Alfred de Musset - "Child of a Century, v3"

Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc) - "Jacqueline, v1"

Clara Ingram Judson - "Mary Jane: Her Book"

Rene Descartes - "The Principles of Philosophy"

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: Ardath

M >> Marie Corelli >> Ardath




"Never!" declared Alwyn, with a passionate gesture--"I should know
her among a thousand!"

For one instant Heliobas bent upon him a sudden, searching, almost
pitiful glance, then withdrawing his gaze he said gently:

"Well, well! let us hope for the best--God's ways are inscrutable
--and you tell me that now--now after your strange so-called
'vision'--you believe in God?"

"I did say so, certainly..." and Alwyn's face flushed a little..
"but..."

"Ah! ... you hesitate! there is a 'but' in the case!" and Heliobas
turned upon him with a grand reproach in his brilliant eyes..
"Already stepping backward on the road! ... already rushing once
again into the darkness! ..." He paused, then laying one hand on
the young man's shoulder, continued in mild yet impressive
accents: "My friend, remember that the doubter and opposer of God,
is also the doubter and opposer of his own well-being. Let this
unnatural and useless combat of Human Reason, against Divine
Instinct cease within you--you, who as a poet are bound to
EQUALIZE your nature that it may the more harmoniously fulfil its
high commission. You know what one of your modern writers says of
life? ... that it is a 'Dream in which we clutch at shadows as
though they were substances, and sleep deepest when fancying
ourselves most awake.'[Footnote: Carlyle's Sartor Resartus.]
Believe me, YOU have slept long enough--it is time you awoke to
the full realization of your destinies."

Alwyn heard in silence, feeling inwardly rebuked and half ashamed
--the earnestly spoken words moved him more than he cared to show--
his head drooped--he made no reply. After all, he thought, he had
really no more substantial foundation for his unbelief than others
had for their faith. With all his studies in the modern schools of
science, he was not a whit more advanced in learning than
Democritus of old--Democritus who based his system of morals on
the severest mathematical lines, taking as his starting-point a
vacuum and atoms, and who after stretching his intellect on a
constant rack of searching inquiry for years, came at last to the
unhappy conclusion that man is absolutely incapable of positive
knowledge, and that even if truth is in his possession he can
never be certain of it. Was he, Theos Alwyn, wiser than
Democritus? ... or was this stately Chaldean monk, with the clear,
pathetic eyes and tender smile, and the symbol of Christ on his
breast, wiser than both? ... wiser in the wisdom of eternal things
than any of the subtle-minded ancient Greek philosophers or modern
imitators of their theories? Was there, COULD there be something
not yet altogether understood or fathomed in the Christian creed?
... as this idea occurred to him he looked up and met his
companion's calm gaze fixed upon him with a watchful gentleness
and patience.

"Are you reading my thoughts, Heliobas?" he asked, with a forced
laugh. "I assure you they are not worth the trouble."

Heliobas smiled, but made no answer. Just then one of the monks
entered the room with a large lighted lamp, which he set on the
table, and the conversation thus interrupted was not again
resumed.

The evening shadows were now closing in rapidly, and already above
the furthest visible snow-peak the first risen star sparkled
faintly in the darkening sky. Soon the vesper bell began ringing
as it had rung on the previous night when Alwyn, newly arrived,
had sat alone in the refectory, listlessly wondering what manner
of men he had come amongst, and what would be the final result of
his adventure into the wilds of Caucasus. His feelings had
certainly undergone some change since then, inasmuch as he was no
longer disposed to ridicule or condemn religious sentiment, though
he was nearly as far from actually believing in Religion itself as
ever. The attitude of his mind was still distinctly skeptical--the
immutable pride of what he considered his own firmly rooted
convictions was only very slightly shaken--and he now even viewed
the prospect of his journey to the "field of Ardath" as a mere
fantastic whim--a caprice of his own fancy which he chose to
gratify just for the sake of curiosity.

