He looked upwards, and wondered how he could have possibly found his way with safety down that perilous place; for he supposed that he must have been in a trance-like conditionwhen he made that journey, of which he was now so entirely oblivious.
With great pain and labour he accomplished the difficult ascent. This ravine had the same character as most of those in Trinidad. The bottom of it was encumbered with masses of fallen rock, among which stood the mysterious dead trees. Here the foul sea-birds were very numerous. The air stank with the fish on which they fed; and as it was now the breeding season, the mothers were very fierce, and attacked Carew with their wings and beaks as he advanced, so that he had to arm himself with a piece of wood, and fight his way through them.
After much weary climbing, often in places where a false step would have meant death, he reached an elevated plateau covered with tree-ferns—the only vegetation on the island which was fair to the eye.
Crossing this plateau, he found himself on the summit of a precipitous cliff, and he looked down upon the ocean into which the sun was just setting. At his feet, far below, the barque lay at anchor.
Proceeding along the edge of the precipice, he came to the head of a ravine, which he knew must be the one from which the cascade falls into the sea. After clambering down a little way, he reached the source of the stream. The cool clear water rushed out with a pleasant soundfrom a hole in the rocks. Here he lay down and drank greedily, for his throat was again parched with fever.
Feeling too exhausted to make any further exertion, and knowing that the darkness would soon render it impossible to continue the descent down those perilous slopes, he determined to pass the night where he was.
Lying on a narrow ledge of rock he fell into a profound sleep.
After a while he dreamt a frightful dream. He thought that his victims had come to life again, and, having surprised him in his sleep, were holding him by his arms with a grip of iron, and were about to put him to the torture.
He awoke with a start, and for a moment fancied that he saw their skeleton forms leaning over him in the starlight.
But was it all a dream? What was that sensation of pain in his right arm, as if a vice were tightening upon it?
He sprang to his feet, and with his arm dragged up a heavy weight that was clinging to it.
Shuddering with horror, he shook it violently from him, and a large land-crab fell with a crash on the stones.
The wretched man looked round, and could distinguish in the dim light that the rocks were covered with the brutes. They had come outof their holes at sunset, and were about to devour him alive.
He seized a large stone, and hurled it at one of them. It broke through the creature's armour and killed it. But the others paid no heed to the death of their fellow, and crawled on with a deliberate slowness. He pulled a branch off one of the dead trees, and with this he was able to thrust them away as they approached. He was obliged to keep watch and defend himself thus through all that long night. Once or twice he dropped off asleep in sheer exhaustion, only to be awakened again a moment afterwards by the closing of sharp pincers on some portion of his body. It was a night the realities of which equalled in horror the worst illusions of a nightmare. Several times he thought of throwing himself off the cliffs and putting an end to his misery, but still he clung to life, and fought for it, as men who value it the least always will when in the presence of a merely physical danger.
At daybreak Carew, his eyes bloodshot, his limbs shaking, having the appearance of one who is recovering from an attack of delirium tremens, descended the ravine as hastily as his weak condition permitted. He turned his head aside as he passed the fatal clump of trees. He reached the landing-place, and there found Baptiste and El Chico awaiting him with the cutter.
Carew stepped into the boat without saying a word.
Baptiste glanced at the haggard face of the captain, but made no remark on his altered appearance. He merely said, "We were anxious about you, so have been off here since daybreak waiting for you."
Carew looked inquiringly into the mate's face, but did not dare to utter the question that was on his lips.
Baptiste understood. "Yes, I have seen it," he said, in a low voice. Even that callous villain had been awed by the sight at the foot of the ravine.
For two more days the barque lay becalmed off the desert island, but not one of the crew ventured on land again. The two Spaniards shrunk with a superstitious terror from further contact with that accursed shore—thatcosta maldita, as they invariably spoke of it.
Carew's experiences on Trinidad produced an ineffaceable impression on his mind. His melancholy deepened into a dull despair. He passed most of the day alone in his cabin, avoiding as much as possible even the sight of his companions. By means of ever-increasing doses of laudanum, the miserable man stupefied his brain into a lethargic condition, which was, however, frequently broken by frightful dreams when he was asleep, and by nervous seizures of acute and causeless terrors when he was awake.
Baptiste, observing these symptoms, began to fear for Carew's reason, and tried in various ways to rouse him, but in vain.
At last one morning a fresh south-east wind sprang up. Carew did not even seemto notice the change, and he gave no orders to get under way. So Baptiste approached him—
"The sooner we have the anchor up and are off the better, captain."
