_The Last, and Most Eventful, of the History._
I took my mother and Fanny to the play that night, to see Madge act,
and we three met her after the performance and were driven to her
lodgings with her. I then bade the ladies good-night, with a secret
tenderness arising from the possibility, unknown to them, that our
parting then might be for as many months as they supposed hours.
Returning to Philip at the tavern, I found he had passed the evening
in writing letters; among others, one for me to copy in my own name,
to be left at Madge's lodgings in case of my having to flee the
country for awhile. It was so phrased that the result of the duel,
whether in Philip's death or his antagonist's, could be told by the
insertion of a single line, after its occurrence.
Phil and I rose betimes the next morning, and went by hackney-coach,
in the darkness, to a place in the Oxford road, near Tyburn; where we
left our conveyance waiting, and proceeded afoot to the chosen spot in
the Park.
No one was there when we arrived, and we paced to and fro together to
keep in exercise, talking in low voices, and beguiling our agitation
by confining our thoughts to a narrow channel. The sod was cool and
soft to our tread, and the smell of the leaves was pleasant to our
nostrils. As the sky whitened above the silent trees, and the gray
light penetrated to the grassy turf at our feet, Phil quoted softly
the line from Grey's Elegy in which the phrase of "incense-breathing
morn" occurs; and from that he went to certain parts of Milton's
"L'Allegro" and then to Shakespeare's songs, "When Daisies Pied" and
"Under the Greenwood Tree."
"'Faith," said he, breaking off from the poetry, "'tis a marvel how
content I feel! You would not believe it, the serene happiness that
has come over me. 'Tis easy to explain, though: I have adjusted my
affairs, provided for my wife, left nothing in confusion or disorder,
and am as ready for death as for life. I feel at last responsible to
no one; free to accept whatever fate I may incur; clear of burdens.
The great thing, man, is to have one's debts paid, one's obligations
discharged: then death or life matters little, and the mere act of
breathing fresh air is a joy unspeakable."
We now descried the figures of Falconer, Idsleigh, and a third
gentleman, approaching under the trees. Civil greetings passed as they
came up, and Falconer overwent the demands of mere courtesy so far as
to express himself upon the coolness and sweetness of the morning. But
he was scrutinising Philip curiously the while, as if there were some
reason why he should be less indifferent regarding this antagonist
than he had shown himself regarding Tom Faringfield and me.
The principals removed their hats, coats, and waistcoats. As they were
not booted, but appeared in stockings and low shoes, they made two
fine and supple figures to look upon. The formalities between Mr.
Idsleigh and me were as brief as possible. Falconer chose his sword
with a pretence of scarce looking at it, Philip gave his the usual
examination, and the two men stood on guard.
There was a little wary play at first, while each sought an inkling of
the other's method. Then some livelier work, in which they warmed
themselves and got their muscles into complete facility, followed upon
Phil's pretending to lose his guard. All this was but overture, and it
came to a stop for a short pause designed as preliminary to the real
duel. Both were now perspiring, and breathing into their lungs deep
draughts of air. Falconer's expression showed that he had recognised
better fencing in Phil's work than he had thought to find; but Phil's
face conveyed no such surprise, for he had counted upon an adversary
possessed of the first skill.
'Twas Falconer who began what we all felt was to be the serious part
of the combat. Phil parried the thrust neatly; made a feint, but,
instantly recovering, availed himself of his opponent's counter
movement, and sank his point fair into Falconer's left breast. The
English captain tumbled instantly to the ground. The swiftness of the
thing startled us. Idsleigh and his medical companion stared in
amazement, wondering that the fallen man should lie so still. It took
a second or two for that which their eyes had informed them, to
penetrate to their understanding. But Philip and I knew that the lunge
had pierced the heart, and that the accomplished Lovelace on the
ground would charm no more women.
'Twas only when we were hastening back to our hackney-coach, that
Philip trembled. Then for a few moments his teeth chattered as if he
were taken with a chill, and his face was deathly pale.
"'Tis terrible," he said, in an awed tone, "to kill a man this way.
'Tis not like in war. On a morning like this, in the civil manner of
gentlemen, to make of such a marvellous living, thinking, feeling
machine a poor heap of senseless flesh and bone that can only
rot:--and all in the time of a sword-thrust!"
"Tut!" said I, "the world is the better for the riddance. Think of
Tom, and all else!"
"I know it," said Phil, conquering his weakness. "And such men know
what they risk when they break into the happiness of others. I could
not have lived in peace while he lived. Well, that is all behind us
now. Yonder is our coach."
