMERA PANS them over to the steps of the train.INT. TRAINThe brogues and the sport shoes pass separately down


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Boon, The Mind of the Race, The Wild Assesof the Devil, and The Last Trump;, by Herbert George WellsThis eBook is for theuse of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project GutenbergLicense includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: Boon, The Mind of the Race, The Wild Asses of the Devil, and The Last Trump;       Being aFirst Selection from the Literary Remains of George       Boon, Appropriate to the TimesAuthor: Herbert George WellsRelease Date: January 15, 2011 [EBook#34962]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOON, THE MIND OF THE RACE ***Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Barbara Tozier,and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The InternetArchive/Canadian Libraries)                     Boon, The Mind of the Race,                     The Wild Asses of the Devil,                         _and_ The LastTrump                   Being a First Selection from the                   Literary Remains of George Boon,                       Appropriate to theTimes                     Prepared for Publication by                            REGINALD BLISS             AUTHOR OF "THE COUSINS OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE,"              "ACHILD'S HISTORY OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE,"                 "FIRELIGHT RAMBLES," "EDIBLE FUNGI,"                "WHALES IN CAPTIVITY," AND OTHERWORKS                                 WITH                     An Ambiguous Introduction by                             H. G. WELLS                        T. FISHER UNWIN,LTD.                       LONDON; ADELPHI TERRACE                      _First published in 1915_                        (All rights reserved)INTRODUCTIONWhenever apublisher gets a book by one author he wants an Introductionwritten to it by another, and Mr. Fisher Unwin is no exception to therule. Nobody readsIntroductions, they serve no useful purpose, andthey give no pleasure, but they appeal to the business mind, I think,because as a rule they cost nothing. At anyrate, by the pressure of acertain inseparable intimacy between Mr. Reginald Bliss and myself,this Introduction has been extracted from me. I will confess thatIhave not read his book through, though I have a kind of first-handknowledge of its contents, and that it seems to me an indiscreet,ill-advised book....I have avery strong suspicion that this Introduction idea is designedto entangle me in the responsibility for the book. In America, at anyrate, "The Life of George Meek,Bath Chairman," was ascribed to meupon no better evidence. Yet any one who likes may go to Eastbourneand find Meek with chair and all complete. But in viewof thecomplications of the book market and the large simplicities of thepublic mind, I do hope that the reader--and by that I mean thereviewer--will be able to seethe reasonableness and the necessity ofdistinguishing between me and Mr. Reginald Bliss. I do not wish toescape the penalties of thus participating in, andendorsing, hismanifest breaches of good taste, literary decorum, and friendlyobligation, but as a writer whose reputation is already too crowdedand confused andwho is for the ordinary purposes of every day knownmainly as a novelist, I should be glad if I could escape the publicidentification I am now repudiating. Bliss isBliss and Wells isWells. And Bliss can write all sorts of things that Wells could notdo.This Introduction has really no more to say thanthat.                                                      H. G. WELLS.CONTENTSINTRODUCTIONCHAPTER THE FIRSTTHE BACK OF MISS BATHWICK AND GEORGEBOONCHAPTER THE SECONDBEING THE FIRST CHAPTER OF "THE MIND OF THE RACE"CHAPTER THE THIRDTHE GREAT SLUMP, THE REVIVAL OF LETTERS, ANDTHE GARDEN BY THE SEACHAPTER THE FOURTHOF ART, OF LITERATURE, OF MR HENRY JAMESCHAPTER THE FIFTHOF THE ASSEMBLING AND OPENING OF THEWORLD CONFERENCE ON THE MIND OFTHE RACECHAPTER THE SIXTHOF NOT LIKING HALLERY AND THE ROYAL SOCIETY FOR THE DISCOURAGEMENTOFLITERATURECHAPTER THE SEVENTHWILKINS MAKES CERTAIN OBJECTIONSCHAPTER THE EIGHTHTHE BEGINNING OF "THE WILD ASSES OF THEDEVIL"CHAPTER THE NINTHTHE HUNTING OF THE WILD ASSES OF THE DEVILCHAPTER THE TENTHTHE STORY OF THE LAST TRUMP       BOON, THE MIND OFTHE RACE, THE WILD ASSES OF THE DEVIL,                        _and_ THE LAST TRUMPCHAPTER THE FIRSTThe Back of Miss Bathwick and George BoonÂ§ 1It isquite probable that the reader does not know of the death ofGeorge Boon, and that "remains" before his name upon the title-pagewill be greeted with a certainastonishment. In the ordinary course ofthings, before the explosion of the war, the death of George Boonwould have been an event--oh! a three-quarters of acolumn or more inthe _Times_ event, and articles in the monthlies and reminiscences. Asit is, he is not so much dead as missing. Something happened attheeleventh hour--I think it was chiefly the Admiralty report of thefight off the Falkland Islands--that blew his obituary notices cleanout of the papers. And yet hewas one of our most popular writers, andin America I am told he was in the "hundred thousand class." But nowwe think only of Lord Kitchener's hundredthousands.It is no good pretending about it. The war has ended all that. Boondied with his age. After the war there will be a new sort ofbook-trade and a crop ofnew writers and a fresh tone, and everythingwill be different. This is an obituary, of more than George Boon.... Iregard the outlook with profound dismay. I try tokeep my mind off itby drilling with the Shrewsbury last line of volunteers and trainingdown the excrescences of my physical style. When the war is over willbetime enough to consider the prospects of a superannuated man ofletters. We National Volunteers are now no mere soldiers on paper; wehave fairly washablebadges by way of uniform; we have boughtourselves dummy rifles; we have persuaded the War Office to give us areluctant recognition on the distinctunderstanding that we haveneither officers nor authority. In the event of an invasion, Iunderstand, we are to mobilize and ... do quite a number of usefulthings.But until there is an invasion in actual progress, nothing isto be decided more precisely than what this whiff of printer'sshrapnel, these four full stops,conveys....