Carew assented in an apathetic way, and assisted the men in weighing the anchor and setting the sails; but he worked with a sullen silence, making no suggestions, leaving everything to Baptiste.
After paying the vessel off before the wind with the foretopmast staysail, they set the fore and main topsails, an amount of canvas which the prudent mate considered sufficient for a barque so undermanned.
As soon as the last yard had been squared, and there was no more for him to do, Carew again went into his cabin.
A few minutes later Baptiste followed him there.
"Sorry to disturb you, captain," he said, seeing the expression of annoyance on Carew's face, and also noticing the bottle of laudanum standing on the table; "but now we are off, running merrily before the wind, away from that accursed island. If you please, what is our course—where are we bound for—and have you thought of a plausible explanation of how we picked up this derelict? Rouse yourself, sir. Think, act, and be a man again."
Carew had drunk a quantity of laudanumthat morning, and he replied in a dreamy voice, as if he had lost all interest in life, and was heedless of the future—
"Do what you like. I leave it all to you. I am unable to think."
"Sir, this is cowardly of you!" cried Baptiste vehemently. "Everything has gone so well with us thus far, and now you lose heart when an immense fortune is almost in our hands. Remember what we have done for you, and do not risk all our lives by neglecting your duties to us."
"What do I care for your lives?" replied Carew with a bitter laugh, that had an insane ring in it. "What is it to me where we go, even if it be to the bottom? Leave me."
"Good-bye, sir; I will take charge of the vessel until you come to your senses." As he spoke, Baptiste contrived to slip the bottle of laudanum into his pocket unperceived by Carew.
The mate went on deck and threw the bottle into the sea. "That coward will go mad if he drugs himself much longer," he said to himself. "When he got on shore he would ruin us all in some silly fit of garrulous remorse. He would disburden his conscience and hang us in his present temper. He shall have no more laudanum. I must look after him and cure him before we get into port. If I cannot do so, well, then, he must die. A pity that; for he is useful, almost necessary, to us."
Baptiste consulted the chart, and determined to run for the port of Bahia, which is about seven hundred miles to the north-west of Trinidad. Having quickly formed his plans, he carried them out with considerable cleverness.
He collected a quantity of combustible matter, and proceeded to set fire to some of the storerooms and other portions of the vessel in such a way that he could always keep the fires under control and extinguish them at will. It was a hazardous undertaking, but he omitted no precaution; and after the vessel had been three days at sea, and was still three hundred miles from Bahia, the effect he desired was satisfactorily produced. She appeared to have been ablaze almost from end to end, and so there was manifest a sufficient reason for the desertion of the crew at sea.
The last spark having been extinguished, Baptiste hove the vessel to while he completed his preparations. He lowered two of the boats into the sea and sank them.
"And now," he asked himself, "what things are the crew likely to have taken with them in the boats? For we must preserve the verisimilitude. Our story must be above suspicion; every circumstance must corroborate it."
So he threw overboard a chronometer, a valuable sextant, a compass, and other articles which a captain deserting his ship would most certainly have carried away. The Spaniardsridiculed this excess of caution. "Thoughtless children!" Baptiste explained; "it is most probable that there are people on shore who know exactly how many chronometers, compasses, and so on, were on board this vessel. These things will be counted up, and if none are missing, the minds of men will be puzzled at the strange conduct of the captain. Now I do not want to puzzle people; very much otherwise, my imprudent children. For the same reason I am now going to burn the ship's papers. No captain ever leaves those behind him on a derelict."
Carew had watched these preparations listlessly, assisting when asked to do so, but still suggesting nothing. He never alluded to the loss of his bottle of laudanum, and very probably he knew that Baptiste had taken it away.
Early on the sixth day of the voyage the Brazilian coast was sighted, and the mate recognised the palm-clad hills that border the entrance to the Reconcava of Bahia—a beautiful inland sea, as extensive as that of Rio de Janeiro.
And now Baptiste, feeling how great a risk would be incurred by entering the port while the captain was in his present demented condition, dared not sail into the bay; and, after a consultation with the men, braced up the yards, and steered the vessel along the coast to the northward, with the intentionof making Pernambuco, which is nearly five hundred miles distant from Bahia. By this a delay of about three days would be gained; and should Carew not recover his senses in that time, he must be put out of the way. There was no help for it.
