There are strange things lost and forgotten in obscure corners of the newspaper. I often think that the most extraordinary item of intelligence that I have read in print appeared a few years ago in the London Press. It came from a well known and most respected news agency; I imagine it was in all the papers. It was astounding. The circumstances necessary — not to the understanding of this paragraph, for that is out of the question — but, we will say, to the understanding of the events which made it possible, are these. We had invaded Thibet, and there had been trouble in the hierarchy of that country, and a personage known as the Tashai Lama had taken refuge with us in India. He went on pilgrimage from one Buddhist shrine to another, and came at last to a holy mountain of Buddhism, the name of which I have forgotten. And thus the morning paper. His Holiness the Tashai Lama then ascended the Mountain and was transfigured.— Reuter.
There are strange things lost and forgotten in obscure corners of the newspaper. I often think that the most extraordinary item of intelligence that I have read in print appeared a few years ago in the London Press. It came from a well known and most respected news agency; I imagine it was in all the papers. It was astounding.
The circumstances necessary - not to the understanding of this paragraph, for that is out of the question - but, we will say, to the understanding of the events which made it possible, are these. We had invaded Thibet, and there had been trouble in the hierarchy of that country, and a personage known as the Tashai Lama had taken refuge with us in India. He went on pilgrimage from one Buddhist shrine to another, and came at last to a holy mountain of Buddhism, the name of which I have forgotten. And thus the morning paper.
His Holiness the Tashai Lama then ascended the Mountain and was transfigured.- Reuter.
That was all. And from that day to this I have never heard a word of explanation or comment on this amazing statement.
There was no more, it seemed, to be said. "Reuter," apparently, thought he had made his simple statement of the facts of the case, had thereby done his duty, and so it all ended. Nobody, so far as I know, ever wrote to any paper asking what Reuter meant by it, or what the Tashai Lama meant by it. I suppose the fact was that nobody cared two-pence about the matter; and so this strange event - if there were any such event - was exhibited to us for a moment, and the lantern show revolved to other spectacles.
This is an extreme instance of the manner in which the marvellous is flashed out to us and then withdrawn behind its black veils and concealments; but I have known of other cases. Now and again, at intervals of a few years, there appear in the newspapers strange stories of the strange doings of what are technically called poltergeists. Some house, often a lonely farm, is suddenly subjected to an infernal bombardment. Great stones crash through the windows, thunder down the chimneys, impelled by no visible hand. The plates and cups and saucers are whirled from the dresser into the middle of the kitchen, no one can say how or by what agency. Upstairs the big bedstead and an old chest or two are heard bounding on the floor as if in a mad ballet. Now and then such doings as these excite a whole neighbourhood; sometimes a London paper sends a man down to make an investigation. He writes half a column of description on the Monday, a couple of paragraphs on the Tuesday, and then returns to town. Nothing has been explained, the matter vanishes away; and nobody cares. The tale trickles for a day or two through the Press, and then instantly disappears, like an Australian stream, into the bowels of darkness. It is possible, I suppose, that this singular incuriousness as to marvellous events and reports is not wholly unaccountable. It may be that the events in question are, as it were, psychic accidents and misadventures. They are not meant to happen, or, rather, to be manifested. They belong to the world on the other side of the dark curtain; and it is only by some queer mischance that a corner of that curtain is twitched aside for an instant. Then - for an instant - we see; but the personages whom Mr. Kipling calls the Lords of Life and Death take care that we do not see too much. Our business is with things higher and things lower, with things different, anyhow; and on the whole we are not suffered to distract ourselves with that which does not really concern us. The Transfiguration of the Lama and the tricks of the poltergeist are evidently no affairs of ours; we raise an uninterested eyebrow and pass on - to poetry or to statistics.
Be it noted; I am not professing any fervent personal belief in the reports to which I have alluded. For all I know, the Lama, in spite of Reuter, was not transfigured, and the poltergeist, in spite of the late Mr. Andrew Lang, may in reality be only mischievous Polly, the servant girl at the farm. And to go farther: I do not know that I should be justified in putting either of these cases of the marvellous in line with a chance paragraph that caught my eye last summer; for this had not, on the face of it at all events, anything wildly out of the common. Indeed, I dare say that I should not have read it, should not have seen it, if it had not contained the name of a place which I had once visited, which had then moved me in an odd manner that I could not understand. Indeed, I am sure that this particular paragraph deserves to stand alone, for even if the poltergeist be a real poltergeist, it merely reveals the psychic whimsicality of some region that is not our region. There were better things and more relevant things behind the few lines dealing with Llantrisant, the little town by the sea in Arfonshire.
