Jane Austen - "Pride and Prejudice"

Andrew McFarland Davis - "Indian Games"

G.A. Henty - "With Lee in Virginia; A Story Of The American Civil War"

Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourrienne - "Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte, v6"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Hypatia

C >> Charles Kingsley >> Hypatia




'I may speak as a philosopher, or as a heathen, for aught I know:
yet it seems to me that, as they say, the half loaf is better than
none; that the wise man will make the best of what he has, and throw
away no lesson because the book is somewhat torn and soiled. The
earth teaches me thus far already. Shall I shut my eyes to those
invisible things of God which are clearly manifested by the things
which are made, because some day they will be more clearly
manifested than now? But as for more abstraction, are we so worldly
here in Scetis?'

'Nay, my friend, each man has surely his vocation, and for each some
peculiar method of life is more edifying than another. In my case,
the habits of mind which I acquired in the world will cling to me in
spite of myself even here. I cannot help watching the doings of
others, studying their characters, planning and plotting for them,
trying to prognosticate their future fate. Not a word, not a
gesture of this our little family, but turns away my mind from the
one thing needful.'

'And do you fancy that the anchorite in his cell has fewer
distractions?'

'What can he have but the supply of the mere necessary wants of
life? and them, even, he may abridge to the gathering of a few roots
and herbs. Men have lived like the beasts already, that they might
at the same time live like the angels--and why should not I also?'

'And thou art the wise man of the world--the student of the hearts
of others--the anatomiser of thine own? Hast thou not found out
that, besides a craving stomach, man carries with him a corrupt
heart? Many a man I have seen who, in his haste to fly from the
fiends without him, has forgotten to close the door of his heart
against worse fiends who were ready to harbour within him. Many a
monk, friend, changes his place, but not the anguish of his soul. I
have known those who, driven to feed on their own thoughts in
solitude, have desperately cast themselves from cliffs or ripped up
their own bodies, in the longing to escape from thoughts, from which
one companion, one kindly voice, might have delivered them. I have
known those, too, who have been so puffed up by those very penances
which were meant to humble them, that they have despised all means
of grace, as though they were already perfect, and refusing even the
Holy Eucharist, have lived in self-glorying dreams and visions
suggested by the evil spirits. One such I knew, who, in the
madness? of his pride, refused to be counselled by any mortal man--
saying that he would call no man master: and what befell him? He
who used to pride himself on wandering a day's journey into the
desert without food or drink, who boasted that he could sustain life
for three months at a time only on wild herbs and the Blessed Bread,
seized with an inward fire, fled from his cell back to the theatres,
the circus, and the taverns, and ended his miserable days in
desperate gluttony, holding all things to be but phantasms, denying
his own existence, and that of God Himself.'

Arsenius shook his head.

'Be it so. But my case is different. I have yet more to confess,
my friend. Day by day I am more and more haunted by the remembrance
of that world from which I fled. I know that if I returned I should
feel no pleasure in those pomps, which, even while I battened on
them, I despised. Can I hear any more the voice of singing men and
singing women; or discern any longer what I eat or what I drink?
And yet--the palaces of those seven hills, their statesmen and their
generals, their intrigues, their falls, and their triumphs--for they
might rise and conquer yet!--for no moment are they out of my
imagination,-no moment in which they are not tempting me back to
them, like a moth to the candle which has already scorched him, with
a dreadful spell, which I must at last obey, wretch that I am,
against my own will, or break by fleeing into some outer desert,
from whence return will be impossible!'

Pambo smiled.

'Again, I say, this is the worldly-wise man, the searcher of hearts!
And he would fain flee from the little Laura, which does turn his
thoughts at times from such vain dreams, to a solitude where he will
be utterly unable to escape those dreams. Well, friend!--and what
if thou art troubled at times by anxieties and schemes for this
brother and for that? Better to be anxious for others than only for
thyself. Better to have something to love--even something to weep
over--than to become in some lonely cavern thine own world,--
perhaps, as more than one whom I have known, thine own God.'

'Do you know what you are saying?' asked Arsenius in a startled
tone.

'I say, that by fleeing into solitude a man cuts himself off from
all which makes a Christian man; from law, obedience, fellow-help,
self-sacrifice--from the communion of saints itself.'

'How then?'

'How canst thou hold communion with those toward whom thou canst
show no love? And how canst thou show thy love but by works of
love?'

'I can, at least, pray day and night for all mankind. Has that no
place--or rather, has it not the mightiest place--in the communion
of saints!

