_THE ETERNAL CITY_
This last great novel of Hall Caine’s is not a picture of Life; it _is_
Life. His characters are more real than those with whom we meet and talk
to every day of our lives; for not only do we hear them speak, but we
see into the thoughts of their hearts, and sometimes catch a glimpse
of their very souls. It may be urged that real men and women are not
so passionately pure and self-sacrificing as David Rossi and Roma, but
they who speak thus forget that the world has produced as many saints,
martyrs and heroes, as blackguards and criminals. David Rossi is a hero
for the sake of his country, for the sake of the poor and oppressed;
Roma, purified, ennobled, and uplifted by Love, is a martyr for the sake
of her betrothed. They are as passionate as Romeo and Juliet, Paolo and
Francesca; and as pure as Dante and Beatrice.
The _mise-en-scène_ of the story is, of course, Rome—Rome with its
grandeur side by side with its misery; its ambitious men and fallen
women; its Vatican, its theatres, its ruins and its shame. The time is
the first months of the present century. The City is made to live; we
breathe its air and walk its streets. David Rossi is a member of the
Chamber of Deputies, a friend of the people, a conspirator, a hero;
all his actions are for the material and spiritual elevation of the
down-trodden and oppressed, and this book is the story of the martyrdom
he has to undergo, and of his eventual success. This is his charter, a
framed manuscript copy of which he keeps hanging by his bedside:—
“_From what am I called?_
From the love of riches, from the love of honour, from the love
of home, and from the love of woman.
_To what am I called?_
To poverty, to purity, to obedience, to the worship of God, and
to the service of humanity.
_Why am I called?_
Because it has pleased the Almighty to make me friendless,
homeless, a wanderer, an exile, without father or mother, sister
or brother, kith or kin.
Hoping my heart deceives me not, with fear and trembling I sign
my unworthy name.
D. L.—LONDON.”
Roma is the ward of Count Bonelli, the young King’s Prime Minister; she
is a beautiful, high-spirited, noble-hearted woman, who has little or
no memory of either father or mother. She lives a life of extravagant
luxury—happy, thoughtless and frivolous, but always kind and generous.
Still, her soul is asleep; she has never realised that Life is a serious
matter, not to be trifled with or neglected. But when she meets David
Rossi all is changed. She has called at his rooms with the idea of laying
him in the dust. Ignorantly, and in the heat of the moment, he has
publicly defamed her character, and she is intent on revenge.
“If I were a man, I suppose I should challenge you. Being a woman
I can only come to you and tell you that you are wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Cruelly, terribly, shamefully wrong.”
“You mean to tell me…”
He was stammering in a husky voice, but she said quite calmly:
“I mean to tell you that in substance and in fact what you
implied was false.”
There was a dry glitter of hatred and repulsion in her eyes which
she tried to subdue, for she knew that he was looking at her
still.
“If … if you give me your solemn word of honour that what I
said—what I implied—was false, that rumour and report have
slandered you, that it is all a cruel and baseless calumny…”
She raised her head, looked him full in the face, and without a
quiver in her voice:
“I _do_ give it,” she said.
“Then I believe you,” he answered. “With all my heart and soul I
believe you…”
“This man is a child,” she thought. “He will believe anything I
tell him.”
Soon, however, she has to acknowledge that no matter how childlike he
may be, he is never for one moment childish; he gives her proof of his
strength, his devotion, his manly purity.
“I wished to meet you face to face, but now that I have met you,
you are not the man I thought you were.”
“Nor you,” he said, “the woman I pictured you.”
A light came into her eyes at that, and she looked up and said:
“Then you had never seen me before?”
And he answered after a moment:
“I had never seen Donna Roma Volonna until to-day.”
“Forgive me for coming to you,” she said.
“I thank you for doing so,” he replied, “and if I have sinned
against you, from this hour onward I am your friend and champion.
Let me try to right the wrong I have done you. I am ready to do
it if I can, no matter at what self-abasement. I am eager to do
it, and I shall never forgive myself until it is done. What I
said was the result of a mistake—let me ask your forgiveness.”
“You mean publicly.”
“Yes! At ten o’clock they send for my article for the morning’s
paper. To-morrow morning I will beg your pardon in public for the
public insult I have offered you.”
“You are very good, very brave,” she said; “but no, I will not
ask you to do that.”
