How often, in answer to my repeated intreaties that you would
give my Daughter a regular detail of the Misfortunes and
Adventures of your Life, have you said “No, my freind never will
I comply with your request till I may be no longer in Danger of
again experiencing such dreadful ones.”
Surely that time is now at hand. You are this day 55. If a
woman may ever be said to be in safety from the determined
Perseverance of disagreeable Lovers and the cruel Persecutions of
obstinate Fathers, surely it must be at such a time of Life.

Sku: loveandfriendship

“THREE o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in
at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t
sleep, I am so happy!
“My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange,
incomprehensible feeling. I can’t analyse it just now–I haven’t
the time, I’m too lazy, and there–hang analysis! Why, is a man
likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost
from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred
thousand? Is he in a state to do it?”

CONTENTS
LOVE
LIGHTS
A STORY WITHOUT AN END
MARI D’ELLE
A LIVING CHATTEL
THE DOCTOR
TOO EARLY!
THE COSSACK
ABORIGINES
AN INQUIRY

Sku: loveandotherstories

Bushman Qualifications for Love
“Love in all Their Marriages,”
False Facts Regarding Hottentots
Effeminate Men and Masculine Women
How the Hottentot Woman “Rules at Home,”
“Regard for Women”
Capacity for Refined Love
Hottentot Coarseness
Fat versus Sentiment
South African Love-Poems
A Hottentot Flirt
Kaffir Morals
Individual Preference for–Cows, Bargaining for Brides
Amorous Preferences
Zulu Girls not Coy
Charms and Poems
A Kaffir Love-Story
Lower than Beasts
Colonies of Free Lovers
A Lesson in Gallantry
Not a Particle of Romance

Sku: primitiveloveandlove-stories

Am I in bad? upon the tick of nine
Today the Pansy got aboard my ship
And sprung the Trans-Suburban for a trip.
Say, she’s the shapely ticket pretty fine!
Next to her pattern Anna Held looks shine
And Lilly Russell doesn’t know the grip.

Sku: thelovesonnets

“THREE o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in
at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t
sleep, I am so happy!
“My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange,
incomprehensible feeling. I can’t analyse it just now–I haven’t
the time, I’m too lazy, and there–hang analysis! Why, is a man
likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost
from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred
thousand? Is he in a state to do it?”

CONTENTS
LOVE
LIGHTS
A STORY WITHOUT AN END
MARI D’ELLE
A LIVING CHATTEL
THE DOCTOR
TOO EARLY!
THE COSSACK

Sku: loveandotherstories

A flaw in that pentagram of a time-table, that pentagram by which the
demons of distraction were to be excluded from Mr. Lewisham’s career
to Greatness, was the absence of a clause forbidding study out of
doors. It was the day after the trivial window peeping of the last
chapter that this gap in the time-table became apparent, a day if
possible more gracious and alluring than its predecessor, and at
half-past twelve, instead of returning from the school directly to his
lodging, Mr. Lewisham escaped through the omission and made his
way–Horace in pocket–to the park gates and so to the avenue of
ancient trees that encircles the broad Whortley domain. He dismissed a
suspicion of his motive with perfect success. In the avenue–for the
path is but little frequented–one might expect to read undisturbed.
The open air, the erect attitude, are surely better than sitting in a
stuffy, enervating bedroom. The open air is distinctly healthy, hardy,
simple….
The day was breezy, and there was a perpetual rustling, a going and
coming in the budding trees.

CONTENTS
I.   INTRODUCES MR. LEWISHAM
II. “AS THE WIND BLOWS”
III. THE WONDERFUL DISCOVERY
IV. RAISED EYEBROWS
V. HESITATIONS
VI. THE SCANDALOUS RAMBLE
VII. THE RECKONING
VIII. THE CAREER PREVAILS

Sku: lovelewisham

It was raining and blowing at Eldridge’s Crossing. From the
stately pine-trees on the hill-tops, which were dignifiedly
protesting through their rigid spines upward, to the hysterical
willows in the hollow, that had whipped themselves into a maudlin
fury, there was a general tumult. When the wind lulled, the rain
kept up the distraction, firing long volleys across the road,
letting loose miniature cataracts from the hill-sides to brawl in
the ditches, and beating down the heavy heads of wild oats on the
levels; when the rain ceased for a moment the wind charged over the
already defeated field, ruffled the gullies, scattered the spray
from the roadside pines, and added insult to injury. But both wind
and rain concentrated their energies in a malevolent attempt to
utterly disperse and scatter the “Half-way House,” which seemed to
have wholly lost its way, and strayed into the open, where, dazed
and bewildered, unprepared and unprotected, it was exposed to the
taunting fury of the blast. A loose, shambling, disjointed,
hastily built structure–representing the worst features of Pioneer
renaissance–it rattled its loose window-sashes like chattering
teeth, banged its ill-hung shutters, and admitted so much of the
invading storm, that it might have blown up or blown down with
equal facility.

