I understand the large hearts of heroes,
The courage of present times and all times,
How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the
steamship, and Death chasing it up and down the storm,
How he knuckled tight and gave not back an inch, and was faithful of
days and faithful of nights,
And chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will
not desert you;
How he follow'd with them and tack'd with them three days and
would not give it up,
How he saved the drifting company at last,
How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd when boated from the
side of their prepared graves,
How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the
sharp-lipp'd unshaved men;
All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine,
I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there.
It cannot fall the young man who died and was buried,
Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,
Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back
and was never seen again,
Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with
bitterness worse than gall,
Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,
Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo
call'd the ordure of humanity,
Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,
Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth,
Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads
that inhabit them,
Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.
I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,
clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night,
Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of
work-people at their meals,
The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick,
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing
The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the
refrain of the anchor-lifters,
The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streaking
engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and color'd lights,
The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,
The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two and two,
(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)
I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,)
I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.
There are many strange visions that include a skull eclipsing the moon, stoning of a woman with flowers, a Djinn haunting a man in his sleepin the form of a mosquito, and more.
Pope's The Rape of the Lock and other poems edited with introduction and notes by Thomas Marc Parrott this edition 1906 The Man With The Twisted Lip Essays
The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs,
The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or in fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain'd by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them--I come and I depart.
It's 1887, just a few weeks before Watson's marriage. The wet weather has made Watson's old war wound act up a little, so he's mostly been staying inside reading the papers. At one point, Holmes comes in holding an envelope with a nobleman's seal on it. It belongs to Lord St. Simon, son of the Duke of Balmoral and one of the highest aristocrats in England. Watson gives Holmes the skinny on what the papers have been saying about a scandal surrounding St. Simon: his wife has disappeared.
Here's the back-story: Hatty Doran is the daughter of an American millionaire. She manages to get through the ceremony tying her to St. Simon. But then, at the wedding breakfast after the ceremony, she excuses herself after ten minutes, goes upstairs, grabs a long coat and, apparently, just walks out the side door. Witnesses mention seeing her in Hyde Park walking with a woman named Flora Miller, a former dancer and love of St. Simon's who tried to interrupt the wedding. On the strength of this evidence, Miller has been arrested for murder.
After Watson recaps all of this through newspaper clippings, St. Simon comes in. He makes a strange little comment about Holmes being unused to working with people of such high stature (which we know isn't true, since we started off this collection with the King of Bohemia). Holmes dismisses this silly comment and gets down to business. St. Simon tells Holmes that Doran seemed in good spirits before the wedding, but irritable afterwards. The only way that he can account for the change is that Doran dropped her bouquet as they started to walk out of the church after the ceremony, and was irritated because of this. A stranger sitting in the front pew handed it back to her, but this only seemed to upset her more. Ten minutes later, she left the wedding breakfast as described above.
Holmes says that he already knows what has happened, but St. Simon seems skeptical. He leaves. Then in comes Lestrade, who has been dragging the Hyde Park lake, the Serpentine, looking for Doran's body. The police have found one thing of interest: her wedding clothes and ring all tossed into the water in a heap. In the pocket of this dress is a note that says, "Come at once. F.H.M." (Bachelor.148). On the other side is a hotel receipt that Holmes seems to find particularly important.
After this visit from Lestrade, Holmes spends most of the day out of the house. But he's ready to receive St. Simon at 9pm, with a dinner set for five. And who are the other two guests? The missing Hatty Doran and her new husband, Francis Hay Moulton. Doran apologizes for running away and hurting St. Simon, but she really couldn't think of anything else to do. She had actually married Moulton years before in the US in secret. He went off to seek his fortune. Eventually, she heard that he had been killed. So she thought she was free to follow her father's wishes and marry St. Simon – but she was wrong. That scene in the church when she dropped her bouquet and some guy handed it to her? That guy was Moulton, and he used the opportunity to slip her a note asking for a meeting.
It's the note that gives Holmes the evidence he needs to find the couple and to persuade them to come clean with St. Simon. Holmes is able to narrow down his hotel search to places that charge the amounts on the receipt for lodging and food. Once he's shortened his list, he visits different hotels asking after recent American guests, finds a forwarding address for Francis Hay Moulton, and goes to visit him directly.