'He who cannot pray for his brothers whom he does see, and whose
sins and temptations he knows, will pray but dully, my friend
Aufugus, for his brothers whom he does not see, or for anything
else. And he who will not labour for his brothers, the same will
soon cease to pray for them, or love them either. And then, what is
written? "If a man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how will
he love God whom he hath not seen?"'

'Again, I say, do you know whither your argument leads?'

'I am a plain man, and know nothing about arguments. If a thing be
true, let it lead where it will, for it leads where God wills.'

'But at this rate, it were better for a man to take a wife, and have
children, and mix himself up in all the turmoil of carnal
affections, in order to have as many as possible to love, and fear
for, and work for.'

Pambo was silent for a while.

'I am a monk and no logician. But this I say, that thou leavest not
the Laura for the desert with my good will. I would rather, had I
my wish, see thy wisdom installed somewhere nearer the metropolis--
at Troe or Canopus, for example--where thou mightest be at hand to
fight the Lord's battles. Why wert thou taught worldly wisdom, but
to use it for the good of the Church? It is enough. Let us go.'

And the two old men walked homeward across the valley, little
guessing the practical answer which was ready for their argument in
Abbot Pambo's cell, in the shape of a tall and grim ecclesiastic,
who was busily satisfying his hunger with dates and millet, and by
no means refusing the palm-wine, the sole delicacy of the monastery,
which had been brought forth only in honour of a guest.

The stately and courtly hospitality of Eastern manners, as well as
the self-restraining kindliness of monastic Christianity, forbade
the abbot to interrupt the stranger; and it was not till he had
finished a hearty meal that Pambo asked his name and errand.

'My unworthiness is called Peter the Reader. I come from Cyril,
with letters and messages to the brother Aufugus.'

Pambo rose, and bowed reverentially.

'We have heard your good report, sir, as of one zealously affected
in the cause of the Church Catholic. Will it please you to follow
us to the cell of Aufugus?'

Peter stalked after them with a sufficiently important air to the
little hut, and there taking from his bosom Cyril's epistle, handed
it to Arsenius, who sat long, reading and re-reading with a clouded
brow, while Pambo watched him with simple awe, not daring to
interrupt by a question lucubrations which he considered of
unfathomable depth.

'These are indeed the last days,' said Arsenius at length, 'spoken
of by the prophet, when many shall run to and fro. So Heraclian has
actually sailed for Italy?'

'His armament was met on the high seas by Alexandrian merchantmen,
three weeks ago.'

'And Orestes hardens his heart more and more?'

'Ay, Pharaoh that he is; or rather, the heathen woman hardens it for
him.'

'I always feared that woman above all the schools of the heathen,'
said Arsenius. 'But the Count Heraclian, whom I always held for the
wisest as well as the most righteous of men! Alas!--alas! what
virtue will withstand, when ambition enters the heart!'

'Fearful, truly,' said Peter, 'is that same lust of power: but for
him, I have never trusted him since he began to be indulgent to
those Donatists.'

'Too true. So does one sin beget another.'

'And I consider that indulgence to sinners is the worst of all sins
whatsoever.'

'Not of all, surely, reverend sir?' said Pambo humbly. But Peter,
taking no notice of the interruption, went on to Arsenius--

'And now, what answer am I to bear back from your wisdom to his
holiness?'

'Let me see--let me see. He might--it needs consideration--I ought
to know more of the state of parties. He has, of course,
communicated with the African bishops, and tried to unite them with
him?'

'Two months ago. But the stiff-necked schismatics are still jealous
of him, and hold aloof.'

'Schismatics is too harsh a term, my friend. But has he sent to
Constantinople?'

'He needs a messenger accustomed to courts. It was possible, he
thought, that your experience might undertake the mission.'

'Me? Who am I? Alas! alas! fresh temptations daily! Let him send
by the hand of whom he will .... And yet--were I--at least in
Alexandria--I might advise from day to day .... I should certainly
see my way clearer .... And unforeseen chances might arise, too
.... Pambo, my friend, thinkest thou that it would be sinful to
obey the Holy Patriarch?'

'Aha!' said Pambo, laughing, 'and thou art he who was for fleeing
into the desert an hour agone! And now, when once thou smellest the
battle afar off, thou art pawing in the valley, like the old war-
horse. Go, and God be with thee! Thou wilt be none the worse for
it. Thou art too old to fall in love, too poor to buy a bishopric,
and too righteous to have one given thee.'

'Art thou in earnest?'

'What did I say to thee in the garden? Go, and see our son, and
send me news of him.'

'Ah! shame on my worldly-mindedness! I had forgotten all this time
to inquire for him. How is the youth, reverend sir?'

'Whom do you mean?'

