Anne of Avonlea, Chapters Twelve and Thirteen

In which Anne has a very cranky day and finds her personal educational philosophy slipping, but then celebrates a pseudo-birthday by exploring the countryside and learning a terribly tragic story; and in which our narrator wonders whatever happened to Anne's toothache, because she should really get that checked out, seriously now.



Today's cover is from a 1995 Norstedts printing of the Swedish edition of Vår vän Anne. I like that this one shows Anne with (presumably) Davy and Dora, who I have never seen featured anywhere. Heck, they're hardly ever even mentioned when talking about these books, so it's rather nice to see them on a cover. In Sweden, anyway. I also appreciate that Davy looks like he's trying to claw his way out of those fancy clothes that are strangling him.

Unnecessarily complex notes to follow!


10:56 - "by what somebody has called 'a Herculaneum effort.'" Herculaneum was an ancient Roman city that was, like the more famous Pompeii, buried by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 CE. It was wealthier than Pompeii, and actually better preserved, containing organic remains like wood, food, beds, and even skeletons. The destruction of Pompeii, though, was famously witnessed and described by Pliny the Younger, so it's distinctly the better-known.

Of course, that doesn't have much to do with this quote, which is a malaprop for the idiom "a Herculean effort." I'm not sure who the "somebody" is that Montgomery is attributing this phrase to, though. My best guess comes from an 1894 travelogue called Our Journey Around the World, by Rev. Francis Clark and Harriet Clark, where the narrator says "with a Herculaneum effort, as Mrs. Partington would have said..." Mrs. Partington turns out to be a character created by American humorist B. P. Shillaber in the 1850s who is described as an American Mrs. Malaprop (who, in turn, was from the play The Rivals by Richard Brinsley Sheridan and who, of course, gave her name to the practice of humorously replacing one word for another, similar-sounding one). The texts the Mrs. Partington are from, though, don't appear to be readily available online, at least not in searchable form, and what I can find does not appear to use particular term. I found other people in the 1800s making this same malaprop, though, so maybe it was just a semi-common joke with no specific source.

12:58 - "plum puffs won't minister to a mind diseased" Ah, okay, this one's easy. Anne here is adapting a quote from Act V, Scene III of Shakespeare's Macbeth:

MACBETH: How does your patient, doctor?

DOCTOR: Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies
That keep her from rest.

MACBETH: Cure her of that!
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon her heart.

DOCTOR: Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.

One should note that by quoting this, Anne is casting herself in the part of Lady Macbeth, guilt-ridden over the murder of King Duncan.

13:37 - "Every morn is a fresh beginning / Every morn is the world made new." Anne here is caroling the start of the poem "New Every Morning," from the 1889 book A Few More Verses by Susan Coolidge (1835-1905, real name Sarah Chauncey Woolsey, and also author of, of course, Verses). As far as I know, it was never set to music. If it ever was, it most certainly was not whatever travesty I saddled it with.

17:45 - "harrowing." A harrow is an agricultural tool made up of many spikes, discs, or tines which are dragged across plowed soil to smooth it out and break up large clump of dirt, giving it a finer and more finished appearance  that is also better for seeding. This is also where the word "harrowing" comes from, as in "a harrowing experience." Because, well, imagine being dragged through this sucker.

18:17 - "Begone, dull care!" This comes from an old English folk song that dates back to at least the 1600s, and possibly earlier.

19:14 - "It would be too hot to hold some folks." ...yeah, no, I still have no idea what Jane is so "sagely quoting" here, if indeed anything.
 
20:21 - "elephant's ears." I'm not sure which of the various related plants referred to as "elephant ears" they are referring to, but as far as I can tell none of them would be described as "graceful" or "feathery," or appropriate for "picking a big bunch," as they're primarily known for their very large, leathery, heart-shaped leaves rather than their flowers.


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg. No reading ahead, though!

