<!-- Some lorem ibsum showing how various elements lay out, then the first chapter of Frankenstein -->
<header>
<h1>My Big Book Test</h1>
<p>By Christopher DeLuca</p>
</header>
<h2>Qui autem de summo bono dissentit de tota philosophiae ratione dissentit.</h2>
<p>Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Quasi ego id curem, quid ille aiat aut neget. Prodest, inquit, mihi eo esse animo. Duo Reges: constructio interrete. Quid ad utilitatem tantae pecuniae? Quam nemo umquam voluptatem appellavit, appellat; Non minor, inquit, voluptas percipitur ex vilissimis rebus quam ex pretiosissimis. </p>
<p>Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Quasi ego id curem, quid ille aiat aut neget. Prodest, inquit, mihi eo esse animo. Duo Reges: constructio interrete. Quid ad utilitatem tantae pecuniae? Quam nemo umquam voluptatem appellavit, appellat; Non minor, inquit, voluptas percipitur ex vilissimis rebus quam ex pretiosissimis. </p>
<blockquote cite="http://loripsum.net">
Quantam rem agas, ut Circeis qui habitet totum hunc mundum suum municipium esse existimet?
</blockquote>
<p>Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Quasi ego id curem, quid ille aiat aut neget. Prodest, inquit, mihi eo esse animo. Duo Reges: constructio interrete. Quid ad utilitatem tantae pecuniae? Quam nemo umquam voluptatem appellavit, appellat; Non minor, inquit, voluptas percipitur ex vilissimis rebus quam ex pretiosissimis. </p>
<h2>Nummus in Croesi divitiis obscuratur, pars est tamen divitiarum.</h2>
<p>Est enim effectrix multarum et magnarum voluptatum. <i>Si quidem, inquit, tollerem, sed relinquo.</i> Ut proverbia non nulla veriora sint quam vestra dogmata. Memini vero, inquam; Octavio fuit, cum illam severitatem in eo filio adhibuit, quem in adoptionem D. Sit hoc ultimum bonorum, quod nunc a me defenditur; Post enim Chrysippum eum non sane est disputatum. Quid vero? </p>
<hr>
<p>Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Quasi ego id curem, quid ille aiat aut neget. Prodest, inquit, mihi eo esse animo. Duo Reges: constructio interrete. Quid ad utilitatem tantae pecuniae? Quam nemo umquam voluptatem appellavit, appellat; Non minor, inquit, voluptas percipitur ex vilissimis rebus quam ex pretiosissimis. </p>
<p>Est enim effectrix multarum et magnarum voluptatum. <i>Si quidem, inquit, tollerem, sed relinquo.</i> Ut proverbia non nulla veriora sint quam vestra dogmata. Memini vero, inquam; Octavio fuit, cum illam severitatem in eo filio adhibuit, quem in adoptionem D. Sit hoc ultimum bonorum, quod nunc a me defenditur; Post enim Chrysippum eum non sane est disputatum. Quid vero? </p>
<ul>
<li>Ita multa dicunt, quae vix intellegam.</li>
<li>An, partus ancillae sitne in fructu habendus, disseretur inter principes civitatis, P.</li>
</ul>
<p>Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Quasi ego id curem, quid ille aiat aut neget. Prodest, inquit, mihi eo esse animo. Duo Reges: constructio interrete. Quid ad utilitatem tantae pecuniae? Quam nemo umquam voluptatem appellavit, appellat; Non minor, inquit, voluptas percipitur ex vilissimis rebus quam ex pretiosissimis. </p>
<hr data-break="hard">
<p>Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Quasi ego id curem, quid ille aiat aut neget. Prodest, inquit, mihi eo esse animo. Duo Reges: constructio interrete. Quid ad utilitatem tantae pecuniae? Quam nemo umquam voluptatem appellavit, appellat; Non minor, inquit, voluptas percipitur ex vilissimis rebus quam ex pretiosissimis. </p>
<ol>
<li>At ille pellit, qui permulcet sensum voluptate.</li>
<li>An vero, inquit, quisquam potest probare, quod perceptfum, quod.</li>
<li>Tu vero, inquam, ducas licet, si sequetur;</li>
</ol>
<p>Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Quasi ego id curem, quid ille aiat aut neget. Prodest, inquit, mihi eo esse animo. Duo Reges: constructio interrete. Quid ad utilitatem tantae pecuniae? Quam nemo umquam voluptatem appellavit, appellat; Non minor, inquit, voluptas percipitur ex vilissimis rebus quam ex pretiosissimis. </p>
<h2><a name="chap01"></a>Chapter 1</h2>
<p>
I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most
distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years
counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public
situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who
knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public
business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the
affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his
marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a
husband and the father of a family.
</p>
<p>
As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot
refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a
merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous
mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a
proud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty
and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been
distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his
daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in
wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship and
was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances.
He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct
so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in
endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin
the world again through his credit and assistance.
</p>
<p>
Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten
months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery,
he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the
Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort
had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but
it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in
the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a
merchant’s house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction;
his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had leisure for
reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at the end
of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.
</p>
<p>
His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw
with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that
there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort
possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support
her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw and
by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to
support life.
</p>
<p>
Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time
was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence
decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving
her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her, and she knelt
by Beaufort’s coffin weeping bitterly, when my father entered the
chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who
committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he
conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a
relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.
</p>
<p>
There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but
this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted
affection. There was a sense of justice in my father’s upright mind
which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love
strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the
late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set
a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and
worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the
doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her
virtues and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing
her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace
to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes
and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is
sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her
with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and
benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto
constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During
the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had
gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after
their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change
of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders,
as a restorative for her weakened frame.
</p>
<p>
From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born
at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained
for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each
other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very
mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother’s tender caresses and
my father’s smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my
first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something
better—their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on
them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in
their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled
their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed
towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit
of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during
every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity,
and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but
one train of enjoyment to me.
</p>
<p>
For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a
daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five
years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they
passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent
disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my
mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a
passion—remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been
relieved—for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the
afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale
attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number
of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst
shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother,
accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife,
hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to
five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far
above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were
dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her
hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her
clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was
clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of
her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold
her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent,
and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.
</p>
<p>
The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was
not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a
German and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with
these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been
long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their
charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory
of Italy—one among the <i>schiavi ognor frementi,</i> who exerted
himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its
weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria
was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and
a beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude
abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.
</p>
<p>
When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of
our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub—a creature who seemed
to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter
than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his
permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their
charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed
a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty
and want when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They
consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza
became the inmate of my parents’ house—my more than
sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and
my pleasures.
</p>
<p>
Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential
attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my
pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to
my home, my mother had said playfully, “I have a pretty present for my
Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.” And when, on the morrow, she
presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish
seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth
as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on
her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body
forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than
sister, since till death she was to be mine only.
</p>
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