#please no further commentary on occasional bears

[bearotonin-international]

Not criticizing or any of that, just a genuine curious question because I don't immediately necessarily think of pandas as bears all the time? Could you explain what you mean by occasional bear? Feel free to ignore this if not!

occasional bears are occasionally bears

[autisticlancemcclain]

prev

———

“See! There it is again! It is going to attack us, we must act immediately!”

Keith wonders how badly it will make everything worse if he feigns a heart attack. He thinks he could be pretty convincing.

“Animals make noises,” Keith says tiredly. “The roars are not getting any closer. How did the previous attacks go? Was there some sort of roar-increase?”

The dignitary hesitates. “Well, no. The first time it happened the beast seemed startled, and then it was angry.”

“Shocking, that,” Lance says, and this time no one fights him.

The longer this debate has been going on, the clearer and clever it has become that Lance was correct.

Before they decided to go after the beast, the team decided it would be best to get as much information from the dignitary, security team, and royal family of the planet as possible. They expected it would take maybe half a varga to go over a couple reports, make a plan, and go after the beast – and hopefully manage to subdue it rather than kill it, to solve the problem on as many fronts and please as many people as possible.

Of course, because the universe finds their endless struggle amusing, it did not go that way. Instead, they’ve been here for the past four vargas at least, trying to get as much information as possible from the scattered reports and eye-witness accounts they could gather, all while half-watching Lance in tense silence (who, to be fair, has mostly stayed in one place and ignored everyone except for making the occasional bitchy comment).

They are getting nowhere.

It turns out the royal family and many community leaders are not nearly as fond as the dignitary and the soldiers of killing the beast. No one can agree on anything, not a plan of attack, not a plan to avoid attack, nothing. Keith has been listening to the same circular arguments ever since he got here, and as the not-black-paladin, he’s expected to contribute, so he has to pay attention. And usually that’s tolerable – it’s not the first time he’s expected to participate in a meeting that has gone on forever and done nothing productive, nor will it be the last – because he’s got Lance next to him, with a running commentary and joke stream that makes the whole thing easier to bear, along with a steady hand on his arm when he gets mad and often even a solution to wrap the whole thing up.

But, obviously, Lance is furious with him and everyone, right now, and is sitting as far away from Keith as he can manage, doodling on his holopad.

It’s miserable.

“I simply feel like there are more options that we should consider,” someone says diplomatically. Since that is literally the ninth time that exact sentence in that exact tone has been said in this meeting, Keith does not get his hopes up. He’s honestly half prepared to die and be buried in this stupid meeting room.

As the room descends into arguing once again, with absolutely zero new conclusions or changes, Keith finally gives up on paying any further attention. There’s nothing he’s missing, there’s nothing he’s contributing, and, he will admit it, doing meetings without Lance on his team is genuinely more than he can handle. He has no idea when he reached this level of codependency – because he can distinctly recall a point in time where doing meetings with Lance so much as in the same room would have them at each other’s throats in seconds – but he is in no place to handle it now. He lets himself drift, staring out the window across the table from him and deliberately thinking of anything except the flash of hurt in Lance’s eyes before it settled into fury, last night during the call.

As he observes the pretty scenery in front of him, rolling hills of yellow grass and an off-blue sky, he notices something strange along the backdrop of a pretty countryside. Along the edge of the far-off forest, there is a dark spot, out of place from its surroundings. He squints his eyes, leaning forward to try and figure out what it is. His posture piques the curiosity of the others at the table, and soon everyone is looking at the spot, watching with growing concern as it seems to get bigger, significantly bigger, and starts even to take shape.

“It has come again,” the dignitary says, hushed. They have genuine fear reflected in their eyes, which softens Keith slightly towards them. Maybe they aren’t just being a stubborn dick.

It takes a second to process, but soon the room descends into chaos, because for all that they have been discussing for hours, no plans have been made. Time is up, though. The beast as come to them, and now they must plan on the fly.

“Ready the guards,” says the queen. “Be vigilant and prepared. I would have appreciated more time, but there is none. We must be prepared to protect ourselves and our people. Last time we managed to scare it off with –”

“Wait!” Pidge shouts, the only one still sitting and facing the window. There is command in her voice, the likes Keith rarely hears from her, and her fingers twitch like they do when she’s calculating something in her head, solving a problem none of them even considered. “Nobody move!”

All the gathered officials in the room stand in tense silence, half watching Pidge and half watching the rapidly approaching beast. As it gets closer, it becomes apparent that it’s not approaching on its own. The beast, which Keith can now see resembles a truly gigantic bear, has a carefully bandaged leg, more than is capable for an animal, and is guided forward but someone sitting on its back, tiny in comparison to its head but visibly determined from even this distance.

“I knew it!” Pidge crows, springing up from her seat and pointing at Lance with manic glee in her eyes. “I fucking knew it! Your posture is way too good!”

Lance stares at her for several moments, eyebrow raised, and then sighs. Keith watches with a dropped jaw as he grows several inches taller, as his hair gets redder and his face gets bushier, until Coran sits in the place where Lance just was.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Shiro mutters, dragging his hand down his face. “I’m going back to the astral plane.”

Coran shrugs. “Lance’s plan simply had more research and direction. Also, I’ve not been out on a mission in too long. I will admit that played a role in my decision.”

“Well, Jesus, Coran, do you think we maybe could have –”

“Hey, guys, not to interrupt, but the giant beast is getting closer, people are aiming fire at it, and my dumbass best friend is currently riding on its back, so,” Hunk says. “Can we maybe worry about that first?”

The seriousness of the situation hits them all pretty quickly, and they adjust their attitudes accordingly. Lance is approaching faster by the second, no longer a shadow in the distance but a distinct figure, waving his hands like a dumbass and either completely oblivious or completely apathetic to the myriad of weapons, poised to fire, pointed in his direction by a horde of soldiers. The team rush outside with the rest of the officials, calling out for people to hold their fire, although it doesn’t do much, and the great beast swerves several times to avoid getting blasted.

“Stop! Stop! Don’t shoot! That’s a paladin!”

“Fire away!” the dignitary shouts over them, fury lighting their features and stubborn set to their jaw. “The insolence of their paladin does not negate the risk the beast poses!”

The paladins and the dignitary, along with several others on their side, glare at each other. The team may not approve of Lance’s methods, and there will be some serious discussion later, but that doesn’t change the fact that their fucking friend is out there being shot at, and they’re not going to stand back and let it happen.

“I swear, if you hurt him –”

“If he wasn’t trying to be hurt he shouldn’t have –”

“Hold on!” Lance shouts, finally close enough to hear. “Everyone – cool it for a sec! Hold on!”

———

next

[imagine-this-fandom]

The Rescue: BNHA x Fem! Reader- Newfoundland Dog

She gently placed Izuku into a glass cage before pulling you to a back door labeled "Dogs," the Golden retriever slipping in behind you before you closed the door.

Upon entering, you were greeted by lots of barking, the dogs obviously not using their indoor voices. The wall of sound left you a bit dazed as you took in the activity in front of you.  You were actually surprised by the variety back here. There was a husky, Pitbull, and even a German Shepard. The room was rather large and open for them to interact with potential owners, various dog toys strewn across the floor with the dog kennels to the back.

The animals seemed to have an unspoken respect for Inko. They made sure to get out of the way as she walked or stop playing long enough for her to pass by before continuing their fun. It was amusing to watch. You followed her path with your eyes before she came to a stop next to two big dogs. You paled as she led the bigger animal over to you.

"Here he is, (y/n)! This is Taishiro!"

Inko looked absolutely tiny compared to the behemoth of a dog beside her.

"Are you sure that's a dog? I'm fairly certain that is, in fact, a bear."

You eyed the golden-brown dog cautiously a bit intimidated by his size and the fact that if he so chose, any walk would become a drag with no contest on who was stronger.

Inko laughed and ruffled the fur on his head.

"He's a dog, just a big one. This big boy is a Newfoundland. Sure he can have a bite if he's in danger, but he's really just a big teddy bear. He's a sweetheart."

Tai cocked his head to the side and looked you over as Inko continued to reassure you.  He was skeptical about this whole being adopted out thing but with no foreseeable human future for him, he would have to put his trust in Inko and Nezu. You were obviously a bit intimidated by him, but he hoped he could prove to you that you had nothing to worry about.

You offered him a shy smile that quickly grew as he wagged his tail.

"see! He likes you! I'll go get some gear for you and you can get to know him a bit." Inko patted you on the shoulder before leaving to get supplies from the main half of the store, not noticing or electing to ignore your panicked look.  

You swallowed nervously before looking back at Tai. He was waiting patiently for you to make the first move, not wanting to scare you off. You gave a nervous wave.

"Hey, Taishiro... I'm (y/n)."

He stepped forward and pushed his head into your offered hand, causing you to give a shaky laugh.

"Inko was right, you're not scary... sorry for misjudging you."

You began to pet him and were pleased when he stepped closer so you had easier access. He was so fluffy! He was a brown dog with golden tones in his fur and intense golden eyes. He was quite a big dog, big enough to bowl you over without much effort, but he was gentle with you.

Inko came back to find you sitting on the floor next to Tai, petting his stomach as he laid on his back for you. Your face was scrunched up in happiness as you talked to him, complimenting his behavior and telling him he was a good boy.  All too soon though, it was time to go. She made you promise to give updates over the phone before sending you on your way with the big dog.

~~~~~~~~

Taishiro was very confused when he woke up the next morning. After the accident that transformed him into a dog, he was used to the hustle and bustle of a crowded dog kennel. He was not used to the peace and quiet of your apartment. Usually, he would have been woken up early by Kirishima to spar, or as close as they could come to sparring in these forms. Still, he much preferred your couch to the kennels that were in the pet store.

"Morning sleepy head"

He looked up as you walked into the room, your uniform from yesterday traded for black shorts, a tank top, and a suspiciously familiar-looking yellow hoodie.

You sat down on the couch next to him and ruffled the fur on the top of his head.

"good morning Taishiro! Thanks for being a good boy and letting me sleep in."

He watched you intently, trying to place what about your outfit stuck out to him. He almost fell off the couch when he realized. You were wearing his merch. His pro hero merch. You had a Fatgum hoodie.

"what's up, do I have something on my jacket? "

You quickly searched the yellow material, a concerned crease between your eyes.

"I better not, this is my favorite hoodie..." You sighed with relief upon finding nothing and smiled back at Tai.

"Good news bub, all is good and my hoodie is safe. "

Had he been human, Tai would have been smirking. You had absolutely no idea who you were talking to and he found that hilarious. He was quite flattered that of all heroes, you had chosen him as your favorite.

You turned on the tv and settled onto the couch, pulling the hoodie close, your hands vanishing in the oversized sleeves. It was a good replica, he had to admit, but his real costume was a lot bigger. He took a moment and imagined what you would look like in it. He snorted lightly in amusement. You would be swimming in it. It would be really cute, but it was just a passing thought, seeing as he was a dog now and couldn't give you that opportunity. The cheerful mood he was in before slipped from him as the thoughts of his new life set in. He sunk onto the couch next to you.

You weren't sure what had changed, but you noticed that he seemed sadder somehow. Now that just wouldn't do. You carefully pulled his head into your lap and focused on petting him while some baking competition played on tv. The day passed in much the same way. You watched tv and made a commentary for him, occasionally looking down at him with a tut and an explanation of how the contestant went wrong.  It was early evening when you decided it was time for your relaxation to come to an end.

Tai was content and on the verge of sleep before you moved to get up. He wasn't having it and moved so more of him was in your lap, effectively trapping you on the couch. He was comfy gosh darn it.

You laughed and started to playfully shove at the mass of fur on your lap.

"Tai, get off me, you big galoot! I wanted to take you on a walk before sunset."

He begrudgingly removed himself from your lap and you skipped to your bedroom to change. As comfy as the hoodie and shorts combo was, it was still snowy from the night before. Tai was surprised with how quickly you had warmed up to him. As anxious as you were yesterday, any doubts about keeping him seemed totally gone. He hopped off the couch and settled by the door to wait for you. You were sweet, and he could see himself enjoying his time with you. Not to mention you obviously had good taste based on your choice of hero.

You emerged wearing Red riot leggings and a Suneater beanie. Tai was in awe of you. Not only were you his fan, but you also supported his protegees. The more he got to know you, the more he liked what he was seeing.

You grinned as you noticed his tail going a mile a minute.

"Ready to go, big fella?"

You clipped the leash onto his collar and took him outside.

~~~~~~ Tai quickly fell into a routine with you. You took him on a walk in the morning before work, Next, you had breakfast and then got ready for work. Tai was quickly learning to hate the time left alone. Back at the store, he was able to talk to the others, especially because he was able to talk to everyone hit by the quirk regardless of species. Now that he was left to his own devices, he didn't have that much to do.

One day while you were gone, he decided to properly explore the apartment. The living room was where he was most familiar, seeing as that's where you had him sleep. He hadn't gone into your room yet because he wanted to give you privacy, but... He was curious. He decided he might as well check it out. He pushed the door open with his nose and looked around with interest. His heart warmed at your choice of decor. You had several Fat Gum posters hanging on your walls as well as a few of Suneater and Red Riot as well. There was a singular All Might poster as well. It was a small room, seeing as you couldn't afford a large apartment. It was cozy though. Your bed was pushed into the far corner away from the door. It had many pillows, some stuffed animals, and what seemed to be a weighted blanket. He hopped onto the bed to get a better view. Your room smelled strongly of your favorite perfume and had a very cozy feeling. He had come to associate the smell of you with relaxation and safety, so it wasn't long before his eyes drifted closed.

When you came home two hours later, you weren't expecting the empty living room. Your first instinct was to panic and you started a frantic search. You scolded yourself internally, walking through your day to make absolutely sure he didn't have a chance to run away. You quickly ran to your room to grab a better jacket to go look for him. As soon as you burst through the door, you froze. He was sleeping, in your room. You gave a tired sigh and smacked your head against the door frame lightly for jumping to conclusions.

"You are so lucky you're cute because you just gave me a heart attack." You muttered to yourself, adrenaline fading. Stepping further into the room you threw your jacket over your desk chair and slipped off your shoes. You faceplanted onto the bed beside your bed, tired from the scare on top of the shift you just worked. What you didn't expect was Tai to feel the shift on the bed and subsequently roll over to cuddle with you. You suddenly had a face full of fur and a near 200-pound dog smothering you. You laughed painfully and shoved him off you, waking him in the process.

"Hey silly, try not to squish me, I still have to get you dinner, you still need me. You can make me into a  pancake later."

He stared at you in sleepy surprise as he slowly woke up. His first coherent thought was that he liked waking up to such a pretty smiling face. And you were offering to feed him? Bonus. Dog food was not appetizing as he still regained his taste from being a human. Still, there wasn't much he could do about it besides stealing human food from you when he had the chance. You would scold him, but he could tell you weren't really mad at him.

You scratched behind his ears and sat up, scooting up further on the bed so you could pet him more easily.

"You had me worried carebear. You usually greet me at the door. I was so scared you'd gone and run away."

You squished his face between your hands and kissed the top of his nose.

"I don't know what I would do if I ever lost you. You're really important to me, you know." You hugged his head to your chest and before peppering his ears and face with kisses.

Tai accepted the affection happily, but a part of him felt guilty for making you worry. Sure he was just your pet, but you really did love him at this point. He didn't like the spike of distress that coursed through him as you told him how upset you had been. He made a silent vow to himself not to make you worry again.

Little did he know that you would turn the tables on him later and he would be the worried one.

~~~~~

You had gotten sick. You weren't sure how, but you were fairly certain that a coworker had given you their cold. It wasn't that bad, but you were still fairly miserable. You woke up on your day off with a stuffy nose and throat feeling of sandpaper. It was far from pleasant.

You carefully slipped out of bed, careful to keep from waking Tai, who had taken to sleeping on your bed after you had invited him the first night when you thought he ran away.

While you would have liked nothing better than to lay in bed and wallow in how awful you felt, there were some errands that needed to be run. Sickness or not, you had to be up and moving today.

You got dressed in a simple Deku T-shirt and leggings before pulling on your fatgum hoodie, wanting to be comfy if you were going to face the masses. Pushing the sleeves up so they no longer covered your hands, you sat on your desk chair and mentally prepared yourself to leave the house. Just as you were putting on your shoes to leave, you heard Tai whine.

You gave him what you hoped was more smile than grimace and patted his head.

"Hey, bud. No walk until later. I don't feel too well. I'll make sure you get a short walk when I get back though. I have to go to the store first."

Tai was absolutely not having it. He could tell that you weren't feeling well by your miserable posture. Hunched in on yourself and wrapped in your comfort items with a red nose and bags under your eyes, you made for a pretty pitiful picture. He wasn't about to let you leave like that! You needed sleep. And soup. He wasn't sure how he would manage the second thing, but he was determined to make sure you took it easy today.

As soon as your hand reached the doorknob, you felt a warm body plant itself in front of you, effectively blocking the door.

"Carebear, I need to run errands. You've got to let me go out."

Tai made a disgruntled noise and stayed put, knowing that it would be a pain to move him and you currently did not have the strength.

You, of course, took his actions to mean something else.

"Are you sour because I said no walk till later? I promise as soon as I'm done with errands I'll be back and we can go for a short walk. If you're really upset about it we can go for a longer walk, but I still need to go run errands."

Tai just planted himself more firmly against the door and looked up at you with defiance shining in his eyes. He was not going to let you leave. Had he been human, he would have simply picked you up and brought you back to bed, but that wasn't an option. He would have to be creative.

Seeing as Tai didn't look like he was moving, you made a decision You stepped back and put your hands up in surrender. You turned around and started to make your way towards the couch.

"Fine, fine, I'll stay..."

Once you saw him trot back into the living room, you grabbed your stuff and booked it to the door, slamming it shut behind you before Tai could catch up. You grinned triumphantly at him through the living room window, cheeks glowing from exertion, but eyes bright with victory. Tai put his front paws against the window sill, staring at you with peeved disbelief. You had tricked him! He was just trying to look out for you. He gave you an unimpressed look before turning around and sitting with his back to the window, effectively giving you the cold shoulder.

You shook your head with a small smile before walking away, determined to go get your errands done quickly. You made a mental note to grab a treat for Tai to apologize for tricking him, he was still a good boy after all, albeit a salty one.

You returned that evening with several shopping bags, your energy all but spent. Slipping into the apartment, you had to take a moment to lean against the door for support. You frowned a little when Tai didn't greet you at the door but you didn't panic like last time. setting the groceries aside, you searched the apartment. Like last time, he was in your room. He wasn't asleep though. He sat in a corner of your room, lifting his head when you entered before standing and turning his back to you before sitting back down again.

"Awwww, still grumpy from this morning? I'm sorry carebear. I just had to get some things done I'm back now. I've got treats for you..."

You tried to coax him out of the corner, but he was resolute in his sulking. You pouted to yourself and headed back to the kitchen to work on dinner, deciding to give him his space.

As much as Tai wanted to be annoyed with you, he couldn't stay upset with you for long. Within ten minutes of your return, he was wandering out of the room to come see you. He told himself it was just to make sure you were alright, but really he admitted that he just missed you.

You hummed to yourself as best you could as you worked on dinner. It was supposed to be a really simple soup, but concentrating was becoming difficult with the headache that had made its presence know while you were out and about. That's why you weren't surprised when you cut yourself while chopping onions. You hissed in pain and instinctively shoved the offending digit into your mouth.

Tai was by your side in an instant, eyes wide with concern and body tensed.  You gave him a sympathetic look and removed the finger from your mouth to show him.

"It's okay boy, it wasn't a bad cut, it just startled me is all. I should have been paying more attention. I'll get it fixed up and finish dinner, then we can relax. Sound good?"

He relaxed a little bit, but you could tell he was still on edge. You quickly sanitized the cut and put a bandage on before finishing the soup and grabbing a bowl.

Once you sat down to eat, Tai was next to you, carefully examining your newly bandaged finger. Once he had deemed it worthy, he sat next to you, leaning against you.

After finishing your soup, you stretched and got up, sniffling pathetically as you started to get your jacket, preparing to take Tai on the walk you promised him.

He quickly hopped up and stopped you in your tracks, gaze fierce. You frowned in confusion and paused, not used to seeing him so intense.

" What's wrong buddy? I promised you a walk."

You were so oblivious sometimes and Tai was so done with being a dog. It was hard to properly convey his worry in this form. He decided since he couldn't outright tell you, he would have to show you. He stepped forward and snagged your sleeve cuff in his teeth before jerking it towards your room. You followed him with a puzzled expression, not quite sure what he was up to.

"Yes, this is my room. What did you want to show me? The bed? Why'd you bring me here?"

Tai released your sleeve and jumped onto the bed before grabbing the back of your shirt and tugging. You quickly lost your balance and toppled onto the plush surface with an undignified squeak of protest.

"Taishiro, what on Earth are you doing?"

He paid no mind to your question and instead grabbed your blanket. He dragged it over your protesting form before laying across your stomach so you couldn't get up. That ought to keep her, he grouched to himself.

You struggled for all of one minute before accepting your fate with a mumbled insult about him being a jerk.  It didn't take long for you to settle down though. Soon enough, you were petting Tai and drifting off. You leaned up and kissed his nose before giving him a mumbled goodnight followed by an "I love you"

Tai smiled tiredly and licked your hand in response before he too surrendered to sleep.

~~~~~

Taishiro was seriously starting to lose it. He had been your pet for five months now and it was starting to catch up to him. It was safe to say at this point that he adored you. He found himself looking forward to spending the day with you. He loved spending time with you, no matter what you were up to. He liked the way you talked to him like he was still human. You were so funny and kind and he was getting addicted to your laugh.

He wasn't foolish enough to mistake what he was feeling. He had fallen for you. Hard. This complicated things. He was a dog. He wasn't supposed to love you. Sure he had been human before and was still a human in his mind, but that didn't change the fact that the situation was messed up. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he knew things had to change.

He was startled out of his ramblings by you rattling his leash. You were wearing his favorite outfit on you since the weather had warmed up. You had on black shorts and a tank top accompanied by the too big fat gum hoodie.

"Hey carebear, up for a walk? The park is beautiful right now!"

He couldn't deny you anything if he tried. He bounded over to you, tail in overdrive. You snorted in amusement as he bumped his nose against your cheek when you clipped his leash on.

"Eager today?" You asked cheerfully, bumping his shoulder playfully with your hip.

The two of you were quickly out the door and on your way to the park. Once you reached it, you closed your eyes and tilted your face towards the sun as you enjoyed the fresh breeze that carried the scent of freshly mowed grass and the sound of happy chatter from the other park goers.

You beamed at Tai as you started along the trail. He was pleased you were so happy. Even though he loved how you looked, you were always a bit shy about how you looked when you went out to the park with him. You had confided in him that the joggers on the trail made you a bit self-conscious. He saw your outfit and attitude today as a step in the right direction. You were just enjoying the nice day and a nice walk, nothing else.

After about an hour of walking, you settled onto a shaded bench, hoodie now tied around your waist by the sleeves due to the heat. Fanning yourself lightly, You sighed in relief.

"We should head home soon buddy, you must be dying in this heat!"

Tai could only pant in agreement, the heat seeping through his fur. Apparently, this breed thrived in colder climates.  He perked up though when he saw an ice cream cart a few meters away. He grabbed the edge of your shirt and whined to get your attention.

You laughed and allowed him to lead you, confused but interested nonetheless. It quickly became apparent where he was taking you. You rolled your eyes and ruffled his fur on his head.

"You want a cold treat, huh bud? Fine. But only this once as a treat."

You smiled and walked over to the vendor and purchased a scoop of vanilla icecream for Tai and (Favorite flavor) for yourself. Content with your purchase, you hurried back to the bench. Tai was dancing from foot to foot, elated to be getting ice cream after such a long time without the frozen treat. It was just as heavenly as he remembered. Setting the paper bowl on the ground for him, you settled back on the bench and ate yours.

All was going fine until a jogger stopped in the shade nearby. You gave her a polite smile and she nodded in response. Her gaze was friendly enough until it drifted from your face to your frozen treat. She grimaced and looked you up and down before giving a disapproving tut and continuing on.

The sweet taste of the ice cream quickly began to become bitter in your mouth as her look of judgment flickered through your mind.  You bit your lip as tears began to sting the corners of your eyes. Setting the bowl aside, you unknotted the hoodie from your waist and zipped it up to your chin. Tai was surprised to see your transformation when he looked up from his clean bowl.

Giving a tight smile, you threw away both paper bowls.

"I think we should head home, carebear. It's been a long day."

Tai trailed after you with uncertainty, not liking this muted version of the (y/n) he loved. You were subdued, smile there, but clearly fake.  He quickly found the source of your discomfort when the original jogger passed with a friend, whispering about you and the ice cream. You wouldn't have been able to hear the cruel words, but being a dog did not afford Tai the same deafness. What he heard made him livid.

How dare they? How dare they talk about his gummy bear like that?! You were perfect to him and they were putting you down as if they had any right. He couldn't help the deep growl that left his throat as he bared his teeth at the two.

You whipped around at the sound, having never heard so much as a threatening whine from him before.

"Taishiro! What's gotten into you?" You worriedly tugged him away, hastily leading him back towards the apartment.

Once you reached home, you dropped to your knees in front of him, cupping his face with your hands as you looked him over.

"What happened there, bud? You doing okay?"

He was touched by your worry, but truly he was more worried about you. He knew you were never the most confident in yourself, so to see someone so cruelly tear that away from you made him angry. You deserved the world and he was not going to stand by while someone hurt you. He licked your cheek in an effort to calm you, reassuring you that he was alright now.

Throwing your arms around his neck, you happily buried your face in his shoulder, taking comfort in his soft warmth. After a few minutes of just snuggling against him, you stood and unclipped his leash.

"Go on bud, I'll be there in a sec."

You removed your shoes before heading to the kitchen. You fed Tai and hesitated in front of the fridge before going to your room. Tai was not going to let that slide. He quickly followed you and grabbed the edge of the hoodie to drag you back to the kitchen. Once you saw the destination, your face pinched in annoyance.

"it's okay Tai, I'm not hungry tonight. You eat up. I'm going to head for bed."

As you started to head for your room again, Tai once again snagged your jacket.

"Tai, I said drop it." Your tone was firm this time, not in the mood for his antics. He repeated it once more time, this time he growled to punctuate how serious he was taking this.

"Taishiro, let go. I am going to bed, and that's final."

When he held fast to the hoodie, you had had enough and unzipped the article of clothing. Letting it fall limp in his grip, you went to your room and closed the door, eliminating his chances of getting you out, what with the lack of thumbs.

Had you known how to speak dog, you would have heard some fairly colorful language on the other side of your door. You did your best to ignore it though and got ready for bed.

While Taishiro was impulsive and determined to solve problems, your stubbornness was easily a match for him. He paced anxiously in front of your door before he heard you rap your knuckles against your side. He waited for the telltale twist of the knob, but he was disappointed.

"Goodnight Carebear. I love you, be a good boy out there, alright?"

He was beyond frustrated now. You refused to listen to him and had isolated yourself with your thoughts and he couldn't get to you. He fumed silently, his heart breaking for you as he tried to come up with ways to encourage you to feel better about yourself. He eventually settled down with a discouraged huff and hoped he would have a clearer mind in the morning.

He did not end up sleeping until morning. In the late hours of the night, he woke to a strange feeling coursing through him. Tingles and warmth spread through his limbs like fire through his veins. He shut his eyes tightly as he weathered through the sensation. The last time he felt like this was when he was hit by that godforsaken animal quirk that got him into the whole mess.

Once it felt like it had reached its peak, it vanished altogether with a quiet pop. The relief was immediate. Tai carefully opened his eyes before pausing in confusion. The room looked completely different. He was seeing it from an all-new perspective. When he tried to move, he was stunned to discover the reason for his new line of sight. He was human again. He gasped and immediately pinched himself, pleased to find that this was not in fact a dream.

He was elated. However, something important had not come back with the transformation. His clothes were missing. He briefly considered waking you up to ask for help, but quickly vetoed that idea. That was a good way to traumatize you and get arrested. He decided his best choice was to call his agency. They had plenty of his spare costumes and clothes and were actually fairly close to your apartment.

He snagged your phone from where you had left it on the counter in your haste to escape to your room. He took a moment to marvel at the size difference between the two of you. Though he was in his skinny form, he had gotten to know you from the perspective of someone smaller than you so the shift in perspective was disconcerting.

