"Just fancy, my dear," exclaimed Donna Maria Boccapaduli to the Marchesa
di San Giacinto on the evening of the following day, "Pietro Ghisleri is
going to marry Laura Arden, after all! That horrid, spiteful, wicked
Adele will die of rage. And they say that the old uncle is dead and has
left Laura one of those enormous English fortunes one reads about, and
they are going to take the first floor of your brother's palace--your
husband says he will buy it some day--I hope he will--and Laura is going
to rebuild Ghisleri's queer little castle in Tuscany. What a delightful
series of surprises! And two days ago every one believed he was on the
point of being sent to prison for ever so many years. But I was always
sure he was innocent, though of course one did not like to have him
about while the thing was going on."
"Giovanni said from the first that it was all an abominable lie,"
answered the Marchesa. "And Giovanni is generally right. What a charming
house it will be! Of course they will give balls."
"They say that in the confession there was a full account of the way in
which she started the story of the evil eye--what nonsense it was! You
have only to look into Laura Arden's eyes--do you think she is as
beautiful as Corona Saracinesca ever could have been?"
"No, no," exclaimed the Marchesa, who had known the Princess of Sant'
Ilario more than twenty years earlier. "No one was ever so beautiful as
Corona. Laura is much shorter, too, and that makes a difference. Laura
reminds one of a saint, and Corona looked an empress--or what empresses
are supposed to be like. But Laura is a beautiful woman. There is no one
to compare with her now but Christina Campodonico, and she is too thin.
What a good looking couple Ghisleri and his wife will make. He has grown
younger during the last two years."
"No wonder--when one thinks of the life he used to lead. Every time he
quarrelled with Maddalena he used to get at least five pounds thinner. I
wonder how she takes it."
"She is far too clever a woman to show what she thinks. But I know she
has not cared for him for a long time. They have not quarrelled for two
years at least, so of course there cannot be any love left on either
side. They still sit in corners occasionally. I suppose they like each
other. It is very odd. But I shall never understand those things."
The last remark was very true, for Flavia Saracinesca loved her giant
husband with all her heart and always had, and she knew also that Maria
Boccapaduli was the best of wives and mothers, if she was also the
greatest of gossips.
What the two ladies said to each other represented very well the world's
opinion, hastily formed, on the spur of the moment, to meet the
exigencies of the altered situation, but immutable now. It shrugged its
shoulders as it referred to its past errors of judgment, and said that
it could not have been expected to know that Adele Savelli was raving
mad when she was allowed to go everywhere just like a sane being,
although her eyes had undeniably had a wild look for some time, and she
might have been taken for a galvanised corpse. For of course it was now
quite certain that she had been out of her mind from the very beginning,
seeing that she had concocted her dreadful plot without the slightest
reason. As for the old story that Laura Arden loved Francesco, that was
downright nonsense! It was another of Adele's scandalous falsehoods--or
insane delusions, if you chose to be so good-natured as to use that
expression. If anything, it was Francesco who loved Laura, and he ought
to be ashamed of himself, considering what a fortune his wife had
brought him. But human nature was very ungrateful, especially when it
bore the name of Savelli. They did not seem at all thankful for that
dear Ghisleri's forbearance. He could have brought an action against
them for any number of things--defamation, false imprisonment--almost
anything. But he had acted with his usual generosity, and told every one
that he had always believed Adele to be insane, and bore no one the
least ill-will, since he had been put to no inconvenience whatever,
thanks to San Giacinto's timely action. And, said the world, when a man
consistently behaved as Pietro Ghisleri had done, he was certain to get
his reward. What could any man desire more than to have that dear,
beautiful, good Laura Arden for his wife, especially since she was so
immensely rich? Doubt the justice of Heaven after that, if you could! As
for the world, it meant to tell them both how sorry it was that it had
misunderstood them. Of course it would be sinful not to hope that Adele
might some day get well, but she had her deserts, and if she ever came
back to society, people would not care to meet her. She might go mad
again at any moment and try to ruin some one else, and might succeed the
next time, too.
That was the way in which most people talked during the season, and the
world acted up to its words as it generally does when there are balls
and dinners to be got by merely being consistent. It was much more
agreeable, too, to live on terms of pleasant intercourse with Laura and
her betrothed, and much easier, because it is always tiresome to keep up
a prejudice against really charming people.
But Adele was not mad as people said, and as the two families gave out.