Sku: jeffbriggsslove

The fields are full of Poppies, and the skies are very blue,
By the Temple in the coppice, I wait, Beloved, for you.
The level land is sunny, and the errant air is gay,
With scent of rose and honey; will you come to me to-day?
From carven walls above me, smile lovers; many a pair.
“Oh, take this rose and love me!” she has twined it in her hair.
He advances, she retreating, pursues and holds her fast,
The sculptor left them meeting, in a close embrace at last.
Through centuries together, in the carven stone they lie,
In the glow of golden weather, and endless azure sky.
Oh, that we, who have for pleasure so short and scant a stay,
Should waste our summer leisure; will you come to me to-day?
The Temple bells are ringing, for the marriage month has come.
I hear the women singing, and the throbbing of the drum.
And when the song is failing, or the drums a moment mute,
The weirdly wistful wailing of the melancholy flute.
Little life has got to offer, and little man to lose,
Since to-day Fate deigns to proffer, Oh wherefore, then, refuse
To take this transient hour, in the dusky Temple gloom
While the poppies are in flower, and the mangoe trees abloom.
And if Fate remember later, and come to claim her due,
What sorrow will be greater than the Joy I had with you?
For to-day, lit by your laughter, between the crushing years,
I will chance, in the hereafter, eternities of tears.

Sku: indiaslovelyrics

There are of course, girls and girls; yet at heart they are pretty much
alike. In age, naturally, they differ wildly. But this is a thorny
subject. Suffice it to say that all men love all girls-the maid of
sweet sixteen equally with the maid of untold age.
* * *
There is something exasperatingly something-or-otherish about girls. And
they know it–which makes them more something-or-otherish still:–there
is no other word for it.
* * *
A girl is a complicated thing. It is made up of clothes, smiles, a
pompadour, things of which space and prudence forbid the enumeration
here. These things by themselves do not constitute a girl which is
obvious; nor is any one girl without these things which is not too
obvious. Where the things end and the girl begins many men have tried to
find out.
Many girls would like to be men–except on occasions. At least so they
say, but perhaps this is just a part of their something-or-otherishness.
Why they should want to be men, men cannot conceive.

Contents

I.     On Girls
II.    On Men
III.   On Women
IV.  On Love
V.   On Lovers
VI.   On Making Love
VII.  On Beauty
VIII. On Courtship
IX.   On Men and Women
X.    On Jealousy
XI.   On Kisses and Kissing
XII.  On Engagements and Being Engaged
XIII. On Marriage and Married Life
XIV. On This Human Heart

Sku: hintsforlovers

The dreary March evening is rapidly passing from murky gloom to obscurity.
Gusts of icy rain and sleet are sweeping full against a man who, though
driving, bows his head so low that he cannot see his horses. The patient
beasts, however, plod along the miry road, unerringly taking their course to
the distant stable door. The highway sometimes passes through a grove on the
edge of a forest, and the trees creak and groan as they writhe in the heavy
blasts. In occasional groups of pines there is sighing and moaning almost
human in suggestiveness of trouble. Never had Nature been in a more dismal
mood, never had she been more prodigal of every element of discomfort, and
never had the hero of my story been more cast down in heart and hope than on
this chaotic day which, even to his dull fancy, appeared closing in harmony
with his feelings and fortune. He is going home, yet the thought brings no
assurance of welcome and comfort. As he cowers upon the seat of his market
wagon, he is to the reader what he is in the fading light–a mere dim outline
of a man. His progress is so slow that there will be plenty of time to relate
some facts about him which will make the scenes and events to follow more
intelligible.

