After a quarter of a century these, brief and searching tales of Arthur Morrison’s still keep the breath of life in them — modest but precious salvages from the high washings and roarings of the eighteen-nineties. The decade — the last of the Victorian age, as of the century — was so fecund that some Englishman has spread out its record to the proportions of a book.
After a quarter of a century these, brief and searching tales of Arthur Morrison's still keep the breath of life in them - modest but precious salvages from the high washings and roarings of the eighteen-nineties. The decade - the last of the Victorian age, as of the century - was so fecund that some Englishman has spread out its record to the proportions of a book. It was a time of youngsters, of literary rebellions, of adventures in new forms.
No great three-decker sailed out of it, but what a host there was of smaller craft, rakish and impudent - the first "Jungle Book," the "Dolly Dialogues," "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray," the first plays and criticisms of George Bernard Shaw, "Sherlock Holmes," the matriculation pieces of H.G. Wells, Jerome K. Jerome, Hewlett, "Dodo" Benson, Hichens and so on, and all the best of Gissing and Wilde. Think of the novelties of one year only, 1894: "The Green Carnation," "Salomé," "The Prisoner of Zenda," the "Dolly Dialogues," Gissing's "In the Year of Jubilee," the first "Jungle Book," "Arms and the Man," "Round the Red Lamp," and, not least, these "Tales of Mean Streets."
In the whole lot there was no book or play, save it be Wilde's "Salomé," that caused more gabble than the one here printed again, nor was any destined to hold its public longer. "The Prisoner of Zenda," chewed to bits on the stage, is now almost as dead as Baal; not even the stock companies in the oil towns set any store by it. So with "The Green Carnation," "Round the Red Lamp," the "Dolly Dialogues," and even "Arms and the Man," and, I am almost tempted to add, the "Jungle Book." But "Tales of Mean Streets" is still on its legs. People read it, talk about it, ask for it in the bookstores; periodically it gets out of print. Well, here it is once more, and perhaps a new generation is ready for it, or the older generation - so young and full of fine enthusiasm in 1894! - will want to read it again.
The causes of its success are so plain that they scarcely need pointing out. It was not only a sound and discreet piece of writing, with people in it who were fully alive; there was also a sort of news in it, and even a touch of the truculent. What the news uncovered was something near and yet scarcely known or even suspected: the amazing life of the London East End, the sewer of England and of Christendom. Morrison, in brief, brought on a whole new company of comedians and set them to playing novel pieces, tragedy and farce. He made them, in his light tales, more real than any solemn Blue Book or polemic had ever made them, and by a great deal; he not only created plausible characters, but lighted up the whole dark scene behind them. People took joy in the book as fiction, and pondered it as a fact. It got a kind of double fame, as a work of art and as social document - a very dubious and dangerous kind of fame in most cases, for the document usually swallows the work of art. But here the document has faded, and what remains is the book.
At the start, as I say, there was a sort of challenge in it as well as news: it was, in a sense, a flouting of Victorian complacency, a headlong leap into the unmentionable. Since Dickens' time there had been no such plowing up of sour soils. Other men of the decade, true enough, issued challenges too, but that was surely not its dominant note. On the contrary, it was rather romantic, ameliorative, sweet-singing; its high god was Kipling, the sentimental optimist. The Empire was flourishing; the British public was in good humor; life seemed a lovely thing. In the midst of all this the voice of Morrison had a raucous touch of it. He was amusing and interesting, but he was also somewhat disquieting, and even alarming. If this London of his really existed - and inquiry soon showed that it did - then there was a rift somewhere in the lute, and a wart on the graceful body politic.
Now all such considerations are forgotten, and there remains only the book of excellent tales. It has been imitated almost as much as "Plain Tales From the Hills," and to much better effect. The note seems likely to be a permanent one in our fiction. Now and then it appears to die out, but not for long. A year ago I thought it was doing so - and then came the "Limehouse Nights" of Thomas Burke, and James Stephens' "Hunger." Both go back to "Tales of Mean Streets" as plainly as vers libre goes back to Mother Goose.