But notwithstanding the stubbornness of the materialistic
principles with which he had become imbued, his higher instincts
were, unconsciously to himself, beginning to be aroused--his
memory involuntarily wandered back to the sweet, fresh days of his
earliest manhood before the poison of Doubt had filtered through
his soul--his character, naturally of the lofty, imaginative, and
ardent cast, re-asserted its native force over the blighting blow
of blank Atheism which had for a time paralyzed its efforts--and
as he unwittingly yielded more and more to the mild persuasions of
these genial influences, so the former Timon-like bitterness of
his humor gradually softened. There was no trace in him now of the
dark, ironic, and reckless scorn that, before his recent visionary
experience, had distinguished his whole manner and bearing--the
smile came more readily to his lips--and he seemed content for the
present to display the sunny side of his nature--a nature
impassioned, frank, generous, and noble, in spite of the taint of
overweening, ambitions egotism which somewhat warped its true
quality and narrowed the range of its sympathies. In his then
frame of mind, a curious, vague sense of half-pleasurable
penitence was upon him,--delicate, undefined, almost devotional
suggestions stirred his thoughts with the refreshment that a cool
wind brings to parched and drooping flowers,--so that when
Heliobas, taking up the silver "Esdras" reliquary and preparing to
leave the apartment in response to the vesper summons, said
gently, "Will you attend our service, Mr. Alwyn?" he assented at
once, with a pleased alacrity which somewhat astonished himself as
he remembered how, on the previous evening, he had despised and
inwardly resented all forms of religious observance.

However, he did not stop to consider the reason of his altered
mood, . . he followed the monks into chapel with an air of manly
grace and quiet reverence that became him much better than the
offensive and defensive demeanor he had erewhile chosen to assume
in the same prayer-hallowed place,--he listened to the impressive
ceremonial from beginning to end without the least fatigue or
impatience,--and though when the brethren knelt, he could not
humble himself so far as to kneel also, he still made a slight
concession to appearances by sitting down and keeping his head in
a bent posture--"out of respect for the good intentions of these
worthy men," as he told himself, to silence the inner conflict of
his own opposing and contradictory sensations. The service
concluded, he waited as before to see the monks pass out, and was
smitten with a sudden surprise, compunction, and regret, when
Heliobas, who walked last as usual, paused where he stood, and
confronted him, saying:

"I will bid you farewell here, my friend! ... I have many things
to do this evening, and it is best I should see you no more before
your departure."

"Why?" asked Alwyn astonished--"I had hoped for another
conversation with you."

"To what purpose!" inquired Heliobas mildly. "That I should assert
... and you deny ... facts that God Himself will prove in His own
way and at His own appointed time? Nay, we should do no good by
further arguments."

"But," stammered Alwyn hastily, flushing hotly as he spoke, "you
give me no chance to thank you ... to express my gratitude."

"Gratitude?" questioned Heliobas almost mournfully, with a tinge
of reproach in his soft, mellow voice. "Are you grateful for
being, as you think, deluded by a trance? ... cheated, as it were,
into a sort of semi-belief in the life to come by means of
mesmerism? Your first request to me, I know, was that you might be
deceived by my influence into a state of imaginary happiness,--and
now you fancy your last night's experience was merely the result
of that pre-eminently foolish desire. You are wrong! ... and, as
matters stand, no thanks are needed. If I had indeed mesmerized or
hypnotized you, I might perhaps have deserved some reward for the
exertion of my purely professional skill, but ... as I have told
you already ... I have done absolutely nothing. Your fate is, as
it has always been, in your own hands. You sought me of your own
accord ... you used me as an instrument, an unwilling instrument,
remember! ... whereby to break open the prison doors of your
chafed, and fretting spirit,--and the end of it all is that you
depart from hence tomorrow of your own free-will and choice, to
fulfill the appointed tryst made with you, as you believe, by a
phantom in a vision. In brief"--here he spoke more slowly and with
marked emphasis--"you go to the field of Ardath to solve a
puzzling problem ... namely, as to whether what we call life is
not a Dream--and whether a Dream may not perchance be proved
Reality! In this enterprise of yours I have no share--nor will I
say more than this ... God speed you on your errand!"

He held out his hand--Alwyn grasped it, looking earnestly
meanwhile at the fine intellectual face, the clear pathetic eyes,
the firm yet sensitive mouth, on which there just then rested a
serious yet kindly smile.

"What a strange man you are, Heliobas!" he said impulsively ... "I
wish I knew more about you!"

Heliobas gave him a friendly glance.

"Wish rather that you knew more about yourself"--he answered
simply--"Fathom your own mystery of being--you shall find none
deeper, greater, or more difficult of comprehension!"

Alwyn still held his hand, reluctant to let it go. Finally
releasing it with a slight sigh, he said:

"Well, at any rate, though we part now it will not be for long. We
MUST meet again!"

"Why, if we must, we shall!" rejoined Heliobas cheerily. "MUST
cannot be prevented! In the mean time ... farewell!"

"Farewell!" and as this word was spoken their eyes met.
Instinctively and on a sudden impulse, Alwyn bowed his head in the
lowest and most reverential salutation he had perhaps ever made to
any creature of mortal mold, and as he did so Heliobas paused in
the act of turning away.