Not on the surface, I must say, for the cutting I have preserved it - reads as follows:-
LLANTRISANT.- The season promises very favourably: temperature of the sea yesterday at noon, 65 deg. Remarkable occurrences are supposed to have taken place during the recent Revival. The lights have not been observed lately. "The Crown." "The Fisherman's Rest."
The style was odd certainly; knowing a little of newspapers. I could see that the figure called, I think, tmesis, or cutting, had been generously employed; the exuberances of the local correspondent had been pruned by a Fleet Street expert. And these poor men are often hurried; but what did those "lights" mean? What strange matters had the vehement blue pencil blotted out and brought to naught?
That was my first thought, and then, thinking still of Llantrisant and how I had first discovered it and found it strange, I read the paragraph again, and was saddened almost to see, as I thought, the obvious explanation. I had forgotten for the moment that it was war-time, that scares and rumours and terrors about traitorous signals and flashing lights were current everywhere by land and sea; someone, no doubt, had been watching innocent farmhouse windows and thoughtless fanlights of lodging houses; these were the "lights" that had not been observed lately.
I found out afterwards that the Llantrisant correspondent had no such treasonous lights in his mind, but something very different. Still; what do we know? He may have been mistaken, "the great rose of fire" that came over the deep may have been the port light of a coasting-ship. Did it shine at last from the old chapel on the headland? Possibly; or possibly it was the doctor's lamp at Sarnau, some miles away. I have had wonderful opportunities lately of analysing the marvels of lying, conscious and unconscious; and indeed almost incredible feats in this way can be performed. If I incline to the less likely explanation of the "lights" at Llantrisant, it is merely because this explanation seems to me to be altogether congruous with the "remarkable occurrences" of the newspaper paragraph.
After all, if rumour and gossip and hearsay are crazy things to be utterly neglected and laid aside: on the other hand, evidence is evidence, and when a couple of reputable surgeons assert, as they do assert in the case of Olwen Phillips, Croeswen, Llantrisant, that there has been a "kind of resurrection of the body," it is merely foolish to say that these things don't happen. The girl was a mass of tuberculosis, she was within a few hours of death; she is now full of life. And so, I do not believe that the rose of fire was merely a ship's light, magnified and transformed by dreaming Welsh sailors.
But now I am going forward too fast. I have not dated the paragraph, so I cannot give the exact day of its appearance, but I think it was somewhere between the second and third week of June. I cut it out partly because it was about Llantrisant, partly because of the "remarkable occurrences." I have an appetite for these matters, though I also have this misfortune, that I require evidence before I am ready to credit them, and I have a sort of lingering hope that some day I shall be able to elaborate some scheme or theory of such things.
But in the meantime, as a temporary measure, I hold what I call the doctrine of the jig-saw puzzle. That is: this remarkable occurrence, and that, and the other may be, and usually are, of no significance. Coincidence and chance and unsearchable causes will now and again make clouds that are undeniable fiery dragons, and potatoes that resemble Eminent Statesmen exactly and minutely in every feature, and rocks that are like eagles and lions. All this is nothing; it is when you get your set of odd shapes and find that they fit into one another, and at last that they are but parts of a large design; it is then that research grows interesting and indeed amazing, it is then that one queer form confirms the other, that the whole plan displayed justifies, corroborates, explains each separate piece.
So, it was within a week or ten days after I had read the paragraph about Llantrisant and had cut it out that I got a letter from a friend who was taking an early holiday in those regions.
"You will be interested," he wrote, "to hear that they have taken to ritualistic practices at Llantrisant. I went into the church the other day, and instead of smelling like a damp vault as usual, it was positively reeking with incense."
I knew better than that. The old parson was a firm Evangelical; he would rather have burnt sulphur in his church than incense any day. So I could not make out this report at all; and went down to Arfon a few weeks later determined to investigate this and any other remarkable occurrence at Llantrisant.