Frankenstein, Volume One, Chapters Five and Six

In which Victor returns to health, letters arrive from loved ones, Elizabeth expounds at length on the history of a person whom Victor really already knows, tragedy strikes, and Victor figures it's probably his fault but eh, it'll probably end up working out this time, right? And in which the narrator assures you that he, too, will not stay dead.



Lookit that, we're back! This was actually recorded in part over a month ago, but only just completed last night (in case the sound between the two chapters sounds different or anything. Unfortunately, I appear to have, uh, misplaced my notes for Chapter 5, and my computer just ate my notes for Chapter 6, so I'm gonna have to go back through and listen to find out what notes are needed and where. I'll post 'em up here soon as I can!

In the meantime, here's today's cover, from a 1963 edition from Airmont Classics.Boy, this is a good one! I love that we've got Victor being all broody amongst his laboratory equipment that is also a graveyard, with the subtle grim specter of the creature's (Karloff-inspired) face looming in the background. This is also a great example of stock lab equipment in art. Want to show people your character is a "scientist"? Put some colored liquid into some flasks -- round-bottom and Erlenmeyer are especially popular, though I'm surprised there aren't any retorts there -- a smoking crucible over some kind of a burner, probably, and a mortar and pestle and boom! Science!


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg. No reading ahead, though!

Frankenstein, Volume One, Chapters Three and Four

In which Victor meddles in Things Man Was Not Meant to Know and, spoilers, grants life to a cobbled-together creature and promptly freaks the hell out, and best friend Henry appears just in time to play nursemaid.



And now we've passed through the chocolately backstory and into the caramel and crazynuts of the main narrative. And boy, once there Shelley really leaps right into making the creature, doesn't she? Interesting to note some major differences from the popular conception of the story (which, of course, largely comes from the movies): Victor's a student, not a doctor. No castle, and no assistant, hunchbacked or otherwise, just Victor by himself in the attic room of his apartment. And, of course, the appearance of the creature himself, with his lustrous black hair and pearly teeth.

One sort of general note: Victor mentions several times his visits to charnel houses during his studies and, eventually, his supply runs. These were vaults where bodies and/or bones were piled up, often those found when digging new graves and sometimes those excavated specifically to make more room (I mean, hey, are you really using that grave five years down the line?)

At 7:50, Victor says he "was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual light." This refers to the Fourth Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor, (who, of course, made seven voyages total). In this specific tale, to be brief, Sinbad is rescued from cannibals by other island natives, befriends their king, and is given a wealthy and beautiful wife. She gets sick and dies, and Sinbad learns that their custom is that both spouses are entombed when one dies, the living one given a jug of water and seven rations of bread to, I guess, prolong their agony. Luckily, when these are used up, a new living/dead pair are tossed into the cave, so Sinbad, uh, kills the still-living wife and takes her food (along with all the burial jewels and finery). After this happens several more times, Sinbad's got a nice little hoard of food, water, and wealth going on, until he follows the little light and/or a wild animal out an escape route to the sea. So... yeah.

Oh, and we've got another illustration! Also involving a glimmering light.

17:07 - "By the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull,
yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive
motion agitated its limbs, ... I rushed out of the room."

And... that's it for the illustrations. It's gonna be covers from now on. A few more notes, though:

22:10 - "Like one who, on a lonely road, / Doth walk in fear and dread, / And, having once turn'd round, walks on, / And turns no more his head; / Because he knows a frightful fiend / Doth close behind him tread." While wandering the streets, Victor brings us another reference (this time, a direct quotation) to "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," much as Walton did in the Letters. In case anyone is nit-picky enough to care (and you know I am), these references rather screw with the supposed timeline of the novel. Coleridge's poem was published in 1798, while Walton's letters were dated December 11th, 17—, to August 19th, 17—. It's possible that both Walton and Victor read the poem (Victor closely enough to memorize passages) in the months before heading up to the Arctic, and those m-dashes conceal 1798 to 1799. Sure. But then, Walton mentioned that they were trapped in the ice "last Monday (July 31st), and July 31, 1799 was a Wednesday. Going back, we first find it on a Monday in 1797, a year before "The Rime" was published! God, it's like Shelley didn't research this AT ALL.