The call to his agency took longer than he hoped it would. He had to give a short summary of what had happened before promising to give a full account the next day. It was tiring, but he was soon dressed and comfortable. He decided he would let you sleep and spring this whole thing on you at a much more decent hour.

~~~~~~~

Without any clue of the mess that was soon to be, you dragged yourself out of bed the next morning. You were decidedly crankier due to your favorite cuddle buddy being locked out of your room by yours truly. You were starting to regret your tantrum and resolved to yourself that you shouldn't have let the incident at the park get to you. Rubbing your eyes with a yawn, you stepped out into the living room only to freeze as a heavenly smell grabbed your senses. Picking up your hoodie from where Tai had left it by your door, you slipped it on and followed your nose to the kitchen.

You froze for the second time in the brief time you had been awake. There was a man in your kitchen. But not just any man, the man you had been crushing on since you had first seen him in action shortly after you had moved. Fat gum was in your kitchen, and... cooking breakfast?

You concluded that this was simply an elaborate dream and walked in to stand next to him.

"Whatever you're making smells amazing."

He turned around so quickly that you almost got whacked upside the head with a spatula.

"(y/n), gummy bear, you're awake!"

His smile was absolutely radiant and your cheeks quickly retaliated with a dusting of red.

"Y-yeah. Good morning. "

He pulled a chair out at the counter for you and you quickly complied, sitting and watching him with awe.

"I just made french toast. I hope you don't mind."

He placed a plate in front of you with the prettiest breakfast you had ever seen on it.

"Best dream ever," you mumbled to yourself before taking a bite, almost melting at the taste.

Tai grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"It's, uh, not a dream sugar. I'm actually here. Have been for a while actually. It's pretty hard to explain."

You listened patiently before shaking your head and pointing your fork at him.

"Yeah, no. There's no way this isn't a dream. There isn't a single realistic thing in this whole sequence. The man of my dreams makes me breakfast? Yeah, a nice domestic fantasy, but just that. A fantasy."

You made a vague gesture with the fork between the two of you.

"Besides, you are so far out of my league."

He frowned and stepped forward, flicking your forehead lightly.

"Now you cut that out. I am perfectly in your league. Don't you dare badmouth yourself again, honey."

You pouted and clutched your forehead in pain before realization started to dawn, pout fading into a look of pure shock.

"You can't feel pain in dreams..." you murmured absently.

"And I told you, it's not a dream. Now eat your breakfast and I'll explain."

You nodded dumbly and shoveled another forkful of the french toast into your mouth as Tai looked on encouragingly. He leaned on the counter.

"So, I was hit by a quirk roughly six months ago. This quirk was suped up on an experimental quirk enhancement drug. "

he frowned as he remembered getting caught in the blast of gas that had formed after the criminal's quirk went haywire.

"This quirk turned me and several others into animals. The pros tried everything and weren't able to reverse it. Those of us struck by it had to resolved ourselves to spending the rest of our lives as animals."

You nodded along, thoroughly invested in the story

"Eventually, we were relocated to a pet store for care from a trusted parent of one of the heroes hit by the quirk. You may know her as Inko Midoriya."

At this revelation, you nearly choked on your food.

"WAIT! YOU MEAN, ALL THIS TIME... you...My dog Tai, That was you?" Your voice rose in both pitch and volume as both horror and embarrassment took over.

Tai simply laughed and took your hands, rubbing soothing circles on the back of them.

"It's alright gummy bear, it all worked out. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to have taken care of me in such a vulnerable state. Sorry if I scared you."

You looked from his hands holding yours to the yellow sleeves of your hoodie before you quickly snatched your hands back and buried your face into them.

Tai had the nerve to laugh.

"sorry to fluster you. But I'm glad I could finally tell you the truth."

He had to lean in close to hear your muffled response.

"My crush was my dog!" You wailed into your hands, face alight with a bright blush.

He carefully moved your hands away before tilting your chin up tenderly.

"We can talk about this later if you want, maybe over coffee?"

You looked at him in disbelief.

"Are, are you asking me on a date?"

He grinned and kissed your nose.

"I most certainly am. I'd be a fool to not after all the time I've spent falling in love with you."

Taglist:

@witch-o-memes

@nightlygiggless

[daquanfromthetrap]

Sebastian x Reader (Ch. 4)

Hey guys!! So sorry for such a late post but I've been reaaallly busy lately. Hope you guys like this one!! What do you think is gonna happen next? ;) Pt.5 coming soon!! <3

You woke before first light. Another day as a commoner, you sighed to yourself as you proceeded to get out of bed and ready yourself for the day. While you were just about to finish, there was a knock at your door. 

“It is Sebastian milady. I came to see if you required any assistance in preparing for the day.” you heard Sebastian’s muffled voice on the other side of the door. 

You opened the door to be met by a smiling Sebastian. “There’s no need for that Sebastian. I can ready myself and besides since when do commoners have butlers to assist them in readying themselves?” You asked playfully with a raised brow.

He looked you over and responded with a disappointed sigh. “I had hoped that I may be able to assist you today madame. As your devoted husband, I’d be happy to assist you in putting your clothes on...” He leaned in closer to whisper in your ear, “...and taking them off.” 

It won’t be that easy demon. You thought to yourself as you rolled your eyes at his remark, pushing past him to meet with Ciel. You heard him chuckle, following after you into his master’s room.

“I hope you are well rested milord.” you greeted the young boy politely as you walked into his room.

“And I, you milady.” He nodded at you from the window he was staring out of. “Today, we must work on gathering more information. We should make a family outing today. See if we’re able to spot anything suspicious.”

“Understood.” you nodded in agreement to the plan.

“Yes, my Lord.” Sebastian bowed. 

We wasted no time continuing the investigation. You did have to admit that the sight of the three of you did serve to be an exemplary picture of a “perfect” family. Well, to the outside eye of course. If only they could hear the bickering and sarcastic commentary being thrown around, especially coming from Sebastian.

The three of you were making your way towards a tavern where another family stayed. You decided it best to split up and go your own ways to cover more ground. Each of you going your own way under the guise of doing something else that a totally normally family would do on a regular day. Ciel went ahead and played “explorer,” while Sebastian went to “inquire for jobs at the lumber mill” and you went to the market to gather up ingredients for dinner. All the while, the three of you were just scoping out any clues or suspects worth reporting back to each other. 

With a basket in your hand, you slowly walked through the market, smiling at the vendors as they tried shoving products in your face for you to purchase. You casually eyed the vegetables, occasionally picking on up to inspect before placing it in your basket. Looking through the vegetables, you carefully looked for any characters who looked like they would know anything about missing children or the dead couples popping up. Your silent observations were interrupted by a cry.

“I’m sorry!! I won’t do it again!! I promise!!” a young boy, about the age of 6, pleaded to the bald man grabbing his wrist.

“You little bastard!! Do you know what we do to thieves like you?!?” The man screamed into the boy’s face as he yanked him closer.

You winced at the violent scene before you, listening to the little boy’s cries. 

“Please it’s for my sister!! She’s sick!” The boy screamed through tears. You watched as the man lifted his hand, ready to strike the boy. Is anyone going to do anything?! You thought, looking around at the passing faces. Some were somber, while others nodded in agreement with the man punishing the boy. But, to your surprise, most of the people simply turned a blind eye and kept on with their shopping. Suddenly you couldn’t take it anymore. You were in front of the boy in an instant, blocking the man’s fist before pushing it away from you. 

Your eyes narrowed at him, “I think that’s quite enough, Sir.”

The whole market place stopped, beholding the sight before them. Getting a closer look at the man, he was a ghastly sight. He was a big bloke, about 193cm(6′4″) and about 20 stone(280lbs). He towered over you and the child that now took refuge behind you, clutching onto the back of your dress.

“Are you this thief’s mother, wench? How about you teach your boy some manners and just go back to the sewers, you dogs!!” the man spat out. 

Without answering his question, you turned to the boy, crouching down to meet his eye. He was staring at the floor bashfully with tears still streaming down his face and nose still running. You smiled at him, offering him a handkerchief you had stowed away in your pocket.

“Are you okay?” You asked gently.

He nodded in response, taking the handkerchief and wiping his face. You noticed he kept one hand behind his back as he anxiously kicked the dirt, still not daring to look back up. 

“DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID WOMAN?! IS THAT LITTLE RUNT YOUR BOY?!” The man fumed, frustrated at your lack of care for his presence.

You ignored him once again, still attending to the crying boy in front of you. 

“Can I see?” you asked, gently grabbing the arm he was hiding behind his back. The arm that the man had so roughly grabbed a few minutes before. You inspected the boy’s now bruised wrist. You heard a whimper as you turned his arm to inspect the damage done by this man. You looked up to see him wincing in pain. Nothing broken. You sighed in relief, you looked up at him once more. You picked up the 2 apples that were dropped on the floor from the previous altercation handing them back to the boy, “Did you just want to get this for you sister? To make her feel better?”

Before the boy can answer, you were jolted back and knocked off your feet by an incredible force. “I DON’T LIKE BEING IGNORED YOU BITCH!! YOU AND THAT LITTLE BRAT OF YOURS WILL PAY FOR STEALING FROM ME. I’LL CUT BOTH YOUR BLOODY HANDS OFF!!”

You stood back up, dusting the dirt off your clothes. You could feel the anger boiling up inside of you. So much so that you didn’t know if you can control yourself from causing even more of a scene. But at that point, you didn’t care. You started walking towards the man, using your powers to sharpen your nails under your sleeves into points sharper than daggers. Sorry Lord Ciel, I know this was not part of the plan. Suddenly, you were stopped. To your surprise there was a man standing in between you and the angry shopkeeper, blocking you from your prey. 

“Please sir, we don’t want any trouble.” He tossed the shopkeeper a few coins before getting ahold of my arm and turning me to walk the other way. “That should cover for the stolen goods.” 

The shopkeeper huffed in annoyance but seemed satisfied with the payment he received. “Take your woman and leave. You better hope I never see your faces again. And tell that little rat, wherever he slipped off to, to never come back here either!!” 

That’s when you noticed that there was no sign of the boy. Probably got scared and ran off. You thought, a little disappointed you weren’t able to help him even further. Your thoughts were interrupted by the strange man that jumped in front of you earlier. He was pulling you away, still apologizing to the shopkeeper. Before leaving, you looked over your shoulder at the shopkeeper. Your eyes flashed red as he met your eye. You saw him turn pale, before he started screaming that you were a witch. Hearing the commotion, you were quickly pulled into an alleyway by the man that had “saved you” earlier, or rather, saved the shopkeeper. 

“Who are you?” You asked defensively, taking two steps away from the stranger. 

He looked up at you with a blush, shyly scratching the back of his head. “Me? Oh, I’m nobody. I just saw a pretty lady in trouble and thought you could use some help.” he chuckled nervously. 

You eyed him suspiciously, “I didn’t need any help. I was handling the situation, perfectly fine.” 

This made the man laugh. “Oh sure. That’s definitely what was happening.” he chuckled sarcastically. 

You huffed in annoyance, pushing past him to go back into the market. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!!” He shouted, jumping in front of you to stop you from leaving. “I was just kidding... I mean, I saw what you did for the boy. It was very courageous of you. Admirable, even.” He blushed at his last words, looking down at the floor. “My name is Henry by the way.” He gave you a warm smile, putting out his hand. 

You gave him a half smile looking down at his hand, still suspicious. You have to admit that he was a very handsome young man. He was about your age and stood as tall as Sebastian. He was even as handsome as Sebastian was, except his hair was brown and eyes were green. He had a boyish charm to him with very kind eyes. “I’m (Y/N).” you answered back. 

“(Y/N).” He smiled, testing out your name on his tongue. “Well nice to meet you milady.” He grinned with an exaggerated bow, taking your hand in his and planting a kiss on it. 

You laughed in response ready to make a snarky remark back to him. However, that was cut short by the familiar voice you heard behind you. 

“(Y/N), I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” You turned to be met by Sebastian, only he didn’t really seem to be paying you any notice. He was bearing his eyes into the kind stranger you had just met. There was a glint in his eye that you’ve never seen before. His body was uncharacteristically tense. 

Why am I so irritated? He questioned himself. Why do I have the strong urge to kill this man? He’s done nothing. He’s just a human. A fly. Sebastian wasn’t too sure why he suddenly had to make an appearance. He was watching you the whole time. From the very moment you stepped into the market place. He was able to finish all his duties very quickly so he decided it best to spy on you for a little while. After all, the young Lord did advised him to keep and eye on you. He silently observed you from afar, even holding himself back when witnessing your altercation with the shopkeeper. Although he was annoyed at the harshness of the shopkeeper towards you, he still wanted to see what you would do in response. Then he noticed it. The power. The dark aura. It was almost like you were a demon. But she can’t be... Can she? He watched on, curiously and excitedly waiting for what was to become of the shopkeeper. For what was to become of you. That’s when he came in. This man, jumping in front of you like he was saving you from the big, scary shopkeeper. Sebastian’s eyes narrowed as he watch this man take you in his arms and lead you away from the commotion. Interesting... He continued his silent watch, noticing the bashfulness in the man’s body language. Sebastian rolled his eyes at the obvious infatuation this man had for you. How irritating. It’s like watching a child. He thought, watching on in disgust. Then it happened. He grabbed your hand and kissed it. Before Sebastian could stop himself, he was already standing behind you, staring this stranger down with his ruby red eyes. 

He instinctively wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you into him territorially. You looked up at him, a bit confused. Although he presented himself as calm and collected, his eyes were telling a whole different story. “Ahh Sebastian.” you said, breaking the silence and obvious tension. You looked over at Henry, who seemed unfazed by the sudden appearance of this silent, dark man. You tried desperately to break this awkward tension by giving introductions. “Sebastian, this is Henry. He uhh, saved me in the market earlier from this horrible shopkeeper. Which I am very grateful for.” You smiled at Henry who only returned the warmth. “And Henry this is Sebastian. My-”

“Her husband.” Sebastian cut you off with a smug look on his face. 

Henry looked a bit disappointed at the words Sebastian just said but soon covered it back up with the same warm smile he greeted you with. “Well nice to meet you mate.” He stuck his hand out to shake Sebastian’s hand. 

Sebastian gave Henry a fake smile, before taking his hand and shaking it sternly. You were surprised at Sebastian’s sudden smugness but then you realized it. Is he... jealous?! You almost laughed but you held it in, not daring to stir up any more commotion than there already has been. 

Henry shook his head and chuckled before turning to you. “Well, I should’ve known a pretty lady such as yourself would already be spoken for.” He gave you another bashful smile. Your eyes widened at his forwardness as you kept a close eye on Sebastian, watching for his reaction. 

He then turned to Sebastian, “You’re a lucky man. She’s a very courageous woman. Better be careful mate, someone might come and take her from you.” With a last wink shot at you, Henry disappeared into the dark alleyway, leaving you with Sebastian’s growing dark aura.

You looked down to see Sebastians fists clenched in annoyance. “Uhh, Sebastian?” you questioned.

Sebastian was boiling with anger, his hands clutched tightly into fists. That insolent human cockroach. With one flick of my finger, his existence is ceased. He swore in his thoughts, watching Henry’s figure disappear into the alley.  He was snapped out of his own thoughts when he heard you call out to him. He sighed, a bit relieved. Why am I relieved? Why was I even irritated? 

“What was that?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Sebastian gave you another one if his signature smiles. “I might ask you the same question, Darling.” The last word laced with sarcasm and a bit of venom. 

You can sense Sebastian’s annoyance through his body language and tone. But why? You stared at him a bit with a raised brow before sighing and starting in the opposite direction that Henry had walked off in. You weren’t too sure why Sebastian suddenly showed up at your side or why he had so much malice towards Henry but you had an idea. You just wanted to test out if your theory was true. “I was almost attacked by some bald-headed oaf and my handsome savior is what set you off?” you asked, patiently waiting for a reaction. 

“So you knew I was watching..” Sebastian remarked, following after you.

“I was watching, too.” you looked back at him with a knowing smirk. 

You had noticed Sebastian’s presence when you first got into the altercation with the man. Noticing his dark aura spike with excitement when you ran up to protect the young boy. 

Suddenly, Sebastian had you pinned to the wall, grasping both of your wrists in his hands. His eyes dark and his smile, mischievous. “How do you think it makes your husband feel, finding his beloved wife in some dark alleyway with another man? One would believe you to be sneaking around on me, wouldn’t they?” 

Your eyes glimmered and you smirked back at the demon before you. You liked challenges. This game was beginning to get even more interesting. The air around you was dense. You felt the all too familiar sensation of Sebastian’s touch on your skin as you two stood there, challenging each other silently. The energy felt electric. And it was growing stronger, as you let the tension between you hang.You shrugged and gave him a sly smile, “Felt we could spice up our marriage a bit and add a third person. I always wanted to try two at a time.”

Sebastian’s hand moved quickly to grasp your throat. He wasn’t threatening to kill you in this situation but he was giving you a warning. He responded with a low chuckle and eyes shining bright, “Oh trust me, Love, you would barely be able to handle me.” His hands grasped a little tighter, slightly restricting your airflow.

You were still able to breath out a teasing laugh, “Is that a threat?”

“Oh it’s a promise.”, Sebastian practically growled in your ear, before licking it. 

You stared up at him with a smile, letting him know that you weren’t intimidated by him and that you would not back down. Your eyes involuntarily glowed back in excitement. Sebastian’s eyes widened in shock as he jumped away from you, now in a defensive stance. You laughed at his reaction. 

“Aww, I liked this game.” you pouted before grinning up at Sebastian and sighing. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”

“Who are you? What are you?”, Sebastian asked, silverware at the ready. 

You rolled your eyes. “You look ridiculous, using silverware as weapons. I told you, I am not a threat to you or your master. I have no intention of taking the boy’s soul from you. Eat to your heart’s content.” You waved him off, beginning to get a little annoyed. “I am here at my father’s request. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Sebastian stood straight, lowering his silverware weapons. “You’re not human. But I don’t sense you to be a divine being either. What are you?” He asked wearily. 

Your eyes flashed a gleam of purple. “An abomination.” you replied.

[mercurygray]

Merc, I need the morning after WW1 Nix and Dick's enlightening trip to Lulu's! 😏😄🤭

Two coupes of our finest Alternate Universe, madame. The 1918 was a good year.

(You can read the beginning of this adventure here)

Dick awoke to sunshine on his face, a certain lightness in his limbs, and a strangely repetitive pounding in his head that, on further review, turned out to be Lewis, pounding on the doorframe. "Morning, tiger," his friend said with his trademark shit-eating grin, already dressed. "Sleep okay?"

Dick sat up and screwed his hands into his eyes, his head swimming a little, trying to remember the night before. Lulu's. Champagne. Leonie. Leonie.   Lew grinned as he watched Dick run through just exactly what had transpired, knowing full well that sleeping had...not entered into it much.  “I suspect you may become a popular guy around here,” he added, as his friend tried to square up his memories. “Leonie looked pretty pleased with herself on the stairs just now.”

Dick blushed, his French just good enough to keep up with some of last night’s commentary as her voice had brushed against his ears, his collarbones, his chest, his - 

His blood surged. He needed a cold bath, he needed his clothes, he needed church, or a beating, or both, and he needed to be gone from here, which was why, despite the pounding in his head, he surged forward, blearily stumbling towards the chair over which she’d hung his uniform jacket, now only sightly rumpled. “Easy does it, man, we’ve got time,” Lewis said with a grin. “Grab a croissant and some coffee, head back. It’s a 24 hour pass.” He followed Dick’s agitated dressing with a smile, amusement quickly turning to concern as he realized what was going on. ‘Hey - hey!” Lewis grabbed his shoulder. “Look, Dick, if you didn’t like it...”

Dick turned to look at his friend, shirt half-buttoned, suspenders around his hips. “No, that’s not - it’s that I did.” It would be a lie to say that his body had not enjoyed the night before - she was a professional, and good at her trade. But he’d wanted to wake up with her beside him, to...to speak poetry into her ears. He wanted something predictable, and routine, a Sunday through Saturday kind of love. This was not the place for that. Tonight Leonie would put on another face for another man and play whatever role he required of her - kitten or vixen, pursuer or pursued. He wanted a woman who said what she meant.

Desire looked, in Lewis’s mind, to be the exact opposite of a problem - but at least he was no longer laughing. “You’re not a statue, Dick. And no one needs you to be one, either. I’ve settled the bill. It’s fine. We’ll - we’ll go as soon as you’re dressed.”

It did not quiet his unrest, but it helped - he finished dressing quietly and followed Nix downstairs, the rest of the house just beginning to stir, a maid flitting around the front room collecting glasses and misplaced handkerchiefs. It looked strange, in the light of day - like a stage set without its actors. The light was wrong, with the sun up and the windows open - the artifice was exposed, the shabby paint one could not see when the gasoliers were lit, and the tatters in the velvet drapes that champagne fuddled eyes would not note. It was a dream - it wasn’t real. He wanted something real.

It was early still, but not early enough - in the streets around them, the town had woken up, and the regular business of a Saturday morning was in full swing - the vendors with their pushcarts, shopboys with their deliveries, the occasional governess with a pram, out for their morning stroll.

There was a wolf whistle from out in the street, and the two turned, trying to see from whence it had come - a long, lean figure across the road, walking up from the farther side of town. “Have a nice time last night, Captain Nixon?”

It wasn’t often that one saw this particular woman on her own - usually hiding in her uncle’s shadow, she was something of an enigma, a woman who wore a lieutenant’s bars as a matter of courtesy, of the Army but not officially in it, a creature apart. They said she was her uncle’s ADC, but who knew what role she really played - driver, courier, secretary - spy? There seemed nothing she did not do on behalf of the General, and the air in which she moved was rife with rumor -  that she was secretly married to a French officer, that she spoke fluent German and had once been sent to dine with Bismarck, that several of the other ADCs had once cut cards for her, that she’d ridden a horse naked down Pennsylvania Avenue for a bet. (The last one was mostly true, Nixon had revealed one night over bourbon and poker; It wasn’t for a bet, but a suffrage parade - she had been Victory, and she’d been wearing a corset and classical drape and not much more. Blanche had been there, he’d explained - she’d helped pin the laurel crown in her hair. “She looked like a goddess,” his sister had said afterwards. “I saw her and I believed in Amazons.”)

Well, if she’d been Victory then, Joan Warren looked like Justice now - a woman in uniform jacket and riding trousers, garrison cap cocked low over her face, ready to pronounce judgement on the guilty. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell two fine upstanding officers such as yourselves that there’s a prohibition in this army against visiting brothels.”

“But not bars,” Nixon said with a smile. As the intelligence officer, he was more often in the places of power she frequented, and his sister had flown in the same society circles. They were known to each other, knew the same people, attended the same parties, played by the same rules, and it showed in their demeanor, the almost playful way that Nixon found and reported his loopholes. But Dick had only observed her from a distance, content to listen to his friends’ reports. (And now, in close quarters engagement, he was finding that the intelligence reports were not exaggerated.)  “We stopped for a drink and lost track of the hour and - you know men, when we get a little bit of liquor in us…” He shrugged expansively. “Fell asleep in our chairs. Terrible, but what’s to be done?”

She nodded, smiling in a way that pronounced her utterly unimpressed, but amused by the effort.  “Do the women in your life usually believe you when you lie, Captain Nixon?”

“Usually,” Nix offered, his bluff well and truly called. “Can we...make it worth your while?”

Her smile was slim. “You don’t have anything I want. You’ll just have to owe me.”

“And how do we know we can trust you?” The words were out of Richard’s mouth before he’d even had a chance to think, and before he could regret it, she had turned and smiled at him, looking him over with an assessor’s eye. He felt much the same way he had the night before, when Lulu’s girls had stood in the parlor in their underthings winking and grinning. Joan Warren was the picture of a parade review and under her gaze he felt undone, and for half a fitful, filthy moment, he wanted her to do the things that Leonie had done to him last night.

“I grant I am a woman, but withall, a woman that lord Brutus took to wife. Think you I can bear that with patience, and not my husband’s secrets?”

The Shakespeare hung between them like a sword, waiting to see who broke first. But neither gave way.

“Fair enough,” Nixon cut in, following the invisible line between the two of them with an intelligence officer’s interest. “We’ll owe you.” He held out his hand, and they shook on it, the shared language of the gentleman’s agreement, and she touched her cap and went on her way, back in the direction of Pershing’s headquarters, not even bothering to glance behind.

“Christ, that’s a woman,” Nix said with bald appreciation, watching her go. “I’d stab Caesar for a piece of that.”

And, already feeling damned and guilty in so many ways, Dick followed her footsteps with his eyes and silently agreed.

-

Unlike the rest of the Allied Nations, the AEF did not sanction official brothels during their time in France, a move that stunned their European colleagues, since this was a fairly standard public health move from an army standpoint. Pershing had brought a morally clean army to France and he was going to try damn hard to bring one home.

He did not succeed. If you’re wondering why condoms were official army issue by World War Two, this policy is probably part of why. 

The Shakespeare that Joan (mis) quotes is Julius Caesar’s Portia.

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 14

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 13 - Chapter 15

Chapter 14- Asphodel

~~~

They’re both idiots. Emotionally stunted idiots with only concern for the world and never for themselves.

~~~

The viewing had gone as well as could be expected. Sherlock had to admit, whoever patched the hole in the back of Maxwell’s head had done a spectacular job.

Amelia hung back, chatting politely with family, and Sherlock noticed that she never went up to the casket before it was sealed up and the memorial was moved to the gravesite outside.

Hugging her cousin as the family moved, she whispered something in Ruth’s ear that made the other chuckle quietly.

She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, and when Sherlock arrived at the graveyard, Amelia was gone.

He realized that in all the fuss and bustle, she must have slipped away before the actual memorial began.

She hadn’t been missed, the focus falling on Ruthie and her family, occasionally Lydia. Once the body was in the ground, and people began lingering around for condolences, he went for the gardens. He was positive this time he would find his friend there, as the house was being prepped for a large dinner.

Sure enough, Amelia was sat up under a tree, bundled in her winter jacket, with a sketchbook propped in her lap. She didn’t notice him approach, and barely reacted when he sat down next to her,’ glancing at the picture she was drawing.

“Asphodel,” she explained without looking up. She shaded in the stems, pausing with the end of her pencil between her lips. “A bundle means ‘my regrets follow you into the grave’.”

“Seems appropriate,” he commented.

“Burials freak me out,” she admitted. “And I couldn’t listen to the priest talk about what a great guy he was. I mean, maybe he was for a while, but he did nearly kill John.”

“And you,” Sherlock reminded her. She made a noise under her breath, dismissing his commentary.

“It’s so permanent,” she continued, her sketching a little more intense as she spoke. “Buried in the ground.”

“Flowers sprout from the ground,” Sherlock reminded her quietly. She didn’t react immediately, considering his words before she furrowed her brow in thought.

“Exactly, they spout and grow and become beautiful things,” she lowered her sketchbook to look at him directly. “A coffin just sits there. The body bloats and decays, contributing nothing and warping and bleh.”

“I’ll be sure to plant some nice roses over your body when the time comes,” he smirked.

“But that’s more productive,” she pointed at him with her pencil. “Roses thrive with bonemeal and blood. They love it.”

“I can assure you comfortably,” his smirk grew wider. “You’ll be very much unaware of your surroundings when your time comes. Dead people tend not to complain about their accommodations in my experience.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she poked his arm with her pencil. “Otherwise I’ll haunt you.”

“Ghosts aren’t real, but I’d be willing to see you try and prove otherwise.”

She snorted a laugh under her breath, folding her sketchbook shut.

“Did you see my great-aunt Marge?” she asked in a low voice.

“Is she the one who threw herself over the body?” he questioned in amusement.

“Yep,” she nodded. “She’s been complaining about not getting a cent in my grandpa’s will for decades now. Seems to think Ruthie’s gonna cut her a check today. Her son’s been playing boo-hoo all day too.”

“He called Tommy, ‘Johnny’,” Sherlock supplied, earning a fit of giggles from her. It was far more peaceful in the gardens, even if the plants were mostly bare in anticipation of the upcoming winter weather. There were certainly fewer fake criers.

“Should we even stay for dinner?” she asked, cringing at the thought. “I think I heard Mycroft and my mother are leaving soon.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock muttered, visibly relieved. He was not looking forward to holding his tongue around these people for a few more hours. Aunt Marge alone was enough to provide him snide comments for the next few weeks. “I can be packed in ten minutes.”

Amelia hopped up eagerly, offering a gloved hand and pulling Sherlock to his feet.

“Make it five and we can stop for Indian on the way back.”

~~~

Returning home was uneventful. Both Amelia and Sherlock agreed that it was a bit of a relief not to be staring danger in the face the whole time. It’d been a long few hours, but immediately upon passing the threshold of Baker Street, they were energized again.

Home was home, after all.

John and Mrs. Hudson greeted them with homemade chicken soup, the pair dropping into the kitchen chairs and devouring the meal.

“How has Ruthie held up?” Mrs. Hudson inquired, pouring tea for everyone once they’d finished eating, and moved to the living room.

“As well as you did during your husband's trial,” Sherlock replied briskly. “Favouring the grape, so to speak.”

“To be fair,” Amelia cut in, scowling at Sherlock. “She’s had a chaotic few weeks. I’d be drunk too.”

“But you haven’t been,” Sherlock pointed out. “Comparably, you’ve had a chaotic few months.”

“I have some old whiskey in the pantry. Is that your blessing, Sherlock? Or shall I start spending the nights in the pub with Jessica Reynolds?”

“You two are always at each other,” Mrs. Hudson tutted. “After what John told me, I thought you’d be like honeymooners when you got back.”

Amelia immediately turned her focus to John, who was doing his best to avoid the Auburn-haired woman’s gaze.

“Oh? And what did John tell you?” she squeaked out, face red.

Sherlock even had to admit, it was an amusing response.

“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Mrs. Hudson stood up and retreated for the stairs. “Forget I said anything. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Clever girl,” Amelia muttered after the landlady had closed the door to her flat. She kept her eyes on John, waiting for him to break. It was bound to happen. He always broke with that look.

“Really?” he set his tea down, looking between Sherlock and Amelia impatiently. “Nothing happened?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question, John,” Sherlock crossed his legs, taking a slow sip of his tea. “Would you please expand on what you mean?”

Scoffing, he turned to Amelia.

Smart, Sherlock relented. Her every expression read like a book. Perhaps they’d all gotten too familiar with one another, each roommate reading the other so easily.

“Mia?” he asked.

Amelia shrugged, mumbling something non-committal about there only being one bed.

“We didn’t bang!” she finally snapped under John's scrutinizing look. “Stop being childish John. Honestly.”

“Just shared a bed,” Sherlock hummed. “Pressed against one another the entirety of the night.”

“Fully clothed,” Amelia supplied with a huff. “You’re both enjoying getting a rise out of me and I won’t have it.”

“I think, you wouldn’t be worked up if there wasn’t something you were concerned about being taken out of context,” John reasoned, leaning into his chair smugly.

“Yeah, you thinking I’d sleep with Sherlock,” she scoffed.

“And what’s so bad about that?” Sherlock poked the bear a little further, his face stretched in feign outrage.

Between embarrassment, frustration, and panic, Amelia looked like she short-circuited at the question.

“I’m going to bed,” she stood up, grabbing her blanket, and hobbled down the stairs to her room.

“You’re enjoying this?” John asked with a chuckle.

“Immensely,” Sherlock admitted, smirking to himself.

“And how did you feel about sharing such an intimate space with her?” John quizzed, brow arched expectantly.

How on Earth did he turn it on him?

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock scanned John over. What was his goal here?

Personal satisfaction? No, John wasn’t vindictive like that. He wouldn’t cause trouble for the sake of trouble, he was trying to figure something out.

“Don’t be a busy-body, John, it’s unbecoming,” he rolled his eyes, pulling his phone out and pretending to browse the web.

“Mhm,” John tapped a finger to his chin. “And how did it feel to be ‘pressed against one another the entirety of the night’?”

“I was just teasing Amelia,” he countered.

“You’re not a robot, right?” John sighed.

“I don’t understand what you’re implying?” Sherlock huffed. “What a waste of time.”

He went to retreat for his room when John finally spoke up.

“Amelia,” he caught his friend by the wrist before he passed him. “Do you have feelings for her?”

What?

“What?” Sherlock gaped at him. “Are you mad?”

“What’s her favourite colour?” John waited.

“Marigold yellow,” he replied quickly. “I know yours too, an embarrassingly boring shade of taupe.”

“Favourite book?”

“Anything by Ernest Hemingway.”

“My favourite?”

“John, you’re not proving your point by quizzing me on basic facts about the people I surround myself with,” he pulled his hand free. “She’s a friend.”

“Would you spoon me tonight, then?” John challenged to Sherlock's back.

“Sod off!”

And so John had his answer.

