[87933] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
Life Saving Flashlight
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Tactical Flashlight)
Thu Sep 1 23:08:16 2016
Date: Fri, 2 Sep 2016 01:01:40 -0400
From: "Tactical Flashlight" <tactical_flashlight@sarahs.stream>
To: <mit-talk-mtg@charon.mit.edu>
<html xmlns=3D"http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
<head>=20
<title>Life Saving Flashlight</title>=20
</head>=20
<body> =20
<meta content=3D"text/html; charset=3Dutf-8" http-equiv=3D"Content-=
Type" />=20
<title>Life Saving Flashlight</title> =20
<div align=3D"center" class=3D"wrapper">=20
<div class=3D"image">
<a href=3D"http://www.sarahs.stream/therapeutic-tingle/918M8Y647fHCd0UhvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW21e"><img src=3D"http://www.sarahs.stream/irateness-blue/3967aZRNr48r2Td0*hvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONWbda" /></a>
</div>=20
<div class=3D"text">
<a href=3D"http://www.sarahs.stream/therapeutic-tingle/918M8Y647fHCd0UhvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW21e">Click Here to Get Your 75% Coupon</a>
</div>=20
<div class=3D"Contact_info">
1tac.com 814 South Westgate Suite 105 Los Angeles, CA 90049
</div>=20
<div class=3D"Unsub">
<a href=3D"http://www.sarahs.stream/935*86A4Z8W0zgd0ihvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONWc16/obsoleting-talents/bored">Unsubscribe</a>
</div>=20
</div> =20
<div style=3D"font:normal 10px Arial, Times New Roman, sans-serif; c=
olor:#ffffff; ">=20
<p>Life Saving Flashlight<br /> ILL-FATED and mysterious man ! - bewilde=
red in the brilliancy of thine own imagination, and fallen in the flames of=
thine own youth ! Again in fancy I behold thee ! Once more thy form hath r=
isen before me ! - not - oh not as thou art - in the cold valley and shadow=
- but as thou _shouldst be_ - squandering away a life of magnificent medit=
ation in that city of dim visions, thine own Venice - which is a star-belov=
ed Elysium of the sea, and the wide windows of whose Palladian palaces look=
down with a deep and bitter meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters.=
Yes ! I repeat it - as thou _shouldst be_. There are surely other worlds t=
han this - other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude - other specul=
ations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call thy conduc=
t into question ? who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or denounce those=
occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but the overflowings of =
thine everlasting energies ? It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway =
there called the _Ponte di Sospiri_, that I met for the third or fourth tim=
e the person of whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that I bri=
ng to mind the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember - ah ! how sho=
uld I forget ? - the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of woma=
n, and the Genius of Romance that stalked up and down the narrow canal. It =
was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazza had sounded the=
fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of the Campanile lay silent =
and deserted, and the lights in the old Ducal Palace were dying fast away. =
I was returning home from the Piazetta, by way of the Grand Canal. But as m=
y gondola arrived opposite the mouth of the canal San Marco, a female voice=
from its recesses broke suddenly upon the night, in one wild, hysterical, =
and long continued shriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my feet : w=
hile the gondolier, letting slip his single oar, lost it in the pitchy dark=
ness beyond a chance of recovery, and we were consequently left to the guid=
ance of the current which here sets from the greater into the smaller chann=
el. Like some huge and sable-feathered condor, we were slowly drifting down=
towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a thousand flambeaux flashing from the w=
indows, and down the staircases of the Ducal Palace, turned all at once tha=
t deep gloom into a livid and preternatural day. A child, slipping from the=
arms of its own mother, had fallen from an upper window of the lofty struc=
ture into the deep and dim canal. The quiet waters had closed placidly over=
their victim ; and, although my own gondola was the only one in sight, man=
y a stout swimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surf=
ace, the treasure which was to be found, alas ! only within the abyss. Upon=
the broad black marble flagstones at the entrance of the palace, and a few=
steps above the water, stood a figure which none who then saw can have eve=
r since forgotten. It was the Marchesa Aphrodite - the adoration of all Ven=
ice - the gayest of the gay - the most lovely where all were beautiful - bu=
t still the young wife of the old and intriguing Mentoni, and the mother of=
that fair child, her first and only one, who now, deep beneath the murky w=
ater, was thinking in bitterness of heart upon her sweet caresses, and exha=
usting its little life in struggles to call upon her name. She stood alone.=
Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the black mirror of marble be=
neath her. Her hair, not as yet more than half loosened for the night from =
its ball-room array, clustered, amid a shower of diamonds, round and round =
her classical head, in curls like those of the young hyacinth. A snowy-whit=
e and gauze-like drapery seemed to be nearly the sole covering to her delic=
ate form ; but the mid-summer and midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, =
