When the Marquise Desmoines received from Fillmore a letter announcing
that the defendants in the case of Desmoines _vs._ Lancaster declined to
defend, she uttered a sharp cry, and dropped the letter as if it had
been poisonous. That strange sense of justice--of what is fairly due to
one as a human being--which is perhaps the last thing to die out of even
the least deserving of God’s creatures, told her heart that she had been
outraged. All things had slipped away from her. Despite all her powers,
and her desperate yearning to exercise them, she was powerless. There
could scarcely be, for her, a keener suffering. With some natures, the
very intensity of anguish is its own partial antidote; the faculties are
so far stunned as to be unable, for a time, to gauge the poignancy of
the disaster. But Perdita’s clear and vigorous intellect would not
permit her such an escape. She immediately saw her position in all its
bearings and prospects. Her mind shed a pitiless light upon every aspect
of her defeat and humiliation. Something vital within her seemed to gasp
and die.
After a long, breathless pause, she took up the letter again, and read
it to the end. It contained a request on the part of the writer to be
allowed to call on her at a certain hour that evening. It was not
difficult to see what that meant. She had made the surrender of herself
to Fillmore contingent upon his recovery of the legacy: and he was
coming to claim the fulfillment of her promise. She would be called on
to play the part of a complaisant fiancée. At this picture, Perdita
laughed; and then, setting her teeth with rage, tore the paper into
fragments. Such rage is deadly. Had Fillmore been present, his fiancée
would have attempted his life. And yet it was not he that could enrage
her: nothing that he could have done could have affected one pulsation
of her heart. She had passed into a region of emotion almost infinitely
more intense than any with which he could be connected. But, as
sometimes a woman will kiss a child or a dog, thinking “this kiss is for
my lover!” so might Perdita have driven a dagger to Fillmore’s heart,
and said, “Be Philip and die!”
She looked at her hands: how white and fine they were,--how beautifully
formed! She rose and walked to and fro in the room; every movement was
grace and elasticity,--the harmonious play of parts exquisitely
fashioned and proportioned. She paused before the looking-glass, and
contemplated the form and features imaged there. She drew out her comb,
and shook down on her shoulders a soft depth of bright-hued hair. She
loosened the front of her dress, and exposed a bosom white as milk and
curved like the bowl of Ganymede, save for the slight indentation of a
scar, on the right breast. She gazed into the sparkling reflection of
her eyes, as if some mystery were hidden there. “I have seen no woman
more beautiful than you,” she said aloud. “What is the use of beauty?
Why was I born?”
She returned to her chair, and threw herself in it sidewise, as a child
might do, with her cheek resting against the back, one knee drawn up,
her hands folded, her eyelids closed. As she lay thus she looked like a
type of lovely and innocent weariness. “Why was I born?” she repeated in
a whisper. Her thoughts strayed back along the vista of her seven and
twenty years: from the distance she saw the figure of a little girl,
with bright hair and laughing eyes, come tripping onwards, inquisitive,
observant, quick-witted, stout-hearted; fond of her own way, and ready
to take her own part; but good-humored always and tolerant of others.
Onward comes the child, growing taller as it advances, beginning now to
realize its loneliness in the world, sometimes meditating gravely
thereon, but never losing courage; beginning also to realize its own
superior gifts, and exercising them experimentally, for the pleasure of
the use, and not always with too much heed for the effect on others.
Still forward she comes, with a step somewhat less frolicsome, with eyes
that look more penetratingly ... a mind that harbors ambitious thoughts;
a face that can conceal as well as express; a confidence in herself and
in her fortune: worldly wisdom already, at seventeen years. That great,
broad book of the world--of human life and character--with its
profundity, its insanity, its pathos, its absurdity, its veins of good,
its masses of evil,--the girl Perdita has studied it all, and no mother
no loving friend, has been beside her, to direct her studies, to
interpret her discoveries, to correct her errors.... Who is this antique
figure who now walks beside her, to whose formal and laborious gait she
endeavors to accommodate her own: this gray-haired man of more than
thrice her age, with his habits, his prejudices, his limitations, his
ailments? Is this her husband?--the lord and master of that brilliant,
buoyant creature? Ah, Perdita, are you his wife? Do you love him, honor
him, obey him? Are he and his possessions the final embodiment and
satisfaction of your ambitious dreams? Can you do without love--you, who
have never tried what love is? It is ill being prudent before
experience, and wise before instruction. Why are your lips so
persuasive, your eyes so winning, your touch so caressing?--Why are you
so lovely, Perdita?... Why were you born?