Now to help Amelia and Sherlock to figure it out. He was a good friend after all, and they were a pair of emotionally stunted idiots.

~~~

Sherlock, for his part, truly didn’t believe he had feelings for Amelia Brenner.

For starters, he didn’t know her middle name. Only that it started with “O”. He could have easily gotten her birth certificate but remained convinced that would be cheating.

So how could he have feelings for someone he didn’t fully know?

Of course, John was the one pressing it. The guy who falls in love after one date, clearly confused by two close friends. Just because they were of opposite genders did not mean they automatically were attracted to one another.

And while Sherlock was attracted, a little bit, to Amelia, that didn’t change his stance. That was physical attraction, not anything deeper or meaningful and he was too much of a gentleman to lure her down that road.

He knew Amelia got flustered when it came to romantic entanglements. He didn’t actually believe she had any real feelings for him. It would have been obvious. Most people were obvious, and she’d slept with him, hugged him, touched him, without any hesitation or second thought. That’s just how she was, and that’s why it was so easy for him to tease her.

None of it was genuine.

Grabbing a book off his nightstand, Sherlock was disappointed to find it was a novel he’d finished before leaving for Sirenshore. Not willing to sulk back into the living room to grab something new, he started flipping through the pages until he found a section he’d enjoyed.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long it’d been, but at some point, John went to his bedroom upstairs and the flat was silent.

Aside from the thud of Amelia’s boot and a string of curse words in what Sherlock imagined was her attempt at being quiet.

Setting his book aside, Sherlock crept toward the kitchen, watching from the hall while Amelia made peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She’s changed to her pajamas but clearly hadn’t been sleeping, as her fingers and arms were covered with paint.

She leaned against the countertop, biting into her sandwich and reading the ingredients on the peanut butter container.

He knew she had to have been exhausted after the long trip back and the funeral. Why hadn’t she fallen asleep yet?

He glanced at the kitchen clock. It’d been nearly three hours, and it was considerably late in the night.

Then he remembered.

The basement flat. She didn’t like it down there alone, not recently.

But, with John home, she couldn’t very well sleep on the sofa as she had been. Amelia likes pretending things were fine, even when it was obvious she was on the verge of a breakdown.

“Is the bread stale?” he asked, announcing himself before stepping into the light.

“What?” she chewed a bit, confused at the question. “I mean, no? It doesn’t taste like it.”

“Right,” he nodded, moving to the same countertop and mimicking her lean. Lots of paint on her arms. More than usual. She was being sloppy, which confirmed his theory she was tired.

“What time did you wake up today?” he asked, trying to stay casual.

“Around six-thirty... you were there...” she lowered her sandwich. “Why are you being weird?”

“You’ve been up painting,” he commented, lifting her arm toward the light. “Can’t sleep?”

She tugged her arm free and took another bite of her sandwich.

“Inspiration struck,” she answered. “It’s not very good, but I needed to get it out of my system. Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I never sleep,” he replied. “If you’d like, I was going to do some reading by the fire. It’s warmer than in my bedroom. You’re welcome to come back, John shouldn’t be up until morning.”

She ate the final piece of the sandwich, watching him suspiciously.

“Is this about what John was going on about earlier?” she asked. “Because I know I got weird but seriously, intimacy and whatever freaks me out and he’s totally reading into things.”

“I know,” he stood up. “He’s John. He’ll get over it soon enough. The injury probably is making him bored so he’s coming up with fantastical ways to entertain himself.”

It made sense and Amelia seemed content with the answer.

“That’s...” she laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. Let me grab an extra blanket and something to do. I’ll be back.”

When she returned for the evening, she had a sketchbook under her arm and a blanket was thrown over her shoulders. Settling in, they both worked quietly until Sherlock no longer heard the scratch of her pencils against the paper.

Sure enough, she’d passed out, the sketchbook set aside and the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She looked relaxed, the same peaceful expression on her face as she’d had at Sirenshore.

Sherlock tossed another log into the fire. He wasn’t planning on sleeping any time soon, his mind still reeling over everything from the last weekend. He needed to find Moriarty before he enacted whatever it was he was planning.

He needed to keep his friends safe.

Chapter 15

[gxymlky]

Amiya in Bedivere’s interlude

I recently played his interlude again and again because it’s so sweet, this boy deserves the world. Also, in his interlude, he self-depreciate himself so I wanna insert myself that he isn’t like this.

(yeah, i tried but you get the idea) and the B-team is mentioned but not really the spotlight

Interlude began when Amiya was in her room busy with some paper works and was watching videos on her laptop when Bedivere entered greeting her, “Good morning, Amiya. What do you have planned today?” Amiya looked at him, kinda perplexed, “I was busy, but I might need a break” she replied, “then I shall accompany you, no matter your destination”

“Hmm. Maybe some place where I can breath a fresh air”

“Rayshifting? Perhaps training in the simulator?”

“I have done that with Rhion and Chiyo the other day, thank you Bedivere” Amiya acknowledged, her eyes still on the computer, listening to a video commentary of some memes, which she does while doing her paperwork whilst knowing she will add words from the video if she wasn’t paying extreme attention.

“Well, I am here on behalf of Miss Mash today---”

“Oh, it’s fine, I appreciate her looking after not only me but also everyone else.” she understood as she shifted a bit and faced him, “so..”

“I will try my very best to aid you then” Amiya smiled and muttered a thank you before shifting her position to stand up and stretch herself after hours of sitting down and crouching, facing the screen and the notes.

“Now that you mention it---” she forgot her medical check, Amiya remembered how her welfare is tied with her thaumaturgy, the more she draws from it, the more she feels sluggish or even collapse from a single blast from her staff she delivered, even Rhion mentioned she has to be careful or equip herself with a Mystic Code to not fall back.

Bedivere explains she was having her medical check and has to remain in the exam room all day.

“Medical checks are important, Amiya, you’re aware that Chaldea is isolated from the rest of the world,” he continued, “and is located in an extreme environment”

“I know, I know...” her words trailed as she let out a long sigh, arching her neck up.

“Our bodies and minds are under incredible pressure, we must always be aware of this, understand, Amiya”

“Yeah... you sound like my mother” she chuckled but he continued on despite her comment.

“and because you have exceptional talent, I don’t want you to crack under pressure especially if you have a frail body”.

“So please take care of yourself as the flames we are facing and the cold, uncaring environment surrounding Chaldea are quite different in nature and said to be exceptionally difficult.”

“That’s the challenge we are facing right now, Me, you, the staff here” she shrugged, “as someone who intended to be an intern now is tangled with these threads, I have slight mixed feelings” Amiya stated.

“And as such, frequent checkups are of critical importance here Amiya”

“I-is this the reason why you’re here to pick me up? I am going later. But okay, thanks”

She was thankful it was Bedivere who came to check up on her, she doesn’t have anything against when Mashu or Chiyo does, as long as it wasn’t Wilhelmina since she drags her out of her room when she doesn’t respond the third time, that happens so bad, even Bedivere saw it.

“Permit me to remind you once more: I am a substitute for Miss Mash today, as such, please ask me for anything, I am your attendant, your butler, I am your servant in every possible sense of the word”

“Ah, um, okay, by the way, where’s Chiyo?” Amiya interrupted as he shortly finishes.

“I believe she was with Lady Marie and D’Eon, they must be having a tea, would you like to join them?”

“Hmmm, maybe some other time, she might be replenishing herself today and deserves to take a breather.”

“I see, since you trained in the simulator the day before, maybe observing and monitoring the remnants from the Singularities would be appropriate as well.”

“Maybe, but I am off duty with that, besides, Wilhelmina and Rene are doing that as of right now”

“Hmm...”

“Battling to gain something is what will lead to further growth for you, Master”

“Huh...I don’t know much about that”

“Battles for the sake of the Grand Order”

“...”

“Or rather...” he continued on, eventually these battles will wear her, or anyone in the team down. Psyche, Soul, in modern times, Nerves.

“Heh, modern, it’s medical but whatever” she retorted

Bedivere paused for a bit

“There is something that crossed my mind, Amiya”

“What is it?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t dare mention something like this to other, but in your particular case...”

“I’m sure HE would be happy about it, without a doubt since he is that kind of knight.”

“Hmmm. He...” 

“I think you must be referring to Bird boy.. Tristan?”

“Yes, my comrade, the man who is the epitome of freedom. And also the comment, Bird boy...?”

“What of it?”

“When you say he is the epitome of freedom, the first thing that comes to my mind is birds, they fly freely...”

“You have good analogy, I’m impressed by that. Anyways, I occasionally would accompany him and believe it is a wonderful place to relax. But please, keep that to yourself.”

Relax huh, never heard that word in a million years but I am overreacting Amiya thought as she spaces a bit.

“The Rec room is what you’re referring to”

He laughs and asked her if it is where she think it is, Amiya nodded and shrugged, “Chiyo, Rhion and I hang out there, usually we pick meadow alps like the swiss alps where we sing and copy scenes from the Sound of Music”

“Ah I see, so you seem to know it as well, let’s head over there right away, I will leave a note for Sir Tristan and perhaps, Sir Rhion?”

“Rhion is likely asleep right now, so it’s just us”

“Alright, let’s go”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The two arrived in the simulator, instead of a the Swiss alps she was so familiar with. It was completely different.

“The sea...”

“You’re less enthused than I expected, my apologies. I must reflect on my presentation”

Amiya shook her head, “n-no, no it’s fine. It’s alright. It’s good to take a breather somewhere else” her tone has a small bit of upset as if she was expecting something the long time only it didn’t leave up to her expectations.

“Ah, I’m glad you like it, but still it doesn’t make it any less better on my part. I will further reflect on my actions regardless.”

A simulator, a virtual creation of an environment of the outside world. They aren’t outside Chaldea and it would be a bit troubling if they went out since the endless winter is absolutely unforgiving Heroic Spirits or humans alike.

“The sea gives me a sense of peace. I hope it goes the same way for you, Master”

“Mm”

“Actually, I was initially skeptical about whether or not this would work. I accompanied Sir Tristan to watch him go fishing and listening to him ranting that was nothing but difficult to understand..”

“Haha, I see you take yourself as Tristan’s punching bag with his rants huh” Amiya mused.

“There was sincerely nothing to do except spending time just watching the sky and the sea. But surprisingly, doing so felt peaceful, or rather, calming to me”

“Ah, I see. So we are complete opposites but not really”

“Complete opposites?”

“Mhm, when you say the watching the sky and the sea is calming for you. I’d felt the same way except, I would watch the sky while lying down in the flowery meadow. Both is relaxing to us”

Bedivere chuckled and Amiya leaned closer to him, “maybe sometime, I’d bring you there someday where we’ll experience it together”.

The two looked to the sea until he breaks the silence.

“Amiya”

“Hm?”

“...Have I..overstepped my boundaries?” his tone. It was as if someone was confessing their crimes but at the same time, there was a tone of remorse and genuine solemnity.  “No, it’s fine. It’s nice to relax sometime and take a break away from all these..thank you, Bedivere”

“I should be the one thanking you, Master.”

“Please call me Amiya, I think I find the term Master a bit... uncomfortable”

“Alright, Amiya”

Amiya smiled and just stretched herself once again, trying to feel herself and the environment and slightly sides to his shoulder. 

“Would you like to try night fishing?”

“Night fishing?”

“Yes, did you know Amiya, Sir Tristan uses his Failnaught so skillfully to catch a many great fish..”

“Oh, but how do we get fishing gear then? Shouldn’t we entered the data before entering? I didn’t expect this to happen, I’m so sorry..”

“Ah, don’t apologize, Amiya. I requested Miss Da Vinci’s help on that front.” He then entered a few buttons on the multipurpose window whilst she waited.

“...Now I equip the extra item and we’re all set” he said. “Well, I’m sure there are other ways to do so but I don’t have much experience with the simulator”

“I think it’s enough, there are two of them and just teach me how to fish, if it’s alright with you, it’s been a while since I’ve fished and I completely forgot the basics”

After a few exchange with eachother, Bedivere guided the milk-haired girl, “the bait is already on the hook, so please cast it to the sea with all your strength, Amiya.”

“Eeyyy!” Amiya stood up, arching her back to further cast it away and hearing a small sound on the water surface. “Ah, I think it landed”

“Such bold and brazen movement, amazing!”

“Ahaha, it’s not that special Bedi” she appealed and looked at the sea again to detect any movement from the bait.

“But it’s really wonderful, did you any by chance tried fishing before?”

“As a child yeah, but it ended up so badly that I accidentally threw my teddy bear instead of the fishing line.” Recalling that said memory really takes her back where she was in a small lake with a family gathering, at such a young age of seven, she accidentally threw her bear and her having a total meltdown, thankfully it was recovered but the dress the bear was wearing was ruined. Looking back at it, it was so embarrassing. 

“Ah, is that why you take all your energy in casting the fishing line since you’re not holding anything besides that right?”

“You read me like a book, Bedivere” she then looked back at the sea, smelling the salty, calming atmosphere whilst holding the fishing pole. Bedivere said he will look out at the front so there’ll be nothing to worry about.

Amiya laid back again and let out a sigh before putting her hand on her nape, rubbing it to release the tension.

“...This is something that I’ve never said before...”

“..?”

“Nor did Tristan say this...but at times, I find myself thinking this: 

Tristan was torn between the two Iseults. And his fate led him to lose his life by the water. Or rather, his soul”

“Ah..” she remembered, she knew the story, it was how Tristan was poisoned and his last request was to see the Iseult he loved, but the other Iseult who was his wife lied to him about the sails being black instead of white.

Poor thing.. 

“Perhaps that is why he cannot be apart from the water. Even now, he could be waiting for that ship with the shining, pale white sail...” Amiya didn’t say anything but was about to open her mouth to say something when she suddenly jolted

“ha!”

“Something’s biting! It’s splashing. It must be a very big one..! It;s like Sir Kay swimming amongst the fishes!” the last part almost made Amiya chuckle but she is reeling back with her might, almost panicking.

“Almost there! The tug tho!”

“It could be a red snapper, mackerel, or even a tuna!”

“It could be all three!” 

“Alright, let’s reel it in, Amiya! And just like humans take pictures of the fish to record their greatest catches, we both can capture its data and show it to Miss Mash and Sir Tristan!”

“Add Chiyo and Rhion to the list!” she beamed

“It;s sure to make them smile!”

“Now reeeeeeel!” Amiya reeled with all her might with the help of Bedivere, her back was against his chest, close too close! She isn’t into those, yet and it’s making her cheeks burn

“Haa, it’s so big! The fish just leaped out of the sea” never in her life had she seen a fish so heavy and big.

Amiya walked closer to examine it until Bedivere held her back

“Wait..” the creature landed with a heavy crash, apparently it is a weird looking....fish?

“The fish we caught is...actually, not a fish.....”

The creature roared an eerily screech as it further lunged into the two. “Ahhh! T-that’s an enemy!”

“Oh, I’m so embarrassed...I must have made some kind of mistake when I am setting the system up, Doing something one is accustomed to can cause such trouble.. I pulled an all-nighter studying the manual...but I am no good at learning new things...”

“Stop the lamentation first Bedivere, for now, we need to get rid of this thing!” Amiya wasn’t able to bring her staff with her but she could put up small barriers to keep the enemy in place.

“Yes, Amiya, your commands! I am prepared to make amends for my misconduct, Or, I am prepared to accept whatever punishment you deemed fitting, but first we have an enemy to fight!”

His demeanor changed as he prepares to fight the enemy lunging forward

“I swear by my Airgetlam that I will dispose of this monster immediately!”

“Let’s go, Bedivere!”

SWITCH ON - AIRGETLAM

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

DEAD END - AIRGETLAM

Bedivere slashed off the enemy to two before dying. Returning to normal, Amiya let out a deep breath, that was hell of a fight but it’s done. 

“...Please allow me to apologize once more. Even though it was only in the simulator, my most important job is to keep you safe, you being in danger clearly meant I failed my duty as a Knight. My efforts were fruitless once again, I apologize Amiya”

“It is alright, Bedivere, as long as you’re fine, it doesn’t matter. I am not mad to begin with” she earnestly acknowledge and patted his head.

He blushed as she patted his head, “Ah, Thank you so much, I am  undeserving of such kindness.

Amiya and Bedivere looked at the now dead creature before them. 

“Now...it would be a waste to leave this, so let’s eat it”

“?!” did she process this correctly? Eldritch things are not her cup of tea so she was clearly caught off guard but then she lacks self-awareness, any point he would coerce her to eat this and it scared her.

“I have memories from my previous life. For instance, from Round Table analects, King Arthur, number eight: Food is all the same. Nutrition is nutrition, even monster meat!”

“Haa.....”

“Now, Amiya...repeat!”

“Ahhh” Amiya walked back, clearly freaked out. If anything, she’d rather starve than eat those kinds of things, she had seen people on videos eating live octopus, geoducks, raw meat, hell even a roasted alligator. Roasted. Alligator, one girl from China even had her face scarred by an octopus in her attempt to eat it alive. But luckily, this one is dead so the chance of it scarring their faces is zero.

Amiya backed away even more

“T-those videos, haaa” flashbacks of people grossly eating really stood out as she backs out further.

“What are you talking about, Amiya? Why are you backing away? Amiya? Amiya?”

(just imagine her face during the whole event after the battle)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- After running for quite sometime (not even long, just 10 minutes) and him after her.

“...Once again, my apologies. But now I’ve learned more about your food preferences”

“..sea grapes are something I actually like” she revealed. They aren’t as bad, but at least she could live with it than those Eldritch-type things, he is into.

“Ah, I’ll keep that in mind, in order for you to enjoy my dishes more in the future, I will continue to hone my skills” Amiya just nodded, tears and sweat are so visible and her expression seems like she’s simultaneously crying and laughing

“By the way...” she looked back as she wiped out her sweat with her handkerchief, “where are we?”

“The seaside we visited is Sir Tristan’s place of relaxation. Now we are at mine..” His expression softened as he walked past her. “It’s quite similar to a certain place in Britain”

“....A place of peace...well, admittedly this tranquil place is where I allow my mind to race. It is a place that helps me renew my resolve and reinvigorate my soul. So it may be a stretch to call this place a place of peace.”

“Oh. So like mine but in a different environment huh”

“Yes, as you mentioned, your place of relaxation along with miss Chiyo and Sir Rhion is the swiss alps.”

Huh, so he remembered, the smallest detail, something that you genuinely appreciated so much, everytime someone knew the teeny bit, their heart leaps with joy.

“Bedivere?”

“...” Amiya looked at him with concern, perhaps, her actions upset him earlier, “I’ll make it up to you what happened earlier. I’m sorry, I wasn’t educated in those types. I’ll promise to learn about them for sure.”

“No. It’s not about that, I was thinking of the past.”

“Huh?”

“Our Britain was a nation under constant threat of attack, never peaceful or stable...” He then explained that many fell victim to the chaos and he wasn’t able to save them. Then he told her about the Giant of Mont Saint-Michel. “A fearsome giant was wreaking havoc on the Mont Saint-Michel of Brittany”

Amiya carefully listened to him, her expression filled with soft curiosity like a child who wanted to see what her grandmother was knitting.  “...and kidnapped Princess Helena, the niece of the King of Brittany”. Helena. First thing that popped in her head when she heard the name was Caster Helena Blavatsky, though she didn’t want to sound disrespectful and just swallowed the thought. The atmosphere isn’t even a time for cracking jokes or a quip.

“Our King Arthur took Sir Kay and myself to hunt the giant down and rescue her..” His eyes lowered a bit but soon looked at her, “and on that quest...to be frank...I was of no help to the two of them. King Arthur and Sir Kay defeated the giant in a gruesome battle and brought some peace to Brittany.” Amiya’s expression slightly lit up, “and bam! It’s a finally happy ending right! At least you and your comrades brought peace” she chattered. But even her cheer isn’t helping.

“On the other hand, I...I could not save the princess.”

“Ah, so she...”

“Yes, by the time we arrived she has already been gone. I was too late, powerless as I am. All too little, too late. Princess Helena, known for her grace had her young and promising life plucked away, and we found only her pitiful corpse”

“Oh,” Amiya couldn’t believe what happened, she couldn’t imagine what guilt and pain he must’ve felt when he saw the once and beautiful, lovely princess, once filled with life and possibly cheeriness now snuffed out of her. It is something that reopened a painful memory in her past.

“I couldn’t save the people dear to me. First, Princess Helena. Then, the Battle of Camlann, my king...Arthur. I failed not once, but twice”

“...Bedivere”

“...This place..it reminds me of where Princess Helena drew her last breath. Every time I stand here, it reminds me...that I am a powerless knight...I am but a man who lost the two people he swore to protect”. Amiya grabbed both of his cheeks slapping it together causing him to snap out.

“That’s wrong Bedivere!” she asserted. 

“Amiya?”

“Just because you can’t save people dear to you doesn’t make you a complete failure! Do you think Helena would be happy if you continue to depreciate yourself further? Do you think your King or your comrades would like it if you degrade yourself further?! Not only I find it absolutely repetitive and annoying but I couldn’t stand seeing you this way as your Master.” Amiya then lets go, “I’m sorry, I kinda went off”

She looked away, “you see when you mentioned Princess Helena and about her, there’s also a memory that I repressed for so long, I don’t even share it with close people like Mashu and Chiyo”.

Amiya then placed her index finger on her lips. “Please keep this a secret between us, Sir Bedivere”

“You have my word, Master..”

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It started back in Junior year of high school, when a girl her age was introduced in her class, her name is Rika, but she was bound to a wheelchair and the desk beside her was empty, since she was beside it, the teacher assigned Amiya to aid the new student to the assigned desk. She didn’t think anything of it until she saw her one day on the garden alone, drawing. Without a doubt, Amiya approached Rika and asked what she was doing, drawing flowers, Rika stated that the flower’s beauty lasts temporarily and if she were to pluck it, then it will hasten its beauty and dies much faster, the least she can do is draw and keep an original image even if it is not as accurate. Amiya was interested and seeing how talented Rika was, she was curious what technique she used and even taught her how to mix colors, soon their friendship blossomed, Amiya who was a recluse became more open and willing to help, she never had any real friends even if she has, she does not consider them close. The two shared same interest with one another when it comes to history and their love for retro things. Their bond grew stronger as time passes, it came to a point where Rika needed to be hospitalized due to an illness slowly eating her life away, she was due in operation and wanted to spend her time with Amiya before her operation. In reality, Rika had no friends and her grandparents homeschooled her before going out to a real one, Rika’s first and only friend. Touched by this, Amiya encourages her that she will make it regardless and gave her a charm to remember her by once she enters the operating room. Amiya went home in hopes the surgery would be a success. Only for her to learn from her mother days later that Rika had died during the operation, but prior to that, she left a small gift and a letter to Amiya indicating how much she appreciated her and the fact she was very patient whenever Rika would ask her questions and never get mad or irritated nor does she feel pity just because she was bound and with that, she is also able to make friends through her while Amiya opens up to people at the same time.

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If it wasn’t for Rika, I would’ve not made friends along the way...

“I just had to share that, after your telling about Princess Helena, I learned that we both share the same parallels,” Amiya said as she clasped both her hands on her chest. “It’s because I don’t want you to feel the burden alone...her last wish to me was I hope I’ll be able to live my without fear, and every time I recoil or hesitate, I think of her resiliency and how she is able to withstand any obstacles in her way...”

I was scared, I didn’t know where I was going nor what I am going to do until I met her... and when she was cruelly taken away from her grandparents, from me, from my newly-made friends.

I know she will not always be around to help me...

The least I can learn from her was to move forward despite everything...

“Bedivere, you are not powerless, you stayed loyal to your King until the very end. Even undergoing those trials just to return Excalibur to your King and you call yourself powerless? Those were the most daring and valiant task you did!”

He blushed, but she still continue

“In the end, we will face adversaries together, that is a way to keep moving forward. So please, for your King’s sake...don’t belittle yourself anymore..”

This warmth, her hands touched his cheeks, cupping them together. “Thank you Bedi...”

“Master, no, Amiya...those words...” So assuring, so gentle yet firm, it was as if she was sharing her pain with him which was the case. He wonders why she would give those words to someone like him, someone who doesn’t even deserved to be numbered among the Knights of the Round Table but now...

Bedivere knelt down in front of Amiya, “w-wait----”

“Master, even if I am a powerless man who does not deserve to be included among the Knights of the Round Table and the words you have expressed to me, and yet, because of that----nay, I shall offer you this vow, knowing that my manifestation here with you was truly a miracle...

I shall protect you, Amiya, who fights these brutal battles to defend humanity’s future.

No matter how powerful the enemies coming to our way, no, no matter how cruel the fate we face may be....

Your life...your soul...your heart...every single part of you.

I shall protect you till the very end..”

Amiya dove down in his kneeling height and wrapped her arms around him, her eyes are swelling now, tears are falling, tears of warmth, assurance, happiness or whatever it is, someone willing to protect her and, the feeling is mutual too, she also wanted to protect her brother, Chiyo, Mashu or anyone dear to her

“Thank you, sir Bedivere” she sobbed through gross crying. She had never cried this far aside from her friend’s death who turned her to be a caring, open individual she is today.

“....Yes, Amiya

I swear I will live up to your expectations..”

and with that, Amiya kissed him on the cheek causing him to blush deeply.

[xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx]

Distanced - Joe Trohman x Reader

Summary: Since Joe started playing in this new band you two have grown distant, so you decide to surprise him by showing up at their first concert Word count: 2 196 A/N: happy birthday to Emma over on wattpad! Thanks for always chatting with me^-^

You did not want to be that possessive friend who could not deal with their friend moving on to other people. And to be fair, that was not what was happening either. Just because Joe had started playing in a band, and hung out a lot with his bandmates now, practising, writing music, did not mean he did not like you anymore. But you felt left out, left behind, and even though you were happy for Joe, that he had finally found people who appreciated his talent, you still felt sad that you did not get to see him outside of school as often as you used to.

And that you had always had liked him a bit more than a simple friend should, did not make it easier for you.

So you did your best to give him space. Of course you missed the late night chats with him, talking about how school was super stressful, how other friends or classmates were annoying, about the latest gossip about the teachers, or the new releases of your favourite bands. But then again he did not seem to miss it; at least he never initiated any conversations anymore, so you did not either.

What made everything even worse was that it seemed like he did not want to let go either. He had invited you to a few of his band meetings, apologising that he could not find time to spend with you alone, to watch old, crappy movies, like you had done all the time. But his band mates seemed to be irritated by you, maybe it made them nervous that you just watched, without being able to contribute anything. Maybe they just did not like you. So after a couple of afternoons of hanging out with the band, you started declining Joe’s offer to tag along, feeling like you were doing everyone a favour if you stayed away.

But the fact that Joe still occasionally asked, made you feel worse, like it was actually you who was pushing him away, and not him who did not have time for you anymore. And you knew that Joe felt bad about it, the same way you did, and that in itself made things worse again.

So after about two months you actually caught yourself wishing that maybe you should just stay away from him completely, make a clean cut, break your own heart and forget about him.

As if he had sensed your decision, Joe started searching contact again. For a while you had gone pretty separate ways, even during break time at school, but all of a sudden he started appearing at your locker again, and when he dropped down next to you during lunch, you felt your heart jump into your throat once again.

“Mashed potatoes are the worst here,” he complained, not even bothering to say hello, but you did not mind, you knew he had a hard time with stuff like that, “this isn’t food, this is… I don’t even know… you could probably use it as cement or something.”

You laughed quietly. Oh how much you had missed Joe’s stupid commentary about the disgusting mashed potatoes that were served in the school.

“You don’t have to eat it, you know,” you teased him, ignoring the paper-like taste of the grey mash, and eating a spoon full.

“And starve? Do the school a favour by not terrorizing the teachers anymore? No, thanks.” He too laughed and started eating, chewing around on the mashed potatoes. “Yay, yummy.”

“Yeah, torture yourself and chew it. Great, well done,” you joked sarcastically.

Your bickering continued, and for a few precious minutes it felt like you never had distanced yourself. That was until a somewhat familiar, blonde haired boy turned up. You knew Patrick attended the same school as Joe and you, but before Joe had introduced him to you as his band mate, you had never noticed him. He was shy, quiet, but witty, and not harmless at all when he spoke, even though he looked like an angel.

“Hey Joe,” he greeted, rather awkwardly, throwing a glance into your direction. “Hey, (y/n).”

You gave him a little smile and a wave, and Joe grinned widely.

“Trick! Come sit with us!”

The way Patrick shuffled from one foot to the other, his gaze shortly flickering through the room, his fingers too tight around the tablet with his food, made you suddenly think that you had never really seen him with anyone else other than Joe since they had started the band. Actually, as long as you could think back, you had never seen Patrick with friends. Was he as lonely as you were without Joe?

“If that’s okay?”

You did not realise the question was directed at you, until you looked up, and found Patrick looking at you. Suddenly you felt like you had learned a lot more about Patrick, and quickly you nodded.

“Yes, yes, sure! Sit down!”

Much to your relief the conversation did not start revolving around the band immediately, and instead you talked about English Literature Class and about the upcoming Spanish test. Only when the bell rung for the first time, signalling there were only five minutes left until the next lesson, the topic changed.

“So see you tonight?”

The three of you had gotten up, and taken away your tablets, when Patrick eventually brought up the band.

“Yeah sure,” Joe nodded, “we still got so much practicing to do ‘till Saturday.”

“Definitely,” Patrick laughed, “You too?”

“Me too what,” you asked confused.

“Are we seeing you tonight?”

Patrick seemed to have warmed up to you over the past twenty minutes, and you really appreciated it, but shook your head anyway.

“I don’t wanna get in the way,” you explained, and Patrick shrugged.

“Okay, see you!”

And with that he had hurried off into the direction off his next class.

“You’re not in the way, you know,” Joe told you seriously, obviously still thinking about what you had said.

“Oh, I don’t know, I-“ yeah, you what? You did not want to tell Joe that you felt like his friends did not like you very much, that would not have been fair. “I just don’t feel like it. Also, what’s on Saturday?”

Joe furrowed his brows, as if he was considering to further discuss your excuse, but then he decided against it.

“We’re playing our first show, I totally forget to tell you,” he remembered, “you need to come, (y/n), please?”

For a moment you thought about it. You had nothing to do on Saturday, so technically you could go, but then again your parents would have to approve. As if Joe had guessed your worries he continued talking.

“I can drive you home afterwards, that’s absolutely no problem, in case your parents worry,” he hesitated for a moment, “I just really want you there.”

He had stopped in his steps and turned to you, making you stop too.

“I- I’ll think about it,” you answered, taking slightly aback by the last thing he had added.

“Okay, yeah, but… just- I’d be happy to have you there.”

~*~

The dive bar was not very crowded that time of the night, and honestly you were surprised there were even this many people. Most seemed older than you, probably coming here regularly, not knowing about the bands that were going to play.

You had decided not to tell Joe you were showing up, and instead to surprise him. It was confusing, finding your way through the room, since the stage was on ground level, and even though there were not too many other people you still had a hard time making out the stage before being able to make your way over. It seemed like you were just in time, finding a place close to where you assumed Joe would play, when the band walked on.

You could tell how nervous they all were, Patrick fiddling around with his guitar, and Joe not even looking up at you. Pete seemed to recognize you though, because he sent you a big smile, making you think maybe they did not dislike you quite as much as you had always told yourself they would.

The first strum of bass and drums made the room vibrate, and even though you had only been to a few of the rehearsals, you immediately recognised the song. Joe still did not seem to have spotted you, but soon you were too focused on the music. Only when Pete made a short announcement between two songs, while everyone was catching their breaths, Joe finally seemed to spot you. His eyes grew wide as they met yours, and a huge grin spread over his face that did not disappear until the last note rang through the room.

As soon as the band was done playing, they started packing away the stuff they had brought themselves, quickly making space for the next band. Seeing Patrick struggle with his guitar, the cables and the pedalboard he had tried to carry under his arm, you quickly pushed past a few people and took hold of the board. Confused he turned to look at you, but grinned when he saw that it was you, who had come to his rescue.

“You turned up,” he laughed, making his way outside, you following close behind, making sure no cables were pulled out of the pedals you were carrying.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” you answered, pleasantly surprised his initial stiffness from a few weeks ago seemed to have molten away.

“You really should’ve told Joe though, he wouldn’t shut up about you,” Patrick winked, leading you through a door and outside into a back street, where a couple of cars were parked, one of which apparently belonging to the band, because they started piling their instruments into it.

“It was a surprise,” you told Patrick, putting down the pedalboard in the van, next to where he placed his guitar.

Before Patrick had a chance to answer anything, you were suddenly engulfed in a bear hug from behind, and lifted of your feet. It was strange, because before your brain even had time to panic, you had identified the person already as your best friend, who nuzzled his nose into your neck, carrying you a few steps away from the van.

“You made it, you came,” he cheered before he put you back down to your feet.

You turned around to him, fully intending to make a stupid joke and gently shove him, but before you had time to do so, Joe had taken hold of your face and pulled you in for a kiss that knocked all air out of your lungs. For a moment you were frozen, not fully comprehending what was going on, but once realisation settled in, you relaxed into his touch an leant in, pulling Joe closer to yourself, one of your hands carefully coming to rest on his arm, the other sneaking up to his neck.

Much to your dismay you ran out of air a lot quicker than you liked, and you had to pull away panting, only now feeling the burning blush that was rising on your cheeks. When you looked at Joe, he was blushing too, and both of you giggled happily, making you shake your head slightly.

“I’m really happy you came to see us play,” Joe finally managed to stutter out, making you chuckle.

“Didn’t come to see the band, I came to see you,” you corrected, and watched in amusement how he blushed even more, this time in embarrassment.

“Well, anyway, I mean-“ Joe continued stuttering, fully aware that you were watching him with a fond smile on your face, before you shut him up with a quick kiss on the lips.

“I like you a lot,” you confessed, making him look at you with widened eyes.

“You… I- I was about to say that,” he protested.

You laughed, trying to turn away from him, but he still had his arms wrapped around you, and pulled you back into him.

“Go out with me,” he whispered in your ear, making a shiver run down your spine.

You nodded, but before you were able to answer, Pete interrupted the moment, and made you painfully aware that the others had probably seen every second of your confessions.

“Hey lovebirds, when you’re done, we’d like to get out of the cold and go home. Pizza over at my place, you’re in?”

Joe and you shared a quick glance before you both nodded.

“We’re in,” Joe declared, taking your hand and leading you over to the van.

You climbed inside, taking a seat between Patrick and Joe, who immediately wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side.

Pete took a look at you from through the rear mirror, and grinned a wicked smile.

“Hey (y/n), if you break his heart, I’ll-“

“You’ll break my bones, fair enough,” you laughed.

Pete nodded seriously before looking at Joe.

“Same goes for you mate,” he declared, making everyone laugh.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Joe joked, “and now drive, I want pizza.”

[distant-rose]

Seal of Fate Ch. 3 (4/8)

Notes: Alright before anyone of you read this chapter, I feel the need to remind you that Emma Swan is not a bitch. Emma Swan is an amazing character with some flaws and whose life has been filled with all sorts of trauma. She has trust issues and most certainly PTSD. If you think someone with that background is going to have no issue trusting people, especially a magical seal man whom she’s known for like two weeks, without some issue then this story isn’t for you. This is a kind reminder that the canon events of Emma being abandoned, put in foster care and being pregnant with Henry in prison after the bullshit Neal pulled with her when she was 17 years old are canon in the Seal of Fate universe. So, with that being said, this chapter is mainly about Emma’s trauma and how it’s lead to her having a lot of trust issues. Do not come into my comments section and tell me that Emma Swan is a bitch for pushing away a seal man who she met two weeks ago. I will fight you. End of story. With that being said, there will be pay off for all the angst, anger and frustration here in the next chapter. I promise. I’m not pulling the rug out from underneath you. A special thanks to @aerica13​ for being an amazing beta and for pushing me through this difficult chapter. I literally couldn’t have done with this without you. Thank you to @cssns​ and @drowned-dreamer​ for making my event experience so far amazing. Another big thank you to @katie-dub​ and @shireness-says​ for being my cheerleaders. Even though this story isn’t attracting a lot of traffic and it’s been a bit demoralizing, you make every word of this story worth it. Summary: Emma Swan is looking for only one thing - answers. Abandoned outside a police station in Menemsha, Martha’s Vineyard, Emma has dedicated her life to finding out where she comes from and why she was given away. She finds an unlikely partner in Killian, a selkie she inadvertently summons in a fit of frustration over her cold case. Word Count: 4,600+ AO3: [LINK] Chapters: Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Epilogue Rating: T+

Emma Swan’s life was regulated by series of long, self-imposed rules. She always filled her gas tank whenever she hit the quarter ‘til empty mark. She didn’t trust food that didn’t come prepackaged. She always wore bike shorts under her dresses because of that punk kid in her fifth group home that skirted her. On top of that proverbial list of rules, written in bold red ink and underlined three times, was that Emma Swan did not ever, under any circumstances, sleep with men.