There had undoubtedly been a strain of insanity through all her conduct,
and that might, some day, develop into real madness. She was sane enough
still, however, to suffer, and no such merciful termination to her
sufferings as the loss of her reason would be seemed at all imminent.
The strong will and acute intelligence had survived, for the poisonous
drug she loved had attacked the body, which was the weaker portion of
her being. Adele was hopelessly paralysed. The last great effort had
been too much for the over-strung nerves. Her hands still moved
convulsively, but she could not direct them at all. Her jaw had dropped,
as it almost always does in advanced cases of morphinism, and her lower
limbs were useless. Day after day she sat or lay before the fire in her
room at Castel Savello, as she might remain for years, tended by paid
nurses, and helpless to do the slightest thing for herself--through the
short days and the long nights of winter, hardly cheered by the sunshine
when spring came at last, longing for the end. It was indeed a dreadful
existence. Nothing to do, nothing to think of but the terrible black
past, nothing to occupy her, save the monotonous tracing back of her
present state to her first misdeeds, step by step, inch by inch, in the
cold light of an inexorable logic. It was hard to believe what her
confessor told her, that she should be grateful for having time and
reason left to repent of what she had done, and to expiate, in a
measure, the evil of her life. As yet, that was the only comfort she got
from any one. She had disgraced the name of Savelli, she was told, and
no suffering could atone for that. She felt that she was hated and
despised, and that although everything which money could do was done to
prolong her wretched being, her death was anticipated as a relief from
her detested presence in the household upon which she had brought such
shame. It would be hard to conceive a more fearful punishment than she
was made to undergo, forcibly kept alive by the constant care and
forethought of the most experienced persons, and allowed only just so
much of the morphia as was positively necessary. She had no longer the
power to grasp the little instrument. If she had been able to do that,
she would have found rest for ever, as she told herself. And they
cruelly diminished the dose, though they would not tell her by how much.
She would live longer, they said, if the quantity could be greatly
reduced. She begged, implored, entreated them not to torture her. But
they could hardly understand what she said, for the paralysis had made
her speech indistinct, and even if they could have distinguished the
meaning of all her words they would have paid no attention to them. The
orders were strict and were rigidly obeyed in every particular. She was
to be made to live as long as possible, and life meant torment,
unceasing, passing words to describe. How long it might last she had no
idea. She could only hope against hope that it might end soon. The news
of Laura's engagement and approaching marriage had been kept from her
for some time, it being feared that it might agitate her, but she was
told at last, and the knowledge of her step-sister's happiness was an
added bitterness in what remained to her of life. Vividly she saw them
before her, Laura in her fresh beauty, Ghisleri in his strength, little
Herbert with his father's eyes--the eyes that haunted Adele Savelli by
night and gazed upon her by day out of the shadowy corners of her room.
The three were ever before her moving, as she fancied, through a garden
of exquisite flowers, in a clear, bright light. That was doubtless the
way in which her diseased brain represented their happiness, for she
had loved flowers in the old days, and had associated everything that
was pleasant with them in her thoughts. But she hated them now, as she
hated everything, even to her own children, whom she refused to see
because they reminded her of better times, and her step-mother, whom she
was obliged to receive because the good lady would take no denial. The
Princess was, indeed, one of her most regular and kindly visitors. A
very constant and good woman, she would not and could not turn upon
Adele as all the rest had done, even to her own father, who in the
bitterness of his heart, had said that he would never see his daughter
again, alive or dead. But Adele hated her none the less, and dreaded her
long homilies and exhortations to be penitent, and the little printed
prayers and books of devotion she generally brought with her. For the
Princess was deeply concerned for the welfare of Adele's soul, and being
very much in earnest in the matter of religion, she did what she could
to save it according to her own views. Possibly her sermons might
hereafter bear fruit, but for the present the wretched woman who was
forced to listen to them found them almost unbearable. And so her
unhappy days dragged on without prospect of relief or termination, no
longer in any real meaning of the word a life at all, but only a
consequence, the result of what she had made herself when she had been
really alive.
The Princess of Gerano was the last person won over to a good opinion of
Ghisleri, but before the wedding day she had formally avowed to Laura
that she had been mistaken in him. She had been most of all impressed by
his dignity during the very great difficulties in which he had been
placed, and by his gentle forbearance when his innocence had been
established and when no one would have blamed him if he had cursed the
whole Savelli and Gerano tribe by every devil in Satan's calendar.