But still the young wife passes onward, with little misgiving and less
regret. There is a great deal of splendor and luxury around her, and
she easily makes herself their nucleus and culmination. Famous men pay
court to her; wise men listen to her conversation; women criticise and
try to imitate her. In the brilliant society of her day and place she is
a figure and a topic. Musicians dedicate their compositions to her;
poets immortalize her in their rhymes of a season. She is the heroine of
a hundred anecdotes, but of not a single romance: very intrepid and
adventurous, but with the coldness as well as the sparkle of ice. “Can’t
make her out,” said Lord Fitz Hardinge, who was said to have come to
Paris especially to be presented to her. “Don’t see how she keeps it
up--a woman of her complexion, too. Egad! I have it! The Marquis must be
Cupid in disguise!” This _mot_ was repeated until it reached Perdita’s
ears. “A woman’s complexion changes with her company,” she said; “and as
to the Marquis, my husband, it is better to be a disguised Cupid than a
make-believe one.” As his Lordship’s excesses had somewhat worn upon his
constitution, this shaft struck deep and resisted all efforts to extract
it. People seldom attacked the Marquise Desmoines more than once.
Meanwhile, Perdita is still sitting in the same position in her chair,
one knee drawn up, her hands clasped and her eyelids closed. What vision
does she behold now? A handsome room, with polished floor, the walls
bright with pictured panels bordered with gold; candles set in burnished
sconces: the door opens and her husband enters, leaning on the arm of a
tall young man. The stranger is plainly dressed, but his form and
bearing are noble: and his face, relieved by the black hair around it,
prints itself on her mind, never to be forgotten--so intense and vivid
does it seem with life and meaning, yet so composed and clear. A new
feeling, strange and sweet, creeps in gentle undulations along Perdita’s
nerves, and settles in her heart. He sits beside her, and they
converse, easily and with mutual pleasure and comprehension; his voice,
grave and genial, makes music in her ears; his dark direct glance meets
hers--absorbs and mingles with it. She draws fuller breath; this
atmosphere, in which she has never lived before, gives her for the first
time real life: she understands what she is, and what is possible for
her. The Enchanted Prince has awakened the Sleeping Beauty.
The days that follow are like no other days, before or since. He is a
poet, but what poetry ever equaled their companionship? The world, with
its follies, its emptiness, its formulas, its delusions, seems to stand
aside to let them pass.... One day they have ridden out with a
cavalcade, bound on an expedition of pleasure to some distant chateau.
Riding onward, she and he, and drawn insensibly together, they pass
fleetly along woodland paths, through dancing shade and sunlight,
leaving the others behind, or in advance, perhaps; they have little
thought but of each other. Light is Perdita’s heart; no shadow has
darkened it since that first meeting. The passing moments have filled
the capacity of sensation, leaving no room for reflection or forecast;
she has never even said to herself, “This is friendship,” or “This is
love;” enough that it is delight, growth, harmony, beauty: that it lets
her know how sweet it is to be a woman. At last, as they ride on, the
pinnacles of the chateau taper upward above the trees; anon, before them
opens a sweep of lawn, which they cross, and alight at the broad steps
that lead up to the door. They are the first to arrive; for half an
hour, perhaps, they will have the house to themselves, save for the
servants who are preparing the collation below-stairs.
They stroll through the airy rooms, with merry and gentle talk, until at
length they enter a hall where, over the chimney-piece, is suspended a
pair of antique rapiers. Perdita takes down one of these, and putting
herself in posture of offense, bids her companion take the other and
defend himself. He complies, and, for a few moments, laughingly parries
and pretends to return her thrusts. All at once, as she presses him, his
foot slips on the polished floor, and ere he can recover himself he
feels his point touch her breast....
At this point of the vision, Perdita slightly changes her position in
her chair, and a flush reddens her cheek. She breathes unevenly and her
lips move. Ah, that summer noon, so distant now, when she found herself
resting in his arms, her riding-habit stained with red blood--his face,
his voice, so near, so tender: his touch so gentle! She had looked into
his eyes, and laughed softly, in mere joy. Blessed sword! that by
drawing her blood had revealed their hearts to each other. But ah! why
was the wound not mortal? Was not the wound that it symbolized so? Why
had she not died during those few minutes--too few--that had gone by
before the sound of voices and horses’ hoofs announced the arrival of
the party? Had anything that had happened since been worth the trouble
of living through it? True, she had hoped; but hope is but the mask of
despair, sooner or later to be cast aside. Before her wound was healed,
the love which it had discovered had withdrawn itself, never to return.
There had been some talk about honor, obligation, duty, prudence--to
which she had assented with her lips, while all the rest of her
rebelled; for it had not been sin that she contemplated, but only to let
her heart love and be loved. Then, a farewell: and afterward a dreary
blankness, amidst which she moved hardened, witty, cynical,
unreconciled, until these latter days, which were bitterer and more
disastrous than the first. Why was she born?