She didn’t sleep with men. Period.

Well, she slept with men but a purely utilitarian fuck-and-run way that satisfied occasional itches and abated the loneliness for awhile. She didn’t spend the night and she absolutely did not cuddle. Those sort of things led to issues. It meant conversations that were best not had. It meant being completely vulnerable with someone who was more likely than not a stranger she picked up in a bar.

Hence why she went into a full meltdown mode when she awoke the next morning still on the beach, sand in her pants and Killian curled around her like a clingy octopus. The very sight of him drooling on her shoulder sent off vaguely Kill Bill sounding sirens in her head.

So Emma did what she did best.

She ran.

And she didn’t look back. Not even for her shoes.

She went back into her house, grabbed her cell phone and keys, then got in the Bug and drove all the way to Oak Bluffs. Never before had Emma been so happy with the lack of a real police force on the island because she was sure to be have been pulled over with how fast she drove. The drive had been tense. She hadn’t been able to relax and no amount of tinkering with the radio assuaged her chaotic thoughts.

Killian was getting under her skin. He had been barely been in her life for more than two weeks but he had already gotten closer to her than anyone had in the past decade. It was something she needed to rectify and fast.

“He’s going to leave,” she mumbled to herself, slapping her hands against the steering wheel. “Once this is over, he’s going to leave and everything is going to go back to normal.”

The switch from West Tisbury to Oak Bluffs was a noticeable one. Where Chilmark blended in the West Tisbury almost seamlessly with the long line of white oak trees and the overgrown shrubbery that guided the poorly paved roads, the boundary leading to Oak Bluffs was noticeably more populated with houses and stores. The Cape Cod style that dominated Menemsha and Chilmark wasn’t so common and Emma was surprised to see some of the buildings actually looked like they had been built after 1970. Where the majority of the houses Emma had previously encountered tended to stick to the gray scale, these buildings were flamboyant shades of flamingo pink, soft orange and lime green. They reminded her of the elaborate gingerbread houses she had seen in the windows of bakeries as a child. It was fresh and new side to the island that she not yet explored and she allowed her curiosity to overtake the anxious energy that had dominated her mind since she had awoke.

As she got further into town, the scenery became more settled and more urban in its demeanor. If it weren’t for the occasional gingerbread house, she wouldn’t have known that she was still stuck in the Vineyard. It felt good be somewhat back in civilisation again.

It wasn’t until she was washing up in the bathroom of the infamous Black Dog bakery that she finally took notice of her unkempt appearance. She had mascara lines running down her cheeks, her hair looked like a rat’s nest and her clothes were rumpled. No wonder the cashier had given her an odd look when she had bought a bear claw. She looked like hell.

After running her fingers through her hair and washing her face, Emma tried to make herself look somewhat presentable. Her attempts were met with limited success but there was only so much that she could do given the circumstances.

As she walked over to the hospital, she couldn’t help but feel bereft. Over the past week and half, she had gotten used to Killian’s persistent commentary and suggestions on how to proceed. His absence sat heavy in her chest, pressing down on her ribs like a stone.

She didn’t want to but Emma couldn’t help how much she missed him. The realisation made her angry. She hated herself for growing so fond and so dependent on his company. He was merely a temporary fixture in her life, just like everyone else.

She didn’t need him and was probably better off without his help anyway.

The thought became a mantra, a mental war cry, as she straightened out her shoulders and walked towards the reception desk with the same dread and determination of a gladiator entering an battle arena.

The receptionist was a surly looking woman who eyed her with an expression that made it clear she was less than impressed with Emma’s appearance.

“This isn’t a recovery center. If you’re looking for one, you’ll have to take the ferry over to Hyannis. There’s a pamphlet for it on your left.”

Emma bristled at the comment, self consciously smoothing over the wrinkles in her shirt.

“My name is Emma Swan, I’m private investigator. I was hoping to look at your birth records.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said no,” she repeated, this time with a hint of an edge to voice.

Emma sighed, fishing out her wallet and handing over her identification and investigator’s permit. The woman didn’t even in look at them, merely looked up at her with the same disapproving scowl.

“That’s my private investigator’s licens-” “I know what it is,” the woman cut her off. “If it’s not a court ordered document, I’m not letting you look at our database. I don’t know if you’re aware, Little Miss Investigator, but there is such a thing called HIPAA which means those documents are protected.”

“HIPAA does not cover birth and death certificates,” Emma replied through gritted teeth. “Those are a matter of public record.”

“Oh goody,” the woman replied in a sarcastic tone, “then go bother the Registry of Vital Records like everyone else.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t know exactly the specific person I’m looking for. Only that I’m looking for a female born in October 1983. This is related to a police investigation of an abandoned child out in Memensha.”

“You’re wasting your time,” she snorted. “The police probably looked at it in the 80s. You honestly think you’re better than a bunch of cops?”

“Yes,” Emma replied bluntly, bracing her hands against the desk and staring down at the woman with a look just barely short of contempt. “Because they didn’t investigate it. Now, I would like to look at your October 1983 birth records please.”

“HIPAA says-” “I give zero shits what HIPAA says. Please get me your supervisor.”

“No.”

Emma let out a frustrated sound, yanking her hands off the table and running through her hair. Killian wouldn’t have run into this kind of trouble. He would have just smiled and made a comment about how pretty her disgusting hair looked and that woman would have been willing to hand over her own social security number. The very thought made her even more angry.

She pulled out her phone and immediately looked up the number for the Martha’s Vineyard Hospital, specifically for the medical records department. When she found the correct number, she punched it and stared the receptionist directly in the eye as she held the phone up to her ear.

“Martha’s Vineyard Hospital, Department of Records, this is Astrid speaking,” a woman on the other end of the line stated pleasantly.

“Hello Astrid, my name is Emma Swan, I’m a private investigator who is licensed in the states of Massachusetts, Maine, Connecticut, New Hampshire, New York and Florida. I’m investigating a cold case involving abandoned child in Menemsha October 1983. I was hoping I could look at your birth record files…”

There was a pause on the other end and Emma could hear the faint sound of conversation on the other end as she continued her staring contest with the nasty receptionist. A few moments passed before Astrid came back on the line.

“You wanted to look at the birth records during October in 1983?”

“Yes.”

There was another long pause. Emma counted the seconds in her head.

“Do you have a court order?”

“No,” she admitted. “But birth certificates are a matter of public record and as stated previously, I’m a licensed private investigator in the state of Massachusetts.”

“When did you plan on looking at the records?”

“Now, if that’s possible.”

There was a loud coughing noise on the other end followed by even more muffled conversation.

“Miss Swan, we need a little more time to get the records prepared for you. Give us a few hours, say after lunch around 2:30 and you can come down to the Records Department and have supervised access to the requested documents. Do you have more specific dates in mind or just the month of October?”

“Let’s keep it at the entire month of October just to be safe…”

“Okay. We will meet you at reception then and bring you down to Records at 2:30 then.”

“Thank you,” Emma replied, smirking at the receptionist. If she was feeling a little more immature, she would have fist pumped in her face. “I will see you then.”

After leaving the hospital, Emma wandered the streets of Oak Bluffs. She couldn’t help but feel that she was Martin Brody walking the streets of Amity Island. Everywhere she looked, it seemed to be tourist shops and ice cream places that had shut down for the winter. The only things that seemed to be open were the few restaurants like Sharky’s Cantina and Nancy’s. A large arcade on Main Street was also open despite the fact that there were only five kids inside, all of them crowding around some obnoxious game that involved loud shooting.

As she reached the docks, her phone buzzed. She frowned as she looked down at the screen, not recognising the number. She hit the ignore button as she began to examine the large yachts and fishing boats that were lined up. Some of them had clever names such as “The Codfather” and “The Aqua-holic.” Though the ship names held some amusement, she was shocked to see how far some were from home. Many of the ships docked were from Florida and South Carolina but there were a few from Jamaica and Bermuda. She couldn’t fathom why anyone from such sunny places would want to be in Martha’s Vineyard, especially in October.

It wasn’t until she was eating lunch at Dockside Marketplace that she realised whoever called her had left a message. Curious, she went to her voicemail and punched in her password.

It was Killian.

“Swan! Where are you! I woke up and you were gone! Your yellow death trap is gone! Are you alri-” Emma didn’t wait to hear what else he had to say. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with him. In a fit of pettiness, she turned off her phone and spent the rest of her lunch in petulant silence, listening to Top 40s pop music as she munched unhappily on her onion rings.

When she returned to the hospital, the receptionist from before was gone and replaced by a young blonde with tired eyes and a kind smile. She was chatting with a brunette in scrubs that was leaning against the desk. They looked up as soon as she came in and gave her cautious smiles.

“Are you Emma Swan?” the brunette asked politely.

“Yes.”

“I’m Astrid Acker, I work in the Records Department. Do you mind showing me your ID and private detective’s license?”

Emma fished them out of her pocket and handed them over. Astrid looked at them both for a moment before nodding satisfaction and handing them back. She motioned for Emma to follow her down a long hallway. They reached a stairwell and descended down into the basement levels. It had a cold industrial feel to it, with exposed pipes lining the walls and sterile colored tiles. Astrid led her down another hallway before taking her into a sparsely decorated office. It was cluttered as hell and it immediately made her feel claustrophobic. There were three oversized desks, two that were covered in sprawling documents and dated computers while the other was completely clear save for a single case box.

Astrid pulled two chairs over to the clear desk. She held the first chair out to Emma before sitting in the other one. She pulled the lid off the box and glanced back at Emma.

“Martha’s Vineyard sees an average of 176 births per year,” she said quietly. “In 1983, there was a total of 216 births. 23 of those were born in the month of October. All of them are in that box.”

“23?”

“23,” she confirmed. “You can look at the records but you cannot take them, make copies or photos of them.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Emma’s hands shook as she pulled the files from the box. Immediately she separated the males from the females, heart hammering in her chest as the number of files dropped from twenty-three to eight.

Six were born in the beginning of October. Only two fell into the potential time period that Emma was looking for. One was named Jennifer Cameron and the other was Julia Wright. She glanced up from the documents and back at Astrid.

“What’s the population size of Martha’s Vineyard?”

“Roughly 15,000 people.”

“Small.”

“I guess you can say that.”

Emma moved the eight files towards Astrid, every single atom of her being vibrating with tension. “Out of these eight files, do you know any of them personally?”

Astrid looked startled by the question. She gave Emma a long inquisitive look before opening each file and rattling off what she knew about each one.

“I don’t know Teresa...I don’t know Kayla either...or Laura….but I know Brenda. She dated my brother. They have two kids named Tony and Alana. Alison….if it’s the Alison I know, she left the Vineyard back in the tenth grade. Jen used to be friends with my brother but something happened and I don’t know what. Julia and Sarah were the mean girls growing up. Julia is married and owns a bed and breakfast in Chilmark and Veronica owns Vineyard Scoops in Edgartown.”

And just like that, all the energy, all the hope that Emma had, died. She felt like a popped balloon, scattered and deflated. Another dead end. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be sad. She wanted to feel something but all she felt was numb.

“Thank you for your time,” Emma said after a moment before gathering all the strength she had left and standing up.

“I’m sorry.” Astrid was confused.

“None of these women are who I’m looking for.”

It wasn’t until she felt the hospital and was back by the docks that Emma felt something. A powerful and raw rage burned in her veins. She wanted to scream but she settled to for kicking a trash can and startling a small colony of seagulls.

Drawing a heavy breath, she turned her phone back on. She regretted the decision almost instantly. Twenty missed calls and nine messages left for her. All from the same number.

“Jesus Killian,” she mumbled under her breath as she called her voicemail.

“You have nine new messages…first message received today at 12:05pm...Swan! Where are you! I woke up and you were gone! Your yellow death trap is-” Emma deleted the message before it finished.

“Next new message received today at 12:34pm...Swan! Where are you! I’ve been looking everywhere-”  She hit the delete button again.

“Next new message received today at 12:46pm...Swan, it’s me. I’m hoping you just went into town and got Granny’s or something...I’m going to go down and meet you. Call me back when you get this.”

“Next new message received today at 1:13pm...I just stopped by Granny’s...Ruby said she hasn’t seen you...Where are you? Please call me back.”

“Next new message received today at 1:19pm...Swan! I’m worried now! Where are you? I don’t understand what’s going on or why you won’t answer your talking phone.”

“Next new message received today at 1:27pm...Swan...please just answer me...I want to know what’s going on…Just talk to me…”

“Next new message received today at 1:31pm…I don’t know where you are but please just call me. I just want to know you’re okay.”

“Next new message received today at 1:45pm...You left me...”

She dropped her phone. All the emotion she thought she would feel after her latest failure came at the broken and defeated tone of Killian’s voice. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes and she held her hand up to her face in order to stifle the cry that desperately wanted escape her lips. She felt like the world’s biggest asshole.

She took a moment to try and gather herself, wiping at her sniffling nose as she stared out into the marina, watching seagulls dive at the water in search of fresh prey. She almost forgot to listen to the final voice message that Killian had left her.

“...End of new message. To listen to it again...press one...To save it...press two...to erase it...press three…”

She pressed down on the first option, knowing it would be unpleasant and Killian would more than likely be screaming at her but there was a part of her, the self-loathing part, that felt she deserved it.

“New message received today at 2:56pm…Emma…” The way he said her name wasn’t angry. It was strained and filled with an emotion that words could not identify but she knew it on a fundamental level. Her blood went cold in her veins.

Something was wrong.

“Emma…” Killian repeated again and his time his voice wavered a bit. “The pelts...The pelts on Gold’s property...they’re...They’re selkie pelts.”

“Oh shit,” she whispered as the color drained from her face.

She had left Killian alone in Menemsha with a man who more likely than not hunted his kind. And more than that, she had left him without any means to defend himself; her taser and pistol were in the glove compartment of her car. Now, she was officially the world’s biggest asshole.

In the long list of self-imposed rules that Emma Swan had, near the top of the list was that she didn’t push the Bug faster than sixty miles per hour. There were practical reasons for this, mainly because the Bug was nearly two decades old and she didn’t fancy replacing it any time soon. She pressed the pedal to the floor as she raced down State Road and North Road on her way back to Menemsha, the needle on her speedometer jumping between seventy-five and eighty miles per hour.

She may have nearly killed more than a dozen rabbits on her way.

The Bug made its grievances known, sputtering and whining as she came to a grinding halt in front of the beach house. Emma barely acknowledged it over the thundering of her heart ramming against her chest as her eyes scanned the property, hoping against hope to see any sign that Killian was in the house and that he was alright.

There were no lights on in the house, but she didn’t expect any. Killian was practically an old man and had an almost amusing dislike for electricity. He had a habit of leaving the lights off as long as possible until he couldn’t read without them. It made Emma privately question a lot of what happened while he was stuck with Cora and her daughter during his five years stuck on land.

“Killian?” She called almost tentatively when she stepped into the house.

Only silence came to greet her. The stillness of the house unnerved her and she could feel her anxiety skyrocket in response.

“Killian!”

Various scenarios flashed into her mind but at the forefront was seeing his pelt hanging from the blood soaked rack on the front lawn of Gold’s property. Immediately, she scrambled up the stairs and into the guest bedroom. She didn’t bother with any pretenses. She knew exactly what she was looking for and where it was. She made a beeline for the large white dresser and pulled open the third drawer.

The sight of Killian’s pelt caused her to let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Without thinking, she pulled it out of the drawer and brought it to her face. She buried her nose in the thick fur, trying to take comfort in the fact that it was still in the house and not on the rack up the road.

She was almost surprised at how soft it was. Emma didn’t have much experience with fur, let alone seal fur but it felt incredibly silky and all she wanted to do was keep it against her skin.

“Swan?”

Emma froze, her cheek still rubbed against his pelt as she craned her head towards the doorway. He was looking at her with a guarded expression, shoulders tense and hands curled into tight fists. If she didn’t know any better, she would say that he was preparing himself for a fight.

“Where the fuck were you?” she hissed. “I got your message and I was scared out of my mind!”

“Got my messages, did you?” he asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest and raising his eyebrows at her. The coolness of his tone nearly made her flinch.

“Yes. I freaked out! You can’t leave messages like that and just run off! You could have been hurt! You could have been killed! I was fucking terrified that I was going to come home and see your pelt out there on that fucking rack!”

“I could say the same to you, love.”

“This isn’t a game, Killian!”

“I never said it was. I’m merely pointing out the hypocrisy as I’m seeing it.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to quell the chaotic squall of emotions that wanted to bubble up to the surface. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to lash out but she couldn’t necessarily deny the truth in his words.

“I should have called you back, I’m so-” “No, it shouldn’t even have gotten to that point,” he cut her off. “You should have woken me up, Emma! We’re supposed to be partners!”

“We’re not supposed to be anything.” The words leapt from her throat before she could stop them.

As soon as she said them, Killian reared back as if her words had hit him with physical force. He stared at her as if he had never seen her before in his life. They stood there for a brief moment in tense silence. The distance between them was only about eight feet but it felt much larger than that. It felt like a canyon that Emma wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to bridge.

“Where were you?” she asked again, this time in a softer tone.

Killian looked somewhat bereft, swallowing his words and looking away from her. For a moment, Emma wasn’t sure he was going to answer her.

“I went into the house.”

She gasped at his explanation, staring at him in disbelief. “You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t, Killian.”

“Considering all of today’s revelations, I’m shocked you care.”

“Of course I care! You could have been killed!”

“He wasn’t there,” he replied, still not looking at her. “He...I...He doesn’t just keep the pelts, Emma. There was a jar on the mantle...It was full of teeth...”

A cold shiver went down Emma’s spine. Ruby’s warning from her first day in Menemsha echoed in her head and a part of her wished she had given it more thought.

“How many?”

“I didn’t count,” Killian laughed humorously. A brittle smile crossed his lips and it made Emma feel sick. “I didn’t get close enough. I didn’t want to but countless...That whole place reeks of blood.”

“You shouldn’t have gone in there, Killian.”

His eyes cut to her. “And what should I have done, Swan? Waited for you? You cut out of here so swiftly, I wasn’t sure you were even going to come back.”

“Of course I was coming back. Don’t be an idiot. But Killian, think about this. Gold owns this town. No one knows who you are. You technically don’t exist here. He could have gotten to you and no one except me would have known something happened to you.”

“I’m very much aware of that, Swan.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, despite what you think, I’m not just a dumb animal. I’m quite intelligent despite your constant willingness to overlook that fact.”

“I know you’re smart-” “Yet you insist on treating me as I’m nothing more than dumb pet, not even worthy of leaving a note or even communicating with. Are you going to get me a ball to play with next? Make me eat out of a bowl?”

“You’re making a bigger deal of this than it actually it is,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“No. I’m just seeing the clear picture. You don’t trust me, or anyone for that matter! You would rather be alone than let yourself get burned again! Whoever he is, he must have done quite the number on you that you would rather be unhappy and alone than take any risks and let anyone in. Being alone is a bitter existence, take it from someone who knows.”

“Oh! Because you know everything!” Emma jeered.

“When it comes to being alone? Yes! I told you what happened to me. I told you about losing my family, losing Milah. I’m not unsympathetic to your plight, Emma, but you need to get it through your head that you’re not alone.”

She wanted to punch him; wanted nothing more than to break his nose. He was so full of shit and she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

“Oh fuck you,” she snarled. “Stop the bullshit. You don’t actually care. The only reason you’re still standing here is because you’re trapped. As soon as this is over, you’re just going to back. You won’t even blink.”

“If you honestly still believe that then I can’t help you,” he said softly with a disappointed look on his face. He ran his fingers through his hair before looking back at her with a beseeching expression. “Look, I can’t do this right now. Just give me back my pelt.”

Emma froze. Her mind went blank at his request and she stared down at the pelt in her hands. Her fingers were curled into it so tightly that her skin was stretched white over her knuckles. She knew that the appropriate response was to give it back to him and let him go on his merry way but she couldn’t bring herself to let go of it. Without thinking, she instead tightened her own hold on it.

Killian stared at her, absolutely stunned. There was no mistaking the look of betrayal in his eyes. He stretched out his hand and Emma couldn’t help but notice that it was trembling.

“Emma…” He sounded broken.

Reluctantly, she let go of his pelt; depositing it in his hand before she could think more on her hesitation. She practically ran past him and took sanctuary in her room, trying to put as much distance as she could between them.

The tears didn’t come until she closed the door and it was firmly against her back.  

[yiqiie]

THE POWER OF NINE // 1

Trigger Warning: explicit language; violence; mentions of drug use

Rating: 16+ only

Word Count: 1,652

previous / next / masterlist

a/n: officially revamped and ready to start! hope you enjoy :) 

“They just arrived, their van’s pulling up right now.”

His earpiece crackled faintly as he heard the rustle of movement from the other side. He settled back further into his seat, crystal glass dangling precariously from his fingers as he lightly pressed a few keys on the keyboard in front of him.

The myriad of screens lit up, seamlessly transitioning from their idle state into the hustle and bustle of the city streets and the empty offices that would soon be filled.

He swirled his drink once before letting go, the sound of smashing never hitting as the glass floated in midair, the condensation dripping slowly onto the carpeted floor.

He watched closely as people filed into the room, ignoring the ongoing commentary coming from his earpiece. He counted the number of people appearing, not that he didn’t know already. He had always been steps ahead of everyone else, digging out background files and information on the incoming agents their own superiors probably didn’t know.

His eyes scanned over the familiar faces he had already committed to memory, stopping at the last person who entered the room. His eyes narrowed and he swore slightly under his breath.

His voice sharply cut through the conversation happening through his earpiece, not bothering to hide his obvious irritation.

“Who the fuck is she?”

All the voices ceased momentarily before a voice called out, “Cheng get your ass to work, what the fuck is this situation here?”

A few laughs broke out through the system, leading him to roll his eyes and reach for the drink to his side, swallowing the rest of the amber liquid in one go.

A lazy drawl joined the numerous voices, accompanied by the faint sound of a clicking keyboard.

“I always knew you were obsessed with my ass, babe. I’ve sent the file to you Boss. Our other little friend got swapped out last minute for a desk job. We’ve got Agent Y/L/N instead.”

He blocked out the further jittering, slightly removing the device from his ear so their chatter was only a faint background noise. He twisted his chair back to face his desk, resting the drink in its proper place on the wooden coaster.

The file in question was already displayed across his computer screen, filled with generous slabs of text and photographs. He read silently, already memorising every single detail he found.

His fingers swiftly moved across the keyboard, securing the file into a locked folder even the most experienced hackers would have trouble decoding. As he typed, the door to his office opened quietly, admitting in a tall silhouette who leaned languidly against the door frame and cleared his throat obnoxiously.

“Taking your time, Your Royal Highness?”

His eyes didn’t leave his screen as he finished typing in the last few letters, calmly replying, “You call me that one more time and I’ll have a bullet through your ass faster than you can say goodbye to your pathetic existence.”

His companion only laughed, straightening his suit jacket as he gestured towards the door.

With one last check of his computer, he stood up from his desk chair, grabbing the suit jacket that had been hanging neatly off of it and shrugged it on as he walked out, his partner respectfully letting him pass through the door first.

“Ready for the show?”

Cai Xukun only smirked at the man who walked out behind him. Eyes flicking to the door handle, the door slammed shut on its own, sparking an eye roll and a mutter of ‘show off’.

“Let’s get this party started then, shall we?”

A shrill scream rang out through the room, muffled only by the heavy padding the lined the walls.

Cai Xukun remained stoic, rolling his eyes at the spectacle before him before moving to cross one long leg over the other. He fiddled with the rings on his fingers, paying no attention to what was happening, until suddenly raising his hand for them to stop.

A slight signal through his eyes with a small jerk of his head, the rest of the men left the room, leaving only him and a few members of his inner circle.

The current subject of their attention was slumped over in a chair, panting and gasping as blood trickled from his mouth, holding back screams of agony from the knife that was currently impaled through his hand.

Everyone waited for the definite click of the door to signal it was locked and looked towards their leader for his next move. They knew he liked to be the one to start everything off and they smirked as he slowly got to his feet, brushing off the invisible dust on his jeans. He was purposely wasting time, meaning the end result would ultimately be all the more entertaining.

“You know,” he began nonchalantly, “I really don’t like people. People are self-entitled, arrogant, disloyal. Every time you show your kindness, they take it for granted.”  

A flying knife shot towards the man, stopping right before his eyes. Another scream.

“Keep it down, would you? So, do tell me. What made you think it was okay to run off to the feds like that?”

The man was shaking, whether it was from anger, fear or pain, nobody could tell. He gritted his teeth and spat, “Fuck you.”

Cai Xukun sighed. Another piercing scream, followed by what seemed like sobs.

The other men in the room simply watched on, looks of boredom decorating their faces as they impatiently waited for it to end.

“See, Carter, I don’t know why you do this to yourself. I liked you, even trusted you at some point. And you just threw that all away.” Cai Xukun spoke calmly over the man’s screams, his face impassive, his tone friendly, making him seem all the more dangerous, a snake ready to strike.

“Cai, can we please hurry this the fuck up?”

A lilting drawl cuts through, irritated at the prolonged length of time this was taking. He would much rather go check on his club or even better, go home and sleep.

Another jeering vote joined in. “There’s plenty of time, Linong. No rush at all.” The telltale click of a lighter, followed by the cloying scent of cigarette smoke emerging from Wang Ziyi’s lips crawled into the room.

Cai Xukun chuckles lightly at their words and begins his prowl, carefully circling around the chair in which his subject sat.

“Unfortunately, it seems my companions have run out of patience, so now would be a good time to say something.”

At the following silence, Cai Xukun’s gaze hardens, mouth pressed into a thin line as he returns to his original stance in front of the chair. Like clockwork, Ziyi moves to stand behind his leader, Linong joining him on his other side. Their hands rest lightly at their belts, a casual gesture with a more sinister meaning about to be revealed.

“Let’s play a game then, shall we Carter? You know how I love games. It’s called ‘Three Strikes, You’re Out’. We’ll ask you a question and if we don’t like your answer, you get a strike.”

The man in question made no effort to reply, heavy pants and occasional grunts being the only sounds escaping him as he tried to bear with his pain.

The first question came from Linong. 

“How much of our money did you manage to swindle?”

A simple warm-up question. They already knew the answer to this one.

“I - don’t - know - ” was the breathy reply. Wrong answer.

A cock of a gun, the pull of a trigger, a ringing shot.

Wails of agony pour out from the man’s mouth now, not bothering to hide his pain. He knows deep down, these are very likely going to be his last few minutes.

“Shit, sorry, I was aiming for your arm, but I guess a leg will do.”

Ziyi’s turn. “How do you find those coordinates?”

A harder question. Still, they knew the answer to this too.

“Saphras - he had been - following - ” 

Another shot. More screams of pain that were reduced to moans, as the man’s lips slowly grew pale.

“He was always such a pest. Shame he had to take down Lorin with him too. Now, Linong has to manage the club himself.”

“How considerate of you, Ziyi. I knew you would declare your love for me one day.” 

At last, all eyes fell on Cai Xukun. He took one purposeful step forward and bent down to look the man in the eyes.

As brown met blue, he opened his mouth to ask his last question. His voice was nothing but a whisper, a deathly caress as he held his gun loosely by his side.

“Carter, do you know what happens to traitors?”

Blue eyes widened slightly to show panic but before they could blink, the last ringing shot was fired and the man slumped over in his chair, silenced forever.

Cai Xukun eyed the body with distaste, setting his gun back into its usual spot on his belt.

“Cheng has eyes on Saphras. Yanjun is standing by whenever you’re ready.” Linong already had his gun back in its holster, straightening out the cuffs of his shirt sleeves.

“I’ll talk to him. Get someone to clean this shit up.”

Cai Xukun lead the two men out of the room, punching in a complex combination into the hidden keypad that would allow them to open the door.

Linong gestured silently to the two guards standing outside, staying behind to observe their work.

As Cai Xukun strolled away with Wang Ziyi in tow, their footsteps echoing on the hard timber floors, a harsh sigh left his lips as he brought the corner of his jacket up to inspect.

A look of amusement appeared on his partner’s face as he raised an eyebrow in confusion.

Cai Xukun took another breath before answering the unasked question.

“Little fucker got his brains on my best suit.”

[jamesgraybooksellerworld]

Author INDEX

J.B. 346J

Mary Barber 377J

Mary Barber 373J

Madam De Bellefont 572G

Susanna Centlivre 347J

Susanna Centlivre 357J

 Jeanne Marie Bouvier de La Motte Guyon 348J

[Martha Hatfield].362J

Mary De La Riviere Manley 122F

Katherine Philips 103G

Mary Pix  376J

Madam Scuddery 296J

Madeleine Vigneron 323

•)§(•

 346J J.B. Gent.

The young lovers guide,

 or, The unsuccessful amours of Philabius, a country lover; set forth in several kind epistles, writ by him to his beautious-unkind mistress. Teaching lover s how to comport themselves with resignation in their love-disasters. With The answer of Helena to Paris, by a country shepherdess. As also, The sixth Æneid and fourth eclogue of Virgil, both newly translated by J.B. Gent. (?)

London : Printed and are to be Sold by the Booksellers of London, 1699.             $3,500

Octavo,  A4, B-G8,H6 I2( lacking 3&’4) (A1, frontispiece Present;            I3&’4, advertisements  lacking )    inches  [8], 116, [4] p. : The frontispiece is signed: M· Vander Gucht. scul:. 1660-1725,

This copy is bound in original paneled sheep with spine cracking but cords holding Strong.

A very rare slyly misogynistic “guide’ for what turns out be emotional turmoil and Love-Disasters

Writ by Philabius to Venus, his Planetary Ascendant.

Dear Mother Venus!

I must style you so.

From you descended, tho’ unhappy Beau.

You are my Astral Mother; at my birth

Your pow’rful Influence bore the sway on Earth

From my Ascendent: being sprung from you,

I hop’d Success where-ever I should woo.

Your Pow’r in Heav’n and Earth prevails, shall I,

A Son of yours, by you forsaken die?

Twenty long Months now I have lov’d a Fair,

And all my Courtship’s ending in Despair.

All Earthly Beauties, scatter’d here and there,

From you, their Source, derive the Charms they bear.

Wing (2nd ed.), B131; Arber’s Term cat.; III 142

Copies – Brit.Isles  :  British Library

                  Cambridge University St. John’s College

                  Oxford University, Bodleian Library

Copies – N.America :  Folger Shakespeare

                  Harvard Houghton Library

                  Henry E. Huntington

                  Newberry

                  UCLA, Clark Memorial Library

                  University of Illinois

Engraved frontispiece of the Mistress holding a fan,”Bold Poets and rash Painters may aspire With pen and pencill to describe my Faire, Alas; their arts in the performance fayle, And reach not that divine Original, Some Shadd’wy glimpse they may present to view, And this is all poore humane art Can doe▪”  title within double rule border, 4-pages of publisher`s  advertisements at the end Contemporary calf (worn). . FIRST EDITION. . The author remains unknown.

)§(§)§(

 An early Irish female author

2) 377[ BARBER, Mary].1685-1755≠

A true tale To be added to Mr. Gay’s fables.

Dublin. Printed by S. Powell, for George Ewing, at the Angel and Bible in Dame’-street, 1727.

First edition, variant imprint..[Estc version : Dublin : printed by S.[i.e. Sarah] Harding, next door to the sign of the Crown in Copper-Alley, [ca. 1727-1728]  7pp, [1]. Not in ESTC or Foxon; c/f N491542 and N13607.                         $4,500

                [Bound after:]

John GAY

Fables. Invented for the Amusement of His Highness William Duke of Cumberland.

London Printed, and Dublin Reprinted for G. Risk, G. Ewing, and W. Smith, in Dame’s-street, 1727.  

First Irish edition. [8], 109pp, [3]. With three terminal pages of advertisements.             ESTC T13819, Foxon p.295.

8vo in 4s and 8s. Contemporary speckled calf, contrasting red morocco lettering- piece, gilt. Rubbed to extremities, some chipping to head and foot of spine and cracking to joints, bumping to corners. Occasional marking, some closed tears. Early ink inscription of ‘William Crose, Clithero’ to FEP, further inked-over inscription to head of title.

Mary Barber (1685-1755) claimed that she wrote “chiefly to form the Minds of my Children,” but her often satirical and comic verses suggest that she sought an adult audience as well. The wife of a clothier and mother of four children, she lived in Dublin and enjoyed the patronage of Jonathan Swift. While marriage, motherhood, friendship, education, and other domestic issues are her central themes, they frequently lead her to broader, biting social commentary.

Bound behind this copy of the first edition of the first series of English poet John Gay’s (1685-1732) famed Fables, composed for the youngest son of George II, six-year-old Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, is Irish poet Mary Barber’s (c.1685-c.1755) rare verse appeal to secure a Royal pension for Gay, who had lost his fortune in bursting of the South Sea Bubble.

Barber, the wife of a Dublin woollen draper, was an untutored poet whom Jonathan Swift sponsored, publicly applauded, and cultivated as part of his ‘triumfeminate’ of bluestockings. She wrote initially to educate the children in her large family. Indeed this poem, the fifth of her published works, features imagined dialogue of a son to his mother, designed to encourage, specifically, the patronage of Queen Caroline:

‘Mamma, if you were Queen, says he, And such a Book were writ for me; I find, ’tis so much to your Taste, That Gay wou’d keep his Coach at least’

And of a mother to her son:

‘My Child, What you suppose is true: I see its Excellence in You.                                          Poets, who write to mend the Mind, A Royal Recompence shou’d find.’

ESTC locates two variant Dublin editions, both rare, but neither matching this copy: a first with the title and pagination as here, but with the undated imprint of S. Harding (represented by a single copy at Harvard), and a second with the imprint as here, but with a different title, A tale being an addition to Mr. Gay’s fables, and a pagination of 8pp (represented by copies at the NLI, Oxford, Harvard and Yale). This would appear to be a second variant, and we can find no copies in any of the usual databases.

Mary Barber was an Irish poet who mostly focussed on domestic themes such as marriage and children although the messages in some of her poems suggested a widening of her interests, often making cynical comments on social injustice.  She was a member of fellow Irish poet Jonathan Swift’s favoured circle of writers, known as his “triumfeminate”, a select group that also included Mrs E Sican and Constantia Grierson.

She was born sometime around the year 1685 in Dublin but nothing much is known about her education or upbringing.  She married a much younger man by the name of Rupert Barber and they had nine children together, although only four survived childhood.  She was writing poetry initially for the benefit and education of her children but, by 1725, she had The Widow’s Address published and this was seen as an appeal on behalf of an Army officer’s widow against the social and financial difficulties that such women were facing all the time.  Rather than being a simple tale for younger readers here was a biting piece of social commentary, aimed at a seemingly uncaring government.

During the 18th and early 19th centuries it was uncommon for women to become famous writers and yet Barber seemed to possess a “natural genius” where poetry was concerned which was all the more remarkable since she had no formal literary tuition to fall back on.  The famous writer Jonathan Swift offered her patronage, recognising a special talent instantly.  Indeed, he called her “the best Poetess of both Kingdoms” although his enthusiasm was not necessarily shared by literary critics of the time.  It most certainly benefitted her having the support of fellow writers such as Elizabeth Rowe and Mary Delany, and Swift encouraged her to publish a collection in 1734 called Poems on several occasions.  The book sold well, mostly by subscription to eminent persons in society and government.  The quality of the writing astonished many who wondered how such a simple, sometimes “ailing Irish housewife” could have produced such work.

It took some time for Barber to attain financial stability though and her patron Swift was very much involved in her success.  She could have lost his support though because, in a desperate attempt to achieve wider recognition, she wrote letters to many important people, including royalty, with Swift’s signature forged at the end.  When he found out about this indiscretion he was not best pleased but he forgave her anyway.

Unfortunately poor health prevented much more coming from her pen during her later years.  For over twenty years she suffered from gout and, in fact, wrote poems about the subject for a publication called the Gentleman’s Magazine.  It is worth including here an extract from her poem Written for my son, at his first putting on of breeches.  It is, in some ways, an apology and an explanation to a child enduring the putting on of an uncomfortable garment for the first time.  She suggests in fact that many men have suffered from gout because of the requirement to wear breeches.  The first verse of the poem is reproduced here:

Many of her poems were in the form of letters written to distinguished people, such as To The Right Honourable The Lady Sarah Cowper and To The Right Honourable The Lady Elizabeth Boyle On Her Birthday.  These, and many more, were published in her 1755 collection Poems by Eminent Ladies.  History sees her, unfortunately, as a mother writing to support her children rather than a great poet, and little lasting value has been attributed to her work.

