Fairy Tales for Adults

By David R. Ewbank

Fairy tales—reconceived and retold by renowned American authors! No longer need the appeal of these simple narratives be restricted to the narrow competence of immature minds. This trove of literary gems, only recently unearthed, will alter forever the common notion that the naive stories of Cinderella, Rapunzel and Rumpelstilskin are the exclusive province of children. With this remarkable collection, David Ewbank brings to the attention of an unsuspecting world his discovery of twenty-one hitherto unknown masterpieces—all written by such eminent Americans as Benjamin Franklin, Herman Melville, John Steinbeck and Cormac McCarthy. A collection certain to occasion incredulous astonishment!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466971332

Book preview

The Way to Beauty

Benjamin Franklin

Gracious Reader,

That I may make Claim to have become a Name among my fellow Countrymen is not, I believe, the empty Conceit of a Self-serving Braggart, but a Fact which I may assert without Vanity. Through the Dispensation of a benignant Providence and the Efficacy of honest Ambition and earnest Industry, I have risen from poor Circumstances to a Station in Life which has permitted me to perform such Service to my fellow Citizens as to attract their Notice and earn their Commendation. And yet, ’tis more through my Achievements as Statesman and Emissary that I have earned that Measure of Esteem I currently enjoy than through my Efforts as an Author whose special Province has been the Proffering of useful and wholesome Advice upon all matters pertaining to the Improvement of the Conduct of Life. This State of Affairs is deserving of particular Remark considering that my chosen Vocation is that of Printer and Author. In that Capacity I made it my bounden Duty and signal Honour to bring my Readers to the Adoption of painstaking Habits of Prudence and Frugality and, more especially, to warn Youth against the Snares which ever beset its Path. In this Calling I have succeeded tolerably well, yet ’tis little or no Applause I have ever received from my fellow Authors. As a Brother in the Fraternity of Scribblers I have, it would seem, failed not only to achieve Fame, but even to attain an Audience.

However, I have ever found consoling Compensation for this Neglect among the People, who have taken my improving Instruction to Heart and profited from its Dissemination. On the Street and in Shops, from Apprentice and Tradesman, I hear my pithy Apothegms spoken, yet—so little does Word-of-Mouth attend to Authorship—only the Few are aware that I am the Font from which the Wisdom they quote flows. Thus, such Fame as I may claim as Author is, to speak Paradox, anonymous Fame. So it was with singular Relish that I read the Manuscript which I now recommend to your Attention. It was sent to me by its author, Mr. Cygnet, who, as you will discover, explicitly attributes to my Influence the Success he has achieved. Thro’ the Adoption of my Rules for Self-Improvement he has achieved eminent Renown and enjoyed universal Admiration. Tho’ the End to which he has applied my System is one to which I dare not aspire, his Accomplishment in his chosen Field of Endeavour is illustrious and indubitable. ’Tis not, I believe, an undue Transgression of Modesty to confess that I received and read with exceeding Pleasure and Gratitude these pages from Mr. Cygnet’s Autobiography. I recommend them to you now, kind Reader, not only as an admirable Vindication of my Method, but as a Model worthy of your serious Consideration and diligent Imitation.

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My Reputation as the preeminent Exemplar of our Age of bodily Grace and Beauty of Person is so securely established in the popular Mind that I need not fatigue the Reader with superfluous Evidence in defense of the Obvious. The Sun requireth no Gloss, as my Mentor Ben Franklin has so sapiently observed. Also, He who beats round the Bush comes tardily to the Point. And, A Bee Line is the shortest Distance twixt Hunter and Honey. In both oral Report and published Story my Rise from Plainness to Pulchritude has been widely broadcast and unanimously celebrated; the Validity of my Claim to Beauty is, therefore, beyond Dispute. A Fact is its own Defense, says Ben. Also, A Climax requireth no Cap. Not to mention, Only the Needy need boast.

