During his lifetime Bram Stoker was almost as famous for his nonfiction as he was for his fiction. His four most famous pieces of nonfiction are as follows:
1879 The Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in Ireland
1906 Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving
You can get information on all of these and download free copies of the last two by clicking on the above links or by going to: Nonfiction at bramstoker.org
Far away on the edge of a great creek, that stretched inland from the endless sea, there lay a peaceful village.
Here the husbandmen led a happy, prosperous life. They rose early, so that in the cool grey morn they heard the lark, all invisible in the height of the dawn, singing the morning hymn that he never forgets.
As sunset came stealing on, they returned to their homes, glad of the rest that nightfall brought to them.
In the autumn, when the harvesting was to be done, they worked late, as they were able to do; for at that time the kind Sun and his wife the Moon have a compact that they will help those who work at the harvest. So the sun stays up a little longer, and the moon gets out of her bed in the horizon a little earlier, and thus there is always light to work by.
The red, broad, full-faced moon that looks down on the husbandmen at work is called the Harvest Moon.
The Lord of the Manor of this peaceful village was a very good, kind man, that helped the poor always. At meal-time the door of his mansion stood open; and all who were hungry could enter if they chose, and take seats at the table, and be welcome guests.
This Lord of the Manor had three children, Sibold and May, and one little Baby Boy just come home who had no name as yet.
Sibold had just reached his eighth birthday, and May was within two months of her sixth. They were very fond of each other – as brother and sister should be – and had all their plays together. May thought that Sibold was very big and strong, and whatever he wished to do she always agreed to.
Sibold loved finding things and exploring; and at different times the two children had been over all the domain of their father.
They had certain secret haunts that nobody knew of except themselves. Some of these were very queer, delightful places.
One was in the centre of a hollow Oak tree, where so many squirrels lived that the branches were quite like the streets of a town, with their going to and fro.
Another place was the top of a rock, which was only reached by a narrow path between high bushes of ivy. Here there was a sort of great chair made in the rock, which just held the two; and here they often brought their lunch, and sat half the day looking out over the tree tops to where, far away in the distance, the white edge of the horizon lay on the glittering sea.
Then they would tell each other what they thought about, and what they would like to do, and what they would try to do when they grew up.
There was also another place, which was their favourite of all.
It was under a great Weeping Willow. This was a mighty tree, many hundreds of years old, which towered aloft above the other trees which dotted the sward. The long branches fell downwards so thickly, that even in winter, when the leaves held fallen and the benches were bare, one could hardly see into the hollow that lay within.
When the new spring clothes came home, the whole tree, from its high top even to the mossy ground from which it rose, was a mass of solid green; and it was difficult to get within even if one knew the way.
In one place one of the trailing branches had, a long time ago, been broken in a great storm, winch had laid low many forest trees; but the branches which hung next to this sent forth new green shoots to fill the empty space, and so the opening was covered with thin twigs instead of strong branches.
In summer the leaves covered all with a mass of green; but those who knew the opening could push the twigs aside, and so enter into the bower.
It was a most beautiful bower. No matter how strong the sun glared without, it was within cool and pleasant. From the ground even up to the top, till the very roof where the dark branches meeting made a black mass, all was a delicate green, for the light without came through the leaves softly and gently.
Sibold and May thought that so the sea must look to the Mermaids, who sing and comb their long hair with golden combs down in the cool depths of the ocean.
To read the rest of this story visit:
The Wondrous Child at bramstoker.org
When they told the poor Poet that the One he loved best was lying sick in the shadow of danger, he was nigh distraught.
For weeks past he had been alone; she, his Wife, having gone afar to her old home to see an aged grandsire ere he died.
The Poet’s heart had for some days been oppressed with a strange sorrow. He did not know the cause of it; he only knew with the deep sympathy which is the poet’s gift, that the One he loved was sick. Anxiously had he awaited tidings. When the news came, the shock, although he expected a sad message, was too much for him, and he became nigh distraught.
In his sadness and anxiety he went out into the garden which long years he had cultured for Her. There, amongst the bright flowers, where the old statues stood softly white against the hedges of yew, he lay down in the long uncut summer grass, and wept with his head buried low.
