150 works by S.Butler Cambridge Pieces, by Samuel Butler
I sit down scarcely knowing how to grasp my own meaning, and give it a tangible shape in words; and yet it is concerning this very expression of our thoughts in words that I wish to speak. As I muse things fall more into their proper places, and, little fit for the task as my confession pronounces me to be, I will try to make clear that which is in my mind.
'The Forsyte Saga'
Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight--an upper middle-class family in full plumage. But whosoever of these favoured persons has possessed the gift of psychological analysis (a talent without monetary value and properly ignored by the Forsytes), has witnessed a spectacle, not only delightful in itself, but illustrative of an obscure human problem. In plainer words, he has gleaned from a gathering of this family--no branch of which had a liking for the other, between no three members of whom existed anything worthy of the name of sympathy--evidence of that mysterious concrete tenacity which renders a family so formidable a unit of society, so clear a reproduction of society in miniature…
The Brangwens had lived for generations on the Marsh Farm, in the meadows where the Erewash twisted sluggishly through alder trees, separating Derbyshire from Nottinghamshire. Two miles away, a church - tower stood on a hill, the houses of the little country town climbing assiduously up to it. Whenever one of the Brangwens in the fields lifted his head from his work, he saw the church-tower at Ilkeston in the empty sky. So that as he turned again to the horizontal land, he was aware of something standing above him and beyond him in the distance.
What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.All in the Wrong.This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the main land by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favourite resort of the marsh- hen. The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are some miserable frame buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of this western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the sea-coast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle, so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable coppice, burdening the air with its fragrance.
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'YES,
sir?'
Jules,
the
celebrated
head
waiter
of
the
Grand
Babylon,
was
bending
formally
towards
the
alert,
middle-aged
man
who
had
just
entered
the
smoking-room
and
dropped
into
a
basket-chair
in
the
corner
by
the
conservatory.
It
was
7.45
on a
particularly
sultry
June
night,
and
dinner
was
about
to be
served
at
the
Grand
Babylon.
Men
of
all
sizes,
ages,
and
nationalities,
but
every
one
alike
arrayed
in
faultless
evening
dress,
were
dotted
about
the
large,
dim
apartment.
A
faint
odour
of
flowers
came
from
the
conservatory,
and
the
tinkle
of a
fountain.
The
waiters,
commanded
by
Jules,
moved
softly
across
the
thick
Oriental
rugs,
balancing
their
trays
with
the
dexterity
of
jugglers,
and
receiving
and
executing
orders
with
that
air
of
profound
importance
of
which
only
really
first-class
waiters
have
the
secret.
The
atmosphere
was
an
atmosphere
of
serenity
and
repose,
characteristic
of
the
Grand
Babylon.
It
seemed
impossible
that
anything
could
occur
to
mar
the
peaceful,
aristocratic
monotony
of
existence
in
that
perfectly-managed
establishment.
Yet
on
that
night
was
to
happen
the
mightiest
upheaval
that
the
Grand
Babylon
had
ever
known.
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