Sku: fellinlovewithwife

“I remember Regulas Rothsay–or Rule, as we used to call him–when he
was a little bit of a fellow hardly up to my knee, running about
bare-footed and doing odd jobs round the foundry. Ah! and now he is
elected governor of this State by the biggest majority ever heard of,
and engaged to be married to the finest young lady in the country, with
the full consent of all her proud relations. To be married to-day and to
be inaugurated to-morrow, and he only thirty-two years old this blessed
seventh of June!”
The speaker, a hale man of sixty years, with a bald head, a sharp face,
a ruddy complexion, and a figure as twisted as a yew tree, and about as
tough, was Silas Marwig, one of the foremen of the foundry.

Sku: womanslove

_Night on bleak downs; a high grass-grown trench runs
athwart the slope. The earthwork is manned by
warriors clad in hides. Two warriors, BRYS and
GAST, talking_.
_Gast_.
This puts a tall heart in me, and a tune
Of great glad blood flowing brave in my flesh,
To see thee, after all these moons, returned,
My Brys. If there’s no rust in thy shoulder-joints,
That battle-wrath of thine, and thy good throwing,
Will be more help for us than if the dyke
Were higher by a span.–Ha! there was howling
Down in the thicket; they come soon, for sure.
_Brys_.
Has there been hunger in the forest long?
_Gast_.
I think, not only hunger makes them fierce:
They broke not long since into a village yonder,
A huge throng of them; all through the night we heard
The feasting they kept up. And that has made
The wolves blood-thirsty, I believe.
_Brys_.
O fools
To keep so slack a waking on their dykes!
Now have they made a sleepless winter for us.
Every night we must look, lest the down-slope
Between us and the woods turn suddenly
To a grey onrush full of small green candles,
The charging pack with eyes flaming for flesh.
And well for us then if there’s no more mist
Than the white panting of the wolfish hunger.

Sku: emblemsoflove

It was at that time of year when leaves begin to lose their green hue,
and are first tinctured with a brown shade that increases rather than
decreases their beauty, that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer received a letter
from a brother of Mrs. Mortimer’s, at Portsmouth, requiring such
immediate attention that it was thought advisable that the answer should
be given in person and not in writing, and without a day’s loss of time.
So it was determined that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer should leave their home,
even as soon as the following morning, to visit their brother at
Portsmouth, and that they then should settle the business for which they
went as quickly as possible, that their absence from home need not be
prolonged unnecessarily, nor indeed for any length of time. It did not
take long to arrange this part of the affair, and what packing was
requisite was also done quickly, but the point which required most
attention and thought was, what was to become of Marten and his young
brother Reuben while their papa and mamma were away.

Sku: brotherlylove

It need hardly be said that the woman by whom these letter were written
had no thought that they would be read by anyone but the person to whom
they were addressed. But a request, conveyed under circumstances which
the writer herself would have regarded as all-commanding, urges that
they should now be given to the world; and, so far as is possible with a
due regard to the claims of privacy, what is here printed presents the
letters as they were first written in their complete form and sequence.
Very little has been omitted which in any way bears upon the devotion of
which they are a record. A few names of persons and localities have been
changed; and several short notes (not above twenty in all), together
with some passages bearing too intimately upon events which might be
recognized, have been left out without indication of their omission.
It was a necessary condition to the present publication that the
authorship of these letters should remain unstated. Those who know will
keep silence; those who do not, will not find here any data likely to
guide them to the truth.

Sku: englishwomanslovelatters

In the art of the Exposition the great underlying theme is that of
achievement. The Exposition is being held to celebrate the building of
the Panama Canal, and to exhibit to the world evidences of the progress
of civilization in the decade since the last great exposition-a period
among the richest in the history of civilization. So the ideas of
victory, achievement, progress and aspiration are expressed again and
again: in the architecture with its triumphal arches and aspiring
towers; in the sculpture that brings East and West face to face, and
that shows youth rising with the morning sun, eager and unafraid; and in
the mural paintings that portray the march of civilization, and that
tell the story of the latest and greatest of mankind’s triumphs over
nature. But perhaps the most significant thing of all is the wonderfully
harmonious and unified effect of the whole, that testifies so splendidly
to the perfect co-operation of American architects, sculptors and
painters.

Contents
Foreword
The Architecture and Art as a Whole
Court of Abundance
Court of the Universe
Court of the Four Seasons
Court of Palms and Court of Flowers
Tower of Jewels, and Fountain of Energy
Palaces Facing the Avenue of Palms
Palaces Facing the Marina, and the Column of Progress
Palace of Machinery
South Gardens, Festival Hall, and Palace of Horticulture
Palace of Fine Arts
Outdoor Gallery of Sculpture
Fine Arts Galleries
State and Foreign Buildings, and Scattered Art Exhibits
Index

Sku: art-loversguideexposition

From off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sist’ring vale,
My spirits t’attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale,
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings atwain,
Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain.
Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcase of a beauty spent and done.
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven’s fell rage
Some beauty peeped through lattice of seared age.