Instead, he had uniformly said that he had believed Donna Adele to be
mad, and that what had happened had therefore not come about by any
one's fault. She told Laura that there must be more good than any one
had dreamt of in a man who could act as Pietro did under the
circumstances, and perhaps she was right. At all events, she was
convinced and having once reached conviction she took him to her heart
and found that he was a man much more to her taste, and much more worthy
of Laura than she had supposed. For the rest, the match was an admirable
one. Ghisleri was certainly very far from rich, but he was by no means a
pauper, and what he possessed had been wisely administered. He was
neither a prince, nor the son of a princely house, but there was many a
prince of Europe, and more than one of the Holy Empire, too, whose
forefathers had been trudging behind the plough long after the Nobili
Ghisleri had built their tower and held their own in it for generations.
Then, too, whatever the Princess might think of his past and of his
reputation, he had rather a singular position in society, and was
respected as many were not, who possessed ten times as many virtues as
he. She admitted quite frankly that she had been wrong, and she made
ample amends for her former cold treatment of him by the liking she now
showed.
"I shall never be able to think of you as a serious married man, my dear
friend," said Gouache one day when Ghisleri was lounging in the studio
with a cigarette, after they had breakfasted together.
"I hope you will," was the laconic answer.
"No, I never shall. I have always had a sort of artistic satisfaction in
your character--for there was much that was really artistic about you,
especially as regards your taste in sin, which was perfect and perhaps
is still. But marriage is not at all artistic, my dear Ghisleri, until
it becomes unhappy, and the husband goes about with a revolver in every
pocket, and the wife with a scent bottle full of morphia in hers, and
they treat each other with distant civility in private, and with
effusive affection when a third person is present, especially the third
person who has contributed the most to producing the artistic effect in
question. Then the matter becomes interesting."
"Like your own marriage," suggested Ghisleri, with a laugh. Gouache and
Donna Faustina had not had an unkind thought for one another in nearly
twenty years of cloudless happiness.
"Ah, my friend, you must not take my case as an instance. There is
something almost comic in being as happy as I am. We should never make a
subject for a play writer, my wife and I, nor for a novelist either. No
man would risk his reputation for truthfulness by describing our life as
it is. But then, is there anything artistic about me? Nothing, except
that I am an artist. If I had any money I should be called an amateur.
To be an artist it is essential to starve--at one time or another. The
public never believe that a man who has not been dangerously hungry can
paint a picture, or play the fiddle, or write a book. If I had money I
would still paint--subjects like Michael Angelo's Last Judgment with the
souls of Donna Tullia, Del Ferice, and Donna Adele Savelli frying
prominently on the left, and portraits of my wife and myself in the
foreground on the right with perfectly new crowns of glory and beatific
smiles from ear to ear. If you go on as you have been living since the
reformation set in, you will have to bore yourself on our side too, with
a little variation in your crown to show what a sinner you have been."
"I am quite willing to be bored in your way," answered Ghisleri,
laughing again.
The marriage took place late in February, to the immense delight of the
world, and with the unanimous applause of all society. The newspapers
gave minute accounts of all the gowns, and of all the people who wore
them, and surprised Ghisleri by informing him that his ancestors had
been Guelphs, whereas he had some reason to believe that they had been
Ghibellines, and by creating him a commander of the order of Saint
Maurice and Saint Lazarus, whereas he was an hereditary Knight of
Malta.
The description of Laura was an extraordinary contribution to the
literature of beauty, and left nothing to be desired except a positive
or two to contrast with the endless string of superlatives.
Ghisleri and Laura left Rome with a little caravan of servants. Neither
the faithful Donald nor the equally faithful Bonifazio could be left
behind, and there was Laura's maid, and little Herbert's nurse, both
indispensable. The boy was overjoyed by the arrangement which gave him
the advantage of Pietro's society "for every day," as he expressed it,
and especially at the prospect of living all the summer in a real
castle. He was three years old and talked fluently, when he talked at
all--a strong, brave-looking little fellow, with clear brown eyes and a
well-shaped head, set on a sturdy frame that promised well for his
coming manhood. Ghisleri delighted in him, though he was not generally
amused by very small children. But they always came to him of their own
accord, which some people say is a sign of a good disposition in a man,
for children and animals are rarely mistaken in their likes and
dislikes.
San Giacinto and Gianforte Campodonico went to the station to see them
off after the wedding, and threw armfuls of roses and lilies of the
valley into the carriage before the door was finally shut by the guard
as the preliminary bell was sounded.
"Without you two, we two should not be here," said Ghisleri, as he shook
hands with them both.
