Books with author J Masefield

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Originally written in 1933, this classic sea adventure tells of the Blackgauntlet and her homeward-bound race from China to London. Disaster strikes when the ship is struck at night by a passing steamer—only half of the crew manages to escape to the lifeboat while the others perish. Cruiser, the 22-year-old second mate who has always longed to be captain, takes command of the survivors as they plan to sail 700 miles to the island of Fayal. Cruiser and his crew battle all odds, including sharks, potential mutiny, a leaky boat, too few provisions, and the sea herself, in this taut and haunting narrative.

"When we got into the road together, I could not see a yard in front of me. There was nothing but darkness and drifting snow and the gleam of the drifts where the light of the lantern fell. There was no question of losing the road; for the road was a Devon lane, narrow and deep, built by the ancient Britons, so everybody says, to give them protection as they went down to the brooks for water. If it had been an open road, I could never have found my way for fifty yards. I was strongly built for a boy; even at sea I never suffered much from the cold, and this night was not intensely cold—snowy weather seldom is. What made the ride so exhausting was the beating of the snow into my eyes and mouth. It fell upon me in a continual dry feathery pelting, till I was confused and tired out with the effort of trying to see ahead."John Masefield was an English poet and writer, was Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1930. Among his best known works are the children's novels The Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights, and the poems "The Everlasting Mercy" and "Sea-Fever."

Excerpt:THE STORY OF A ROUND-HOUSEAND OTHER POEMSDAUBERIFour bells were struck, the watch was called on deck,All work aboard was over for the hour,And some men sang and others played at check,Or mended clothes or watched the sunset glower.The bursting west was like an opening flower,And one man watched it till the light was dim,But no one went across to talk to him.He was the painter in that swift ship's crew,Lampman and painter--tall, a slight-built man,Young for his years, and not yet twenty-two;Sickly, and not yet brown with the sea's tan.Bullied and damned at since the voyage"Being neither man nor seaman by his tally,"He bunked with the idlers just abaft the galley.His work began at five; he worked all day,Keeping no watch and having all night in.

John Edward Masefield was born in 1878 in the sleepy market town of Ledbury in rural Hertfordshire. An idyllic childhood was ruined when he was left an orphan and sent to live with an Aunt who decided his education and life would be better spent at sea. At age 13 he boarded a school ship and there his love of writing and reading blossomed. By 1899 he began to publish and apart from brief service during World War I he now had a life of writing and lecture tours. He published much; novels, poetry and even an account of the disastrous war effort in the Dardanelles at Gallipoli. Upon the death of Robert Bridges in 1930, Masefield was given the prestigious position of Poet Laureate, a role he would fulfill until his death; the only poet to hold the position for a longer period was Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Despite later ill health and the death of his wife in 1960, Masefield continued to write. In 1966, he published his last book of poems, In Glad Thanksgiving, at the age of 88. In the latter part of 1966 gangrene was diagnosed in his ankle. This gradually spread through his leg and claimed his life on May 12, 1967. He was cremated and his ashes placed in the Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey. Here we present The Tragedy Of Pompey The Great.

What are the English games? The man's game is Association football; the woman's game, perhaps, hockey or lacrosse. Golf I regard more as a symptom of a happy marriage than a game. Cricket, which was once widely popular among both sexes has lost its hold, except among the young. The worst of all these games is that few can play them at a time. But in the English country, during the autumn, winter and early spring of each year, the main sport is fox hunting, which is not like cricket or football, a game for a few and a spectacle for many, but something in which all who come may take a part, whether rich or poor, mounted or on foot. It is a sport loved and followed by both sexes, all ages and all classes. At a fox hunt, and nowhere else in England, except perhaps at a funeral, can you see the whole of the land's society brought together, focussed for the observer, as the Canterbury pilgrims were for Chaucer. This fact made the subject attractive. The fox hunt gave an opportunity for a picture or pictures of the members of an English community. Then to all Englishmen who have lived in a hunting country, hunting is in the blood, and the mind is full of it. It is the most beautiful and the most stirring sight to be seen in England. In the ports, as at Falmouth, there are ships under sail, under way, coming or going, beautiful unspeakably. In the country, especially on the great fields on the lower slopes of the Downland, the teams of the ploughmen may be seen bowing forward on a sky-line, and this sight can never fail to move one by its majesty of beauty. But in neither of these sights of beauty is there the bright colour and swift excitement of the hunt, nor the thrill of the horn, and the cry of the hounds ringing into the elements of the soul. Something in the hunt wakens memories hidden in the marrow, racial memories, of when one hunted for the tribe, animal memories, perhaps, of when one hunted with the pack, or was hunted

This play was performed at the Oxford Playhouse on Friday and Saturday, May 25 and 26, 1923.Excerpt from Book:Moon-Blossom.Over unending water ever he held his course,Birds that were curses followed, crying around and above:“Nireus, broken by beauty, broken again by remorse,43Goes to the breaking of death for killing his friend and love.”Rose-Flower.And ever he cursed himself for bringing them both to wreck,Helen and Paris, the lovely; and ever the waves seemed filledWith skull-bones hollow in death, that rose and peered on the deck:And he thought, “They are those from Troy whom I in my madness killed.

This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it.This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. To ensure a quality reading experience, this work has been proofread and republished using a format that seamlessly blends the original graphical elements with text in an easy-to-read typeface.We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.

This is a pre-1923 historical reproduction that was curated for quality. Quality assurance was conducted on each of these books in an attempt to remove books with imperfections introduced by the digitization process. Though we have made best efforts - the books may have occasional errors that do not impede the reading experience. We believe this work is culturally important and have elected to bring the book back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide. This text refers to the Bibliobazaar edition.