Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖
- Author: Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Since “The Splendid Spur,” Mr. Quiller-Couch has published nothing in book form which can be considered an advance on his best novel, but there have appeared by him a number of short Cornish sketches, which are perhaps best considered as experiments. They are perilously slight, and where they are successful one remembers them as sweet dreams or like a bar of music. All aim at this effect, so that many should not be taken at a time, and some (as was to be expected with such delicate work) miss their mark. It might be said that in several of these melodies Mr. Quiller-Couch has been writing the same thing again and again, determined to succeed absolutely, if not this time then the next, and if not the next time then the time after. In one case he has succeeded absolutely. “The Small People,” is a prose “Song of the Shirt.” To my mind this is a rare piece of work, and the biggest thing for its size that has been done in English fiction for some years.
These sketches have been called experiments. They show (as his books scarcely show) that Mr. Quiller-Couch can feel. They suggest that he may be able to do for Cornwall what Mr. Hardy has done for Dorset—though the methods of the two writers are as unlike as their counties. But that can only be if in filling his notebook with these little comedies and tragedies Mr. Quiller-Couch is preparing for more sustained efforts.
“Our hope and heart is with thee We will stand and mark.” J. M. BARRIE.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
THE SPLENDID SPUR.
CHAPTER I. — THE BOWLING-GREEN OF THE “CROWN.”
CHAPTER II. — THE YOUNG MAN IN THE CLOAK OF AMBER SATIN,
CHAPTER III. — I FIND MYSELF IN A TAVERN BRAWL: AND BARELY ESCAPE.
CHAPTER IV. — I TAKE THE ROAD.
CHAPTER V. — MY ADVENTURE AT THE “THREE CUPS.”
CHAPTER VI. — THE FLIGHT IN THE PINE WOOD.
CHAPTER VII. — I FIND A COMRADE.
CHAPTER VIII. — I LOSE THE KING'S LETTER; AND AM CARRIED TO BRISTOL.
CHAPTER IX. — I BREAK OUT OF PRISON.
CHAPTER X. — CAPTAIN POTTERY AND CAPTAIN SETTLE.
CHAPTER XI. — I RIDE DOWN INTO TEMPLE: AND AM WELL TREATED THERE.
CHAPTER XII. — HOW JOAN SAVED THE ARMY OF THE WEST; AND SAW THE FIGHT ON BRADDOCK DOWN.
CHAPTER XIII. — I BUY A LOOKING GLASS AT BODMIN FAIR: AND MEET WITH MR. HANNIBAL
CHAPTER XIV. — I DO NO GOOD IN THE HOUSE OF GLEYS.
CHAPTER XV. — I LEAVE JOAN AND RIDE TO THE WARS.
CHAPTER XVI. — THE BATTLE OF STAMFORD HEATH.
CHAPTER XVII. — I MEET WITH A HAPPY ADVENTURE BY BURNING OF A GREEN LIGHT.1
CHAPTER XVIII. — JOAN DOES ME HER LAST SERVICE.
CHAPTER XIX. — THE ADVENTURE OF THE HEARSE.
CHAPTER XX. — THE ADVENTURE OF THE LEDGE; AND HOW I SHOOK HANDS WITH MY COMRADE.
THE SPLENDID SPUR.
CHAPTER I. — THE BOWLING-GREEN OF THE “CROWN.”
He that has jilted the Muse, forsaking her gentle pipe to follow the drum and trumpet, shall fruitlessly besiege her again when the time comes to sit at home and write down his adventures. 'Tis her revenge, as I am extremely sensible: and methinks she is the harder to me, upon reflection how near I came to being her lifelong servant, as you are to hear.
'Twas on November 29th, Ao. 1642—a clear, frosty day—that the King, with the Prince of Wales (newly recovered of the measles), the Princes Rupert and Maurice, and a great company of lords and gentlemen, horse and foot, came marching back to us from Reading. I was a scholar of Trinity College in Oxford at that time, and may begin my history at three o'clock on the same afternoon, when going (as my custom was) to Mr. Rob. Drury for my fencing lesson, I found his lodgings empty.
They stood at the corner of Ship Street, as you turn into the Corn Market—a low wainscoted chamber, ill-lighted but commodious. “He is off to see the show,” thought I as I looked about me; and finding an easy cushion in the window, sat down to await him. Where presently, being tired out (for I had been carrying a halberd all day with the scholars' troop in Magdalen College Grove), and in despite of the open lattice, I fell sound asleep.
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