I would also like to add that the important thing is to make the materials fit you as an individual. That's why I never liked or believed in memorizing RJ's patterns. If I were to just copy exactly what he says then it would not sound like me and it probably would sound creepy, and I would probably be nervous as well. This is why I found it so helpful for him to have some products made by his students and for his best students to teach in some of his seminars. It gives you more ideas to look at. Originally posted on the Attraction Forums. Reproduced with permission. Comments 0 Help other users find the most helpful reviews Was this review helpful to you?
While I truly believe that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I must say that some of the comments were made by people who clearly don't understand speed seduction let alone conversational hypnosis or NLP. When I was originally exposed to speed seduction in spring of 98', the material was expensive and quality. No it isn't laid out in a linear fashion but after studing NLP extensively I have found that the mind doesn't learn in a linear fashion anyway.
Attempts by the concious mind to fit everything into a linear, step by step process are futile at best. Real learning happens at the unconcious level regardless of how you "think" you learn best. I am responding mainly to "play2win"'s comments here. As far as speed seduction is concerned, my advice would be to buy it and use it for what it is worth or buy books on NLP, conversational hypnosis and learn about Milton Erickson's patterns of indirect hypnosis.
I agree with the statement that S. There is some very good material sold by RJ. The reality is: you can get the same material for cheaper by buying books on NLP and conversational hypnosis and learning it yourself. Speed seduction does a good job for those of you who don't want to make as big of a time investment of cutting right through to the essential elements as it relates to picking up woman. I don't recommend S.
It will enhance the rest of your "game" fold. Stop for a moment and imagine delivering the routines you've learned from the mystery method in a mildly hypnotic fashion That's much more powerful than just saying the words, isn't it? Be careful though, as Style mentions in "the game" about how you can either spend 30 minutes using speed seduction patterns on a girl to get her aroused or you can pull her hair at the right time and create the same effect.
The point is you want to use the most efficient tools at the right time. A funny thing that RJ has said before that also summarizes my point well is: "If your going to have sex with a girl, what's easier-- just sticking it in or wrapping it around your leg a few times first Some of the best seduction skills and life skills can be learned by working in a sales job. Also, you will make good money when you become good at sales and your measured by results which is similar to the world of seduction. There is no "almost" in sales just as "almost" doesn't mean much in the world of seduction I hope this helps.
I wasn't looking to bash what anyone else said, only offer my 2 cents Didn't learn. I have learned nothing from this product. Maybe a, speed seduction for dummies, would help. Vince Kelvin has some great free stuff on this, but his accent means it's difficult me, but it's still better than RJ. He so smart, his stuff gods over my head.
I would like to say something more positive.
Even RJ's free newsletter and multiple websites work against him. I hope he finds a way for me to learn his genius - i'm sure he would become the Green Latern he loves so much. I have not used SS version 2. Hopefully, he got better by working with someone more, less intelligent than me to spoon feed in clearer, smaller bites. All other reviewers on here like his stuff and i would like to as well. In version 3.
In fact, he recommended Style's "5 Questions Game" in the video. I've ran Snack Quiz in a grocery store then went straight to a portion of the BlowJob Pattern since we were already on the topic of food, then, I asked some boring AFC question to fractionate and then went to a seduction question after that, and got her to imagine me and her in her ideal fantasy vacation and we acted it out and everything, and then I asked if she was having a good time ratify and told her to say 'more please' if she wanted to have more fun.
She said it, and then, I got a close. SS is lazy man's game I mean, seriously, there isn't that much thinking involved Comments 1 Help other users find the most helpful reviews Was this review helpful to you? It's like learning a whole new language when all you really had to do was say hi.
The whole idea of SS seems very, very weird and narrow minded to me. For one, it has virtually no application in social circle game. Other cold approach techniques like Love Systems and Magic Bullets have certain principles that work in social game as well as cold approach, but SS has none of that.
Try running these "hypnosis" patterns in your social circle and you'll look like a complete tool. As well, even when you're evaluating it as a strictly cold approach technique, SS is of limited value. Ross's patterns probably do get girls horny, but other methods acheive that same end and then some. SS is nowhere near as comprehensive. SS works because girls like it when you talk expressively about interesting things.
The whole idea that these patterns work on a sophisticated subconcious level is pseudoscientific nonsense. Ross is like a stage hypnotist: he's going around telling you that his words have a subconcious effect on people, but in reality people just play along with it because the delivery is compelling. It's like Mystery says: "if you talk with enthusiasm, even if you're talking about absolutely nothing, people will feel enthusiasm too. If people want to use metaphor and poetic language to get girls into a more emotionally-accessible, carnally-open state, then by all means, they should!
It will develop you as a sales man also. Its a life-time project to develop everytng. It fits my personality perfectly because thats who I am naturally, remember, you have to become part of it. Known as the Father of the Modern Seduction, hes the only guy out there with the years under his belt as a teacher and a system that has stood the test of time. Though there are newer products. You cant go wrong with this.
A perfect 10 Comments 0 Help other users find the most helpful reviews Was this review helpful to you? I can vouch that both of these methods are solid. IMO they are the two most powerful PU methods in existence.
It is nice to know both because they approach the PU game from two very different directions. Request Review. Average User Rating. Product No Longer Available. See other courses and coaching from Speed Seduction. Say Hello. DSR Editor Rating. Conversation Escalation: Make Sm The Desire System. Kinetic Attraction. The Language of Attraction. Seductive Storytelling. Hold your left hand lower down, so that if the knife slips it will go over. Here, like this. Give it to me. He cut a slice to show her, and then tossed the slice across the table so accurately that it fell  exactly into its proper place by her plate.