In one vital Respect, however, a grievous Erratum has been insinuated into the generally received Report of my Achievement. Whether this malentendu be the Result of calculated Malice or guileless Inadvertence I will not comment beyond remarking that, to quote my Teacher, Petty Pullets covet pretty Plumage. And, Spit and Spite have both sharp Tongues. And, Many a Slander masquerades as Blunder. In any Case, it has unfortunately become a popular Notion, as erroneous as it is common, that mere Time was the Agent of my Transformation. Thule is not farther from its Antipode than this Notion is from Accuracy. The Correction of this insidious Falsehood is an urgent Duty which both the Service of Truth and the Preservation of the good Credit of my Name lay upon me. As Ben says: Seekest thou Help on which thou canst rely? Employ thyself! Also, For Tripe—Sow’s Belly; for Truth—Horse’s Mouth.

I was born of Parents of excellent Constitution, the youngest of eleven Offspring. My Father was a hard-working Provider, good, just and pious, and my Mother, a Personage of firm Principles which she instilled in her Offspring by dint of constant Exhortation and conscientious Example. Of my seven Brothers, two died in Infancy, and the Remainder (Paddles, Puddles, Squawk, Splash and Beaky) survived to conduct Lives of blameless Rectitude. Like wise, one of my Sisters did not live to her first birth Day; however, Downy and Ducky grew to be fine, hardy Americans. They both married staunch, upstanding Citizens and are now, even as I write, themselves Mothers of large healthy Broods. Among my Siblings I had the regrettable Distinction of being markedly the most unattractive. I was brown, ill-featured and inelegant. Though I met with Nothing but Affection and Tolerance among the Members of my Family, I was early and late snubbed by my Coevals and subjected to Taunts and Abuse pertaining to my unprepossessing Appearance. Shunned and derided, the outcast Object of mocking Insult and cruel Contumely, so bitter was my Distress, so dismal my friendless Isolation that I came near to forming the ruinous Conclusion that I was in Fact a Duckling as ugly as my Detractors claimed me to be. But then, at the very Nadir of my Despair, there came to my Notice the Works of Benjamin Franklin, one of our young Nation’s foremost Leaders and most luminous Ornaments. What a providential Day it was! In the astute and judicious Observations of that eminently wise and sensible Man I discovered just the Relief of Injury and Remedy of Wrong that my lamentable Predicament required. Inspired by Ben’s steady Resolution and signal Accomplishment, I determined to take him as my Model. Forthwith, I devised and implemented my own System of Self-Improvement, using Ben’s famous Method as my Paradigm.

What, I inquired of myself, are the chief Virtues that I wish to emulate and ultimately embody? Upon Deliberation, I concluded that there were but three: Purity, Grace and Beauty. For each Virtue I formulated apt Precepts, as follows:

1. PURITY

Strive with Might to become white.

Keep Body clean and Thoughts wholesome.

2. GRACE

Imitate whatsoe’er in the World is supple, lissome and elegant.

Practice flowing Motion with tireless Assiduity.

3. BEAUTY

To become becoming, essay earnestly.

A fair Face is the shining Temple of a stainless Soul.

Through unflagging Labor and strict Adherence to my fixed Purpose, I at last acquired the Habitude of these Virtues. This Triumph was achieved in Time—not, as has been fallaciously reported, by Time. I would not willfully deceive a susceptible Reader with the false Hope of an easy Victory. Beauty is a hard-won Goal. As Ben so appositely remarks, Nothing sweet without Sweat. And, Nose on the Grindstone: Notes in the Bank. Also, Only the Lazy need look to Luck; the Diligent turn to Labor And furthermore, He who hath no Pull must rely on Push.