“Ah! I understand. I know it is impossible to overtake a lie.
Once started it goes on and on, like a stone rolling down-hill,
and even the man who started can never stop it. Tell me what
better can I do—tell me, tell me.”
Her face was still down, but it had now a new expression of joy.
“There is one thing you can do, but it is difficult.”
“No matter! Tell me what it is.”
“I thought when I came here … but it is no matter.”
“Tell me, I beg of you.”
He was trying to look into her face again, and she was eluding
his gaze as before, but now for another, a sweeter reason.
“I thought if—if you would come to my house when my friends are
there, your presence as my guest, in the midst of those in whose
eyes you have injured me, might be sufficient of itself to wipe
out everything. But …”
She waited for his answer with a beating heart, but at first he
did not speak, and pretending to put away the idea, she said:
“But that is impossible: I cannot ask it. I know what it would
mean. Such people are pitiless—they have no mercy.”
“Is that _all_?” he said.
“Then you are not afraid?”
“Afraid!”
For one moment they looked at each other, and their eyes were
shining. She was proud of his power. This was no child after all,
but a man; one who, for a woman’s sake, could stand up against
all the world.
“I have thought of something else,” she said.
“What is it?”
“You have heard that I am a sculptor. I am making a fountain for
the municipality, and if I might carve your face into it…”
“It would be coals of fire on my head.”
“You would need to sit to me.”
“When shall it be?”
“To-morrow morning to begin with, if that is not too soon.”
“It will be years on years till then,” he said.
Her idea of revenge is entirely gone; she is at his feet, loving him,
and aching to be loved in return. But he remembers his work: he must
not allow worldly matters to interfere with its progress. So he will
not see Roma again. Love is not for him; would that it were! And then
follows a series of delightful letters: on his part serious, kind, and
imbued with a high sense of duty; on her part, humorous, light, wistful,
and sometimes sad. He tells her that he is in love, the object of his
affections being a lady of beauty, wealth and virtue. The lady is
herself, but the language is veiled, and at first she hardly guesses his
meaning.
“MY DEAR, DEAR FRIEND,—It’s all up! I’m done with her! My unknown
and invisible sister that is to be, or rather that isn’t to be
and oughtn’t to be, is not worth thinking about any longer. You
tell me that she is good and brave, and noble-hearted, and yet
you would have me believe that she loves wealth, and ease, and
luxury, and that she could not give them up even for the sweetest
thing that ever comes into a woman’s life. Out on her! What does
she think a wife is? A pet to be pampered, a doll to be dressed
up and danced on your knee? If that’s the sort of woman she is, I
know what I should call her. A name is on the tip of my tongue,
and the point of my finger, and the end of my pen, and I’m
itching to have it out, but I suppose I must not write it. Only
don’t talk to me any more about the bravery of a woman like that.
“The wife I call brave is a man’s friend, and if she knows what
that means, to be the friend of her husband to all the limitless
lengths of friendship, she thinks nothing about sacrifices
between him and her, and differences of class do not exist for
either of them. Her pride died the instant love looked out of
her eyes at him, and if people taunt her with his poverty, or
his birth, she answers and says, ‘It’s true he is poor, but his
glory is that he was a workhouse boy who hadn’t father or mother
to care for him, and now he is a great man, and I’m proud of him,
and not all the wealth of the world shall take me away.’”
Eventually their love is confessed, and Baron Bonelli learns the truth.
He sets to work immediately to compass the ruin or death of Rossi, and
jealousy lives in his heart every minute of the day, and all the night
through. It is true he is married, but his wife is a maniac, and he
expects to hear of her death at any time. It becomes necessary for Rossi
to leave Rome: he is surrounded by a host of enemies ready at any moment
to clap him into prison. So he says “Good-bye” to Roma, but before he
leaves they are “religiously” married—that is to say, they take part in
a ceremony recognised by the Church as a substitute for the marriage
service proper, but which the State refuses to acknowledge. But they are
man and wife for all that, and the thought sustains them through all the
trouble they have to undergo. The moment the ceremony is over he leaves
her, and she is alone to face the cunning and duplicity of Baron Bonelli.
“That you should change your plans so entirely, and setting out a
month ago to … to … shall I say betray … this man Rossi, you are
now striving to save him, is a problem which admits of only one
explanation, and that is that … that you …”
“That I love him—yes, that’s the truth,” said Roma boldly, but
flushing up to the eyes and trembling with fear.