"Do you care for a blessing, gentle Skeptic!" he asked in a soft
tone that thrilled tenderly through the silence of the dimly-lit
chapel,--then, receiving no reply, he laid one hand gently on the
young man's dark, clustering curls, and with the other slowly
traced the sign of the cross upon the smooth, broad fairness of
his forehead.--"Take it, my son! ... the only blessing I can give
thee,--the blessing of the Cross of Christ, which in spite of thy
desertion claims thee, redeems thee, and will yet possess thee for
its own!"

And before Alwyn could recover from his astonishment sufficiently
to interrupt and repudiate this, to him, undesired form of
benediction, Heliobas had gone, and he was left alone. Lifting his
head he stared out into the further corridor, down which he just
perceived a distant glimmer of vanishing white robes,--and for a
moment he was filled with speechless indignation. It seemed to him
that the sign thus traced on his brow must be actually visible
like a red brand burnt into his flesh,--and all his old and
violent prejudices against Christianity rushed back upon him with
the resentful speed of once baffled foes returning anew to storm a
citadel. Almost as rapidly, however, his anger cooled,--he
remembered that in his vision of the previous night, the light
that had guided him through the long, shadowy vista had always
preceded him in the form of a Cross,--and in a softer mood he
glanced at the ruby Star shining steadily above the otherwise
darkened altar. Involuntarily the words "We have seen His Star in
the East and have come to worship Him"--occurred to his memory,
but he dismissed them as instantly as they suggested themselves,
and finding his own thoughts growing perplexing and troublesome he
hastily left the chapel.

Joining some of the monks who were gathered in a picturesque group
round the fire in the refectory he sat chatting with them for
about half an hour or so, hoping to elicit from them in the course
of conversation some particulars concerning the daily life,
character, and professing aims of their superior,--but in this
attempt he failed. They spoke of Heliobas as believing men may
speak of saints, with hushed reverence and admiring tenderness--
but on any point connected with his faith, or the spiritual nature
of his theories, they held their peace, evidently deeming the
subject too sacred for discussion. Baffled in all his inquiries
Alwyn at last said good-night, and retired to rest in the small
sleeping-apartment prepared for his accommodation, where he
enjoyed a sound, refreshing, and dreamless slumber.

The next morning he was up at daybreak, and long before the sun
had risen above the highest peak of Caucasus, he had departed from
the Lars Monastery, leaving a handsome donation in the poor-box
toward the various charitable works in which the brethren were
engaged, such as the rescue of travellers lost in the snow, or the
burial of the many victims murdered on or near the Pass of Dariel
by the bands of fierce mountain robbers and assassins, that at
certain seasons infest that solitary region. Making the best of
his way to the fortress of Passanaur, he there joined a party of
adventurous Russian climbers who had just successfully
accomplished the assent of Mount Kazbek, and in their company
proceeded through the rugged Aragua valley to Tiflis, which he
reached that same evening. From this dark and dismal-looking town,
shadowed on all sides by barren and cavernous hills, he dispatched
the manuscript of his mysteriously composed poem, together with
the letter concerning it, to his friend Villiers in England,--and
then, yielding to a burning sense of impatience within himself,--
impatience that would brook no delay,--he set out resolutely, and
at once, on his long pilgrimage to the "land of sand and ruin and
gold"--the land of terrific prophecy and stern fulfilment,--the
land of mighty and mournful memories, where the slow river
Euphrates clasps in its dusky yellow ring the ashes of great
kingdoms fallen to rise no more.




CHAPTER VIII.

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.


It was no light or easy journey he had thus rashly undertaken on
the faith of a dream,--for dream he still believed it to be. Many
weary days and nights were consumed in the comfortless tedium of
travel, . . and though he constantly told himself what unheard-of
folly it was to pursue an illusive chimera of his own
imagination,--a mere phantasm which had somehow or other taken
possession of his brain at a time when that brain must have been
acted upon (so he continued to think) by strong mesmeric or
magnetic influence, he went on his way all the same with a sort of
dogged obstinacy which no fatigue could daunt or lessen. He never
lay down to rest without the faint hope of seeing once again, if
only in sleep, the radiant Being whose haunting words had sent him
on this quest of "Ardath,"--but herein his expectations were not
realized. No more flower-crowned angels floated before him--no
sweet whisper of love, encouragement, or promise came mysteriously
on his ears in the midnight silences,--his slumbers were always
profound and placid as those of a child and utterly dreamless.

