(Mem., Under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia
Romae venalia sunt. Hell has its price! If there be anything behind this
instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards accurately, so I had better
commence to do so, therefore . . .
R. M, Renfield, age 59. Sanguine temperament, great physical strength,
morbidly excitable, periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I cannot
make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing
influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish, a possibly dangerous man,
probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an armour
for their foes as for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self
is the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal. When
duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and
only accident of a series of accidents can balance it.
LETTER, QUINCEY P. MORRIS TO HON. ARTHUR HOLMOOD
25 May.
My dear Art,
We've told yarns by the campfire in the prairies, and dressed one another's
wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas, and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be
told, and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won't you
let this be at my campfire tomorrow night? I have no hesitation in asking you,
as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner party, and that you are
free. There will only be one other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack
Seward. He's coming, too, and we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine
cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the
wide world, who has won the noblest heart that God has made and best worth
winning. We promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health
as true as your own right hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you
drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes. Come!
Yours, as ever and always,
Quincey P. Morris
TELEGRAM FROM ARTHUR HOLMWOOD TO QUINCEY P. MORRIS
26 May
Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears
tingle. Art

MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
24 July. Whitby.--Lucy met me at the station, looking
sweeter and lovlier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the Esk, runs
through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near the harbour. A great
viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which the view seems somehow
further away than it really is. The valley is beautifully green, and it is so
steep that when you are on the high land on either side you look right across
it, unless you are near enough to see down. The houses of the old town--the