We got in, and were driven to the tavern in Dean Street. We there
dismissed the coach, and Philip started afoot for the inn, in the
Strand, where our post-chaise was to be in readiness. I was to join
him there after completing the letter and leaving it at Madge's
lodgings, Philip using the mean time in attending to the posting of
certain letters of his own. We had no baggage to impede us, as we
intended to purchase new wearables in France: we had, on the previous
day, provided ourselves with money and letters of credit. My affairs
had been so arranged that neither my wife nor my mother could be
pecuniarily embarrassed by my absence. Philip's American passport,
used upon our former travels, was still in force and had been made to
include a travelling companion. So all was smoothed for our flight.
Taking my letter to the house in which Madge lived, I asked for her
maid, telling the house servant I would wait at the street door: for,
as I did not wish to meet any of the three ladies, I considered it
safer to entrust the letter to Madge's own woman. The girl came down;
but I had no sooner handed her the letter, and told her what to do
with it, than I heard Madge's voice in the hall above. She had come
out to see who wanted her maid, suspecting some trick of Falconer's;
and, leaning over the stair-rail, had recognised my voice.
"What is it, Bert? Why don't you come up?"
"I can't--I'm in haste," I blundered. "Good morning!"
"But wait! What's wrong? A moment, I entreat! Nay, you shall--!" And
at that she came tripping swiftly down the stairs. The maid,
embarrassed, handed her the letter. Without opening it, she advanced
to me, while I was wildly considering the propriety of taking to my
heels; and demanded:
"What is it you had to write? Sure 'tis your own hand. Why can't you
tell me?"
"Not so loud," I begged. "My mother and Fanny mustn't know till I am
gone."
"Gone!" With this she tore open the letter, and seemed to grasp its
general sense in a glance. "A duel! I suspected--from what Philip
said. Oh, my God, was he--?" She scanned the writing wildly, but in
her excitement it conveyed nothing to her mind.
"Captain Falconer will not annoy you again," I said, "and Philip and I
must go to France for awhile. Good-bye! Let mother and Fanny see the
letter in half an hour."
"But wait--thank God, he's not hurt!--France, you say? How? Which
road?"
She was holding my coat lapel, to make me stay and tell her. So I
answered:
"By post to Hastings; there we shall get the Doughty boys to--"
At this, there broke in another voice from above stairs--that of
Fanny:
"Is that Bert, Madge dear?"
"Tell her 'no,'" I whispered, appalled at thought of a leave-taking,
explanations, weeping, and delay. "And for God's sake, let me--ah,
thank you! Read the letter--you shall hear from us--God bless you
all!"
The next moment I was speeding from the house, leaving Madge in a
tumult of thoughts at the door. I turned into Gerrard Street without
looking back; and brisk walking soon brought me to the Strand, where
Philip himself was just ready to take the post-chaise.
"A strange thing delayed me," said he, as we forthwith took our seats
in the vehicle; which we had no sooner done than the postilions set
the four horses going and our journey was begun.
"What was it?" I asked, willing to reserve the account of my interview
with Madge till later.
"The most remarkable thing, for me to witness on this particular
morning," he replied; and told me the story as we rattled through
Temple Bar and Fleet Street, on our way to the bridge and the Surrey
side. "After I left you, I don't know what it was that kept me from
coming through St. Martin's Lane to the Strand, and made me continue
East instead. But something did; and finally I turned to come through
Bow Street. When I was nearly in front of the magistrate's house, a
post-chaise stopped before it, and a fellow got out whom I took to be
a Bow Street runner. Several people ran up to see if he had a prisoner
in the chaise, and so the footway was blocked; and I stopped to look
on for a moment with the rest. A man called out to the constable,
'What you got, Bill?' The constable, who had turned around and reached
into the chaise, stopped to look at the speaker, and said, 'Nobody
much--only the Soho Square assault and robbery--I ran him down at
Plymouth, waiting for a vessel--he had a mind to travel for his
health.' The constable grinned, and the other man said, 'Sure that's a
hanging business, and no mistake!'"
"And so it is," said I, interrupting Philip. "I read of the affair at
the time. A fellow named Howard knocked down his landlady, robbed her
money-box, and got away before she came to."
"Yes," Phil went on, "I remembered it, too. And I waited for a glimpse
of the robber's face. He stepped out, and the constable, with a
comrade from inside the chaise, led him to where they hold prisoners
for examination. He was all mud-stained, dishevelled, and frowsy: for
two seconds, though he didn't notice me, I had a good view of him. And
who do you think this Howard really was?"
"Bless me, how should I know? My acquaintance among the criminal
classes isn't what it might be."
"'Twas Ned Faringfield!" said Philip. "I should have known him
anywhere--heavens, how little a man's looks change, through all
vicissitudes!"
"Well, upon my soul!" I exclaimed, in a chill. "Who'd have thought it?
Yet hanging is what we always predicted for him, in jest. That it
should come so soon--for they'll make short work of that case, 'tis
certain."