He had a habit of tossing things in that way. I hate to see it. Amaryllis, as in duty bound, in appearance took the lesson in bread-cutting to heart, as she had done twenty times before. But she knew she should still cut a loaf in the same dangerous style when out of his sight. She could not do it in the safe way—it was so much easier in the other; and if she did cut her hand she did not greatly care.
Iden when he came back. But Iden, who had the appetite of a giant, and had never ruined his digestion with vinegar or sauces, piled another series of thick slices on his plate, now hot to liquefy the gravy, and added to the meat a just proportion of vegetables. In proportion and a just mixture the secret of eating successfully consisted, according to him. First he ate a piece of the dark brown mutton, this was immediately followed by a portion of floury  potato, next by a portion of swede tops, and then, lest a too savoury taste should remain in the mouth, he took a fragment of bread, as it were to sweeten and cleanse his teeth.
Finally came a draught of strong ale, and after a brief moment the same ingredients were mixed in the same order as before. His dinner was thus eaten in a certain order, and with a kind of rhythm, duly exciting each particular flavour like a rhyme in its proper position, and duly putting it out with its correct successor. Always the savour of meat and gravy and vegetables had to be toned down by the ultimate bread, a vast piece of which he kept beside him.
He was a great bread eater—it was always bread after everything, and if there were two courses then bread between to prepare the palate, and to prevent the sweets from quarrelling with the acids. Organization was the chief characteristic of his mind—his very dinner was organized and well planned, and any break or disturbance was not so much an annoyance in itself as destructive of a clever design, like a stick thrust through the web of a geometrical spider.
This order of mouthfuls had been explained over and over again to the family, and if they felt that he was in a more than usually terrible mood, and if they felt his gaze upon them, the family to some extent submitted. Neither Mrs. Iden nor Amaryllis, however, could ever educate their palates into this fixed sequence of feeding; and, if Iden was not in a very awful and Jovelike mood, they  wandered about irregularly in their eating.
When the dinner was over and, indeed, before it began they had a way of visiting the larder, and "picking" little fragments of pies, or cold fowl, even a cold potato, the smallest mug—a quarter of a pint of the Goliath ale between them, or, if it was to be had, a sip of port wine. These women were very irrational in their feeding; they actually put vinegar on cold cabbage; they gloated over a fragment of pickled salmon about eleven o'clock in the morning.
They had a herring sometimes for tea—the smell of it cooking sent the master into fits of indignation, he abominated it so, but they were so hardened and lost to righteousness they always repeated the offence next time the itinerant fish-dealer called. You could not drum them into good solid, straightforward eating. They generally had a smuggled bit of pastry to eat in the kitchen after dinner, for Mr. Iden considered that no one could need a second course after first-rate mutton and forty-folds.
A morsel of cheese if you liked—nothing more. In summer the great garden abounded with fruit; he would have nothing but rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb, day after day, or else black-currant pudding. He held that black currants were the most wholesome fruit that grew; if he fancied his hands were not quite clean he would rub them with black-currant leaves to give them a pleasant aromatic odour as ladies use scented soap.
He rubbed them with walnut-leaves for the same purpose. Of salad in its season he was a great eater, cucumber especially, and lettuce and celery; but a mixed salad oil and a flash, as it were, of Worcester sauce was a horror to him. A principle ran through all his eating—an idea, a plan and design.
I assure you it is a very important matter this eating, a man's fortune depends on his dinner. The soundest and most wholesome food in the world was set on Mr. Iden's table; you may differ from his system, but you would have enjoyed the dark brown mutton, the floury potatoes, the fresh vegetables and fruit and salad, and the Goliath ale. When he had at last finished his meal he took his knife and carefully scraped his crumbs together, drawing the edge along the cloth, first one way and then the other, till he had a little heap; for, eating so much bread, he made many crumbs.
Having got them together, he proceeded to shovel them into his mouth with the end of his knife, so that not one was wasted. Sometimes he sprinkled a little moist sugar over them with his finger and thumb. He then cut himself a slice of bread and cheese, and sat down with it in his arm-chair by the fire, spreading his large red-and-yellow silk handkerchief on his knee to catch the fragments in lieu of a plate.
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Iden, shuffling her feet with contemptuous annoyance. A deep grunt in the throat was the answer she received; at the same time he turned his arm-chair more towards the fire, as much as to say, "Other people are nothing to me. He could not answer this charge of inconsistency, for it was a fact that he  affected to despise the newspaper and yet read it with avidity, and would almost as soon have missed his ale as his news. However, to settle with his conscience, he had a manner of holding the paper half aslant a good way from him, and every now and then as he read uttered a dissentient or disgusted grunt.
The master's taking up his paper was a signal for all other persons to leave the room, and not to return till he had finished his news and his nap. Iden and Amaryllis, as they went out, each took as many of the dishes as they could carry, for it was uncertain when they could come in again to clear the table. The cloth must not be moved, the door opened, or the slightest sound heard till the siesta was over. Iden as she went, "and then you want your tea—senseless! By-and-by, his cheese being finished, he dropped his newspaper, and arranged himself for slumber.
His left elbow he carefully fitted to the remnant of the broken woodwork of the chair. The silk handkerchief, red and yellow, he gathered into a loose pad in his left hand for his cheek and temple to rest on. His face was thus supported by his hand and arm, while the side of his head touched and rested against the wainscot of the wall. Just where his head touched it the wainscot had been worn away by the daily pressure, leaving a  round spot. The wood was there exposed—a round spot, an inch or two in diameter, being completely bare of varnish.
So many nods—the attrition of thirty years and more of nodding—had gradually ground away the coat with which the painter had originally covered the wood. It even looked a little hollow—a little depressed—as if his head had scooped out a shallow crater; but this was probably an illusion, the eye being deceived by the difference in colour between the wood and the varnish around it. This human mark reminded one of the grooves worn by the knees of generations of worshippers in the sacred steps of the temple which they ascended on all-fours. It was, indeed, a mark of devotion, as Mrs. Iden and others, not very keen observers, would have said, to the god of Sleep; in truth, it was a singular instance of continued devotion at the throne of the god of Thought.