But Baptiste and the two Spaniards knew well that if they went into port without the owner of the yacht, their tale would be received with suspicion. It would be necessary to account for his absence. Their own histories would be closely inquired into; the well-elaborated scheme might end in failure after all. The gloom of the captain seemed to communicate itself to the crew. The usual cheeriness of sailors was altogether absent during the voyage. A vague foreboding of calamity oppressed the men; and on board that guilty ship all went about their work with dismal faces, never smiling, sullen and silent, suspicious of each other.
On the second day, the vessel was slowly sailing up the coast near Alagoas Bay. Baptiste was sitting on deck, rolling up and smoking his innumerable cigarettes as he contemplated the beautiful panorama that opened out before him—a land of forest-clad mountains and fertile valleys, down which broad rivers poured into the sea, while among the cocoa-nut groves upon the sandy beaches were the numerous bamboo villages of the negro fishermen. But Baptiste,though gazing at it, was in no mood to admire beautiful scenery; he was looking forward with alarm to the perils before him.
At last, after pondering over it for some while, he determined on a course of action. It was a desperate thing to do, but it would bring matters to a crisis at once.
He threw away his cigarette, loaded his revolver and placed it in his breast, and then, with face pale with fear but determined in expression, he entered Carew's cabin.
The Englishman was reading a book, or pretending to do so. Baptiste took a seat in front of him, and commenced abruptly—
"Do you wish to live, sir?"
Carew looked up. "Why do you ask? If I wished to die, I could take away my life at any moment."
"You will probably be saved that trouble. I will be perfectly frank with you, because I understand you. You see that we are afraid of going into port in your company. We think you are losing your senses, and we cannot allow a madman to rave our secrets in Pernambuco. We wish you to live, because you might be very useful to us. But if, before we are in sight of port, you don't satisfy us that you are sane, by ridding yourself of your melancholia and taking an interest in this business, we shall be under the painful necessity of despatching you for our own protection. Wewill have to kill you, not in any ill-feeling, I assure you, but with real regret."
Baptiste had rightly imagined that this cool and almost ludicrously matter-of-fact way of broaching the subject was the best in the circumstances.
Carew first appeared to be lost in astonishment; then he smiled sadly, and said, "You are a strange man. You come here to tell me that I am mad, and that I must become sane in two days or die—is that it?"
"I don't think that you are exactly mad, but"—
"I know what you mean," interrupted Carew, "and you are right. I have been ill for several days; but I am not mad, as you will soon discover. I will allow that I might soon have become so had you not stolen my laudanum."
From that moment Carew changed his mode of life, and became much as he had been before his visit to the desert island. Though melancholy in his manner and miserable in his mind, he shook off his lethargy, bestirred himself, took an interest once more in the working of the ship, and exhibited all his old ingenuity in improving upon Baptiste's preparations for deceiving the authorities as to the fate of the barque.
"Talented and unfathomable being," exclaimed the Frenchman admiringly, "what could we do without you?"
* * * * * *
The voyage was over, and theLa Bonne Esperancewas lying under the Recife, that marvellous natural breakwater built by myriads of diminutive coral insects, which, running in a parallel line to the shore, forms the harbour of Pernambuco. In front of her stretched the long and crowded quay, with its pleasant boulevard and lofty white houses.
The barque had been an object of great interest to the people of Pernambuco ever since the tug had towed her in from outside. The romantic story of the little English yacht that had foundered at sea, and of her shipwrecked crew, who had been so fortunate as to come across such a valuable prize, was on everybody's lips. The English residents had been profuse in their offers of hospitality to Carew, but under the pretext of ill-health he refused all these; and as soon as he had handed over the barque to the proper authorities he hired a room in a French hotel on the quay, and lived there as quietly as possible with Baptiste, while the Spaniards were lodged in a neighbouring tavern.
The torments of his accusing conscience having now subsided, life once more appeared of value to this mutable-minded man, and his anxiety and dread of discovery returned. It caused him great uneasiness to learn how long a time must elapse before the settlement of the salvage would be completed. Hefound that he might have to wait many months in Pernambuco before receiving his share of the vessel's value.
The barque had been in the Recife for about three weeks when one morning a coasting steamer from Rio entered the harbour. Among her passengers was an Englishman. When he stepped on shore he disregarded the importunate crowd of hotel touts, and handing his portmanteau to a black porter, said merely, "English Consulate!" The negro understood, and led the way.
The Englishman found the consul in his office, asked if he could speak to him alone on urgent business, and was shown into a private room.