H.L. Mencken.
Baltimore, 1918.
Bailey seems to be never destined to fit in, a little geeky, but under it all, a hidden beauty that so many seem to miss, but still not what her pack Alpha is looking for in a fated mate... so he is determined to reject her and make her life hell. Bailey, knowing her life will likely never be the same focuses on what she can control, her future, and heads off to study; becoming a teacher. Asher is the Beta of Autumn Valley Pack, a neighbouring pack. A broken man having suffered the loss of his mate after a rogue attack, Asher is slowly crumbling. Falling to pieces. A shadow of his former self, and not a man that anyone wants to be around anymore... Until, Autumn Valley Pack require a new teacher, and Bailey finds herself there and pushed together with the Beta. Is there a connection building or is that in their imaginations? And what will happen when Bailey's mate comes back to claim what is his?
She was a diamond covered by ashes.... King Dakota was known as the most Powerful Alpha King of all times - more powerful than any other King that had ruled from his lineage. He was cold hearted, introverted and dangerous in anger. Cursed by the Moon goddess, King Dakota had to get married to three wives all in search of a male child that would become his heir, but it was impossible as the curse would only let his wives bear she -wolves. But on a different day, the King meets a lady who offends him and as a punishment, he took her home as his fourth wife. Her name was Shilah. Shilah was a powerless wolf and as a result, was disregarded and intimidated by all. But, when she begins to do things that the King had never felt for years, he began to wonder who she really was. Slowly, she crawled her way into his icy heart and turned out to be something nobody ever expected - a storm.
Sheila had her back against the wall when her family tried to force her to marry an awful old man. In a fit of rage, she hired a gigolo to act as her husband. She thought the gigolo needed money and did this for a living. Little did she know that he was nothing like that. One day, he pulled off his mask and revealed himself to be the world's top magnate. This marked the beginning of their love. He showered her with everything she could ever want. They were happy. However, unexpected circumstances soon posed a threat to their love. Would Sheila and her husband make it through the storm? Find out!
Iris grew from an orphaned child to the adopted daughter of the Stewart family at age ten, finding warmth in her nominal uncle Vincent's kindness. Seven years later, she became his secret lover. When Vincent's engagement was announced, gossip spread about the notorious playboy CEO finally settling down. But only Iris knew the extent of his cold, two-faced nature. Iris fell for Vincent and, through tears, begged, "Marry me," only to be met with his frosty refusal. Defeated, she accepted a lawyer's proposal, sparking public excitement. Then, on her wedding day, Vincent pleaded desperately, "Don't marry him…"
When Zora was sick during the early days of her pregnancy, Ezrah was with his first love, Piper. When Zora got into an accident and called Ezrah, he said he was busy, when in actual fact, he was buying shoes for Piper. Zora lost her baby because of the accident, and throughout her stay at the hospital, Ezrah never showed up. She already knew that he didn't love her, but that was the last straw for the camel's back, and her fragile heart could not take it anymore. When Ezrah arrived home a few days after Zora was discharged from the hospital, he no longer met the woman who always greeted him with a smile and cared for him. Zora stood at the top of the stairs and yelled with a cold expression, "Good news, Ezrah! Our baby died in a car accident. There is nothing between us anymore, so let's get a divorce." The man who claimed not to have any feelings for Zora, being cold and distant towards her, and having asked her for a divorce twice, instantly panicked.
Corinne devoted three years of her life to her boyfriend, only for it to all go to waste. He saw her as nothing more than a country bumpkin and left her at the altar to be with his true love. After getting jilted, Corinne reclaimed her identity as the granddaughter of the town’s richest man, inherited a billion-dollar fortune, and ultimately rose to the top. But her success attracted the envy of others, and people constantly tried to bring her down. As she dealt with these troublemakers one by one, Mr. Hopkins, notorious for his ruthlessness, stood by and cheered her on. “Way to go, honey!”