"No," added Laura happily. "But we should have been together, if it had
been in prison. Good-bye, dear friends."
The train moved away, and the two men were left on the platform, waving
their hats to the last.
"That is a good thing well done," said San Giacinto, lighting a cigar.
"They will be happy together."
"Yes," said Gianforte, thoughtfully. "I think they will. Women love that
man, and he knows how to love them."
San Giacinto looked down at him and said nothing. He knew something of
Bianca Corleone's short, sad life, and of what had passed between her
brother and Ghisleri. He liked them both more than almost any of the
younger men he knew, and he honestly admired them for their behaviour
towards each other. He guessed what thoughts were passing through
Campodonico's mind as he looked after the train that was bearing away
Pietro Ghisleri, a married man at last.
For Gianforte was saying to himself that though he could neither wholly
forget nor freely forgive the past, he could have loved him had fate
been different. If ten years ago Ghisleri could have married Bianca, and
if Bianca could have lived, the two would have been happy, for even
Gianforte admitted that both had loved truly and well until the end. But
that was a dream and reality had raised the impassable barrier between
men who might have been firm friends. Their hands might stretch across
it, and grasp one another from time to time, and their eyes might read
good faith and the will to be generous each in the other's soul, but
nearer than that they could never be, for the sake of the beautiful dead
woman who would not be forgotten by either.
One more picture and one word more, and the curtain must fall at last.
In the early summer Laura and her husband were at Torre de' Ghisleri in
the Tuscan hills. The small castle was very habitable as compared with
its former condition, and small as it was by comparison with such
fortresses as Gerano, was by no means the mere ruined tower which many
people supposed it to be. The square grey keep from which it took its
name was flanked by a mass of smaller buildings, irregular and of
different epochs, all more or less covered with ivy or with creepers now
in bloom. The wide castle yard, in the midst of which stood the ancient
well with its wonderfully wrought yoke of iron, its heavy chain, and its
two buckets, had been converted into a garden long ago for the bride of
some Ghisleri of those days, and the plants and trees had run almost
wild for a hundred years, irregularly, as some had survived and others
had perished in the winter storms. Here a cypress, there an oak, further
on again three laurels, of the Laura Regia kind, side by side in a row,
then two cypresses again, growing up straight and slim and dark out of a
plot of close-cut grass. And there were roses everywhere, and stiff
camelia trees and feathery azaleas and all manner of bright, growing
things without order or symmetry, beautiful in their wildness. But in
and out there were narrow paths, in which two might walk together, and
these were now swept and cared for as they had never been in Pietro's
bachelor days. Other things were changed too, but not much, and for the
better. A woman's hand had touched, had waked a sweet new life in the
old place.
The afternoon sun, still above the low surrounding hills, cast the
shadow of the tower across the lawn and upon the flowers beyond. There
were chairs before the arched doorway, and a garden table. Laura sat
watching the swallows as they flew down from the keep to the garden and
upwards again in their short, circling flight. A book she had not even
thought of reading lay beside her. At her elbow sat Ghisleri in a white
jacket, with a straw hat tilted over his eyes which little Herbert was
trying to get at, as he rode on Pietro's knee. The man's face had
changed wonderfully during the last six months. All the hardness was
gone from it, and the contemptuous, discontented look that had once come
so readily was never seen now.
"You never told me it was so beautiful," said Laura, still watching the
swallows and gazing at the flowers. "When we first came, and I looked
out of the window in the morning, I thought I had never seen any place
so lovely. You used to talk of it in such a careless way."
"It is you who make it beautiful for me," answered Ghisleri. "A year ago
it seemed dull and ugly enough, when I used to sit here and think of
you."
"I was not the first woman you had thought of, on this very spot, I
daresay," said Laura, with a happy laugh.
"No, dear, you were not." He smiled as he admitted the fact. "But you
were the last, and unless you turn out to be as bad as you seem to be
good, you will have no successor."
"What's successor mean?" lisped Herbert, desisting from his attempt to
get at the hat and listening.
"Somebody who comes after another," answered Laura. "I will try to be
good, dear," she said to Ghisleri, laughing again.
"So'll I," exclaimed Herbert promptly, doubtless supposing that it was
expected of him.
"Yes," said Ghisleri, thoughtfully. "I have sat here many a time for
hours, dreaming about you, and wishing for you, and trying to see you
just as you are now, in a chair beside me. Yes, I have thought of other
women here, but it is very long since I wished to see one there--if I
ever did. I hardly ever came here when I was very young."