Â§ 2I must confess I was monstrously disappointed when at last I could getmy hands into those barrels in the attic in which Boon had stored hissecretwritings. There was more perhaps than I had expected; I do notcomplain of the quantity, but of the disorder, the incompleteness, thewant of discipline andforethought.Boon had talked so often and so convincingly of these secret books hewas writing, he had alluded so frequently to this or that greatproject, he wouldbegin so airily with "In the seventeenth chapter ofmy 'Wild Asses of the Devil,'" or "I have been recasting the thirdpart of our 'Mind of the Race,'" that it came asan enormous shock tome to find there was no seventeenth chapter; there was not even acompleted first chapter to the former work, and as for the latter,thereseems nothing really finished or settled at all beyond thefragments I am now issuing, except a series of sketches of LordRosebery, for the most part in a toga anda wreath, engaged in alettered retirement at his villa at Epsom, and labelled "PatricianDignity, the Last Phase"--sketches I suppress as of no presentinterest--anda complete gallery of imaginary portraits (with severalduplicates) of the Academic Committee that has done so much forBritish literature (the Polignac prize, forexample, and Sir HenryNewbolt's professorship) in the last four or five years. Soincredulous was I that this was all, that I pushed my inquiries fromtheir originalfield in the attic into other parts of the house,pushed them, indeed, to the very verge of ransacking, and in that Igreatly deepened the want of sympathy alreadyseparating me from Mrs.Boon. But I was stung by a thwarted sense of duty, and quite resolvedthat no ill-advised interference should stand between me andthepublication of what Boon has always represented to me as the mostintimate productions of his mind.Yet now the first rush of executorial emotion is over I canbegin todoubt about Boon's intention in making me his "literary executor." Didhe, after all, intend these pencilled scraps, these marginalcaricatures, and--whatseems to me most objectionable--annotatedletters from harmless prominent people for publication? Or was hisselection of me his last effort to prolong what was,I think, if oneof the slightest, one also of the most sustained interests of hislife, and that was a prolonged faint jeering at my expense? Becausealways--it wasnever hidden from me--in his most earnest moments Boonjeered at me. I do not know why he jeered at me, it was always ratherpointless jeering and far belowhis usual level, but jeer he did. Evenwhile we talked most earnestly and brewed our most intoxicatingdraughts of project and conviction, there was always thisscarceperceptible blossom and flavour of ridicule floating like a drowningsprig of blue borage in the cup. His was indeed essentially one ofthose suspended mindsthat float above the will and action; when atlast reality could be evaded no longer it killed him; he never reallybelieved nor felt the urgent need that goads mymore accurate natureto believe and do. Always when I think of us together, I feel that Iam on my legs and that he sits about. And yet he could tell me thingsIsought to know, prove what I sought to believe, shape beliefs to aconviction in me that I alone could never attain.He took life as it came, let his fancy play uponit, selected,elucidated, ignored, threw the result in jest or observation orelaborate mystification at us, and would have no more of it.... Hewould be earnest for atime and then break away. "The Last Trump" isquite typical of the way in which he would turn upon himself. It setsout so straight for magnificence; it breaks offso abominably. Youwill read it.Yet he took things more seriously than he seemed to do.This war, I repeat, killed him. He could not escape it. It bore himdown. Hedid his best to disregard it. But its worst stresses caughthim in the climax of a struggle with a fit of pneumonia brought on bya freak of bathing by moonlight--inan English October, a thing he didto distract his mind from the tension after the Marne--and itdestroyed him. The last news they told him was that the Germanshadmade their "shoot and scuttle" raid upon Whitby and Scarborough. Therewas much circumstantial description in the morning's paper. They hadsmashed up anumber of houses and killed some hundreds of people,chiefly women and children. Ten little children had been killed ormutilated in a bunch on their way toschool, two old ladies at aboarding-house had had their legs smashed, and so on."Take this newspaper," he said, and held it out to his nurse. "Takeit," herepeated irritably, and shook it at her.He stared at it as it receded. Then he seemed to be staring at distantthings."Wild Asses of the Devil," he said at last. "Oh!Wild Asses of theDevil! I thought somehow it was a joke. It wasn't a joke. There theyare, and the world is theirs."And he turned his face to the wall and never


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<title>All AboutEve</title>
