Title A NEW SYSTEM OF ENGLISH GRAMMAR
Timeline 19th Century A.D.

Text I HAVE often thought that the adjectives of the English language were not sufficiently
definite for the purposes of description. They have but three degrees of comparison―a very insufficient number, certainly,
when we consider that they are to be applied to a thousand objects, which, though of the same general class or quality, differ
from each other by a thousand different shades or degrees of the same peculiarity. Thus, though there are three hundred
and sixty-five days in a year, all of which must, from the nature of things, differ from each other in the matter of climate,―we
have but half a dozen expressions to convey to one another our ideas of this inequality. We say―"It is a fine day;" "It is a
very fine day;" "It is the finest day we have seen;" or, "It is an unpleasant day;" "A very unpleasant day;" "The most
unpleasant day we ever saw." But it is plain, that none of these expressions give an exact idea of the nature of the day; and
the two superlative expressions are generally untrue. I once heard a gentleman remark, on a rainy, snowy, windy and (in the
ordinary English language) indescribable day, that it was "most preposterous weather." He came nearer to giving a correct
idea of it, than he could have done by any ordinary mode of expression; but his description was not sufficiently definite.

Again:―we say of a lady―"She is beautiful;" "She is very beautiful," or "She is perfectly beautiful;"―descriptions, which, to
one who never saw her, are no descriptions at all, for among thousands of women he has seen, probably no two are equally
beautiful; and as to a perfectly beautiful woman, he knows that no such being was ever created―unless by G. P. R. James, for
one of the two horsemen to fall in love with, and marry at the end of the second volume.

If I meet Smith in the street, and ask him―as I am pretty sure to do―"How he does?" he infallibly replies―"Tolerable, thank
you"―which gives me no exact idea of Smith's health―for he has made the same reply to me on a hundred different
occasions―on every one of which there must have been some slight shade of difference in his physical economy, and of
course a corresponding change in his feelings.

To a man of a mathematical turn of mind―to a student and lover of the exact sciences these inaccuracies of expression―
this inability to understand exactly how things are, must be a constant source of annoyance; and to one who, like myself,
unites this turn of mind to an ardent love of truth, for its own sake―the reflection that the English language does not enable
us to speak the truth with exactness, is peculiarly painful. For this reason I have, with some trouble, made myself thoroughly
acquainted with every ancient and modern language, in the hope that I might find some one of them that would enable me to
express precisely my ideas; but the same insufficiency of adjectives exist in all except that of the Flathead Indians of Puget
Sound, which consists of but forty-six words, mostly nouns; but to the constant use of which exists the objection, that
nobody but that tribe can understand it. And as their literary and scientific advancement is not such as to make a residence
among them, for a man of my disposition, desirable, I have abandoned the use of their language, in the belief that for me it is
hyas. cultus., or as the Spaniard hath it, no me vale nada.

Despairing, therefore, of making new discoveries in foreign languages, I have set myself seriously to work to reform our own;
and have, I think, made an important discovery, which, when developed into a system and universally adopted, will give a
precision of expression, and a consequent clearness of idea, that will leave little to be desired, and will, I modestly hope,
immortalize my humble name as the promulgator of the truth and the benefactor of the human race.

Before entering upon my system I will give you an account of its discovery (which, perhaps I might with more modesty term
an adaptation and enlargement of the idea of another), which will surprise you by its simplicity, and like the method of
standing eggs on end, of Columbus, the inventions of printing, gunpowder and the mariner's compass―prove another
exemplification of the truth of Hannah More's beautifully expressed sentiment:

"Large streams from little fountains flow,
Large aches from little toe-corns grow."

During the past week my attention was attracted by a large placard embellishing the corners of our streets, headed in mighty
capitals, with the word "PHRENOLOGY," and illustrated by a map of a man's head, closely shaven, and laid off in lots, duly
numbered from one to forty-seven. Beneath this edifying illustration appeared a legend, informing the inhabitants of San
Diego and vicinity that Professor Dodge had arrived, and taken rooms (which was inaccurate, as he had but one room) at the
Gyascutus House, where he would be happy to examine and furnish them with a chart of their heads, showing the moral and
intellectual endowments, at the low·price of three dollars each.