It was to think that Mr. Iden in the commencement assumed this posture of slumber, and commanded silence. But thought which has been cultivated for a third of a century is apt to tone down to something very near somnolence. That panel of wainscot was, in fact, as worthy of preservation as those on which the early artists delineated the Madonna and Infant, and for which high prices are now paid. It was intensely—superlatively—human. Worn in slow time by a human head within which a great mind was working under the most unhappy conditions, it had the  deep value attaching to inanimate things which have witnessed intolerable suffering.
I am not a Roman Catholic, but I must confess that if I could be assured any particular piece of wood had really formed a part of the Cross I should think it the most valuable thing in the world, to which Koh-i-noors would be mud. That panel was in effect a cross on which a heart had been tortured for the third of a century, that is, for the space of time allotted to a generation. That mark upon the panel had still a further meaning, it represented the unhappiness, the misfortunes, the Nemesis of two hundred years.
This family of Idens had endured already two hundred years of unhappiness and discordance for no original fault of theirs, simply because they had once been fortunate of old time, and therefore they had to work out that hour of sunshine to the utmost depths of shadow. The panel of the wainscot upon which that mark had been worn was in effect a cross upon which a human heart had been tortured—and thought can, indeed, torture—for a third of a century. For Iden had learned to know himself, and despaired. Not long after he had settled himself and closed his eyes the handle of the door was very softly turned, and Amaryllis stole in for her book, which she had forgotten.
She succeeded in getting it on tiptoe without a sound, but in shutting the door the  lock clicked, and she heard him kick the fender angrily with his iron-shod heel. After that there was utter silence, except the ticking of the American clock—a loud and distinct tick in the still and in that sense vacant room. Presently a shadow somewhat darkened the window, a noiseless shadow; Mrs.
Iden had come quietly round the house, and stood in the March wind, watching the sleeping man. She had a shawl about her shoulders—she put out her clenched hand from under its folds, and shook her fist at him, muttering to herself, "Never do anything; nothing but sleep, sleep, sleep: talk, talk, talk; never do anything. That's what I hate. Slight sounds, faint rustlings, began to be audible among the cinders in the fender. The dry cinders were pushed about by something passing between them. After a while a brown mouse peered out at the end of the fender under Iden's chair, looked round a moment, and went back to the grate.
In a minute he came again, and ventured somewhat farther across the width of the white hearthstone to the verge of the carpet. This advance was made step by step, but on reaching the carpet the mouse rushed home to cover in one run—like children at "touch wood," going out from a place of safety very cautiously, returning swiftly. The next time another mouse followed,  and a third appeared at the other end of the fender. By degrees they got under the table, and helped themselves to the crumbs; one mounted a chair and reached the cloth, but soon descended, afraid to stay there.
Five or six mice were now busy at their dinner. A mouse came to the foot, clad in a great rusty-hued iron-shod boot—the foot that rested on the fender, for he had crossed his knees. His ragged and dingy trouser, full of March dust, and earth-stained by labour, was drawn up somewhat higher than the boot. It took the mouse several trials to reach the trouser, but he succeeded, and audaciously mounted to Iden's knee. Another quickly followed, and there the pair of them feasted on the crumbs of bread and cheese caught in the folds of his trousers.
One great brown hand was in his pocket, close to them—a mighty hand, beside which they were pigmies indeed in the land of the giants.
What would have been the value of their lives between a finger and thumb that could crack a ripe and strong-shelled walnut? The size—the mass—the weight of his hand alone was as a hill overshadowing them; his broad frame like the Alps; his head high above as a vast rock that overhung the valley. His thumb-nail—widened by labour with spade and axe—his thumb-nail would have covered  either of the tiny creatures as his shield covered Ajax.
Yet the little things fed in perfect confidence. He was so still, so very still—quiescent—they feared him no more than they did the wall; they could not hear his breathing. Had they been gifted with human intelligence that very fact would have excited their suspicions. Why so very, very still? Strong men, wearied by work, do not sleep quietly; they breathe heavily. Even in firm sleep we move a little now and then, a limb trembles, a muscle quivers, or stretches itself. But Iden was so still it was evident he was really wide awake and restraining his breath, and exercising conscious command over his muscles, that this scene might proceed undisturbed.
Now the strangeness of the thing was in this way: Iden set traps for mice in the cellar and the larder, and slew them there without mercy. He picked up the trap, swung it round, opening the door at the same instant, and the wretched captive was dashed to death upon the stone flags of the floor. So he hated them and persecuted them in one place, and fed them in another. A long psychological discussion might be held on this apparent inconsistency, but I shall leave analysis to those who like it, and go on recording facts.
I will only make one remark. That nothing is consistent that is human. If it was not inconsistent it would have no association with a living person. From the merest thin slit, as it were, between his eyelids, Iden watched the mice feed and run about his knees till, having eaten every crumb, they descended his leg to the floor.
His especial and striking characteristic was a very large, high, and noble forehead—the forehead attributed to Shakespeare and seen in his busts. Shakespeare's intellect is beyond inquiry, yet he was not altogether a man of action. He was, indeed, an actor upon the stage; once he stole the red deer delightful to think of that!
So much intellect is, perhaps, antagonistic to action, or rather it is averse to those arts by which a soldier climbs to the position of commander. His intellect was too big to climb backstairs till opportunity came. We have great thoughts instead of battles. Iden's forehead might have been sculptured for Shakespeare's.