After Months of Struggle and Travail, I presented myself in the full and glorious Majesty of my new Plumage to my erstwhile Scorners and Critics. From that Day to this, I have been the Object of their Envy and Admiration. Their astonished Approval and fervent Acclaim provide an agreeable Reward and ample Recompense for my unflagging Efforts on the Way to Beauty and serve as a crowning Vindication of Ben’s peerless Program for Self-Transmogrification. As that Man of endlessly fecund Wit has observed, Grit and Grind change homely to comely. Also, He who lasts best, laughs. And, most importantly, Seek Pleasure in Revenge and ye shall find it.

The Gold Hair

Edgar Allan Poe

I was down in the wasteland of Woozy,

I was down in the desolate Dumps,

In the gloomy and desolate Dumps,

The marsh, it was misty and oozy,

And I was in one of my slumps:

A fortnight of errantly questing

With nary a creature in need,

No damsel her rescue requesting,

No prison pent wight to be freed.

I pressed onward, steadfast and undaunted,

Tho’ my spirits were flagging and sore,

I was fundamentally sore,

Tho’ the purlieus, vap’rous and haunted,

Were becoming a bit of a bore.

The way that had brought me was dreary,

Ahead it was drearier still;

The scream of the screech owl was eerie

When it shattered the slumb’rous still.

I traversed a thund’rous torrent,

A stream as austere as the Styx,

As the dolorous, dismal Styx,

That rushed by with a roar abhorrent,

Like the blather of lunatics.

Then into the Forrest of Tremble,

On the fringe of the Land of Boo,

Where witches are wont to assemble

To concoct their abominable brew.

I wandered with wretchedness laden,

Lost in a stup’rous daze,

In a queasy, disquieting daze,

When—hark!—the voice of a maiden

Like a lark the empyrean assays.

An ethereal air, pure and dulcet,

Such as only a princess could capture,

Enchanted my ear, and my pulse it

Raced as I swooned, weak with rapture.

Dismounting I tethered my steed,

And beheld in the shadowy light,

In the lowering, darksome light,

A resplendent vision indeed—

A maiden in rare damask dight!

At the top of a tower imprisoned

She leaned out from a lofty casement;

A hideous hag, weird and wizened,

Stood below, as it were, in the basement.

What a sight to bewail and bemoan!

What a strangely incongruous pair,

A beautiful-beastly pair!

Rapunzel, my sweet, quoth the crone

Let down your golden hair.

Methought that she uttered a trope,

Commanding the maid to confide,

But no, in a trice, like a rope,

Hair literally fell by her side.

What transpired—I staunchly avouch

There was never an enterprise madder,

More callous, more criminal—madder:

Heedless of many an Ouch,

The hag used the hair as a ladder!

Could there be a more heinous abuse—

The memory still oppresses—

To put to inglorious use

Those glorious, golden tresses!

Astonished, I stood like one hexed!

Amazed, I was stricken quite dumb,

Astonished, amazed and dumb!

By the vice of the hag I was vexed,

By the plight of the maid overcome!

I was stoutly determined to save her,

So I fashioned a scale of vine

And waited until her enslaver

Abandoned the cruel confine.

Resolutely resolvéd to let no

Foul witch further plague my new love,

My peerless, my precious new love,

I cried out in a fluty falsetto,

"I swear to the heavens above,

If you’ll only do just as you’re told,

I’ll release you from durance vile."

And soon a profusion of gold

Rewarded my innocent guile.

Tho’ it seeméd a sad desecration

To employ that gold as a rope,

That fine golden hair as a rope,

I ascended without reservation,

For I meant with the maid to elope.

Seeing me, she was sorely affrighted,

But soon I placated her fear,

And anon she was more than delighted

When I whispered, Let’s clear out of here!

We fled from the Forest of Tremble,

Abandoned the Land of Boo,

And in short, without further preamble,

From the dim Realm of Romance withdrew.

We wed, settled down and now dwell

In a house with a sensible stair,

And Rapunzel, who’s happy and well

Has bobbed her golden hair,

Has bobbed her dear golden hair.