Always gratified with an opportunity of spending my money and making scientific researches, I immediately had my hair cut
and carefully combed, and hastened to present myself and my head to the Professor's notice. I found him a tall and thin
Professor, in a suit of rusty, not to say seedy black, with a closely buttoned vest, and no perceptible shirtcollar or wristbands.
His nose was red, his spectacles were blue, and he wore a brown wig, beneath which, as I subsequently ascertained, his bald
head was laid off in lots, marked and numbered with Indian ink, after the manner of the diagram upon his advertisement. Upon
a small table lay many little books with yellow covers, several of the placards, pen and ink, a pair of iron callipers with brass
knobs, and six dollars in silver. Having explained the object of my visit, and increased the pile of silver by six half-dollars from
my pocket―whereat he smiled, and I observed he wore false teeth―(scientific men always do; they love to encourage art) the
Professor placed me in a chair, and rapidly manipulating my head, after the manner of a sham pooh (I am not certain as to
the orthography of this expression) said that my temperament was "lymphatic, nervous, bilious." I remarked that "I thought
myself dyspeptic," but he made no reply. Then seizing on the callipers, he embraced with them my head in various place, and
made notes upon a small card that lay near him on the table. He then stated that my "hair was getting very thin on the top,"
placed in my hand one of the yellow-covered books, which I found to be an almanac containing anecdotes about the virtues
of Dodge's Hair Invigorator, and recommending it to my perusal, he remarked that he was agent for the sale of this wonderful
fluid, and urged me to purchase a bottle―price two dollars. Stating my willingness to do so, the Professor produced it from a
hair trunk·that stood in a corner of the room, which he stated, by the way, was originally an ordinary pine box, on which the
hair had grown since "the Invigorator" had been placed in it―(a singular fact) and recommended me to be cautious in wearing
gloves while rubbing it upon my head, as unhappy accidents had occurred―the hair growing freely from the ends of the
fingers, if used with the bare hand. He then seated himself at the table, and rapidly filling up what appeared to me a blank
certificate, he soon handed over·the following singular document.

"PHRENOLOGICAL CHART OF THE HEAD OF M. JOHN PHOENIX, by FLATBROKE B. DODGE, Professor of Phrenology,
and inventor and proprietor of Dodge's celebrated Hair Invigorator, Stimulator of the Conscience, and Arouser of the Mental

Faculties:

Temperament,―Lymphathic, Nervous, Bilious.

Size of Head, 11.

Amativeness, 11 1/2.

Caution, 3.

Combativeness, 2 1/2.

Credulity, 1.

Causality, 12.

Conscientiousness, 12.

Destructiveness, 9.

Hope, 10."

Imitation, 11. Benevolence, 12.

Mirth, 1.

Language, 12.

Firmness, 2.

Veneration, 12.

Philoprogenitiveness, 0.

Having gazed on this for a few moments in mute astonishment―during which the Professor took a glass of brandy and water,
and afterwards a mouthful of tobacco―I turned to him and requested an explanation.

"Why," said he, "it's very simple; the number 12 is the maximum, 1 the minimum; for instance, you are as benevolent as a
man can be―therefore I mark you, Benevolence, 12. You have little or no self-esteem―hence I place you, Selfesteem, 1/2.
You've scarcely any credulity―don't you see?"

I did see! This was my discovery. I saw at a flash how the English language was susceptible of improvement, and, fired with
the glorious idea, I rushed from the room and the house; heedless of the Professor's request that I would buy more of his
Invigorator; heedless of his alarmed cry that I would pay for the bottle I'd got; heedless that I tripped on the last step of the
Gyascutus House, and smashed there the precious fluid (the step has now a growth of four inches of hair on it, and the
people use it as a door-mat); I rushed home, and never grew calm till with pen, ink and paper before me, I commenced the
development of my system.

This system―shall I say this great system―is exceedingly simple, and easily explained in a few words. In the first place,
"figures won't lie." Let us then represent by the number 100, the maximum, the ne plus ultra of every human quality―grace,
beauty, courage, strength, wisdom, learning―every thing. Let perfection, I say, be represented by 100, and an absolute
minimum of all qualities by the number 1. Then by applying the numbers between, to the adjectives used in conversation, we
shall be able to arrive at a very close approximation to the idea we wish to convey; in other words, we shall be enabled to
speak the truth. Glorious, soulinspiring idea! For instance, the most ordinary question asked of you is, "How do you do?" To
this, instead of replying, "Pretty well," "Very well," "Quite well," or the like absurdities―after running through your mind that
perfection of health is 100, no health at all, I―you say, with a graceful bow, "Thank you, I'm 52 to day;" or, feeling poorly, "I'm
13, I'm obliged to you," or "I'm 68," or "75," or "87 1/2," as the case may be! Do you see how very close in this way you
may approximate to the truth; and how clearly your questioner will understand what he so anxiously wishes to arrive at―your
exact state of health?

