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A few weeks ago on a Sunday I was driving across Vermont in a snowstorm and passed a used–pardon me, antiquarian–bookstore. That latter designation, of course, indicates danger: it means the things that you might be inclined to buy inside are likely priced beyond what one can bear to pay–say, a slight paperback on Southwestern flora, color plates, fun to hold but at $80 more fun to put back on the shelf. And the fine, large bound leather volumes made that look like a pittance.
There was a second floor, though. Second floors are always cause for hope. There might be dusty corners. Upstairs were the homelier volumes of fiction and poetry. Lots of good stuff in the $3-$5 range, first editions of favorites that make good gifts. Nicest, though, was on the way downstairs again–an as yet unseen pile of fat brown clumsy crumbling numbered tomes. “HARPER’S MAGAZINE–$15, each.”
Bound omnibus library volumes, each contained six months of the magazine. Of the dozen, I picked and left with chubby Vol. X, 864 pages, December, 1854 to May, 1855. Of course, subscribers to the magazine will have noticed that these issues are already on the web to read. And yet, I confess to having found some things, flipping through and surveying the engravings in my chunky Volume X, that I wouldn’t otherwise have found. A long essay on “The Rattlesnake and its Congeners” (“Of all animal life, the serpent at first sight, is the most repulsive”) is fine nighttime companionship, and while an essay about man’s best friend (“The Dog, Described and Illustrated”) which begins…
It would seem to be the beneficent order of Providence, that man should be surrounded with inferior animals under his control, which by their capacities, make up for the defects of his physical power,
…is irresistible. My favorite in that span of months, surely, is “The Lion and His Kind.” While this preference has, I’m sure, everything to do my recent consumption of David Attenborough’s The Life of Mammals, the pleasures of this comparatively crude print forbear are manifest. It’s all about guile, it’s lack:
Until within a few years past, very little has been known of the history and habits of the most notable members of the feline family. Every thing relating to the tiger—except as an animal killed in the chase, or as a captive—is still unreliable.
Unreliable? God, yes. For to read on is learn delicious (and dubious) facts about the Ocelot, the Caracal, the Lynx and a mysterious creature called the Ounce. Pure delight, particularly for readers who loved Jay Kirk’s more recent feline investigations for this magazine. Roar through “The Lion and His Kind,” as your weekend read.
More from Wyatt Mason:
Conversation — October 2, 2015, 8:26 am
“By committing to the great emotional extremes demanded by Greek tragedy,” says Bryan Doerries, author of The Theater of War, “the actors are in effect saying to the audience: ‘If you want to match our emotional intensity, that would be fine.’”
Flor Arely Sánchez had been in bed with a fever and pains throughout her body for three days when a July thunderstorm broke over the mountainside. She got nervous when bolts of light flashed in the sky. Lightning strikes the San Julián region of western El Salvador several times a year, and her neighbors fear storms more than they fear the march of diseases — first dengue, then chikungunya, now Zika. Flor worried about a lot of things, since she was pregnant.
Late in the afternoon, when the pains had somewhat eased, Flor thought she might go to a dammed-up bit of the river near her house to bathe. She is thirty-five and has lived in the same place all her life, where wrinkled hills are planted with corn, beans, and fruit trees. She took a towel and soap and walked out into the rain. Halfway to the river, the pains returned and overcame her. The next thing Flor remembers, she was in a room she didn’t recognize, unable to move. As she soon discovered, she was in a hospital, her ankle cuffed to the bed, and she was being investigated for abortion.
Average duration of a Japanese prime minister’s tenure since August 1993, in months:
Brain shrinkage has no effect on cognition.
An Indianapolis fertility doctor was accused of using his own sperm to artificially inseminate patients, and a Delaware man pleaded guilty to fatally stabbing his former psychiatrist.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”