Despite Doran's heartfelt apology to St. Simon, he's not exactly ready to forgive and forget. While he can't do anything to change the events now, since his wife is already married, he won't stay and have dinner with her. Watson thinks that's kind of mean, but Holmes is sympathetic. After all, it must be really disappointing to go to all the trouble of marrying somebody and then have neither wife nor money to show for it.
As Watson's looking out on the street one morning, he sees a man who he thinks is crazy: the guy's well dressed, sure, but he's running flat out and he keeps tearing at his hair and twisting his face. Holmes is pleased, since it looks like the madman is coming to 221B Baker Street. The madman is actually named Alexander Holder, and he is one of the senior partners of the second largest private bank in London.
Holder's bank often gives loans to very highly placed families, as long as they're able to put down something valuable as a security deposit. One day, a man from a very good family comes in and asks for a loan of 50,000 pounds. In exchange, he leaves behind the Beryl Coronet, a golden crown with 39 beryls (a kind of gem) inset, which is worth about double the loan he's asking for. Holder takes the coronet and gives the nobleman his loan, on the understanding that he'll return the crown to the nobleman the next Monday when the guy pays off his debt.
Holder brings the coronet home because he's worried about his office security. He locks it in his bureau. He then mentions to his son, Arthur, and his niece/adopted daughter, Mary, what's currently nestling in his dressing room: this coronet. While he's sure that he waited until the maid, Lucy Parr, left the room before telling them this news, he can't be sure the door was shut. Anyway, he checks with his niece Mary that the house is locked up tight and they all retire for the evening.
In the middle of the night, he hears footsteps in the room next door, where the bureau is. In a panic, Holder rushes over, only to find his son, Arthur, holding the crown. Arthur has a gambling problem and that very evening he had been asking his father for a loan. Holder assumes immediately that Arthur was trying to steal the coronet. He grabs the jewels back from his son, only to find that an end piece has been broken off, and three of the beryls are missing. Holder demands that Arthur produce the jewels, but Arthur won't say a word about it. Holder calls the cops, and Arthur asks for five minutes before he's arrested. Holder's like, fat chance, you're not running away on my watch, and the police cart Arthur off to prison. They've searched both Arthur and the whole house, though, and haven't been able to find the missing piece of the coronet.
Holmes asks if there are any regular visits to the house. Holder says not many, but one guy does come often – a friend of Arthur's who's been a terrible influence, a Sir George Burnwell.
Holmes, Holder, and Watson all head over to Holder's house to investigate further. They meet Mary, the niece, who thinks it was probably Lucy, the maid, and her boyfriend, a wooden-legged grocer named Francis Prosper. Holmes doesn't seem persuaded, but he does get very interested in a back alley behind the house. He confirms that Arthur was barefoot when Holder found him holding the crown. Watson and Holmes head home after Holmes asks Holder to come to Baker Street again the next morning.
As soon as they return to the apartment, Holmes puts on one of his disguises and heads out again to run a mysterious errand. Watson doesn't really see him again until the next morning, when they greet Holder. Holder's looking really upset: his niece Mary has run away. He wonders if it was suicide. Holmes reassures Holder that this turn of events may be all good. Holmes then asks his client for a check for 4,000 pounds, takes it from Holder, and then hands him a small triangle of gold with the three missing beryls. Holder is thrilled.
Holmes is stern: Holder owes Arthur an apology. What happened was this: Mary has actually run away with Sir George Burnwell, who was the real thief. She told him about the crown and passed it to him that fatal evening. Arthur, seeing Mary do this, didn't want to shame her but also didn't want to ruin his father. So he ran after Burnwell, tried to grab the crown away from him, and came away with, well, most of it. That's when Holder unluckily caught him holding the coronet and made totally the wrong assumptions. Meanwhile, Holmes managed to find out that Burnwell had already sold the coronet pieces, traced it to a given dealer, and bought the gems back for 3,000 pounds. So all's well! …Except Holder is still pretty upset to know that his niece has eloped with a scoundrel. Can she be traced? Holmes says, no, and that wherever she is and whatever wrong she's done to Holder, she's going to suffer plenty of punishment as the wife of a fiend like Burnwell.
This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger,
It is for the wicked just same as the righteous, I make appointments
I will not have a single person slighted or left away,
The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited,
The heavy-lipp'd slave is invited, the venerealee is invited;
There shall be no difference between them and the rest.