William Alexander Taylor - Intermere
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William Alexander Taylor: author's other books
Who wrote Intermere? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
William Alexander Taylor
William Alexander Robson
Alexander Falconer Murison
Alexander Brady
Alexander William Kinglake
Sir William Alexander Craigie
W. A. P. (William Alexander Parsons) Martin
Alexander Etkind
William Scott and Gavin Alexander
Browne William Alexander Francis
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Transcriber's Note:
Punctuation and possible typographical errors have been changed.
Archaic and variable spelling have been preserved.
The cover image and Table of Contents were created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.
William Alexander Taylor
INTERMERE.
BY
WILLIAM
ALEXANDER
TAYLOR,
WILLIAM
ALEXANDER
TAYLOR,
COLUMBUS, OHIO.
1901 - - - 1902
The XX. Century Pub. Co.
COPYRIGHT BY
WM. A. TAYLOR,
1901.
WM. A. TAYLOR,
1901.
THIS IS THE STRANGE AND REMARKABLE STORY, IN SUBSTANCE, AND LARGELY IN DETAIL, AS NARRATED BY GILES HENRY ANDERTON, JOURNALIST AND AMERICAN TOURIST.
CONTENTS
| Page | |
|---|---|
| The tourist lost in mid-ocean is mysteriously introduced into Intermere, and meets the first citizen and other chief officials. | 10 |
| Xamas, the first citizen, explains the polity and principles governing the Commonwealth and promoting the interests of all the people of Intermere. | 30 |
| Maros places Anderton in communication with his mother, and dissipates his superstitious ideas and otherwise enlightens him as to the possibilities of science. | 54 |
| A trip by air and land and water through the provinces, cities, hamlets and gardens, with matchless beauty and enjoyment on every hand. | 73 |
| The philosophy of life, and the faculty of its enjoyment as personified in the persons and vocations of the entertainers. | 95 |
| The secret of Intermere partially revealed to Anderton, and when he least expects it he is restored to his home and kindred, much to his regret. | 119 |
| Le envoi. | 148 |
I.
THE TOURIST LOST IN MID-OCEAN IS MYSTERIOUSLY INTRODUCED INTO INTERMERE, AND MEETS THE FIRST CITIZEN AND OTHER CHIEF OFFICIALS.
I.
THE MISTLETOE.
The Mistletoe, staunch, trim and buoyant, steamed across the equator under the glare of a midday sun from a fleckless sky, and began to ascend toward the antarctic circle.
Three days later we came in sight of a great bank of fog or mist, which stood like a gray wall of stone across the entire horizon, plunged into it and the sun disappeareddisappeared forever to all except one of the gay and careless crew and passengers.
For days, as was shown by the ship's chronometers, we steamed slowly on our course, surrounded by an inky midnight, instinct with an oppressive and fearsome calm. As we approached the fortieth parallel of south latitude a remarkable change set in. The deathly calm was suddenly broken by the rush of mighty and boisterous winds, sweeping now from one point of the compass, and then suddenly veering to another, churning up the waters and spinning the Mistletoe round and round like a top.
In the midst of the terror and confusion, heightened by the unheeded commands of the officers, a glittering sheeny bolt, like a coruscating column of steel, dropped straight from the zenith, striking the gyrating Mistletoe amidships.
There was a deafening report, the air was filled with serpentine lines of flame, followed simultaneously by the dull explosion of the boilers, the hissing of escaping steam, the groaning of cordage and machinery, the lurching of the vessel as the water poured in apparently from a score of openings, a shuddering vibration of all its parts, and then, amid cries and prayers and imprecations, the wrecked vessel shot like a plummet to the bottom.
I felt myself being dragged down to the immeasurable watery depths, confused with roaring sounds and oppressed with terrors indescribable and horrible. The descent seemed miles and miles. Then I felt myself slowly rising toward the surface, followed by legions of submarine monsters of grotesque shapes and terrifying aspects.
With accelerated motion I approached the surface and, shooting like a cork above the now calm sea, fortunately fell upon a piece of floating wreckage. Looking upward as I lay upon it, I saw the blue sky and the brilliant stars far overhead. The fierce winds and inky darkness and blackness of the night were disappearing beyond the northeastern horizon.
I tried to concentrate my scattered thoughts and piece out the awful catastrophe that had befallen the ship and my companions, but the effort was too great a strain and I ceased to thinkperhaps I ceased to exist.
I seemed to be passing through a vague twilight of sentient existence. Thought was rudimentary with me, if, indeed, there were any thoughts. They were mere sensations, perhaps, or impressions imperfectly shaped, but I remember them now as being so delightful, that I prayed, in a feeble way, that I might never be awakened from them. And then gradually the senses of sight, hearing, and full physical and mental existence returned to me.
At length I was able to determine that I lay on something like a hammock on the deck of a smoothly gliding vessel. Turning my head first to the right and then to the left, I imagined that I was indeed in Paradise, only the reality before me was so infinitely more beautiful than the most vivid poetic descriptions I had ever read of the longed for heaven of endless peace and happiness. But this could not be the Paradise of the disembodied souls, for I realized I was there in all my physical personal being.
I was sailing through a smooth, shimmering sea, thickly studded with matchlessly beautiful islands. They lay in charming profusion and picturesque irregularity of contour on the right and the left, each a distinct type of beauty and perfection. I could make out houses and gardens and farms and people on each of them.
Looking to the right I saw what appeared to be a mainland with majestic and softly modulated mountains and broad valleys, running from the distance down to the sands of the seashore. Above the mountains shone the unobscured sun, but not the burning orb I had known of old in the lower latitudes. It kissed me with a tenderness that was entrancing, filling my weakened frame with new life.
The breezes toyed with my tangled and unkempt locks, fanned my brow and whispered such things to me as did the zephyrs when I stood upon the threshold of guileless boyhood.
Finally I was able to frame a consecutive thought, in the interrogative form, and it was this:
"Where am I? Is this the Heaven my mother taught me to seek?"
I had as yet seen no one aboard the ship, or whatever it was, although I had heard the hum of what seemed to be conversation from some point beyond the line of vision. Again I silently repeated my mental question.
As if in response to my unuttered query, a being, or a man, of striking and pleasing appearance came to my side and laying his hand softly on my forehead, addressed me in a tongue at once familiar but wholly unknown, as paradoxical as that may sound.
I remained silent and he again addressed me.
I did not feel disconcerted or awed by his appearance and said: "I speak French and German imperfectly; English with some fluency."
His rejoinder was in English: "You speak English, but are not an Englishman except by partial descent. You are an American. Not a native of the eastern portion of the continent, but from west of the range of mountains which separate the Atlantic seaboard from the great central valley of the continent. You are from the tributary Ohio valley, and are, therefore, better fitted to comprehend what you will be permitted to see and hear, than the average habitant of the eastern seashore, especially of its great cities."
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