One consolation he had however, ... he could write. Not a day
passed without his finding some new inspiration ... some fresh,
quaint, and lovely thought, that flowed of itself into most
perfect and rhythmical utterance,--glorious lines of verse glowing
with fervor and beauty seemed to fall from his pencil without any
effort on his part,--and if he had had reason in former times to
doubt the strength of his poetical faculty, it was now very
certain he could do so longer. His mind was as a fine harp newly
strung, attuned, and quivering with the consciousness of the music
pent-up within it,--and as he remembered the masterpiece of poesy
he had written in his seeming trance, the manuscript of which
would soon be in the hands of the London publishers, his heart
swelled with a growing and irrepressible sense of pride. For he
knew and felt--with an undefinable yet positive certainty--that
however much the public or the critics might gainsay him, his fame
as a poet of the very highest order would ere long be asserted and
assured. A deep tranquillity was in his soul ... a tranquillity
that seemed to increase the further he went onward,--the restless
weariness that had once possessed him was past, and a vaguely
sweet content pervade his being like the odor of early roses
pervading warm air ... he felt, he hoped, he loved! ... and yet
his feelings, hopes, and longings turned to something altogether
undeclared and indefinite, as softly dim and distant as the first
faint white cloud-signal wafted from the moon in heaven, when, on
the point of rising, she makes her queenly purpose known to her
waiting star-attendants.

Practically considered, his journey was tedious and for the most
part dull and uninteresting. In these Satan-like days of "going to
and fro in the earth and walking up and down in it" travelling has
lost much of its old romantic charm, . . the idea of traversing long
distances no more fills the expectant adventurer with a
pleasurable sense of uncertainty and mystery--he knows exactly
what to anticipate.. it is all laid out for him plainly on the
level lines of the commonplace, and nothing is left to his
imagination. The Continent of Europe has been ransacked from end
to end by tourists who have turned it into a sort of exhausted
pleasure-garden, whereof the various entertainments are too
familiarly known to arouse any fresh curiosity,--the East is
nearly in the same condition,--hordes of British and American
sight-seers scamper over the empire-strewn soil of Persia and
Syria with the unconcerned indifference of beings to whom not only
a portion of the world's territory, but the whole world itself,
belongs,--and soon there will not be an inch of ground left on the
narrow extent of our poor planet that has not been trodden by the
hasty, scrambling, irreverent footsteps of some one or other of
the ever-prolific, all-spreading English-speaking race.

On his way Alwyn met many of his countrymen,--travellers who, like
himself, had visited the Caucasus and Armenia and were now en
route, some for Damascus, some for Jerusalem and the Holy Land--
others again for Cairo and Alexandria, to depart from thence
homeward by the usual Mediterranean line, . . but among these birds-
of-passage acquaintance he chanced upon none who were going to the
Ruins of Babylon. He was glad of this--for the peculiar nature of
his enterprise rendered a companion altogether undesirable,--and
though on one occasion he encountered a gentleman-novelist with a
note-book, who was exceedingly anxious to fraternize with him and
discover whither he vas bound, he succeeded in shaking off this
would-be incubus at Mosul, by taking him to a wonderful old
library in that city where there were a number of French
translations of Turkish and Syriac romances. Here the gentleman-
novelist straightway ascended to the seventh heaven of plagiarism,
and began to copy energetically whole scenes and descriptive
passages from dead-and-gone authors, unknown to English critics,
for the purpose of inserting them hereafter into his own
"original" work of fiction--and in this congenial occupation he
forgot all about the "dark handsome man, with the wide brows of a
Marc Antony and the lips of a Catullus," as he had already
described Alwyn in the note-book before-mentioned. While in Mosul,
Alwyn himself picked up a curiosity in the way of literature,--a
small quaint volume entitled "The Final Philosophy Of Algazzali
The Arabian." It was printed in two languages--the original Arabic
on one page, and, facing it, the translation in very old French.
The author, born A.D. 1058, described himself as "a poor student
striving to discern the truth of things"--and his work was a
serious, incisive, patiently exhaustive inquiry into the workings
of nature, the capabilities of human intelligence, and the
deceptive results of human reason. Reading it, Alwyn was
astonished to find that nearly all the ethical propositions
offered for the world's consideration to-day by the most learned
and cultured minds, had been already advanced and thoroughly
discussed by this same Algazzali. One passage in particular
arrested his attention as being singularly applicable to his own
immediate condition, . . it ran as follows,--