'Philammon, our spiritual son, whom we sent down to you three months
ago,' said Pambo. 'Risen to honour he is, by this time, I doubt
not?'

'He? He is gone!'

'Gone?'

'Ay, the wretch, with the curse of Judas on him. He had not been
with us three days before he beat me openly in the patriarch's
court, cast off the Christian faith, and fled away to the heathen
woman, Hypatia, of whom he is enamoured.'

The two old men looked at each other with blank and horror-stricken
faces.

'Enamoured of Hypatia?' said Arsenius at last.

'It is impossible!' sobbed Pambo. 'The boy must have been treated
harshly, unjustly? Some one has wronged him, and he was accustomed
only to kindness, and could not bear it. Cruel men that you are,
and unfaithful stewards. The Lord will require the child's blood at
your hands!'

'Ay,' said Peter, rising fiercely, that is the world's justice!
Blame me, blame the patriarch, blame any and every one but the
sinner. As if a hot head and a hotter heart were not enough to
explain it all! As if a young fool had never before been bewitched
by a fair face!'

'Oh, my friends, my friends,' cried Arsenius, 'why revile each other
without cause? I, I only am to blame. I advised you, Pambo!--I
sent him--I ought to have known--what was I doing, old worldling
that I am, to thrust the poor innocent forth into the temptations of
Babylon? This comes of all my schemings and my plottings! And now
his blood will be on my head-as if I bad not sins enough to bear
already, I must go and add this over and above all, to sell my own
Joseph, the son of my old age, to the Midianites! Here, I will go
with you--now--at once--I will not rest till I find hint, clasp his
knees till he pities my gray hairs! Let Heraclian and Orestes go
their way for aught I care--I will find him, I say. O Absalom, my
son! would to God I had died for thee, my son! my son!'



CHAPTER XII: THE BOWER OF ACRASIA


The house which Pelagia and the Amal had hired after their return to
Alexandria, was one of the most splendid in the city. They had been
now living there three months or more, and in that time Pelagia's
taste had supplied the little which it needed to convert it into a
paradise of lazy luxury. She herself was wealthy; and her Gothic
guests, overburdened with Roman spoils, the very use of which they
could not understand, freely allowed her and her nymphs to throw
away for them the treasures which they had won in many a fearful
fight. What matter? If they had enough to eat, and more than
enough to drink, how could the useless surplus of their riches be
better spent than in keeping their ladies in good humour? .... And
when it was all gone....they would go somewhere or other--who cared
whither?--and win more. The whole world was before them waiting to
be plundered, and they would fulfil their mission, whensoever it
suited them. In the meantime they were in no hurry. Egypt
furnished in profusion every sort of food which could gratify
palates far more nice than theirs. And as for wine--few of them
went to bed sober from one week's end to another. Could the souls
of warriors have more, even in the halls of Valhalla?

So thought the party who occupied the inner court of the house, one
blazing afternoon in the same week in which Cyril's messenger had so
rudely broken in on the repose of the Scetis. Their repose, at
least, was still untouched. The great city roared without; Orestes
plotted, and Cyril counterplotted, and the fate of a continent hung
--or seemed to hang--trembling in the balance; but the turmoil of it
no more troubled those lazy Titans within, than did the roll and
rattle of the carriage-wheels disturb the parakeets and sunbirds
which peopled, under an awning of gilded wire, the inner court of
Pelagia's house. Why should they fret themselves with it all? What
was every fresh riot, execution, conspiracy, bankruptcy, but a sign-
-that the fruit was growing ripe for the plucking? Even Heraclian's
rebellion, and Orestes' suspected conspiracy, were to the younger
and coarser Goths a sort of child's play, at which they could look
on and laugh, and bet, from morning till night; while to the more
cunning heads, such as Wulf and Smid, they were but signs of the
general rottenness--new cracks in those great walls over which they
intended, with a simple and boyish consciousness of power, to mount
to victory when they chose.

And in the meantime, till the right opening offered, what was there
better than to eat, drink, and sleep? And certainly they had chosen
a charming retreat in which to fulfil that lofty mission. Columns
of purple and green porphyry, among which gleamed the white limbs of
delicate statues, surrounded a basin of water, fed by a perpetual
jet, which sprinkled with cool spray the leaves of the oranges and
mimosas, mingling its murmurs with the warblings of the tropic birds
which nestled among the branches.