Let this system be adopted into our elements of grammar, our conversation, our literature, and we become at once an exact,
precise, mathematical, truth-telling people. It will apply to every thing but politics; there, truth being of no account, the
system is useless. But in literature, how admirable! Take an example:

As a 19 young and 76 beautiful lady was 52 gaily tripping down the sidewalk of our 84 frequented street, she accidently come
in contact―100 (this shows that she came in close contact) with a 73 fat, but 87 good-humored looking gentleman, who was
93 (i. e. intently) gazing into the window of a toy-shop. Gracefully 56 extricating herself, she received the excuses of the 96
embarrassed Falstaff with a 68 bland smile, and continued on her way. But hardly―7―had she reached the corner of the
block, ere she was overtaken by a 24 young man, 32 poorly dressed, but of an 85 expression of countenance; 91 hastily
touching her 54 beautifully rounded arm, he said, to her 67 surprise―

"Madam, at the window of the toy-shop yonder, you dropped this bracelet, which I had the 71 good fortune to observe, and
now have the 94 happiness to hand to you." Of course the expression "94 happiness" is merely the young man's polite
hyperbole.)

Blushing with 76 modesty, the lovely (76, as before, of course), lady took the bracelet―which was a 24 magnificent diamond
clasp―(24 magnificent, playfully sarcastic; it was probably not one of Tucker's) from the young man's hand, and 84
hesitatingly drew from her beautifully 38 embroidered reticule a 67 port-monnaie. The young man noticed the action, and 73
proudly drawing back, added―

"Do not thank me; the pleasure of gazing for an instant at those 100 eyes (perhaps too exaggerated a compliment), has
already more than compensated me for any trouble that I might have had."

She thanked· him, however, and with a 67 deep blush and a 48 pensive air, turned from him, and pursued with a 33 slow step
her promenade.

Of course you see that this is but the commencement of a pretty little tale, which I might throw off, if I had a mind to,
showing in two volumes, or forty-eight chapters of thrilling interest, how the young man sought the girl's acquaintance, how
the interest first excited, deepened into love, how they suffered much from the opposition of parents (her parents of course),
and how, after much trouble, annoyance, and many perilous adventures, they were finally married―their happiness, of course,
being represented by 100. But I trust that I have said enough to recommend my system to the good and truthful of the
literary world; and besides, just at present I have something of more immediate importance to attend to.

You would hardly believe it, but that everlasting (100) scamp of a Professor has brought a suit against me for stealing a
bottle of his disgusting Invigorator; and as the suit comes off before a Justice of the Peace; whose only principle of law is to
find guilty and fine any accused person whom he thinks has any money―(because if he don't he has to take his costs in
County Scrip,) it behooves me to "take time by the fore-lock." So, for the present, adieu. Should my system succeed to the
extent of my hopes and expectations, I shall publish my new grammar early in the ensuing month, with suitable dedication and
preface; and should you, with your well known liberality, publish my prospectus, and give me a handsome literary notice, I shall
be pleased to furnish a presentation copy to each of the little Pioneer children.

P. S. I regret to add that having just read this article to Mrs. PHOENIX, and asked her opinion thereon, she replied, that "if a
first-rate magazine article were represented by 100, she should judge this to be about 13; or if the quintessence of stupidity
were 100, she should take this to be in the neighborhood of 96." This, as a criticism, is perhaps a little discouraging, but as an
exemplification of the merits of my system it is exceedingly flattering. How could she, I should like to know, in ordinary
language, have given so exact and truthful an idea―how expressed so forcibly her opinion (which, of course, differs from mine)
on the subject?

As Dr. Samuel Johnson learnedly remarked to James Boswell, Laird of Auchinleck, on a certain occasion―

"Sir, the proof of the pudding is in the eating thereof."

Title WEEJEE THE PET DOG. AN IDYLL OF THE SUMMER
Timeline 20th Century A.D.