There was a pause. His voice had a little sadness in it as he spoke the
last words--not the sadness of regret, but of reverence. He was thinking
of Bianca Corleone. Then Laura laid her hand upon his arm, and her eyes
met his, for he turned as he felt her touch.
"Dear, you would have been happy with her," she said very gravely. "But
I will be all to you that woman can be to man, if I live to show you how
I love you."
"No woman ever was what you are to me already," he answered. "No woman,
living or dead. You have done everything for me since I first knew you
well, and you did much more than you know before I knew what you really
were. There can be nothing in the world beyond what you have given, and
give me."
"I wish I were quite, quite sure of that," said Laura, still looking
into his face.
"You must be--you shall be!" he said, with sudden energy, and his
glance lightened with passion. "You must. Words are not much, I know,
nor oaths, nor anything of that sort. But I will tell you this--and by
the light and goodness of God, it is true. If I could doubt for one
moment that I love you beyond any love I have ever dreamed of, I would
tear out my heart with my hands!"
"What's love?" asked little Herbert timidly, for he was afraid that it
must be something very dreadful as he watched Ghisleri's pale face and
blazing eyes.
But the lips that might have answered could not; they were sealing the
truth they had spoken, upon others that had uttered a doubt for the last
time.
THE END.
LIST OF WORKS
BY
MR. F. MARION CRAWFORD.
IN THE PRESS. A NEW NOVEL.
PIETRO GHISLERI.
12mo, cloth, $1.00. In the uniform edition of Mr. Crawford's Novels.
THE NOVEL. WHAT IT IS.
By F. MARION CRAWFORD, author of "Children of the King,"
"Saracinesca," etc., etc. Uniform with the pocket edition of William
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*.* Also a large-paper limited edition. 12mo, $2.00.
"Mr. Crawford in the course of this readable little essay touches upon
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sincere admirers in this country."--_Beacon._
CHILDREN OF THE KING.
A Tale of Southern Italy. 12mo, cloth, $1.00.
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MACMILLAN & CO. take pleasure in announcing that they have added the
following volumes (with the author's latest revisions) to their uniform
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issue a complete edition of all his novels:
A ROMAN SINGER. New Edition, revised and corrected.
TO LEEWARD. PAUL PATOFF.
AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN. New Edition, revised and partly rewritten.
F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS
NEW UNIFORM AND COMPLETE EDITION.
12mo, cloth. Price $1.00 each.
"Mr. F. Marion Crawford is," as Mr. Andrew Lang says, "the most
'versatile and various' of modern novelists. He has great adaptability
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at the court of Darius at Shushan, in the wilds of India or in the
fashionable quarter of New York, in the Black Forest or in a lonely
parish of rural England, he is equally facile and sure of his ground; a
master of narrative style, he throws a subtle charm over all he
touches."
_TO BE PUBLISHED IN JUNE_:
PIETRO GHISLERI.
Children of the King.
Don Orsino,
A sequel to "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario."
The Three Fates.
The Witch of Prague.
Khaled.
A Cigarette-maker's Romance.
Sant' Ilario,
A sequel to "Saracinesca."
Greifenstein.
With the Immortals.
To Leeward.
A Roman Singer.
An American Politician.
Paul Patoff.
Marzio's Crucifix.
Saracinesca.
A Tale of a Lonely Parish.
Zoroaster.
Dr. Claudius.
Mr. Isaacs.
WORKS BY HENRY JAMES.
A NEW VOLUME OF STORIES.
THE LESSON OF THE MASTER,
AND OTHER STORIES.
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THE PRINCESS CASAMASSIMA.
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THE REVERBERATORS.
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The public will be glad to find Mr. James in his best vein. One is
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PARTIAL PORTRAITS.
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THE BOSTONIANS.
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A LONDON LIFE,
AND OTHER STORIES.
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His short stories, which are always bright and sparkling, are
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FRENCH POETS AND NOVELISTS.
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ROBERT ELSMERE.
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The book is a drama in which every page is palpitating with intense and
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MR. GLADSTONE writes of this Novel in the "Nineteenth Century."
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AMIEL'S JOURNAL.
THE JOURNAL INTIME OF HENRI-FREDERIC AMIEL.
_TRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES. WITH A PORTRAIT._
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A wealth of thought and a power of expression which would make the
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OR, A HOLIDAY AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
16mo, $1.00.
