The Garden In Asia E-Book

Melville Davisson Post

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

In "The Garden In Asia," Melville Davisson Post crafts a richly woven narrative that transports readers to the intricate landscapes of Asian culture and philosophy. With a masterful command of prose, Post employs a vivid and poetic style that evokes both the beauty and complexity of the themes he explores. The book delves into the interplay between nature and human emotion, reflecting on the spiritual undercurrents of life in Asia during an era marked by both profound wisdom and social transformations. Through engaging character studies and immersive settings, Post illuminates the garden as a metaphor for growth, interconnectedness, and the search for meaning amid the chaos of modernity. Melville Davisson Post was an author known for his keen insights into human nature, often drawing from his own diverse experiences and interests in the humanities. His extensive travels and encounters with various cultures have deeply informed his writing, enabling him to present Asian landscapes not just as physical spaces but as reflections of broader existential questions. Post's literary background and his fascination with the philosophical dimensions of life culminate in this thought-provoking work. For anyone intrigued by the intersection of nature, philosophy, and culture, "The Garden In Asia" is a compelling read that offers both aesthetic pleasure and deep reflection. Post's insightful narratives encourage readers to contemplate their own experiences while navigating the lush, metaphorical gardens he carefully constructs, making this book a valuable addition to any literary collection.

Leseprobe

Melville Davisson Post

The Garden In Asia

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4066338090164

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

"

"Come to the land where men grind their wheat in the sky!"

It had come on to rain. Night was approaching, and I was lost. I had been a guest of the Marquis de Brie at the hunt in the southeast of Belgium. The meet at the château had been in the afternoon for the convenience of the guests of the Marquis, who came out from Brussels. It was late before the hounds picked up a fox, and then there had been a mad run.

I was unfamiliar with the country, and by one of those accidents common in the field, I had got separated from the hunt.

There had been a high timber jump. In the take-off my horse slipped, and I feared that he had received a strained tendon. I got down to look, for I valued the horse, and in my concern the field passed. The horse seemed all right. But I was unable again to come up with the hunt, and I was lost.

I set out to return to the château, following that instinct of direction which every man imagines himself to possess. But it was an unfortunate undertaking as is usually the case with these vaunted instincts.

I had the feeling that I passed more than one time through fields that I remembered. At any rate, night was coming on, and a worse thing presented itself. The hunter had been injured in that unfortunate timber jump. He began to save his leg a bit—everybody knows the indications.

Of course I was not in a deserted country. There were peasant houses about, and the great windmills—that primitive institution of the flat country, serving the peasant farmer as the mountain torrent served to turn the grist mill of the Virginia settler. Our fathers had big conceptions of the uses of the elemental forces. They harnessed the water and the winds.

But I could get no direction from the Belgian peasant.

The Fleming and the Walloon spoke no language that I could understand; and, of course, English was a simian jabber to them.

I have no idea in what direction I traveled, nor precisely how I came into the road I determined to follow. It was not a highway. It was a sort of lane running along by an immense wood, carpeted with grass and unkempt, for occasionally there was the branch of a forest tree in it.

I had gotten down out of the saddle. It was all the horse could do to limp along, and I at least had two good legs under me.

I walked by the horse's bridle.

The road continued; and presently, in the dim light, I observed that it followed a great fence: a fence of iron spikes as high as a man could reach sitting in the saddle. It was fastened into cement pillars, and it seemed to enclose all the lands off to my right.

I took it to be a great parked estate. The wood beyond the fence was cleared of brush, and I could sometimes see the extension of a meadow. It was beyond question some great estate.

And I took courage from that observation.

There would perhaps be some friend of the Marquis, or at least someone with a knowledge of the hunt, and if I were not put up for the night, I would at least get some direction that would set me intelligently on the road.

I followed along the great spiked fence, expecting to find an entrance. There would be some way to go in at no inconsiderable distance. But the hope dwindled. We went on—the unused road paralleling the great parked estate, but shut out by this immense, forbidding fence.

I must have traveled for several miles along that fence enclosing this estate, but I never found a place that a fox could go through or a mark that indicated that any human creature had ever endeavored to pass.

And there was no gate.

I began to wonder what the accursed thing could be that this immense wall of spearheads enclosed, and I felt myself confronted by one of two discouraging alternatives: to sit down on a fallen log by my horse until the day arrived or walk on in the rain.

I walked on.

Discomforts do not seem to be so acute when they accompany us in action. I could not sit in a Belgian drizzle with a miserable horse. And that wall of spikes went on, as though it were a sort of wall of the world, as though I had come by some door through the hill to the boundary of a forbidden country.

Finally I did find a light off to the left, and I turned out toward it. I could not have gone on, at any rate, for the road turned that way. The tangled wood that I feared to find, in fact, appeared here as the outside border of the great spiked wall that went straight on as though it had been surveyed from the French border to the North Sea.

I supposed I followed the road for a mile at right angles to the estate. I was now able to see the light. It was like a gleam of a candle in a window; sometimes the brush, or a turn in the road, shut it out. But it seemed always before me at the end of the road; and there was, in fact, nothing to do but go on. It was now so dark that I was hardly able to keep in the road—I with the miserable, lame horse. I was wet to the skin and a rather ugly human creature when I finally came to the light. It was a house sitting on the rise of a hill.