Enough of visions! Perdita rose to her feet, and gazed about her. Luxury
and beauty surrounded her, as they had always done; but the darkness
and wilderness that were within her turned all to ugliness and mockery.
There was a terrible simplicity in her situation; a fatal lack of
resources and alternatives. She walked across the room: something seemed
to tread behind her; she turned quickly, but nothing was there. The
sense of being dogged--pursued--still remained however. What was
it?--fate? She smiled; then shivered nervously, and stood twisting her
handkerchief between her fingers. Fate.... The idea fascinated her. Was
her fate so near? and what was it like? Let it appear and declare
itself! After a while she began to walk again, but now meditating
profoundly. Once she stopped before the fire, and gazed fixedly at the
burning coals: then moved away once more, not pacing up and down, but
wandering irregularly about the room, knotting and untying her
handkerchief; sometimes, in her pre-occupation, almost stumbling against
a chair or table. Meanwhile, her usually varying expression had assumed
a certain fixedness, and there was a vertical wrinkle between her brows,
which seemed not to be caused by drawing her brows together, but to have
marked itself there by some other means.
At last she stopped, passing her hands across her eyes and over her
hair, which she seemed surprised to find hanging about her shoulders.
She twisted it up into place again, adjusted her dress, and after
pausing a moment as if to recover the thread of her thoughts, went to a
cabinet at the side of the room, and looked attentively at the objects
which it contained. They were mostly curiosities and works of art, such
as a carved ivory cup, a box of Indian enamel, a vase of Venetian glass,
figures in Dresden porcelain, a Chinese idol of silver, an antique
locket of wrought gold. From among these objects Perdita selected a
small, quaintly-fashioned lamp of pure crystal; it was of Persian
manufacture, and bore some figures or letters of enigmatic purport,
perhaps having reference to the tenets of the ancient fire-worshippers.
She examined this lamp curiously, wiping away the dust with her
handkerchief, and assuring herself that it contained no crack or
imperfection. Finally she placed it upon the table near the fire; and
having rung the bell, bade the servant summon Madame Cabot.
“Madame,” said the Marquise, when the old lady appeared, “I am expecting
some one to call here this evening,--Monsieur Fillmore.”
“Yes, Madame la Marquise.”
“I wish you to lay out the black satin gown, and the diamonds,--you
understand?”
“Yes, Madame la Marquise.”
“I am going out now,--alone: I shall not need your company. If any one
calls in the meantime, say I shall not return until to-morrow. At no
time to-day is any one to be admitted except Monsieur Fillmore: he will
arrive about seven o’clock. Will you attend to this?”
“Certainly, Madame la Marquise. Will Madame dine at the usual hour?”
“No; you will dine by yourself to-day. That is all.”
“_Au revoir_, Madame la Marquise.”
The old lady courtesyed and went out. Perdita sat down at her desk and
wrote several letters, which she locked up in a drawer. Her dejection
seemed to have been lightened: her demeanor was grave, but not oppressed
or unnatural. Occasionally she would fall into revery for a few minutes,
but the abstraction was not painful, and was easily cast aside. In the
course of an hour or so she closed her desk, and going to her room, put
on a dark pelisse and veiled bonnet, and went out. The sky was overcast,
and the air cold; but there was neither rain nor wind. The streets were
full of people, and the shops were doing a thriving trade in Christmas
goods. Perdita mingled with the crowd, and seemed to take pleasure in
observing them: in gazing into the shop windows, shoulder to shoulder
with them: in listening to the confused noise of voices, tramping feet,
and rattling wheels. On the Strand she happened to notice four ragged
children flattening their noses against the glass of a candy-shop. “I
choose this,” said one little girl “Oh! I choose this!” said another, in
the pride of superior discernment. “Don’t yer wish yer may git it?”
remarked a boy, the eldest of the party, with gloomy cynicism. “Come in
here, youngsters,” said Perdita; “you shall have all the candy you
want!” With the matter-of-course acceptance of miracles characteristic
of children, they followed her into the shop, and presently came forth
again with candy enough to last them for a week. None of them thanked
her, any more than we thank the sun for shining through a break in the
clouds--the supposition being that the sun is made for that purpose. But
Perdita was not in need of gratitude. She wanted to feel the actual
contact of human creatures for a few hours, and that was all. Resuming
her walk, she passed through St. Paul’s churchyard, and along Cheapside,
where she entered a shop and made one or two purchases on her own
account. Thence she turned in a southerly direction, and presently came
in sight of London Bridge. It was a quaint, narrow, high-backed
structure, with jutting piers, affording spaces for venders of apples
and other cheap merchandise to set up their little stalls. The bridge
was roaring with vehicles and crowded with foot-passengers; there was no
noisier or more populous place in London. There was a high balustrade on
each side; but by stepping upon one of the semicircular stone seats over
the piers, it was possible to look over at the broad stream beneath.