There was a death-like pause in the duel. Both dropped their
heads, and the silent face in the bust seemed to be looking down
on them. Then the Baron’s icy cheeks quivered visibly, and he
said in a low, hoarse voice:
“I’m sorry! Very sorry! For in that case I may be compelled to
justify your conclusion that a Minister has no humanity and no
pity. It may even be necessary to play the part of the husband in
the cruel story of the lover’s heart. If David Rossi cannot be
arrested by the authorisation of Parliament, he must be arrested
when Parliament is not in session, and then his identity will
have to be established in a public tribunal. In that event you
will be forced to appear, and having refused to make a private
statement in the secrecy of a magistrate’s office, you will be
compelled to testify in the Court of Assize.”
“Ah, but you can’t make me do that!” cried Roma excitedly, as if
seized by a sudden thought.
“Why not?”
“Never mind why not. That’s my secret. You can’t do it, I tell
you,” she cried excitedly.
He looked at her as if trying to penetrate her meaning, and then
said:
“We shall see.”
And, indeed, Roma is not so secure as she imagines. She is relying on
the fact that, according to the law of nearly every civilised nation, a
wife is not permitted to give evidence against her husband. The Baron
is ignorant that Rossi and she are man and wife. But alas! she is not
Rossi’s wife, not even according to the rules of the Church. She has
not been baptised, and an unbaptised woman cannot be a daughter of the
Church, and a woman who is not a daughter of the Church cannot claim the
Church’s privileges.
Meanwhile Rossi is in London, Paris, Berlin, Geneva, addressing meetings,
and organising a tremendous demonstration which is to take place in Rome.
But his letters are necessarily vague—mere hints of what is about to
come to pass; and gradually the thought grows in Roma’s mind that the
secret work upon which he is engaged in is nothing more or less than a
conspiracy to take the King’s life. Terror seizes hold on her and she
knows not what to do. And all the time she is pursued by a terrible
remorse: she has never told Rossi of the one dark stain on her life.
She has never told him that, against her will, Baron Bonelli seduced
her, and that she still remained his friend. That brief, terrible hour
has tormented her soul with the torments of hell. Ought she to tell
the man she thinks is her husband? She cannot answer this question, so
she confesses, and the priest refers her to the Pope himself. And then
in an extraordinarily vivid and beautiful scene the Pope urges her to
confess everything to Rossi; but this she has already done. However, her
husband has not replied. The letters she has written have miscarried,
but she imagines that her confession has killed his love, or roused his
anger. The plot is too intricate and delicately handled at this point
to be related in detail without great risk of damaging its interest and
spoiling its effect; suffice it to say that, acting on the purest and
most generous motives, but deceived by circumstance, Roma betrays her
husband, and he is captured by the police when he is on his way home
to peace and happiness. He escapes, seeks out Roma, and confronts her
with her perfidy. She admits it, but says she can explain all. In the
midst of her wild, vehement talking, Baron Bonelli enters from an inner
room. A fight ensues between Rossi and the Baron. The latter is mortally
wounded, and Roma is left alone to wait on him—her bitterest enemy—in his
dying hour. This is, perhaps, the most powerful scene in the book; it is
certain it is the most dramatic. But it would be an invidious task to
select one particular scene as being more skilful and effective than any
other, when there are so many supremely skilful and effective scenes.
The rest of the story is of breathless interest. Roma is found with the
body of the dead Baron, is accused of murder, and pleads guilty. She
receives her sentence of imprisonment quite calmly, happy in the thought
that in sacrificing herself she is helping on the cause of her husband,
and suffering in his stead. Meanwhile David Rossi, on the point of
suicide, and suffering a thousand torments through what seems to him to
be Roma’s treachery, seeks sanctuary at the Vatican. The Pope receives
him and grants him what he asks. Too bewildered by the stress of recent
events to think, he does not realise Roma’s danger; it never occurs
to him that she may be seized upon as Bonelli’s murderer. But soon it
reaches the ears of the Pope that Rossi is the guilty one, and not Roma,
and on David asking for an interview the following scene takes place:—
“Holy Father, I wished to speak to you.”
“What about, my son?”
“Myself. Now I see that I did wrong to ask for your protection.