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3) 379J   BARBER, Mary 1685-1755≠

Poems on Several Occasions

London: printed [by Samuel Richardson] for C. Rivington, at the Bible and Crown in St. Paul’s Church-Yard 1735                            $4,500

First octavo edition, 1735, bound in early paper boards with later paper spine and printed spine label, pp. lxiv, 290, (14) index, title with repaired tear, very good. These poems were published the previous year in a quarto edition with a list of influential subscribers (reprinted here); this octavo edition is less common. Barber was the wife of a Dublin clothier and her publication in England was helped by Jonathan Swift, who has (along with the authoress) provided a dedication in this volume to the Earl of Orrery. Constantia Grierson, another Irish poetess, contributes a prefatory poem in praise of Mary Barber.

  ESTC Citation No. T42623 ; Maslen, K. Samuel Richardson, 21.; Foxon, p.45. ;Teerink-Scouten [Swift] 747.

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4). 572G Léonore Gigault de,; O.S.B. Bellefont (Bouhours)

Les OEuvres spirituelles de Madame De Bellefont, religieuse, fondatrice & superieure du convent de Nôtre-Dame des Anges, de l’Ordre de Saint Benoist, à Roüen.Dediées à Madame La Dauphine.

A Paris : Chez Helie Josset, ruë S. Jacques, au coin de la ruë de la Parcheminerie, à la fleur de lys d’or, 1688                          $2200

Octavo 6.25 x 3.6 in. a4, e8, i8, o2, A-Z8; Aa-Qq8 ; *8, **4. This copy is very clean and crisp it is bound in contemporary calf with ornately gilt spine. La vie de Madame de Bellefont”, on unnumbered pages preceding numbered text./ “Table des chapitres . . .” and “Stances” and “Paraphrases” in verse on final 24 numbered pages./ In the “Avant propos” this work is ascribed to “feüe madame Lêonore Gigault de Bellefont”, but most authorities credit Laurence Gigault de Bellefont with authorship See Sommervogel I 1908 #25

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  5) 374J [ Susanna CENTLIVRE,]. 1667-1723

The gamester: A Comedy…

London. Printed for William Turner, 1705.                           $4,000

Quarto. [6], 70pp, [2]. First edition.Without half-title. Later half-vellum, marbled boards, contrasting black morocco lettering-piece. Extremities lightly rubbed and discoloured. Browned, some marginal worming, occasional shaving to running titles.

The first edition of playwright and actress Susanna Centlivre’s (bap. 1667?, d. 1723) convoluted gambling comedy, adapted from French dramatist Jean Francois Regnard’s (1655-1709) Le Jouer (1696). The Gamester met with tremendous success and firmly established Centlivre as a part the pantheon of celebrated seventeenth-century playwrights, yet the professional life of the female dramatist remained complicated, with many of her works, as here, being published anonymously and accompanied by a prologue implying a male author.

CENTLIVRE, English dramatic writer and actress, was born about 1667, probably in Ireland, where her father, a Lincolnshire gentleman named Freeman, had been forced to flee at the Restoration on account of his political sympathies. When sixteen she married the nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, and on his death within a year she married an officer named Carroll, who was killed in a duel. Left in poverty, she began to support herself, writing for the stage, and some of her early plays are signed S. Carroll. In 1706 she married Joseph Centlivre, chief cook to Queen Anne, who survived her.

ESTC T26860.

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  An early Irish female author

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Political satire by An early Irish female author

6) 375J.  Sussana Centlivre

The Gotham Election, A farce.

(London 🙂 printed and sold by S. Keimer,1715. $ 1,900

The Gotham Election, one of the first satires to tackle electioneering and bribery in eighteenth century British politics. It proved to be so controversial that, despite Centlivre’s popularity as a playwright, it was supressed from being performed during the turbulent year of 1715. Centlivre was renowned as one of the greatest female playwrights of her day, and her plays, predominately comedies, were responsible for the development of the careers of actors such as David Garrick. However, despite her popularity, she also made enemies in the literary world of the early-eighteenth century. Most notably Alexander Pope, who, in his Dunciad, referred to her as a ‘slip-shod Muse’, possibly in reference to her participation in the work The Nine Muses, which was published in 1700 to commemorate the death of John Dryden.

English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT26854

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  A collection of Poems and Letters by Christian mystic and prolific writer, Jeanne-Marie Guyon published in Dublin.

7) 348J    François de Salignac de la Mothe-Fénelon 1651-1715  & Josiah Martin 1683-1747 & Jeanne Marie Bouvier de La Motte Guyon 1648-1717

A dissertation on pure love, by the Arch-Bishop of Cambray. With an account of the life and writings of the Lady, for whose sake The Archbishop was banish’d from Court: And the grievous Persecution she suffer’d in France for her Religion.  Also Two Letters in French and English, written by one of the Lady’s Maids, during her Confinement in the Castle of Vincennes, where she was Prisoner Eight Years. One of the Letters was writ with a Bit of Stick instead of a Pen, and Soot instead of Ink, to her Brother; the other to a Clergyman. Together with an apologetic preface. Containing divers letters of the Archbishop of Cambray, to the Duke of Burgundy, the present French King’s Father, and other Persons of Distinction. And divers letters of the lady to Persons of Quality, relating to her Religious Principles

Dublin : printed by Isaac Jackson, in Meath-Street, [1739].    $ 4,000

Octavo  7 3/4  x 5  inches       First and only English edition. Bound in Original sheep, with a quite primitive repair to the front board.

  Fenélon’s text appears to consist largely of extracts from ’Les oeuvres spirituelles’. The preface, account of Jeanne Marie Guyon etc. is compiled by Josiah Martin. The text of the letters, and poems, is in French and English. This is an Astonishing collection of letters and poems.

“JOSIAH MARTIN,  (1683–1747), quaker, was born near London in 1683. He became a good classical scholar, and is spoken of by Gough, the translator of Madame Guyon’s Life, 1772, as a man whose memory is esteemed for ‘learning, humility, and fervent piety.’ He died unmarried, 18 Dec. 1747, in the parish of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, and was buried in the Friends’ burial-ground, Bunhill Fields. He left the proceeds of his library of four thousand volumes to be divided among nephews and nieces. Joseph Besse [q. v.] was his executor.

Martin’s name is best known in connection with ‘A Letter from one of the People called Quakers to Francis de Voltaire, occasioned by his Remarks on that People in his Letters concerning the English Nation,’ London, 1741. It was twice reprinted, London and Dublin, and translated into French. It is a temperate and scholarly treatise, and was in much favour at the time.

Of his other works the chief are: 1. ‘A Vindication of Women’s Preaching, as well from Holy Scripture and Antient Writings as from the Paraphrase and Notes of the Judicious John Locke, wherein the Observations of B[enjamin] C[oole] on the said Paraphrase . . . and the Arguments in his Book entitled “Reflections,” &c, are fullv considered,’ London, 1717. 2. ‘The Great Case of Tithes truly stated … by Anthony Pearson [q. v.] . . . to which is added a Defence of some other Principles held by the People call’d Quakers . . .,’ London, 1730. 3. ‘A Letter concerning the Origin, Reason, and Foundation of the Law of Tithes in England,’ 1732. He also edited, with an ‘Apologetic Preface,’ comprising more than half the book, and containing many additional letters from Fénelon and Madame Guyon, ‘The Archbishop of Cambray’s Dissertation on Pure Love, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Lady for whose sake he was banish’d from Court,’ London, 1735.

[Joseph Smith’s Catalogue of Friends’ Books; works quoted above; Life of Madame Guyon, Bristol, 1772, pt. i. errata; registers at Devonshire House; will P.C.C. 58 Strahan, at Somerset House.]

C. F. S.

Fénelon was nominated in February, 1696, Fénelon was consecrated in August of the same year by Bossuet in the chapel of Saint-Cyr. The future of the young prelate looked brilliant, when he fell into deep disgrace.

The cause of Fénelon’s trouble was his connection with Madame Guyon, whom he had met in the society of his friends, the Beauvilliers and the Chevreuses. She was a native of Orléans, which she left when about twenty-eight years old, a widowed mother of three children, to carry on a sort of apostolate of mysticism, under the direction of Père Lacombe, a Barnabite. After many journeys to Geneva, and through Provence and Italy, she set forth her ideas in two works, “Le moyen court et facile de faire oraison” and “Les torrents spirituels”. In exaggerated language characteristic of her visionary mind, she presented a system too evidently founded on the Quietism of Molinos, that had just been condemned by Innocent XI in 1687. There were, however, great divergencies between the two systems. Whereas Molinos made man’s earthly perfection consist in a state of uninterrupted contemplation and love, which would dispense the soul from all active virtue and reduce it to absolute inaction, Madame Guyon rejected with horror the dangerous conclusions of Molinos as to the cessation of the necessity of offering positive resistance to temptation. Indeed, in all her relations with Père Lacombe, as well as with Fénelon, her virtuous life was never called in doubt. Soon after her arrival in Paris she became acquainted with many pious persons of the court and in the city, among them Madame de Maintenon and the Ducs de Beauvilliers and Chevreuse, who introduced her to Fénelon. In turn, he was attracted by her piety, her lofty spirituality, the charm of her personality, and of her books. It was not long, however, before the Bishop of Chartres, in whose diocese Saint-Cyr was, began to unsettle the mind of Madame de Maintenon by questioning the orthodoxy of Madame Guyon’s theories. The latter, thereupon, begged to have her works submitted to an ecclesiastical commission composed of Bossuet, de Noailles, who was then Bishop of Châlons, later Archbishop of Paris, and M. Tronson; superior of-Saint-Sulpice. After an examination which lasted six months, the commission delivered its verdict in thirty-four articles known as the “Articles d’ Issy”, from the place near Paris where the commission sat. These articles, which were signed by Fénelon and the Bishop of Chartres, also by the members of the commission, condemned very briefly Madame Guyon’s ideas, and gave a short exposition of the Catholic teaching on prayer. Madame Guyon submitted to the condemnation, but her teaching spread in England, and Protestants, who have had her books reprinted have always expressed sympathy with her views. Cowper translated some of her hymns into English verse; and her autobiography was translated into English by Thomas Digby (London, 1805) and Thomas Upam (New York, 1848). Her books have been long forgotten in France.

Jeanne Marie Guyon

b. 1648, Montargis, France; d. 1717, Blois, France

A Christian mystic and prolific writer, Jeanne-Marie Guyon advocated a form of spirituality that led to conflict with authorities and incarceration. She was raised in a convent, then married off to a wealthy older man at the age of sixteen. When her husband died in 1676, she embarked on an evangelical mission to convert Protestants to her brand of spirituality, a mild form of quietism, which propounded the notion that through complete passivity (quiet) of the soul, one could become an agent of the divine. Guyon traveled to Geneva, Turin, and Grenoble with her mentor, Friar François Lacombe, at the same time producing several manuscripts: Les torrents spirituels (Spiritual Torrents); an 8,000-page commentary on the Bible; and her most important work, the Moyen court et très facile de faire oraison (The Short and Very Easy Method of Prayer, 1685). Her activities aroused suspicion; she was arrested in 1688 and committed to the convent of the Visitation in Paris, where she began writing an autobiography. Released within a few months, she continued proselytizing, meanwhile attracting several male disciples. In 1695, the Catholic church declared quietism heretical, and Guyon was locked up in the Bastille until 1703. Upon her release, she retired to her son’s estate in Blois. Her writings were published in forty-five volumes from 1712 to 1720.

Her writings began to be published in Holland in 1704, and brought her new admirers. Englishmen and Germans–among them Wettstein and Lord Forbes–visited her at Blois. Through them Madame Guyon’s doctrines became known among Protestants and in that soil took vigorous root. But she did not live to see this unlooked-for diffusion of her writings. She passed away at Blois, at the age of sixty-eight, protesting in her will that she died submissive to the Catholic Church, from which she had never had any intention of separating herself. Her doctrines, like her life, have nevertheless given rise to the widest divergences of opinion. Her published works (the “Moyen court” and the “Règles des assocées à l’Enfance de Jésus”) having been placed on the Index in 1688, and Fénelon’s “Maximes des saints” branded with the condemnation of both the pope and the bishops of France, the Church has thus plainly reprobated Madame Guyon’s doctrines, a reprobation which the extravagance of her language would in itself sufficiently justify. Her strange conduct brought upon her severe censures, in which she could see only manifestations of spite. Evidently, she too often fell short of due reserve and prudence; but after all that can be said in this sense, it must be acknowledged that her morality appears to have given no grounds for serious reproach. Bossuet, who was never indulgent in her regard, could say before the full assembly of the French clergy: “As to the abominations which have been held to be the result of her principles, there was never any question of the horror she testified for them.” It is remarkable, too, that her disciples at the Court of Louis XIV were always persons of great piety and of exemplary life.

On the other hand, Madame Guyon’s warmest partisans after her death were to be found among the Protestants. It was a Dutch Protestant, the pastor Poiret, who began the publication of her works; a Vaudois pietist pastor, Duthoit-Mambrini, continued it. Her “Life” was translated into English and German, and her ideas, long since forgotten in France, have for generations been in favour in Germany, Switzerland, England, and among Methodists in America. ”

EB

P.144 misnumbered 134. Price from imprint: price a British Half-Crown.  Dissertain 16p and Directions for a holy life 5p. DNB includes this in Martin’s works

Copies – Brit.Isles.  :                                                                                                                                                          British Library,                                                                                                                                                                    Dublin City Library,                                                                                                                                                      National Library of Ireland                                                                                                                                              Trinity College Library

Copies – N.America. :                                                                                                                                                           Bates College,                                                                                                                                                                     Harvard University,                                                                                                                                                                            Haverford Col ,                                                                                                                                                                   Library Company of Philadelphia,                                                                                                                        Newberry,                                                                                                                                                                         Pittsburgh Theological                                                                                                                                               Princeton University,                                                                                                                                                   University of Illinois                                                                                                                                                     University of Toronto, Library

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8) 362J James FISHER and [Martha HATFIELD].

The wise virgin: or, A wonderfull narration of the various dispensations of God towards a childe of eleven years of age; wherein as his severity hath appeared in afflicting, so also his goodness both in enabling her (when stricken dumb, deaf, and blind, through the prevalency of her disease) at several times to utter many glorious truths concerning Christ, faith, and other subjects; and also in recovering her without the use of any external means, lest the glory should be given to any other. To the wonderment of many that came far and neer to see and hear her. With some observations in the fourth year since her recovery. She is the daughter of Mr. Anthony Hatfield gentleman, in Laughton in York-shire; her name is Martha Hatfield. The third edition enlarged, with some passages of her gracious conversation now in the time of health. By James Fisher, servant of Christ, and minister of the Gospel in Sheffield.

LONDON: Printed for John Rothwell, at the Fountain, in Cheap-side. 1656 $3,300 Octavo, 143 x 97 x 23 mm (binding), 139 x 94 x 18 mm (text block). A-M8, N3. Lacks A1, blank or portrait? [26], 170 pp. Bound in contemporary calf, upper board reattached, somewhat later marbled and blank ends. Leather rubbed with minor loss to extremities. Interior: Title stained, leaves soiled, gathering N browned, long vertical tear to E2 without loss, tail fore-corner of F8 torn away, with loss of a letter, side notes of B2v trimmed. This is a remarkable survival of the third edition of the popular interregnum account of Sheffield Presbyterian minister James Fisher’s 11-year-old niece Martha Hatfield’s prophetic dialogues following her recovery from a devastating catalepsy that had left her “dumb, deaf, and blind.” Mar tha’s disease, which defies modern retro-diagnostics, was at the time characterized as “spleenwinde,” a term even the Oxford English Dictionary has overlooked. Her sufferings were as variable as they were extraordinary the young girl at one point endured a 17-day fugue state during which her eyes remained open and fixed and she gnashed her teeth to the breaking point. In counterpoise to the horrors of her infirmity, her utterances in periods of remission and upon recovery were of great purity and sweetness; it is this stark contrast that was, and is, the persistent allure of this little book. The Wise Virgin appeared five times between 1653 and 1665; some editions have a portrait frontispiece, and it is entirely possible that the present third edition should have one at A1v, though the copy scanned by Early English Books Online does not. Copies located at Yale, and at Oxford (from which the EEBO copy was made). ONLY Wing F1006.

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122F         Mary de la Rivière Manley        1663-1724

Secret memoirs and manners of several persons of quality of both sexes. From the New Atalantis, an island in the Mediteranean. 

London: Printed for John Morphew, and J. Woodward, 1709    $4500

Octavo      7 1/2 X4 3/4 inches I. A4, B-Q8, R4.  Second edition.          This jewel of a book is expertly bound in antique style full paneled calf with a gilt spine. It is a lovely copy indeed.

The most important of the scandal chronicles of the early eighteenth century, a form made popular and practiced with considerable success by Mrs. Manley and Eliza Haywood.

Mrs. Manley was important in her day not only as a novelist, but as a Tory propagandist.

Her fiction “exhibited her taste for intrigue, and impudently slandered many persons of note, especially those of Whiggish proclivities.” – D.N.B. “Mrs. Manley’s scandalous ‘revelations’ appealed immediately to the prurient curiosity of her first audience ; but they continued to be read because they succeeded in providing certain satisfactions fundamental to fiction itself. In other words, the scandal novel or ‘chronicle’ of Mrs. Manley and Mrs. Haywood was a successful form, a tested commercial pattern, because it presented an opportunity for its readers to participate vicariously in an erotically exciting and glittering fantasy world of aristocratic corruption and promiscuity.” – Richetti, Popular Fiction before Richardson.

The story concerns the return to earth of the goddess of justice, Astrea, to gather information about private and public behavior on the island of Atalantis. Delarivier Manley drew on her own experiences as well as on an obsessive observation of her milieu to produce this fast-paced narrative of political and erotic intrigue.   New Atalantis (1709) is an early and influential example of satirical political writing by a woman. It was suppressed on the grounds of its scandalous nature and Manley (1663-1724) was arrested and tried.   Astrea [Justice] descends on the island of Atalantis, meets her mother Virtue, who tries to escape this world of »Interest« in which even the lovers have deserted her. Both visit Angela [London]. Lady Intelligence comments on all stories of interest. p.107: the sequel of »Histories« turns into the old type of satire with numerous scandals just being mentioned (e.g. short remarks on visitors of a horse race or coaches in the Prado [Hyde-Park]). The stories are leveled against leading Whig politicians – they seduce and ruin women. Yet detailed analysis of situations and considerations on actions which could be taken by potential victims. Even the weakest female victims get their chances to win (and gain decent marriages) the more desperate we are about strategic mistakes and a loss of virtue which prevents the heroines from taking the necessary steps. The stories have been praised for their »warmth« and breathtaking turns.

Manley was taken into custody nine days after the publication of the second volume of Secret Memories and Manners of several Persons of Quality of Both Sexes, from the New Atalantis, an island in the Mediterranean on 29 October 1709. Manley apparently surrendered herself after a secretary John Morphew and John Woodward and printer John Barber had been detained. Four days later the latter were discharged, but Manley remained in custody until 5 November when she was released on bail. After several continuations of the case, she was tried and discharged on 13 February 1710. Rivella provides the only account of the case itself in which Manley claims she defended herself on grounds that her information came by ‘inspiration’ and rebuked her judges for bringing ‘w woman to her trial for writing a few amorous trifles’ (pp. 110-11). This and the first volume which appeared in May 1709 were Romans a clef with separately printed keys. Each offered a succession of narratives of seduction and betrayal by notorious Whig grandees to Astrea, an allegorical figure of justice, by largely female narrators, including an allegorical figure of Intelligence and a midwife. In Rivella, Manley claims that her trial led her to conclude that ‘politics is not the business of a woman’ (p. 112) and that thereafter she turned exclusively to stories of love.

Delarivier Manley was in her day as well-known and potent a political satirist as her friend and co-editor Jonathan Swift. A fervent Tory, Manley skilfully interweaves sexual and political allegory in the tradition of the roman a clef in an acerbic vilification of her Whig opponents. The book’s publication in 1709 – fittingly the year of the collapse of the Whig ministry – caused a scandal which led to the arrest of the author, publisher and printer.

The book exposed the relationship of Queen Anne and one of her advisers, Sarah Churchill. Along with this, Manley’s piece examined the idea of female intimacy and its implications. The implications of female intimacy are important to Manley because of the many rumours of the influence that Churchill held over Queen Anne.                  ESTC T075114; McBurney 45a; Morgan 459.

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9) 103gPhilips, Katherine.1631-1664

Letters from Orinda to Poliarchus

 London: printed by W.B. for Bernard Lintott, 1705                       $5,500

Octavo,6.75 X 3.75 inches.  First edition A-R8  Bound in original calf totally un-restored a very nice original condition copy with only some browning, spotting and damp staining, It is a very good copy.

It is housed in a custom Box.

    10) 376J Mary Pix 1666-1720

The conquest of Spain: a tragedy. As it is Acted by Her Majesty’s Servants at the Queen’s Theatre In the Hay-Market 

London : printed for Richard Wellington, at the Dolphin and Crown in St. Paul’s Church-Yard, 1705.      $4,500

Quarto [A]-K4.   First Edition . (Anonymous. By Mary Pix. Adapted from “All’s lost by lust”, by William Rowley)

Inspired by Aphra Behn, Mary Pix was among the most popular playwrights on the 17th-century theatre circuit, but fell out of fashion. 

“It is so rare to find a play from that period that’s powered by a funny female protagonist. I was immensely surprised by the brilliance of the writing. It is witty and forthright. Pix was writing plays that not only had more women in the cast than men but women who were managing their destinies.”

Pix was born in 1666, the year of the Great Fire of London, and grew up in the culturally rich time of Charles II. With the prolific Aphra Behn (1640-1689) as her role model, Pix burst on to the London theatre and literary scene in 1696 with two plays – one a tragedy: Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperor of the Turks, the other a farce – The Spanish Wives. Pix also wrote a novel – The Inhuman Cardinal.

Her subsequent plays, mostly comedies, became a staple in the repertory of Thomas Betterton’s company Duke’s at Lincoln’s Inn Fields and later at the Queen’s Theatre. She wrote primarily for particular actors, such as Elizabeth Barry and Anne Bracegirdle, who were hugely popular and encouraged a whole generation of women writers.

In a patriarchal world dominated by self-important men, making a mark as a woman was an uphill struggle. “There was resistance to all achieving women in the 18th century, a lot of huffing and puffing by overbearing male chauvinists,” says Bush-Bailey.

“Luckily for Pix and the other women playwrights of that time, the leading actresses were powerful and influential. I think it was they who mentored people such as Pix and Congreve.”

Davies believes the women playwrights of the 1700s – Susanna Centlivre, Catherine Trotter Cockburn, Delarivier Manley and Hannah Cowley – “unquestionably” held their own against the men who would put them down. “What’s difficult is that they were attacked for daring to write plays at all,” she says.

One of the most blatant examples of male hostility came in the form of an anonymously written parody entitled The Female Wits in 1696, in which Mary Pix was caricatured as “Mrs Wellfed, a fat female author, a sociable, well-natur’d companion that will not suffer martyrdom rather than take off three bumpers [alcoholic drinks] in a hand”.

While Pix’s sociability and taste for good food and wine was common knowledge, she was known to be a universally popular member of the London literary and theatrical circuit.

“The Female Wits was probably written, with malice, by George Powell of the Drury Lane Company,” says Bush-Bailey. “It was a cheap, satirical jibe at the successful women playwrights of the time, making out they were all bitching behind each others’ backs. So far as one can tell, it was just spiteful and scurrilous.”

Mary Pix (1666 – 17 May 1709) was an English novelist and playwright. As an admirer of Aphra Behn and colleague of Susanna Centlivre, Pix has been called “a link between women writers of the Restoration and Augustan periods”.

The Dramatis personae from a 1699 edition of Pix’s The False Friend.

Mary Griffith Pix was born in 1666, the daughter of a rector, musician and Headmaster of the Royal Latin School, Buckingham, Buckinghamshire; her father, Roger Griffith, died when she was very young, but Mary and her mother continued to live in the schoolhouse after his death. She was courted by her father’s successor Thomas Dalby, but he left with the outbreak of smallpox in town, just one year after the mysterious fire that burned the schoolhouse. Rumour had it that Mary and Dalby had been making love rather energetically and overturned a candle which set fire to the bedroom.

In 1684, at the age of 18, Mary Griffith married George Pix (a merchant tailor from Hawkhurst, Kent). The couple moved to his country estate in Kent. Her first son, George (b. 1689), died very young in 1690.[3] The next year the couple moved to London and she gave birth to another son, William (b. 1691).

In 1696, when Pix was thirty years old, she first emerged as a professional writer, publishing The Inhumane Cardinal; or, Innocence Betrayed, her first and only novel, as well as two plays, Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperour of the Turks and The Spanish Wives.

Though from quite different backgrounds, Pix quickly became associated with two other playwrights who emerged in the same year: Delariviere Manley and Catherine Trotter. The three female playwrights attained enough public success that they were criticised in the form of an anonymous satirical play The Female Wits (1696). Mary Pix appears as “Mrs. Wellfed one that represents a fat, female author. A good rather sociable, well-matured companion that would not suffer martyrdom rather than take off three bumpers in a hand”.[4] She is depicted as an ignorant woman, though amiable and unpretentious. Pix is summarised as “foolish and openhearted”.

Her first play was put on stage in 1696 at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, near her house in London but when that same theatrical company performed The Female Wits, she moved to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. They said of her that “she has boldly given us an essay of her talent … and not without success, though with little profit to herself”. (Morgan, 1991: xii).

In the season of 1697–1698, Pix became involved in a plagiarism scandal with George Powell. Powell was a rival playwright and the manager of the Drury Lane theatrical company. Pix sent her play, The Deceiver Deceived to Powell’s company, as a possible drama for them to perform. Powell rejected the play but kept the manuscript and then proceeded to write and perform a play called The Imposture Defeated, which had a plot and main character taken directly from The Deceiver Deceived. In the following public backlash, Pix accused Powell of stealing her work and Powell claimed that instead he and Pix had both drawn their plays from the same source material, an unnamed novel. In 1698, an anonymous writer, now believed to be Powell, published a letter called “To the Ingenious Mr. _____.” which attacked Pix and her fellow female playwright Trotter. The letter attempted to malign Pix on various issues, such as her spelling and presumption in publishing her writing. Though Pix’s public reputation was not damaged and she continued writing after the plagiarism scandal, she stopped putting her name on her work and after 1699 she only included her name on one play, in spite of the fact that she is believed to have written at least seven more. Scholars still discuss the attribution of plays to Pix, notably whether or not she wrote Zelmane; or, The Corinthian Queen (1705).

In May 1707 Pix published A Poem, Humbly Inscrib’d to the Lords Commissioners for the Union of the Two Kingdoms. This would be her final appearance in print. She died two years later.

Few of the female playwrights of Mary Pix’s time came from a theatrical background and none came from the aristocracy: within a century, most successful actresses and female authors came from a familiar tradition of literature and theatre but Mary Pix and her contemporaries were from outside this world and had little in common with one another apart from a love for literature and a middle-class background.

At the time of Mary Pix, “The ideal of the one-breadwinner family had not yet become dominant”, whereas in 18th-century families it was normal for the woman to stay at home taking care of the children, house and servants, in Restoration England husband and wife worked together in familiar enterprises that sustained them both and female playwrights earned the same wage as their male counterparts.

Morgan also points out that “till the close of the period, authorship was not generally advertised on playbills, nor always proclaimed when plays were printed”, which made it easier for female authors to hide their identity so as to be more easily accepted among the most conservative audiences.

As Morgan states, “plays were valued according to how they performed and not by who wrote them. When authorship ―female or otherwise― remained a matter of passing interest, female playwrights were in an open and equal market with their male colleagues”.

Pix’s plays were very successful among contemporary audiences. Each play ran for at least four to five nights and some were even brought back for additional shows years later.[10] Her tragedies were quite popular, because she managed to mix extreme action with melting love scenes. Many critics believed that Pix’s best pieces were her comedies. Pix’s comedic work was lively and full of double plots, intrigue, confusion, songs, dances and humorous disguise. An Encyclopaedia of British Women Writers (1998) points out that

Forced or unhappy marriages appear frequently and prominently in the comedies. Pix is not, however, writing polemics against the forced marriage but using it as a plot device and sentimentalizing the unhappily married person, who is sometimes rescued and married more satisfactorily.”(Schlueter & Schlueter, 1998: 513)

Although some contemporary women writers, like Aphra Behn, have been rediscovered, even the most specialised scholars have little knowledge of works by writers such as Catherine Trotter, Delarivier Manley or Mary Pix, despite the fact that plays like The Beau Defeated (1700), present with a wider range of female characters than plays written by men at the time. Pix’s plays generally had eight or nine female roles, while plays by male writers only had two or three.[

A production of The Fantastic Follies of Mrs Rich (or The Beau Defeated) played as part of the 2018 season at the Royal Shakespeare Company.

Pix produced one novel and seven plays. There are four other plays that were published anonymously, that are generally attributed to her.

Melinda Finberg notes that “a frequent motif in all her works is sexual violence and female victimization” – be that rape or murder (in the tragedies) or forcible confinement or the threat of rape (in the comedies).

^ Kramer, Annette (June 1994). “Mary Pix’s Nebulous Relationship to Zelmane”. Notes and Queries. 41 (2): 186–187. doi:10.1093/nq/41-2-186

PIX, Mrs. MARY (1666–1720?), dramatist, born in 1666 at Nettlebed in Oxfordshire, was daughter of the Rev. Roger Griffith, vicar of that place. Her mother, whose maiden name was Lucy Berriman, claimed descent from the ‘very considerable family of the Wallis’s.’ In the dedication of ‘The Spanish Wives’ Mrs. Pix speaks of meeting Colonel Tipping ‘at Soundess,’ or Soundness. This house, which was close to Nettlebed, was the property of John Wallis, eldest son of the mathematician. Mary Griffith’s father died before 1684, and on 24 July in that year she married in London, at St. Saviour’s, Benetfink, George Pix (b. 1660), a merchant tailor of St. Augustine’s parish. His family was connected with Hawkhurst, Kent. By him she had one child, who was buried at Hawkhurst in 1690.

It was in 1696, in which year Colley Cibber, Mrs. Manley, Catharine Cockburn (Mrs. Trotter), and Lord Lansdowne also made their débuts, that Mrs. Pix first came into public notice. She produced at Dorset Garden, and then printed, a blank-verse tragedy of ‘Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperor of the Turks.’ When it was too late, she discovered that she should have written ‘Ibrahim the Twelfth.’ This play she dedicated to the Hon. Richard Minchall of Bourton, a neighbour of her country days. In the same year (1696) Mary Pix published a novel, ‘The Inhuman Cardinal,’ and a farce, ‘The Spanish Wives,’ which had enjoyed a very considerable success at Dorset Garden.

From this point she devoted herself to dramatic authorship with more activity than had been shown before her time by any woman except Mrs. Afra Behn [q. v.] In 1697 she produced at Little Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and then published, a comedy of ‘The Innocent Mistress.’ This play, which was very successful, shows the influence of Congreve upon the author, and is the most readable of her productions. The prologue and epilogue were written by Peter Anthony Motteux [q. v.] It was followed the next year by ‘The Deceiver Deceived,’ a comedy which failed, and which involved the poetess in a quarrel. She accused George Powell [q. v.], the actor, of having seen the manuscript of her play, and of having stolen from it in his ‘Imposture Defeated.’ On 8 Sept. 1698 an anonymous ‘Letter to Mr. Congreve’ was published in the interests of Powell, from which it would seem that Congreve had by this time taken Mary Pix under his protection, with Mrs. Trotter, and was to be seen ‘very gravely with his hat over his eyes … together with the two she-things called Poetesses’ (see GOSSE, Life of Congreve, pp. 123–5). Her next play was a tragedy of ‘Queen Catharine,’ brought out at Lincoln’s Inn, and published in 1698. Mrs. Trotter wrote the epilogue. In her own prologue Mary Pix pays a warm tribute to Shakespeare. ‘The False Friend’ followed, at the same house, in 1699; the title of this comedy was borrowed three years later by Vanbrugh.

Hitherto Mary Pix had been careful to put her name on her title-pages or dedications; but the comedy of ‘The Beau Defeated’—undated, but published in 1700—though anonymous, is certainly hers. In 1701 she produced a tragedy of ‘The Double Distress.’ Two more plays have been attributed to Mary Pix by Downes. One of these is ‘The Conquest of Spain,’ an adaptation from Rowley’s ‘All’s lost by Lust,’ which was brought out at the Queen’s theatre in the Haymarket, ran for six nights, and was printed anonymously in 1705 (DOWNE, Roscius Anglicanus, p. 48). Finally, the comedy of the ‘Adventures in Madrid’ was acted at the same house with Mrs. Bracegirdle in the cast, and printed anonymously and without date. It has been attributed by the historians of the drama to 1709; but a copy in the possession of the present writer has a manuscript note of date of publication ‘10 August 1706.’

Nearly all our personal impression of Mary Pix is obtained from a dramatic satire entitled ‘The Female Wits; or, the Triumvirate of Poets.’ This was acted at Drury Lane Theatre about 1697, but apparently not printed until 1704, after the death of the author, Mr. W. M. It was directed at the three women who had just come forward as competitors for dramatic honours—Mrs. Pix, Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. Trotter [see Cockburn, Catharine]. Mrs. Pix, who is described as ‘a fat Female Author, a good, sociable, well-natur’d Companion, that will not suffer Martyrdom rather than take off three Bumpers in a Hand,’ was travestied by Mrs. Powell under the name of ‘Mrs. Wellfed.’

The style of Mrs. Pix confirms the statements of her contemporaries that though, as she says in the dedication of the ‘Spanish Wives,’ she had had an inclination to poetry from childhood, she was without learning of any sort. She is described as ‘foolish and open-hearted,’ and as being ‘big enough to be the Mother of the Muses.’ Her fatness and her love of good wine were matters of notoriety. Her comedies, though coarse, are far more decent than those of Mrs. Behn, and her comic bustle of dialogue is sometimes entertaining. Her tragedies are intolerable. She had not the most superficial idea of the way in which blank verse should be written, pompous prose, broken irregularly into lengths, being her ideal of versification.

The writings of Mary Pix were not collected in her own age, nor have they been reprinted since. Several of them have become exceedingly rare. An anonymous tragedy, ‘The Czar of Muscovy,’ published in 1702, a week after her play of ‘The Double Distress,’ has found its way into lists of her writings, but there is no evidence identifying it with her in any way. She was, however, the author of ‘Violenta, or the Rewards of Virtue, turn’d from Bocacce into Verse,’ 1704.

[Miscellanea Genealogica et Heraldica, 2nd ser. v. 110–3; Vicar-General’s Marriage Licences (Harl. Soc.), 1679–87, p. 173; Baker’s Biogr. Dramatica; Doran’s Annals of the English Stage, i. 243; Mrs. Pix’s works; Genest’s Hist. Account of the Stage.].

  )§(§)§(

 11) 296J  Mademoiselle  Madeleine de Scudéri   (1607-1701) A triumphant arch erected and consecrated to the glory of the feminine sexe: by Monsieur de Scudery: Englished by I.B. gent.London : printed for William Hope, and Henry Herringman, at the blew Anchor behind the Old Exchange, and at the blew Anchor in the lower walk in the New Exchange, 1656.                                              $1,300

Octavo  A4 (lacking a1&a4) B-P8 Q3 (A1 blank?).    Title in red and black; title vignette (motto: “Dum spiro spero”)  First edition,Authorship ascribed to Madeleine de Scudéry by Brunet; according to other authorities the work was written by both Georges de Scudéry and his sister. This copy is lacking A1 &a4 index f., titled holed, browned and with marginal repairs (without loss), stained, lightly browned, corners worn, rubbed, contemporary sheep, rebacked,Very rare on the market the last copy I could find at auction was in 1967 ($420)Scudéry  was the most popular novelist in her time, read in French in volume installments all over Europe and translated into English, German, Italian, and even Arabic. But she was also a charismatic figure in French salon culture, a woman who supported herself through her writing and defended women’s education .Scudéry’s role as a model for women writers and for women’s education has also been an important topic of recent criticism. Critics including Jane Donaworth and Patricia Hannon have discussed her as an important influence on later women authors and even as a proto-feminist. Helen Osterman Borowitz has attempted to draw direct connections between Scudéry and the great French novelist Germaine de Staël. Critics have long acknowledged, however, that Scudéry was not only an influence on women novelists. Some have suggested that she also opened up new political possibilities. For example, Leonard Hinds has claimed that the collaborative model of authorship that existed in the salons was also a model for an alternative to absolutism, while Joan DeJean has suggested that her work can be seen as a response to political events of her age.In 1641 Madeleine published her first novel, Ibrahim ou l’illustre Bassa, under her brother’s name. This practice of using the name of her brother as her pseudonymous signature was one that she continued for most of her prolific career as a writer, despite the fact that her own authorship was openly acknowledged in the gazettes, memoirs, and letters of the time. Although the precise nature of his contributions is uncertain, Georges did clearly collaborate to some extent with his sister in the writing of her novels, and he wrote the prefaces to several of her books.