"Yes, I fear they'll not lose much time over it, at the Old Bailey. We
may expect to read his name among the Newgate hangings in a month or
two. Poor devil!--I'll send him some money through my lawyer, and have
Nobbs see that he gets decent counsel. Money will enable him to live
his last weeks at Newgate in comfort, at least; though 'tis beyond
counsel to save his neck. His people must never know. Nor Fanny."
"Unless he gives his real name at the trial, or in his 'last dying
speech and confession.'"
"Why, even then it may not come to their ears. Best bring Fanny and
your mother soon to France. Madge will never tell, if she learns; I'll
warrant her for that. To think of it!--the dear old house in Queen
Street, and the boys and girls we used to play with--Tom's fate--and
now Ned's--Fanny in England--and Madge--! Was ever such diversity of
destinies in so small a family?"
He fell into his thoughts: of what strange parts we play in the world,
how different from those anybody would predict for us in our
childhood--how different, from those we then predict for ourselves.
And so we were borne across the Thames, looking back to get our last
view of St. Paul's dome for some time to come; through Southwark, and
finally into the country. The postilions kept the horses at a good
gait Southward. We did not urge them to this, for indeed we saw but
little necessity for great haste, as there was likely to be some time
ere Falconer's death became known to the authorities, and some time
longer ere it was traced to us. But as Mr. Idsleigh, before getting
out of the way himself, _might_ take means to lay written information
against us, which would serve at least to put the minions of the law
on the right track, and as we might be subjected to some delay at
Hastings, we saw no reason to repress the postilions' zeal, either.
In our second stage we were not favoured with so energetic conductors,
and in our third we had unfit horses. So we had occasion to be glad of
our excellent start. Thus, between good horses and bad, live
postilions and lethargic, smooth roads and rough, we fared on the
whole rather well than ill, and felt but the smallest apprehension of
being caught. To speak metaphorically, the coast of France was already
in our sight.
At the end of the first stage, we had breakfasted upon eggs and beer.
We took an early dinner at Tunbridge Wells, and proceeded through
Sussex. 'Twas well forward in the afternoon, and we were already
preparing our eyes, faces, and nostrils for the refreshing intimation
of the sea, when our ears notified us of a vehicle following in our
wake. Looking back, at a bend of the road, we saw it was a conveyance
similar to our own, and that the postilions were whipping the horses
to their utmost speed. "Whoever rides there," said I, "has paid or
promised well for haste."
"'Tis strange there should be other folk bound in a hurry for Hastings
this same day," replied Phil.
We looked at one another, with the same thought.
"Their post-boys seem to be watching our chaise as much as anything
else," I remarked. "To be sure, they can't know 'tis you and I."
"No, but if they _were_ in quest of us, they would try to overtake
this chaise or any other on the road. Ho, postilion!--an extra crown
apiece for yourselves if you leave those fellows yonder behind for
good." And Phil added quietly to me: "It won't do to offer 'em too
much at first--'twould make 'em suspicious."
"But," quoth I, as our men put their horses to the gallop. "How the
devil could any one have got so soon upon our track?"
"Why, Idsleigh may have turned informer, in his own interest--he was
in a devilish difficult position--and men would be sent with our
descriptions to the post-houses. 'Tis merely possible. Or our
hackney-coachman may have guessed something, and dogged me to the
Strand, and informed. If they found where we started, of course they
could track us from stage to stage. 'Tis best to be safe--though I
scarce think they're in our pursuit."
"Egad, they're in somebody's!" I cried. "Their postilions are shouting
to ours to stop."
"Never mind those fellows' holloing," called Philip to our riders.
"'Tis a wager--and I'll double that crown apiece."
We bowled over the road in a way to make me think of Apollo's chariot
and the horses of Phaeton; but we lengthened not a rod the stretch
betwixt us and our followers, though we nullified their efforts to
diminish it. We could make out, more by sight than by hearing--for we
kept looking back, our heads thrust out at either side--that the
pursuing post-boys continued bawling vehemently at ours. What they
said, was drowned by the clatter of horses and wheels.
"Well, they have seen we are two men," said Philip, "and still they
keep up the race. They certainly must want us. Were they merely in a
hurry to reach Hastings, they could do that the sooner by sparing
their horses--this is a killing pace."
"Then we're in a serious plight," said I. "Though we may beat 'em to
Hastings, they will catch us there."
"Unless we can gain a quarter of an hour's start, and, by one chance
in twenty, find the Doughty boys ashore, and their boat in harbour."
"Ay, there's one chance in twenty, maybe," I growled, looking gloomily
back, and wishing I might see the pursuing chaise upset, or one of its
horses stumble.
