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Updated: June 25, 2025
Then came the funereal, liver-coloured, long-windowed Hinckley Block , and on the corner a modern, glorified drugstore thrusting forth plate glass bays two on Faber Street and three on Stanley filled with cameras and candy, hot water bags, throat sprays, catarrh and kidney cures, calendars, fountain pens, stationery, and handy alcohol lamps.
I have never lost my taste for alchemy since I first got hold of the Palladium Spagyricum of Peter John Faber, and sought in vain, it is true through its pages for a clear, intelligible, and practical statement of how I could turn my lead sinkers and the weights of tall kitchen clock into good yellow gold, specific gravity 19.2, and exchangeable for whatever I then wanted, and for many more things than I was then aware of.
"I hope your father is pretty well, Miss Drake," said the doctor, wasting no time in needless explanation. "Ducky," said the girl, setting down the child, "go and tell grandpapa how kind Dr. Faber has been to you. Tell him he is at the door." Then turning to Faber, "I am sorry to say he does not seem at all well," she answered him.
Faber, and for him not to acknowledge it is to fall from the summit of his being. To deny one's Master, is to be a slave." "You are very polite!" said Mrs. Faber, and turned away. She recalled her imaginary danger, however, and turning again, said, "But though I differ from you in opinion, Mr. Polwarth, I quite recognize you as no common man, and put you upon your honor with regard to my secret."
"I think I am finding such." "Where?" "In the man of the New Testament. I have thought a little more about these things, I fancy, than you have, Mr. Faber. I may come to be sure of something; I don't see how a man can ever be sure of NOTHING." "Don't suppose me quite dumbfoundered, though I can't answer you off hand," said Mr. Faber, as they reached his door.
But if the true humourist also sees himself presiding, in the sacred name of duty, over a booth in Vanity Fair, he may yet reach perfection. What Father Faber opposed so strenuously were, not the vanities of the profane, of the openly and cheerfully unregenerate; but the vanities of a devout and fashionable congregation, making especial terms by virtue of its exalted station with Providence.
Father Faber was less a mystic, properly so-called, than a visionary and a poet; in spite of the abuse of rhetoric transferred from the pulpit to a book, he tore up souls by roots, carried them away on the rush of the stream, but when one regained footing, and sought to remember what had been heard and seen, one could recall nothing; on reflection one recognized that the theme of the work was very thin, too slender to have been executed by so noisy an orchestra, and there remained of that reading something distracting and feverish which made you uneasy, and made you think that this kind of book had only very distant relation to the heavenly fulness of the great mystics.
In Faber Street, indeed, an air of suppressed excitement prevailed, newsboys were shouting out extras; but business went on as though nothing had happened to disturb it. There was, however, the spectacle, unusual at this time of day, of operatives mingling with the crowd, while policemen stood watchfully at the corners; a company of soldiers marched by, drawing the people in silence to the curb.
There was an elegant silver paper cornucopia tied with blue ribbons. There was a box of beautiful pop-corn that had turned itself inside out. Ribbon for her hair, a paint-box, a case of Faber pencils, handkerchiefs, a lovely new pink merino dress, a muff that purported to be ermine, a pair of beautiful blue knit slippers tied with ribbons.
With a terrified cry, she strove to free herself. "Juliet, my love! my heart! be still, and let me speak," said Faber. His voice trembled as if full of tears. "I can bear this no longer. You are my fate. I never lived till I knew you. I shall cease to live when I know for certain that you turn from me."
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