There was too much thought in it for the circumstances of his life. It is possible to think till you cannot act. After the mice descended Iden did sleep for a few minutes. When he awoke he looked at the clock in a guilty way, and then opening the oven of the grate, took out a baked apple. He had one there ready for him almost always—always, that is, when they were not ripe on the trees. A baked apple, he said, was the most wholesome thing in the world; it corrected the stomach, prevented acidity, improved digestion, and gave tone to all the food that had been eaten previously. If people would only eat baked apples they would not need to be for ever going to the chemists' shops for drugs and salines to put them right.
The women were always at the chemists' shops—you could never pass the chemists' shops in the town without seeing two or three women buying something. The apple was the apple of fruit, the natural medicine of man—and the best flavoured. It was compounded of the sweetest extracts and essences of air and light, put together of sunshine and wind and shower in such a way that no laboratory could  imitate: and so on in a strain and with a simplicity of language that reminded you of Bacon and his philosophy of the Elizabethan age.
Iden in a way certainly had a tinge of the Baconian culture, naturally, and not from any study of that author, whose books he had never seen. The great Bacon was, in fact, a man of orchard and garden, and gathered his ideas from the fields. Just look at an apple on the tree, said Iden. Look at a Blenheim orange, the inimitable mixture of colour, the gold and bronze, and ruddy tints, not bright colours—undertones of bright colours—smoothed together and polished, and made the more delightful by occasional roughness in the rind.
Or look at the brilliant King Pippin. Now he was getting older he found, however, that the finest of them all was the russet. Apple-sauce made of the real true russet was a sauce for Jove's own table. It was necessary that it should be the real russet. Indeed in apple trees you had to be as careful of breeding and pedigree as the owners of racing stables were about their horses. Ripe apples could not be got all the year round in any variety; besides which, in winter and cold weather the crudity of the stomach needed to be assisted with a little warmth; therefore bake them.
People did not eat nearly enough fruit now-a-days; they had too much butcher's meat, and not enough fruit—that is, home-grown fruit, straight from orchard or garden, not the half-sour stuff sold in the shops, picked before it was ready. The Americans were much wiser he knew a good deal about America—he had been there in his early days, before thought superseded action —the Americans had kept up many of the fine old English customs of two or three hundred years since, and among these was the eating of fruit.
They were accused of being so modern, so very, very modern, but, in fact, the country Americans, with whom he had lived and who had taught him how to chop maintained much of the genuine antique life of old England. They had first-rate apples, yet it was curious that the same trees produced an apple having a slightly different flavour to what it had in this country. You could always distinguish an American apple by its peculiar piquancy—a sub-acid piquancy, a wild strawberry piquancy, a sort of woodland, forest, backwoods delicacy of its own.
And so on, and so on—"talk, talk, talk," as Mrs. Iden said. After his baked apple he took another guilty look at the clock, it was close on four, and went into the passage to get his hat. In farmhouses these places are called passages; in the smallest of villas, wretched little villas not fit to be called houses, they are always "halls.
In the passage Mrs. Iden was waiting for him, and began to thump his broad though bowed back with all her might. You sleep till you stupefy yourself thump , and then you go and dig. What's the use of digging? Why don't you make some money? Talk and sleep! I hate it. You've rubbed the paint off the wainscot with your sleep, sleep, sleep thump —there's one of your hairs sticking to the paint where your head goes. Anything more hateful—sleep thump , talk thump , sleep thump. Go on! She had thumped him down the passage, and across the covered-in court to the door opening on the garden.
There he paused to put on his hat—an aged, battered hat—some sort of nondescript bowler, broken, grey, weather-stained, very battered and very aged—a pitiful hat to put above that broad, Shakespearian forehead. While he fitted it on he was thumped severely: when he opened the door he paused, and involuntarily looked up at the sky to see about the weather—a habit all country people have—and so got more thumping, ending as he started out with a tremendous push. He did not seem to resent the knocks, nor did the push accelerate his pace; he took it very much as he took the March wind.
Iden slammed the door, and went in to  clear the dinner things, and make ready for tea. Amaryllis helped her. Amaryllis was silent. She was very fond of her father; he never did anything wrong in her eyes, and she could have pointed out that when he sat down to dinner at one he had already worked as many hours as Mrs. Iden's model City gentleman in a whole day. His dinner at one was, in effect, equivalent to their dinner at seven or eight, over which they frequently lingered an hour or two.
He would still go on labouring, almost another half day. But she held her peace, for, on the other hand, she could not contradict and argue with her mother, whom she knew had had a wearisome life and perpetual disappointments. Iden grumbled on to herself, working herself into a more fiery passion, till at last she put down the tea-pot, and rushed into the garden. There as she came round the first thing she saw was the daffodil, the beautiful daffodil Amaryllis had discovered. Beside herself with indignation—what was the use of flowers or potatoes?
Iden stepped on the border and trampled the flower under foot till it was shapeless. After this she rushed indoors again and upstairs to her bedroom, where she locked herself in, and fumbled about in the old black oak chest of drawers till she found a faded lavender glove. That glove had been worn at the old "Ship" at Brighton years and years ago in the honeymoon trip: in those days bridal parties went down by coach. Faded with years, it had also faded from the tears that had fallen upon it.
She turned it over in her hands, and her tears spotted it once more. Amaryllis went on with the tea-making; for her mother to rush away in that manner was nothing new. She toasted her father a piece of toast—he affected to despise toast, but he always ate it if it was there, and looked about for it if it was not, though he never said anything.
The clock struck five, and out she went to tell him tea was ready. Coming round the house she found her daffodil crushed to pieces. She knew immediately who had done it; she ran to her bedroom to cry and to hide her grief and indignation. Some bare branches of a plum tree trained against the wall rose thin and tapering above it in a bunch, a sign of bad gardening, for they ought to have been pruned, and the tree, indeed, had an appearance of neglect. One heavy bough had broken away from the nails and list, and drooped to the ground, and the shoots of last year, not having been trimmed, thrust themselves forward presumptuously.