She won the first prize for eloquence awarded by the Académie Française (1671), but was barred from membership. Several academicians had attempted to lift the ban against women so that she could join their ranks, to no avail. Although her own authorship was widely acknowledged at the time, she used the name of her brother, Georges de Scudéry, as a pseudonymous signature throughout her career (Dejean)

Wing (2nd ed.), S2163 ,Thomason, E.1604[4]

  Scudéry, Madeleine de. Selected Letters, Orations and Rhetorical Dialogues. Ed. and trans. Jane Donawerth and Julie Strongson. The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 8.

John Conley, “Madeleine de Scudéry,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2011 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2011/entries/madeleine-scudery/.

Joan Dejean. Scudéry, Madeleine de (1608-1701). The New Oxford Companion to Literature in French (Oxford University Press 1995, 2005).

“Scudéry, Madeleine De (1607–1701).” Europe, 1450 to 1789: Encyclopedia of the Early Modern World. . Encyclopedia.com. 11 Apr. 2019

)§(§)§(

12) 323J Madeleine Vigneron (1628-1667)

La vie et la conduite spirituelle de Mademoiselle M. Vigneron. Suivant les mémoires qu’elle en a laissez par l’ordre de son directeur (M. Bourdin). [Arranged and edited by him.].

Paris: Chez Pierre de Launay, 1689.  $3,200

Octavo 7 x 4 3/4 inches ã8 e8 A-2R8 (2R8 blank). Second and preferred edition first published in 1679.     This copy is bound in contemporary brown calf, five raised bands on spine, gilt floral tools in the compartments, second compartment titled in gilt; corners and spine extremities worn; three old joint repairs; on the front binder’s blank is an early ownership four-line inscription in French dated 1704, of

Sister Monique Vanden Heuvel, at the priory of Sion de Vilvoorde (Belgium).

Overall a fine copy.

This is the stirring journal that Madeleine Vigneron , member of the Third Order of the Minims of St. Francis of Paola, she began to keep it in 1653 and continued until her premature death, (1667) It was first published in 1679 and again in the present second, and final, edition which is more complete than the first. Added are Madeleine’s series of 78 letters representing her spiritual correspondence.IMG_1410

In these autobiographical writings, which were collected and published by her Director, the Minim Matthieu Bourdin, Madeleine speaks of the illnesses that plagued her since childhood and greatly handicapped her throughout a life that she dedicated to God by caring for the poor. She received admirable lights on the divinity and humanity of Jesus Christ, on the mysteries of the spiritual life. The hagiographers have remarked her austerity, her patience, her insatiable desire to suffer for God. Those who knew her perceived in her a virtuous life that impressed them.

This is a very rare book: the combined resources of NUC and OCLC locate only one copy in America, at the University of Dayton which also holds the only American copy of the 1679 edition.

§ Cioranescu 66466 (the 1679 edition).

checklist of early modern writings by nuns

Carr, Thomas M., “A Checklist of Published Writings in French by Early Modern Nuns” (2007). French Language and Literature Papers. 52.

    )§(§)§(

End

Updated! A Dozen Early Modern Books by Women Author INDEX J.B. 346J Mary Barber 377J Mary Barber 373J Madam De Bellefont 572G Susanna Centlivre 347J…

[bearotonin-international]

Hi, hello, I hope everyone is having a good day

Juste wanted to ask if you had any pandas you would be willing to share with the world.

we suppose we can share an occasional bear or two

[renegadehymnal-blog]

Adventures in Digital #2

The Theory and Practice of Podcast Opera : part 2 (of 3)

An expanded transcript of a Composer Commentary podcast, by Martin Ward, exploring the creation of the digital opera serial Road Memoir.

Whilst changing the Road Memoir podcasting schedule from two to twelve weeks meant that each episode would need to be longer (a choice which afforded the opportunity to explore a secondary character narrative) it also meant that, from originally planning to complete all the writing, recording and mixing before the series began, I would now create and record the opera whilst it was running. I had four episodes written and recorded (but not mixed) before the podcasting began on July 24th and from then on I spent twelve weeks juggling the three jobs of writing, recording and mixing, whilst having to meet the weekly podcasting deadline. This was also the school summer holidays, which put a family camping holiday in the middle of the series, meaning the podcasting of two episodes had to be managed, along with website updates and social media, from my mobile phone (I was determined to leave the laptop at home) on a French campsite with very patchy wifi. They were a couple of stressful days.

In advance, I had made a detailed multi-colour spreadsheet planning the three months work. This changed a little but not much during the creative process and over time the production of each episode settled down into a basic routine that went like this ...

1. Write the libretto.

2. Compose the music.

3. Input into Cubase and edit at the same time, just using piano sounds for now and finalise the tempi.

4. Create Vocal Score in Sibelius.

5. Email VS and an mp3 to Billie Robson, the singer. Giving her as much notice as possible, ideally at least 5 days.

6. Recording session with Billie (in which she sang with the Cubase file and a click).

7. Vocal editing session, sorting through the different takes.

8. Designing and placing the sound effects.

9. Arranging and "orchestrating" the musical accompaniment.

10. Mixing.

11. Mastering (via 3 sets of headphones of differing types, price points and qualities).

12. Mixdown and Data Stamp the mp3 metadata to iTunes standards.

13. Upload and Publish Podcast in Blubrry.

14. Make a pdf of the episode libretto and text.

15. Update my website with podcast widget and libretto pdf.

16. Social Media and email promotion.

This timetable, duplicated twelve times, was organised to dove-tail so that on any one day I might be working on three different aspects of three different episodes. By the midway point it had become second nature as to what was needed and what came next and the spread sheet was more or less redundant.

Planning work flow like that is important to just get the job done but I think it's as important to plan the artistic and creative goals and methods before you begin. As an inexperienced librettist, I'd devised a four-point method for the libretto (the sung words) of each episode, which I hoped would bring balance to the content and allow for poetic character insight - which is essential and unique to opera - whilst keeping the story moving forward. To that end, this is the checklist I printed at the top of each scene as I was writing...

Every episode should contain each of these in some small part :

1. STORY : move the development of the story forward.

2. MEMORY : contrast present experience with past experience (as the story is set in the near future, remember that  character "past experience" is "everyday experience" for the audience – play on that).

3. REFLECTION : allow time for pause and poetic musing on changes in predicament and/or surroundings.

4. ACTION : character must take action that moves her story forward.

And in a further note :

Also bear in mind that each of these narrative elements should also occupy a slightly different sound and music world, with unique palettes of sound and music for each – helping the audience in navigating different types of story-telling at a subconscious level.

In retrospect I'm pretty pleased with how the libretto plan turned out and that each episode does demonstrate elements of each of the four forms. It keeps moving forward through the characters actions, with a speed that ebbs and flows (which I like) and there are also moments for poetry and reflection, which, as I've said, I believe is an important aspect of any work that calls itself "opera".

My musical plans ended up taking a slightly different course though. Whilst I made certain to mark the changes of purpose in the text with changes of tone or tempo or colour in the music, my plan to accompany the four types of text with four different, defined sound and music worlds didn't really play out. I think that this was largely due to the addition of the spoken Investigator text, which required a very different sound world to the sung sections. That meant that those sung sections required less contrast within them. Also, once I got into the nuts and bolts I decided that I wanted each episode to explore different groups of sounds, with the piano as the constant instrumental voice. This was a decision in reaction to the sometimes confined musical palette of live chamber opera (where budget always restricts performer numbers). I wanted to explore the far wider range of colours that might be possible with a work such as this. This is clearly the opposite of what my initial plan suggested but it also reflects the conclusion that I came to whilst working on the piece, that what was most important at those moments of change in the text : from Story, to Memory, to Reflection or to Action, was that there was simply a coordinated change in the sound and music. What the sound or music changed to was not actually that important in the grand scheme of things and a freer approach in fact allowed the music to keep moving forward into new ground, as the story and the main character evolved and did the same. I did identify some musical motifs early on but without making explicit connections between them and character or narrative. Instead I used their occasional returns to loosely bind the accompanying material together. With this approach, rather than by recycling a coded palette – which the audience may, or (more probably) may not pick up on – I believe the piece feels more creatively fertile.

Throughout the creative process I entirely avoided listening back to podcast episodes and in fact I didn't re-listen to anything until two weeks after the work was complete. This was primarily because I wanted the music to keep moving forward and I wanted to avoid past musical ideas invading my current thoughts. The story itself is about making decisions in the moment, living with them and moving on. I'm quite into the idea of exploring ways of mirroring story elements in the creative processes I use, so it seemed an apt approach to try to reflect that constant forward story movement in my methodology. Truthfully, I was also a little bit scared I might not like everything I'd done and I couldn't afford to be worrying about that whilst I was writing - with any other piece I would have had the chance to go back and re-write or edit but with this one, once I'd clicked on "publish podcast" it was out there and there was no going back.

By moving away from traditional opera methods it was easy to feel like I was breaking new ground but contemporary culture exists in so many forms that no sooner have I stepped out of "opera" than I'm tripping into another existing genre or artform. With an aural serial like Road Memoir comparisons with radio plays are obvious but, though there are definite similarities, I feel that Road Memoir is a freer artistic expression and I'm particularly glad not to have had a specified episode duration to work to, as would certainly be the case with a radio play. 

I really didn't concern myself with episode durations when I was creating and it's pretty clear to see as the episodes range between 5'39 and 14'05 in length (although the latter was an intentional double-episode rather than a massive over-run) and most episodes are between 6 and 9 minutes long. It was my intention from the start to make the most dramatically important episodes, at the beginning and the end of the series, double-episodes. The first episode had to establish the two voices, both in themselves and in how they fit together; it had to do the same with the sound and music; it also had to explain the Real World history and relevance of mobile phone evidence, the facts of which underpin the whole story; it then had to establish the woman's character and starting position in the narrative before throwing her headlong into the jeopardy which would begin her journey; and it had to finish with a cliffhanger which would hopefully leave the audience wanting to come back for episode two. Listing all that, I'm exceptionally pleased that it was only 10 minutes long.

Meanwhile, I knew from early on that I wanted the final episode to be more like an epilogue, set some time after the rest of the series and tying up at least the question of the woman's survival, if nothing else. Therefore, the penultimate episode had to be the story climax and it also had to finish with a final cliff-hanging point of jeopardy. I liked the idea that the episode would start with a misleading period of calm - the lull before the storm - putting the audience on the wrong foot, before spiralling into a confusing and noisy chaos of words and sound - to really take the listener on a journey within the one episode and hopefully leave them struggling with the weight and quantity of what they'd just heard. In order to achieve all that was going to take time and even without the first 4 minute song, which could almost stand alone as an episode, the following scene, which unifies the two narratives and characters geographically on the beach and in the same dramatic moment (even if they are actually years apart in time) doesn't feel long at 10 minutes given the amount of information and story it holds. There's about thirty tracks of sound effects alone in that sequence. It was a pretty intense week, arranging and mixing all of that.

In the final episode, the main part of which is just for voice and piano, I hope that the use of the piano throughout the series kind of comes into focus. I see the piano as a part of her character, almost on a par with her voice, a constant that remains at the end - as the danger and fear ebb away - and that last episode maybe hints at one of the ways I'd like to imagine the opera working in the future: as a live event, for solo soprano and piano, with recorded sound, music and spoken text.  As self-contradictory as that idea might sound, given my earlier insistence on conceiving and writing a work purely for digital media, I can't help finding myself now, after sharing the final episode, wondering what lies ahead for the piece.

In my next “Adventures in Digital” blog I'll explore what that future might be for this work and draw some conclusions from my experiences in creating it.

[gaiatheorist]

Careful, now.

I’ve just over-unpicked that thought, wondering whether the slight unease I felt about ‘women’ attacking ‘men’ for failing to stand up against culturally normalised sexually predatory behaviours was because I’m conditioned-female. I don’t think it is, my son grimaced when I read him a ‘not all’ comment from Twitter yesterday. This one’s going to be a complex one to unravel, because there are so many strands to it, but what else do I have to ‘do’ at half past four in the morning?

Recent events reported in the media have caused a backlash of people reporting their own experiences of unwanted sexual advances, and the inevitable “No, they didn’t.” responses. Whether that’s the White House calling all of Trump’s accusers ‘liars’, or some random man, re-tweeted into my timeline, suggesting that if a person doesn’t report a sexually motivated crime within 24 hours, it can’t have happened. The bit of the world that I can see is gearing up for a fight, and I’m mildly anxious that might be a case of misdirected energy. Bear with me, I’m not retreating to the kitchen sink, ‘barefoot and pregnant’, which was referenced in one of my Facebook ‘On This Day’ comments this morning.

The majority of men that I ‘know’ wouldn’t contemplate making unwanted sexual advances towards a woman, or, more broadly, assuming that we are less-than, just because our reproductive paraphernalia is stored in a more-difficult-to-kick location. That’s not because ‘everyone’ knows-not-to-grope, or understands that females ‘can’ bleed a radiator. (Weird example, I know, the Facebook thing was the odious misogynistic gas engineer, who talks down to me, and the blonde lettings agent, with her high-heeled shoes who called last week could only suggest “Maybe your radiators need bleeding?” when I told her, for the millionth time, that my heating doesn’t work. Side-spin on that one, women are discouraged from finding out how things work, and fixing them when they don’t. “Don’t lift that, it’s heavy.” “Mind your fingernails.” “Do you want me to fix it for you?”) There, problem solved, I don’t ‘know’ any sexist pigs, and most of the women I ‘know’ don’t scream for ‘a man’ if there’s a spider.

I take that back, I know people in both categories, I just choose not to associate with them, my step-father wouldn’t ‘let’ me go to the bar at my brother’s wedding-thing. I went anyway, and ignored my Mother’s pleading to let her buy me the drink instead, offering herself up to break his rules instead of me. I’m not responsible for her choice to remain married to a physically and emotionally abusive man, and she doesn’t need to try to protect me from him, I’m a big girl now. (Skew-out on that one, he attacked her fairly frequently, and attacked my brother occasionally, never laid a hand on me, I wonder if he knew he’d come off worse if he did?) My ridiculous sisters-in-law, who will phone the 80-odd year old father-in-law to come and change a fuse, or a light-bulb, rather than figure out how to do it themselves. Half of my life in the first-example world, and half in the second, it’s a wonder I didn’t just give up, and sit quietly, watching soap operas.  

My father, and my step-father were abusive in various ways, as was one of my grandfathers. There’s a wry smile here, at my inadvertent ‘not all’, one of my grandfathers wasn’t an arse, so my formative years didn’t break me, they just bent me a little. I ‘broke the wheel’ when I was 13 or 14, so became used to being unpopular from an early-ish age. I’m the reason my half-sister, and female cousins are not as damaged as I am, and I will never regret what I did. My example is a fairly extreme one, it’s a wonder I’m not more ‘extreme’ or ‘radical’ than I am.

Too close to the bone, too personal, but, it loops back around to my initial thought on this. Abusive situations tend to arise from a power imbalance, whether that’s an unreasonable manager making stupid demands, a violent partner in a relationship, or a millionaire assuming they can buy the silence of the people they’ve assaulted. 

There aren’t many dinosaurs, like my father/step-father/father-in-law, and the odious gas engineer left, my generation of ‘ladettes’, whilst not always dignified, did something to turn the tables on ‘the lads’; it’s a slow-creep progress, but I think that my son’s generation, buoyed on the momentum of mothers-who-would-say-no, are starting to grasp what equality really looks like. I’m under no illusion that I’ll see an end to all injustice in my lifetime, but there are glimmers of hope in these incremental attitude-shifts. (Ew, someone has just re-tweeted Hatey Katie into my timeline, she’s suggesting we ‘Man up and shut up with the #MeToo cr*p’, her asterisk, not mine.) That’s part of the problem, and she knows it, she’s fishing for clicks, because a huge proportion of the population will shout her down on that, and she’ll get some sort of headline out of it. I’m not engaging, she’s a traitor, not to females, but to humanity in general.

#MeToo generated a long-overdue discussion, in part about the way that sexual assaults are still normalised and concealed, but also about ‘where is the line?’ some of the less intelligent participants in that conversation raised their heads above the parapet, and were blasted into oblivion. Rightly so, everyone will have their own personal ‘line’, but the cover-ups, collusion, and coercion when that line is over-stepped need to stop. The people who didn’t come forward ‘at the time’ will have had their own reasons for that, and they will all have been linked, to a greater or lesser degree, to power imbalances. The Hollywood issue, the women were aspiring to something that Weinstein could ‘make or break’, not a choice I’d make myself, but I have different aspirations. Entitled-deluded people in positions of power will sometimes choose to abuse that power. Wealthy people can buy silence, I imagine there are plenty of people out there wondering whether it’s worth breaching settlement agreements for the greater good. A settlement agreement won’t make any reference to the alleged offence/harm, it will just be a list of non-disclosure conditions. There will be people out there knowing that harm has been caused to them, but that the reputational and financial risk to them is greater than that of the perpetrator if they breach NDA.

Closer to home, in the UK, away from the gold-plated everything, and the potted plants, the normalisation of endemic unwanted sexual attention is also being challenged. Celebrities, or people in positions of power within the entertainment industry are being ‘outed’, there will be some elements of narcissistic-entitlement there, the I-want-so-I-can attitude displayed by a certain former reality ‘star’. On a microcosm-scale, I married a ‘rock star’, they struggle with being told ‘No.’ (He’s not a rock star, but he thinks he is, the local working men’s clubs aren’t exactly Carnegie Hall, or whatever the quote is.) the entertainment industry has apparently had ‘whisper networks’ and ‘lists’ for years, a slightly more organised version of we non-famous women advising fresh-meat new starters which colleague they shouldn’t accept a lift home from. We shouldn’t have to do that, or myriad other things that we’ve absorbed-normalised to keep ourselves, and others safe. The media/entertainment industry people coming forward are in a different league from most of ‘us’, and that, in itself is drawing unkind commentary from people who don’t realise that virtually every woman has had to deal with sleaze, or worse, at some point in their life.    

Furore in UK politics, being handled better by some than by others. For every female politician coming forward to disclose institutionalised misogyny and malpractice, there seems to be a male politician pop up to say “I don’t do that!”. Shush, you’re not helping anyone by stating the obvious, we KNOW that some-men-don’t. I always put my knives blade-down in the drawer, but sharing that pointless fact doesn’t reduce knife-crime, does it? 

That sort-of loops around to my initial thought, which may, or may not be a tinfoil-hat conspiracy theory. The internet already has a theory that Trump is about to attempt to ‘bury’ something in the midst of yet another media-diversion-blowout . (Anger-spike, at the fact that his stance on reproductive autonomy further dis-empowers women, while the men who can afford to pay for the terminations can just carry on doing as they please.) Back in the UK, there are so many things going tits-up at once that anyone with shares in Wonder-Bra might want to reconsider their investment. 

Yes, attitudes do need to shift, but it’s unlikely to be an overnight change. On a cosmic scale, it’s not really that long since women were chattel, in some cultures, they still are. (I wonder how long it will take Saudi men to start thinking it’s funny to make ‘Women drivers’ jokes?) I didn’t need my father’s permission to marry, there was no ‘transfer of ownership’ between him and my husband, it just took a while for the husband to realise that I wasn’t a possession. We’re slowly picking off the dinosaurs, but I, personally, still think we need to exercise a  degree of caution, not to protect ‘us’, or ‘them’, but to avoid this thing getting very ugly, very quickly. It’s already started in parliament/government, ‘potential to destabilise government if ministers are forced to resign’, they’ll do what they do, but ‘we’, in the real world need to be mindful of what we do. Not ‘all men are potential rapists’, and not ‘all women train their daughters to use sex to get what they want.’ For every Hatey Katie claiming to have weaponised her sexuality to further her career, there are millions of women who haven’t, and wouldn’t. For every man (or woman) abusing their power-status for sexual gratification, there are millions who haven’t, and wouldn’t. 

Yes, we need to discuss it, and yes, those with less power need to know how to challenge it, when it happens, but, if this momentum is derailed by in-fighting, we’ll be back where we started, all of us, with no gains made, and a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. I can’t ‘smash the patriarchy’, I don’t have any shoes on, but I have raised a son who knows that women are not less-than, and coached/mentored hundreds of other people’s children into modifying maladaptive behaviours.

Yes, some archaic views will be aired, and yes, some of us will be angry, I’m just mindful that we need to be careful in how we project that anger, or we’ll end up in a boys vs girls battle, while World War 3 kicks off, and the UK government slides through yet more policies to shit on the little people. Female emancipation is making slow progress, and there will be sexual predators of both sexes out there. It’s not all penis, some of it is just power.    

[jamesgraybooksellerworld]

Author INDEX

J.B. 346J

Mary Barber 377J

Mary Barber

Madam De Bellefont 572G

Susanna Centlivre 347J

Susanna Centlivre 357J

 Jeanne Marie Bouvier de La Motte Guyon 348J

[Martha Hatfield].362J

Mary De La Riviere Manley 122F

Katherine Philips 103G

Mary Pix  376J

Madam Scuddery 296J

Madeleine Vigneron 323

•)§(•

 346J J.B. Gent.

The young lovers guide,

 or, The unsuccessful amours of Philabius, a country lover; set forth in several kind epistles, writ by him to his beautious-unkind mistress. Teaching lover s how to comport themselves with resignation in their love-disasters. With The answer of Helena to Paris, by a country shepherdess. As also, The sixth Æneid and fourth eclogue of Virgil, both newly translated by J.B. Gent. (?)

London : Printed and are to be Sold by the Booksellers of London, 1699.             $3,500

Octavo,  A4, B-G8,H6 I2( lacking 3&’4) (A1, frontispiece Present;            I3&’4, advertisements  lacking )    inches  [8], 116, [4] p. : The frontispiece is signed: M· Vander Gucht. scul:. 1660-1725,

This copy is bound in original paneled sheep with spine cracking but cords holding Strong.

A very rare slyly misogynistic “guide’ for what turns out be emotional turmoil and Love-Disasters

Writ by Philabius to Venus, his Planetary Ascendant.

Dear Mother Venus!

I must style you so.

From you descended, tho’ unhappy Beau.

You are my Astral Mother; at my birth

Your pow’rful Influence bore the sway on Earth

From my Ascendent: being sprung from you,

I hop’d Success where-ever I should woo.

Your Pow’r in Heav’n and Earth prevails, shall I,

A Son of yours, by you forsaken die?

Twenty long Months now I have lov’d a Fair,

And all my Courtship’s ending in Despair.

All Earthly Beauties, scatter’d here and there,

From you, their Source, derive the Charms they bear.

Wing (2nd ed.), B131; Arber’s Term cat.; III 142

Copies – Brit.Isles  :  British Library

                  Cambridge University St. John’s College

                  Oxford University, Bodleian Library

Copies – N.America :  Folger Shakespeare

                  Harvard Houghton Library

                  Henry E. Huntington

                  Newberry

                  UCLA, Clark Memorial Library

                  University of Illinois

Engraved frontispiece of the Mistress holding a fan,”Bold Poets and rash Painters may aspire With pen and pencill to describe my Faire, Alas; their arts in the performance fayle, And reach not that divine Original, Some Shadd’wy glimpse they may present to view, And this is all poore humane art Can doe▪”  title within double rule border, 4-pages of publisher`s  advertisements at the end Contemporary calf (worn). . FIRST EDITION. . The author remains unknown.

)§(§)§(

 An early Irish female author

2) 377[ BARBER, Mary].1685-1755≠

A true tale To be added to Mr. Gay’s fables.

Dublin. Printed by S. Powell, for George Ewing, at the Angel and Bible in Dame’-street, 1727.

First edition, variant imprint..[Estc version : Dublin : printed by S.[i.e. Sarah] Harding, next door to the sign of the Crown in Copper-Alley, [ca. 1727-1728]  7pp, [1]. Not in ESTC or Foxon; c/f N491542 and N13607.                         $4,500

                [Bound after:]

John GAY

Fables. Invented for the Amusement of His Highness William Duke of Cumberland.

London Printed, and Dublin Reprinted for G. Risk, G. Ewing, and W. Smith, in Dame’s-street, 1727.  

First Irish edition. [8], 109pp, [3]. With three terminal pages of advertisements.             ESTC T13819, Foxon p.295.

8vo in 4s and 8s. Contemporary speckled calf, contrasting red morocco lettering- piece, gilt. Rubbed to extremities, some chipping to head and foot of spine and cracking to joints, bumping to corners. Occasional marking, some closed tears. Early ink inscription of ‘William Crose, Clithero’ to FEP, further inked-over inscription to head of title.

Mary Barber (1685-1755) claimed that she wrote “chiefly to form the Minds of my Children,” but her often satirical and comic verses suggest that she sought an adult audience as well. The wife of a clothier and mother of four children, she lived in Dublin and enjoyed the patronage of Jonathan Swift. While marriage, motherhood, friendship, education, and other domestic issues are her central themes, they frequently lead her to broader, biting social commentary.

Bound behind this copy of the first edition of the first series of English poet John Gay’s (1685-1732) famed Fables, composed for the youngest son of George II, six-year-old Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, is Irish poet Mary Barber’s (c.1685-c.1755) rare verse appeal to secure a Royal pension for Gay, who had lost his fortune in bursting of the South Sea Bubble.

Barber, the wife of a Dublin woollen draper, was an untutored poet whom Jonathan Swift sponsored, publicly applauded, and cultivated as part of his ‘triumfeminate’ of bluestockings. She wrote initially to educate the children in her large family. Indeed this poem, the fifth of her published works, features imagined dialogue of a son to his mother, designed to encourage, specifically, the patronage of Queen Caroline:

‘Mamma, if you were Queen, says he, And such a Book were writ for me; I find, ’tis so much to your Taste, That Gay wou’d keep his Coach at least’

And of a mother to her son:

‘My Child, What you suppose is true: I see its Excellence in You.                                          Poets, who write to mend the Mind, A Royal Recompence shou’d find.’

ESTC locates two variant Dublin editions, both rare, but neither matching this copy: a first with the title and pagination as here, but with the undated imprint of S. Harding (represented by a single copy at Harvard), and a second with the imprint as here, but with a different title, A tale being an addition to Mr. Gay’s fables, and a pagination of 8pp (represented by copies at the NLI, Oxford, Harvard and Yale). This would appear to be a second variant, and we can find no copies in any of the usual databases.

Mary Barber was an Irish poet who mostly focussed on domestic themes such as marriage and children although the messages in some of her poems suggested a widening of her interests, often making cynical comments on social injustice.  She was a member of fellow Irish poet Jonathan Swift’s favoured circle of writers, known as his “triumfeminate”, a select group that also included Mrs E Sican and Constantia Grierson.

She was born sometime around the year 1685 in Dublin but nothing much is known about her education or upbringing.  She married a much younger man by the name of Rupert Barber and they had nine children together, although only four survived childhood.  She was writing poetry initially for the benefit and education of her children but, by 1725, she had The Widow’s Address published and this was seen as an appeal on behalf of an Army officer’s widow against the social and financial difficulties that such women were facing all the time.  Rather than being a simple tale for younger readers here was a biting piece of social commentary, aimed at a seemingly uncaring government.

During the 18th and early 19th centuries it was uncommon for women to become famous writers and yet Barber seemed to possess a “natural genius” where poetry was concerned which was all the more remarkable since she had no formal literary tuition to fall back on.  The famous writer Jonathan Swift offered her patronage, recognising a special talent instantly.  Indeed, he called her “the best Poetess of both Kingdoms” although his enthusiasm was not necessarily shared by literary critics of the time.  It most certainly benefitted her having the support of fellow writers such as Elizabeth Rowe and Mary Delany, and Swift encouraged her to publish a collection in 1734 called Poems on several occasions.  The book sold well, mostly by subscription to eminent persons in society and government.  The quality of the writing astonished many who wondered how such a simple, sometimes “ailing Irish housewife” could have produced such work.

It took some time for Barber to attain financial stability though and her patron Swift was very much involved in her success.  She could have lost his support though because, in a desperate attempt to achieve wider recognition, she wrote letters to many important people, including royalty, with Swift’s signature forged at the end.  When he found out about this indiscretion he was not best pleased but he forgave her anyway.

Unfortunately poor health prevented much more coming from her pen during her later years.  For over twenty years she suffered from gout and, in fact, wrote poems about the subject for a publication called the Gentleman’s Magazine.  It is worth including here an extract from her poem Written for my son, at his first putting on of breeches.  It is, in some ways, an apology and an explanation to a child enduring the putting on of an uncomfortable garment for the first time.  She suggests in fact that many men have suffered from gout because of the requirement to wear breeches.  The first verse of the poem is reproduced here:

Many of her poems were in the form of letters written to distinguished people, such as To The Right Honourable The Lady Sarah Cowper and To The Right Honourable The Lady Elizabeth Boyle On Her Birthday.  These, and many more, were published in her 1755 collection Poems by Eminent Ladies.  History sees her, unfortunately, as a mother writing to support her children rather than a great poet, and little lasting value has been attributed to her work.

•)§(•

3) 379J   BARBER, Mary 1685-1755≠

Poems on Several Occasions

London: printed [by Samuel Richardson] for C. Rivington, at the Bible and Crown in St. Paul’s Church-Yard 1735                            $2,000

First octavo edition, 1735, bound in early paper boards with later paper spine and printed spine label, pp. lxiv, 290, (14) index, title with repaired tear, very good. These poems were published the previous year in a quarto edition with a list of influential subscribers (reprinted here); this octavo edition is less common. Barber was the wife of a Dublin clothier and her publication in England was helped by Jonathan Swift, who has (along with the authoress) provided a dedication in this volume to the Earl of Orrery. Constantia Grierson, another Irish poetess, contributes a prefatory poem in praise of Mary Barber.

  ESTC Citation No. T42623 ; Maslen, K. Samuel Richardson, 21.; Foxon, p.45. ;Teerink-Scouten [Swift] 747.

            )§(§)§(

4). 572G Léonore Gigault de,; O.S.B. Bellefont (Bouhours)

Les OEuvres spirituelles de Madame De Bellefont, religieuse, fondatrice & superieure du convent de Nôtre-Dame des Anges, de l’Ordre de Saint Benoist, à Roüen.Dediées à Madame La Dauphine.

A Paris : Chez Helie Josset, ruë S. Jacques, au coin de la ruë de la Parcheminerie, à la fleur de lys d’or, 1688                          $2200

Octavo 6.25 x 3.6 in. a4, e8, i8, o2, A-Z8; Aa-Qq8 ; *8, **4. This copy is very clean and crisp it is bound in contemporary calf with ornately gilt spine. La vie de Madame de Bellefont”, on unnumbered pages preceding numbered text./ “Table des chapitres . . .” and “Stances” and “Paraphrases” in verse on final 24 numbered pages./ In the “Avant propos” this work is ascribed to “feüe madame Lêonore Gigault de Bellefont”, but most authorities credit Laurence Gigault de Bellefont with authorship See Sommervogel I 1908 #25

)§(§)§(

  5) 374J [ Susanna CENTLIVRE,]. 1667-1723

The gamester: A Comedy…

London. Printed for William Turner, 1705.                           $4,000

Quarto. [6], 70pp, [2]. First edition.Without half-title. Later half-vellum, marbled boards, contrasting black morocco lettering-piece. Extremities lightly rubbed and discoloured. Browned, some marginal worming, occasional shaving to running titles.

The first edition of playwright and actress Susanna Centlivre’s (bap. 1667?, d. 1723) convoluted gambling comedy, adapted from French dramatist Jean Francois Regnard’s (1655-1709) Le Jouer (1696). The Gamester met with tremendous success and firmly established Centlivre as a part the pantheon of celebrated seventeenth-century playwrights, yet the professional life of the female dramatist remained complicated, with many of her works, as here, being published anonymously and accompanied by a prologue implying a male author.

CENTLIVRE, English dramatic writer and actress, was born about 1667, probably in Ireland, where her father, a Lincolnshire gentleman named Freeman, had been forced to flee at the Restoration on account of his political sympathies. When sixteen she married the nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, and on his death within a year she married an officer named Carroll, who was killed in a duel. Left in poverty, she began to support herself, writing for the stage, and some of her early plays are signed S. Carroll. In 1706 she married Joseph Centlivre, chief cook to Queen Anne, who survived her.

ESTC T26860.

•)§(•

  An early Irish female author

)§(§)§(

Political satire by An early Irish female author

6) 375J.  Sussana Centlivre

The Gotham Election, A farce.

(London 🙂 printed and sold by S. Keimer,1715. $ 1,900

The Gotham Election, one of the first satires to tackle electioneering and bribery in eighteenth century British politics. It proved to be so controversial that, despite Centlivre’s popularity as a playwright, it was supressed from being performed during the turbulent year of 1715. Centlivre was renowned as one of the greatest female playwrights of her day, and her plays, predominately comedies, were responsible for the development of the careers of actors such as David Garrick. However, despite her popularity, she also made enemies in the literary world of the early-eighteenth century. Most notably Alexander Pope, who, in his Dunciad, referred to her as a ‘slip-shod Muse’, possibly in reference to her participation in the work The Nine Muses, which was published in 1700 to commemorate the death of John Dryden.

English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT26854

•)§(•

  A collection of Poems and Letters by Christian mystic and prolific writer, Jeanne-Marie Guyon published in Dublin.

7) 348J    François de Salignac de la Mothe-Fénelon 1651-1715  & Josiah Martin 1683-1747 & Jeanne Marie Bouvier de La Motte Guyon 1648-1717

A dissertation on pure love, by the Arch-Bishop of Cambray. With an account of the life and writings of the Lady, for whose sake The Archbishop was banish’d from Court: And the grievous Persecution she suffer’d in France for her Religion.  Also Two Letters in French and English, written by one of the Lady’s Maids, during her Confinement in the Castle of Vincennes, where she was Prisoner Eight Years. One of the Letters was writ with a Bit of Stick instead of a Pen, and Soot instead of Ink, to her Brother; the other to a Clergyman. Together with an apologetic preface. Containing divers letters of the Archbishop of Cambray, to the Duke of Burgundy, the present French King’s Father, and other Persons of Distinction. And divers letters of the lady to Persons of Quality, relating to her Religious Principles

Dublin : printed by Isaac Jackson, in Meath-Street, [1739].    $ 4,000

Octavo  7 3/4  x 5  inches       First and only English edition. Bound in Original sheep, with a quite primitive repair to the front board.

  Fenélon’s text appears to consist largely of extracts from ’Les oeuvres spirituelles’. The preface, account of Jeanne Marie Guyon etc. is compiled by Josiah Martin. The text of the letters, and poems, is in French and English. This is an Astonishing collection of letters and poems.

“JOSIAH MARTIN,  (1683–1747), quaker, was born near London in 1683. He became a good classical scholar, and is spoken of by Gough, the translator of Madame Guyon’s Life, 1772, as a man whose memory is esteemed for ‘learning, humility, and fervent piety.’ He died unmarried, 18 Dec. 1747, in the parish of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, and was buried in the Friends’ burial-ground, Bunhill Fields. He left the proceeds of his library of four thousand volumes to be divided among nephews and nieces. Joseph Besse [q. v.] was his executor.

Martin’s name is best known in connection with ‘A Letter from one of the People called Quakers to Francis de Voltaire, occasioned by his Remarks on that People in his Letters concerning the English Nation,’ London, 1741. It was twice reprinted, London and Dublin, and translated into French. It is a temperate and scholarly treatise, and was in much favour at the time.

Of his other works the chief are: 1. ‘A Vindication of Women’s Preaching, as well from Holy Scripture and Antient Writings as from the Paraphrase and Notes of the Judicious John Locke, wherein the Observations of B[enjamin] C[oole] on the said Paraphrase . . . and the Arguments in his Book entitled “Reflections,” &c, are fullv considered,’ London, 1717. 2. ‘The Great Case of Tithes truly stated … by Anthony Pearson [q. v.] . . . to which is added a Defence of some other Principles held by the People call’d Quakers . . .,’ London, 1730. 3. ‘A Letter concerning the Origin, Reason, and Foundation of the Law of Tithes in England,’ 1732. He also edited, with an ‘Apologetic Preface,’ comprising more than half the book, and containing many additional letters from Fénelon and Madame Guyon, ‘The Archbishop of Cambray’s Dissertation on Pure Love, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Lady for whose sake he was banish’d from Court,’ London, 1735.

[Joseph Smith’s Catalogue of Friends’ Books; works quoted above; Life of Madame Guyon, Bristol, 1772, pt. i. errata; registers at Devonshire House; will P.C.C. 58 Strahan, at Somerset House.]

C. F. S.

Fénelon was nominated in February, 1696, Fénelon was consecrated in August of the same year by Bossuet in the chapel of Saint-Cyr. The future of the young prelate looked brilliant, when he fell into deep disgrace.