Text WE were sitting on the verandah of the Sopley's summer cottage.
"How lovely it is here," I said to my host and hostess, "and how still."
It was at this moment that Weejee, the pet dog, took a sharp nip at the end of my tennis trousers.
"Weejee!!" exclaimed his mistress with great emphasis, "bad dog! how dare you, sir! bad dog!"
"I hope he hasn't hurt you," said my host.
"Oh, it's nothing," I answered cheerfully. "He hardly scratched me."
"You know I don't think he means anything by it," said Mrs. Sopley.
"Oh, I'm sure he doesn't," I answered.
Weejee was coming nearer to me again as I spoke.
"Weejee!!" cried my hostess, "naughty dog, bad!"
"Funny thing about that dog," said Sopley, "the way he knows people. It's a sort of instinct. He knew right away that you were a stranger, -- now, yesterday, when the butcher came, there was a new driver on the cart and Weejee knew it right away, -- grabbed the man by the leg at once, -- wouldn't let go. I called out to the man that it was all right or he might have done Weejee some harm."
At this moment Weejee took the second nip at my other trouser leg. There was a short gur-r-r and a slight mix-up.
"Weejee! Weejee!" called Mrs. Sopley. "How dare you, sir! You're just a bad dog!! Go and lie down, sir. I'm so sorry. I think, you know, it's your white trousers. For some reason Weejee simply hates white trousers. I do hope he hasn't torn them."
"Oh, no," I said; "it's nothing only a slight tear."
"Here, Weege, Weege," said Sopley, anxious to make a diversion and picking up a little chip of wood, -- "chase it, fetch it out!" and he made the motions of throwing it into the lake.
"Don't throw it too far, Charles," said his wife. "He doesn't swim awfully well," she continued, turning to me, "and I'm always afraid he might get out of his depth. Last week he was ever so nearly drowned. Mr. Van Toy was in swimming, and he had on a dark blue suit (dark blue seems simply to infuriate Weejee) and Weejee just dashed in after him. He don't mean anything, you know, it was only the suit made him angry, -- he really likes Mr. Van Toy, -- but just for a minute we were quite alarmed. If Mr. Van Toy hadn't carried Weejee in I think he might have been drowned.
"By jove!" I said in a tone to indicate how appalled I was.
"Let me throw the stick, Charles," continued Mrs. Sopley. "Now, Weejee, look Weejee -- here, good dog -- look! look now (sometimes Weejee simply won't do what one wants), here, Weejee; now, good dog!"
Weejee had his tail sideways between his legs and was moving towards me again.
"Hold on," said Sopley in a stern tone, "let me throw him in."
"Do be careful, Charles," said his wife.
Sopley picked Weejee up by the collar and carried him to the edge of the water -- it was about six inches deep, -- and threw him in, -- with much the same force as, let us say, a pen is thrown into ink or a brush dipped into a pot of varnish.
"That's enough; that's quite enough, Charles," exclaimed Mrs. Sopley. "I think he'd better not swim. The water in the evening is always a little cold. Good dog, good doggie, good Weejee!"
Meantime "good Weejee" had come out of the water and was moving again towards me.
"He goes straight to you," said my hostess. "I think he must have taken a fancy to you."
He had.
To prove it, Weejee gave himself a rotary whirl like a twirled mop.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Sopley. "I am. He's wetted you. Weejee, lie down, down, sir, good dog, bad dog, lie down!"
"It's all right," I said. "I've another white suit in my valise."
"But you must be wet through," said Mrs. Sopley. "Perhaps we'd better go in. It's getting late, anyway, isn't it?" And then she added to her husband, "I don't think Weejee ought to sit out here now that he's wet."
So we went in.
"I think you'll find everything you need," said Sopley, as he showed me to my room, "and, by the way, don't mind if Weejee comes into your room at night. We like to let him run all over the house and he often sleeps on this bed."
"All right," I said cheerfully, "I'll look after him."
That night Weejee came.
And when it was far on in the dead of night -- so that even the lake and the trees were hushed in sleep, I took Weejee out and -- but there is no need to give the details of it.
And the Sopleys are still wondering where Weejee has gone to, and waiting for him to come back, because he is so clever at finding his way.
But from where Weejee is, no one finds his way back.
. . . . . . .

Title HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL FOR THE MASSES
Timeline 19th Century A.D.

