Harold Brighouse - "Hobson's Choice"

Horace Walpole - "Letters of Horace Walpole, V4"

Charlotte M. Yonge - "The Herd Boy and His Hermit"

Doris Stevens - "Jailed for Freedom"

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




The way was blocked with bales of merchandise: but the dancer
bounded over them like a deer; while Philammon, half stunned by his
fall, and blinded by his dripping locks, stumbled, fell, and lay,
unable to rise. She held on for a few yards towards the torch-lit
mob, which was surging and roaring in the main street above, then
turned suddenly into a side alley, and vanished; while Philammon lay
groaning upon the pavement, without a purpose or a hope upon earth.

Five minutes more, and Wulf was gazing over the broken parapet, at
the head of twenty terrified spectators, male and female, whom
Pelagia's shriek had summoned.

He alone suspected that Philammon had been there; and shuddering at
the thought of what might have happened, he kept his secret.

But all knew that Pelagia had been on the tower; all had seen the
Amal go up thither. Where were they now? And why was the little
postern gate found open, and shut only just in time to prevent the
entrance of the mob?

Wulf stood, revolving in a brain but too well practised in such
cases, all possible contingencies of death and horror. At last--

'A rope and a light, Smid!' he almost whispered.

They were brought, and Wulf, resisting all the entreaties of the
younger men to allow them to go on the perilous search, lowered
himself through the breach.

He was about two-thirds down, when he shook the rope, and called in
a stifled voice, to those above--

'Haul up. I have seen enough.'

Breathless with curiosity and fear, they hauled him up. He stood
among them for a few moments, silent, as if stunned by the weight of
some enormous woe.

'Is he dead?'

'Odin has taken his son home, wolves of the Goths!' And he held out
his right hand to the awe-struck ring, and burst into an agony of
weeping .... A clotted tress of long fair hair lay in his palm.

It was snatched; handed from man to man .... One after another
recognised the beloved golden locks. And then, to the utter
astonishment of the girls who stood round, the great simple hearts,
too brave to be ashamed of tears, broke out and wailed like children
.... Their Amal! Their heavenly man! Odin's own son, their joy
and pride, and glory! Their 'Kingdom of heaven,' as his name
declared him, who was all that each wished to be, and more, and yet
belonged to them, bone of their bone, flesh of their flesh! Ah, it
is bitter to all true human hearts to be robbed of their ideal, even
though that ideal be that of a mere wild bull, and soulless
gladiator....

At last Smid spoke--

'Heroes, this is Odin's doom; and the All-father is just. Had we
listened to Prince Wulf four months ago, this had never been. We
have been cowards and sluggards, and Odin is angry with his
children. Let us swear to be Prince Wulf's men and follow him to-
morrow where he will!'

Wulf grasped his outstretched hand lovingly-

'No, Smid, son of Troll! These words are not yours to speak.
Agilmund son of Cniva, Goderic son of Ermenric, you are Balts, and
to you the succession appertains. Draw lots here, which of you
shall be our chieftain.'

'No! no! Wulf!' cried both the youths at once. 'You are the hero!
you are the Sagaman! We are not worthy; we have been cowards and
sluggards, like the rest. Wolves of the Goths, follow the Wolf,
even though he lead you to the land of the giants!'

A roar of applause followed.

'Lift him on the shield,' cried Goderic, tearing off his buckler.
'Lift him on the shield! Hail, Wulf king! Wulf, king of Egypt!'

And the rest of the Goths, attracted by the noise, rushed up the
tower-stairs in time to join in the mighty shout of 'Wulf, king of
Egypt!'--as careless of the vast multitude which yelled and surged
without, as boys are of the snow against the window-pane.

'No!' said Wulf solemnly, as he stood on the uplifted shield. 'If I
be indeed your king, and ye my men, wolves of the Goths, to-morrow
we will go forth of this place, hated of Odin, rank with the
innocent blood of the Alruna maid. Back to Adolf; back to our own
people! Will you go?'

'Back to Adolf!' shouted the men.

'You will not leave us to be murdered?' cried one of the girls. 'The
mob are breaking the gates already!'

'Silence, silly one! Men--we have one thing to do. The Amal must
not go to the Valhalla without fair attendance.'

'Not the poor girls?' said Agilmund, who took for granted that Wulf
would wish to celebrate the Amal's funeral in true Gothic fashion by
a slaughter of slaves.

'No .... One of them I saw behave this very afternoon worthy of a
Vala. And they, too--they may make heroes' wives after all, yet
.... Women are better than I fancied, even the worst of them. No.
Go down, heroes, and throw the gates open; and call in the Greek
hounds to the funeral supper of a son of Odin.'