The cause of Fénelon’s trouble was his connection with Madame Guyon, whom he had met in the society of his friends, the Beauvilliers and the Chevreuses. She was a native of Orléans, which she left when about twenty-eight years old, a widowed mother of three children, to carry on a sort of apostolate of mysticism, under the direction of Père Lacombe, a Barnabite. After many journeys to Geneva, and through Provence and Italy, she set forth her ideas in two works, “Le moyen court et facile de faire oraison” and “Les torrents spirituels”. In exaggerated language characteristic of her visionary mind, she presented a system too evidently founded on the Quietism of Molinos, that had just been condemned by Innocent XI in 1687. There were, however, great divergencies between the two systems. Whereas Molinos made man’s earthly perfection consist in a state of uninterrupted contemplation and love, which would dispense the soul from all active virtue and reduce it to absolute inaction, Madame Guyon rejected with horror the dangerous conclusions of Molinos as to the cessation of the necessity of offering positive resistance to temptation. Indeed, in all her relations with Père Lacombe, as well as with Fénelon, her virtuous life was never called in doubt. Soon after her arrival in Paris she became acquainted with many pious persons of the court and in the city, among them Madame de Maintenon and the Ducs de Beauvilliers and Chevreuse, who introduced her to Fénelon. In turn, he was attracted by her piety, her lofty spirituality, the charm of her personality, and of her books. It was not long, however, before the Bishop of Chartres, in whose diocese Saint-Cyr was, began to unsettle the mind of Madame de Maintenon by questioning the orthodoxy of Madame Guyon’s theories. The latter, thereupon, begged to have her works submitted to an ecclesiastical commission composed of Bossuet, de Noailles, who was then Bishop of Châlons, later Archbishop of Paris, and M. Tronson; superior of-Saint-Sulpice. After an examination which lasted six months, the commission delivered its verdict in thirty-four articles known as the “Articles d’ Issy”, from the place near Paris where the commission sat. These articles, which were signed by Fénelon and the Bishop of Chartres, also by the members of the commission, condemned very briefly Madame Guyon’s ideas, and gave a short exposition of the Catholic teaching on prayer. Madame Guyon submitted to the condemnation, but her teaching spread in England, and Protestants, who have had her books reprinted have always expressed sympathy with her views. Cowper translated some of her hymns into English verse; and her autobiography was translated into English by Thomas Digby (London, 1805) and Thomas Upam (New York, 1848). Her books have been long forgotten in France.

Jeanne Marie Guyon

b. 1648, Montargis, France; d. 1717, Blois, France

A Christian mystic and prolific writer, Jeanne-Marie Guyon advocated a form of spirituality that led to conflict with authorities and incarceration. She was raised in a convent, then married off to a wealthy older man at the age of sixteen. When her husband died in 1676, she embarked on an evangelical mission to convert Protestants to her brand of spirituality, a mild form of quietism, which propounded the notion that through complete passivity (quiet) of the soul, one could become an agent of the divine. Guyon traveled to Geneva, Turin, and Grenoble with her mentor, Friar François Lacombe, at the same time producing several manuscripts: Les torrents spirituels (Spiritual Torrents); an 8,000-page commentary on the Bible; and her most important work, the Moyen court et très facile de faire oraison (The Short and Very Easy Method of Prayer, 1685). Her activities aroused suspicion; she was arrested in 1688 and committed to the convent of the Visitation in Paris, where she began writing an autobiography. Released within a few months, she continued proselytizing, meanwhile attracting several male disciples. In 1695, the Catholic church declared quietism heretical, and Guyon was locked up in the Bastille until 1703. Upon her release, she retired to her son’s estate in Blois. Her writings were published in forty-five volumes from 1712 to 1720.

Her writings began to be published in Holland in 1704, and brought her new admirers. Englishmen and Germans–among them Wettstein and Lord Forbes–visited her at Blois. Through them Madame Guyon’s doctrines became known among Protestants and in that soil took vigorous root. But she did not live to see this unlooked-for diffusion of her writings. She passed away at Blois, at the age of sixty-eight, protesting in her will that she died submissive to the Catholic Church, from which she had never had any intention of separating herself. Her doctrines, like her life, have nevertheless given rise to the widest divergences of opinion. Her published works (the “Moyen court” and the “Règles des assocées à l’Enfance de Jésus”) having been placed on the Index in 1688, and Fénelon’s “Maximes des saints” branded with the condemnation of both the pope and the bishops of France, the Church has thus plainly reprobated Madame Guyon’s doctrines, a reprobation which the extravagance of her language would in itself sufficiently justify. Her strange conduct brought upon her severe censures, in which she could see only manifestations of spite. Evidently, she too often fell short of due reserve and prudence; but after all that can be said in this sense, it must be acknowledged that her morality appears to have given no grounds for serious reproach. Bossuet, who was never indulgent in her regard, could say before the full assembly of the French clergy: “As to the abominations which have been held to be the result of her principles, there was never any question of the horror she testified for them.” It is remarkable, too, that her disciples at the Court of Louis XIV were always persons of great piety and of exemplary life.

On the other hand, Madame Guyon’s warmest partisans after her death were to be found among the Protestants. It was a Dutch Protestant, the pastor Poiret, who began the publication of her works; a Vaudois pietist pastor, Duthoit-Mambrini, continued it. Her “Life” was translated into English and German, and her ideas, long since forgotten in France, have for generations been in favour in Germany, Switzerland, England, and among Methodists in America. ”

EB

P.144 misnumbered 134. Price from imprint: price a British Half-Crown.  Dissertain 16p and Directions for a holy life 5p. DNB includes this in Martin’s works

Copies – Brit.Isles.  :                                                                                                                                                          British Library,                                                                                                                                                                    Dublin City Library,                                                                                                                                                      National Library of Ireland                                                                                                                                              Trinity College Library

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8) 362J James FISHER and [Martha HATFIELD].

The wise virgin: or, A wonderfull narration of the various dispensations of God towards a childe of eleven years of age; wherein as his severity hath appeared in afflicting, so also his goodness both in enabling her (when stricken dumb, deaf, and blind, through the prevalency of her disease) at several times to utter many glorious truths concerning Christ, faith, and other subjects; and also in recovering her without the use of any external means, lest the glory should be given to any other. To the wonderment of many that came far and neer to see and hear her. With some observations in the fourth year since her recovery. She is the daughter of Mr. Anthony Hatfield gentleman, in Laughton in York-shire; her name is Martha Hatfield. The third edition enlarged, with some passages of her gracious conversation now in the time of health. By James Fisher, servant of Christ, and minister of the Gospel in Sheffield.

LONDON: Printed for John Rothwell, at the Fountain, in Cheap-side. 1656 $3,300 Octavo, 143 x 97 x 23 mm (binding), 139 x 94 x 18 mm (text block). A-M8, N3. Lacks A1, blank or portrait? [26], 170 pp. Bound in contemporary calf, upper board reattached, somewhat later marbled and blank ends. Leather rubbed with minor loss to extremities. Interior: Title stained, leaves soiled, gathering N browned, long vertical tear to E2 without loss, tail fore-corner of F8 torn away, with loss of a letter, side notes of B2v trimmed. This is a remarkable survival of the third edition of the popular interregnum account of Sheffield Presbyterian minister James Fisher’s 11-year-old niece Martha Hatfield’s prophetic dialogues following her recovery from a devastating catalepsy that had left her “dumb, deaf, and blind.” Mar tha’s disease, which defies modern retro-diagnostics, was at the time characterized as “spleenwinde,” a term even the Oxford English Dictionary has overlooked. Her sufferings were as variable as they were extraordinary the young girl at one point endured a 17-day fugue state during which her eyes remained open and fixed and she gnashed her teeth to the breaking point. In counterpoise to the horrors of her infirmity, her utterances in periods of remission and upon recovery were of great purity and sweetness; it is this stark contrast that was, and is, the persistent allure of this little book. The Wise Virgin appeared five times between 1653 and 1665; some editions have a portrait frontispiece, and it is entirely possible that the present third edition should have one at A1v, though the copy scanned by Early English Books Online does not. Copies located at Yale, and at Oxford (from which the EEBO copy was made). ONLY Wing F1006.

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122F         Mary de la Rivière Manley        1663-1724

Secret memoirs and manners of several persons of quality of both sexes. From the New Atalantis, an island in the Mediteranean. 

London: Printed for John Morphew, and J. Woodward, 1709    $4500

Octavo      7 1/2 X4 3/4 inches I. A4, B-Q8, R4.  Second edition.          This jewel of a book is expertly bound in antique style full paneled calf with a gilt spine. It is a lovely copy indeed.

The most important of the scandal chronicles of the early eighteenth century, a form made popular and practiced with considerable success by Mrs. Manley and Eliza Haywood.

Mrs. Manley was important in her day not only as a novelist, but as a Tory propagandist.

Her fiction “exhibited her taste for intrigue, and impudently slandered many persons of note, especially those of Whiggish proclivities.” – D.N.B. “Mrs. Manley’s scandalous ‘revelations’ appealed immediately to the prurient curiosity of her first audience ; but they continued to be read because they succeeded in providing certain satisfactions fundamental to fiction itself. In other words, the scandal novel or ‘chronicle’ of Mrs. Manley and Mrs. Haywood was a successful form, a tested commercial pattern, because it presented an opportunity for its readers to participate vicariously in an erotically exciting and glittering fantasy world of aristocratic corruption and promiscuity.” – Richetti, Popular Fiction before Richardson.

The story concerns the return to earth of the goddess of justice, Astrea, to gather information about private and public behavior on the island of Atalantis. Delarivier Manley drew on her own experiences as well as on an obsessive observation of her milieu to produce this fast-paced narrative of political and erotic intrigue.   New Atalantis (1709) is an early and influential example of satirical political writing by a woman. It was suppressed on the grounds of its scandalous nature and Manley (1663-1724) was arrested and tried.   Astrea [Justice] descends on the island of Atalantis, meets her mother Virtue, who tries to escape this world of »Interest« in which even the lovers have deserted her. Both visit Angela [London]. Lady Intelligence comments on all stories of interest. p.107: the sequel of »Histories« turns into the old type of satire with numerous scandals just being mentioned (e.g. short remarks on visitors of a horse race or coaches in the Prado [Hyde-Park]). The stories are leveled against leading Whig politicians – they seduce and ruin women. Yet detailed analysis of situations and considerations on actions which could be taken by potential victims. Even the weakest female victims get their chances to win (and gain decent marriages) the more desperate we are about strategic mistakes and a loss of virtue which prevents the heroines from taking the necessary steps. The stories have been praised for their »warmth« and breathtaking turns.

Manley was taken into custody nine days after the publication of the second volume of Secret Memories and Manners of several Persons of Quality of Both Sexes, from the New Atalantis, an island in the Mediterranean on 29 October 1709. Manley apparently surrendered herself after a secretary John Morphew and John Woodward and printer John Barber had been detained. Four days later the latter were discharged, but Manley remained in custody until 5 November when she was released on bail. After several continuations of the case, she was tried and discharged on 13 February 1710. Rivella provides the only account of the case itself in which Manley claims she defended herself on grounds that her information came by ‘inspiration’ and rebuked her judges for bringing ‘w woman to her trial for writing a few amorous trifles’ (pp. 110-11). This and the first volume which appeared in May 1709 were Romans a clef with separately printed keys. Each offered a succession of narratives of seduction and betrayal by notorious Whig grandees to Astrea, an allegorical figure of justice, by largely female narrators, including an allegorical figure of Intelligence and a midwife. In Rivella, Manley claims that her trial led her to conclude that ‘politics is not the business of a woman’ (p. 112) and that thereafter she turned exclusively to stories of love.

Delarivier Manley was in her day as well-known and potent a political satirist as her friend and co-editor Jonathan Swift. A fervent Tory, Manley skilfully interweaves sexual and political allegory in the tradition of the roman a clef in an acerbic vilification of her Whig opponents. The book’s publication in 1709 – fittingly the year of the collapse of the Whig ministry – caused a scandal which led to the arrest of the author, publisher and printer.

The book exposed the relationship of Queen Anne and one of her advisers, Sarah Churchill. Along with this, Manley’s piece examined the idea of female intimacy and its implications. The implications of female intimacy are important to Manley because of the many rumours of the influence that Churchill held over Queen Anne.                  ESTC T075114; McBurney 45a; Morgan 459.

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9) 103gPhilips, Katherine.1631-1664

Letters from Orinda to Poliarchus

 London: printed by W.B. for Bernard Lintott, 1705                       $5,500

Octavo,6.75 X 3.75 inches.  First edition A-R8  Bound in original calf totally un-restored a very nice original condition copy with only some browning, spotting and damp staining, It is a very good copy.

It is housed in a custom Box.

    10) 376J Mary Pix 1666-1720

The conquest of Spain: a tragedy. As it is Acted by Her Majesty’s Servants at the Queen’s Theatre In the Hay-Market 

London : printed for Richard Wellington, at the Dolphin and Crown in St. Paul’s Church-Yard, 1705.      $4,500

Quarto [A]-K4.   First Edition . (Anonymous. By Mary Pix. Adapted from “All’s lost by lust”, by William Rowley)

Inspired by Aphra Behn, Mary Pix was among the most popular playwrights on the 17th-century theatre circuit, but fell out of fashion. 

“It is so rare to find a play from that period that’s powered by a funny female protagonist. I was immensely surprised by the brilliance of the writing. It is witty and forthright. Pix was writing plays that not only had more women in the cast than men but women who were managing their destinies.”

Pix was born in 1666, the year of the Great Fire of London, and grew up in the culturally rich time of Charles II. With the prolific Aphra Behn (1640-1689) as her role model, Pix burst on to the London theatre and literary scene in 1696 with two plays – one a tragedy: Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperor of the Turks, the other a farce – The Spanish Wives. Pix also wrote a novel – The Inhuman Cardinal.

Her subsequent plays, mostly comedies, became a staple in the repertory of Thomas Betterton’s company Duke’s at Lincoln’s Inn Fields and later at the Queen’s Theatre. She wrote primarily for particular actors, such as Elizabeth Barry and Anne Bracegirdle, who were hugely popular and encouraged a whole generation of women writers.

In a patriarchal world dominated by self-important men, making a mark as a woman was an uphill struggle. “There was resistance to all achieving women in the 18th century, a lot of huffing and puffing by overbearing male chauvinists,” says Bush-Bailey.

“Luckily for Pix and the other women playwrights of that time, the leading actresses were powerful and influential. I think it was they who mentored people such as Pix and Congreve.”

Davies believes the women playwrights of the 1700s – Susanna Centlivre, Catherine Trotter Cockburn, Delarivier Manley and Hannah Cowley – “unquestionably” held their own against the men who would put them down. “What’s difficult is that they were attacked for daring to write plays at all,” she says.

One of the most blatant examples of male hostility came in the form of an anonymously written parody entitled The Female Wits in 1696, in which Mary Pix was caricatured as “Mrs Wellfed, a fat female author, a sociable, well-natur’d companion that will not suffer martyrdom rather than take off three bumpers [alcoholic drinks] in a hand”.

While Pix’s sociability and taste for good food and wine was common knowledge, she was known to be a universally popular member of the London literary and theatrical circuit.

“The Female Wits was probably written, with malice, by George Powell of the Drury Lane Company,” says Bush-Bailey. “It was a cheap, satirical jibe at the successful women playwrights of the time, making out they were all bitching behind each others’ backs. So far as one can tell, it was just spiteful and scurrilous.”

Mary Pix (1666 – 17 May 1709) was an English novelist and playwright. As an admirer of Aphra Behn and colleague of Susanna Centlivre, Pix has been called “a link between women writers of the Restoration and Augustan periods”.

The Dramatis personae from a 1699 edition of Pix’s The False Friend.

Mary Griffith Pix was born in 1666, the daughter of a rector, musician and Headmaster of the Royal Latin School, Buckingham, Buckinghamshire; her father, Roger Griffith, died when she was very young, but Mary and her mother continued to live in the schoolhouse after his death. She was courted by her father’s successor Thomas Dalby, but he left with the outbreak of smallpox in town, just one year after the mysterious fire that burned the schoolhouse. Rumour had it that Mary and Dalby had been making love rather energetically and overturned a candle which set fire to the bedroom.

In 1684, at the age of 18, Mary Griffith married George Pix (a merchant tailor from Hawkhurst, Kent). The couple moved to his country estate in Kent. Her first son, George (b. 1689), died very young in 1690.[3] The next year the couple moved to London and she gave birth to another son, William (b. 1691).

In 1696, when Pix was thirty years old, she first emerged as a professional writer, publishing The Inhumane Cardinal; or, Innocence Betrayed, her first and only novel, as well as two plays, Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperour of the Turks and The Spanish Wives.

Though from quite different backgrounds, Pix quickly became associated with two other playwrights who emerged in the same year: Delariviere Manley and Catherine Trotter. The three female playwrights attained enough public success that they were criticised in the form of an anonymous satirical play The Female Wits (1696). Mary Pix appears as “Mrs. Wellfed one that represents a fat, female author. A good rather sociable, well-matured companion that would not suffer martyrdom rather than take off three bumpers in a hand”.[4] She is depicted as an ignorant woman, though amiable and unpretentious. Pix is summarised as “foolish and openhearted”.

Her first play was put on stage in 1696 at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, near her house in London but when that same theatrical company performed The Female Wits, she moved to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. They said of her that “she has boldly given us an essay of her talent … and not without success, though with little profit to herself”. (Morgan, 1991: xii).

In the season of 1697–1698, Pix became involved in a plagiarism scandal with George Powell. Powell was a rival playwright and the manager of the Drury Lane theatrical company. Pix sent her play, The Deceiver Deceived to Powell’s company, as a possible drama for them to perform. Powell rejected the play but kept the manuscript and then proceeded to write and perform a play called The Imposture Defeated, which had a plot and main character taken directly from The Deceiver Deceived. In the following public backlash, Pix accused Powell of stealing her work and Powell claimed that instead he and Pix had both drawn their plays from the same source material, an unnamed novel. In 1698, an anonymous writer, now believed to be Powell, published a letter called “To the Ingenious Mr. _____.” which attacked Pix and her fellow female playwright Trotter. The letter attempted to malign Pix on various issues, such as her spelling and presumption in publishing her writing. Though Pix’s public reputation was not damaged and she continued writing after the plagiarism scandal, she stopped putting her name on her work and after 1699 she only included her name on one play, in spite of the fact that she is believed to have written at least seven more. Scholars still discuss the attribution of plays to Pix, notably whether or not she wrote Zelmane; or, The Corinthian Queen (1705).

In May 1707 Pix published A Poem, Humbly Inscrib’d to the Lords Commissioners for the Union of the Two Kingdoms. This would be her final appearance in print. She died two years later.

Few of the female playwrights of Mary Pix’s time came from a theatrical background and none came from the aristocracy: within a century, most successful actresses and female authors came from a familiar tradition of literature and theatre but Mary Pix and her contemporaries were from outside this world and had little in common with one another apart from a love for literature and a middle-class background.

At the time of Mary Pix, “The ideal of the one-breadwinner family had not yet become dominant”, whereas in 18th-century families it was normal for the woman to stay at home taking care of the children, house and servants, in Restoration England husband and wife worked together in familiar enterprises that sustained them both and female playwrights earned the same wage as their male counterparts.

Morgan also points out that “till the close of the period, authorship was not generally advertised on playbills, nor always proclaimed when plays were printed”, which made it easier for female authors to hide their identity so as to be more easily accepted among the most conservative audiences.

As Morgan states, “plays were valued according to how they performed and not by who wrote them. When authorship ―female or otherwise― remained a matter of passing interest, female playwrights were in an open and equal market with their male colleagues”.

Pix’s plays were very successful among contemporary audiences. Each play ran for at least four to five nights and some were even brought back for additional shows years later.[10] Her tragedies were quite popular, because she managed to mix extreme action with melting love scenes. Many critics believed that Pix’s best pieces were her comedies. Pix’s comedic work was lively and full of double plots, intrigue, confusion, songs, dances and humorous disguise. An Encyclopaedia of British Women Writers (1998) points out that

Forced or unhappy marriages appear frequently and prominently in the comedies. Pix is not, however, writing polemics against the forced marriage but using it as a plot device and sentimentalizing the unhappily married person, who is sometimes rescued and married more satisfactorily.”(Schlueter & Schlueter, 1998: 513)

Although some contemporary women writers, like Aphra Behn, have been rediscovered, even the most specialised scholars have little knowledge of works by writers such as Catherine Trotter, Delarivier Manley or Mary Pix, despite the fact that plays like The Beau Defeated (1700), present with a wider range of female characters than plays written by men at the time. Pix’s plays generally had eight or nine female roles, while plays by male writers only had two or three.[

A production of The Fantastic Follies of Mrs Rich (or The Beau Defeated) played as part of the 2018 season at the Royal Shakespeare Company.

Pix produced one novel and seven plays. There are four other plays that were published anonymously, that are generally attributed to her.

Melinda Finberg notes that “a frequent motif in all her works is sexual violence and female victimization” – be that rape or murder (in the tragedies) or forcible confinement or the threat of rape (in the comedies).

^ Kramer, Annette (June 1994). “Mary Pix’s Nebulous Relationship to Zelmane”. Notes and Queries. 41 (2): 186–187. doi:10.1093/nq/41-2-186

PIX, Mrs. MARY (1666–1720?), dramatist, born in 1666 at Nettlebed in Oxfordshire, was daughter of the Rev. Roger Griffith, vicar of that place. Her mother, whose maiden name was Lucy Berriman, claimed descent from the ‘very considerable family of the Wallis’s.’ In the dedication of ‘The Spanish Wives’ Mrs. Pix speaks of meeting Colonel Tipping ‘at Soundess,’ or Soundness. This house, which was close to Nettlebed, was the property of John Wallis, eldest son of the mathematician. Mary Griffith’s father died before 1684, and on 24 July in that year she married in London, at St. Saviour’s, Benetfink, George Pix (b. 1660), a merchant tailor of St. Augustine’s parish. His family was connected with Hawkhurst, Kent. By him she had one child, who was buried at Hawkhurst in 1690.

It was in 1696, in which year Colley Cibber, Mrs. Manley, Catharine Cockburn (Mrs. Trotter), and Lord Lansdowne also made their débuts, that Mrs. Pix first came into public notice. She produced at Dorset Garden, and then printed, a blank-verse tragedy of ‘Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperor of the Turks.’ When it was too late, she discovered that she should have written ‘Ibrahim the Twelfth.’ This play she dedicated to the Hon. Richard Minchall of Bourton, a neighbour of her country days. In the same year (1696) Mary Pix published a novel, ‘The Inhuman Cardinal,’ and a farce, ‘The Spanish Wives,’ which had enjoyed a very considerable success at Dorset Garden.

From this point she devoted herself to dramatic authorship with more activity than had been shown before her time by any woman except Mrs. Afra Behn [q. v.] In 1697 she produced at Little Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and then published, a comedy of ‘The Innocent Mistress.’ This play, which was very successful, shows the influence of Congreve upon the author, and is the most readable of her productions. The prologue and epilogue were written by Peter Anthony Motteux [q. v.] It was followed the next year by ‘The Deceiver Deceived,’ a comedy which failed, and which involved the poetess in a quarrel. She accused George Powell [q. v.], the actor, of having seen the manuscript of her play, and of having stolen from it in his ‘Imposture Defeated.’ On 8 Sept. 1698 an anonymous ‘Letter to Mr. Congreve’ was published in the interests of Powell, from which it would seem that Congreve had by this time taken Mary Pix under his protection, with Mrs. Trotter, and was to be seen ‘very gravely with his hat over his eyes … together with the two she-things called Poetesses’ (see GOSSE, Life of Congreve, pp. 123–5). Her next play was a tragedy of ‘Queen Catharine,’ brought out at Lincoln’s Inn, and published in 1698. Mrs. Trotter wrote the epilogue. In her own prologue Mary Pix pays a warm tribute to Shakespeare. ‘The False Friend’ followed, at the same house, in 1699; the title of this comedy was borrowed three years later by Vanbrugh.

Hitherto Mary Pix had been careful to put her name on her title-pages or dedications; but the comedy of ‘The Beau Defeated’—undated, but published in 1700—though anonymous, is certainly hers. In 1701 she produced a tragedy of ‘The Double Distress.’ Two more plays have been attributed to Mary Pix by Downes. One of these is ‘The Conquest of Spain,’ an adaptation from Rowley’s ‘All’s lost by Lust,’ which was brought out at the Queen’s theatre in the Haymarket, ran for six nights, and was printed anonymously in 1705 (DOWNE, Roscius Anglicanus, p. 48). Finally, the comedy of the ‘Adventures in Madrid’ was acted at the same house with Mrs. Bracegirdle in the cast, and printed anonymously and without date. It has been attributed by the historians of the drama to 1709; but a copy in the possession of the present writer has a manuscript note of date of publication ‘10 August 1706.’

Nearly all our personal impression of Mary Pix is obtained from a dramatic satire entitled ‘The Female Wits; or, the Triumvirate of Poets.’ This was acted at Drury Lane Theatre about 1697, but apparently not printed until 1704, after the death of the author, Mr. W. M. It was directed at the three women who had just come forward as competitors for dramatic honours—Mrs. Pix, Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. Trotter [see Cockburn, Catharine]. Mrs. Pix, who is described as ‘a fat Female Author, a good, sociable, well-natur’d Companion, that will not suffer Martyrdom rather than take off three Bumpers in a Hand,’ was travestied by Mrs. Powell under the name of ‘Mrs. Wellfed.’

The style of Mrs. Pix confirms the statements of her contemporaries that though, as she says in the dedication of the ‘Spanish Wives,’ she had had an inclination to poetry from childhood, she was without learning of any sort. She is described as ‘foolish and open-hearted,’ and as being ‘big enough to be the Mother of the Muses.’ Her fatness and her love of good wine were matters of notoriety. Her comedies, though coarse, are far more decent than those of Mrs. Behn, and her comic bustle of dialogue is sometimes entertaining. Her tragedies are intolerable. She had not the most superficial idea of the way in which blank verse should be written, pompous prose, broken irregularly into lengths, being her ideal of versification.

The writings of Mary Pix were not collected in her own age, nor have they been reprinted since. Several of them have become exceedingly rare. An anonymous tragedy, ‘The Czar of Muscovy,’ published in 1702, a week after her play of ‘The Double Distress,’ has found its way into lists of her writings, but there is no evidence identifying it with her in any way. She was, however, the author of ‘Violenta, or the Rewards of Virtue, turn’d from Bocacce into Verse,’ 1704.

[Miscellanea Genealogica et Heraldica, 2nd ser. v. 110–3; Vicar-General’s Marriage Licences (Harl. Soc.), 1679–87, p. 173; Baker’s Biogr. Dramatica; Doran’s Annals of the English Stage, i. 243; Mrs. Pix’s works; Genest’s Hist. Account of the Stage.].

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 11) 296J  Mademoiselle  Madeleine de Scudéri   (1607-1701) A triumphant arch erected and consecrated to the glory of the feminine sexe: by Monsieur de Scudery: Englished by I.B. gent.London : printed for William Hope, and Henry Herringman, at the blew Anchor behind the Old Exchange, and at the blew Anchor in the lower walk in the New Exchange, 1656.                                              $1,300

Octavo  A4 (lacking a1&a4) B-P8 Q3 (A1 blank?).    Title in red and black; title vignette (motto: “Dum spiro spero”)  First edition,Authorship ascribed to Madeleine de Scudéry by Brunet; according to other authorities the work was written by both Georges de Scudéry and his sister. This copy is lacking A1 &a4 index f., titled holed, browned and with marginal repairs (without loss), stained, lightly browned, corners worn, rubbed, contemporary sheep, rebacked,Very rare on the market the last copy I could find at auction was in 1967 ($420)Scudéry  was the most popular novelist in her time, read in French in volume installments all over Europe and translated into English, German, Italian, and even Arabic. But she was also a charismatic figure in French salon culture, a woman who supported herself through her writing and defended women’s education .Scudéry’s role as a model for women writers and for women’s education has also been an important topic of recent criticism. Critics including Jane Donaworth and Patricia Hannon have discussed her as an important influence on later women authors and even as a proto-feminist. Helen Osterman Borowitz has attempted to draw direct connections between Scudéry and the great French novelist Germaine de Staël. Critics have long acknowledged, however, that Scudéry was not only an influence on women novelists. Some have suggested that she also opened up new political possibilities. For example, Leonard Hinds has claimed that the collaborative model of authorship that existed in the salons was also a model for an alternative to absolutism, while Joan DeJean has suggested that her work can be seen as a response to political events of her age.In 1641 Madeleine published her first novel, Ibrahim ou l’illustre Bassa, under her brother’s name. This practice of using the name of her brother as her pseudonymous signature was one that she continued for most of her prolific career as a writer, despite the fact that her own authorship was openly acknowledged in the gazettes, memoirs, and letters of the time. Although the precise nature of his contributions is uncertain, Georges did clearly collaborate to some extent with his sister in the writing of her novels, and he wrote the prefaces to several of her books.

She won the first prize for eloquence awarded by the Académie Française (1671), but was barred from membership. Several academicians had attempted to lift the ban against women so that she could join their ranks, to no avail. Although her own authorship was widely acknowledged at the time, she used the name of her brother, Georges de Scudéry, as a pseudonymous signature throughout her career (Dejean)

Wing (2nd ed.), S2163 ,Thomason, E.1604[4]

  Scudéry, Madeleine de. Selected Letters, Orations and Rhetorical Dialogues. Ed. and trans. Jane Donawerth and Julie Strongson. The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 8.

John Conley, “Madeleine de Scudéry,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2011 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2011/entries/madeleine-scudery/.

Joan Dejean. Scudéry, Madeleine de (1608-1701). The New Oxford Companion to Literature in French (Oxford University Press 1995, 2005).

“Scudéry, Madeleine De (1607–1701).” Europe, 1450 to 1789: Encyclopedia of the Early Modern World. . Encyclopedia.com. 11 Apr. 2019

)§(§)§(

12) 323J Madeleine Vigneron (1628-1667)

La vie et la conduite spirituelle de Mademoiselle M. Vigneron. Suivant les mémoires qu’elle en a laissez par l’ordre de son directeur (M. Bourdin). [Arranged and edited by him.].

Paris: Chez Pierre de Launay, 1689.  $3,200

Octavo 7 x 4 3/4 inches ã8 e8 A-2R8 (2R8 blank). Second and preferred edition first published in 1679.     This copy is bound in contemporary brown calf, five raised bands on spine, gilt floral tools in the compartments, second compartment titled in gilt; corners and spine extremities worn; three old joint repairs; on the front binder’s blank is an early ownership four-line inscription in French dated 1704, of

Sister Monique Vanden Heuvel, at the priory of Sion de Vilvoorde (Belgium).

Overall a fine copy.

This is the stirring journal that Madeleine Vigneron , member of the Third Order of the Minims of St. Francis of Paola, she began to keep it in 1653 and continued until her premature death, (1667) It was first published in 1679 and again in the present second, and final, edition which is more complete than the first. Added are Madeleine’s series of 78 letters representing her spiritual correspondence.IMG_1410

In these autobiographical writings, which were collected and published by her Director, the Minim Matthieu Bourdin, Madeleine speaks of the illnesses that plagued her since childhood and greatly handicapped her throughout a life that she dedicated to God by caring for the poor. She received admirable lights on the divinity and humanity of Jesus Christ, on the mysteries of the spiritual life. The hagiographers have remarked her austerity, her patience, her insatiable desire to suffer for God. Those who knew her perceived in her a virtuous life that impressed them.

This is a very rare book: the combined resources of NUC and OCLC locate only one copy in America, at the University of Dayton which also holds the only American copy of the 1679 edition.

§ Cioranescu 66466 (the 1679 edition).

checklist of early modern writings by nuns

Carr, Thomas M., “A Checklist of Published Writings in French by Early Modern Nuns” (2007). French Language and Literature Papers. 52.

    )§(§)§(

End

Updated! A Dozen Early Modern Books by Women Author INDEX J.B. 346J Mary Barber 377J Mary Barber Madam De Bellefont 572G Susanna Centlivre 347J…

[jamesgraybooksellerworld]

Author INDEX

J.B. 346J

Mary Barber 377J

Madam De Bellefont 572G

Susanna Centlivre 347J

Susanna Centlivre 357J

 Jeanne Marie Bouvier de La Motte Guyon 348J

[Martha Hatfield].362J

Mary De La Riviere Manley 122F

Katherine Philips 103G

Mary Pix  376J

Madam Scuddery 296J

Madeleine Vigneron 323

•)§(•

346J J.B. Gent.

The young lovers guide,

 or, The unsuccessful amours of Philabius, a country lover; set forth in several kind epistles, writ by him to his beautious-unkind mistress. Teaching lover s how to comport themselves with resignation in their love-disasters. With The answer of Helena to Paris, by a country shepherdess. As also, The sixth Æneid and fourth eclogue of Virgil, both newly translated by J.B. Gent. (?)

London : Printed and are to be Sold by the Booksellers of London, 1699.             $3,500

Octavo,  A4, B-G8,H6 I2( lacking 3&’4) (A1, frontispiece Present;            I3&’4, advertisements  lacking )    inches  [8], 116, [4] p. : The frontispiece is signed: M· Vander Gucht. scul:. 1660-1725,

This copy is bound in original paneled sheep with spine cracking but cords holding Strong.

A very rare slyly misogynistic “guide’ for what turns out be emotional turmoil and Love-Disasters

Writ by Philabius to Venus, his Planetary Ascendant.

Dear Mother Venus!

I must style you so.

From you descended, tho’ unhappy Beau.

You are my Astral Mother; at my birth

Your pow’rful Influence bore the sway on Earth

From my Ascendent: being sprung from you,

I hop’d Success where-ever I should woo.

Your Pow’r in Heav’n and Earth prevails, shall I,

A Son of yours, by you forsaken die?

Twenty long Months now I have lov’d a Fair,

And all my Courtship’s ending in Despair.

All Earthly Beauties, scatter’d here and there,

From you, their Source, derive the Charms they bear.

Wing (2nd ed.), B131; Arber’s Term cat.; III 142

Copies – Brit.Isles  :  British Library

                  Cambridge University St. John’s College

                  Oxford University, Bodleian Library

Copies – N.America :  Folger Shakespeare

                  Harvard Houghton Library

                  Henry E. Huntington

                  Newberry

                  UCLA, Clark Memorial Library

                  University of Illinois

Engraved frontispiece of the Mistress holding a fan,”Bold Poets and rash Painters may aspire With pen and pencill to describe my Faire, Alas; their arts in the performance fayle, And reach not that divine Original, Some Shadd’wy glimpse they may present to view, And this is all poore humane art Can doe▪”  title within double rule border, 4-pages of publisher`s  advertisements at the end Contemporary calf (worn). . FIRST EDITION. . The author remains unknown.

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 An early Irish female author

2) 377[ BARBER, Mary].1685-1755≠

A true tale To be added to Mr. Gay’s fables.

Dublin. Printed by S. Powell, for George Ewing, at the Angel and Bible in Dame’-street, 1727.

First edition, variant imprint..[Dublin : printed by S.[i.e. Sarah] Harding, next door to the sign of the Crown in Copper-Alley, [ca. 1727-1728]  7pp, [1]. Not in ESTC or Foxon; c/f N491542 and N13607.                         $4,500

                [Bound after:]

John GAY

Fables. Invented for the Amusement of His Highness William Duke of Cumberland.

London Printed, and Dublin Reprinted for G. Risk, G. Ewing, and W. Smith, in Dame’s-street, 1727.  

First Irish edition. [8], 109pp, [3]. With three terminal pages of advertisements.             ESTC T13819, Foxon p.295.

8vo in 4s and 8s. Contemporary speckled calf, contrasting red morocco lettering- piece, gilt. Rubbed to extremities, some chipping to head and foot of spine and cracking to joints, bumping to corners. Occasional marking, some closed tears. Early ink inscription of ‘William Crose, Clithero’ to FEP, further inked-over inscription to head of title.

Mary Barber (1685-1755) claimed that she wrote “chiefly to form the Minds of my Children,” but her often satirical and comic verses suggest that she sought an adult audience as well. The wife of a clothier and mother of four children, she lived in Dublin and enjoyed the patronage of Jonathan Swift. While marriage, motherhood, friendship, education, and other domestic issues are her central themes, they frequently lead her to broader, biting social commentary.

Bound behind this copy of the first edition of the first series of English poet John Gay’s (1685-1732) famed Fables, composed for the youngest son of George II, six-year-old Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, is Irish poet Mary Barber’s (c.1685-c.1755) rare verse appeal to secure a Royal pension for Gay, who had lost his fortune in bursting of the South Sea Bubble.

Barber, the wife of a Dublin woollen draper, was an untutored poet whom Jonathan Swift sponsored, publicly applauded, and cultivated as part of his ‘triumfeminate’ of bluestockings. She wrote initially to educate the children in her large family. Indeed this poem, the fifth of her published works, features imagined dialogue of a son to his mother, designed to encourage, specifically, the patronage of Queen Caroline:

‘Mamma, if you were Queen, says he, And such a Book were writ for me; I find, ’tis so much to your Taste, That Gay wou’d keep his Coach at least’

And of a mother to her son:

‘My Child, What you suppose is true: I see its Excellence in You.                                          Poets, who write to mend the Mind, A Royal Recompence shou’d find.’

ESTC locates two variant Dublin editions, both rare, but neither matching this copy: a first with the title and pagination as here, but with the undated imprint of S. Harding (represented by a single copy at Harvard), and a second with the imprint as here, but with a different title, A tale being an addition to Mr. Gay’s fables, and a pagination of 8pp (represented by copies at the NLI, Oxford, Harvard and Yale). This would appear to be a second variant, and we can find no copies in any of the usual databases.

Mary Barber was an Irish poet who mostly focussed on domestic themes such as marriage and children although the messages in some of her poems suggested a widening of her interests, often making cynical comments on social injustice.  She was a member of fellow Irish poet Jonathan Swift’s favoured circle of writers, known as his “triumfeminate”, a select group that also included Mrs E Sican and Constantia Grierson.

She was born sometime around the year 1685 in Dublin but nothing much is known about her education or upbringing.  She married a much younger man by the name of Rupert Barber and they had nine children together, although only four survived childhood.  She was writing poetry initially for the benefit and education of her children but, by 1725, she had The Widow’s Address published and this was seen as an appeal on behalf of an Army officer’s widow against the social and financial difficulties that such women were facing all the time.  Rather than being a simple tale for younger readers here was a biting piece of social commentary, aimed at a seemingly uncaring government.

During the 18th and early 19th centuries it was uncommon for women to become famous writers and yet Barber seemed to possess a “natural genius” where poetry was concerned which was all the more remarkable since she had no formal literary tuition to fall back on.  The famous writer Jonathan Swift offered her patronage, recognising a special talent instantly.  Indeed, he called her “the best Poetess of both Kingdoms” although his enthusiasm was not necessarily shared by literary critics of the time.  It most certainly benefitted her having the support of fellow writers such as Elizabeth Rowe and Mary Delany, and Swift encouraged her to publish a collection in 1734 called Poems on several occasions.  The book sold well, mostly by subscription to eminent persons in society and government.  The quality of the writing astonished many who wondered how such a simple, sometimes “ailing Irish housewife” could have produced such work.