At 22:28, we hear about another mode of conveyance: the diligence. This was a form of stagecoach, a big, sturdy carriage drawn by four or more horses used as a mode of public transport. They could usually seat a bunch of passengers and carry a mess of luggage on the roof.

Last, Henry says that his father was like the "Dutch schoolmaster in The Vicar of Wakefield: 'I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.'" The Vicar of Wakefield was a comedic sentimental novel (or possibly a satire of sentimental novels, depending on who you talk to) from the 1760s that remained popular up through and including the Victorian era.

Okay, so monster's created and immediately abandoned. Let's see how well that turns out!


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg. No reading ahead, though!

The Marvelous Land of Oz, Chapters Twenty-Two to Twenty-Four

In which Mombi is discovered and there is an exciting chase, after which Mombi reveals the secret of Princess Ozma's disappearance, and all is brought to a happy ending; and in which our narrator expostulates at length about the feminist implications and interpretations of the book.



Last installment, and boy have we got some surprises in store for you! Well, one surprise. Maybe.

More after the jump!

"The Little Mermaid," by Hans Christian Andersen

In which the young mermaid from under the sea wishes to be part of our world, makes a bargain with a sea witch, and attempts to win the love of a young prince in order to... get an immortal soul, a part of the story that our narrator had rather forgotten about.



Since "Snow White and Rose Red" was a bit on the short side, we're going to double up on our short story interlude by returning to Mr. Hans Christian Andersen. "The Little Mermaid," one of Andersen's popular "suffering is totally good for you" stories, was originally published in Denmark in 1836 as "Den lille havfrue," which literally translates as... "The Little Mermaid." As with "The Snow Queen" I had to pick a translation. Now, rather than just go with the one in the Andersen collection I own, because it inexplicably doesn't include "The Little Mermaid," which, what? I went with the original English translation from 1872, by H.P. Paull. As with Alice "Mrs. Edgar" Lucas," this is alternatively credited to H.B. Paull, Mrs. H.B. Paull, Mrs. H.H.B. Paull or various combinations thereof, when it seems her name is, in fact, Susannah Mary Paull.

Also, I, um, may have gone a bit overboard with the illustrations on this one. I found one rather extensive set of illustrations I really liked by Helen Stratton from 1899. Those are most of them, and all but one of the black-and-white illustrations. The full-color illustrations are by our friend Edmund Dulac, from the same 1911 edition that our "Snow Queen" illustrations came from. Then there are two others I threw in from Harry Clarke, 1916, and Hans Tegner, largely because I thought the others didn't include nearly enough pictures of the sea witch, who is awesome.

Oh, and it should be noted that whilst the Victorian era was one of rather notorious prudery, they were still kind of okay with breasts in art and illustrations. So... mermaid boobs ahead, if that kind of thing bothers you.

By the way, I apologize that this is late and that I didn't put in any timestamps for the images, but I need to stop pretending I can get these things done on time during tech week for a show I'm in. The theater people in the audience know what I'm sayin'. If I get a chance, I'll add the timestamps in.

The "F" from the opening line: "Far out in the ocean..." (Stratton)

More illustrations after the jump!

Sense and Sensibility, Volume the Third, Chapters Eleven and Twelve

In which everyone insists that no, even with Willoughby's "vindication," there is no way Marianne would have been happy with him; it is revealed that Mr. Ferrars and Lucy Steele are now married, to the great agitation of everyone; and Edward comes to pay another most awkward visit.



Oh no! Mr. Ferrars is married! Well, I'm sure they will be very happy together. I must say, I love how wonderfully awkward pretty much every single scene with Edward is, and I don't identify with it at all.

Shut up.

9:37 - "I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married."

Oh, hmm. Was Thomas supposed to be an older gentleman? Should I have, I don't know, baldened up his voice a little bit, or something? I should take a closer look at these illustrations maybe before recording. Ah, well.

17:43 - It was Edward.