Perdita did this, and remained for a long time, absorbed by the
spectacle. The brown river, rushing at the arches of the bridge, fell
through them in boiling cataracts, with a sound that was audible over
the tumult of the vehicles and the foot-passengers above. On either
bank, the wharves were thronged with shipping--straight masts and cobweb
cordage, dense as primeval forests. Black chimneys belched forth blacker
smoke, which trailed and brooded over the city: huge, ugly buildings of
stone or brick looked down into the dark water. Millions of human beings
had done all this: millions of human beings lived and moved here,
labored and hungered, fought and conquered, struggled and succumbed,
were born and died. Here was the centre and concentration of the human
race, the culmination of the history of five thousand years; and what a
gloomy, dirty, toiling, roaring, sordid Babel it was! And yet, what a
strong charm and attraction! We battle and shout and hope in the face of
death; we know that our hopes are vain and that death is sure; we know
that life is weariness and that death is rest; we bury our parents and
know that our children shall bury us; and still generation succeeds
generation--appears and disappears--and each maintains the turmoil with
as much energy and earnestness as if to it alone belonged not the
present only, but likewise the future and the past. Earthly life, the
oldest of all deceivers, the mightiest of all hypocrites, exposed and
condemned at each passing moment of recorded time--by what spell does it
still retain its mastery over us? Does it inspire the wish to be cheated
that it gratifies? or is there something behind--within it--some reality
whereof it is but the symbol, which leads us onward to another goal than
that we aimed at,--a goal which, were it revealed to us, we never should
attain?
Chilled by long contact with the stone parapet, Perdita stepped down
from her perch, and returned along the bridge. In one of the narrow
streets leading toward Cheapside, she noticed a small inn or ordinary,
where a card nailed to the door-post announced that a dinner was to be
had inside at a cheap rate. Perdita entered; the place was low and dark,
and was tolerably full of customers, most of whom were seated at
opposite sides of the little oblong tables projecting at right angles
from the walls. A man, seeing Perdita stand there, made room for her
beside him. He wore a dirty fur cap and a topcoat of coarse cloth; had a
bold, not unhandsome face, and powerful but by no means clean hands. A
plate full of some sort of food was put before Perdita, and she began to
eat. The man who had nearly finished his dinner, now called for a pot of
ale; and having glanced at Perdita once or twice, he addressed her:
“Say, my dear, you’re a good-looking gal, do you know that?”
“Yes,” said Perdita, “other men have told me so.”
“What’s your name?”
“Perdita.”
“Perdita? Rum name, that! What’s your lay?”
“Nothing, in particular.”
“Flush, eh? Made a haul?”
Perdita nodded.
“Hello! you,” said the man, raising his voice, “fetch ’arf a pint for
this lady.”
The ale was brought, and Perdita raised it to her lips, saying, “Here’s
your health!”
“Same to you, my dear,” said the man, taking a gulp from his pewter. “By
G----! you’re one of the right sort. Do you know who I am?”
Perdita looked at him. “You’re a stout fellow,” she said; “you look as
if you could take your own part. Are you a highwayman?”
“Easy! none of that!” exclaimed the man, in a low tone, catching her by
the shoulder. Perdita eyed him composedly, and he presently relinquished
his grasp, and chuckled. “All right,” he said, “I see you know a thing
or two. Now, look here. I ain’t got no mort. What do you say--shall we
strike hands? You and me together can do good business. What do you
say?”
“What do you mean by mort?”
“Come, now? Walker! Well, wife, if you like.”
“Do you mean that you’ll marry me?”
“As sure as my name’s--what it is!” said the man.
“Will you take care of me, and beat any man who insults me?”
“Yes, I will!”
“I have a great mind to let you marry me,” said Perdita, after a pause.
“You’d be as good as anybody else, and perhaps better. But I’ve been
married once, and I don’t think I shall ever marry again. I’m going to
do something else.”
“What?”
“That’s no business of yours.”
“Can’t yer marry me and do that, too?”
“No.”
“Well, look here! Think it over. I’ve got money, and I can make things
easy for you. You’ll find me here to-morrow. I ain’t often met the woman
I’d take to as quick as I would to you. Think it over. You ain’t got any
other chap in your eye, have yer?”
“I’ll promise you this much,” said Perdita; “if I don’t marry you, I’ll
marry no one else.”
“And will you be here to-morrow?”
“If I’m alive.”