and no motion in the statue-like form itself, stirred even the folds of tha=
t raiment of very vapor which hung around it as the heavy marble hangs arou=
nd the Niobe. Yet - strange to say ! - her large lustrous eyes were not tur=
ned downwards upon that grave wherein her brightest hope lay buried - but r=
iveted in a widely different direction ! The prison of the Old Republic is,=
I think, the stateliest building in all Venice - but how could that lady g=
aze so fixedly upon it, when beneath her lay stifling her only child ? Yon =
dark, gloomy niche, too, yawns right opposite her chamber window - what, th=
en, _could_ there be in its shadows - in its architecture - in its ivy-wrea=
thed and solemn cornices - that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered at=
a thousand times before ? Nonsense ! - Who does not remember that, at such=
a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of=
its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-off places, the wo which is close =
at hand ? Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the water-g=
ate, stood, in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of Mentoni himself. He was=
occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, and seemed _ennuye_ to the ve=
ry death, as at intervals he gave directions for the recovery of his child.=
Stupified and aghast, I had myself no power to move from the upright posit=
ion I had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and must have presented to=
the eyes of the agitated group a spectral and ominous appearance, as with =
pale countenance and rigid limbs, I floated down among them in that funerea=
l gondola. All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the se=
arch were relaxing their exertions, and yielding to a gloomy sorrow. There =
seemed but little hope for the child ; (how much less than for the mother !=
) but now, from the interior of that dark niche which has been already men=
tioned as forming a part of the Old Republican prison, and as fronting the =
lattice of the Marchesa, a figure muffled in a cloak, stepped out within re=
ach of the light, and, pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy descent=
, plunged headlong into the canal. As, in an instant afterwards, he stood w=
ith the still living and breathing child within his grasp, upon the marble =
flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak, heavy with the drenching=
water, became unfastened, and, falling in folds about his feet, discovered=
to the wonder-stricken spectators the graceful person of a very young man,=
with the sound of whose name the greater part of Europe was then ringing. =
No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa ! She will now receive her ch=
ild - she will press it to her heart - she will cling to its little form, a=
nd smother it with her caresses. Alas ! _another's_ arms have taken it from=
the stranger - _another's_ arms have taken it away, and borne it afar off,=
unnoticed, into the palace ! And the Marchesa ! Her lip - her beautiful li=
p trembles : tears are gathering in her eyes - those eyes which, like Pliny=
's acanthus, are "soft and almost liquid." Yes ! tears are gather=
ing in those eyes - and see ! the entire woman thrills throughout the soul,=
and the statue has started into life ! The pallor of the marble countenanc=
e, the swelling of the marble bosom, the very purity of the marble feet, we=
behold suddenly flushed over with a tide of ungovernable crimson ; and a s=
light shudder quivers about her delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli a=
bout the rich silver lilies in the grass. Why _should_ that lady blush ! To=
this demand there is no answer - except that, having left, in the eager ha=
ste and terror of a mother's heart, the privacy of her own _boudoir_, she h=
as neglected to enthral her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly forgot=
ten to throw over her Venetian shoulders that drapery which is their due. W=
hat other possible reason could there have been for her so blushing ? - for=
the glance of those wild appealing eyes ? for the unusual tumult of that t=
hrobbing bosom ? - for the convulsive pressure of that trembling hand ? - t=
hat hand which fell, as Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally, upon =
the hand of the stranger. What reason could there have been for the low - t=
he singularly low tone of those unmeaning words which the lady uttered hurr=
iedly in bidding him adieu ? "Thou hast conquered," she said, or =
the murmurs of the water deceived me ; "thou hast conquered - one hour=
after sunrise - we shall meet - so let it be !" * * * * * * * The tum=
ult had subsided, the lights had died away within the palace, and the stran=
ger, whom I now recognized, stood alone upon the flags. He shook with incon=
ceivable agitation, and his eye glanced around in search of a gondola. I co=
uld not do less than offer him the service of my own ; and he accepted the =
civility. Having obtained an oar at the water-gate, we proceeded together t=
o his residence, while he rapidly recovered his self-possession, and spoke =
of our former slight acquaintance in terms of great apparent cordiality. Th=
ere are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being minute. The perso=
n of the stranger - let me call him by this title, who to all the world was=
still a stranger - the person of the stranger is one of these subjects. In=
height he might have been below rather than above the medium size : althou=