There is an old proverb about evil wishes rebounding to strike the
sender; and a recollection of this was my paramount thought a moment
later: for at a sharp turn our chaise suddenly seemed to leap into the
air and alight on one wheel, and then turned over sidewise with what
appeared to be a solemn deliberation, piling me upon Philip in a heap.
We felt the conveyance dragged some yards along the road, and then it
came to a stop. A moment later we heard the postilions cursing the
horses, and then we clambered out of the upper side of the chaise, and
leaped into the road. We had been knocked, shaken, and bruised, but
were not seriously hurt.
"Here's the devil to pay," cried the older postilion excitedly,
turning his attention from the trembling horses to the wrecked
vehicle.
"We will pay--but you will let us ride your horses the rest of the
way?" asked Phil, quietly, rather as a matter of form than with any
hope of success.
"No, sir!" roared the man. "Bean't there damage enough? Just look--"
"Tut, man," said Phil, examining the chaise, "a guinea will mend
all--and there it is, and your extra crowns, too, though you failed.
Well," he added, turning to me, "shall we take to the fields? They'll
have to hunt us afoot then, and we may beat 'em at that."
But I found I was too lame, from the knocking about I had got in the
upset vehicle, for any game of hare and hounds. "Go you," said I. "I
was only the second--there's less danger for me."
"I'll not go, then," said he. "What a pity I drew you into this, Bert!
I ought to have considered Fanny and your mother. They'll never
forgive me--they never ought to.--Well, now we shall know the worst!"
The second vehicle came to a triumphant stop near us, the postilions
grinning with satisfaction. Phil and I stood passive in the road: I
remember wondering whether the officers of the law would put handcuffs
upon us. A head was thrust out of the window--a voice called to us.
"Madge!" we cried together, and hastened to her.
"I was afraid you might sail before I got to Hastings," cried she,
with relief and joy depicted on her face.
"Who is with you?" asked Phil.
"No one," she answered. "I left Bert's letter with my maid, to give to
Fanny. I left the girl too, to stay with her if she will take her. I
didn't wish to encumber--Your chaise is broken down: get into this
one. Oh, Phil!--I couldn't bear to have you go away--and leave
me--after I had seen you again. 'Twas something to know you were in
London, at least--near me. But if you go to France--you must let me
go, too--you must, dear--as your friend, your comrade and helper, if
nothing more--your old friend, that knew you so long ago--"
She lost voice here, and began to cry, still looking at him through
the mist of tears. His own eyes glistened softly as he returned her
gaze; and, after a moment, he went close to the window through which
her head was thrust, raised his hand so as to stroke her hair, and
kissed her on the lips.
"Why, you shall come as my wife, of course," said he, gently. "If I
had been sure you wished it, you might have travelled with us from
London, and been spared this chase.--But think what you are giving up,
dear--'tis not too late--the theatre, the praise and admiration,
London--"
"Oh, hang 'em all!" cried she, looking joyous through her tears. "'Tis
you I want!"
And she caught his face between her hands, and kissed it a dozen
times, to the open-mouthed wonder of the staring postilions.
* * * * *
She took us in her post-chaise to Hastings, where the three of us
embarked as we had planned to do, having first arranged that one of
the Doughty boys should go to Hampstead and act as a sort of man
servant or protector to my mother and Fanny during their loneliness.
They joined us later in Paris, and I finally accompanied them home
when Captain Falconer's fatal duel was a forgotten matter. Philip and
Madge then visited Italy and Germany; and subsequently returned to New
York, having courageously chosen to outface what old scandal remained
from the time of her flight. And so, despite Phil's prediction, 'tis
finally his children, not mine, that gladden the age of Mr. and Mrs.
Faringfield, and have brought back the old-time cheer to the house;
for Fanny and I have remained in England, and here our young ones are
being reared. Each under the government for which he fought--thus
Philip and I abide. 'Tis no news, that Phil has become one of the
leading architects in his country. My own life has been pleasantly
monotonous, save for the duel I fought against a detractor of General
Washington, which, as I merely wounded my adversary, did not
necessitate another exile from the kingdom.
It is still an unsolved mystery in London, as to what became of Miss
Warren, the actress of Drury Lane: she was for long reported to have
been carried away by a strange gentleman who killed Captain Falconer
in a duel over her. 'Tis not known in New York that Mrs. Winwood was
ever on the stage. And as I must not yet make it known, nor disclose
many things which have perforce entered into this history, I perceive
that my labour has been, after all, to no purpose. I dare not give the
narrative to the world, now it is done; but I cannot persuade myself
to give it to the fire, either. Let it lie hid, then, till all of us
concerned in it are passed away; and perchance it may serve to
instruct some future reader how much a transient vanity and wilfulness
may wreck, and how much a steadfast love and courage may retrieve.
THE END.
NOTES.
NOTE 1 (Page 13).
Before the Revolution, there were Queen Street and Pearl Street,
together forming a line continuous though not exactly straight. After
the Revolution, the whole line was named Pearl Street. King Street and
Duke Street were others that rightly underwent re-christening. But,
with equal propriety, many old names smacking of the English régime
were retained, and serve as memorials of the English part of the
city's colonial history: such names, for instance, as William Street,
Nassau Street, Hanover Square, Kingsbridge; not to mention New York
itself. The old Dutch rule, too, remains marked in the city's
nomenclature--for ever, let us hope. I say, "let us hope;" for there
have been attempts to have the authorities change the name of the
Bowery itself, that renowned thoroughfare which began, in the very
morn of the city's history, as a lane leading to Peter Stuyvesant's
_bauer_. I scarce think this desecration shall ever come to pass: yet
in such matters one may not be sure of a nation which has permitted
the spoiling (by the mutilation of headlands and cliffs, for private
gain) of a river the most storied in our own land, and the most
beautiful in the world.
NOTE 2 (Page 34).
In 1595 was published in London: "Vincentio Saviolo his Practise. In
two Bookes. The first intreating the use of the Rapier and Dagger. The
second of Honour and Honourable Quarrels." (Etc.) The celebrated
swordsman sets forth only the Italian system, and has naught to say
upon the French. The book that Winwood studied may have been some
reprint (now unknown), with notes or additions by a later hand. In any
case, he may have acquired through it sufficient rudimentary
acquaintance with some sort of practice to enable him to excite the
French fencing-master's interest.
NOTE 3 (Page 182).
"Lady Washington's Light Horse" was a name sometimes unofficially
applied to Lieut.-Col. Baylor's Dragoons. They were sleeping in a barn
and outbuildings, at Old Tappan, one night in the Fall of 1778, when
they were surprised by General Grey, whose men, attacking with
bayonets, killed 11, mangled 25, and took about 40 prisoners. Both
Col. Baylor and Major Clough were wounded, the latter fatally. It is
of course this affair, to which Lieut. Russell's narrative alludes.
NOTE 4 (Page 191).
The Morris house, now known as the Jumel mansion, was half a
generation old at the beginning of the Revolution. Thither, as the
bride of Captain Morris, a brother-officer of Washington's in the old
French war, went Mary Philipse; whom young Washington was said to have
wooed while he tarried in and about New York upon his memorable
journey to Boston to solicit in vain, of Governor Shirley, a king's
commission. The Revolution found the Morrises on the side opposed to
Washington's; for a short time during the operations above New York in
1776 he occupied this house of theirs as headquarters. They lost it
through their allegiance to the royal cause, all their American real
estate being confiscated by the New York assembly. The mansion became
in time the residence of that remarkable woman who, from a barefoot
girl in Providence, R.I., had grown up to be the wife of a Frenchman
named Jumel; and to be the object of much admiration, and the subject
of some scandal. In her widowhood she received under this roof Aaron
Burr, after his duel with Hamilton (whose neighbouring country-house
still exists, in Convent Avenue), and under this roof she and
Burr--both in their old age--were united in marriage. I imagine that
some of the ghosts that haunt this mansion, if they might be got in a
corner, would yield their interviewers a quaint reminiscence or two.
The grounds appertaining to the house have been sadly diminished by
the opening of new streets; yet it is still a fine, striking landmark,
perched to be seen afar, as from the railroad trains that follow the
East bank of the Harlem, or, better, from West 155th Street at and
about its junction with St. Nicholas Place and the Speedway. At the
time when I left New York for a temporary residence in the Old World,
there was talk of moving the house to a less commanding, but still
eminent, height that crowns the bluff rising from the Speedway: the
owner was compelled, it was said, to avail himself of the increased
value of the land whereon it stood. 'Tis some pity if this has been,
or has to be, done; but nothing to the pity if the mansion had to be
pulled down. Apart from all associations and historical interest, this
imposing specimen of our Colonial domestic architecture, so simple and
reposeful an edifice amidst a world of flat buildings, and of gew-gaw
houses built for sale on the instalment plan to the ubiquitous Mr. and
Mrs. Veneering, is a precious relief, nay an untiring delight, to the
eye.
NOTE 5 (Page 202).
During this Winter (1779-80) the Continental army was in two main
divisions. The one with which Washington made his headquarters was
hutted on the heights about Morristown, N.J. The other, under General
Heath, was stationed in the highlands of the Hudson. Intermediate
territory, of course, was more or less thoroughly guarded by detached
posts, militia, and various forces regular and irregular. The most of
the cavalry was quartered in Connecticut; but Winwood's troop, as our
narrative shows, was established near Washington's headquarters. This
was a memorably cold Winter, and as severe upon the patriots as the
more famous Winter (1777-78) at Valley Forge. About the latter part of
January the Hudson was frozen over, almost to its mouth.
NOTE 6 (Page 269).
Long before I fell upon Lieut. Russell's narrative, a detailed account
of a British attempt to capture Washington, by a bold night dash upon
his quarters at Morristown, had caught my eyes from the pages of the
old "New Jersey Historical Collections." Washington was not the only
object of such designs during the War of Independence. One was planned
for the seizure of Governor Livingstone at his home in Elizabeth,
N.J.; but, much to Sir Henry Clinton's disappointment, that
influential and witty champion of independence was not at home when
the surprise party called.
NOTE 7 (Page 277).
Lieut-Gen. Knyphausen was now (January, 1780) temporarily in chief
command at New York, as Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis had
sailed South (December 26, 1779) to attack Charleston and reduce South
Carolina.
NOTE 8 (Page 311).
At that time, the Bristol and Bath stage-coaches took two days for the
trip to London. Madge doubtless would have slept a night or two at
Bristol after her landing; and probably at the Pelican Inn at
Speenhamland (opposite Newbury), the usual midway sleeping-place, at
the end of the first day's ride. But bad weather may have hindered the
journey, and required the passengers to pass more than one night as
inn-guests upon the road.
NOTE 9 (Page 325).
Mrs. Sheridan's surpassing beauty, talent, and amiability are
well-known to all readers; as is the fact that her brilliant husband,
despite their occasional quarrels, was very much in love with her from
first to last.
NOTE 10 (Page 359).
Sir Ralph Winwood, born at Aynho, in Northamptonshire, in 1564, was
frequently sent as envoy to Holland in the reign of James I., by whom
he was knighted in 1603. He was Secretary of State from a date in 1614
till his death in 1617. His collected papers and letters are entitled,
"Memorials of Affairs of State in the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and
King James I.," etc. His portrait painted by Miereveldt, is in the
National Portrait Gallery in London.
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With six full-page illustrations by E.W.D. Hamilton.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages. $1.50
"One of the most stirring and remarkable romances that has been
published in a long while, and its episodes, incidents, and actions
are as interesting and agreeable as they are vivid and dramatic. . . .
The print, illustrations, binding, etc., are worthy of the tale, and
the author and his publishers are to be congratulated on a literary
work of fiction which is as wholesome as it is winsome, as fresh and
artistic as it is interesting and entertaining from first to last
paragraph."--_Boston Times_.
Breaking the Shackles. By FRANK BARRETT.
Author of "A Set of Rogues."
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages. $1.50
"The story opens well, and maintains its excellence throughout. . . .
The author's triumph is the greater in the unquestionable interest and
novelty which he achieves. The pictures of prison life are most vivid,
and the story of the escape most thrilling."--_The Freeman's Journal,
London_.
The Progress of Pauline Kessler. By FREDERIC CARREL.
Author of "Adventures of John Johns."
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages. $1.50
A novel that will be widely read and much discussed. A powerful sketch
of an adventuress who has much of the Becky Sharpe in her. The story
is crisply written and told with directness and insight into the ways
of social and political life. The characters are strong types of the
class to which they belong.
Ada Vernham, Actress. By RICHARD MARSH.
Author of "Frivolities," "Tom Ossington's Ghost," etc.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages. .$1.50
This is a new book by the author of "Frivolities," which was extremely
well received last season. It deals with the inside life of the London
stage, and is of absorbing interest.
The Wallet of Kai Lung. By ERNEST BRAMAH.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages. $1.50
This is the first book of a new writer, and is exceedingly well done.
It deals with the fortunes of a Chinese professional storyteller, who
meets with many surprising adventures. The style suggests somewhat the
rich Oriental coloring of the Arabian Nights.
Edward Barry: SOUTH SEA PEARLER. By LOUIS BECKE.
Author of "By Reef and Palm," "Ridan, the Devil," etc.
With four full-page illustrations by H.C. Edwards.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages. $1.50
An exceedingly interesting story of sea life and adventure, the scene
of which is laid in the Lagoon Islands of the Pacific.
This is the first complete novel from the pen of Mr. Becke, and
readers of his collections of short stories will quickly recognize
that the author can write a novel that will grip the reader. Strong,
and even tragic, as is his novel in the main, "Edward Barry" has a
happy ending, and woman's love and devotion are strongly portrayed.
Unto the Heights of Simplicity. By JOHANNES REIMERS.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages. $1.25
We take pleasure in introducing to the reading public a writer of
unique charm and individuality. His style is notable for its quaint
poetic idiom and subtle imaginative flavor. In the present story,
he treats with strength and reticence of the relation of the sexes and
the problem of marriage. Certain social abuses and false standards of
morality are attacked with great vigor, yet the plot is so interesting
for its own sake that the book gives no suspicion of being a problem
novel. The descriptions of natural scenery are idyllic in their charm,
and form a fitting background for the love story.
The Black Terror. A ROMANCE OF RUSSIA. By JOHN K. LEYS.
With frontispiece by Victor A. Searles.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages. $1.50
A stirring tale of the present day, presenting in a new light the
aims and objects of the Nihilists. The story is so vivid and true to
life that it might easily be considered a history of political intrigue
in Russia, disguised as a novel, while its startling incidents and
strange denouement would only confirm the old adage that "truth
is stranger than fiction," and that great historical events may be
traced to apparently insignificant causes. The hero of the story
is a young Englishman, whose startling resemblance to the Czar is
taken advantage of by the Nihilists for the furtherance of their
plans.
The Baron's Sons. By MAURUS JOKAI.
Author of "Black Diamonds," "The Green Book," "Pretty Michal," etc.
Translated by Percy F. Bicknell.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with photogravure portrait of the
author, 350 pages. $1.50
An exceedingly interesting romance of the revolution of 1848, the
scene of which is laid at the courts of St. Petersburg, Moscow, and
Vienna, and in the armies of the Austrians and Hungarians. It follows
the fortunes of three young Hungarian noblemen, whose careers are
involved in the historical incidents of the time. The story is told
with all of Jokai's dash and vigor, and is exceedingly interesting.
This romance has been translated for us directly from the Hungarian,
and never has been issued hitherto in English.
Slaves of Chance. By FERRIER LANGWORTHY.
With five portraits of the heroines, from original drawings by
Hiel.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages. $1.50
As a study of some of the realities of London life, this novel is one
of notable merit. The slaves of chance, and, it might be added, of
temptation, are five pretty girls, the daughters of a pretty widow,
whose means are scarcely sufficient, even living as they do, in a
quiet way and in a quiet London street, to make both ends meet.
Dealing, as he does, with many sides of London life, the writer
sketches varied types of character, and his creations are cleverly
defined. He tells an interesting tale with delicacy and in a fresh,
attractive style.
Her Boston Experiences. By MARGARET ALLSTON (nom de plume).
With eighteen full-page illustrations from drawings by Frank O.
Small, and from photographs taken especially for the book.
Small 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 225 pages. $1.25
A most interesting and vivacious tale, dealing with society life at
the Hub, with perhaps a tinge of the flavor of Vagabondia. The story
has appeared serially in _The Ladies' Home Journal_, where it was
received with marked success. We are not as yet at liberty to give the
true name of the author, who hides her identity under the pen name,
Margaret Allston, but she is well known in literature.
Memory Street. By MARTHA BAKER DUNN.
Author of "The Sleeping Beauty," etc.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages. $1.25
An exceedingly beautiful story, delineating New England life and
character. The style and interest will compare favorably with the work
of such writers as Mary E. Wilkins, Kate Douglas Wiggin, and Sarah
Orne Jewett. The author has been a constant contributor to the leading
magazines, and the interest of her previous work will assure welcome
for her first novel.
Winifred. A STORY OF THE CHALK CLIFFS. By S. BARING GOULD.
Author of "Mehala," etc.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages. $1.50
A striking novel of English life in the eighteenth century by this
well known writer. The scene is laid partly in rural Devonshire, and
partly in aristocratic London circles.
At the Court of the King: BEING ROMANCES OF FRANCE. By G. HEMBERT
WESTLEY, editor of "For Love's Sweet Sake."
With a photogravure frontispiece from an original drawing.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages. $1.25
Despite the prophecies of some literary experts, the historical
romance is still on the high tide of popular favor, as exemplified by
many recent successes. We feel justified, consequently, in issuing
these stirring romances of intrigue and adventure, love and war, at
the Courts of the French Kings.
God's Rebel. By HULBERT FULLER.
Author of "Vivian of Virginia."
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 375 pages. $1.25
A powerful story of sociological questions. The scene is laid in
Chicago, the hero being a professor in "Rockland University," whose
protest against the unequal distribution of wealth and the wretched
condition of workmen gains for him the enmity of the "Savior Oil
Company," through whose influence he loses his position. His after
career as a leader of laborers who are fighting to obtain their rights
is described with great earnestness. The character drawing is vigorous
and varied, and the romantic plot holds the interest throughout. _The
Albany Journal_ is right in pronouncing this novel "an unusually
strong story." It can hardly fail to command an immense reading
public.
A Georgian Actress. By PAULINE BRADFORD MACKIE.
Author of "Mademoiselle de Berny," "Ye Lyttle Salem Maide," etc.
With four full-page illustrations from drawings by E.W.D. Hamilton.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages. $1.50
An interesting romance of the days of George III., dealing with the
life and adventures of a fair and talented young play-actress, the
scene of which is laid in England and America. The success of Miss
Mackie's previous books will justify our prediction that a new volume
will receive an instant welcome.
God--The King--My Brother. A ROMANCE. By MARY F. NIXON.
Author of "With a Pessimist in Spain," "A Harp of Many Chords," etc.
With a frontispiece by H.C. Edwards.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages. $1.25
An historical tale, dealing with the romantic period of Edward the
Black Prince. The scene is laid for the most part in the sunny land of
Spain, during the reign of Pedro the Cruel--the ally in war of the
Black Prince. The well-told story records the adventures of two young
English knight-errants, twin brothers, whose family motto gives the
title to the book. The Spanish maid, the heroine of the romance, is a
delightful characterization, and the love story, with its surprising
yet logical dénouement, is enthralling.
Punchinello. By FLORENCE STUART.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages. $1.50
A love story of intense power and pathos. The hero is a hunchback
(Punchinello), who wins the love of a beautiful young girl. Her sudden
death, due indirectly to his jealousy, and the discovery that she had
never faltered in her love for him, combine to unbalance his mind. The
poetic style relieves the sadness of the story, and the reader is
impressed with the power and brilliancy of its conception, as well as
with the beauty and grace of the execution.
The Golden Fleece. Translated from the French of Amédée Achard, author
of "The Huguenot's Love," etc.
Illustrated by Victor A. Searles.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 450 pages. $1.50
Amédée Achard was a contemporary writer of Dumas, and his romances
are very similar to those of that great writer. "The Golden Fleece"
compares favorably with "The Three Musketeers" and the other
D'Artagnan romances. The story relates the adventures of a young
Gascon gentleman, an officer in the army sent by Louis XIV. to assist
the Austrians in repelling the Turkish Invasion under the celebrated
Achmet Kiuperli.
The Good Ship _York_. By W. CLARK RUSSELL.
Author of "The Wreck of the _Grosvenor_," "A Sailor's Sweetheart,"
etc.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages. $1.50
A romantic and exciting sea tale, equal to the best work of this
famous writer, relating the momentous voyage of the clipper ship
_York_, and the adventures that befell Julia Armstrong, a
passenger, and George Hardy, the chief mate.
"Mr. Russell has no rival in the line of marine fiction."--_Mail and
Express_.
Tom Ossington's Ghost. By RICHARD MARSH.
Author of "Frivolities," "Ada Vernham, Actress," etc. Illustrated
by Harold Pifford.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages. $1.50
"I read 'Tom Ossington's Ghost' the other night, and was afraid to go
up-stairs in the dark after it."--_Truth_.
"An entrancing book, but people with weak nerves had better not read
it at night."--_To-day_.
"Mr. Marsh has been inspired by an entirely original idea, and has
worked it out with great ingenuity. We like the weird but _not_
repulsive story better than anything he has ever done."--_World_.
The Glory and Sorrow of Norwich. By M.M. BLAKE.
Author of "The Blues and the Brigands," etc., etc., with twelve
full-page illustrations.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 315 pages. $1.50
The hero of this romance, Sir John de Reppes, is an actual personage,
and throughout the characters and incidents are instinct with the
spirit of the age, as related in the chronicles of Froissart. Its main
claim for attention, however, is in the graphic representation of the
age of chivalry which it gives, forming a series of brilliant and
fascinating pictures of mediæval England, its habits of thought and
manner of life, which live in the mind for many a day after perusal,
and assist to a clearer conception of what is one of the most charming
and picturesque epochs of history.
The Mistress of Maidenwood. By HULBERT FULLER.
Author of "Vivian of Virginia," "God's Rebel," etc.
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages. $1.50
A stirring historical romance of the American Revolution, the scene of
which for the most part being laid in and about the debatable ground
in the vicinity of New York City.
Dauntless. A TALE OF A LOST CAUSE. By CAPTAIN EWAN MARTIN.
Author of "The Knight of King's Guard."
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages, illustrated. $1.50
A stirring romance of the days of Charles I. and Cromwell in England
and Ireland. In its general character the book invites comparison with
Scott's "Waverley." It well sustains the reputation gained by Captain
Martin from "The Knight of King's Guard."
The Flame Of Life. (IL FUOCO.) Translated from the Italian of Gabriel
D'Annunzio, author of "Triumph of Death," etc., by KASSANDRA VIVARIA,
author of "Via Lucis."
Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages. $1.50
This is the first volume in the Third Trilogy, "The Romances of the
Pomegranate," of the three announced by the great Italian writer. We
were fortunate in securing the book, and also in securing the services
as translator of the talented author of "Via Lucis," herself an
Italian by birth.