“That’s hearty! Well, good-by, my dear, if you must go. Give us a kiss,
won’t yer?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m fond of yer.”
“Truly?”
“Honor bright!”
“You may kiss me,” said Perdita; and when he had done so, she added,
“You have done what no other man will ever do. Good-bye!”
* * * * *
When the Marquise reached home, it was after five o’clock. In the
dressing-room she found Madame Cabot; the black satin dress was laid out
on the sofa, and the diamonds were on the dressing-table. The Marquise
performed her toilet carefully, and when it was completed, she
scrutinized her appearance with unusual deliberation. “Do I look well,
Madame Cabot?” she asked at length.
“I have never seen Madame la Marquise look more beautiful.”
Perdita smiled. “Well, I have need to look beautiful to-night. The
gentleman whom I expect to-night--Monsieur Fillmore--is coming to claim
my promise to marry him. A woman should appear beautiful in the eyes of
her bridegroom, should she not, Madame Cabot?”
“Without doubt! Madame la Marquise is then resolved to marry?”
“I have resolved to change my condition,” said Perdita. “I am tired of
this lonely life, and am going to make an end of it.”
“May Madame enjoy every happiness!”
“I don’t think of that--I don’t expect it!” said the Marquise, after a
pause. “After my experience, Madame Cabot, I should be a fool to look
forward to happiness, either in this state or in any other. But it will
be a change, at least: a great change!” She added, after a moment, “I
have spoken to you of this, because, when the change comes, I shall not
any longer need your services. You have been comfortable with me, I
hope, madame?”
“It will be a great grief to me to leave Madame le Marquise.”
The Marquise seemed gratified. “You will be able to make yourself
comfortable in your own way, hereafter,” she said. “I have arranged that
you shall want for nothing in the future.... Well, you may leave me now.
Remember that no one is to be admitted but Monsieur Fillmore; and that I
am not to be disturbed till he comes.”
“I shall not forget, Madame.”
“Good-night.”
“Good-night, Madame la Marquise, and much felicity!”
Perdita went into her boudoir and locked the door. The candles were
lighted, the fire was burning cheerfully, everything was warm and
luxurious. Perdita held in her hands a large vial containing a colorless
fluid, and something done up in a piece of paper. These she placed on
the table, beside the crystal Persian lamp, which has already been
mentioned. She drew a chair to the table, and seating herself in it,
unfolded the paper, which proved to contain a small wick. This she
inserted in the lamp, and then filled the lamp full of the colorless
fluid from the vial. Finally, she lit the wick from one of the candles.
It burned with a pale bluish flame, emitting, however, an intense heat.
After contemplating this flame awhile, and testing its ardor by passing
her hand over it, Perdita rose up nervously, and glanced around her. She
had suddenly grown very pale, and her eyes looked black. Her lips also
were white, and for a moment they trembled; but only for a moment. She
held herself erect, and raised her head, looking straight before her
across the table, as if at some one who stood on the other side. Her
expression, at first, was haughty; but gradually it softened, and at
last became exquisitely tender and gentle. Her bosom rose and fell with
a long sigh....
She raised her hands, and clasped them firmly over her eyes. She
stooped quickly down, until her lips almost touched the bluish flame of
the lamp, at the same instant drawing in a sharp, deep breath, that made
the flame leap far down her throat. She tried to do it a second time,
but only partially succeeded. She reeled backward, uttering no sound,
and fell, as she had wished to do, on the sofa. A few convulsive
movements shook her, and then she lay still, her head thrown back, and
her eyes half closed. Her position had not altered by a hair’s breadth
when, an hour later, the door was broken open, and Fillmore came in.
* * * * *
Perdita’s death was known to many persons in London that same night; but
the news did not reach Hammersmith until the next morning. It so
happened that Marion was the first to receive it, by a messenger from
Lady Flanders. She read the few lines, scarcely comprehending their
purport; but after waiting a few moments, she read them again, and
understood them. She returned up-stairs with difficulty, for all
strength seemed to have gone out of her. She entered the room in which
Philip was, but was unable to speak. She held the paper toward him.
“From Lady Flanders, eh?” said he, recognizing the handwriting. “An
invitation to dinner I suppose.” He read what was written, and silence
fell upon him. Marion, though she would gladly have turned her eyes away
from him, could not do so. She saw the change that came over his face,
and it made her heart faint. He kept his eyes down, gazing at the paper,
and it seemed to Marion as if he were never going to raise them. The
suspense became more than she could bear, and it gave her the power to
use her voice.
“Do you know why she did it, Philip?” was her question.
He looked up, at last, with a slow and heavy movement, as if his
eyelids were weighted, and met his wife’s gaze gloomily.