_ILLUSTRATED BY MRS. ALMA-TADEMA._
The present season will scarcely see a more charming addition to
children's literature than this of Mrs. Ward's. Her book has seemed to
us all that a Christmas gift for a child should be.--_Academy._
GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.
UNIFORMLY PRINTED IN 18MO, WITH VIGNETTE TITLES ENGRAVED ON STEEL.
_New and Cheaper Edition. $1.00 each volume._
THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS. By F.T.
PALGRAVE.
THE CHILDREN'S GARLAND. Selected by COVENTRY PATMORE.
THE BOOK OF PRAISE. Selected by the EARL OF SELBORNE.
THE FAIRY BOOK. By the Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman."
THE BALLAD BOOK. Edited by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
THE JEST BOOK. Selected by MARK LEMON.
BACON'S ESSAYS. By W. ALDIS WRIGHT, M.A.
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. By JOHN BUNYAN.
THE SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY. Selected by C.F. ALEXANDER.
A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS. By the Author of "The Heir of Redclyffe."
THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. Edited by J.W. CLARK, M.A.
THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. Translated by J. LL. DAVIES, M.A., and D.J.
VAUGHAN.
THE SONG BOOK. Words and Tunes selected by JOHN HULLAH.
LA LYRE FRANÇAISE. Selected, with Notes, by G. MASSON.
TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS. By AN OLD BOY.
A BOOK OF WORTHIES. Written anew by the Author of "The Heir of
Redclyffe."
GUESSES AT TRUTH. By TWO BROTHERS.
THE CAVALIER AND HIS LADY.
SCOTTISH SONG. Compiled by MARY CARLYLE AITKEN.
DEUTSCHE LYRIK. Selected by Dr. BUCHHEIM.
CHRYSOMELA. A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick.
Arranged by F.T. PALGRAVE.
SELECTED POEMS OF MATTHEW ARNOLD.
THE STORY OF THE CHRISTIANS AND MOORS IN SPAIN. By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.
LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. Edited by the Rev. A. AINGER.
SHAKESPEARE'S SONGS AND SONNETS. Edited, with Notes, by F.T. PALGRAVE.
POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. Chosen and Edited by MATTHEW ARNOLD.
POEMS OF SHELLEY. Edited by STOPFORD A. BROOKE.
THE ESSAYS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. Chosen and Edited by JOHN RICHARD GREEN.
POETRY OF BYRON. Chosen and Arranged by MATTHEW ARNOLD.
SIR THOMAS BROWNE'S RELIGIO MEDICI, ETC. Edited by W.A. GREENHILL.
THE SPEECHES AND TABLE-TALK OF THE PROPHET MOHAMMED. Chosen and
Translated by STANLEY LANE POOLE.
SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. Edited by SIDNEY
COLVIN.
SELECTIONS FROM COWPER'S POEMS. With an Introduction by Mrs. OLIPHANT.
LETTERS OF WILLIAM COWPER. Edited by Rev. W. BENHAM.
THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS. Edited by F.T. PALGRAVE.
THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. Translated into English by E.J.
CHURCH, M.A.
CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF ENGLISH SONG. Edited by F. T. PALGRAVE.
IN MEMORIAM.
TENNYSON'S LYRICAL POEMS. Edited by F.T. PALGRAVE.
PLATO, PHÆDRUS, LYSIS, AND PROTAGORAS. Translated by Rev. J. WRIGHT.
THEOCRITUS, BION, AND MOSCHUS. In English Prose. By ANDREW LANG, M.A.
BALLADEN UND ROMANZEN. Edited by C.A. BUCHHEIM, Ph.D.
LYRIC LOVE. Edited by WILLIAM WATSON.
HYMNS AND OTHER POEMS. By F.T. PALGRAVE.
THE ART OF WORLDLY WISDOM. BALTHASAR GRACIAN.
MACMILLAN & CO.,
112 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Obvious typographical and printer errors have been corrected without
comment.
On page 324: There was no opening quote mark to match the closing quote
at the end of the first paragraph on this page. The text does not
clearly define where the opening quote mark should be, and so it has
been added before the phrase: "who had never known...."
On the first page of the Ads section, an asterism is represented in this
plain-text version as *.*
Other than the above, no effort has been made to standardize internal
inconsistencies in spelling, capitalization, punctuation, grammar, etc.
The author's usage is preserved as found in the original publication.
End of Project Gutenberg's Pietro Ghisleri, by F. (Francis) Marion Crawford