On one side of the fountain, under the shade of a broad-leaved
palmetto, lay the Amal's mighty limbs, stretched out on cushions,
his yellow hair crowned with vine-leaves, his hand grasping a golden
cup, which had been won from Indian Rajahs by Parthian Chosroos,
from Chosroos by Roman generals, from Roman generals by the heroes
of sheepskin and horsehide; while Pelagia, by the side of the sleepy
Hercules-Dionysos, lay leaning over the brink of the fountain,
lazily dipping her fingers into the water, and basking, like the
gnats which hovered over its surface, in the mere pleasure of
existence.

On the opposite brink of the basin, tended each by a dark-eyed Hebe,
who filled the wine-cups, and helped now and then to empty them, lay
the especial friends and companions in arms of the Amal, Goderic the
son of Ermenric, and Agilmund the son of Cniva, who both, like the
Amal, boasted a descent from gods; and last, but not least, that
most important and all but sacred personage, Smid the son of Troll,
reverenced for cunning beyond the sons of men; for not only could he
make and mend all matters, from a pontoon bridge to a gold bracelet,
shoe horses and doctor them, charm all diseases out of man and
beast, carve runes, interpret war-omens, foretell weather, raise the
winds, and finally, conquer in the battle of mead-horns all except
Wulf the son of Ovida; but he had actually, during a sojourn among
the half-civilised Maesogoths, picked up a fair share of Latin and
Greek, and a rough knowledge of reading and writing.

A few yards off lay old Wulf upon his back, his knees in the air,
his hands crossed behind his head, keeping up, even in his sleep, a
half-conscious comment of growls on the following intellectual
conversation:--

'Noble wine this, is it not?'

'Perfect. Who bought it for us?'

'Old Miriam bought it, at some great tax-farmer's sale. The fellow
was bankrupt, and Miriam said she got it for the half what it was
worth.'

'Serve the penny-turning rascal right. The old vixen-fox took care,
I'll warrant her, to get her profit out of the bargain.'

'Never mind if she did. We can afford to pay like men, if we earn
like men.'

'We shan't afford it long, at this rate,' growled Wulf.

'Then we'll go and earn more. I am tired of doing nothing.'

'People need not do nothing, unless they choose,' said Goderic.
'Wulf and I had coursing fit for a king, the other morning on the
sand-hills. I had had no appetite for a week before, and I have
been as sharp-set as a Danube pike ever since.'

'Coursing? What, with those long-legged brush-tailed brutes, like a
fox upon stilts, which the prefect cozened you into buying.'

'All I can say is, that we put up a herd of those--what do you call
them here--deer with goats' horns?'

'Antelopes?'

'That's it--and the curs ran into them as a falcon does into a skein
of ducks. Wulf and I galloped and galloped over those accursed
sand-heaps till the horses stuck fast; and when they got their wind
again, we found each pair of dogs with a deer down between them--and
what can man want more, if he cannot get fighting? You eat them, so
you need not sneer.'

'Well, dogs are the only things worth having, then, that this
Alexandria does produce.'

'Except fair ladies!' put in one of the girls.

'Of course. I'll except the women. But the men-'

'The what? I have not seen a man since I came here, except a dock-
worker or two--priests and fine gentlemen they are all--and you
don't call them men, surely?'

'What on earth do they do, beside riding donkeys?'

'Philosophise, they say.'

'What's that?'

'I'm sure I don't know; some sort of slave's quill-driving, I
suppose.'

'Pelagia! do you know what philosophising is?'

'No--and I don't care.'

'I do,' quoth Agilmund, with a look of superior wisdom; 'I saw a
philosopher the other day.'

'And what sort of a thing was it?'

'I'll tell you. I was walking down the great street there, going to
the harbour; and I saw a crowd of boys--men they call them here--
going into a large doorway. So I asked one of them what was doing,
and the fellow, instead of answering me, pointed at my legs, and set
all the other monkeys laughing. So I boxed his ears, and he tumbled
down.'

'They all do so here, if you box their ears,' said the Amal
meditatively, as if he had bit upon a great inductive law.

'Ah,' said Pelagia, looking up with her most winning smile, 'they
are not such giants as you, who make a poor little woman feel like a
gazelle in a lion's paw!'

'Well--it struck me that, as I spoke in Gothic, the boy might not
have understood me, being a Greek. So I walked in at the door, to
save questions, and see for myself. And there a fellow held out his
hand--I suppose for money, So I gave him two or three gold pieces,
and a box on the ear, at which he tumbled down, of course, but
seemed very well satisfied. So I walked in.'

'And what did you see?'