You thought I was innocent, and there was something I did not
tell you. When I said I was guilty before God and man, you did
not understand what I meant. Holy Father, I meant that I had
committed murder…”
The Pope looked at the young face, cut deep with lines of
despair, and his heart yearned over it.
“Sit down, my son. Let us think. Though you did not tell me
of the assassination, I soon knew all about it… Partly in
self-defence, you say?”
“That is so, but I do not urge it as an excuse. And if I did, who
else knows anything about it?”
“Is there nobody who knows?”
“One, perhaps. But it is my wife, and she could have no interest
in saving me now, even if I wanted to be saved… I have read her
letters.”
“If I were to tell you it is not so, my son—that your wife is
still ready to sacrifice herself for your safety…”
“But that is impossible, your Holiness. There are so many things
you do not know.”
“If I were to tell you I have just seen her, and, notwithstanding
your want of faith in her, she has still faith in you…”
The deep lines of despair began to pass from Ross’s face, and he
made a cry of joy.
“If I were to say that she loves you, and would give her life for
you…”
“Is it possible? Do you tell me that? In spite of everything?
And she—where is she? Let me go to her. Holy Father, if you only
knew! I’ll go and beg her pardon. I cursed her! Yes, it is true
that in my blind, mad passion, I … But let me go back to her on
my knees…”
“Stay, my son. You shall see her presently.”
“Can it be possible that I shall see her?… Is she at home still?”
“She is only a few paces from this place, my son.”
“Only a few paces! Oh, let me not lose a moment more. Where is
she?”
“In the Castle of St Angelo,” said the Pope.
A dark cloud crossed Rossi’s beaming face and his mouth opened as
if to emit a startled cry.
“In … in prison?”
The Pope bowed.
“What for?”
“The assassination of the Minister.”
“Roma?… But what a fool I was not to think of it as a thing that
might happen! I left her with the dead man. Who was to believe
her when she denied that she had killed him?”
“She did not deny it. She avowed it.”
“Avowed it? She said that she had…”
The Pope bowed again.
“Then … then it was… Was it to shield me?”
“Yes.”
Rossi’s eyes grew moist. He was like another man.
The close of the story is deeply pathetic. David rushes off to save her,
and gives himself up in her place. But Parliament acquits him of all
guilt, and he is once more a free man. Roma is seized by some terrible
internal disease, and it is only a matter of a few weeks before she is
overtaken by death. Her last hours are spent with David by her side in
peace, quietness and gladness.
I have given but the barest outline of the plot, for it hinges more on
the conflict of one character against another, than on the intricacies
of coincidence and unlooked-for event, and many of the phases of modern
thought and feeling indicated in the different characters are of too
subtle and delicate a nature to be dealt with in a short notice. This
much may be said: it is a book that should be read. No one can afford
to pass it over. It contains some of the most descriptive and dramatic
writing of our time, and, quite apart from its literary value, will
go down to posterity as one of the most popular achievements of the
twentieth century. All careful readers must admit that this is the
strongest, the most mature, and yet the most daring novel that Hall
Caine has yet written. The strongest, because not only does it deal
with individuals, but also with masses of men representing the most
conflicting thoughts, feelings and passions of the present day; the most
mature, because it contains the expression of his thought on subjects
which have compelled his study for more than thirty years; and the most
daring, because it introduces the Pope and the Prime Minister of Italy as
central characters with complete and indisputable success.
I venture to quote two paragraphs from the _Bookman_ (August 1901) which
give, so it seems to me, an extremely lucid account of how Mr Caine fixed
on Rome as the scene for his latest story.
“When Mr Hall Caine first decided upon the central idea, he had thought
of setting his story in London, or Paris, or New York. He tried all
cities and found them impossible. The civil and social conception which
is behind the story has its rightful home in the Third Italy. To Mr Hall
Caine Rome is typical of the new democracy. According to his observation,
the force which in the past century has most vigorously asserted itself
is the power of the peoples, wide, liberal, and democratic in contrast
with the absolute power of the kings. But over the new power which has
destroyed the reality of absolutism, continues the pomp and ostentation
of the old rule of things, and not only continues, but daily attempts
to gain a new vigour, a resurrection by three systems, in which Mr Hall
Caine recognises the re-incarnation of the Philistine against the modern
Samson, who stands for the rights of the peoples—imperialism, militarism,
and the question of temporal power.