FADE IN:INT. DINING HALL - SARAH SIDDONS SOCIETY - NIGHTIt is not a large room and jammed with tables,mostly forfour but some for six and eight. A long table of honor, forabout thirty people, has been placed upon a dais. Diner is over. Demi-tasses, cigars andbrandy. The overalleffect is one of worn elegance and dogged gentility. It isJune.The CAMERA, as it has been throughout the CREDIT TITLES, ison the SARAHSIDDONS AWARD. It is a gold statuette, about afoot high, of Sarah Siddons as The Tragic Muse. Exquisitelyframed in a nest of flowers, it rests on a miniaturealtar inthe center of the table of honor. Over this we hear the crisp, cultured, precise VOICE ofADDISON deWITT: ADDISON'S VOICE The Sarah SiddonsAward for Distinguished Achievement is perhaps unknown to you. It has been spared the sensational and commercial publicity that attends such questionable"honors" as the Pulitzer Prize and those awards presented annually by the film society...The CAMERA has EASED BACK to include some of the table ofhonor and adistinguished gentleman with snow-white hair whois speaking. We do not hear what he says.  ADDISON'S VOICE The distinguished looking gentleman isan extremely old actor. Being an actor - he will go on speaking for some time. It is not important what you hear what he says. The CAMERA EASES BACK some


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Shewing-up of Blanco Posnet, by George Bernard ShawThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Shewing-up of Blanco PosnetAuthor: George Bernard ShawRelease Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5722]This file was first posted onAugust 17, 2002Last Updated: April 10, 2013Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SHEWING-UP OF BLANCO POSNET***Produced by Eve Sobol and Distributed ProofreadersTHE SHEWING-UP OF BLANCO POSNETBy Bernard Shaw1909TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: The edition fromwhich this work was taken wasprinted without contractions, so there is Ill for I'll and dont fordon't, for example, and show is spelt shew.PREFACETHECENSORSHIPThis little play is really a religious tract in dramatic form. If oursilly censorship would permit its performance, it might possibly help tosetright-side-up the perverted conscience and re-invigorate the starvedself-respect of our considerable class of loose-lived playgoers whosepoint of honor is toderide all official and conventional sermons. As itis, it only gives me an opportunity of telling the story of the SelectCommittee of both Houses of Parliament whichsat last year to enquireinto the working of the censorship, against which it was alleged bymyself and others that as its imbecility and mischievousness could notbefully illustrated within the limits of decorum imposed on the press,it could only be dealt with by a parliamentary body subject to no suchlimits.A READABLEBLUEBOOKFew books of the year 1909 can have been cheaper and more entertainingthan the report of this Committee. Its full title is REPORT FROM THEJOINTSELECT COMMITTEE OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS AND THE HOUSE OF COMMONSON THE STAGE PLAYS (CENSORSHIP) TOGETHER WITH THE PROCEEDINGS OFTHECOMMITTEE, MINUTES OF EVIDENCE, AND APPENDICES. What the phrase "theStage Plays" means in this title I do not know; nor does anyone else.Thenumber of the Bluebook is 214.How interesting it is may be judged from the fact that it containsverbatim reports of long and animated interviews between theCommitteeand such witnesses as W. William Archer, Mr. Granville Barker, Mr. J.M. Barrie, Mr. Forbes Robertson, Mr. Cecil Raleigh, Mr. John Galsworthy,Mr.Laurence Housman, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, Mr. W. L. Courtney, SirWilliam Gilbert, Mr. A. B. Walkley, Miss Lena Ashwell, Professor GilbertMurray, Mr. GeorgeAlexander, Mr. George Edwardes, Mr. Comyns Carr,the Speaker of the House of Commons, the Bishop of Southwark, Mr. HallCaine, Mr. Israel Zangwill, Sir SquireBancroft, Sir Arthur Pinero, andMr. Gilbert Chesterton, not to mention myself and a number of gentlemenless well known to the general public, but important inthe world of thetheatre. The publication of a book by so many famous contributors wouldbe beyond the means of any commercial publishing firm. HisMajesty'sStationery Office sells it to all comers by weight at the veryreasonable price of three-and-threepence a copy.HOW NOT TO DO ITIt was pointed out byCharles Dickens in Little Dorrit, which remainsthe most accurate and penetrating study of the genteel littleness ofour class governments in the English language,that whenever an abusebecomes oppressive enough to persuade our party parliamentariansthat something must be done, they immediately set to work tofacethe situation and discover How Not To Do It. Since Dickens's daythe exposures effected by the Socialists have so shattered theself-satisfaction of moderncommercial civilization that it is no longerdifficult to convince our governments that something must be done,even to the extent of attempts at a reconstruction ofcivilization ona thoroughly uncommercial basis. Consequently, the first part of theprocess described by Dickens: that in which the reformers were snubbedby frontbench demonstrations that the administrative departments wereconsuming miles of red tape in the correctest forms of activity, andthat everything was for thebest in the best of all possible worlds,is out of fashion; and we are in that other phase, familiarized by thehistory of the French Revolution, in which the primaryassumption isthat the country is in danger, and that the first duty of all parties,politicians, and governments is to save it. But as the effect of thisis to givegovernments a great many more things to do, it also gives apowerful stimulus to the art of How Not To Do Them: that is to say, theart of contriving