'Throw the gates open?'

'Yes. Goderic, take a dozen men, and be ready in the east hall.
Agilmund, go with a dozen to the west side of the court--there in
the kitchen; and wait till you hear my war-cry. Smid and the rest
of you, come with me through the stables close to the gate--as
silent as Hela.'

And they went down--to meet, full on the stairs below, old Miriam.

Breathless and exhausted by her exertion, she had fallen heavily
before Philammon's strong arm; and lying half stunned for a while,
recovered just in time to meet her doom.

She knew that it was come, and faced it like herself.

'Take the witch!' said Wulf slowly--'Take the corrupter of heroes--
the cause of all our sorrows!'

Miriam looked at him with a quiet smile.

'The witch is accustomed long ago to hear fools lay on her the
consequences of their own lust and laziness.'

'Hew her down, Smid, son of Troll, that she may pass the Amal's soul
and gladden it on her way to Niflheim.'

Smid did it: but so terrible were the eyes which glared upon him
from those sunken sockets, that his sight was dazzled. The axe
turned aside, and struck her shoulder. She reeled, but did not
fall.

'It is enough,' she said quietly.

'The accursed Grendel's daughter numbed my arm!' said Smid. 'Let her
go! No man shall say that I struck a woman twice.'

'Nidhogg waits for her, soon or late,' answered Wulf.

And Miriam, coolly folding her shawl around her, turned and walked
steadily down the stair; while all men breathed more freely, as if
delivered from some accursed and supernatural spell.

'And now,' said Wulf, 'to your posts, and vengeance!'

The mob had weltered and howled ineffectually around the house for
some half-hour. But the lofty walls, opening on the street only by
a few narrow windows in the higher stories, rendered it an
impregnable fortress. Suddenly, the iron gates were drawn back,
disclosing to the front rank the court, glaring empty and silent and
ghastly in the moonlight. For an instant they recoiled, with a
vague horror, and dread of treachery: but the mass behind pressed
them onward, and in swept the murderers of Hypatia, till the court
was full of choking wretches, surging against the walls and pillars
in aimless fury. And then, from under the archway on each side,
rushed a body of tall armed men, driving back all incomers more; the
gates slid together again upon their grooves and the wild beasts of
Alexandria were trapped at last.

And then began a murder grim and great. From three different doors
issued a line of Goths, whose helmets and mail-shirts made them
invulnerable to the clumsy weapons of the mob, and began hewing
their way right through the living mass, helpless from their close-
packed array. True, they were but as one to ten; but what are ten
curs before one lion? .... And the moon rose higher and higher,
staring down ghastly and unmoved upon that doomed court of the
furies, and still the bills and swords hewed on and on, and the
Goths drew the corpses, as they found room, towards a dark pile in
the midst, where old Wulf sat upon a heap of slain, singing the
praises of the Amal and the glories of Valhalla, while the shrieks
of his lute rose shrill above the shrieks of the flying and the
wounded, and its wild waltz-time danced and rollicked on swifter and
swifter as the old singer maddened, in awful mockery of the terror
and agony around.

And so, by men and purposes which recked not of her, as is the wont
of Providence, was the blood of Hypatia avenged in part that night.
In part only. For Peter the Reader, and his especial associates,
were safe in sanctuary at the Caesareum, clinging to the altar.
Terrified at the storm which they had raised, and fearing the
consequences of an attack upon the palace, they had left the mob to
run riot at its will; and escaped the swords of the Goths to be
reserved for the more awful punishment of impunity.