He thought of all the past-of how he had won his Wife and how they loved each other; and to him it seemed a sad and cruel thing that she was afar and in danger, and he not near to comfort her or even to share her pain.
Many many thoughts came back to him, telling the story of the weary years whose gloom and solitude he had forgotten in the brightness of his lovely home.-
How in youth they twain had met and in a moment loved. How his poverty and her greatness had kept them apart. How he had struggled and toiled in the steep and rugged road to fame and fortune.
How all through the weary years he had striven with the single idea of winning such a place in the history of his time, that he should be able to come and to her say, “I love you,” and to her proud relations, “I am worthy, for I too have become great.”
How amid all this dreaming of a happy time which might come, he had kept silent as to his love. How he had never seen her or heard her voice, or even known her habitation, lest, knowing, he should fail in the purpose of his life.
How time-as it ever does to those who work with honesty and singleness of purpose-crowned the labours and the patience of his life.
How the world had come to know his name and reverence and love it as of one who had helped the weak and weary by his example; who had purified the thoughts of all who listened to his words; and who had swept away baseness before the grandeur and simpleness of his noble thoughts.
How success had followed in the wake of fame.
How at length even to his heart, timorous with the doubt of love, had been borne the thought that he had at last achieved the greatness which justified him in seeking the hand of her he loved.
How he had come back to his native place, and there found her still free.
How when he had dared to tell her of his love she had whispered to him that she, too, had waited all the years, for that she knew that he would come to claim her at the end.
How she had come with him as his bride into the home which he had been making for her all these years. How, there, they had lived happily; and had dared to look into the long years to come for joy and content without a bar.
How he thought that even then, when though somewhat enfeebled in strength by the ceaseless toil of years and the care of hoping, he might look to the happy time to come.
But, alas! for hope; for who knoweth what a day may bring forth? Only a little while ago his Dear One had left him hale, departing in the cause of duty; and now she lay sick and he not nigh to help her.
All the sunshine of his life seemed passing away. All the long years of waiting and the patient continuance in well-doing which had crowned their years with love, seemed as but a passing dream, and was all in vain-all, all in vain.
Now with the shadow hovering over his Beloved One, the cloud seemed to be above and around them, and to hold in its dim recesses the doom of them both.
“Why, oh why,” asked the poor Poet to the viewless air, “did love come to us? Why came peace and joy and happiness, if the darkening wings of peril shadow the air around her, and leave me to weep alone?”
Thus he moaned, and raved, and wept; and the bitter hours went by him in his solitude.
To read the rest of this story visit:
The Castle of the King at bramstoker.org
IN Martha’s house the weary Master lay,
Spent with His faring through the burning day.
The busy hostess bustled through the room
On household cares intent, and at His feet
The gentle Mary took her wonted seat.
Soft came His words in music through the gloom.
Cumbered about much serving Martha wrought –
Her sister listening as the Master taught –
Till something fretful an appeal she made:
“Doth it not matter that on me doth fall
The burden; Mary helpeth not at all?
Master, command her that she give me aid.”
To read the rest of this poem visit:
The One Thing Needful at bramstoker.org
On December 25, 2012 Palgrave Macmillan released The Forgotten Writings of Bram Stoker edited by John Edgar Browning. This collection of fiction and nonfiction is without a doubt the largest collection of previously unknown writings by and about Bram Stoker ever published.
Contents:
Part I Unknown Poetry by Bram Stoker
1. The Member for the Strand
2. The Wrongs of Grosvenor Square
Part II Unknown Fiction by Bram Stoker
3. Old Hoggen: A Mystery
4. When the Sky Rains Gold
5. Bengal Roses
6. A Young Widow
7. A Baby Passenger
8. Lucky Escapes of Sir Henry Irving
9. What They Confessed: A Low Comedian’s Story
Part III Unknown Journalistic Writings by Bram Stoker
10. Recollections of the Late W. G. Wills
11. Sir Henry Irving: An Appreciation by Bram Stoker, His Longtime Friend
12. 12,000 Miles of Irving’s Audiences
13. Where Hall Caine Dreams Out His Romances
Part IV Unknown Interviews with Bram Stoker
14. Irving and Hudson: Bram Stoker Tells What He Thinks about the Controversy
15. A Chat with Mr. Stoker about Irving
16. The Gangway Seats at the Lyceum
Part V Rare and Uncollected Works by Bram Stoker
17. Sir Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry in Robespierre, Merchant of Venice, The Bells, Nance Oldfield, The Amber Heart, Waterloo, etc.