“If I do know,” he said, “it was for something very worthless.”
“Have you ... anything to tell me?” asked Marion, just audibly.
“Perdita was honest and noble: she died pure. There is nothing to tell.
A priest would absolve me; I can never absolve myself. Many a man who
has sinned is worthier to be your husband than one who has avoided sin
as I have.”
There followed a deep silence. Then Marion moved a step nearer to him,
and said, “Do you love me, Philip?”
“I used to say ‘yes’ last summer,” he replied; “I thought I could do
anything and be anything, then. Now it seems to me that I am nothing,
and can do nothing. Whether I love you, or not, years must tell you, not
words. Such men as I are the curse of the earth.”
“You are not a curse to me!” said Marion, putting her arms around him,
and looking up in his face. “You are my husband, and I love you: and
neither years nor words shall make me believe you do not love your
wife!”
[THE END.]
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT,
27 Park Place, New York.
THE
CLEVERDALE MYSTERY;
OR,
The Machine and its Wheels.
By W. A. WILKINS, Editor of the _Whitehall_ (N. Y.) _Times_.
A novel of American life, love and politics, giving an inside view of
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Extra English Cloth. Price, $1.00.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT,
27 Park Place, New York.
_The Fate of_
MADAME LA TOUR
A Story of Great Salt Lake.
=Part I.=--A novel, which does for Mormonism what “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” did
for Slavery, and “A Fool’s Errand” for the Bondage of the Freedmen in
the reconstructed South--swings back the doors and lets in the revealing
light of day!
“A vivid and startling picture.”--_Boston Gazette._
“The fascination of thrilling fiction.”--_Cincinnati Commercial._
“We only wish every cultivated woman could read it.”--_Chicago
Inter-Ocean._
“A very valuable book, bearing upon its every page the impress of
trustworthiness and sincerity.”--_Cleveland Herald._
“It may be that the facts here presented will have some effect upon
the conscience of a nation too long indifferent.”--_New York
Tribune._
“Gives fresh and breezy pictures of pioneer life, and portrays the
ideas, principles, and modes of the Mormons, showing the strange
and curious ramifications of that remarkable system of government,
and giving the key to many puzzling questions.”--_Detroit Free
Press._
“Not only literature but statesmanship of a high order ... handled
with remarkable skill, delicacy, and reserve, and marked throughout
by a temperateness of language and a reserve of feeling.... The
story itself fires the imagination.”--_Literary World_ (Boston).
“Thrilling enough to interest the most exacting lover of fiction,
while solemn enough in its facts and in its warnings to engage the
attention of the most serious statesmen.”--_The Critic_ (N. Y.).
=Part II.=--An Appendix giving a concise _History of Utah_ from 1870 to
1881: completion of Pacific railroads; incoming of Gentiles; opening of
Mines; clash of Christianity with Mormonism; first Gentile Church;
Mission Work; Hebrews and Catholics; Utah Legislature; Woman Suffrage;
Need of Schools and free Education; Polygamous Marriages in 1880; the
70,000 Mormons in Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, Wyoming, and Nevada; a
compact volume of information on _the_ question of the day.
“An Appendix of many pages bristles with information to parallel
the narrative’s fiction.”--Rochester _Rural Home_.
“A most valuable part is the Appendix of seventy pages, filled with
historical confirmatory statements.”--_St. Paul Pioneer-Press._
“A trustworthy history of Mormonism.... Never have its mysteries
been more skillfully unraveled, never have the sympathies of the
reader been more intensely aroused.”--_Providence Journal._
Extra English Cloth. Price, $1.00.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT,
27 Park Place, New York.
THE STILL HUNTER.
A Practical Treatise on Deer-Stalking.
BY THEODORE S. VAN DYKE,
Author of “The Rifle, Rod, and Gun in California.”
_12mo, Extra Cloth, beveled,_ _$2.00._
“The best, the very best work on deer hunting.”--_Spirit of the Times._
“Very entertaining and intensely practical.”--_N. Y. Herald._
“A classic in the sporting literature of America.”--_Turf, Field and
Farm, N. Y._
“An instructive treatise on deer-stalking, which young sportsmen will
enjoy for information, and old ones for comparison with their own
methods and experience.”--_New York World._
“By what artifices the hunter may elude senses keener than his own, it
is the object of this interesting and instructive record of a veteran
sportsman’s experience to disclose.”--_N. Y. Sun._
“I have still-hunted deer for thirty years, and I know of nothing more
admirable in the way of scientific exposition than Mr. Van Dyke’s.”--J.
C. ROSSER, M.D.
“Though I have carefully read the current sporting literature of America
for years past, this comes the nearest to my ideal. Still-hunting or
deer-stalking is my favorite pastime.”--F. E. POND, _Editor Frank
Forrester’s Works_.
