Lady Athlyne
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 Lady Athlyne

Born in November 1847 in Dublin, Ireland, Abraham Stoker was the third of seven children. Bed ridden with health issues until aged 7 he made a complete recovery on being sent to school. He was an excellent student excelling in maths and with a keen interest in Theatre. He began his career as a theatre critic and after a favourable review was invited to meet the most important actor of the day, Henry Irving. They became great friends. After marriage to Florence Balcombe in 1878 they moved to London where he worked for Irving at his Lyceum theatre. It was here he started to write and then to travel extensively with Irving as he toured. Many of his novels are set from the places he visited though he never did go to Eastern Europe. He wrote many novels during his career but of course Dracula rises above all else. In those last few moments drifting from wake to sleep we sometimes delve into thoughts of a very unpleasant kind. The hint of a shadow moving across the room can give rise to all sorts of troubling, unsettling ideas. Bram Stoker was a master of this effect. Who can forget the masterful creation of Dracula? Its realism built on diary entries, letters, newspapers clippings, ships log’s was very clever and contributes to its lasting and pervading impact. Here, his sinister tales saturate your soul and hit your heart with untold fears that, layer by layer, reveal their true unutterable horror. Here we publish Lady Athlyne another example of his memorable writing.
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“There are many things that men should fight for — and die for if need be. But I am bound to say that I don’t hold that the chiefest among them is a personal grievance; even if it be on the subject of the measure of one’s own self-respect.” Noticing the coming frown on the Kentuckian’s face, he went on a thought more quickly: “But, though I don’t hold with duelling, Colonel Ogilvie, for any cause, I am bound to say that if a man thinks and believes that it is right to fight, then it becomes a duty which he should fulfil!”
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“Did you ever hear of the Irishman who said: There’s some subjects too sarious for jestin’; an’ pitaties is wan iy them? I can’t sauce my father, or chaff him, or be imprudent — though I believe he likes me to be imprudent — to him. when he talks of respect. He has killed men before now for want of that. But he won’t kill me. He knows that my respect for him is as big as my love — and there isn’t room for any more of either of them in me. Don’t you Daddy?”
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When the Narrows had been reached and passed and the flag of smoke from the great chimney of the Standard Oil Refining Works lay far behind on the starboard quarter; when Fire Island was dropping down on the western horizon, all became changed as though the wand of some beneficent fairy had obliterated all that was ugly or noxious in its beneficent sweep. Sky and wave were blue; the sun beamed out; and the white-breasted gulls sweeping above and around the ship seemed like the spirit of nature freed from the thrall of the Ice Queen.
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