Edward! Why you cut off your horse's tail like that? Don't you know that's their flyswatter? Not very nice. Elinor's better off without you, probably.

(All right, maybe I'm just looking for a way to use the "dismemberment" tag in this book. I suppose that's stretching it a bit, though. Seriously though, Jane, you couldn't have had anyone, like, lose a finger? Or something? Pssh.)


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg, and high-res copies of the Thompson illustrations can be found in the British Library's Flickr stream. No reading ahead, though!

Sense and Sensibility, Volume the Third, Chapters Nine and Ten

In which the Dashwood family is happily reunited and returns to Barton, where Marianne continues to recover her strength and settle her spirits, and is made acquainted with Willoughby's story.



And now we're barreling towards our presumably happy ending (unless Marianne pulls a Beth March on us). Marianne's brush with death has apparently taught her a bit of a lesson, re: her feelings, and indulgence thereof. But no one we like has gotten married yet! I assume that will be taken care of soon. ROMANCE.

No illustrations of the happy Dashwoods together again; no, we'll see "how the children go on," or something:

18:16 - "And see how the children go on."

If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg, and high-res copies of the Thompson illustrations can be found in the British Library's Flickr stream. No reading ahead, though!

Sense and Sensibility, Volume the Third, Chapters Six and Seven

In which Elinor and Marianne arrive at the Palmers' residence, where Marianne takes dreadfully ill, everyone is very concerned and Colonel Brandon is dispatched to fetch Mrs. Dashwood; and in which there is a shocking twist!



Drama! Yes, we've come to the part that fans of the book have most likely been waiting for, where everything actually comes to a head, and we see that, while an excess of sensibility (here defined as feeling and expressing all emotions most intensely) can be dangerous, an excess of calmness and tranquility (or "sense") can sometimes lead to inaction when action may very much be needed. I wonder if any sort of lesson will be learned by either or both of the sisters?

Oh, crap. I have to use the "tedious moralizing" tag on myself, now.

4:46 - Showing her child to the housekeeper.

5:49 - The gardener's lamentations.

The only note I've got is at 15:07, where we hear about another card game. Mrs. Jennings insists that Colonel Brandon stay during Marianne's illness in order to keep her company while Elinor was sitting with Marianne, and "play at piquet of an evening," a pretense Mrs. Jennings thought necessary as to not separate Colonel Sad-eyes from Elinor, and which he was more than willing to accept so as not to be separated from Marianne. Well, piquet (in which the "t" is pronounced, because what are we, French?) is a trick-taking card game, like whist is (y'all remember whist, right?), but for only two players. It seems a bit complicated, involving a 32-card deck that had the 2-6 cards of each suit removed. Each player gets 12 cards, but then gets a chance to exchange up to five of them with cards from the remaining eight cards of the deck. Once both have exchanged, one declares what points they can make with their hand (like, "Point of four," meaning four of one suit). The other one then sees if they can beat it, and points are scored accordingly. You apparently want to do this without revealing too much of the specifics of what you actually have in your hand. Once this "declaration" phase is over and scored, they move into "play," which is fairly standard trick-taking: one lays down a card, the other lays down a card of the same suit. Whoever lays down the higher card wins the trick and scores. There are other ways to score as well, involving who does what first and who's dealing and such. Ultimately, whoever makes it to 100 points first wins.

Anyway, piquet was developed in France and was enormously popular there for a long time. It went in and out of fashion among Britain's upper crust for a couple of hundred years, until roughly a century ago when Bridge knocked it down into obscurity. And if you want to play it, there's an app for that. Because of course there is. Free on Android, and... $7.99 on iOS? Dang. You Apple folks are getting shafted in the archaic card game department.

28:55 - Opened a window-shutter.

If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg, and high-res copies of the Thompson illustrations can be found in the British Library's Flickr stream. No reading ahead, though!

Sense and Sensibility, Volume the Second, Chapter Fourteen

In which we meet the incredibly charming — and puppyish — Robert Ferrars, and the Misses Steele are again shown unaccountable preference by Edward's family in order to snub the Misses Dashwood.