Leaves from an

Old Mansion

Nathaniel Hawthorne

In my native city of Boston there stands on a busy corner near the center of the metropolis, situated at a stately remove from the thoroughfare and so embowered by a conclave of ancient custodial oak trees as to be scarcely discernable to the bustling passersby, too preoccupied with matters of more pressing and immediate nature to take notice of so outmoded and retiring a wonder, a large mansion, heavily timbered and liberally gabled in the ponderous and ostentatious style of our grandfathers. Built to accommodate the domestic, civic and ceremonial requirements of the colonial governor, its ownership passed into the hands of prosperous cloth merchants at a time coincident with the tumultuous and disputed passage of the sovereignty of our nation from British to American control. For many halcyon years after the Revolution bewigged gentlemen and their bedizened wives, select representatives of the city’s mercantile and professional elite, processed up the marble stairs, passed through the towering pillars and proceeded into the vaunted splendor of the grand hall where all of the myriad contrivances devised by the fertile ingenuity of civilized man to enhance aesthetic delight, gustatory delectation and commodious luxury were provided in unstinted measure. But, as we have been wisely instructed by the prescient Preacher, to every mortal thing there is an allotted season. Pomp and prosperity, for all their seeming mastery and momentary sway, can claim no exemption from the universal drift of all sublunary creations toward alteration and decline. The fortunes of the erstwhile affluent owners suffered sad reversal, and as though it felt a living sympathy with the diminishing power and prestige of the family, the house fell by degrees into successive states of disrepair, neglect and decay until, in the end, it was abandoned. It stands today, unfrequented and unnoticed, lonely and apart, yet still as proud and erect as a deposed empress stiffly conscious of her past worth, however humbled by present circumstance.

To withhold from the reader nothing needful to his comprehension of the episode I have determined to impart to him, it becomes necessary for the author to so intrude himself into his tale that he might elucidate its provenance and confirm its authenticity. Know, then, that I am the last surviving representative of the sadly reduced family which in happier days gone by inhabited this now abased and unregarded residence. With respect to legal entitlement I am its fully certified and warranted owner, though such is my station in life and such my present prospects that the possibility of my relocating from the modest cottage which I currently inhabit to resume the state and status of my illustrious forbearers is as unlikely as my imminent discovery of the fabled pot of gold said to be discoverable at the rainbow’s end. I am an idle fellow, contemplative and studious, a dreamer not shaped by the imperious hand of designing Nature to assume with any credit an active role in the contentious, clamorous worlds of commerce and government. By profession, if by so dignified a name I may nominate the unassuming occupation by which I earn my daily bread through the exercise of my pen, I am an author—a chronicler of inconsequential oddments and piquant curiosities, matters beneath the notice of more serious and learned scholars which, despite their triviality when considered from an historical perspective, nevertheless shed a modest illumination upon the abstruse operations and secret motives of the human heart. My temperament and inclinations being what they are, it is a circumstance singularly auspicious that this old, vacant mansion, however impracticable it be to utilize it as my residence, is yet available for access whenever I choose to claim the right, and this because the edifice contains a large library bountifully stocked with antiquarian lore of precisely the sort to engage my interest as annalist of obscure and out-of-the way episodes from our storied American past. It was among such dusty treasure that I discovered the faded, friable leaves which afforded me my first acquaintance with the melancholy events which constitute the burden of the ensuing account. The document bears no signature and is undated, though the author’s obsolete language, to say nothing of the physical condition of the manuscript, is evidence sufficient to insure its age. Considering that the outworn vocabulary and quaint phraseology of the anonymous author might present a forbidding barrier to the contemporary reader, I have made bold to rephrase the original, taking care, however, to do what lay within the compass of my ability to preserve at least some sundry hints of the antique charm and sapid essence of the original.

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In the deepening twilight of declining day, upon an eve at no great remove in time from this present moment in which I take up pen to indite my melancholy narrative, an astute and vigilant observer, had there been such a one, could have discerned, wending her slow and solitary way up a snow-laden street in that district of our