methods ofreform which will leave matters exactly asthey are.The report of the Joint Select Committee is a capital illustration ofthis tendency. The case against thecensorship was overwhelming; and thedefence was more damaging to it than no defence at all could havebeen. Even had this not been so, the mere caprice ofopinion had turnedagainst the institution; and a reform was expected, evidence or noevidence. Therefore the Committee was unanimous as to the necessityofreforming the censorship; only, unfortunately, the majority attachedto this unanimity the usual condition that nothing should be done todisturb the existingstate of things. How this was effected may begathered from the recommendations finally agreed on, which are asfollows.1. The drama is to be set entirely free bythe abolition of the existingobligation to procure a licence from the Censor before performing aplay; but every theatre lease is in future to be construed as ifitcontained a clause giving the landlord power to break it and evict thelessee if he produces a play without first obtaining the usual licencefrom the LordChamberlain.2. Some of the plays licensed by the Lord Chamberlain are so viciousthat their present practical immunity from prosecution must be put anend to;but no manager who procures the Lord Chamberlain's licence fora play can be punished in any way for producing it, though a specialtribunal may order him todiscontinue the performance; and even thisorder must not be recorded to his disadvantage on the licence of histheatre, nor may it be given as a judicial reasonfor cancelling thatlicence.3. Authors and managers producing plays without first obtaining theusual licence from the Lord Chamberlain shall be perfectly free todoso, and shall be at no disadvantage compared to those who follow theexisting practice, except that they may be punished, have the licencesof their theatresendorsed and cancelled, and have the performancestopped pending the proceedings without compensation in the event of theproceedings ending in theiracquittal.4. Authors are to be rescued from their present subjection to anirresponsible secret tribunal which can condemn their plays withoutgiving reasons, bythe substitution for that tribunal of a Committee ofthe Privy Council, which is to be the final authority on the fitness ofa play for representation; and thisCommittee is to sit in camera if andwhen it pleases.5. The power to impose a veto on the production of plays is to beabolished because it may hinder the growthof a great national drama;but the Office of Examiner of Plays shall be continued; and the LordChamberlain shall retain his present powers to license plays, butshallbe made responsible to Parliament to the extent of making it possibleto ask questions there concerning his proceedings, especially now thatmembers havediscovered a method of doing this indirectly.And so on, and so forth. The thing is to be done; and it is not to bedone. Everything is to be changed and nothing isto be changed. Theproblem is to be faced and the solution to be shirked. And the word ofDickens is to be justified.THE STORY OF THE JOINT SELECTCOMMITTEELet me now tell the story of the Committee in greater detail, partly asa contribution to history; partly because, like most true stories, it ismoreamusing than the official story.All commissions of public enquiry are more or less intimidated bothby the interests on which they have to sit in judgment and,whentheir members are party politicians, by the votes at the back of thoseinterests; but this unfortunate Committee sat under a quite exceptionalcross fire. First,there was the king. The Censor is a member of hishousehold retinue; and as a king's retinue has to be jealously guardedto avoid curtailment of the royal state nomatter what may be thefunction of the particular retainer threatened, nothing but anexpress royal intimation to the contrary, which is aconstitutionalimpossibility, could have relieved the Committee from the fear ofdispleasing the king by any proposal to abolish the censorship of theLordChamberlain. Now all the lords on the Committee and some of thecommoners could have been wiped out of society (in their sense of theword) by the slightestintimation that the king would prefer not to meetthem; and this was a heavy risk to run on the chance of "a great andserious national drama" ensuing on theremoval of the Lord Chamberlain'sveto on Mrs Warren's Profession. Second, there was the Nonconformistconscience, holding the Liberal Government responsiblefor the Committeeit had appointed, and holding also, to the extent of votes enough toturn the scale in some constituencies, that the theatre is the gate ofhell, tobe tolerated, as vice is tolerated, only because the power tosuppress it could not be given to any public body without too serious aninterference with certainLiberal traditions of liberty which are stilluseful to Nonconformists in other directions. Third, there was thecommercial interest of the theatrical managers and theirsyndicates ofbackers in the City, to whom, as I shall shew later on, the censorshipaffords a cheap insurance of enormous value. Fourth, there was thepowerfulinterest of the trade in intoxicating liquors, fiercelydetermined to resist any extension of the authority of teetotaller-ledlocal governing bodies over theatres. Fifth,there were the playwrights,without political power, but with a very close natural monopoly of atalent not only for play-writing but for satirical polemics. Andsinceevery interest has its opposition, all these influences had createdhostile bodies by the operation of the mere impulse to contradict them,always strong inEnglish human nature.WHY THE MANAGERS LOVE THE CENSORSHIPThe only one of these influences which seems to be generallymisunderstood