Now seriously, come on, how much do you just LOVE Mr. Robert Ferrars, he of the toothpick case? I just delight in a good snob.

Two quick notes before the single illustration: at 7:54, we hear that the compliments offered to Marianne by Miss Steele following a close scrutiny of everything her appearance were intended as a "douceur." This is another word for some kind of inducement or incentive, or sometimes a bribe. Literally, it means "sweetener," and is related to words like dulce and dulcet. Importantly, the "c" is pronounced as an "s," not as "sh."

Then, at 9:07, we hear that the musicians are playing a violoncello, which is the full name of what we now usually refer to as a cello.

Shortly thereafter, we meet Robert Ferrars in an illustration that is actually the frontispiece to this edition, but obviously makes much more sense for me to show here:

9:37 - Mr. Dashwood introduced him.

Last, at 12:25, Robert is bloviating about how his friend showed him "three plans of Bonomi's," which he promptly threw in the fire. This refers to Joseph Bonomi the Elder (1739-1808), an Italian architect who took up residence in London and was rather fashionable there around the time this story is taking place.

And that's the end of Volume the Second! Next time, we'll get started on the third and final volume.


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg, and high-res copies of the Thompson illustrations can be found in the British Library's Flickr stream. No reading ahead, though!

Sense and Sensibility, Volume the First, Chapters Fifteen to Seventeen

In which Willoughby is also suddenly called away on "business," breaking Marianne's heart into little bits and giving Elinor suspicious feelings; and Edward Ferrars makes his first appearance at Barton, whilst acting unfortunately cold and reserved; and in which our narrator realizes he's foolishly been doing his timestamps wrong possibly all the way back to "Rikki-tikki-tavi."



Getting this up a bit late, so right to the illustrations:

1:42 - Apparently in violent affliction.

21:03 - Begging her to stop.

It must be noted that, at 24:09 when Edwards states that "those bottoms must be dirty in winter," he is referring to the valleys, not any other sort of "bottom" you may be thinking of.

At 29:46, Edward mentions another of Marianne's favorite authors (along with Cowper -- again -- and Scott): James Thomson, another nature-loving poet and forerunner of Romanticism. He's best known for his poem cycle The Seasons, as well as for writing the lyrics to "Rule Britannia."

And yes, somehow I only JUST NOW REALIZED that I've been timestamping the illustrations and notes wrong, as I've been noting the time as I record, not taking into account the 16-second intro music that I now put in at the start. That's as many as EIGHTEEN recordings I've done this on without it even OCCURRING to me what I was doing. Sigh. I've updated back to "The Ransom of Red Chief," and I'll fix up Around the World in Eighty Days soon.


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg, and high-res copies of the Thompson illustrations can be found in the British Library's Flickr stream. No reading ahead, though!

Around the World in Eighty Days, Chapters Twenty-Six to Twenty-Eight

In which our party takes the express train on the Pacific Railroad; Passepartout follows, with a speed of twenty miles an hour, a course of Mormon history; Passepartout could not succeed in making anyone listen to reason; and in which our narrator assures you that the depiction of Mormonism is at least more accurate than that in A Study in Scarlet, for real.



Hey hey! Sorry about the long unannounced break, which was not caused but was unfortunately prolonged by snow and malfunctioning internet (which actually seem to be independent of each other). Anyway, I'm back, and while updates may still be a bit patchy for a bit, I'm going to try as much as I can to get back on our regular schedule. Thanks for sticking with me, and onto the illustrations!

5:35 - "The sheets were clean and the pillows soft."

8:33 - "A herd of ten or twelve thousand blocked the railroad."

16:36 - "'And you, my brother.'"

17:07 - "A beautiful lake."

 Round about 17:29, mention is made of "Lake Asphaltite" in comparison to the Great Salt Lake of Utah. As context sort of makes clear, this refers to the super-salty Dead Sea. This is a version of its Greek name, Lake Asphaltites.