'A great hall, large enough for a thousand heroes, full of these
Egyptian rascals scribbling with pencils on tablets. And at the
farther end of it the most beautiful woman I ever saw--with right
fair hair and blue eyes, talking, talking--I could not understand
it; but the donkey-riders seemed to think it very fine; for they
went on looking first at her, and then at their tablets, gaping like
frogs in drought. And, certainly, she looked as fair as the sun,
and talked like an Alruna-wife. Not that I knew what it was about,
but one can see somehow, you know.--So I fell asleep; and when I
woke, and came out, I met some one who understood me, and he told me
that it was the famous maiden, the great philosopher. And that's
what I know about philosophy.'

'She was very much wasted then, on such soft-handed starvelings.
Why don't she marry some hero?'

'Because there are none here to marry,' said Pelagia; 'except some
who are fast netted, I fancy, already.'

'But what do they talk about, and tell people to do, these
philosophers, Pelagia?'

'Oh, they don't tell any one to do anything--at least, if they do,
nobody ever does it, as far as I can see; but they talk about suns
and stars, and right and wrong, and ghosts and spirits, and that
sort of thing; and about not enjoying oneself too much. Not that I
ever saw that they were any happier than any one else.'

'She must have been an Alruna-maiden,' said Wulf, half to himself.

'She is a very conceited creature, and I hate her,' said Pelagia.

'I believe you,' said Wulf.

'What is an Alruna-maiden?' asked one of the girls.

'Something as like you as a salmon is like a horse-leech. Heroes,
will you hear a saga?'

'If it is a cool one,' said Agilmund; 'about ice, and pine-trees,
and snowstorms, I shall be roasted brown in three days more.'

'Oh,' said the Amal, 'that we were on the Alps again for only two
hours, sliding down those snow-slopes on our shields, with the sleet
whistling about our ears! That was sport!'

'To those who could keep their seat,' said Goderic. 'Who went head
over heels into a glacier-crack, and was dug out of fifty feet of
snow, and had to be put inside a fresh-killed horse before he could
be brought to life?'

'Not you, surely,' said Pelagia. 'Oh, you wonderful creature! what
things you have done and suffered!'

'Well,' said the Amal, with a look of stolid self-satisfaction, 'I
suppose I have seen a good deal in my time, eh?'

'Yes, my Hercules, you have gone through your twelve labours, and
saved your poor little Hesione after them all, when she was chained
to the rock, for the ugly sea-monsters to eat; and she will cherish
you, and keep you out of scrapes now, for her own sake;' and Pelagia
threw her arms round the great bull-neck, and drew it down to her.

'Will you hear my saga?' said Wulf impatiently.

'Of course we will,' said the Amal; 'anything to pass the time.'

'But let it be about snow,' said Agilmund.

'Not about Alruna-wives?'

'About them, too,' said Goderic; 'my mother was one, so I must needs
stand up for them.'

'She was, boy. Do you be her son. Now hear, Wolves of the Goths!'

And the old man took up his little lute, or as he would probably
have called it, 'fidel,' and began chanting to his own
accompaniment.

Over the camp fires
Drank I with heroes,
Under the Donau bank
Warm in the snow-trench,
Sagamen heard I there,
Men of the Longbeards,
Cunning and ancient,
Honey-sweet-voiced.
Scaring the wolf-cub,
Scaring the horn-owl out,
Shaking the snow-wreaths
Down from the pine-boughs,
Up to the star-roof
Rang out their song.
Singing how Winil men
Over the icefloes
Sledging from Scanland on
Came unto Scoring;
Singing of Gambara
Freya's beloved.
Mother of Ayo
Mother of Ibor.
Singing of Wendel men,
Ambri and Assi;
How to the Winilfolk
Went they with war-words--
'Few are ye, strangers,
And many are we;
Pay us now toll and fee,
Clothyarn, and rings, and beeves;
Else at the raven's meal
Bide the sharp bill's doom.'

Clutching the dwarfs' work then,
Clutching the bullock's shell,
Girding gray iron on,
Forth fared the Winils all,
Fared the Alruna's sons,
Ayo and Ibor.
Mad of heart stalked they
Loud wept the women all,
Loud the Alruna-wife;
Sore was their need.

Out of the morning land,
Over the snowdrifts,
Beautiful Freya came,
Tripping to Scoring.
White were the moorlands,
And frozen before her;
But green were the moorlands,
And blooming behind her,
Out of her golden locks
Shaking the spring flowers,
Out of her garments
Shaking the south wind,
Around in the birches
Awaking the throstles,
And making chaste housewives all
Long for their heroes home,
Loving and love-giving,
Came she to Scoring.
Came unto Gambara,
Wisest of Valas--
'Vala, why weepest thou
Far in the wide-blue,
High up in the Elfin-home,
Heard I thy weeping.'