Text THE one thing necessary in a novel of romance is romance. The ordinary novel-reader is a dull bird, who knows little, and cares less, about the facts of history, the cut of a cloak, or the geography of a particular country. To him anachronisms do not exist, because he would not know one if he saw it in a cage. Of course I don't mean you, dear reader; but you must admit that the vast majority of the reading public is made up of dull, unthinking people, so why should writers spend so much time substantiating facts, studying costumes and scenery and other details that do not affect the real interest of the story, which is and must be the romantic portion of it?
Let me show you how it ought to be done:
"It was dawn of a clear spring morning. Guy le Cormorant set forth from his father's castle with never a sou in his pocket, a large credit at his banker's, and the whole world before him."
Here chuck in some reference to the " 'Provençal robins' that during the reign of the good Louis sang with such surpassing sweetness." If you wish to, run in a few Breton peasants, and dot the meadow with sheep, and fill the fields with Lyonnaise potatoes. The public won't know or care whether you are right or not.
Now it's time for your first adventure, for you are nearing the end of the second page, and a successful romantic novel should yield an adventure to every ten pages, and stop at the 300th page.
"Around the corner of the Louvre" (never mind what or where the Louvre is; the public will think it is a river or a field) "came the wicked seneschal, Vignon de Morimont. His fat horse jogged along lazily, and from the corners of his treacherous eyes he looked at the brave young Guy."
Now have Guy accuse him of having murdered his (Guy's) grandmother in 1560.
"When my father told me that my grandam" ("grandam" has a good sound always, like a great oath) "had been murdered by de Morimont of Morimont Castle, I swore that the murder should not go unavenged. All this morning have I sought thee; now have I found thee. Prepare for an awful doom."
Now let them draw their broadswords, and then say something about Richelieu having issued an edict against the carrying of broadswords by gentlemen. Start in as if you were going to be very dry over it, but cut it short quickly. That will make the reader like you. Then have Guy fly at the wicked seneschal, and spit him on the broadsword, and toss him into a plane tree. A plane tree is better than the most ornate tree that your reader is likely to know about. If a man thinks that you know something that he doesn't know, he suspects you of knowing other things of which he is ignorant, and his respect increases.
Having tossed the seneschal into the plane tree, let Guy mount his horse and continue on his way. Adventure number one is over, and he has won out easily; but it will be a mistake to let him win every round with as little effort. In a story, a dead-sure thing is not exciting.
It is now time to bring in more singing of birds, as a sort of contrast. If a shepherd is handy, let him pipe up a little, so as to put Guy into good spirits, as the stabbing of the seneschal is on his nerves a bit. Guy might toss the shepherd a sequin or a groat. The public has heard of both coins, but doesn't know where they grow.
Refer briefly to the clouds, and carry him on horseback past the place "where in 1493, the year after Columbus discovered America, two monks of St. Bernard were murdered by Villon, the poet scamp. A shrine still marks the spot,―a shrine erected by Villon's daughter." That will make the public say, "My, don't he know a lot!"
Now it is high time to bring Blanche de Boisgobey upon the scene. You may have her poor, but of good family, or you may make her a rich runaway, fleeing from the unpleasant attentions of Prince de Joinville; but have her family good, by all means, and she herself must be absolutely unspotted. The great public will not stand for a tarnished woman in the rôle of heroine of one of these romantic novels.
Describe her clothes, but in this you'll have to be careful; for while the men won't know anything about it, the women will catch on if you make any flagrant error. I guess you'll have to take the trouble to read up the clothes, unless you have a sister who is up on garments. You might dress Blanche in the fashion of to-day, and say that she was fond of being ahead of her time.
But if you drop a hint of another adventure, not far off, you can draw it mild on the clothes business. Make her just as pretty as you know how, and that without describing her features; because no two persons agree on a woman's beauty, particularly no man and woman. Just say that she was as beautiful as "that fair queen of Greece whose husband swam the Hellespont to rescue her from the clutches of King Xerxes." There's more ancient history, and the dear public is left to its own imagination to conjure up proper features for her.
Now bring on your second adventure. People have a dim idea that wolves once overran France. You can speak of the great she-wolf that in 1343 ate up an entire village in the department of the Loire or the Soir; never mind how you spell it,―the public won't know the difference. Have that she-wolf, grown old and hungry, come out of a copse (by all means, a copse) and spring upon poor Blanche, who is on her way to a nunnery.