Behind the bunch of thin and tapering branches rising above the wall Amaryllis was partly hidden, but she relied a great deal more for concealment upon a fact Iden had taught her, that people very seldom look up; and consequently if you are only a little higher they will not see you. This she proved that morning, for not one of all who passed glanced up from the road.
The shepherd kept his eye fixed on his sheep, and the drover on his bullocks; the boys were in a hurry to get to the fair and spend their pennies; the wenches had on a bit of blue ribbon or a new bonnet, and were perpetually looking at the traps that overtook them to see if the men admired their finery. No one looked up from the road they were pursuing. The photographer fixes the head of the sitter by a sort of stand at the back, which holds it steady in one position while the camera takes the picture.
In life most people have their heads fixed in the  claws of some miserable pettiness, which interests them so greatly that they tramp on steadily forward, staring ahead, and there's not the slightest fear of their seeing anything outside the rut they are travelling. Amaryllis did not care anything about the fair or the people either, knowing very well what sort they would be; but I suspect, if it had been possible to have got at the cause which brought her there, it would have been traced to the unconscious influence of sex, a perfectly innocent prompting, quite unrecognised by the person who feels it, and who would indignantly deny it if rallied on the subject, but which leads girls of her age to seize opportunities of observing the men, even if of an uninteresting order.
Still they are men, those curious beings, that unknown race, and little bits of knowledge about them may, perhaps, be picked up by a diligent observer. The men who drifted along the road towards the Fair were no "mashers, by Jove! Hundreds of them on foot, in traps, gigs, fourwheels, and on horseback, went under Amaryllis: but, though they were all Christians, there was not one "worth a Jewess' eye. This member of the unknown race was too thickly made, short set, and squat; this one too fair—quite white and moist-sugar looking; this one had a straight leg.
Another went by with a great thick and long black beard—what a horrid thing, now, when kissing! His neck, too, was red and thick; hideous, yet he was a "stout knave," and a man all over, as far as body makes a man. But women are, like Shakespeare, better judges. A good many of these fellows were more or less lame, for it is astonishing if you watch people go by and keep account of them what a number have game legs, both young and old. A young buck on a capital horse was at the first glance more interesting—paler, rakish, a cigar in his mouth, an air of viciousness and dash combined, fairly well dressed, pale whiskers and beard; in short, he knew as much of the billiard-table as he did of sheep and corn.
When nearer Amaryllis disliked him more than all the rest put together; she shrank back a little from the wall lest he should chance to look up; she would have feared to have been alone with such a character, and yet she could not have said why. She would not have feared to walk side by side with the great black beard—hideous as he was—nor with any of the rest, not even with the  roughest of the labourers who tramped along.
This gentleman alone alarmed her. There were two wenches, out for their Fair Day holiday, coming by at the same time; they had on their best dresses and hats, and looked fresh and nice.
Downfall of “The Seducer” – 10 Zen Monkeys
They turned round to watch him coming, and half waited for him; when he came up he checked his horse, and began to "cheek" them. Nothing loth, the village girls "cheeked" him, and so they passed on. One or two very long men appeared, unusually clumsy, even in walking they did not know exactly what to do with their legs. Amaryllis had no objection to their being tall—indeed, to be tall is often a passport to a "Jewess' eye"—but they were so clumsy. Of the scores who went by in traps and vehicles she could not see much but their clothes and their faces, and both the clothes and the faces were very much alike.
Rough, good cloth, ill-fitting the shoulders were too broad for the tailor, who wanted to force Bond Street measurements on the British farmer's back ; reddish, speckled faces, and yellowish hair and whiskers; big speckled hands, and that was all. Scores of men, precisely similar, were driven down the road. If those broad speckled hands had been shown to Jacob's ewes he need not have peeled rods to make them bring forth speckled lambs. Against the stile a long way up the road there was a group of five or six men, who were there  when she first peered over the wall, and made no further progress to the Fair.
They were waiting till some acquaintance came by and offered a lift; lazy dogs, they could not walk. They had already been there long enough to have walked to the Fair and back, still they preferred to fold their hands and cross their legs, and stay on. So many people being anxious to get to the town, most of those who drove had picked up friends long before they got here.
The worst walker of all was a constable, whose huge boots seemed to take possession of the width of the road, for he turned them out at right angles, working his legs sideways to do it, an extraordinary exhibition of stupidity and ugliness, for which the authorities who drilled him in that way were responsible, and not the poor fellow. Among the lowing cattle and the baaing sheep there drifted by a variety of human animals, tramps and vagrants, not nearly of so much value as the wool and beef.
It is curious that these "characters"—as they are so kindly called—have a way of associating themselves with things that promise vast enjoyment to others. The number of unhappy, shirtless wretches who thread their path in and out the coaches at the Derby is wonderful. While the champagne fizzes above on the roof, and the footman between the shafts sits on an upturned hamper and helps himself out of another to pie with truffles, the hungry, lean kine of human life wander round  about sniffing and smelling, like Adam and Eve after the fall at the edge of Paradise. There are such incredible swarms of vagrants at the Derby that you might think the race was got up entirely for their sakes.
There would be thousands at Sandown, but the gate is locked with a half-crown bolt, and they cannot get a stare at the fashionables on the lawn. For all that, the true tramp, male or female, is so inveterate an attendant at races and all kinds of accessible entertainments and public events that the features of the fashionable are better known to him than to hundreds of well-to-do people unable to enter society. So they paddled along to the fair, slip-slop, in the dust, among the cattle and sheep, hands in pockets, head hanging down, most of them followed at a short distance by a Thing.