Trajectory presents classics of world literature with 21st century features! Our original-text editions include the following visual enhancements to foster a deeper understanding of the work: Word Clouds at the start of each chapter highlight important words. Word, sentence, paragraph counts, and reading time help readers and teachers determine chapter complexity. Co-occurrence graphs depict character-to-character interactions as well character to place interactions. Sentiment indexes identify positive and negative trends in mood within each chapter. Frequency graphs help display the impact this book has had on popular culture since its original date of publication. Use Trajectory analytics to deepen comprehension, to provide a focus for discussions and writing assignments, and to engage new readers with some of the greatest stories ever told."Six Little Bunkers at Cousin Tom's" by Laura Lee Hope is part of the Six Little Bunkers series. The Six Little Bunkers series is about the adventures of the Bunker Family when they had no access to technology.
Arthur Llewelyn Jones was born on March 3rd, 1863 in Carleleon in Monmouthshire, Wales. His father had adopted his wife's maiden name, Machen, to inherit a legacy, legally becoming "Jones-Machen"; his son was baptised under that name. Later he shortened it to Arthur Machen, as a pen name. An early and avid reader, Arthur read books far beyond his years the results of which ensured a firm foundation in literature. At eleven, Arthur boarded at Hereford Cathedral School. However family poverty ruled out attendance at university, and Arthur was sent to London to sit exams to attend medical school but failed to get in. Arthur, however, showed literary promise, publishing in 1881 a long poem "Eleusinia." In London, he lived in relative poverty, attempting to work as a journalist, as a publisher's clerk, and as a children's tutor while writing in the evening and going on long rambling walks across London. By 1884 he published his second work, 'The Anatomy of Tobacco', and worked with the publisher and bookseller George Redway. This led to further work as a translator from French. In 1887, Arthur married Amelia Hogg, an unconventional music teacher with a passion for the theatre. Soon after the marriage, Arthur began to receive a series of legacies from Scottish relatives that allowed him to devote more time to writing. Around 1890 Arthur began to publish in literary magazine. This led to his first major success, 'The Great God Pan'. It was published in 1894 was widely denounced for its sexual and horrific content and of course sold extremely well. In 1899, Amelia died of cancer after a long period of illness. Arthur was devastated. His recovery was helped by his a change of career to acting. By 1901 he was a member of Frank Benson's company of travelling players. In 1902 Arthur managed to find a publisher in 1902 for 'Hieroglyphics', an analysis of the nature of literature. Arthur married Dorothie Purefoy Hudleston, in 1902. In 1906 Machen's literary career began once more as the book 'The House of Souls' collected his most notable works of the nineties and brought them to a new audience. By 1910 Arthur accepted a full-time journalist's job at Alfred Harmsworth's Evening News. In February 1912 his son Hilary was born, and a daughter Janet in 1917. The coming of war in 1914 saw Arthur return to the public eye with 'The Bowmen' and the publicity surrounding the "Angels of Mons" episode. He published a series of stories capitalizing on this success, the most notable 'The Great Return' (1915) and 'The Terror' (1917). The year 1922 saw 'The Secret Glory' published, as was the first volume of his autobiography 'Far Off Things', and new editions of Machen's Casanova, The House of Souls and The Hill of Dreams all came out. Arthur's works had now found a new audience and publishers in America. By 1926 the boom in republication was mostly over, and Arthur's income dropped. In 1927, he became a manuscript reader for the publisher Ernest Benn until 1933. By 1929, Arthur and his family had moved to Amersham, Buckinghamshire. In 1932 he received a Civil List pension of £100 per annum in 1932, but the loss of work from Benn's a year later made things difficult once more. Arthur's finances finally stabilised with a literary appeal in 1943 for his eightieth birthday. The names on the appeal show the recognition of Machen's stature as a distinguished man of letters. They included Max Beerbohm, T. S. Eliot, Bernard Shaw, Walter de la Mare, Algernon Blackwood, and John Masefield. The success of the appeal allowed Arthur to live the last few years of his life in relative comfort, until his death at age 84 on December 15th, 1947 in Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire.