gh there were moments of intense passion when his frame actually _expanded_=
and belied the assertion. The light, almost slender symmetry of his figure=
, promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at the Bridge of Si=
ghs, than of that Herculean strength which he has been known to wield witho=
ut an effort, upon occasions of more dangerous emergency. With the mouth an=
d chin of a deity - singular, wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied=
from pure hazel to intense and brilliant jet - and a profusion of curling,=
black hair, from which a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed forth at inte=
rvals all light and ivory - his were features than which I have seen none m=
ore classically regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor Co=
mmodus. Yet his countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which all men h=
ave seen at some period of their lives, and have never afterwards seen agai=
n. It had no peculiar - it had no settled predominant expression to be fast=
ened upon the memory ; a countenance seen and instantly forgotten - but for=
gotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of recalling it to mind. Not t=
hat the spirit of each rapid passion failed, at any time, to throw its own =
distinct image upon the mirror of that face - but that the mirror, mirror-l=
ike, retained no vestige of the passion, when the passion had departed. Upo=
n leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me, in what I tho=
ught an urgent manner, to call upon him _very_ early the next morning. Shor=
tly after sunrise, I found myself accordingly at his Palazzo, one of those =
huge structures of gloomy, yet fantastic pomp, which tower above the waters=
of the Grand Canal in the vicinity of the Rialto. I was shown up a broad w=
inding staircase of mosaics, into an apartment whose unparalleled splendor =
burst through the opening door with an actual glare, making me blind and di=
zzy with luxuriousness. I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had sp=
oken of his possessions in terms which I had even ventured to call terms of=
ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not bring myself=
to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe could have supplied th=
e princely magnificence which burned and blazed around. Although, as I say,=
the sun had arisen, yet the room was still brilliantly lighted up. I judge=
from this circumstance, as well as from an air of exhaustion in the counte=
nance of my friend, that he had not retired to bed during the whole of the =
preceding night. In the architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the=
evident design had been to dazzle and astound. Little attention had been p=
aid to the _decora_ of what is technically called _keeping_, or to the prop=
rieties of nationality. The eye wandered from object to object, and rested =
upon none - neither the _grotesques_ of the Greek painters, nor the sculptu=
res of the best Italian days, nor the huge carvings of untutored Egypt. Ric=
h draperies in every part of the room trembled to the vibration of low, mel=
ancholy music, whose origin was not to be discovered. The senses were oppre=
ssed by mingled and conflicting perfumes, reeking up from strange convolute=
censers, together with multitudinous flaring and flickering tongues of eme=
rald and violet fire. The rays of the newly risen sun poured in upon the wh=
ole, through windows, formed each of a single pane of crimson-tinted glass.=
Glancing to and fro, in a thousand reflections, from curtains which rolled=
from their cornices like cataracts of molten silver, the beams of natural =
glory mingled at length fitfully with the artificial light, and lay welteri=
ng in subdued masses upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking cloth of Chili g=
old. "Ha ! ha ! ha ! - ha ! ha ! ha ! " - laughed the proprietor,=
motioning me to a seat as I entered the room, and throwing himself back at=
full-length upon an ottoman. "I see," said he, perceiving that I=
could not immediately reconcile myself to the _bienseance_ of so singular =
a welcome - "I see you are astonished at my apartment - at my statues =
- my pictures - my originality of conception in architecture and upholstery=
! absolutely drunk, eh, with my magnificence ? But pardon me, my dear sir,=
(here his tone of voice dropped to the very spirit of cordiality,) pardon =
me for my uncharitable laughter. You appeared so _utterly_ astonished. Besi=
des, some things are so completely ludicrous, that a man _must_ laugh or di=
e. To die laughing, must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths ! Sir =
Thomas More - a very fine man was Sir Thomas More - Sir Thomas More died la=
ughing, you remember. Also in the _Absurdities_ of Ravisius Textor, there i=
s a long list of characters who came to the same magnificent end. Do you kn=
ow, however," continued he musingly, "that at Sparta (which is no=
w Palæ ; ochori,) at Sparta, I say, to the west of the citad=
el, among a chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is a kind of _socle_, upon whi=
ch are still legible the letters 7!=3D9 . They are undoubtedly part of ' 7!=
=3D9! . Now, at Sparta were a thousand temples and shrines to a thousand di=
fferent divinities. How exceedingly strange that the altar of Laughter shou=
ld have survived all the others ! But in the present instance," he res=
umed, with a singular alteration of voice and manner, "I have no right=
to be merry at your expense. You might well have been amazed. Europe canno=