This Thing is upright, and therefore, according to the old definition, ought to come within the genus Homo. It wears garments rudely resembling those of a woman, and there it ends. Perhaps it was a woman once; perhaps it never was, for many of them have never had a chance to enter the ranks of their own sex. Amaryllis was too young, and, as a consequence, too full of her own strength and youth and joy in life to think for long or seriously about these curious Things drifting by like cattle and sheep.
Yet her brow contracted, and she drew herself together as they passed—a sort of shiver, to think that there should be such degradation in the world. Twice  when they came along her side of the road she dropped pennies in front of them, which they picked up in a listless way, just glancing over the ear in the direction the money fell, and went on without so much as recognizing where it came from.
If sheep were treated as unfortunate human beings are, they would take a bitter revenge; though they are the mildest of creatures, they would soon turn round in a venomous manner. If they did not receive sufficient to eat and drink, and were not well sheltered, they would take a bitter revenge: they would die. But human beings have not even got the courage or energy to do that; they put up with anything, and drag on—miserables that they are.
I said they were not equal in value to the sheep—why, they're not worth anything when they're dead. You cannot even sell the skins of the Things! Slip-slop in the dust they drive along to the fair, where there will be an immense amount of eating and a far larger amount of drinking all round them, in every house they pass, and up to midnight. They will see valuable animals, and men with well-lined pockets. What on earth can a tramp find to please him among all this? It is not for him; yet he goes to see it.
Why, Measter Duck, what's up? Looking for a thunderstorm? Measter Duck, with a broad grin on his face, nevertheless plodded up the hill, and passed beneath Amaryllis. She knew him very well, for he lived in the hamlet, but she would not have taken any notice of him had he not been so elaborately dressed. His high silk hat shone glossy; his black broadcloth coat was new and carefully brushed; he was in black all over, in contrast with the mass of people who had gone by that morning.
A blue necktie, bright and clean, spotless linen, gloves  rolled up in a ball in one hand, whiskers brushed, boots shining, teeth clean, Johnny was off to the fair! The coat fitted him to a nicety; it had, in fact, no chance to do otherwise, for his great back and shoulders stretched it tight, and would have done so had it been made like a sack. Of all the big men who had gone by that day Jack Duck was the biggest; his back was immense, and straight, too, for he walked upright for a farmer, nor was his bulk altogether without effect, for he was not over-burdened with abdomen, so that it showed to the best advantage.
He was a little over the average height, but not tall; he had grown laterally. His sleeves were too long, so that only the great knuckles of his speckled hands were visible. Red whiskers, red hair, blue eyes, speckled face, straight lips, thick, like the edge of an earthenware pitcher, and of much the same coarse red hue, always a ready grin, a round, hard head, which you might have hit safely with a mallet; and there is the picture.
For some reason, very big men do not look well in glossy black coats and silk hats; they seem to want wideawakes, bowlers, caps, anything rather than a Paris hat, and some loose-cut jacket of a free-and-easy colour, suitable for the field, or cricket, or boating. They do not belong to the town and narrow doorways; Nature grew them for hills and fields.
Compared with the Continental folk, most Englishmen are big, and therefore, as their "best" suits do not fit in with their character as written in limbs and shoulders, the Continent thinks us clumsy. The truth is, it is the Continent that is little. As she watched the people she unconsciously trifled with a little piece of moss—her hand happened at the moment to project over the wall, and as John Duck went under she dropped the bit of moss straight on his glossy hat.
She drew back quickly, laughing and blushing, and angry with herself all at the same time, for she had done it without a thought. Jack pulled off his hat, saw nothing, and put it on again, suspecting that some one in a passing gig had "chucked" something at him. In a minute Amaryllis peeped over the wall, and, seeing his broad back a long way up the road, resumed her stand. Aren't they all ugly? All of them—horridly ugly. The entire unknown race of Man was hideous. Their eyes were goggles, round and staring—like liquid marbles—they had no eyelashes, and their eyebrows were either white and invisible, or shaggy, as if thistles grew along their foreheads.
Their cheeks were speckled and freckled and red and brick-dust and leather-coloured, and enclosed with scrubby whiskers, like a garden hedge. Upon the whole, those who shaved and were smooth looked worse than those who did not, for they thus exposed the angularities of their chins and jaws. They wore such horrid hats on the top of these roughly-sketched faces—sketched, as it were, with a bit of burnt stick. Some of them had their hats on the backs of their heads, and some wore them aslant, and some jammed over their brows.
They went along smoking and puffing, and talking and guffawing in the vulgarest way, en route to swill and smoke and puff and guffaw somewhere else. Whoever could tell what they were talking about? They had no form or grace like a woman—no lovely sloped shoulders, no beautiful bosom, no sweeping curve of robe down to the feet. No softness of cheek, or silky hair, or complexion, or taper fingers, or arched eyebrows; no sort of style whatever.
They were mere wooden figures; and, in short, sublimely ugly. There was a good deal of truth in Amaryllis' reflections; it was a pity a woman was not taken into confidence when the men were made. Suppose the women were like the men, and we had to make love to such a set of bristly, grisly wretches!
The patience of the women, putting up with us so long! As for the muscles on which we pride ourselves so much, in a woman's eyes though she prefers a strong man they simply increase our extraordinary ugliness. But if we look pale, and slim, and so forth, then they despise us, and there is no doubt that altogether the men were made wrong. Pounding up the slope, big John Duck came by-and-by to the gateway, and entering without ceremony, as is the custom in the country, found Mr. Iden near the back door talking to a farmer who had seated himself on a stool.