But all the afternoon his eyes had looked on glamour; he had strayed in fairyland. The holidays were nearly done, and Lucian Taylor had gone out resolved to lose himself, to discover strange hills and prospects that he had never seen before. The air was still, breathless, exhausted after heavy rain, and the clouds looked as if they had been molded of lead. No breeze blew upon the hill, and down in the well of the valley not a dry leaf stirred, not a bough shook in all the dark January woods.
The two men were slowly pacing the terrace in front of Dr. Raymond’s house. The sun still hung above the western mountain-line, but it shone with a dull red glow that cast no shadows, and all the air was quiet; a sweet breath came from the great wood on the hillside above, and with it, at intervals, the soft murmuring call of the wild doves. Below, in the long lovely valley, the river wound in and out between the lonely hills, and, as the sun hovered and vanished into the west, a faint mist, pure white, began to rise from the hills. Dr. Raymond turned sharply to his friend.
For three years, Jessica endured a loveless marriage while her husband pretended to be impotent. His lies unraveled when a pregnant mistress surfaced. After six months of secretly collecting proof, Jessica threw him out and built her own billion-dollar empire. After the divorce, she transformed into an irresistible figure, attracting admirers. As she left her office one day, she met Kevan, her ex-husband's brother. He stepped in, confronting her. "Was I just a tool to you?" Jessica's lips curled into a calm smile. "How much compensation do you want?" Kevan's voice softened. "All I want is you."
As a simple assistant, messaging the CEO in the dead of night to request shares of adult films was a bold move. Bethany, unsurprisingly, didn't receive any films. However, the CEO responded that, while he had no films to share, he could offer a live demonstration. After a night filled with passion, Bethany was certain she'd lose her job. But instead, her boss proposed, "Marry me. Please consider it." "Mr. Bates, you're kidding me, right?"
She was a world-renowned divine doctor, the CEO of a publicly traded company, the most formidable female mercenary, and a top-tier tech genius. Marissa, a titan with a plethora of secret identities, had hidden her true stature to marry a seemingly impoverished young man. However, on the eve of their wedding, her fiance, who was actually the lost heir to a wealthy dynasty, called off the engagement and subjected her to degradation and mockery. Upon the revelation of her concealed identities, her ex-fiance was left stunned and desperately pleaded for her forgiveness. Standing protectively before Marissa, an incredibly influential and fearsome magnate declared, "This is my wife. Who would dare try to claim her?"
Warning: This book has high sexual assault displays, but does not support any form of rape. I, Alpha Edward Parker, swear that I will keep you tied to me until I make you pay for what you did to my mate," he swore, gripping my chin in a bruising hold. "Not only will you wish for death, but you will beg for it, and it will be too far from you." I could feel the eyes of the whole pack on us. They probably came to experience a normal wedding, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I was being married off to a groom because he wanted revenge. Tears welled, and I wanted to scream, "I am your mate; I'm the one who saved you, not her." But I knew no one would believe me. I was his mate, how could he not recognize me? Four years ago, Amanda happened to save a total stranger, but due to a string of misunderstandings, her sister took her place. The stranger then promised a vow of betrothal to his savior. Not seeing any use in correcting the error, Amanda allowed it. That was her biggest mistake because the stranger ended up being her own mate. Caught in a web of lies and confusion, she decides to set herself free by speaking the truth. But her plans are thwarted when her sister turns up dead, and she is pinned as the main suspect. A mate out to seek revenge for another, a forced marriage, an underlying plot, a web of lies, and many dark secrets. How can Amanda navigate all these without losing sight of herself? How will she speak the truth when she has already lost her voice and has been destroyed by her own mate?
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?
Kallie, a mute who had been ignored by her husband for five years since their wedding, also suffered the loss of her pregnancy due to her cruel mother-in-law. After the divorce, she learned that her ex-husband had quickly gotten engaged to the woman he truly loved. Holding her slightly rounded belly, she realized that he had never really cared for her. Determined, she left him behind, treating him as a stranger. Yet, after she left, he scoured the globe in search of her. When their paths crossed once more, Kallie had already found new happiness. For the first time, he pleaded humbly, "Please don't leave me..." But Kallie's response was firm and dismissive, cutting through any lingering ties. "Get lost!"