18. Henry Irving’s Fight for Fame
Part VI Period Writings about Bram Stoker
19. To Bram Stoker by Hall Caine
20. Green Room Gossip
21. Night with Sir Henry Irving: With Intimations That Bram Stoker Was Also in the Neighborhood by R. M. Field
22. Acting-Manager and Author: Bram Stoker Finds Recreation in Writing Romances
23. Story of Senator Quay
24. Bram Stoker
25. Bram Stoker, Irishman
Part VII Catalogue of Valuable Books, Autograph Letters, and Illuminated and Other Manuscripts, Including The Library of the Late Bram Stoker, Esq. and Associated Press
26. First Day’s Sale: The Property of Bram Stoker, Esq. (Deceased)
27. Bram Stoker’s Valuable Library to Be Sold
28. Low Prices for Americana: Library of Late Bram Stoker Sold in London
29. Whitman Writings Sold: Lecture on Lincoln Brings $25 at Bram Stoker Library Sale
Claribel lived in peace and happiness with her father and mother, from the time she was a little baby till when, at ten years old, she went to school.
Her parents were good, kind people, who loved truth and tried ever to walk in the paths of the just. They taught Claribel all good things, and her mother, Fridolina, used to bring her when every day she went to visit and comfort the sick.
When Claribel went to school, she was even happier, for not only had she her home as it was ever, but there were many new friends also who were of her own age and whom she came to know and love. The school-mistress was very good and very nice and very old, with beautiful white hair and a sweet gentle face that never looked hard or stern, except when some one told a lie. Then the smile would fade from her face; and it was like the change in the sky when the sun has gone down, and she would look grave, and cry silently. If the child who had been wicked came and confessed the fault and promised never never to tell a lie again, the smile would come back like sunshine. But if the child persisted in the lie her face would look stern, and afterwards the stern look would be in the memory of the liar, even when she was not there.
Every day she told all the children of the beauty of Truth and how a lie was so black and terrible a thing. She would also tell them stories from the Great Book; and one that she loved, and that they loved too, was of the Beautiful City where the good people shall live hereafter.
The children never tired of hearing of that City, like a jasper stone clear as crystal, with its twelve gates with names written thereon, and they used to ask the Mistress questions about the Angel who measured the City with a golden reed. Always towards the end of the story, the Mistresse’s voice would become very grave, and a hush would steal over the children and they would draw closer together in awe as she told them that outside that beautiful city were for ever condemned to stand “whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.”
Then the good Mistress would tell them what a terrible thing it would be to stand there without, and lose all the beauty and eternal glory that lay within. And all for a fault which no human being need ever commit – for telling a lie. People are not very much angry even when a fault has been done, when the truth is told at once; but if a fault is made worse by a lie then everyone is justly angry. If men and women, even fathers and mothers who love their little children very tenderly, are angry, how much more will God be angry against whom the sin of a lie is made.
Claribel loved this story and often cried as she thought of the poor people who will have to stand without the Beautiful City for ever, but she never thought that she would tell a lie herself. Indeed, she never did till temptation came. When people think themselves very good they are in danger of sin, for if we are not ever on the watch against evil we surely do some wrong thing; and as Claribel feared no evil, she was easily led into sin.
The children were all at their sums. A few of them knew their arithmetic and got out their answers and proved them; but some could not get out the answer right, and others stuck and could not get out any answer at all. A couple of naughty ones did not even try to get out the answers, but drew pictures on their slates and wrote their names. Claribel tried to do her sum, but she could not remember 9 times 7, and instead of beginning at “twice one are two” and going on up, she grew idle and lazy and gave up the sum and drew the beginnings of pictures and gave them up too. She looked up at the window thinking of something to draw and saw on the lower panes coloured flowers painted there so as to prevent the children looking at the people outside during lesson time. Claribel fixed on one of these flowers, a lily, and began to draw it.