The "follies" referred to at 18:56 as one of the squarely-built things in America is not quite a snide a remark as it might seem, as a folly is an architectural term for a structure that is rather extravagantly ornamental, much more so than its actual function (if any) really calls for.

35:38 - "The bridge, already about to fall, went down
with a crash into the rapids of Medicine Bow."

Oh, those foolhardy Americans, always jumping trains over gorges!


If you would like to read along, my translation by Stephen W. White can be found courtesy of Choptank Press on Google Books. If you prefer one of the other options, the George Towle translation can be found at Zvi Har’El’s Jules Verne Collection, which is also where I got the illustrations, or the more accurate but rather fusty Henry Frith translation can be found at Project Gutenberg. No reading ahead, though!

"The Snow Queen," Fourth to Seventh Stories

In which our heroine is assisted by crows, royalty, a most delightful robber girl, a friendly reindeer, and a couple of mysterious ladies to achieve a happy ending, though several deaths are dealt with rather casually.



Couple of things I had to look up: the poor murdered "postilions" are drivers of horse-drawn carriages; the "lath" enclosing the robber girl's wood pigeons is just strips of wood, like that making latticework; the Snow Queen's castle is on Spitsbergen, a very-far-north island belonging to Norway, and to get there they must travel to Lapland, which is a cultural region defined as where the indigenous Sami people live (the Sami were formerly known, and are referred to in this story, as the Lapp people, which is now frowned upon), and ultimately end up in the Finnmark, a very northerly county in Norway. There, they meet the Finn woman, who naturally enough is a member of the ethnic group associated with Finland.

And then of course we have the rest of the Edmund Dulac illustrations from 1911:

2:20 - "She has read all the newspapers in the world, and forgotten them again, so clever is she."

 One of the things I love about this story is how Gerda gets mixed up in what seem to be someone else's fairy tale entirely, like this one about the clever princess looking for a husband who can prove his worth to her, and Gerda's all "Mmhmm, mmhmm, can we get back to my tragic search now?"

12:29 - "'It is gold, it is gold!' they cried."

Also, I just absolutely adore the little robber girl, like how she takes pity on Gerda and thus earnestly promises that she won't let anyone else kill her, but will do it herself, and how she tries to make Gerda kiss one of the pigeons, and how she casually mentions that the friendly, helpful crow is now dead. She's my favorite.

23:51 - "The reindeer did not dare to stop. It ran on till it came to the bush with the red berries. There
it put Gerda down, and kissed her on the mouth, while big shining tears trickled down its face."

I'm a little puzzled about the fact that the text specifically says that the reindeer — twice — kiss Gerda on the mouth, but hey, who am I to judge.

26:50 - "The Snow Queen sat in the very middle of it when she sat at home."

Funny thing, we actually don't see very much of the Snow Queen. Gerda doesn't even meet her. She sure is purty, though. Actually, all of the villains in this story — the hobgoblin, the Snow Queen, the robbers — all get away completely scot-free. And, of course, millions of other shards of that mirror still exist in the world. Ah well.

And that's it for another short story interlude, and Andersen has now taken his place on The Bookshelf. Tomorrow we'll start up a new book, and then we'll resume our regular schedule. Thanks for listening!


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg. No reading ahead, though!

Treasure Island, Chapters Thirty-Three and Thirty-Four

In which our heroes get away surprisingly easily, there is much hauling of gold, and the primary villain gets away with it; and in which our narrator swears that there was more of Long John in the book, but maybe he's just thinking about Tim Curry.



Only a few notes for these last two chapters, most importantly dealing with the monetary list Jim makes while sorting out the treasure. My own editions makes a note of "walking the plank," for those unaware of what that means in a pirate context, but oddly neither of the note "pig nuts," because I seriously thought Long John was being a little cruder than he actually was.

Two final N. C. Wyeth illustrations for these sections: first, we've got Jim in Ben Gunn's cave, sorting through the massive pile of coins and loading them into bags, alongside a stack of gold ingots:

11:35 -  "I was kept busy all day in the cave packing the minted money into bread-bags."