CHAPTER XXX: EVERY MAN TO HIS OWN PLACE


It was near midnight. Raphael had been sitting some three hours in
Miriam's inner chamber, waiting in vain for her return. To recover,
if possible, his ancestral wealth; to convey it, without a day's
delay, to Cyrene; and, if possible, to persuade the poor old Jewess
to accompany him, and there to soothe, to guide, perhaps to convert
her, was his next purpose:--at all events, with or without his
wealth, to flee from that accursed city. And he counted impatiently
the slow hours and minutes which detained him in an atmosphere which
seemed reeking with innocent blood, black with the lowering curse of
an avenging God. More than once, unable to bear the thought, he
rose to depart, and leave his wealth behind: but he was checked
again by the thought of his own past life. How had he added his own
sin to the great heap of Alexandrian wickedness! How had he tempted
others, pampered others in evil! Good God! how had he not only done
evil with all his might, but had pleasure in those who did the same!
And now, now he was reaping the fruit of his own devices. For years
past, merely to please his lust of power, his misanthropic scorn, he
had been malting that wicked Orestes wickeder than he was even by
his own base will and nature; and his puppet had avenged itself upon
him! He, he had prompted him to ask Hypatia's hand .... He had
laid, half in sport, half in envy of her excellence, that foul plot
against the only human being whom he loved .... and he had destroyed
her! He, and not Peter, was the murderer of Hypatia! True, he had
never meant her death .... No; but had he not meant for her worse
than death? He had never foreseen .... No; but only because he did
not choose to foresee. He had chosen to be a god; to kill and to
make alive by his own will and law; and behold, he had become a
devil by that very act. Who can--and who dare, even if he could--
withdraw the sacred veil from those bitter agonies of inward shame
and self-reproach, made all the more intense by his clear and
undoubting knowledge that he was forgiven? What dread of
punishment, what blank despair, could have pierced that great heart
so deeply as did the thought that the God whom he had hated and
defied had returned him good for evil, and rewarded him not
according to his iniquities? That discovery, as Ezekiel of old had
warned his forefathers, filled up the cup of his self-loathing ....
To have found at last the hated and dreaded name of God: and found
that it was Love! .... To possess Victoria, a living, human
likeness, however imperfect, of that God; and to possess in her a
home, a duty, a purpose, a fresh clear life of righteous labour,
perhaps of final victory .... That was his punishment; that was the
brand of Cain upon his forehead; and he felt it greater than he
could bear.

But at least there was one thing to be done. Where he had sinned,
there he must make amends; not as a propitiation, not even as a
restitution; but simply as a confession of the truth which he had
found. And as his purpose shaped itself, he longed and prayed that
Miriam might return, and make it possible.

And Miriam did return. He heard her pass slowly through the outer
room, learn from the girls who was within, order them out of the
apartments, close the outer door upon them; at last she entered, and
said quietly--

'Welcome! I have expected you. You could not surprise old Miriam.
The teraph told me last night that you would be here....'

Did she see the smile of incredulity upon Raphael's face, or was it
some sudden pang of conscience which made her cry out--

'.... No! I did not! I never expected you! I am a liar, a
miserable old liar, who cannot speak the truth, even if I try! Only
look kind! Smile at me, Raphael!--Raphael come back at last to his
poor, miserable, villainous old mother! Smile on me but once, my
beautiful, my son! my son!'

And springing to him, she clasped him in her arms.

'Your son?'

'Yes, my son! Safe at last! Mine at last! I can prove it now!
The son of my womb, though not the son of my vows!' And she laughed
hysterically. 'My child, my heir, for whom I have toiled and hoarded
for three-and-thirty years! Quick! here are my keys. In that
cabinet are all my papers--all I have is yours. Your jewels are
safe--buried with mine. The negro-woman, Eudaimon's wife, knows
where. I made her swear secrecy upon her little wooden idol, and,
Christian as she is, she has been honest. Make her rich for life.
She hid your poor old mother, and kept her safe to see her boy come
home. But give nothing to her little husband: he is a bad fellow,
and beats her.--Go, quick! take your riches, and away! .... No;
stay one moment just one little moment--that the poor old wretch may
feast her eyes with the sight of her darling once more before she
dies!'

'Before you die? Your son? God of my fathers, what is the meaning
of all this, Miriam? This morning I was the son of Ezra the
merchant of Antioch!'

'His son and heir, his son and heir! He knew all at last. We told
him on his death-bed! I swear that we told him, and he adopted
you!'

'We! Who?'

'His wife and I. He craved for a child, the old miser, and we gave
him one--a better one than ever came of his family. But he loved
you, accepted you, though he did know all. He was afraid of being
laughed at after he was dead--afraid of having it known that he was
childless, the old dotard! No--he was right--true Jew in that,
after all!'

'Who was my father, then?' interrupted Raphael, in utter
bewilderment.

The old woman laughed a laugh so long and wild, that Raphael
shuddered.

'Sit down at your mother's feet. Sit down .... just to please the
poor old thing! Even if you do not believe her, just play at being
her child, her darling, for a minute before she dies; and she will
tell you all .... perhaps there is time yet!'

And he sat down .... 'What if this incarnation of all wickedness
were really my mother? .... And yet--why should I shrink thus
proudly from the notion? Am I so pure myself as to deserve a purer
source?' .... And the old woman laid her hand fondly on his head,
and her skinny fingers played with his soft locks, as she spoke
hurriedly and thick.