Skooro saw her looking up and began his evil work. In order to help her to do what she ought not to do he took the shape of a lily and lay on the slate very faintly, so that she had only to draw round his edges and then there was a lily drawn. Now it is not a wrong thing to draw a lily, and if Claribel had drawn it well at a proper time she would have got praise; but a good thing may become a bad thing if it is wrongly done – and so it was with Claribel’s lily.
Presently the Mistress asked for the slates. When Claribel brought hers up she knew that she had done wrong and was sorry; but she was only sorry because she was afraid of being punished. When the Mistress asked for the answer she hung down her head and said she could not get it.
To read the rest of this story visit:
Lies and Lilies at bramstoker.org
On the bank of the river that flows through the Land there stands a beautiful palace, where one of the great men dwells.
The bank rises steep from the rushing water; and the great trees growing on the slope rise so high that their branches wave level with the palace turrets. It is a beautiful spot, where the grass is crisp and short and close like velvet, and as green as emerald. There the daisies shine like stars that have fallen, and lie scattered over the sward.
Many children have lived and grown to be men and women in the old palace, and they have had many pets. Amongst their pets have been many birds – for birds of all kinds love the place. In one corner is a spot which is called the Birds’ Burying Ground. Here all the pets are laid when they die; and the grass grows greenly here, and many flowers spring up among the monuments.
One of the boys that had here dwelt had once, as a pet, a raven. He found the bird, whose leg had been wounded, and took it home and nursed it till it grew well again; but the poor thing was lame.
Tineboy was the youth’s name; and the bird was called Mr. Daw. As you may imagine, the raven loved the boy and never left him. There was a cage for it in his bedroom, and there the bird went every night to roost when the sun went down. Birds go to bed quite regularly of their own accord; and if you wished to punish a bird you would make him get up. Birds are not like boys and girls. Just fancy punishing boys or girls by not letting them go to bed at sunset, or by preventing them getting up very early in the morning.
Well, when morning came this bird would get up and stretch himself, and wink his eyes, and give a good shake all over, and then feel quite awake and ready to begin the day.
A bird has a much easier time of it in getting up than a boy or a girl. Soap cannot get into its eye; or the comb will not stick in knots of hair, and its shoe-laces never get into black knots. This is because it does not use soap, or combs, or shoe-laces; if it did, perhaps it also would suffer.
When Mr. Daw had quite finished his own dressing, he would hop on the bed and try and wake his master and make him get up; but of the two to wake him was the easier task. When the boy went to school the bird would fly along the road beside him, and would sit near on a tree till school was over, and then would follow him home again in the same way.
Tineboy was very fond of Mr. Daw and he used sometimes to try to make him come into the schoolroom during school-hours. But the bird was very wise, and would not.
One day Tineboy was at his sums, and instead of attending to what he was doing, he kept trying to make Mr. Daw come in. The sum was “multiply 117,649 by 7.” Tineboy and Mr. Daw kept looking at one another. Tineboy made signals to the bird to come in. Mr. Daw, however, would not stir; he sat outside in the shade, for the day was very hot, and put his head on one side and looked in knowingly.
“Come in, Mr. Daw,” said Tineboy, “and help me to do this sum.” Mr. Daw only croaked.
“Seven times nine are seventy-seven, seven times nine are seventy-nine – no ninety-seven. Oh, I don’t know – I wish number 7 had never been invented,” said Tineboy.
“Croak;” said Mr. Daw.
The day was very hot and Tineboy was very sleepy. He thought that perhaps he would be able to do the sum better if he rested a little while, just to think; and so he put his head down on the table. He was not quite comfortable, for his forehead was on the 7, at least he thought it was; so he shifted it till it hung right down over the edge of the desk. Then, after a while, somehow, very queer things began to happen.
The Teacher was just going to tell them a story.
The scholars had all settled themselves down to listen; the Raven sat on the sill of the open window, put his head on one side, closed one eye – the eye nearest the school-room – so that they might think him asleep, and listened away harder than any of them.
The pupils were all happy – all except three. One because his leg went to sleep; another because she had her pocket full of curds and wanted to eat them, and couldn’t without being found out, and the curds were melting away; and the third, who was awfully sleepy, and awfully anxious to hear the story, and couldn’t do either because of the other.
The schoolmaster then began his story.
To read the rest of this story visit:
How 7 Went Mad at bramstoker.org
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