J. Meade Falkner

J. Meade Falkner in 1915

John Meade Falkner (8 May 1858 – 22 July 1932) was an English novelist and poet, best known for his 1898 novel Moonfleet. An extremely successful businessman, he became chairman of the arms manufacturer Armstrong Whitworth during the First World War.

Quotes

Moonfleet (1898)

Ita in vita ut in lusu alae pessima jactura arte corrigenda est.

As in life, so in a game of hazard, skill will make something of the worst of throws.

Elzevir's answer was to cock the pistol and prime the powder in the pan.

• Ratsey raised his glass almost before it was filled. He sniffed the liquor and smacked his lips. 'O rare milk of Ararat!' he said, 'it is sweet and strong, and sets the heart at ease. And now get the backgammon-board, John, and set it for us on the table.' So they fell to the game, and I took a sly sip at the liquor, but nearly choked myself, not being used to strong waters, and finding it heady and burning in the throat. Neither man spoke, and there was no sound except the constant rattle of the dice, and the rubbing of the pieces being moved across the board. Now and then one of the players stopped to light his pipe, and at the end of a game they scored their totals on the table with a bit of chalk. So I watched them for an hour, knowing the game myself, and being interested at seeing Elzevir's backgammon-board, which I had heard talked of before.
  It had formed part of the furniture of the Why Not? for generations of landlords, and served perhaps to pass time for cavaliers of the Civil Wars. All was of oak, black and polished, board, dice-boxes, and men, but round the edge ran a Latin inscription inlaid in light wood, which I read on that first evening, but did not understand till Mr. Glennie translated it to me. I had cause to remember it afterwards, so I shall set it down here in Latin for those who know that tongue, Ita in vita ut in lusu alae pessima jactura arte corrigenda est, and in English as Mr. Glennie translated it, As in life, so in a game of hazard, skill will make something of the worst of throws. At last Elzevir looked up and spoke to me, not unkindly, 'Lad, it is time for you to go home; men say that Blackbeard walks on the first nights of winter, and some have met him face to face betwixt this house and yours.' I saw he wanted to be rid of me, so bade them both good night, and was off home, running all the way thither, though not from any fear of Blackbeard, for Ratsey had often told me that there was no chance of meeting him unless one passed the churchyard by night.
  • Chapter 1: In Moonfleet Village

• He might have spoken to a deaf man for all he moved his judge; and Elzevir's answer was to cock the pistol and prime the powder in the pan.
  • Chapter 9: A Judgement

The Nebuly Coat (1903)

Barry nebuly of six, argent and vert.

• Westray looked up and saw the great window at the end of the transept shimmering with a dull lustre; light only in comparison with the shadows that were falling inside the church. It was an insertion of Perpendicular date, reaching from wall to wall, and almost from floor to roof. Its vast breadth, parcelled out into eleven lights, and the infinite division of the stonework in the head, impressed the imagination; while mullions and tracery stood out in such inky contrast against the daylight yet lingering outside, that the architect read the scheme of subarcuation and the tracery as easily as if he had been studying a plan. Sundown had brought no gleam to lift the pall of the dying day, but the monotonous grey of the sky was still sufficiently light to enable a practised eye to make out that the head of the window was filled with a broken medley of ancient glass, where translucent blues and yellows and reds mingled like the harmony of an old patchwork quilt. Of the lower divisions of the window, those at the sides had no colour to clothe their nakedness, and remained in ghostly whiteness; but the three middle lights were filled with strong browns and purples of the seventeenth century. Here and there in the rich colour were introduced medallions, representing apparently scriptural scenes, and at the top of each light, under the cusping, was a coat of arms. The head of the middle division formed the centre of the whole scheme, and seemed to represent a shield of silver-white crossed by waving sea-green bars. Westray’s attention was attracted by the unusual colouring, and by the transparency of the glass, which shone as with some innate radiance where all was dim. He turned almost unconsciously to ask whose arms were thus represented, but the Rector had left him for a minute, and he heard an irritating “Ha, ha, ha!” at some distance down the nave, that convinced him that the story of Sir George Farquhar and the postponed fees was being retold in the dusk to a new victim.
  Someone, however, had evidently read the architect’s thoughts, for a sharp voice said:
  “That is the coat of the Blandamers—barry nebuly of six, argent and vert.” It was the organist who stood near him in the deepening shadows. “I forgot that such jargon probably conveys no meaning to you, and, indeed, I know no heraldry myself excepting only this one coat of arms, and sometimes wish,” he said with a sigh, “that I knew nothing of that either. There have been queer tales told of that shield, and maybe there are queerer yet to be told. It has been stamped for good or evil on this church, and on this town, for centuries, and every tavern loafer will talk to you about the ‘nebuly coat’ as if it was a thing he wore. You will be familiar enough with it before you have been a week at Cullerne.”
  There was in the voice something of melancholy, and an earnestness that the occasion scarcely warranted. It produced a curious effect on Westray, and led him to look closely at the organist; but it was too dark to read any emotion in his companion’s face, and at this moment the Rector rejoined them.
  “Eh, what? Ah, yes; the nebuly coat. Nebuly, you know, from the Latin nebulum, nebulus I should say, a cloud, referring to the wavy outline of the bars, which are supposed to represent cumulus clouds. Well, well, it is too dark to pursue our studies further this evening, but to-morrow I can accompany you the whole day, and shall be able to tell you much that will interest you.”
  • Chapter One

Poems (n.d.)