“Rome is the metropolis of the Christian world, not only by reason of its
religious connections, but also by reason of its geographical position,
its history, its glorious traditions, the fascination of its art, and the
mystery of its eternal life which pervades and surrounds it. Rome alone
seems to Mr Hall Caine the city worthy, in the dawn of an immense social
revolution, to be the heart and soul of humanity, renewing itself in
hopes and aspirations now, and promising in the future pacific civil and
moral glory.”
Whether or not Mr Caine is right in his supposition that a tremendous
social upheaval in Europe is imminent, it is not for me to say; but it is
certain that his picture of the working of the antagonistic social forces
of the present day in Rome is a truthful one, and that the feverish
unrest and disorder of the people has not been brought about by the
Italian Government only, but by the Church itself.
_The Eternal City_ is not only a history: it is a prophecy also. It
contains a solemn warning, and states the case of the people with
unparalleled insight and sympathy. If the next few years do not witness a
mighty change in the mode of Government of the peoples of Europe, it will
be because some tremendous outside force, which has not yet been reckoned
with, has intervened, and changed the current of social and international
politics.
* * * * *
In looking at Mr Hall Caine’s future it is impossible to see with any
certainty what he is likely to achieve. A novelist he is, and a novelist
he will always remain, for he is a born writer, and could not separate
himself from his work even if he desired to do so. Besides, he has a
worldwide public to address—a public that increases in large numbers year
by year—and to sacrifice an audience of millions of human beings would
be the very height of folly. And there can be no manner of doubt that he
realises that the written word has immeasurably greater power than that
which is merely spoken. The responsibility of his position often weighs
heavily upon him, for he feels that his power over the destinies of those
who love his works is almost illimitable, and a single false step might
mean ruin to the lives of hundreds of his fellow-creatures. Yet, in his
later works, I see a desire on his part to enter more closely into the
lives of the masses: he seems to be obsessed by the ambition to make
easier the lives of the ignorant and uneducated, and to be anxious to
reach those into whose hands a book of his can never fall. I have very
good reason to suppose that he contemplates entering public life as a
politician or as a lecturer on social reform—but a career of that kind
would mean sacrificing an audience of millions that he reaches by his
novels, for an audience that could certainly be estimated in thousands.
But still there are many whom he wishes to aid who are, in the present
condition of things, beyond his reach; how to bring himself in touch with
this section of humanity, he cannot yet perceive, but I have no doubt
that in the course of time he will find a way out of the difficulty.
This gradual dawning of sympathy on the part of Hall Caine with the
suffering and oppressed is one of the most interesting features in the
study of his life and work. That he has always sympathised with the
poor and ignorant we have ample evidence in the account of the Reverend
William Pierce of his early life in Liverpool; but this sympathy did not
begin to evince itself in his work until _The Deemster_ was published,
where in parts it was clearly seen that the lower classes were gaining a
strong hold upon his heart and imagination. _The Christian_ eventually
showed the depth of this sympathy, and in what way he thought it
advisable to put it into practical form.
From time to time it has been rumoured that Mr Caine has the intention of
dealing with the drink question in a novel; but I am able to state that,
though he has been and is profoundly moved by the misery and shame which
are caused by the too free use of alcohol, yet he has been unable to see
his way to treat it in a work of fiction. It is true, the subject has
engaged his attention for some considerable time, and on my last visit to
him he spoke long and earnestly on this question. Whatever he may decide
to do in the future, it is certain that for the next two or three years
he will be occupied with another Manx novel. He has thought of making
the recent Bank failure the subject of his work, but before he decides
definitely he is to take a long rest. Each fresh novel he writes drains
away his strength, for to him writing means a constant struggle, a bitter
emotional experience which almost prostrates him. Of late he has also
been turning his attention to the _Life of Christ_, which he wrote some
years ago, but which has never yet been published in spite of the many
tempting offers which he has received for the copyright. It has not been
my privilege to read this book, but I may say that Mr Caine believes it
to contain some of his best work. Speaking of the year 1890, he says: “I
had read Rénan’s _Life of Christ_, and had been deeply impressed by it,
and I had said that there was a splendid chance for a life of Christ as
vivid and as personal (if that were possible) from the point of belief
as Rénan’s was from the point of unbelief.” It is perhaps unnecessary to
point out that such a work from the pen of Mr Caine would be of absorbing
interest to all his readers, and it is to be hoped that he will be
prevailed upon to give it to the world.