Second, we've got the neat endpapers to Wyeth's edition, showing the pirate band charging forth to find the treasure, armed with cutlasses, muskets, shovels, and pickaxes:

And that does now officially close the book on Treasure Island. The whole book is now gathered together on The Bookshelf. Stay tuned for another short story interlude before starting our next book, and thanks for listening!


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg. No reading ahead, though!

Treasure Island, Chapters Twenty-Four to Twenty-Six

In which Jim's dang fool plan mysteriously works, allowing him to commandeer the vessel, which he decides to run aground (no no, on purpose) with the assistance of the injured pirate Israel Hands, who is surprisingly not to be trusted.



Geez, the only thing in these chapters 1908 decided to note was "yawing," but these chapters especially have a whole bunch of nautical terms that are not necessarily well-known by all, so here's a handy glossary to help you out. I probably should've supplied this earlier in the story. The only thing I have to add is that the Execution Dock Mr. Hands refers to is, not surprisingly, a dock in London where executions were held by the British Admiralty Court for crimes at sea, like pirating, smuggling, and mutiny.

But, more importantly, we get to see this illustration of Jim up in the rigging, aiming both pistols right at Israel Hands's face, while Hands prepares to throw his dagger into Jim's shoulder:

32:58 - "'One more step, Mr. Hands,' said I, "and I'll blow your brains out!"

Action! Excitement! The obligatory attempt to sanctimoniously show the villain the error of his ways by threat of Hell!


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg. No reading ahead, though!

Anne of Green Gables, Chapter Six to Eight

In which Marilla saves Anne from a fate worse than death, metaphorically, and discovers that Anne is little better than a heathen, and in which our narrator is briefly distracted by the mention of an Old Friend.



Marilla mentions borrowing the Peep of Day series to begin Anne's religious instruction. The Peep of Day ("or, a series of the Earliest Religious Instruction the Infant Mind is capable of receiving, with verses illustrative of the subjects") by Favell Lee Mortimer was published in 1845 and, wow, looks like someone's kept it in print as of at least 2000. A quick look through it shows that it's just buckets of fun:

God has covered your bones with flesh. Your flesh is soft and warm. In your flesh there is blood. God has put skin outside, and it covers your flesh and blood like a coat. Now all these things, the bones, and flesh, and blood, and skin, are called your body. How kind of God it was to give you a body. I hope that your body will not get hurt. [page 17 at that link up there]

"Yeah, sure would be a shame if somethin' were to happen to that nice, warm body that God made for ya, wouldn't it? You just keep that in mind, an' I'll see ya at church on Sunday, yeah?"

Also, I am tickled that the second time I get to use the "tedious moralizing" tag directly references the scene I created it for. I wish I'd planned it that way. Based on the fact that most of our books will be coming from the nineteenth century, I've a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of this tag.

Less entertainingly, the "chromo" that Anne is enraptured by is a chromolithograph, was basically just a multicolored printed image.

And finally, this installment's cover is that of the specific edition I'm reading from is a 1987 Bantam Classic paperback with a cover photo by Rob McEwan, which appears to be a tie-in edition for the 1985 CBC miniseries starring Megan Follows. I got it, along with the rest of the series, from a used book store for about $2.50 each, so there's more where this came from!

This is the one, if you remember from the first installment, that says up there at the top "The most beloved, beguiling, and timeless heroine in all of fiction," which, way to oversell it for me, guys, thanks.


If you would like to read along, the text can be found at Project Gutenberg. No reading ahead, though! 

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Chapters Eight and Nine

In which our heroine finally enters the little garden, where she sees some Card Tricks, threats of Mass Executions which are stymied by the Pre-Disembodied Head of the Cat, whereupon she re-encounters the Duchess in a more Pleasant though Didactic Temper, and then is introduced to a Gryphon and a Mock Turtle who share some Puns Most Terrible.



You'll need the Tenniel illustrations for this one, as one is actually mentioned in the text: