Carew had been nearly six weeks in Pernambuco, when a British mail
steamer happened to land an English passenger, who at once called on the
consul, and introduced himself to that functionary as Mr. Norton. He had
that to say which considerably astonished the consul, and the result was
that on the following morning a letter was brought to Carew as he was
sitting down to his breakfast at the hotel with Baptiste. It was from
the consul's clerk, and ran thus:--"_Sir, will you kindly call here
to-day? Your business is practically settled._"
"Practically settled?" repeated Baptiste, when he heard the contents.
"Those words have an unpleasant ring somehow. I know not why, but I
cannot help fearing that something is wrong."
"I too have my presentiments," said Carew, "but I am prepared."
At the appointed hour Carew called at the Consulate. He found the consul
and Lloyd's agent awaiting him in a room adjoining the principal office.
There was a constraint in their manner, which he, watchful for the
slightest suspicious indication, detected at once. They were as men who
anticipated some momentous event, but who endeavoured to conceal their
anxiety.
The consul produced a document, and laid it on the desk. "Read this
over, please, Mr. Allen, and see that it is correct."
Carew glanced down it quickly with an eye trained to legal forms. "It is
perfectly correct," he said.
"I have a gentleman in the next room who will witness your signature to
this statement," proceeded the consul. He opened the door, and Mr.
Norton entered the room.
The consciousness of impending peril came over Carew's guilty soul, but
he seized the pen, and in a firm hand wrote the signature, "Arthur
Allen, Barrister-at-law."
Mr. Norton now approached the table. He took up the pen as if to sign
his name, glanced at the document, and then, raising his head, looked
Carew full in the face. "I cannot witness this signature," he said. "It
is a forgery!"
There was a complete silence for a few moments; then Carew, whose face
was pale, but who betrayed no other signs of emotion, said quietly,
"Explain your strange words, sir."
"It is no good; the game is up, Mr. Carew," replied Norton. "I have a
warrant for your arrest, and the police are at the door."
"A trap has been laid for me, I see," said Carew, as quietly as before.
"This is one of the absurd mistakes you detectives so often make; but I
will soon clear it up. Of what am I accused?" Carew was astonished at
his own courage in the presence of this extreme disaster, or rather--for
it can scarcely be called courage--at his indifference to his fate. He
felt as if he were the spectator of a tragedy which was being played by
other men, and in which he was not himself an actor--a common state of
mind with men in utmost peril.
"The charge with which I am immediately concerned," replied the
detective, "and on account of which an extradition warrant has been
issued, is the forgery of a client's name by the solicitor Henry Carew.
In the meanwhile, look at these," and he threw on the table two
photographs. Carew took them up. One, he saw, was a portrait of Arthur
Allen, his friend whom he left to drown in the North Sea; the other was
a photograph of himself which had been taken eight years back, when he
was another man, when his conscience was still clear, and before his
gambling losses had driven him from crime to crime; sin and suffering
had yet drawn no lines on the face, the brow was free from care. He
gazed gloomily at this presentment of what he had been and could never
be again, and his mind wandered back with despairing regret to memories
of guiltless days.
"On the 15th of August last," continued the detective, "a solicitor,
Henry Carew, absconded, disappeared, leaving no trace. For some time I,
who was entrusted with the case, was altogether at fault; but at last,
as often happens, a coincidence threw me on the scent. I came across an
advertisement inserted in the papers by the relatives of a missing man,
Arthur Allen. He had left his chambers on the 15th of August, and had
not since been heard of. Carew and Allen thus disappeared from London on
the same day, mark you; but there was no very remarkable coincidence in
that fact. However, I happened to remember that, while searching the
papers of Carew to discover what were his habits, who were his
acquaintances, and so forth, I had come across the name of this Arthur
Allen, apparently a friend of Carew's. The clue was worth following up.
I soon ascertained that Allen had that day sailed from the Thames in his
yacht; that his last known port of call was Rotterdam. I went to
Rotterdam, and there, from a Mr. Hoogendyk and others, learnt that the
man who called himself Arthur Allen had conducted himself in a somewhat
curious manner for an English yachtsman, and had suddenly sailed from
that port, bound no one knew whither, with a crew of Spanish
desperadoes."
The detective now took the two photographs from the hand of Carew, who
was still gazing at them in a dazed way, apparently not listening to the
words of his accuser.
"I procured these," Norton went on. "I brought them to Mr. Hoogendyk.
First I showed him the portrait of Arthur Allen; he did not recognise
it. Then I gave him the portrait of Henry Carew. 'This, of course,' he
at once said, 'is the photograph of Mr. Allen, the Englishman who came
here with the little yacht.' Then I knew that I was on the right track.
Shortly afterwards, a paragraph which appeared in a London evening paper
brought me promptly here, armed with an extradition warrant. I have the
paragraph here. It is headed '_A Strange Story of the Sea._' I will read
it to you. '_A telegram from Pernambuco states that a French barque,
the_ La Bonne Esperance, _has been brought into that port a derelict.
She was picked up by the crew of an English yacht, the_ Petrel. _The_
Petrel _had foundered in the South Atlantic. Mr. Allen, the owner, and
his three men took to the dinghy, and, after drifting for several days,
encountered the deserted barque, which they sailed into Pernambuco. The
salvage is likely to far more than compensate Mr. Allen for the loss of
his yacht._' That is all I need say at present."
The consul spoke next. "There is a Mr. Rudge here, who has been in
Pernambuco for some weeks, who can also throw a light on this matter."
The consul touched the bell, and the man who had assumed the name of
Rudge was shown into the room. He closed the door behind him, and stood
with his back against it.
"This gentleman," said the consul deliberately, "affirms that _he_ is
Arthur Allen, the barrister, the owner of the lost yacht."
All in the room now turned their eyes upon Carew, to watch the effect
upon him of this sudden presence.
Yes, it was indeed Allen, though pale and thin, as if he had but just
recovered from a sudden illness, that Carew saw before him. And now this
strange being, who had fallen into such depths of crime, and who yet
loathed crime so intensely, behaved in the manner that might have been
expected from him. The better man declared himself at last. On beholding
this accuser, who had risen thus suddenly from the dead, he displayed no
guilty terror. On the contrary, an expression of great relief, of joy,
almost of triumph, lit up his face, and the lines of care faded away
from it.
They all watched him with wonder.
Then he spoke quietly, in tones that carried conviction. No one could
doubt but that the words were from his heart.
"Yes, I am Henry Carew. I am guilty of all that I am accused of, and of
more, and worse things. But I am glad, indeed glad--and little gladness
has been my lot of late--to see you, Arthur Allen, standing there alive
before me. There is one less crime on my soul. Yes, I am now happy;
happier than I deserve to be. I am quite ready to pay the penalty of my
sins."
There was a nobility in his countenance as he stood up erect, with none
of the shrinking criminal about him. He felt as if he were out of the
world already; he was free from petty fears now.
Then the consul, impressed by the man's manner, said, in an almost
respectful tone, "It is better that you should go on board the English
steamer at once. I have arranged everything."
The detective whispered something into the consul's ear, and then
slipped out of the room quietly.
Carew looked through the window at the fair tropical world without. He
could see the busy quay, with its green trees waving in the fresh trade
wind, and the breakers dashing upon the coral reef. Beyond that, between
the blue sea and the blue sky, there loomed a dark mass. Carew knew that
this was the vessel which was to be his prison, lying at anchor in the
outer roads. He shivered; then turning to the consul said--
"Grant me one last favour before I go: let me have paper and pen. I
wish to write a letter."
The consul hesitated.
"Give it to him," whispered Allen, who had been eyeing Carew intently;
and Carew rewarded him with a grateful look.
The writing materials were put on the table. He sat before them with his
back to the spectators, and as he held the pen in his right hand, he
placed his left elbow upon the table, stooping over it, his face buried
in the open palm as if he were meditating deeply what he should write.
And so he remained for quite a minute without writing a word. Once a
slight tremor passed through his frame. After that he sat quite
motionless.
The detective again entered the room, followed by two officers of
police.
"Come, sir," he said, "we must go now," and he put his hand lightly on
Carew's shoulder.
As the hand touched him, Carew's elbow slipped, his head dropped heavily
upon the table, face downwards, and from his left hand, which had been
over his mouth, there fell on the table, and rolled slowly across it, a
small empty bottle.
He was quite dead! He had found a use at last for the poisonous drug
which the Rotterdam chemist had grudgingly sold him.
* * * * *
"The prisoner has slipped away from us," said the detective; "but,
after all, I am not sorry for it in a way, for there was good in the
man."
And so ended the misspent life of Henry Carew--a man by nature probably
no worse than many of the most respectable-seeming among us. But he was
morally timid; and such a one, however benevolent be his disposition,
however opposed to vice be his inclinations, is the slave of
circumstances, and is quite as likely to develop into a villain as a
saint. A weak will is the devil's easiest prey.
Arthur Allen's narrative will be given in his own words:--
"The last thing I remember, after Jim and myself were capsized, is that
I was holding on to the dinghy, and that I lashed myself to her with the
painter. Poor Jim must have gone down at once. I don't remember seeing
him after the boat turned over. The seas must have driven the sense out
of me. I came to, days afterwards, in the cabin of a German barque. She
had picked me up--still lashed to the dinghy--in an insensible
condition. The barque was bound from Hamburg to Rio. My long exposure in
the water brought on a serious and tedious illness. I was more dead than
alive when I landed at Rio, and was at once taken to the hospital. There
the English Consul called to see me, and behaved with great kindness.
When I told him my story, and who I was, he said, 'A man of your name
came here with a yacht a short time back--an eccentric man, for he only
stopped two days here and was off again; so I did not see him.' I asked
what the name of the yacht was. 'The _Petrel_,' he replied. Then, of
course, the whole truth dawned upon me, and I satisfied the consul that
someone had stolen my yacht and had assumed my name. The consul then
advanced to me the money I required. I was still lying in the hospital
when the news came to Rio that the _Petrel_ had been lost at sea, and
that her crew had found a derelict, and sailed her into Pernambuco. In
spite of the doctor's warnings, I left the hospital, and hurried here at
once. I was awaiting an extradition warrant from England, when Mr.
Norton anticipated my own action, and arrived with a warrant that had
been obtained on account of former felonies committed by Carew."
The true story of the French barque and her crew was never known.
Baptiste and the two Spaniards took alarm and disappeared from
Pernambuco. Not that they were in danger, for they were not implicated
in the felonies which had been brought home to Carew. But the guilty
wretches knew not what would be discovered next, they so completely
distrusted each other, each knowing that he himself would readily
betray his comrades, either for a price or to secure his own safety.
What ultimately happened to these three villains I do not know. Baptiste
being a criminal of the educated, cunning, and cowardly-cautious order,
possibly enriched himself by iniquity for many years more, and, escaping
his deserts in this world, may yet have died in his old age, a respected
citizen in his native land.
The other two more vulgar scoundrels were no doubt hanged, or stabbed in
a brawl, or despatched in some such summary fashion sooner or later--a
penalty for their crimes which seems light indeed to men of this brutal
stamp, who consider a violent death as the most desirable and indeed
only legitimate termination to existence.
THE END
PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH
ADVERTISEMENTS
_The Express Series.--No. II._
A GIRL OF GRIT
CHAPTER I
MY AMERICAN MILLIONS
It was the middle of the night (as I thought) when Savory--my man, my
landlord, valet, and general factotum--came in and woke me. He gave me a
letter, saying simply, "The gentleman's a-waiting, sir," and I read it
twice, without understanding it in the very least.
Could it be a hoax? To satisfy myself, I sat up in bed, rubbed my
astonished and still half-sleepy eyes, and read it again. It ran as
follows:--
"101, LINCOLN'S INN, _July 11, 189-_.
"GRAY & QUINLAN, Solicitors.
"DEAR SIR,--It is our pleasing duty to inform you, at the request
of our New York agents, Messrs. Smiddy & Dann, of 57, Chambers
Street, New York City, that they have now definitely and
conclusively established your claim as the sole surviving relative
and general heir-at-law of their late esteemed client, Mr. Aretas
M'Faught, of Church Place and Fifth Avenue, New York.
"As the amount of your inheritance is very considerable, and is
estimated approximately at between fourteen and fifteen millions of
dollars, say three millions of sterling money, we have thought it
right to apprise you of your good fortune without delay. Our Mr.
Richard Quinlan will hand you this letter in person, and will be
pleased to take your instructions.--We are, sir, your obedient
servants,
"GRAY & QUINLAN."
"CAPTAIN WILLIAM ARETAS WOOD, D.S.O.,
21, Clarges Street, Piccadilly."
"Here, Savory! who brought this? Do you say he is waiting? I'll see him
in half a minute;" and, sluicing my head in cold water, I put on a
favourite old dressing-gown, and passed into the next room, followed by
Roy, my precious golden collie, who began at once to sniff suspiciously
at my visitor's legs.
I found there a prim little old-young gentleman, who scanned me
curiously through his gold-rimmed pince-nez. Although, no doubt, greatly
surprised,--for he did not quite expect to see an arch-millionaire in an
old ulster with a ragged collar of catskin, with damp, unkempt locks,
and unshorn chin at that time of day,--he addressed me with much
formality and respect.
"I must apologise for this intrusion, Captain Wood--you _are_ Captain
Wood?"
"Undoubtedly."
"I am Mr. Quinlan, very much at your service. Pardon me--is this your
dog? Is he quite to be trusted?"
"Perfectly, if you don't speak to him. Lie down, Roy. I fear I am very
late--a ball last night. Do you ever go to balls, Mr. Quinlan?"
"Not often, Captain Wood. But if I have come too early, I can call later
on."
"By no means. I am dying to hear more. But, first of all, this
letter--it's all _bona fide_, I suppose?"
"Without question. It is from our firm. There can be no possible
mistake. We have made it our business to verify all the facts--indeed,
this is not the first we had heard of the affair, but we did not think
it right to speak to you too soon. This morning, however, the mail has
brought a full acknowledgment of your claims, so we came on at once to
see you."
"How did you find me out, pray?"
"We have had our eye on you for some time past, Captain Wood," said the
little lawyer smilingly. "While we were inquiring--you understand? We
were anxious to do the best for you"--
"I'm sure I'm infinitely obliged to you. But still, I can't believe it,
quite. I should like to be convinced of the reality of my good luck. You
see, I haven't thoroughly taken it in."
"Read this letter from our New York agents, Captain Wood. It gives more
details," and he handed me a type-written communication on two quarto
sheets of tissue paper, also a number of cuttings from the New York
press.
The early part of the letter referred to the search and discovery of the
heir-at-law (myself), and stated frankly that there could be no sort of
doubt that my case was clear, and that they would be pleased, when
called upon, to put me in full possession of my estate.
From that they passed on to a brief enumeration of the assets, which
comprised real estate in town lots, lands, houses; stocks, shares, well-
_The Express Series--No. III._
A DESPERATE VOYAGE
CHAPTER I
In Carey Street, Chancery Lane, on the ground floor of a huge block of
new buildings facing the Law Courts, were the offices of Messrs. Peters
and Carew, solicitors and perpetual commissioners of oaths. Such was the
title of the firm as inscribed on the side of the entrance door in the
middle of a long list of other names of solicitors, architects, and
companies, whose offices were within. But the firm was now represented
by Mr. Carew alone; for the senior partner, a steady-going old
gentleman, who had made the business what it was, had been despatched by
an attack of gout, two years back, to a land where there is no
litigation.
Late one August evening Mr. Henry Carew entered his office. His face was
white and haggard, and he muttered to himself as he passed the door. He
had all the appearance of a man who has been drinking heavily to drown
some terrible worry. His clerks had gone; he went into his own private
room and locked the door. He lit the gas, brought a pile of papers and
letters out of a drawer, and, sitting down by the table, commenced to
peruse them. As he did so, the lines about his face seemed to deepen,
and beads of perspiration started to his forehead. It was for him an
hour of agony. His sins had found him out, and the day of reckoning had
arrived.
One might have taken Henry Carew for a sailor, but he was very unlike
the typical solicitor. He was a big, hearty man of thirty-five, with all
a sailor's bluff manner and generous ways. His friends called him Honest
Hal, and said that he was one of the best fellows that ever lived. We
have it on the authority of that immortal adventuress, Becky Sharp, that
it is easy to be virtuous on five thousand a year. Had Mr. Carew enjoyed
such an income, he would most probably have lived a blameless life and
have acquired an estimable reputation; for he had no instinctive liking
for crime; on the contrary, he loathed it.
But one slight moral flaw in a man's nature--so slight that his best
friends smile tolerantly at it--may, by force of circumstance, lead
ultimately to his complete moral ruin. It is an old story, and has been
the text of many a sermon. The trifling fault is often the germ of
terrible crimes.
Carew's fault was one that is always easily condoned, so nearly akin is
it to a virtue; these respectably connected vices are ever the most
dangerous, like well-born swindlers. Carew was a spendthrift. He was
ostentatiously extravagant in many directions. He owned a smart
schooner, which he navigated himself, being an excellent sailor, and the
quantities of champagne consumed by his friends on board this vessel
were prodigious.
When his steady old partner died, Carew began to neglect the business
for his pleasures. Soon his income was insufficient to meet his
expenses. Speculation on the Stock Exchange seemed to him to be a
quicker road to fortune than a slow-going profession. So this man,
morally weak though physically brave, not having the courage to curtail
his extravagances, hurried blindly to his destruction. He gambled and
lost all his own property; for ill-luck ever pursued him. Even then it
was not too late to redeem his position. But he was too great a coward
to look his difficulties in the face; therefore, having the temptation
to commit so terribly easy a crime ever before him in his office, he
began--first, timidly, to a small extent; then wildly, in panic, in
order to retrieve his losses--to speculate with the moneys entrusted to
him by his clients. He pawned their securities; he forged their names;
he plunged ever deeper into crime--and all in vain.
When it was too late, he swore to himself, in the torments of his
remorse, that if he could but once win back sufficient to replace the
sums he had stolen, he would cut down all his expenses, forswear
gambling and dishonesty, and stick to his profession.
At last it came to this. He sold his yacht and everything else he
possessed of value. He realised what remained of the securities under
his charge, and then placed the entire sum as cover on a certain stock,
the price of which, he was told, was certain to rise. It was the
gambler's last despairing throw of the dice. The stock suddenly fell;
settling day arrived, and his cover was swept away--he had lost all!
So he sat in his office this night and faced the situation in an agony
of spirit that was more than fear. For this was no unscrupulous,
light-hearted villain. An accusing conscience was ever with him, and
every fresh descent in crime meant for him a worse present hell of
mental torture.
He felt that it was idle to hope now, even for a short reprieve. Clients
were suspicious. In a day or two at most all must be known. Disgrace and
a felon's doom were staring him in the face. It would be impossible for
him to raise even sufficient funds to escape from England to some
country where extradition treaties were unknown. Carew realised all
this. He had forced himself to look through his
_Autumn 1898_
LIST OF NEW & RECENT BOOKS
PUBLISHED BY JOHN MILNE AT
12 NORFOLK STREET, STRAND, LONDON
The Express Series.
This Series is designed to meet the taste of readers who desire a
swiftly-moving, well-written, dramatic tale, of moderate length, without
superfluous descriptive or other literary "padding," but with continuity
and action from the first page to the last. It contains only
specially-written and selected stories, mostly by well-known writers,
and each volume consists of about 224 pages, crown 8vo. The First
Edition, for the Library, is bound in red cloth, with gilt top, and
published at 2s. 6d. The Second and subsequent Editions are issued in
handy form for the Pocket or the Train, in stout cardboard covers,
illustrated in colours, at 1s.
_The following have been published:--_
I. THE ROME EXPRESS. By Major ARTHUR GRIFFITHS. [_Sixth Edition_
II. A GIRL OF GRIT. By Major ARTHUR GRIFFITHS. [_Just published._
III. A DESPERATE VOYAGE. By E. F. KNIGHT. [_Just published._
_CURRENT LIST._
A Desperate Voyage.
A Desperate Voyage. By E. F. KNIGHT, Author of "The Cruise of the
Falcon," "Where Three Empires Meet," etc. A novel by the well-known
_Times_ war-correspondent and author, describing the escape of an
absconding debtor from the river Thames in a twenty-eight ton yawl, and
his subsequent desperate experiences by sea and land in the South
Atlantic. 224 pages, crown 8vo, red cloth gilt, gilt top, uniform with
the above, 2s. 6d.
A Girl of Grit.
A Girl of Grit. By Major ARTHUR GRIFFITHS, Author of "The Rome Express."
An Anglo-American story of a gigantic scheme of fraud and attempted
abduction. 217 pages, crown 8vo, red cloth gilt, gilt top, 2s. 6d.
"If you wish for an exciting story--a story which will hold you
fascinated for three pleasurable hours by the intricacies of a
cleverly conceived plot, and the human interest of varied
character--read Major Arthur Griffiths' new book, 'A Girl of Grit.'
The whole story of the pursuit of the rascal Duke of Buona Mano and
the rescue of Captain Wood in mid-Atlantic carries you on with a
rush through a series of dramatic scenes and thrilling adventures
to a climax which is as novel as it is satisfactory. 'A Girl of
Grit' is a better told story than even 'The Rome Express,' which is
saying a good deal."--_Daily Mail._
The Rome Express.
The Rome Express. By Major ARTHUR GRIFFITHS. A notable Detective Story
of much ingenuity and interest. 215 pages, crown 8vo, red cloth gilt,
gilt top, Library Edition, 2s. 6d.; in coloured wrapper, Sixth Edition,
1s.
"It is safe to say that the reader who glances at the first page of
Major Arthur Griffiths' detective story, 'The Rome Express,' will
certainly not skip one single word until he reaches the end. 'Who
could have done the deed?' is the question which absorbs the reader
from first to last, and in his eagerness to answer this question he
will start on at least four different scents, confident each time
that now he has the clue, but only to return baffled and bewildered
again and again. It is General Collingham whose shrewd wit first
hits upon the right track, and puts to confusion all the theories
and red-tapeism of the Quai de l'Horloge. But until the last
chapter we are as much in the dark as any one of them; the mystery
is inscrutable until it pleases the author to lift the veil and
inform us that one of the passengers was requested to continue his
journey in the direction of New Caledonia, and that another was
married at the British Embassy to Sabine, Contessa di
Castagneto."--_Daily Telegraph._
"Any reader who opens this book with the resolution that he will
read a chapter of it and then resume his ordinary occupations, is
likely to be surprised speedily out of such good intentions. The
story grips you like a vice. There is not a superfluous word in the
215 pages."--_Sketch._
**_The next volume of The Express Series will be a
story from the pen of Mr. David Christie Murray, and others are in
preparation._
The Evolution of a Wife.
The Evolution of a Wife, a Romance in Six Parts, by ELIZABETH HOLLAND.
The life-story of Marie de Hauteville, a young girl of noble Swiss
family. It contains many charming pictures of Conventual and village
life in the Bernese Oberland, with a strong love interest of the
non-modern school. 398 pages, large crown 8vo, cloth, Second Edition,
6s.
"There is an extraordinary genius in 'The Evolution of a Wife.' In
calm and masterful handling, searching insight, and bold
imaginative outlook, this romance ranks among the finest first
books of all the novelists. In the delicate manner of Flaubert,
without comment, and with a powerful massing of scenes, the
authoress advances to her climax; and one lays down the book
feeling that certain impressions will not efface
themselves."--_Yorkshire Post._
"Marie is delightful, with her many lovers and the pathetic little
vanities that make her innocence anything but insipid. She is
absolutely realisable; and not she alone. The little Swiss town and
its inhabitants live at once in the reader's eye."--_Saturday
Review._
"A remarkable story, alike in plot and character. It makes an
impression that here and there reminds us of the art and the
passion of Charlotte Bronte's works."--_Scotsman._
The Passion for Romance.
The Passion for Romance. By EDGAR JEPSON, Author of "Sibyl Falcon."
Describes the remarkable love affairs of Lord Lisdor, a young and
susceptible nobleman of wealth and leisure. 378 pages, large crown 8vo,
cloth, Second Edition, 6s.
"'The Passion for Romance' is, at the least, recommended by that
air of novelty so welcome to all, but to none more than to the
professional novel-reader. The hero--the main feature of the story,
as he has a right to be--is treated from a refreshingly new
standpoint. He is a new sort of hero as well as a fresh specimen in
individuals: neither villain, saint, nor martyr, but simply a
possible human being with some strong characteristics. The vain
quest and the yearning for fulfilment are told with delicacy of
touch, some sense of humour, and absolutely without sickly
sentiment or morbid passion. Is not this enough to prove that we do
not speak of the novel of the common or British type?"--_Athenaeum._
"It is a long time since we have had a new sensation in fiction. It
has come at last. The author of 'The Passion for Romance' is a
novelist with a style that is distinguished, and--rarissimus inter
raros--Mr. Edgar Jepson is also a writer who has something new to
say. Apart from the literary merit of the work, there is the story;
and to say that there is nothing in fiction with which that may be
compared is to acknowledge at once its originality."--_Morning._
Saint Porth.
Saint Porth. The Wooing of Dolly Pentreath. By J. HENRY HARRIS. A homely
tale of life and love in a Cornish village. 320 pages, crown 8vo, cloth
gilt, gilt top, 6s.
"A Cornish tale of remarkable picturesqueness, altogether natural
and touching, full of quaint pictures of a marvellously decorative
people."--_Saturday Review._
"Written with singular sympathy, earnestness, and gentle humour.
The scene is laid on the Cornish coast, and Mr. Harris paints for
us the splendours of that gorgeous seascape in the manner of one
who feels to the full its peculiar fascination, and to whom the
character of the dwellers on its shore appeals with a familiar
charm. The delicate and precious aroma of romance perfumes every
page of 'Saint Porth,' and lends to this homely, unpretentious tale
a value and an interest that are too often lacking in novels of a
more ambitious scope."--_Speaker._
"Of the many efforts which writers have made during recent years to
portray various phases of Cornish life, this, to our mind,
represents one of the most successful."--_West Briton._
"However crowded the novel market may be, there is always room for
such refreshing little idylls as 'Saint Porth'--a simple tale,
simply told in delightfully breezy style."--_Birmingham Gazette._
Paradise Row.
Paradise Row, and some of its Inhabitants. By W. J. WINTLE. A series of
powerfully painted sketches of North Country life. 240 pages, crown 8vo,
cloth, gilt top, 3s. 6d.
"To adequately express the power and the pathos of these simply
told sketches, is quite beyond the scope of a review, for they
rouse all that is best and all that is most sacred in our common
humanity, making us feel more than the grandest rhetoric could, the
brotherhood of man. Some of the characters are real heroes, and one
rises from the perusal of the book with a greater respect for the
men who devote their lives to Christian work in the noisome dens of
our populous places, and with a large hope for the ultimate
redemption of mankind."--_North British Daily Mail._
"This is a volume of sketches of North Country life, very
vigorously drawn, and full of pathos well relieved with humour. It
shows throughout a large power of sympathy and great breadth of
thought."--_Spectator._
"We commend this book as both literature and life. Those who wish
to know how the poor live and love cannot do better than read
'Paradise Row.'"--_Methodist Times._
"The work of a deep thinker and a cultured writer."--_Black and
White._
Butterfly Ballads.