'Of the house of Jesse, of the seed of Solomon; not a rabbi from
Babylon to Rome dare deny that! A king's daughter I am, and a king's
heart I had, and have, like Solomon's own, my son! .... A kingly
heart .... It made me dread and scorn to be a slave, a plaything, a
soul-less doll, such as Jewish women are condemned to be by their
tyrants, the men. I craved for wisdom, renown, power--power--power!
and my nation refused them to me; because, forsooth, I was a woman!
So I left them. I went to the Christian priests .... They gave me
what I asked .... They gave me more .... They pampered my woman's
vanity, my pride, my self-will, my scorn of wedded bondage, and bade
me be a saint, the judge of angels and archangels, the bride of God!
Liars! liars! And so--if you laugh, you kill me, Raphael--and so
Miriam, the daughter of Jonathan--Miriam, of the house of David--
Miriam, the descendant of Ruth and Rachab, of Rachel and Sara,
became a Christian nun, and shut herself up to see visions, and
dream dreams, and fattened her own mad self-conceit upon the impious
fancy that she was the spouse of the Nazarene, Joshua Bar-Joseph,
whom she called Jehovah Ishi--Silence! If you stop me a moment, it
may be too late. I hear them calling me already; and I made them
promise not to take me before I had told all to my son--the son of
my shame!'

'Who calls you?' asked Raphael; but after one strong shudder she ran
on, unheeding--

'But they lied, lied, lied! I found them out that day .... Do not
look up at me, and I will tell you all. There was a riot--a fight
between the Christian devils and the Heathen devils--and the convent
was sacked, Raphael, my son!--Sacked! .... Then I found out their
blasphemy .... Oh God! I shrieked to Him, Raphael! I called on
Him to rend His heavens and come down--to pour out His thunderbolts
upon them--to cleave the earth and devour them--to save the wretched
helpless girl who adored Him, who had given up father, mother,
kinsfolk, wealth, the light of heaven, womanhood itself, for Him--
who worshipped, meditated over Him, dreamed of Him night and day
.... And, Raphael, He did not hear me .... He did not hear me!
.... did not hear the! .... And then I knew it all for a lie! a
lie!'

'And you knew it for what it is!' cried Raphael through his sobs, as
he thought of Victoria, and felt every vein burning with righteous
wrath.

--'There was no mistaking that test, was there? .... For nine
months I was mad. And then your voice, my baby, my joy, my pride
that brought me to myself once more! And I shook off the dust of my
feet against those Galilean priests, and went back to my own nation,
where God had set me from the beginning. I made them--the Rabbis,
my father, my kin--I made them all receive me. They could not stand
before my eye. I can stake people do what I will, Raphael! I
could--I could make you emperor now, if I had but time left! I went
back. I palmed you off on Ezra as his son, I and his wife, and made
him believe that you had been born to him while he was in Byzantium
.... And then--to live for you! And I did live for you. For you I
travelled from India to Britain, seeking wealth. For you I toiled,
hoarded, lied, intrigued, won money by every means, no matter how
base--for was it not for you? And I have conquered! You are the
richest Jew south of the Mediterranean, you, my son! And you deserve
your wealth. You have your mother's soul in you, my boy! I watched
you, gloried in you--in your cunning, your daring, your learning,
your contempt for these Gentile hounds. You felt the royal blood of
Solomon within you! You felt that you were a young lion of Judah,
and they the jackals who followed to feed upon your leavings! And
now, now! Your only danger is past! The cunning woman is gone--the
sorceress who tried to take my young lion in her pitfall, and has
fallen into the midst of it herself; and he is safe, and returned to
take the nations for a prey, and grind their bones to powder, as it
is written, "He couched like a lion, he lay down like a lioness's
whelp, and who dare rouse him up?"'

'Stop!' said Raphael, 'I must speak! Mother! I must! As you love
me, as you expect me to love you, answer! Had you a hand in her
death? Speak!'

'Did I not tell you that I was no more a Christian? Had I remained
one--who can tell what I might not have done? All I, the Jewess,
dare do was--Fool that I am! I have forgotten all this time the
proof--the proof--'

'I need no proof, mother. Your words are enough,' said Raphael, as
he clasped her hand between his own, and pressed it to his burning
forehead. But the old woman hurried on 'See! See the black agate
which you gave her in your madness!'

'How did you obtain that?'

'I stole it--stole it, my son; as thieves steal, and are crucified
for stealing. What was the chance of the cross to a mother yearning
for her child?--to a mother who put round her baby's neck, three-
and-thirty black years ago, that broken agate, and kept the other
half next her own heart by day and night? See! See how they fit!
Look, and believe your poor old sinful mother! Look, I say!' and
she thrust the talisman into his hands.