“The best work from the pen of this fluent and graceful
writer.”--_American Field, Chicago._
Rifle, Rod and Gun in California.
A SPORTING ROMANCE.
BY THEODORE S. VAN DYKE.
_12mo, Extra Cloth, beveled,_ _$1.50._
“Something new under the sun.... Mr. Van Dyke uses the pen as skillfully
as the gun.”--_Providence_ (R. I.) _Bulletin_.
“Its spirited and lifelike descriptions will make every one who has ever
found enjoyment with the rod and gun tingle with the delight of pleasant
recollections.”--_Chicago Dial._
“Crisp and readable throughout, and, at the same time, gives a full and
truthful technical account of our Southern California game afoot, afloat
or on the wing.”--_San Francisco Alta California._
“It is written as such a book should be written.... It exhibits the
sportsman’s observation of nature, and his unflagging good spirits--the
result of both being a breezy, dewy book.”--_N. Y. Evening Mail._
“A very successful attempt to combine the interest of a novel with the
more practical features of an authoritative work on the hunting and
fishing of a country celebrated among sportsmen.”--_Spirit of the
Times._
“A thoroughly enjoyable book. The writer’s descriptions of hunting,
fishing and sporting in pursuit of the smaller kinds of game, are racy
and vivid, and there is just enough love-making woven in with the wild
life to give it additional zest.”--_Philadelphia Inquirer._
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT,
27 Park Place, New York.
_AMERICAN HISTORICAL NOVELS_,
By ALBION W. TOURGEE, late Judge Superior Court, North Carolina.
“The novels of this author have served as campaign documents to a degree
that may obscure their merits as literature; yet, the truth is, scarcely
anything in fiction so powerful has been written, from a merely literary
standpoint, as these books. ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ cannot compare with them
in this respect.”--_Springfield_ (Mass.) _Republican_.
“A FOOL’S ERRAND,”
_By One of the Fools_.
361 pages. Cloth, $1.00.
“It is nothing less than an extraordinary work. In matter, it is
intensely interesting; in manner, it is forcible and vivid to a rare
degree.”--_International Review._
“A political and social study ... pursued with great candor and no small
discrimination.”--_The Nation._
“To be read with profound interest for its luminous exposition of
historical facts, as well as to be admired for its masterly power of
picturesque and pathetic description.”--_New York Tribune._
“BRICKS WITHOUT STRAW.”
521 pages. With Frontispiece. Cloth, $1.50.
“A work of wonderful interest and wonderful power.... It will be read
with absorbing attention, and recognized as one of the most effective of
those books written ‘for a purpose.’”--_Boston Gazette._
“The characters are real creations of romance, who will live alongside
of Mrs. Stowe’s or Walter Scott’s till the times that gave them birth
have been forgotten.”--_Advance_, Chicago.
“Since the days of Swift and his pamphleteers, we doubt if fiction has
been made to play so caustic and delicate a part.”--_San Francisco
News-Letter._
“The delicacy and keenness of its satire are equal to anything within
the range of my knowledge.”--_Pres. Anderson, Rochester University._
“FIGS AND THISTLES.”
538 pages. With Frontispiece. Cloth, $1.50.
“Crowded with incident, populous with strong characters, rich in humor,
and from the beginning to the end alive with interest.”--_Boston
Commonwealth._
“It is, we think, evident that the hero of the book is JAMES A.
GARFIELD.... It embodies, also, the best description of a battle--not of
its plan, the movement of troops, and the results of strategic and
tactical forces, but of what one man, a private soldier in the ranks,
saw during a battle--that we have ever read.”--_Atchison_ (Kan.)
_Champion_.
“The author has made a most spirited and skillful use of the scenes and
incidents of the war.”--_Atlantic Monthly._
“A capital American story. Its characters are not from foreign courts or
the pestilential dens of foreign cities. They are fresh from the real
life of the forest and prairie of the West.”--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
“The readers and admirers of ‘A Fool’s Errand,’ who take up this book
expecting to be instructed and entertained, will not be
disappointed.”--_Rochester Express._
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT,
27 Park Place, New York.
JUDGE TOURGEE’S NEW BOOK.
“JOHN
EAX.”
_THE
SOUTH
WITHOUT
THE
SHADOW._
“ ‘A Fool’s Errand’ lay in the gloom of the Shadow. This book
reflects the light of the time.”--_Indianapolis News._
“Displays more than any of his previous works, his power of humor
and of graphic description of men, scenes, and events.”--_Christian
Herald_ (Detroit).