Butterfly Ballads and Stories in Rhyme. By HELEN ATTERIDGE. With
Sixty-five Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, LOUIS WAIN, H. R. MILLAR, and
others. 142 pages, foolscap 4to, designed cover, cloth gilt, gilt edges,
3s. 6d.
"These real ballads are very clever indeed; we feel sure 'Ethelinda
Gray' and 'The Boy that went to Sea' will live in the upper circles
of juvenility for many a long day. 'The Doll's Dance' ought to be
as widely read and as keenly appreciated as 'The Butterfly's Ball
and the Grasshopper's Feast,' which was the delight of the children
of fifty years ago. The illustrations are numerous and
admirable."--_World._
"A delightful collection of stories in verse for little ones. It is
exactly what it professes to be, and does not indulge in
metaphysics for infants, and every little one who has the good
fortune to have the volume given it will be happy for a long
time."--_St. James's Gazette._
"'Butterfly Ballads' are by no means inappropriately named. They
are light and bright, and go fluttering along easily. The
illustrations are specially clever; the dogs, the children, and the
old folks are all full of character and spirit."--_Times._
"Will speedily be learned by heart, and repeated in the firelight
to a breathless audience."--_Lady._
The English Stage.
The English Stage. Being an Account of the Victorian Drama, by AUGUSTIN
FILON. Translated from the French by FREDERIC WHYTE, with an
Introduction by HENRY ARTHUR JONES. 320 pages, demy 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6d.
"This large and painstaking volume will certainly interest all who
follow theatrical matters. We welcome it as an interesting and
valuable record."--_Times._
"That the writings of that acute French critic, M. Filon, on 'The
English Stage' have been creditably translated and published in
this country, is a subject of congratulation. The completeness with
which this observer in a foreign land has mastered his subject is
surprising, and adds much force to the penetrating and suggestive
criticisms with which the book abounds. Altogether the work,
written as it is in spirited and captivating style, is one that can
be perused with pleasure by all classes of readers."--_Morning
Post._
"One of the most entertaining, appreciative, discriminating, and
instructive of recent books upon the English stage."--_New York
Nation._
"No student of the theatre should miss reading 'The English Stage,'
and it should be bought, not borrowed from the library, for it is
essentially a book to dip into again and again. It is full of
interesting facts as to the recent history of the drama in this
country."--_Black and White._
Verdi: Man and Musician.
Verdi: Man and Musician. His Biography, with Especial Reference to his
English Experiences, by F. J. CROWEST, Author of "The Great Tone Poets."
With Photogravure Frontispiece of Verdi, and several full-page
Portraits. The only recent and authoritative English Biography of the
famous Composer. 320 pages, demy 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6d.
"As the author of this highly interesting volume rightly says,
Verdi bibliography, particularly that in England, is not extensive,
but he has made an important addition, a book that should be read
by all admirers of the Italian composer. It is enriched with
several well-executed portraits, and is fully
indexed."--_Athenaeum._
"A most interesting work. Did space permit, we could quote at
length from this delightful book; but as it is, we must leave it to
the reader to pick and choose for himself."--_Weekly Sun._
"A book full of interest both to musicians and laymen, embellished
with a speaking likeness of Verdi as a frontispiece. A distinct and
valuable addition to the scant Verdi literature in this
country."--_Manchester Courier._
"An excellently-written and faithfully-compiled history of the rise
and progress of a great composer, studded with gems of anecdote,
and teeming with an appreciation that will find an echo in the
heart of every lover of opera who reads it."--_Birmingham Gazette._
[Illustration: Logo]
End of Project Gutenberg's A Desperate Voyage, by Edward Frederick Knight