'Now, let me die! I vowed never to tell this secret but to you:
never to tell it to you, until the night I died. Farewell, my son!
Kiss me but once--once, my child, my joy! Oh, this makes up for
all! Makes up even for that day, the last on which I ever dreamed
myself the bride of the Nazarene!'

Raphael felt that he must speak, now or never. Though it cost him
the loss of all his wealth, and a mother's curse, he must speak.
And not daring to look up, he said gently--

'Men have lied to you about Him, mother: but has He ever lied to you
about Himself? He did not lie to me when He sent me out into the
world to find a man, and sent me back again to you with the good
news that The Man is born into the world.'

But to his astonishment, instead of the burst of bigoted indignation
which he had expected, Miriam answered in a low, confused,
abstracted voice--

'And did He send you hither? Well--that was more like what I used
to fancy Him....A grand thought it is after all--a Jew the king of
heaven and earth! .... Well--I shall know soon .... I loved Him
once, .... and perhaps....perhaps....'

Why did her head drop heavily upon his shoulder? He turned--a dark
stream of blood was flowing from her lips! He sprang to his feet.
The girls rushed in. They tore open her shawl, and saw the ghastly
wound, which she had hidden with such iron resolution to the last.
But it was too late. Miriam the daughter of Solomon was gone to her
own place.
...............

Early the next morning, Raphael was standing in Cyril's anteroom,
awaiting an audience. There were loud voices within; and after a
while a tribune--whom he knew well hurried out, muttering curses--

'What brings you here, friend?'said Raphael.

'The scoundrel will not give them up,' answered he, in an undertone.

'Give up whom?'

'The murderers. They are in sanctuary now at the Caesareum.
Orestes sent me to demand them: and this fellow defies him openly!'
And the tribune hurried out.

Raphael, sickened with disgust, half-turned to follow him: but his
better angel conquered, and he obeyed the summons of the deacon who
ushered him in.

Cyril was walking up and down, according to his custom, with great
strides. When he saw who was his visitor, he stopped short with a
look of fierce inquiry. Raphael entered on business at once, with a
cold calm voice.

'You know me, doubtless; and you know what I was. I am now a
Christian catechumen. I come to make such restitution as I can for
certain past ill-deeds done in this city. You will find among these
papers the trust-deeds for such a yearly sum of money as will enable
you to hire a house of refuge for a hundred fallen women, and give
such dowries to thirty of them yearly as will enable them to find
suitable husbands. I have set down every detail of my plan. On its
exact fulfilment depends the continuance of my gift.'

Cyril took the document eagerly, and was breaking out with some
commonplace about pious benevolence, when the Jew stopped him.

'Your Holiness's compliments are unnecessary. It is to your office,
not to yourself, that this business relates.'

Cyril, whose conscience was ill enough at ease that morning, felt
abashed before Raphael's dry and quiet manner, which bespoke, as he
well knew, reproof more severe than all open upbraidings. So
looking down, not without something like a blush, he ran his eye
hastily over the paper; and then said, in his blandest tone-

'My brother will forgive me for remarking, that while I acknowledge
his perfect right to dispose of his charities as he will, it is
somewhat startling to me, as Metropolitan of Egypt to find not only
the Abbot Isidore of Pelusium, but the secular Defender of the
Plebs, a civil officer, implicated, too, in the late conspiracy,
associated with me as co-trustees.'

'I have taken the advice of more than one Christian bishop on the
matter. I acknowledge your authority by my presence here. If the
Scriptures say rightly, the civil magistrates are as much God's
ministers as you; and I am therefore bound to acknowledge their
authority also. I should have preferred associating the Prefect
with you in the trust: but as your dissensions with the present
occupant of that post might have crippled my scheme, I have named
the Defender of the Plebs, and have already put into his hands a
copy of this document. Another copy has been sent to Isidore, who
is empowered to receive all moneys from my Jewish bankers in
Pelusium.'

'You doubt, then, either my ability or my honesty?' said Cyril, who
was becoming somewhat nettled.

'If your Holiness dislikes my offer, it is easy to omit your name in
the deed. One word more. If you deliver up to justice the
murderers of my friend Hypatia, I double my bequest on the spot.'

Cyril burst out instantly--

'Thy money perish with thee! Do you presume to bribe me into
delivering up my children to the tyrant?'

'I offer to give you the means of showing more mercy, provided that
you will first do simple justice.'