He was a middle-aged man, stout and florid, rough as a chunk of wood, but dressed in his best  brown for the fair. Tears were rolling down his vast round cheeks as he expatiated on his grievances to Mr. Iden, not a little glad of an opportunity to escape a repetition of the narrative, to which he had patiently listened, took Jack by the arm, and led him indoors. As they went the man on the stool extended his arm towards them hopelessly:—"Just you see how I be helped up with this here 'ooman!
Iden met Jack with a gracious smile—she always did—yet there could not have been imagined a man less likely to have pleased her. A quick, nervous temperament, an eye sharp to detect failings or foolishness, an admirer of briskness and vivacity, why did she welcome John Duck, that incarnation of stolidity and slowness, that enormous mountain of a man? Because extremes meet? No, since she was always complaining of Iden's dull, motionless life; so it was not the contrast to her own disposition that charmed her.
The best of matrons like to see Another Man enter their houses; there's no viciousness in it, it is simply nature, which requires variety. The best of husbands likes to have another woman—or two, or three—on a visit; there's nothing wrong, it is  innocent enough, and but gives a spice to the monotony of existence.
Besides, John Duck, that mountain of slowness and stolidity, was not perhaps a fool, notwithstanding his outward clumsiness. A little attention is appreciated even by a matron of middle age. Iden brought a full jug with her own hands—a rare thing, for she hated the Goliath barrel as Iden enjoyed it. I just come up to ask if you'd ride in my dog-trap? Iden, contemptuously. Get on your clean shirt, and go.
Jack can wait—he can talk to Amaryllis while you dress. He knew that Mrs. Iden never went anywhere, and that Mr. Iden could not make up his mind in a minute—he would require three or four days at least—so that it was quite safe to ask them first. You had better go and ask her; she's down at Plum Corner, watching the people.
That part of the garden was called Plum Corner because of a famous plum tree—the one that had not been pruned and was sprawling about the wall. Iden had planted that plum tree specially for Mrs. Iden, because she was so fond of a ripe luscious plum. But of late years he had not pruned it. It really was humming stuff, but John well knew how proud Iden was of it, and how much he liked to hear it praised. The inhabitants of the City of London conceitedly imagine that no one can be sharp-witted outside the sound of Bow Bells—country people are stupid.
My opinion is that clumsy Jack Duck, who took about half an hour to write his name, was equal to most of them. Folk don't know how to put up a wall now—you read in the papers how the houses valls down in Lunnon. Iden were not  averse to his suit; but he was doubtful about Amaryllis herself.
Amaryllis had not the slightest idea Duck had so much as looked at her—he called often, but seemed absorbed in the ale and gossip. Fancy her scorn if she had guessed! John Duck was considered one of the most eligible young men thereabouts, for though by no means born in the purple of farming, it was believed he was certain to be very "warm" indeed when his father died. Old Duck, the son of a common labourer, occupied two or three of the finest farms in the neighbourhood.
He made his money in a waggon—a curious place, you will say; why so? Have you ever seen the dingy, dark china-closets they call offices in the City? Have you ever ascended the dirty, unscrubbed, disgraceful staircase that leads to a famous barrister's "chambers"? These are far less desirable, surely, than a seat in a waggon in a beautiful meadow or cornfield. Old Duck, being too ponderous to walk, was driven about in a waggon, sitting at the rear with his huge, short legs dangling down; and, the waggon being halted in a commanding position, he overlooked his men at work.
One day he was put in a cart instead, and the carter walking home beside the horse, and noting what a pull it was for him up the hills, and drawling along half asleep, quite forgot his master, and dreamed he had a load of stones. By-and-by, he pulled out the bar, and shot Old Duck out. Riding about in this rude chariot the old fellow had amassed considerable wealth—his reputation for money was very great indeed—and his son John would, of course, come in for it. John felt sure of Mr. Iden, but about Amaryllis he did not know. The idea that she had dropped "summat" on his hat raised his spirits immensely.
Now Amaryllis was not yet beautiful—she was too young; I do not think any girl is really beautiful so young—she was highly individualized, and had a distinct character, as it were, in her face and figure. You saw at a glance that there was something about her very different from other girls, something very marked, but it was not beauty yet. Whether John thought her handsome, or saw that she would be, or what, I do not know; or whether he looked "forrard," as he would have said. John had never read Burns, and would not have known that tocher meant dowry; nor had he seen the advice of Tennyson—.
It was patent to everyone that her father, Iden, was as poor as the raggedest coat in Christendom could make him; but it was equally well known and a matter of public faith, that her grandfather, the great miller and baker, Lord Lardy-Cake, as the boys called him derisively, had literally bushels upon bushels of money. He was a famous stickler for ancient usages, and it was understood that there were twenty thousand spade guineas in an iron box under his bed.
Any cottager in the whole country side could have told you so, and would have smiled at your ignorance; the thing was as well known as that St. Paul's is in the City. Besides which there was another consideration, old Granfer Iden was a great favourite at Court—Court meaning the mansion of the Hon. Raleigh Pamment, the largest landowner that side of the county. Granfer Iden entered the Deer Park which was private with a special key whenever he pleased, he strolled about the gardens, looked in at the conservatory, chatted familiarly with the royal family of Pamment when they were at home, and when they were away took any friend he chose through the galleries and saloons.
Amaryllis heard their talk as they came nearer,  and turned round and faced them. She wore a black dress, but no hat; instead she had carelessly thrown a scarlet shawl over her head, mantilla fashion, and held it with one hand. Her dark ringlets fringed her forehead, blown free and wild; the fresh air had brought a bright colour into her cheeks. As is often the case with girls whose figure is just beginning to show itself, her dress seemed somewhat shortened in front—lifted up from her ankles, which gave the effect of buoyancy to her form, she seemed about to walk though standing still.
There was a defiant light in her deep brown eyes, that sort of "I don't care" disposition which our grandmothers used to say would take us to the gallows. Defiance, wilfulness, rebellion, was expressed in the very way she stood on the bank, a little higher than they were, and able to look over their heads.