is that of themanagers. It has been assumed repeatedlythat managers and authors are affected in the same way by thecensorship. When a prominent author protests againstthe censorship, hisopinion is supposed to be balanced by that of some prominent managerwho declares that the censorship is the mainstay of the theatre, andhisrelations with the Lord Chamberlain and the Examiner of Plays acherished privilege and an inexhaustible joy. This error was not removedby the evidence givenbefore the Joint Select Committee. The managersdid not make their case clear there, partly because they did notunderstand it, and partly because their mosteminent witnesses were notpersonally affected by it, and would not condescend to plead it, feelingthemselves, on the contrary, compelled by their self-respect toadmitand even emphasize the fact that the Lord Chamberlain in the exercise ofhis duties as licenser had done those things which he ought not tohave done, and


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, by Washington IrvingThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Legend of Sleepy HollowAuthor: Washington IrvingPosting Date: June 25, 2008 [EBook #41]Release Date: October, 1992Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW ***Produced by Ilana M. (Kingsley) Newby and Greg NewbyTHELEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOWby Washington IrvingFOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.        A pleasing land of drowsy head itwas,          Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;        And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,          Forever flushing round a summersky.                                         CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the easternshore of the Hudson, at that broadexpansion of the river denominatedby the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they alwaysprudently shortened sail and implored the protectionof St. Nicholaswhen they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, whichby some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally andproperlyknown by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, informer days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from theinveteratepropensity of their husbands to linger about the villagetavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact,but merely advert to it, for the sakeof being precise and authentic.Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a littlevalley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one ofthequietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it,with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasionalwhistle of a quail ortapping of a woodpecker is almost the only soundthat ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploitinsquirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades oneside of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all natureis peculiarly quiet,and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as itbroke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberatedby the angry echoes. If ever I shouldwish for a retreat whither I mightsteal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away theremnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promisingthan thislittle valley.From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of itsinhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers,thissequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, andits rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all theneighboringcountry. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over theland, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the placewas bewitched by a High Germandoctor, during the early days of thesettlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard ofhis tribe, held his powwows there before the country wasdiscovered byMaster Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues underthe sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds ofthe goodpeople, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They aregiven to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances andvisions, and frequently see strangesights, and hear music and voices inthe air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots,and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteorsglare oftener acrossthe valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare,with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene ofhergambols.The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, andseems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is theapparition ofa figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by someto be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried awayby a cannon-ball, in somenameless battle during the Revolutionary War,and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along inthe gloom of night, as if on the wings of thewind. His haunts are notconfined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, andespecially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance.Indeed,certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have beencareful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning thisspectre, allegethat the body of the trooper having been buried in thechurchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightlyquest of his head, and that the rushingspeed with which he sometimespasses along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his beingbelated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard beforedaybreak.Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which hasfurnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; andthe spectreis known at all the country firesides, by the name of theHeadless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned isnotconfined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciouslyimbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awakethey may havebeen before they entered that sleepy region, they aresure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, andbegin to grow imaginative, to dreamdreams, and see apparitions.I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in suchlittle retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed inthegreat State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remainfixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which ismaking suchincessant changes in other parts of this restless country,sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of stillwater, which border a rapid stream,where we may see the straw andbubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimicharbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Thoughmanyyears have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yetI question whether I should not still find the same trees and the samefamiliesvegetating in its sheltered bosom.In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of Americanhistory, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthywight of thename of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried,"in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of thevicinity. Hewas a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies theUnion with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sendsforth yearly its legions of frontierwoodmen and country schoolmasters.The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall,but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, longarms and legs, handsthat dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served forshovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His headwassmall, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and along snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon hisspindle neck to tellwhich way the wind blew. To see him striding alongthe profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging andfluttering about him, one might have mistakenhim for the genius offamine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from acornfield.His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudelyconstructedof logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves ofold copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by awithetwisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against thewindow shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease,he would find someembarrassment in getting out,--an idea most probablyborrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of aneelpot. The schoolhouse stood in arather lonely but pleasant situation,just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, anda formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hencethe lowmurmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heardin a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now andthen bythe authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace orcommand, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as heurged some tardy loitereralong the flowery path of knowledge. Truth tosay, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim,"Spare the rod and spoil the child."Ichabod Crane's scholars certainlywere not spoiled.I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruelpotentates of the school who joy in thesmart of their subjects; onthe contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather thanseverity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying itonthose of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the leastflourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims ofjustice were satisfiedby inflicting a double portion on some littletough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelledand grew dogged and sullen beneath thebirch. All this he called "doinghis duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisementwithout following it by the assurance, so consolatory to thesmartingurchin, that "he would remember it and thank him for it the longest dayhe had to live."When school hours were over, he was even the companion andplaymateof the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some ofthe smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or goodhousewives formothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed,it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenuearising from his school was small,and would have been scarcelysufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder,and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but tohelpout his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in thoseparts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose childrenhe instructed. Withthese he lived successively a week at a time, thusgoing the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tiedup in a cotton handkerchief.That all thismight not be too onerous on the purses of his rusticpatrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievousburden, and schoolmasters as mere drones,he had various ways ofrendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmersoccasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to makehay,mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows frompasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all thedominant dignity andabsolute sway with which he lorded it in his littleempire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating.He found favor in the eyes of the mothers bypetting the children,particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom somagnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee,androck a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of theneighborhood, and picked up many bright


