A day or two back, I set up a Facebook page for In Which I Read Vintage Novels.
If you are the Facebooking kind, may I request the pleasure of your company? And it's not just so that you can let your whole Facebook friendslist know about this blog. Well, it's partly that, but I want you to feel like you're getting some special benefits out of it too. "Like" the Facebook page and you'll not only get handy reminders every time I've posted something new--you'll also get some all-new, exclusive, Facebook-only content.
That's right--for most of the books I read, you'll get bite-sized mini-reviews. And unlike the blog, they'll be reviews of all kinds of books--not just the vintage novels. If this sounds appealing at all, pop over to the Facebook page and 'like' away! And thank you for joining!
I shall leave you with a poem by James McAuley. I'm particularly fond of this one, because it is set in an old stone church in Battery Point, Hobart, which just happens to have been built by an ancestor of mine.
The Convict and the Lady
An incident in St George's Church, Battery Point
by James McAuley
Voluntaries of Clarke and Boyce
Flow temperately sweet
With Gamba, Flute, and Clarabel,
And pedal Bourdon trampled well
By shapely kid-skinned feet.
An apparition from the tower
Suspends the diapason.--
Will she scream? No, courage wins,
And in that empty church begins
An interesting liason.
'Lady, I am a fugitive
That's taken refuge here.
Up into the tower I crept,
Two days and nights I've waked and slept,
But hunger masters fear.
Now fetch me food, or fetch the law,
For I am at your mercy.
Though forfeited in youthful spleen,
My birth and station were not mean,
My name is Eustace Percy.'
So every day she brings her lunch,
And practices the organ.
She finds him breeches, coat and vest,
And takes word to The Sailor's Rest,
To a man named Harry Morgan.
One Sunday, as the lady plays
'Recessional in A',
A stranger joins the genteel throng
That files out after Evensong;
Unmarked, he slips away.
In darkness a small boat rows out
Into the estuary.
The brig looms up upon the tide,
A shadow clambers up the side--
And Eustace Percy's free!
So ends the tale? No, three years passed;
From Hull a letter came:
'I thrive in my new way of life...'
The lady sailed to be his wife,
And shared a borrowed name.
Organist, for that lady's sake,
Select your stops and play
This postlude that I chose expressly,
By Samuel Sebastian Wesley,
'Recessional in A.'