Sku: loverscomplant

The mansion in which dwelt the Delmes was one of wide and extensive
range. Its centre slightly receded, leaving a wing on either side.
Fluted ledges, extending the whole length of the building, protruded
above each story. These were supported by quaint heads of satyr, martyr,
or laughing triton. The upper ledge, which concealed the roof from
casual observers, was of considerably greater projection. Placed above
it, at intervals, were balls of marble, which, once of pure white, had
now caught the time-worn hue of the edifice itself. At each corner of
the front and wings, the balls were surmounted by the family device–the
eagle with extended wing. One claw closed over the stone, and the bird
rode it proudly an’ it had been the globe. The portico, of a pointed
Gothic, would have seemed heavy, had it not been lightened by glass
doors, the vivid colours of which were not of modern date. These
admitted to a capacious hall, where, reposing on the wide-spreading
antlers of some pristine tenant of the park, gleamed many a piece of
armour that in days of yore had not been worn ingloriously.

Sku: alovestory

The night-lamp with a bluish shade was burning on the chimney-piece,
behind a book, whose shadows plunged more than half the chamber in
darkness. There was a quiet gleam of light cutting across the round
table and the couch, streaming over the heavy folds of the velvet
curtains, and imparting an azure hue to the mirror of the rosewood
wardrobe placed between the two windows. The quiet simplicity of the
room, the blue tints on the hangings, furniture, and carpet, served at
this hour of night to invest everything with the delightful vagueness
of cloudland. Facing the windows, and within sweep of the shadow,
loomed the velvet-curtained bed, a black mass, relieved only by the
white of the sheets. With hands crossed on her bosom, and breathing
lightly, lay Helene, asleep–mother and widow alike personified by the
quiet unrestraint of her attitude.
In the midst of the silence one o’clock chimed from the timepiece. The
noises of the neighborhood had died away; the dull, distant roar of
the city was the only sign of life that disturbed those Trocadero
heights. Helene’s breathing, so light and gentle, did not ruffle the
chaste repose of her bosom. She was in a beauteous sleep, peaceful yet
sound, her profile perfect, her nut-brown hair twisted into a knot,
and her head leaning forward somewhat, as though she had fallen asleep
while eagerly listening. At the farther end of the room the open door
of an adjoining closet seemed but a black square in the wall.

Sku: aloveepisode

It was a December morning,–the Missouri December of mild temperatures
and saturated skies,–and the Chicago and Alton’s fast train, dripping
from the rush through the wet night, had steamed briskly to its
terminal track in the Union Station at Kansas City.
Two men, one smoking a short pipe and the other snapping the ash from
a scented cigarette, stood aloof from the hurrying throngs on the
platform, looking on with the measured interest of those who are in
a melee but not of it.
“More delay,” said the cigarettist, glancing at his watch. “We are
over an hour late now. Do we get any of it back on the run to Denver?”
The pipe-smoker shook his head.

Sku: loveforfool

ELIZABETH is sewing by the table with ANNET. At the open doorway MAY
is polishing a bright mug.
ELIZABETH. [Looking up.] There’s Uncle, back from the Fair.
MAY. [Looking out of the door.] O Uncle’s got some rare big packets
in his arms, he has.
ELIZABETH. Put down that mug afore you damage it, May; and, Annet,
do you go and help your uncle in.
MAY. [Setting down the mug.] O let me go along of her too–[ANNET
rises and goes to the door followed by MAY, who has dropped her
polishing leather upon the ground.
ELIZABETH. [Picking it up and speaking to herself in exasperation.]
If ever there was a careless little wench, ’tis she. I never did
hold with the bringing up of other folks children and if I’d had my
way, ’tis to the poor-house they’d have went, instead of coming here
where I’ve enough to do with my own.
[The FARMER comes in followed by ANNET and MAY carrying large
parcels.
DANIEL. Well Mother, I count I’m back a smartish bit sooner nor what
you did expect.

Contents
The Lovers’ Tasks
Bushes and Briars
My man John
Princess Royal
The Seeds of Love
The New Year

Sku: sixplays