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Updated: May 5, 2025
"If I've heard, I'm afraid my memory's treacherous," said I, glad to show how unimportant to me were the schemes of financiers, but interested in the yacht's name, which carried my thoughts away to Meroee. "Great Scout! And I've spent two thousand in advertising! I've taken whole pages of London and Continental papers!"
More than this, the play of fancy, like the action of some refracting medium, bends and distorts the outlines of memory's objects, making them wholly unlike the originals. Hallucinations of Memory.
Whereupon she went out and came back in three days with five sheets of foolscap on which she had written an article beginning: "When Memory draws aside the curtains of her magic chamber, revealing the pictures meditation paints, and we see through the windows of our dreams the sweet vale of yesterday, lying outside and beyond; when stern Ambition, with relentless hand, turns us away from all this to ride in the sombre chariot of Duty then it is that entrancing Pleasure beckons us back to sit by Memory's fire and sip our tea with Maiden meditation."
But often, good lovers still, they'll go to Hound's Pool for memory's sake and sit and hear Weaver Knowles working unseen about his task. No. Memory, as we old folk know, be the plaything of time, and when trouble comes and we wilt and reckon life's ended, the years roll unresting on, and the storm passes, and the dark breaks to grey again, and, may be, even the sun's self peeps forth once more.
You never remember anything that happens. You can't even remember the night you murdered your own cousin, can you?" "That's a " "See, sheriff? His memory's bad." All the malice and hate of pent-up enmity was in Fred Thayer's voice now. One gnarled hand went forward in accusation. "He can't even remember how he killed his own cousin. But if he can't, I can.
Both of them remembered the walk they had taken there together more than two years before, and with one accord they directed their footsteps to the great tree, the father of the forest, where they had sat on that memorable walk. "'Of all the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall, Is one of a dim, old forest That seemeth the best of all.
This is what is often happening in the visits we make. Some painting by a master looks down upon us from its old canvas, and leaves a lasting copy of itself, to be stored in memory's picture gallery. These surprises are not so likely to happen in the New World as in the Old.
Who grants them power to stalk so lifelike from Memory's halls, and, pointing to their wounds, thus confront the Present with the Past? Are they, then, messengers? Does the half-death of sleep give them foothold in our brains, and thus upknit the cut thread of human kinship?
I've only to let him know I've served an apprenticeship in farming, and can make use of some of his ideas- -sound! every one of 'em; every one of 'em sound! And that I say of my own father." "Why don't you tell him?" Percy asked. "I want to forget all about Kent and drown the county," said Robert. "And I'm going to, as far as my memory's concerned." Percy waited for some seconds.
In this work, for dear memory's sake, she took a real pleasure, of which she speaks in the preface in these words: "The little book, however dull it may seem to others, can boast of at least one reader, for I have gone over this record of perhaps the happiest period of my life with thrilling interest."
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