t produce anything so fine as this, my little regal cabinet. My other apart=
ments are by no means of the same order - mere _ultras_ of fashionable insi=
pidity. This is better than fashion - is it not ? Yet this has but to be se=
en to become the rage - that is, with those who could afford it at the cost=
of their entire patrimony. I have guarded, however, against any such profa=
nation. With one exception, you are the only human being besides myself and=
my _valet_, who has been admitted within the mysteries of these imperial p=
recincts, since they have been bedizzened as you see !" I bowed in ack=
nowledgment - for the overpowering sense of splendor and perfume, and music=
, together with the unexpected eccentricity of his address and manner, prev=
ented me from expressing, in words, my appreciation of what I might have co=
nstrued into a compliment. "Here," he resumed, arising and leanin=
g on my arm as he sauntered around the apartment, "here are paintings =
from the Greeks to Cimabue, and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are =
chosen, as you see, with little deference to the opinions of Virtu. They ar=
e all, however, fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this. Here, too, are=
some _chefs d'Å?uvre_ of the unknown great ; and here, unfinished de=
signs by men, celebrated in their day, whose very names the perspicacity of=
the academies has left to silence and to me. What think you," said he=
, turning abruptly as he spoke - "what think you of this Madonna della=
Pieta ?" "It is Guido's own ! " I said, with all the enthus=
iasm of my nature, for I had been poring intently over its surpassing lovel=
iness. "It is Guido's own ! - how _could_ you have obtained it ? - she=
is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus is in sculpture." "Ha =
! " said he thoughtfully, "the Venus - the beautiful Venus ? - th=
e Venus of the Medici ? - she of the diminutive head and the gilded hair ? =
Part of the left arm (here his voice dropped so as to be heard with difficu=
lty,) and all the right, are restorations ; and in the coquetry of that rig=
ht arm lies, I think, the quintessence of all affectation. Give _me_ the Ca=
nova ! The Apollo, too, is a copy - there can be no doubt of it - blind foo=
l that I am, who cannot behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo ! I ca=
nnot help - pity me ! - I cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not S=
ocrates who said that the statuary found his statue in the block of marble =
? Then Michael Angelo was by no means original in his couplet - 'Non ha l'o=
ttimo artista alcun concetto Che un marmo solo in se non circunscriva.' &qu=
ot; It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the true gen=
tleman, we are always aware of a difference from the bearing of the vulgar,=
without being at once precisely able to determine in what such difference =
consists. Allowing the remark to have applied in its full force to the outw=
ard demeanor of my acquaintance, I felt it, on that eventful morning, still=
more fully applicable to his moral temperament and character. Nor can I be=
tter define that peculiarity of spirit which seemed to place him so essenti=
ally apart from all other human beings, than by calling it a _habit_ of int=
ense and continual thought, pervading even his most trivial actions - intru=
ding upon his moments of dalliance - and interweaving itself with his very =
flashes of merriment - like adders which writhe from out the eyes of the gr=
inning masks in the cornices around the temples of Persepolis. I could not =
help, however, repeatedly observing, through the mingled tone of levity and=
solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon matters of little importanc=
e, a certain air of trepidation - a degree of nervous _unction_ in action a=
nd in speech - an unquiet excitability of manner which appeared to me at al=
l times unaccountable, and upon some occasions even filled me with alarm. F=
requently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence whose commencement he h=
ad apparently forgotten, he seemed to be listening in the deepest attention=
, as if either in momentary expectation of a visiter, or to sounds which mu=
st have had existence in his imagination alone. It was during one of these =
reveries or pauses of apparent abstraction, that, in turning over a page of=
the poet and scholar Politian's beautiful tragedy "The Orfeo," (=
the first native Italian tragedy,) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I dis=
covered a passage underlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end of=
the third act - a passage of the most heart-stirring excitement - a passag=
e which, although tainted with impurity, no man shall read without a thrill=
of novel emotion - no woman without a sigh. The whole page was blotted wit=
h fresh tears ; and, upon the opposite interleaf, were the following Englis=
h lines, written in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters o=
f my acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in recognising it as his own<=
/p>=20
</div>=20
<hr width=3D"50%" />=20
<div style=3D"text-align: center; ">
<font size=3D"2">Change your options by visiting <a href=3D"=
http://www.sarahs.stream/Tartary/grips-discordant/973k89gl48Lk1Wd0PhvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW5e0">here</a><br /> 2220 Meridian Blvd.,Suite #763, Minden, NV 89423</fo=
nt>
</div> =20
<img src=3D"http://www.sarahs.stream/7198H5vC483.d0lhvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW6b0/acoustical-troops" alt=3D""/></body>
</html>