"While the terrible wolf was yet in mid-air, Guy pushed his horse to a mad gallop, and, raising his arms above his head, he caught the famished beast in his Herculean grasp, diverting her for a moment from her purpose."
Now you can give 'em a pretty good fight. Have the wolf and Guy and the horse go down together in a grand mixup. Let Blanche pinch the wolf's tail, and have that so anger the "vulpine beast" that she tears a hole in Guy's doublet. It is a little early in the game to spoil his face, but if you give the reader a hint that it will heal up before they are married, I think you are safe to scratch him pretty hard. Of course, as soon as Blanche sees the scratches she will fall in love with him, and then faint.
Make the combat long, and have Guy pretty nearly done for, when, by an opportune stab, he punctures the heart of the monster.
He can come in for the big bounty that is on the wolf, if you want; but as he is rich already, that won't amount to much, except as it gives him a chance to bestow it on a group of poor villagers who have been attracted to the scene of the fight. Be sure to call it "largess" if he scatters it among them.
Now you see why you have provided a stout horse. It is so that Blanche may sit behind Guy, and continue on her way to the nunnery, he having gallantly offered to set her down at her corner.
Now it is time for the real villain to appear. The seneschal Guy treed on the second page was only for early seasoning. The real villain is, of course, Prince Henri Milledieudetonnefleurs de Joinville, and you would do well to place him on a stallion, and have him ride for two days and two nights in pursuit of Blanche.
It's really necessary to bring in a little more scenery. A novel would seem bare without it. You might set out a double row of Lombardy poplars that were planted in honor of the victory of Magna Charta over Count de Blois in 1010. Never mind the public; they won't know. It'll look all right in type. Mention a dense flock of Marseillaise blackbirds that obscured the light of the sun, and let it be as a portent against the success of the wicked Henri. Mention other flights, casually, and speak of the Children's Crusade in search of the Northwest Passage, that was near to having been discontinued owing to a flight of sea gulls from John o' Groat's to Land's End. This last will establish you as a master of curious knowledge.
Let Guy go to sleep, weak from loss of blood, and while the horse crops at the grass, and Blanche plucks ox-heart daisies, bring on the villain at an easy gallop, and have him pick up Blanche and ride off with her. Keep Guy asleep for a half hour, so that he will deserve the more credit when he, on his fat old horse, chases and overtakes the fleet stallion. For of course he overtakes the villain. The stallion has peculiarly shaped hoofs, having lost a portion of each one in the battle of Cressy or Sedan,―either one will do,―and Guy is able to track Henri in this way. Otherwise, the hero not being a woodsman, Henri would have escaped with his prey, and it would have caused a bad break in the story.
Let Guy come on Henri in a narrow defile,―a characteristically French one. If you don't happen to know any French defile, describe an American one, and it will go all right.
Of course this won't be the final fight, because you've got to fill at least three hundred pages, and Guy will have adventures with the pickpockets of Paris, and in the Bay of Biscay and the Swiss Alps; but I can't write the whole book for you, so we'll suppose it is the final fight.
Let Henri have the advantage at the start, but give Guy great staying powers. Make him fatigué Henri, and make Henri say, "Je suis fatigué." That's real French, and you can find a lot more like it where that came from. Make Henri in need of rest and refreshment, and then let Guy come some celebrated thrust on him. You can name the thrust, if you wish; invent it and describe it in detail out of your own head. No one will ever show you up; and if any one does, it will advertise the book.
Make Guy smile at Blanche, who by this time is loving him tremendously, and then, "with a sudden turn of the wrist,―that wrist that ten years later was to save the life of the great Mirabeau,―Guy gave Henri the congé, and the wicked prince turned and reeled in his tracks."
Now make Guy say, "Honi soit qui mal y pense," or "Dum vivimus, vivamus;" and then, to conclude the book, make the old seneschal of page 2 crawl up, filled with remorse. He had dropped out of the plane tree, and the fall had brought him to. Make him ask forgiveness of Guy; and then, "while little French birds were singing rondels, and as peasants bent over their hoes in clod-like attitudes, or leaned upon their spades to listen to the Angelus, the monk pronounced the words that made Blanche and Guy husband and wife,―or rather, wife and husband."
There you are. It's a seller.