Run in and dress. As he walked down the road home for his dog-trap he looked up at the corner of the wall, but she was not looking over then. Iden had fetched her in, as it was time to dress. There was no depending on Mrs. At one time she would go on and abuse Granfer Iden for an hour at a time, calling him every name she could think of, and accusing him of every folly under the sun. At another time she would solemnly inform Amaryllis that they had not a farthing of money, and how necessary it was that they should be attentive and civil to him.
One day Mrs. Iden humoured her every whim and let her do just as she pleased; the next she insisted on minute obedience.
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So Amaryllis, much against her will, was bustled out of the house and started off. As John had foreseen, she soon quitted the road to follow the path across the fields, which was shorter. An hour or so later Iden came in from work as usual, a few minutes before dinner, and having drawn his quart of ale, sat down to sip it in the bow window till the dishes were brought. Let him keep his money. I'm as good as he is any day.
My family go about, and do some business——". What's your family then, that you should be so grand? You're descended from a lardy-cake! This was an allusion to Mrs. Iden's grandfather, who had kept a small wayside public. There was no disgrace in it, for he was a very respectable man, and laid the foundation of his family's fortune, but it drove Mrs. Iden into frenzy. Where's the Manor? Where's Upper Court? They built a house to drink in and nothing else. You know they did. You told me yourself.
The most disgraceful set of drunkards that ever lived! Iden was London born. Fidgetty, miserable, nervous set they be. You've been talking with the lazy lot over at the stile, and you've been talking with that old fool at the back door, and talking with Jack Duck—and that's your second mug!
You're descended from a nasty, greasy lardy-cake! Iden snatched a piece of bread from the table and thrust it in one pocket, flung open the oven-door, and put a baked apple in the other pocket, and so marched out to eat what he could in quiet under a tree in the fields. In the oratory of abuse there is no resource so successful as raking up the weaknesses of the opponent's family, especially when the parties are married, for having gossiped with each other for so long in the most confidential manner, they know every foible. How Robert drank, and Tom bet,  and Sam swore, and Bill knocked his wife about, and Joseph did as Potiphar's spouse asked him, and why your uncle had to take refuge in Spain; and so on to an indefinite extent, like the multiplication table.
Of a summer's eve, when the day's work among the hot hay was done, Iden would often go out and sit under the russet apple till the dew had filled the grass like a green sea. When the tide of the dew had risen he would take off his heavy boots and stockings, and so walk about in the cool shadows of eve, paddling in the wet grass. He liked the refreshing coolness and the touch of the sward. It was not for washing, because he was scrupulously clean under the ragged old coat; it was because he liked the grass. There was nothing very terrible in it; men, and women, too, take off their shoes and stockings, and wade about on the sands at the sea, and no one thinks that it is anything but natural, reasonable, and pleasant.
But, then, you see, everybody does it at the seaside, and Iden alone waded in the dew, and that was his crime—that he alone did it. The storm and rage of Mrs. Iden whenever she knew he was paddling in the grass was awful. She would come shuffling out—she had a way of rubbing her shoes along the ground when irritated with her hands under her apron, which she twisted about—and pelt him with scorn.
Nobody ever does it but you, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Anything more disgusting I never heard of. Nobody else but you would ever think of such a thing; makes me feel queer to see you. Shuffling about, and muttering to herself, "Nobody else"—that was the sin and guilt of it—by-and-by Mrs. Iden would circle round to where he had left his boots, and, suddenly seizing them, would fling them in the ditch. And I verily believe, in the depth of her indignation, if she had not been afraid to touch firearms, she would have brought out the gun, and had a shot at him. After a time Iden left his old post at the russet apple, and went up the meadow to the horse-chestnut trees that he himself had planted, and there, in peace and quietness and soft cool shadow, waded about in the dew, without any one to grumble at him.
It is the modern fashion to laugh at the East, and despise the Turks and all their ways, making  Grand Viziers of barbers, and setting waiters in high places, with the utmost contempt for anything reasonable—all so incongruous and chance-ruled. In truth, all things in our very midst go on in the Turkish manner; crooked men are set in straight places, and straight people in crooked places, just the same as if we had all been dropped promiscuously out of a bag and shook down together on the earth to work out our lives, quite irrespective of our abilities and natures.
Such an utter jumble! Here was Iden, with his great brain and wonderful power of observation, who ought to have been a famous traveller in unexplored Africa or Thibet, bringing home rarities and wonders; or, with his singular capacity for construction, a leading engineer, boring Mont Cenis Tunnels and making Panama Canals; or, with his Baconian intellect, forming a new school of philosophy—here was Iden, tending cows, and sitting, as the old story goes, undecidedly on a stile—sitting astride—eternally sitting, and unable to make up his mind to get off on one side or the other.
Here was Mrs. Iden, who had had a beautiful shape and expressive eyes, full in her youth of life and fire, who ought to have led the gayest life in London and Paris alternately, riding in a carriage, and flinging money about in the most extravagant, joyous, and good-natured manner—here was Mrs. Iden making butter in a dull farmhouse, and wearing shoes out at the toes. So our lives go on, rumble-jumble, like a carrier's  cart over ruts and stones, thumping anyhow instead of running smoothly on new-mown sward like a cricket-ball. Another time there would come a letter from one of the Flammas in London.
Could they spare a little bag of lavender? Then you might see Mr. Iden cooing and billing, soft as turtle-doves, and fraternising in the garden over the lavender hedge. Here was another side, you see, to the story. Iden was very fond of lavender, the scent, and the plant in every form. She kept little bags of it in all her drawers, and everything at Coombe Oaks upstairs in the bedrooms had a faint, delicious lavender perfume.