And now I come to the end of my work. I have attempted no comparison
between him and his contemporaries, for his place in the literature of
England must be left for future generations to decide. Suffice it to
say, that it seems to me he must be placed in the very front rank of all
novelists, living or dead; for in few writers do I see such sympathy,
such depth of knowledge of human nature, such insight, such power, and
such discrimination as I see in the work of Hall Caine. However this
may be, it is certain that no novelist—of this or past generations—has
so profoundly stirred the masses of England and America as Hall Caine
has done. He has influenced his own generation to a greater extent than
can possibly be estimated; that his influence has been of an ennobling,
purifying nature few will deny, and those who find evil in his books must
look into their own hearts and cast out the wickedness that they find
there. “To the pure all things are pure”; well, not quite all, but one
cannot help suspecting that those who have such keen noses for scenting
evil odours are not themselves so free from corruption as they would have
us believe.
THE END
_Colston & Coy. Limited, Printers, Edinburgh_
* * * * *
ENGLISH WRITERS OF TO-DAY
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=Review of the Week.=—“It is not only a study, it is an
entertainment. It has dignity and no dulness. … Though an
appreciation, it is not an exaggeration. The summing up, though
masterly, is not tyrannical. It is concise and sufficient, and
is as artistically written as artistically informed. Author and
publisher have combined to make the book one not only to peruse,
but to possess. The price is more than moderate, the _format_
more than presentable.”
=Court Circular.=—“This little volume forms an excellent handbook
to his (Swinburne’s) writing. It is not simply an eulogy, but
rather a discriminate appreciation and a loving analysis of the
poet’s works which are dealt with chronologically as they were
published. The exposition helps greatly to elucidate many of the
poems, and the criticisms are fair and unbiassed. Those who know
their Swinburne well will find a new pleasure in the poems after
reading this book, and those who have hitherto been deterred from
studying him are put in possession of a golden key to unlock the
gateway of an enchanted garden. Mr Wratislaw has fulfilled his
task ably and well, and has earned the gratitude of all lovers of
English poetry.”
=HALL CAINE.= By C. FRED KENYON.
=VOLUMES OF E. W. O. T. (in active preparation.)=
=George Meredith.= By WALTER JERROLD.
=Arthur Wing Pinero.= By HAMILTON FYFFE.
=W. E. Henley=, and the “NATIONAL OBSERVER” Group. By GEORGE
GAMBLE.
=Geo. Moore and Bernard Shaw.= By C. FRED KENYON.
=Mrs Humphrey Ward= } In One Volume.
=Mrs Craigie= } By W. L. COURTNEY.
=Thomas Hardy.= By a well-known Critic.
=Realistic Writers of To-day.= By JUSTIN HANNAFORD.
=The Parnassian School in English Poetry.= (ANDREW LANG, EDMUND
GOSSE and ROBERT BRIDGES.) By SIR GEORGE DOUGLAS.
=Richard Le Gallienne.= By C. RANGER GULL.
* * * * *
EVERYONE
should read the book of the hour.
ROMANCE OF A HAREM
translated from the French by CLARENCE FORESTIER-WALKER.
_Romance of a Harem_
is a true and faithful story of life as it really is in Turkish
and Egyptian Harems.
_Romance of a Harem_
is written by a French lady who lived for many years in the
Imperial Harem at Constantinople.
_Romance of a Harem_
records all the exciting events which led to the sensational
assassination of the Sultan Abdul Aziz.
_Romance of a Harem_
may be obtained at all booksellers and libraries. Very handsomely
and artistically bound in crimson art vellum, lettered in white,
tied with white satin, and gilt top.
Price FIVE SHILLINGS nett.
* * * * *
_THE NEW NOVEL_
BACK TO LILAC-LAND
By a Well-known Author
_Back to Lilac-Land_
is the most daring and most realistic story of the stage ever
written. Even the realism of Mr George Moore will pale before the
revelations of
_Back to Lilac-Land_
which is written by a well-known London Journalist, who has a
very wide and intimate knowledge of theatrical affairs, both
before and behind the scenes.
_Back to Lilac-Land_
is not a depressing and morbid study, but a powerful, vigorous
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_Back to Lilac-Land_
may be obtained at all booksellers and libraries.
Price SIX SHILLINGS
London: GREENING & CO. LTD.
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