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of McTeague, by Frank NorrisThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: McTeagueAuthor: Frank NorrisRelease Date: March 12, 2006 [EBook #165]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERGEBOOK MCTEAGUE ***Produced by Pauline J. Iacono and David WidgerMcTEAGUEA Story of San Franciscoby Frank NorrisCHAPTER 1It was Sunday, and,according to his custom on that day, McTeague tookhis dinner at two in the afternoon at the car conductors' coffee-jointon Polk Street. He had a thick gray soup;heavy, underdone meat, veryhot, on a cold plate; two kinds of vegetables; and a sort of suetpudding, full of strong butter and sugar. On his way back to hisoffice,one block above, he stopped at Joe Frenna's saloon and bought a pitcherof steam beer. It was his habit to leave the pitcher there on his way todinner.Oncein his office, or, as he called it on his signboard, "DentalParlors," he took off his coat and shoes, unbuttoned his vest, and,having crammed his little stove full ofcoke, lay back in his operatingchair at the bay window, reading the paper, drinking his beer, andsmoking his huge porcelain pipe while his food digested;crop-full,stupid, and warm. By and by, gorged with steam beer, and overcome by theheat of the room, the cheap tobacco, and the effects of his heavy meal,hedropped off to sleep. Late in the afternoon his canary bird, in itsgilt cage just over his head, began to sing. He woke slowly, finishedthe rest of his beer--very flatand stale by this time--and taking downhis concertina from the bookcase, where in week days it kept the companyof seven volumes of "Allen's Practical Dentist,"played upon it somehalf-dozen very mournful airs.McTeague looked forward to these Sunday afternoons as a period ofrelaxation and enjoyment. He invariablyspent them in the same fashion.These were his only pleasures--to eat, to smoke, to sleep, and to playupon his concertina.The six lugubrious airs that he knew,always carried him back to thetime when he was a car-boy at the Big Dipper Mine in Placer County, tenyears before. He remembered the years he had spentthere trundling theheavy cars of ore in and out of the tunnel under the direction of hisfather. For thirteen days of each fortnight his father was asteady,hard-working shift-boss of the mine. Every other Sunday he became anirresponsible animal, a beast, a brute, crazy with alcohol.McTeague rememberedhis mother, too, who, with the help of the Chinaman,cooked for forty miners. She was an overworked drudge, fiery andenergetic for all that, filled with the oneidea of having her son risein life and enter a profession. The chance had come at last when thefather died, corroded with alcohol, collapsing in a few hours. Twoorthree years later a travelling dentist visited the mine and put up histent near the bunk-house. He was more or less of a charlatan, but hefired Mrs. McTeague'sambition, and young McTeague went away with himto learn his profession. He had learnt it after a fashion, mostly bywatching the charlatan operate. He had readmany of the necessary books,but he was too hopelessly stupid to get much benefit from them.Then one day at San Francisco had come the news of his mother'sdeath;she had left him some money--not much, but enough to set him up inbusiness; so he had cut loose from the charlatan and had opened his"Dental Parlors"on Polk Street, an "accommodation street" of smallshops in the residence quarter of the town. Here he had slowlycollected a clientele of butcher boys, shop girls,drug clerks, and carconductors. He made but few acquaintances. Polk Street called him the"Doctor" and spoke of his enormous strength. For McTeague was ayounggiant, carrying his huge shock of blond hair six feet three inchesfrom the ground; moving his immense limbs, heavy with ropes of muscle,slowly,ponderously. His hands were enormous, red, and covered with afell of stiff yellow hair; they were hard as wooden mallets, strongas vises, the hands of theold-time car-boy. Often he dispensed withforceps and extracted a refractory tooth with his thumb and finger.His head was square-cut, angular; the jaw salient,like that of thecarnivora.McTeague's mind was as his body, heavy, slow to act, sluggish. Yet therewas nothing vicious about the man. Altogether he suggested thedraughthorse, immensely strong, stupid, docile, obedient.When he opened his "Dental Parlors," he felt that his life was asuccess, that he could hope for nothingbetter. In spite of the name,there was but one room. It was a corner room on the second floor overthe branch post-office, and faced the street. McTeague made itdo fora bedroom as well, sleeping on the big bed-lounge against the wallopposite the window. There was a washstand behind the screen in thecorner where hemanufactured his moulds. In the round bay window werehis operating chair, his dental engine, and the movable rack on whichhe laid out his instruments. Threechairs, a bargain at the second-handstore, ranged themselves against the wall with military precisionunderneath a steel engraving of the court of Lorenzo de'Medici, whichhe had bought because there were a great many figures in it for themoney. Over the bed-lounge hung a rifle manufacturer's advertisementcalendarwhich he never used. The other ornaments were a smallmarble-topped centre table covered with back numbers of "The AmericanSystem of Dentistry," a stonepug dog sitting