“Cannot fail to reach and impress a wide constituency of
readers.”--_The American._
“Of absorbing interest to those satiated with the artificial
atmosphere of the modern society novel.”--_Boston Traveller._
“Will greatly add to the author’s popularity.”--_Detroit Commercial
Advertiser._
“Its chief value lies in its effects of cheery
hopefulness.”--_Washington Chronicle._
“Charmingly told and well balanced; shows humor, pathos, and beyond
all, the prime requisite for success in novel-writing, a clear and
minute knowledge of human nature.”--_Cleveland Leader._
“The best of Tourgee’s books.”--_Macon_ (Ga.) _Telegraph and
Messenger_.
“All the characters are admirably drawn, and there is a natural
realism about them that impresses the reader with the fact that
they are true to the life.”--_Lutheran Observer._
“The vigor and picturesqueness of the author are again
manifest.”--_Boston Commonwealth._
“A notable addition to the Judge’s already famous gallery of
life-studies.”--_Star and Covenant_ (Chicago).
“Written in the author’s quick, nervous style, and has plenty of
dash, with frequent dramatic situations and graphic
delineations.”--_The Dial_ (Chicago).
A handsome 12mo volume, with illustrative binding stamps. Silk pattern
cloth. Price, $1.
_For sale by your Bookseller, or mailed, postpaid, on receipt of price
by the Publishers_,
FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT,
27 Park Place, New York.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT,
27 Park Place, New York.
_HARRIET BEECHER STOWE’S BOOKS._
_DOMESTIC TALES._
=My Wife and I=; or, Harry Henderson’s History. A Novel.
_Illustrated._ 12mo, cloth, $1.50.
“Always bright, piquant, and entertaining, with an occasional touch
of tenderness, strong because subtle, keen in sarcasm, full of
womanly logic directed against unwomanly tendencies.”--_Boston
Journal._
=We and Our Neighbors=: The Records of an Unfashionable Street. A Novel.
_Illustrated._ 12mo, cloth, $1.50.
“Mrs. Stowe’s style is picturesque, piquant, with just enough
vivacity and vim to give the romance edge; and throughout there are
delicious sketches of scenes, with bits of dry humor peculiar to
her writings.”--_Pittsburgh_ (Pa.) _Commercial_.
=Poganuc People=: Their Loves and Lives. A Novel. _Illustrated._ 12mo,
cloth, $1.50. (_Recent._) In Mrs. Stowe’s early inimitable style of New
England scene and character.
“A fertile, ingenious, and rarely gifted writer of the purely
American type, doing for the traditions of New England, and its
salient social features, the same sort of service that Scott
rendered to the Scotch and the history and scenery of his native
land; that Dickens performed for London and its lights and shadows,
its chronic abuses of every sort; the same service that Victor Hugo
has done for Paris, in all its social state. Mrs. Stowe still keeps
the field, and her harvests ever grow.”--_Titusville_ (Pa.)
_Herald_.
=The New Housekeeper’s Manual and Handy Cook-Book.= A Guide to Economy and
Enjoyment in Home Life. (Gives nearly 500 choice and well-tested
receipts.) By CATHARINE E. BEECHER and HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. Nearly 600
pp., 8vo. _Handsomely Illustrated._ Cloth, $3.
“Considering the great variety of subjects over which it ranges,
one is astonished to find, when he tests it by reference to any
question on which he is personally well informed, how accurate is
its teaching, and now trustworthy its authority.”--_Independent._
_RELIGIOUS BOOKS._
=Footsteps of the Master=: Studies in the Life of Christ. With
Illustrations and Illuminated Titles. 12mo. Choicely bound. Cloth,
$1.50.
“A very sweet book on wholesome religious thought.”--_Evening
Post._
“A congenial field for the exercise of her choice literary gifts
and poetic tastes, her ripe religious experience, and her fervent
Christian faith. A book of exceptional beauty and substantial
worth.”--_Congregationalist_ (Boston).
=Bible Heroines=: Narrative Biographies of Prominent Hebrew Women in the
Patriarchal, National, and Christian Eras. Imperial Octavo. Richly
Illustrated in Oil Colors. Elegantly bound. Cloth, $2.75; cloth, gilt
edges, $3.25.
“The fine penetration, quick insight, sympathetic nature, and
glowing narrative, which have marked Mrs. Stowe’s previous works,
are found in these pages, and the whole work is one which readily
captivates equally the cultivated and the religious fervent
nature.”--_Boston Commonwealth._
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
unusal degree=> unusual degree {Pg 166}
What have I do with his fortune=> What have I to do with his fortune {pg
255}
I believe that scoundred=> I believe that scoundrel {pg 316}
morever, how could he=> moreover, how could he {pg 381}
except Monsienr Fillmore=> except Monsieur Fillmore {pg 394}