It took some time for Barber to attain financial stability though and her patron Swift was very much involved in her success.  She could have lost his support though because, in a desperate attempt to achieve wider recognition, she wrote letters to many important people, including royalty, with Swift’s signature forged at the end.  When he found out about this indiscretion he was not best pleased but he forgave her anyway.

Unfortunately poor health prevented much more coming from her pen during her later years.  For over twenty years she suffered from gout and, in fact, wrote poems about the subject for a publication called the Gentleman’s Magazine.  It is worth including here an extract from her poem Written for my son, at his first putting on of breeches.  It is, in some ways, an apology and an explanation to a child enduring the putting on of an uncomfortable garment for the first time.  She suggests in fact that many men have suffered from gout because of the requirement to wear breeches.  The first verse of the poem is reproduced here:

Many of her poems were in the form of letters written to distinguished people, such as To The Right Honourable The Lady Sarah Cowper and To The Right Honourable The Lady Elizabeth Boyle On Her Birthday.  These, and many more, were published in her 1755 collection Poems by Eminent Ladies.  History sees her, unfortunately, as a mother writing to support her children rather than a great poet, and little lasting value has been attributed to her work.

•)§(•

3). 572G Léonore Gigault de,; O.S.B. Bellefont (Bouhours)

Les OEuvres spirituelles de Madame De Bellefont, religieuse, fondatrice & superieure du convent de Nôtre-Dame des Anges, de l’Ordre de Saint Benoist, à Roüen.Dediées à Madame La Dauphine.

A Paris : Chez Helie Josset, ruë S. Jacques, au coin de la ruë de la Parcheminerie, à la fleur de lys d’or, 1688                          $2200

Octavo 6.25 x 3.6 in. a4, e8, i8, o2, A-Z8; Aa-Qq8 ; *8, **4. This copy is very clean and crisp it is bound in contemporary calf with ornately gilt spine. La vie de Madame de Bellefont”, on unnumbered pages preceding numbered text./ “Table des chapitres . . .” and “Stances” and “Paraphrases” in verse on final 24 numbered pages./ In the “Avant propos” this work is ascribed to “feüe madame Lêonore Gigault de Bellefont”, but most authorities credit Laurence Gigault de Bellefont with authorship See Sommervogel I 1908 #25

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  4) 374J [ Susanna CENTLIVRE,]. 1667-1723

The gamester: A Comedy…

London. Printed for William Turner, 1705.                           $4,000

Quarto. [6], 70pp, [2]. First edition.Without half-title. Later half-vellum, marbled boards, contrasting black morocco lettering-piece. Extremities lightly rubbed and discoloured. Browned, some marginal worming, occasional shaving to running titles.

The first edition of playwright and actress Susanna Centlivre’s (bap. 1667?, d. 1723) convoluted gambling comedy, adapted from French dramatist Jean Francois Regnard’s (1655-1709) Le Jouer (1696). The Gamester met with tremendous success and firmly established Centlivre as a part the pantheon of celebrated seventeenth-century playwrights, yet the professional life of the female dramatist remained complicated, with many of her works, as here, being published anonymously and accompanied by a prologue implying a male author.

CENTLIVRE, English dramatic writer and actress, was born about 1667, probably in Ireland, where her father, a Lincolnshire gentleman named Freeman, had been forced to flee at the Restoration on account of his political sympathies. When sixteen she married the nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, and on his death within a year she married an officer named Carroll, who was killed in a duel. Left in poverty, she began to support herself, writing for the stage, and some of her early plays are signed S. Carroll. In 1706 she married Joseph Centlivre, chief cook to Queen Anne, who survived her.

ESTC T26860.

•)§(•

  An early Irish female author

4) 374J.  Sussana Centlivre 1667-1723

The Gamester

CENTLIVRE, SUSANNA (c. 1667-1723), English dramatic writer and actress, was born about 1667, probably in Ireland, where her father, a Lincolnshire gentleman named Freeman, had been forced to flee at the Restoration on account of his political sympathies. When sixteen she married the nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, and on his death within a year she married an officer named Carroll, who was killed in a duel. Left in poverty, she began to support herself, writing for the stage, and some of her early plays are signed S. Carroll. In 1706 she married Joseph Centlivre, chief cook to Queen Anne, who survived her. Her first play was a tragedy, The Perjured Husband (1700), and she herself appeared for the first time as Bath in her comedy Love at a Venture (1706). Among her most successful comedies are– The Gamester (1705); The Busy Body(1709); A Bold Stroke for a Wife (1718); The Basset-table (1706); and The Wonder! a Woman keeps a Secret (1714), in which, as the jealous husband, Garrick found one of his best parts. Her plots, verging on the farcical, were always ingenious and amusing, though coarse after the fashion of the time, and the dialogue fluent. She never seems to have acted in London, but she was a friend of Rowe, Farquhar and Steele. Mrs. Centlivre died on the 1st of December 1723. Her dramatic works were published, with a biography, in 1761.

    )§(§)§(

Political satire by An early Irish female author

4) 375J.  Sussana Centlivre

The Gotham Election, A farce.

(London 🙂 printed and sold by S. Keimer,1715. $ 3,900

The Gotham Election, one of the first satires to tackle electioneering and bribery in eighteenth century British politics. It proved to be so controversial that, despite Centlivre’s popularity as a playwright, it was supressed from being performed during the turbulent year of 1715. Centlivre was renowned as one of the greatest female playwrights of her day, and her plays, predominately comedies, were responsible for the development of the careers of actors such as David Garrick. However, despite her popularity, she also made enemies in the literary world of the early-eighteenth century. Most notably Alexander Pope, who, in his Dunciad, referred to her as a ‘slip-shod Muse’, possibly in reference to her participation in the work The Nine Muses, which was published in 1700 to commemorate the death of John Dryden.

English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT26854

•)§(•

  A collection of Poems and Letters by Christian mystic and prolific writer, Jeanne-Marie Guyon published in Dublin.

348J    François de Salignac de la Mothe-Fénelon 1651-1715  & Josiah Martin 1683-1747 & Jeanne Marie Bouvier de La Motte Guyon 1648-1717

A dissertation on pure love, by the Arch-Bishop of Cambray. With an account of the life and writings of the Lady, for whose sake The Archbishop was banish’d from Court: And the grievous Persecution she suffer’d in France for her Religion.  Also Two Letters in French and English, written by one of the Lady’s Maids, during her Confinement in the Castle of Vincennes, where she was Prisoner Eight Years. One of the Letters was writ with a Bit of Stick instead of a Pen, and Soot instead of Ink, to her Brother; the other to a Clergyman. Together with an apologetic preface. Containing divers letters of the Archbishop of Cambray, to the Duke of Burgundy, the present French King’s Father, and other Persons of Distinction. And divers letters of the lady to Persons of Quality, relating to her Religious Principles

Dublin : printed by Isaac Jackson, in Meath-Street, [1739].    $ 4,000

Octavo  7 3/4  x 5  inches       First and only English edition. Bound in Original sheep, with a quite primitive repair to the front board.

  Fenélon’s text appears to consist largely of extracts from ’Les oeuvres spirituelles’. The preface, account of Jeanne Marie Guyon etc. is compiled by Josiah Martin. The text of the letters, and poems, is in French and English. This is an Astonishing collection of letters and poems.

“JOSIAH MARTIN,  (1683–1747), quaker, was born near London in 1683. He became a good classical scholar, and is spoken of by Gough, the translator of Madame Guyon’s Life, 1772, as a man whose memory is esteemed for ‘learning, humility, and fervent piety.’ He died unmarried, 18 Dec. 1747, in the parish of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, and was buried in the Friends’ burial-ground, Bunhill Fields. He left the proceeds of his library of four thousand volumes to be divided among nephews and nieces. Joseph Besse [q. v.] was his executor.

Martin’s name is best known in connection with ‘A Letter from one of the People called Quakers to Francis de Voltaire, occasioned by his Remarks on that People in his Letters concerning the English Nation,’ London, 1741. It was twice reprinted, London and Dublin, and translated into French. It is a temperate and scholarly treatise, and was in much favour at the time.

Of his other works the chief are: 1. ‘A Vindication of Women’s Preaching, as well from Holy Scripture and Antient Writings as from the Paraphrase and Notes of the Judicious John Locke, wherein the Observations of B[enjamin] C[oole] on the said Paraphrase . . . and the Arguments in his Book entitled “Reflections,” &c, are fullv considered,’ London, 1717. 2. ‘The Great Case of Tithes truly stated … by Anthony Pearson [q. v.] . . . to which is added a Defence of some other Principles held by the People call’d Quakers . . .,’ London, 1730. 3. ‘A Letter concerning the Origin, Reason, and Foundation of the Law of Tithes in England,’ 1732. He also edited, with an ‘Apologetic Preface,’ comprising more than half the book, and containing many additional letters from Fénelon and Madame Guyon, ‘The Archbishop of Cambray’s Dissertation on Pure Love, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Lady for whose sake he was banish’d from Court,’ London, 1735.

[Joseph Smith’s Catalogue of Friends’ Books; works quoted above; Life of Madame Guyon, Bristol, 1772, pt. i. errata; registers at Devonshire House; will P.C.C. 58 Strahan, at Somerset House.]

C. F. S.

Fénelon was nominated in February, 1696, Fénelon was consecrated in August of the same year by Bossuet in the chapel of Saint-Cyr. The future of the young prelate looked brilliant, when he fell into deep disgrace.

The cause of Fénelon’s trouble was his connection with Madame Guyon, whom he had met in the society of his friends, the Beauvilliers and the Chevreuses. She was a native of Orléans, which she left when about twenty-eight years old, a widowed mother of three children, to carry on a sort of apostolate of mysticism, under the direction of Père Lacombe, a Barnabite. After many journeys to Geneva, and through Provence and Italy, she set forth her ideas in two works, “Le moyen court et facile de faire oraison” and “Les torrents spirituels”. In exaggerated language characteristic of her visionary mind, she presented a system too evidently founded on the Quietism of Molinos, that had just been condemned by Innocent XI in 1687. There were, however, great divergencies between the two systems. Whereas Molinos made man’s earthly perfection consist in a state of uninterrupted contemplation and love, which would dispense the soul from all active virtue and reduce it to absolute inaction, Madame Guyon rejected with horror the dangerous conclusions of Molinos as to the cessation of the necessity of offering positive resistance to temptation. Indeed, in all her relations with Père Lacombe, as well as with Fénelon, her virtuous life was never called in doubt. Soon after her arrival in Paris she became acquainted with many pious persons of the court and in the city, among them Madame de Maintenon and the Ducs de Beauvilliers and Chevreuse, who introduced her to Fénelon. In turn, he was attracted by her piety, her lofty spirituality, the charm of her personality, and of her books. It was not long, however, before the Bishop of Chartres, in whose diocese Saint-Cyr was, began to unsettle the mind of Madame de Maintenon by questioning the orthodoxy of Madame Guyon’s theories. The latter, thereupon, begged to have her works submitted to an ecclesiastical commission composed of Bossuet, de Noailles, who was then Bishop of Châlons, later Archbishop of Paris, and M. Tronson; superior of-Saint-Sulpice. After an examination which lasted six months, the commission delivered its verdict in thirty-four articles known as the “Articles d’ Issy”, from the place near Paris where the commission sat. These articles, which were signed by Fénelon and the Bishop of Chartres, also by the members of the commission, condemned very briefly Madame Guyon’s ideas, and gave a short exposition of the Catholic teaching on prayer. Madame Guyon submitted to the condemnation, but her teaching spread in England, and Protestants, who have had her books reprinted have always expressed sympathy with her views. Cowper translated some of her hymns into English verse; and her autobiography was translated into English by Thomas Digby (London, 1805) and Thomas Upam (New York, 1848). Her books have been long forgotten in France.

Jeanne Marie Guyon

b. 1648, Montargis, France; d. 1717, Blois, France

A Christian mystic and prolific writer, Jeanne-Marie Guyon advocated a form of spirituality that led to conflict with authorities and incarceration. She was raised in a convent, then married off to a wealthy older man at the age of sixteen. When her husband died in 1676, she embarked on an evangelical mission to convert Protestants to her brand of spirituality, a mild form of quietism, which propounded the notion that through complete passivity (quiet) of the soul, one could become an agent of the divine. Guyon traveled to Geneva, Turin, and Grenoble with her mentor, Friar François Lacombe, at the same time producing several manuscripts: Les torrents spirituels (Spiritual Torrents); an 8,000-page commentary on the Bible; and her most important work, the Moyen court et très facile de faire oraison (The Short and Very Easy Method of Prayer, 1685). Her activities aroused suspicion; she was arrested in 1688 and committed to the convent of the Visitation in Paris, where she began writing an autobiography. Released within a few months, she continued proselytizing, meanwhile attracting several male disciples. In 1695, the Catholic church declared quietism heretical, and Guyon was locked up in the Bastille until 1703. Upon her release, she retired to her son’s estate in Blois. Her writings were published in forty-five volumes from 1712 to 1720.

Her writings began to be published in Holland in 1704, and brought her new admirers. Englishmen and Germans–among them Wettstein and Lord Forbes–visited her at Blois. Through them Madame Guyon’s doctrines became known among Protestants and in that soil took vigorous root. But she did not live to see this unlooked-for diffusion of her writings. She passed away at Blois, at the age of sixty-eight, protesting in her will that she died submissive to the Catholic Church, from which she had never had any intention of separating herself. Her doctrines, like her life, have nevertheless given rise to the widest divergences of opinion. Her published works (the “Moyen court” and the “Règles des assocées à l’Enfance de Jésus”) having been placed on the Index in 1688, and Fénelon’s “Maximes des saints” branded with the condemnation of both the pope and the bishops of France, the Church has thus plainly reprobated Madame Guyon’s doctrines, a reprobation which the extravagance of her language would in itself sufficiently justify. Her strange conduct brought upon her severe censures, in which she could see only manifestations of spite. Evidently, she too often fell short of due reserve and prudence; but after all that can be said in this sense, it must be acknowledged that her morality appears to have given no grounds for serious reproach. Bossuet, who was never indulgent in her regard, could say before the full assembly of the French clergy: “As to the abominations which have been held to be the result of her principles, there was never any question of the horror she testified for them.” It is remarkable, too, that her disciples at the Court of Louis XIV were always persons of great piety and of exemplary life.

On the other hand, Madame Guyon’s warmest partisans after her death were to be found among the Protestants. It was a Dutch Protestant, the pastor Poiret, who began the publication of her works; a Vaudois pietist pastor, Duthoit-Mambrini, continued it. Her “Life” was translated into English and German, and her ideas, long since forgotten in France, have for generations been in favour in Germany, Switzerland, England, and among Methodists in America. ”

EB

P.144 misnumbered 134. Price from imprint: price a British Half-Crown.  Dissertain 16p and Directions for a holy life 5p. DNB includes this in Martin’s works

Copies – Brit.Isles.  :                                                                                                                                                          British Library,                                                                                                                                                                    Dublin City Library,                                                                                                                                                      National Library of Ireland                                                                                                                                              Trinity College Library

Copies – N.America. :                                                                                                                                                           Bates College,                                                                                                                                                                     Harvard University,                                                                                                                                                                            Haverford Col ,                                                                                                                                                                   Library Company of Philadelphia,                                                                                                                        Newberry,                                                                                                                                                                         Pittsburgh Theological                                                                                                                                               Princeton University,                                                                                                                                                   University of Illinois                                                                                                                                                     University of Toronto, Library

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362J James FISHER and [Martha HATFIELD].

The wise virgin: or, A wonderfull narration of the various dispensations of God towards a childe of eleven years of age; wherein as his severity hath appeared in afflicting, so also his goodness both in enabling her (when stricken dumb, deaf, and blind, through the prevalency of her disease) at several times to utter many glorious truths concerning Christ, faith, and other subjects; and also in recovering her without the use of any external means, lest the glory should be given to any other. To the wonderment of many that came far and neer to see and hear her. With some observations in the fourth year since her recovery. She is the daughter of Mr. Anthony Hatfield gentleman, in Laughton in York-shire; her name is Martha Hatfield. The third edition enlarged, with some passages of her gracious conversation now in the time of health. By James Fisher, servant of Christ, and minister of the Gospel in Sheffield.

LONDON: Printed for John Rothwell, at the Fountain, in Cheap-side. 1656 $3,300 Octavo, 143 x 97 x 23 mm (binding), 139 x 94 x 18 mm (text block). A-M8, N3. Lacks A1, blank or portrait? [26], 170 pp. Bound in contemporary calf, upper board reattached, somewhat later marbled and blank ends. Leather rubbed with minor loss to extremities. Interior: Title stained, leaves soiled, gathering N browned, long vertical tear to E2 without loss, tail fore-corner of F8 torn away, with loss of a letter, side notes of B2v trimmed. This is a remarkable survival of the third edition of the popular interregnum account of Sheffield Presbyterian minister James Fisher’s 11-year-old niece Martha Hatfield’s prophetic dialogues following her recovery from a devastating catalepsy that had left her “dumb, deaf, and blind.” Mar tha’s disease, which defies modern retro-diagnostics, was at the time characterized as “spleenwinde,” a term even the Oxford English Dictionary has overlooked. Her sufferings were as variable as they were extraordinary the young girl at one point endured a 17-day fugue state during which her eyes remained open and fixed and she gnashed her teeth to the breaking point. In counterpoise to the horrors of her infirmity, her utterances in periods of remission and upon recovery were of great purity and sweetness; it is this stark contrast that was, and is, the persistent allure of this little book. The Wise Virgin appeared five times between 1653 and 1665; some editions have a portrait frontispiece, and it is entirely possible that the present third edition should have one at A1v, though the copy scanned by Early English Books Online does not. Copies located at Yale, and at Oxford (from which the EEBO copy was made). ONLY Wing F1006.

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376J Mary Pix 1666-1720

The conquest of Spain: a tragedy. As it is Acted by Her Majesty’s Servants at the Queen’s Theatre In the Hay-Market 

London : printed for Richard Wellington, at the Dolphin and Crown in St. Paul’s Church-Yard, 1705.      $4,500

Quarto [A]-K4.   First Edition . (Anonymous. By Mary Pix. Adapted from “All’s lost by lust”, by William Rowley)

Inspired by Aphra Behn, Mary Pix was among the most popular playwrights on the 17th-century theatre circuit, but fell out of fashion. 

“It is so rare to find a play from that period that’s powered by a funny female protagonist. I was immensely surprised by the brilliance of the writing. It is witty and forthright. Pix was writing plays that not only had more women in the cast than men but women who were managing their destinies.”

Pix was born in 1666, the year of the Great Fire of London, and grew up in the culturally rich time of Charles II. With the prolific Aphra Behn (1640-1689) as her role model, Pix burst on to the London theatre and literary scene in 1696 with two plays – one a tragedy: Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperor of the Turks, the other a farce – The Spanish Wives. Pix also wrote a novel – The Inhuman Cardinal.

Her subsequent plays, mostly comedies, became a staple in the repertory of Thomas Betterton’s company Duke’s at Lincoln’s Inn Fields and later at the Queen’s Theatre. She wrote primarily for particular actors, such as Elizabeth Barry and Anne Bracegirdle, who were hugely popular and encouraged a whole generation of women writers.

In a patriarchal world dominated by self-important men, making a mark as a woman was an uphill struggle. “There was resistance to all achieving women in the 18th century, a lot of huffing and puffing by overbearing male chauvinists,” says Bush-Bailey.

“Luckily for Pix and the other women playwrights of that time, the leading actresses were powerful and influential. I think it was they who mentored people such as Pix and Congreve.”

Davies believes the women playwrights of the 1700s – Susanna Centlivre, Catherine Trotter Cockburn, Delarivier Manley and Hannah Cowley – “unquestionably” held their own against the men who would put them down. “What’s difficult is that they were attacked for daring to write plays at all,” she says.

One of the most blatant examples of male hostility came in the form of an anonymously written parody entitled The Female Wits in 1696, in which Mary Pix was caricatured as “Mrs Wellfed, a fat female author, a sociable, well-natur’d companion that will not suffer martyrdom rather than take off three bumpers [alcoholic drinks] in a hand”.

While Pix’s sociability and taste for good food and wine was common knowledge, she was known to be a universally popular member of the London literary and theatrical circuit.

“The Female Wits was probably written, with malice, by George Powell of the Drury Lane Company,” says Bush-Bailey. “It was a cheap, satirical jibe at the successful women playwrights of the time, making out they were all bitching behind each others’ backs. So far as one can tell, it was just spiteful and scurrilous.”

Mary Pix (1666 – 17 May 1709) was an English novelist and playwright. As an admirer of Aphra Behn and colleague of Susanna Centlivre, Pix has been called “a link between women writers of the Restoration and Augustan periods”.

The Dramatis personae from a 1699 edition of Pix’s The False Friend.

Mary Griffith Pix was born in 1666, the daughter of a rector, musician and Headmaster of the Royal Latin School, Buckingham, Buckinghamshire; her father, Roger Griffith, died when she was very young, but Mary and her mother continued to live in the schoolhouse after his death. She was courted by her father’s successor Thomas Dalby, but he left with the outbreak of smallpox in town, just one year after the mysterious fire that burned the schoolhouse. Rumour had it that Mary and Dalby had been making love rather energetically and overturned a candle which set fire to the bedroom.

In 1684, at the age of 18, Mary Griffith married George Pix (a merchant tailor from Hawkhurst, Kent). The couple moved to his country estate in Kent. Her first son, George (b. 1689), died very young in 1690.[3] The next year the couple moved to London and she gave birth to another son, William (b. 1691).

In 1696, when Pix was thirty years old, she first emerged as a professional writer, publishing The Inhumane Cardinal; or, Innocence Betrayed, her first and only novel, as well as two plays, Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperour of the Turks and The Spanish Wives.

Though from quite different backgrounds, Pix quickly became associated with two other playwrights who emerged in the same year: Delariviere Manley and Catherine Trotter. The three female playwrights attained enough public success that they were criticised in the form of an anonymous satirical play The Female Wits (1696). Mary Pix appears as “Mrs. Wellfed one that represents a fat, female author. A good rather sociable, well-matured companion that would not suffer martyrdom rather than take off three bumpers in a hand”.[4] She is depicted as an ignorant woman, though amiable and unpretentious. Pix is summarised as “foolish and openhearted”.

Her first play was put on stage in 1696 at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, near her house in London but when that same theatrical company performed The Female Wits, she moved to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. They said of her that “she has boldly given us an essay of her talent … and not without success, though with little profit to herself”. (Morgan, 1991: xii).

In the season of 1697–1698, Pix became involved in a plagiarism scandal with George Powell. Powell was a rival playwright and the manager of the Drury Lane theatrical company. Pix sent her play, The Deceiver Deceived to Powell’s company, as a possible drama for them to perform. Powell rejected the play but kept the manuscript and then proceeded to write and perform a play called The Imposture Defeated, which had a plot and main character taken directly from The Deceiver Deceived. In the following public backlash, Pix accused Powell of stealing her work and Powell claimed that instead he and Pix had both drawn their plays from the same source material, an unnamed novel. In 1698, an anonymous writer, now believed to be Powell, published a letter called “To the Ingenious Mr. _____.” which attacked Pix and her fellow female playwright Trotter. The letter attempted to malign Pix on various issues, such as her spelling and presumption in publishing her writing. Though Pix’s public reputation was not damaged and she continued writing after the plagiarism scandal, she stopped putting her name on her work and after 1699 she only included her name on one play, in spite of the fact that she is believed to have written at least seven more. Scholars still discuss the attribution of plays to Pix, notably whether or not she wrote Zelmane; or, The Corinthian Queen (1705).

In May 1707 Pix published A Poem, Humbly Inscrib’d to the Lords Commissioners for the Union of the Two Kingdoms. This would be her final appearance in print. She died two years later.

Few of the female playwrights of Mary Pix’s time came from a theatrical background and none came from the aristocracy: within a century, most successful actresses and female authors came from a familiar tradition of literature and theatre but Mary Pix and her contemporaries were from outside this world and had little in common with one another apart from a love for literature and a middle-class background.

At the time of Mary Pix, “The ideal of the one-breadwinner family had not yet become dominant”, whereas in 18th-century families it was normal for the woman to stay at home taking care of the children, house and servants, in Restoration England husband and wife worked together in familiar enterprises that sustained them both and female playwrights earned the same wage as their male counterparts.

Morgan also points out that “till the close of the period, authorship was not generally advertised on playbills, nor always proclaimed when plays were printed”, which made it easier for female authors to hide their identity so as to be more easily accepted among the most conservative audiences.

As Morgan states, “plays were valued according to how they performed and not by who wrote them. When authorship ―female or otherwise― remained a matter of passing interest, female playwrights were in an open and equal market with their male colleagues”.

Pix’s plays were very successful among contemporary audiences. Each play ran for at least four to five nights and some were even brought back for additional shows years later.[10] Her tragedies were quite popular, because she managed to mix extreme action with melting love scenes. Many critics believed that Pix’s best pieces were her comedies. Pix’s comedic work was lively and full of double plots, intrigue, confusion, songs, dances and humorous disguise. An Encyclopaedia of British Women Writers (1998) points out that

Forced or unhappy marriages appear frequently and prominently in the comedies. Pix is not, however, writing polemics against the forced marriage but using it as a plot device and sentimentalizing the unhappily married person, who is sometimes rescued and married more satisfactorily.”(Schlueter & Schlueter, 1998: 513)

Although some contemporary women writers, like Aphra Behn, have been rediscovered, even the most specialised scholars have little knowledge of works by writers such as Catherine Trotter, Delarivier Manley or Mary Pix, despite the fact that plays like The Beau Defeated (1700), present with a wider range of female characters than plays written by men at the time. Pix’s plays generally had eight or nine female roles, while plays by male writers only had two or three.[

A production of The Fantastic Follies of Mrs Rich (or The Beau Defeated) played as part of the 2018 season at the Royal Shakespeare Company.

Pix produced one novel and seven plays. There are four other plays that were published anonymously, that are generally attributed to her.

Melinda Finberg notes that “a frequent motif in all her works is sexual violence and female victimization” – be that rape or murder (in the tragedies) or forcible confinement or the threat of rape (in the comedies).

^ Kramer, Annette (June 1994). “Mary Pix’s Nebulous Relationship to Zelmane”. Notes and Queries. 41 (2): 186–187. doi:10.1093/nq/41-2-186

PIX, Mrs. MARY (1666–1720?), dramatist, born in 1666 at Nettlebed in Oxfordshire, was daughter of the Rev. Roger Griffith, vicar of that place. Her mother, whose maiden name was Lucy Berriman, claimed descent from the ‘very considerable family of the Wallis’s.’ In the dedication of ‘The Spanish Wives’ Mrs. Pix speaks of meeting Colonel Tipping ‘at Soundess,’ or Soundness. This house, which was close to Nettlebed, was the property of John Wallis, eldest son of the mathematician. Mary Griffith’s father died before 1684, and on 24 July in that year she married in London, at St. Saviour’s, Benetfink, George Pix (b. 1660), a merchant tailor of St. Augustine’s parish. His family was connected with Hawkhurst, Kent. By him she had one child, who was buried at Hawkhurst in 1690.

It was in 1696, in which year Colley Cibber, Mrs. Manley, Catharine Cockburn (Mrs. Trotter), and Lord Lansdowne also made their débuts, that Mrs. Pix first came into public notice. She produced at Dorset Garden, and then printed, a blank-verse tragedy of ‘Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperor of the Turks.’ When it was too late, she discovered that she should have written ‘Ibrahim the Twelfth.’ This play she dedicated to the Hon. Richard Minchall of Bourton, a neighbour of her country days. In the same year (1696) Mary Pix published a novel, ‘The Inhuman Cardinal,’ and a farce, ‘The Spanish Wives,’ which had enjoyed a very considerable success at Dorset Garden.

From this point she devoted herself to dramatic authorship with more activity than had been shown before her time by any woman except Mrs. Afra Behn [q. v.] In 1697 she produced at Little Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and then published, a comedy of ‘The Innocent Mistress.’ This play, which was very successful, shows the influence of Congreve upon the author, and is the most readable of her productions. The prologue and epilogue were written by Peter Anthony Motteux [q. v.] It was followed the next year by ‘The Deceiver Deceived,’ a comedy which failed, and which involved the poetess in a quarrel. She accused George Powell [q. v.], the actor, of having seen the manuscript of her play, and of having stolen from it in his ‘Imposture Defeated.’ On 8 Sept. 1698 an anonymous ‘Letter to Mr. Congreve’ was published in the interests of Powell, from which it would seem that Congreve had by this time taken Mary Pix under his protection, with Mrs. Trotter, and was to be seen ‘very gravely with his hat over his eyes … together with the two she-things called Poetesses’ (see GOSSE, Life of Congreve, pp. 123–5). Her next play was a tragedy of ‘Queen Catharine,’ brought out at Lincoln’s Inn, and published in 1698. Mrs. Trotter wrote the epilogue. In her own prologue Mary Pix pays a warm tribute to Shakespeare. ‘The False Friend’ followed, at the same house, in 1699; the title of this comedy was borrowed three years later by Vanbrugh.

Hitherto Mary Pix had been careful to put her name on her title-pages or dedications; but the comedy of ‘The Beau Defeated’—undated, but published in 1700—though anonymous, is certainly hers. In 1701 she produced a tragedy of ‘The Double Distress.’ Two more plays have been attributed to Mary Pix by Downes. One of these is ‘The Conquest of Spain,’ an adaptation from Rowley’s ‘All’s lost by Lust,’ which was brought out at the Queen’s theatre in the Haymarket, ran for six nights, and was printed anonymously in 1705 (DOWNE, Roscius Anglicanus, p. 48). Finally, the comedy of the ‘Adventures in Madrid’ was acted at the same house with Mrs. Bracegirdle in the cast, and printed anonymously and without date. It has been attributed by the historians of the drama to 1709; but a copy in the possession of the present writer has a manuscript note of date of publication ‘10 August 1706.’

Nearly all our personal impression of Mary Pix is obtained from a dramatic satire entitled ‘The Female Wits; or, the Triumvirate of Poets.’ This was acted at Drury Lane Theatre about 1697, but apparently not printed until 1704, after the death of the author, Mr. W. M. It was directed at the three women who had just come forward as competitors for dramatic honours—Mrs. Pix, Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. Trotter [see Cockburn, Catharine]. Mrs. Pix, who is described as ‘a fat Female Author, a good, sociable, well-natur’d Companion, that will not suffer Martyrdom rather than take off three Bumpers in a Hand,’ was travestied by Mrs. Powell under the name of ‘Mrs. Wellfed.’

The style of Mrs. Pix confirms the statements of her contemporaries that though, as she says in the dedication of the ‘Spanish Wives,’ she had had an inclination to poetry from childhood, she was without learning of any sort. She is described as ‘foolish and open-hearted,’ and as being ‘big enough to be the Mother of the Muses.’ Her fatness and her love of good wine were matters of notoriety. Her comedies, though coarse, are far more decent than those of Mrs. Behn, and her comic bustle of dialogue is sometimes entertaining. Her tragedies are intolerable. She had not the most superficial idea of the way in which blank verse should be written, pompous prose, broken irregularly into lengths, being her ideal of versification.

The writings of Mary Pix were not collected in her own age, nor have they been reprinted since. Several of them have become exceedingly rare. An anonymous tragedy, ‘The Czar of Muscovy,’ published in 1702, a week after her play of ‘The Double Distress,’ has found its way into lists of her writings, but there is no evidence identifying it with her in any way. She was, however, the author of ‘Violenta, or the Rewards of Virtue, turn’d from Bocacce into Verse,’ 1704.

[Miscellanea Genealogica et Heraldica, 2nd ser. v. 110–3; Vicar-General’s Marriage Licences (Harl. Soc.), 1679–87, p. 173; Baker’s Biogr. Dramatica; Doran’s Annals of the English Stage, i. 243; Mrs. Pix’s works; Genest’s Hist. Account of the Stage.].

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 296J  Mademoiselle  Madeleine de Scudéri   (1607-1701) A triumphant arch erected and consecrated to the glory of the feminine sexe: by Monsieur de Scudery: Englished by I.B. gent.London : printed for William Hope, and Henry Herringman, at the blew Anchor behind the Old Exchange, and at the blew Anchor in the lower walk in the New Exchange, 1656.                                               $1,300Octavo  A4 (lacking a1&a4) B-P8 Q3 (A1 blank?).    Title in red and black; title vignette (motto: “Dum spiro spero”)  First edition,Authorship ascribed to Madeleine de Scudéry by Brunet; according to other authorities the work was written by both Georges de Scudéry and his sister. This copy is lacking A1 &a4 index f., titled holed, browned and with marginal repairs (without loss), stained, lightly browned, corners worn, rubbed, contemporary sheep, rebacked,Very rare on the market the last copy I could find at auction was in 1967 ($420)Scudéry  was the most popular novelist in her time, read in French in volume installments all over Europe and translated into English, German, Italian, and even Arabic. But she was also a charismatic figure in French salon culture, a woman who supported herself through her writing and defended women’s education .Scudéry’s role as a model for women writers and for women’s education has also been an important topic of recent criticism. Critics including Jane Donaworth and Patricia Hannon have discussed her as an important influence on later women authors and even as a proto-feminist. Helen Osterman Borowitz has attempted to draw direct connections between Scudéry and the great French novelist Germaine de Staël. Critics have long acknowledged, however, that Scudéry was not only an influence on women novelists. Some have suggested that she also opened up new political possibilities. For example, Leonard Hinds has claimed that the collaborative model of authorship that existed in the salons was also a model for an alternative to absolutism, while Joan DeJean has suggested that her work can be seen as a response to political events of her age.In 1641 Madeleine published her first novel, Ibrahim ou l’illustre Bassa, under her brother’s name. This practice of using the name of her brother as her pseudonymous signature was one that she continued for most of her prolific career as a writer, despite the fact that her own authorship was openly acknowledged in the gazettes, memoirs, and letters of the time. Although the precise nature of his contributions is uncertain, Georges did clearly collaborate to some extent with his sister in the writing of her novels, and he wrote the prefaces to several of her books.

She won the first prize for eloquence awarded by the Académie Française (1671), but was barred from membership. Several academicians had attempted to lift the ban against women so that she could join their ranks, to no avail. Although her own authorship was widely acknowledged at the time, she used the name of her brother, Georges de Scudéry, as a pseudonymous signature throughout her career (Dejean)

Wing (2nd ed.), S2163 ,Thomason, E.1604[4]

  Scudéry, Madeleine de. Selected Letters, Orations and Rhetorical Dialogues. Ed. and trans. Jane Donawerth and Julie Strongson. The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 8.

John Conley, “Madeleine de Scudéry,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2011 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2011/entries/madeleine-scudery/.

Joan Dejean. Scudéry, Madeleine de (1608-1701). The New Oxford Companion to Literature in French (Oxford University Press 1995, 2005).

“Scudéry, Madeleine De (1607–1701).” Europe, 1450 to 1789: Encyclopedia of the Early Modern World. . Encyclopedia.com. 11 Apr. 2019

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12) 323J Madeleine Vigneron (1628-1667)

La vie et la conduite spirituelle de Mademoiselle M. Vigneron. Suivant les mémoires qu’elle en a laissez par l’ordre de son directeur (M. Bourdin). [Arranged and edited by him.].

Paris: Chez Pierre de Launay, 1689.  $3,200

Octavo 7 x 4 3/4 inches ã8 e8 A-2R8 (2R8 blank). Second and preferred edition first published in 1679.     This copy is bound in contemporary brown calf, five raised bands on spine, gilt floral tools in the compartments, second compartment titled in gilt; corners and spine extremities worn; three old joint repairs; on the front binder’s blank is an early ownership four-line inscription in French dated 1704, of

Sister Monique Vanden Heuvel, at the priory of Sion de Vilvoorde (Belgium).

Overall a fine copy.

This is the stirring journal that Madeleine Vigneron , member of the Third Order of the Minims of St. Francis of Paola, she began to keep it in 1653 and continued until her premature death, (1667) It was first published in 1679 and again in the present second, and final, edition which is more complete than the first. Added are Madeleine’s series of 78 letters representing her spiritual correspondence.IMG_1410

In these autobiographical writings, which were collected and published by her Director, the Minim Matthieu Bourdin, Madeleine speaks of the illnesses that plagued her since childhood and greatly handicapped her throughout a life that she dedicated to God by caring for the poor. She received admirable lights on the divinity and humanity of Jesus Christ, on the mysteries of the spiritual life. The hagiographers have remarked her austerity, her patience, her insatiable desire to suffer for God. Those who knew her perceived in her a virtuous life that impressed them.

This is a very rare book: the combined resources of NUC and OCLC locate only one copy in America, at the University of Dayton which also holds the only American copy of the 1679 edition.

§ Cioranescu 66466 (the 1679 edition).

checklist of early modern writings by nuns

Carr, Thomas M., “A Checklist of Published Writings in French by Early Modern Nuns” (2007). French Language and Literature Papers. 52.

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End

A Dozen Early Modern Books by Women Author INDEX J.B. 346J Mary Barber 377J Madam De Bellefont 572G Susanna Centlivre 347J Susanna Centlivre 357J…