"I began to examine the objects of sensation and speculation to
see if they could possibly admit of doubt. Then, doubts crowded
upon me in such numbers that my incertitude became complete.
Whence results the confidence I have in sensible things? The
strongest of all our senses is sight,--yet if we look at the stars
they seem to be as small as money-pieces--but mathematical proofs
convince us that they are larger than the earth. These and other
things are judged by the SENSES, but rejected by REASON as false.
I abandoned the senses therefore, having seen my confidence in
their ABSOLUTE TRUTH shaken. Perhaps, said I, there is no
assurance but in the notions of reason? ... that is to say, first
principles, as that ten is more than three? Upon this the SENSES
replied: What assurance have you that your confidence in REASON is
not of the same nature as your confidence in US? When you relied
on us, reason stepped in and gave us the lie,--had not reason been
there you would have continued to rely on us. Well, nay there not
exist some other judge SUPERIOR to reason who, if he appeared,
would refute the judgments of reason in the same way that reason
refuted us? The non-appearance of such a judge is no proof of his
non-existence. ... I strove to answer this objection, and my
difficulties increased when I came to reflect on sleep. I said to
myself: During sleep you give to visions a reality and
consistence, and on awakening you are made aware that they were
nothing but visions. What assurance have you that all you feel and
know does actually exist? It is all true as respects your
condition at the moment,--but it is nevertheless possible that
another condition should present itself which should be to your
awakened state, that which your awakened state is now to your
sleep,--SO THAT, AS RESPECTS THIS HIGHER CONDITION YOUR WAKING IS
BUT SLEEP."

Over and over again Alwyn read these words and pondered on the
deep and difficult problems they suggested, and he was touched to
an odd sense of shamed compunction, when at the close of the book
he came upon Algazzali's confession of utter vanquishment and
humility thus simply recorded:

"I examined my actions and found the best were those relating to
instruction and education, and even there I saw myself given up to
unimportant sciences all useless in another world. Reflecting on
the aim of my teaching, I found it was not pure in the sight of
the Lord. And that all my efforts were directed toward the
acquisition of glory to myself. Having therefore distributed my
wealth I left Bagdad and retired into Syria, where I remained in
solitary struggle with my soul, combating my passions and
exercising myself in the purification of my heart and in
preparation for the other world."

This ancient philosophical treatise, together with the mystical
passage from the original text of Esdras and the selected verses
from the Apocrypha, formed all Alwyn's stock of reading for the
rest of his journey,--the rhapsodical lines of the Prophet he knew
by heart, as one knows a favorite poem, and he often caught
himself unconsciously repeating the strange words: "Behold the
field thou thoughtest barren: how great a glory hath the moon
unveiled!

"And I beheld, and was sore amazed, for I was no longer myself but
another.

"And the sword of death was in that other's soul: and yet that
other was but myself, in pain.

"And I knew not the things that were once familiar and my heart
failed within me for very fear..."

What did they mean, he wondered? or had they any meaning at all
beyond the faint, far-off suggestions of thought that may
occasionally and with difficulty be discerned through obscure and
reckless ecstasies of language which, "full of sound and fury,
signify nothing"? Was there, could there, be anything mysterious
or sacred in this "wiste field" anciently known as "Ardath"? These
questions flitted hazily from time to time through his brain, but
he made no attempt to answer them either by refutation or reason,
... indeed sober, matter-of-fact reason, he was well aware, played
no part in his present undertaking.

It was late in the afternoon of a sultry parching day when he at
last arrived at Hillah. This dull little town, built at the
beginning of the twelfth century out of the then plentifully
scattered fragments of Babylon, has nothing to offer to the modern
traveller save various annoyances in the shape of excessive heat,
dust, or rather fine blown sand,--dirt, flies, bad food, and
general discomfort; and finding the aspect of the place not only
untempting, but positively depressing, Alwyn left his surplus
luggage at a small and unpretentious hostelry kept by a Frenchman,
who catered specially for archaeological tourists and explorers,
and after an hour's rest, set out alone and on foot for the
"eastern quarter" of the ruins,--namely those which are considered
by investigators to begin about two miles above Hillah. A little
beyond them and close to the river-bank, according to the
deductions he had received, dwelt the religious recluse for whom
he brought the letter of introduction from Heliobas,--a letter
bearing on its cover a superscription in Latin which translated
ran thus:--"To the venerable and much esteemed Elzear of Melyana,
at the Hermitage, near Hillah. In faith, peace, and good-will.
Greeting." Anxious to reach Elzear's abode before nightfall, he
walked on as briskly as the heat and heaviness of the sandy soil
would allow, keeping to the indistinctly traced path that crossed
and re-crossed at intervals the various ridges of earth strewn
with pulverized fragments of brick, bitumen, and pottery, which
are now the sole remains of stately buildings once famous in
Babylon.