• We have done with dogma and divinity,
    Easter and Whitsun past,
  The long, long Sundays after Trinity,
    Are with us at last;
  The passionless Sundays after Trinity,
    Neither feast-day nor fast.
  Christmas comes with plenty,
    Lent spreads out its pall,
  But these are five and twenty,
    The longest Sundays of all;
  The placid Sundays after Trinity,
    Wheat-harvest, fruit-harvest, Fall.
  Spring with its burst is over,
    Summer has had its day,
  The scented grasses and clover
    Are cut, and dried into hay;
  The singing-birds are silent,
    And the swallows flown away.
  Post pugnam pausa fiet;
    Lord, we have made our choice;
  In the stillness of autumn quiet,
    We have heard the still, small voice.
  We have sung Oh where shall Wisdom?
    Thick paper, folio, Boyce.
  Let it not all be sadness,
    Not omnia vanitas,
  Stir up a little gladness
    To lighten the Tibi cras;
  Send us that little summer,
    That comes with Martinmas.
  When still the cloudlet dapples
    The windless cobalt blue,
  And the scent of gathered apples
    Fills all the store-rooms through,
  The gossamer silvers the bramble,
    The lawns are gemmed with dew.
  An end of tombstone Latinity,
    Stir up sober mirth,
  Twenty-fifth after Trinity,
    Kneel with the listening earth,
  Behind the Advent trumpets
    They are singing Emmanuel’s birth.
  • "After Trinity" (December 1910)

• In the days of Caesar Augustus
    There went forth this decree:
  Si quid rectus et justus
    Liveth in Galilee,
  Let him go up to Jerusalem
    And pay his scot to me.
  There are passed one after the other
    Christmases fifty-three,
  Since I sat here with my mother
    And heard the great decree:
  How they went up to Jerusalem
    Out of Galilee.
  They have passed one after the other;
    Father and mother died,
  Brother and sister and brother
    Taken and sanctified.
  I am left alone in the sitting,
    With none to sit beside.
  On the fly-leaves of these old prayer-books
    The childish writings fade,
  Which show that once they were their books
    In the days when prayer was made
  For other kings and princesses,
    William and Adelaide.
  The pillars are twisted with holly,
    And the font is wreathed with yew,
  Christ forgive me for folly,
    Youth’s lapses—not a few,
  For the hardness of my middle life,
    For age’s fretful view.
  Cotton-wool letters on scarlet,
    All the ancient lore,
  Tell how the chieftains starlit
    To Bethlehem came to adore;
  To hail Him King in the manger,
    Wonderful, Counsellor.
  The bells ring out in the steeple
    The gladness of erstwhile,
  And the children of other people
    Are walking up the aisle;
  They brush my elbow in passing,
    Some turn to give me a smile.
  Is the almond-blossom bitter?
     Is the grasshopper heavy to bear?
  Christ make me happier, fitter
    To go to my own over there:
  Jerusalem the Golden,
    What bliss beyond compare!
  My Lord, where I have offended
    Do Thou forgive it me.
  That so when, all being ended,
    I hear Thy last decree,
  I may go up to Jerusalem
    Out of Galilee.
  • "Christmas Day: The Family Sitting"

• Who are these from the strange, ineffable places,
    From the Topaze Mountain and Desert of Doubt,
  With the glow of the Yemen full on their faces,
    And a breath from the spices of Hadramaut?
  Travel-apprentices, travel-indenturers,
    Young men, old men, black hair, white,
  Names to conjure with, wild adventurers,
    From the noonday furnace and purple night.
  Burckhardt, Halévy, Niebuhr, Slater,
    Seventeenth, eighteenth-century bays,
  Seetzen, Sadleir, Struys, and later
    Down to the long Victorian days.
  A thousand miles at the back of Aden,
    There they had time to think of things;
  In the outer silence and burnt air laden
    With the shadow of death and a vulture’s wings.
  There they remembered the last house in Samna,
    Last of the plane-trees, last shepherd and flock,
  Prayed for the heavens to rain down manna,
    Prayed for a Moses to strike the rock.
  Famine and fever flagged their forces
    Till they died in a dream of ice and fruit,
  In the long-forgotten watercourses
    By the edge of Queen Zobëide’s route.
  They have left the hope of the green oases,
    The fear of the bleaching bones and the pest,
  They have found the more ineffable places—
    Allah has given them rest.
  • "Arabia: Hogarth’s Penetration of Arabia" (1925)