before the little stove,and a thermometer. A stand of shelves occupied one corner, filled withthe seven volumes of "Allen's Practical Dentist." Onthe top shelfMcTeague kept his concertina and a bag of bird seed for the canary. Thewhole place exhaled a mingled odor of bedding, creosote, and ether.But forone thing, McTeague would have been perfectly contented. Justoutside his window was his signboard--a modest affair--that read:"Doctor McTeague. DentalParlors. Gas Given"; but that was all. It washis ambition, his dream, to have projecting from that corner window ahuge gilded tooth, a molar with enormousprongs, something gorgeous andattractive. He would have it some day, on that he was resolved; but asyet such a thing was far beyond his means.When he hadfinished the last of his beer, McTeague slowly wiped hislips and huge yellow mustache with the side of his hand. Bull-like, heheaved himself laboriously up, and,going to the window, stood lookingdown into the street.The street never failed to interest him. It was one of those crossstreets peculiar to Western cities, situatedin the heart of theresidence quarter, but occupied by small tradespeople who lived in therooms above their shops. There were corner drug stores with huge jarsofred, yellow, and green liquids in their windows, very brave and gay;stationers' stores, where illustrated weeklies were tacked upon bulletinboards; barber shopswith cigar stands in their vestibules; sad-lookingplumbers' offices; cheap restaurants, in whose windows one saw piles ofunopened oysters weighted down bycubes of ice, and china pigs and cowsknee deep in layers of white beans. At one end of the street McTeaguecould see the huge power-house of the cable line.Immediately oppositehim was a great market; while farther on, over the chimney stacks of theintervening houses, the glass roof of some huge public bathsglitteredlike crystal in the afternoon sun. Underneath him the branch post-officewas opening its doors, as was its custom between two and threeo'clock on Sundayafternoons. An acrid odor of ink rose upward to him.Occasionally a cable car passed, trundling heavily, with a stridentwhirring of jostled glass windows.On weekdays the street was very lively. It woke to its work about seveno'clock, at the time when the newsboys made their appearance togetherwith the day laborers. Thelaborers went trudging past in a stragglingfile--plumbers' apprentices, their pockets stuffed with sections oflead pipe, tweezers, and pliers; carpenters, carryingnothing but theirlittle pasteboard lunch baskets painted to imitate leather; gangs ofstreet workers, their overalls soiled with yellow clay, their picksandlong-handled shovels over their shoulders; plasterers, spotted with limefrom head to foot. This little army of workers, tramping steadily inone direction, metand mingled with other toilers of a differentdescription--conductors and "swing men" of the cable company going onduty; heavy-eyed night clerks from the drugstores on their way home tosleep; roundsmen returning to the precinct police station to make theirnight report, and Chinese market gardeners teetering pastunder theirheavy baskets. The cable cars began to fill up; all along the streetcould be seen the shopkeepers taking down their shutters.Between seven and eightthe street breakfasted. Now and then a waiterfrom one of the cheap restaurants crossed from one sidewalk to theother, balancing on one palm a tray coveredwith a napkin. Everywherewas the smell of coffee and of frying steaks. A little later, followingin the path of the day laborers, came the clerks and shopgirls,dressed with a certain cheap smartness, always in a hurry, glancingapprehensively at the power-house clock. Their employers followedan hour or solater--on the cable cars for the most part whiskeredgentlemen with huge stomachs, reading the morning papers with greatgravity; bank cashiers and insuranceclerks with flowers in theirbuttonholes.At the same time the school children invaded the street, filling the airwith a clamor of shrill voices, stopping at thestationers' shops, oridling a moment in the doorways of the candy stores. For over half anhour they held possession of the sidewalks, then suddenlydisappeared,leaving behind one or two stragglers who hurried along with greatstrides of their little thin legs, very anxious and preoccupied.Towards eleven o'clockthe ladies from the great avenue a block abovePolk Street made their appearance, promenading the sidewalks leisurely,deliberately. They were at their morning'smarketing. They were handsomewomen, beautifully dressed. They knew by name their butchers and grocersand vegetable men. From his window McTeague sawthem in front of thestalls, gloved and veiled and daintily shod, the subservient provisionmen at their elbows, scribbling hastily in the order books. They allseemedto know one another, these grand ladies from the fashionableavenue. Meetings took place here and there; a conversation was begun;others arrived; groups wereformed; little impromptu receptions wereheld before the chopping blocks of butchers' stalls, or on the sidewalk,around boxes of berries and fruit.From noon toevening the population of the street was of a mixedcharacter. The street was busiest at that time; a vast and prolongedmurmur arose--the mingled shuffling offeet, the rattle of wheels, theheavy trundling of cable cars. At four o'clock the school childrenonce more swarmed the sidewalks, again disappearing withsurprisingsuddenness. At six the great homeward march commenced; the cars werecrowded, the laborers thronged the sidewalks, the newsboys chantedtheevening papers. Then all at once the street fell quiet; hardly a soulwas in sight; the sidewalks were deserted. It was supper hour. Eveningbegan; and one by