He placed a letter in the consul's hands. "This," he said, "is from the British Consul at Rio. It will serve to introduce me."
It was a somewhat lengthy letter, and as he read it an expression of extreme surprise came to the consul's face. "This is a most extraordinary story!" he exclaimed. "Tell me what more you know of this man."
The interview was a long one. At its termination the consul said:—"Of course I can do nothing until an extradition warrant arrives from England. In the meanwhile, we must not rouse his suspicions. Let him still consider himself safe. He applied to me for an advance of money yesterday; I will lethim have it if he does not ask for too much. But he must not see you. I recommend you to go to Caxanga—a pretty watering-place about half an hour from here by train. I will give you the name of a good hotel there. Do not come into town unless I send for you. Keep out of his way. I should like you to be here to-morrow morning at ten; for, shortly after that hour, his crew are going to make some depositions. I will conceal you in the next room in such a way that you can see them; for it will be well for you to know these men by sight. Of course you will pass under an assumed name while you are here."
"I will call myself John Rudge," said the stranger.
In spite of these precautions, the ever-watchful Baptiste soon came to suspect that there was mischief brewing. One day that he accompanied Carew to the Consulate he at once observed that the consul's manner had undergone a change. There was a reserve and a lack of his usual heartiness in his greeting of Carew. It was but a slight and involuntary change, and it escaped Carew's notice.
A few days after this, Baptiste was sent to the Consulate with a letter. As he came to the door John Rudge was going out. The stranger seemed startled at finding himself thussuddenly face to face with the Frenchman, and walked hastily away.
"A trifling circumstance," said Baptiste to himself; "but the lightest trifles show best the direction of the wind. Why did that man start at seeing me? Who is he?"
A week passed, and Baptiste saw no more of the stranger; but at last he came full upon him in front of the post-office. Again Rudge seemed as if he wished to avoid being seen by the Frenchman, and turned his head aside as he passed.
But Baptiste was quick in resource. "Stay a moment, if you please, sir," he called out in French; "I wish to speak to you."
The Englishman stood still.
"Pardon me for detaining you," continued Baptiste, "but you understand French?"
"I do."
"Ah, sir, what chance! I know not a word of this horrid Portuguese tongue, and I wish to inquire at the post-office if there is a letter for me. Would you oblige me by interpreting for me?"
"I don't know Portuguese myself; but the clerk in the post-office understands French."
"Thank you, sir. I am a stranger here, you see. I am one of the crew ofLa Bonne Esperance, the derelict. No doubt you have heard our story?"
"Oh yes, I know all about it. You werevery fortunate. But excuse me, my friend; I am in great haste," and he hurried off.
Baptiste returned to the hotel and found Carew. "Captain," he asked, "have you committed some peccadillo in England on account of which they are likely to be hunting after you here?"
"It is almost impossible that any enemies I may have can have traced me here."
"All dead, I suppose," remarked Baptiste coolly. Then he proceeded to explain the reasons that had prompted his questions.
"You are full of foolish fears, Baptiste. I see nothing in all this."
"Ah, sir, I have lived for so many years in the midst of alarms that I perceive the first indications of danger. When I told this Englishman that I was one of your crew, he exhibited no interest. He did not question me about our adventures, and make much of me, and take me into a café to give me drinks, as all the other Englishmen in Pernambuco do when they meet one of us heroes of the hour."
"I do not see anything very alarming in his neglect to make a fuss over you."
"I do, because I understand human nature. I see dangers ahead, and I intend to secure my retreat in case of disaster. I shall arrange how to slip away if necessary. I advise you to do the same, captain."
"I have done so, Baptiste."
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 hadbeen 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 noone 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, theLa Bonne Esperance,has been brought into that port a derelict. She was picked up by the crew of an English yacht, thePetrel.ThePetrelhad 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 thatheis 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 ofall 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 EnglishConsul 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. 'ThePetrel,' 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 thePetrelhad 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 wouldreadily 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 BYMORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH
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."
"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—youareCaptain 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 allbonâ 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 BOOKSPUBLISHED BYJOHN MILNE AT12 NORFOLK STREETSTRAND, LONDON
Mr.JOHN MILNE'S CURRENT LIST.
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 MajorArthur Griffiths. [Sixth Edition
II. A GIRL OF GRIT. By MajorArthur Griffiths. [Just published.
III. A DESPERATE VOYAGE. ByE. F. Knight. [Just published.
A Desperate Voyage.
A Desperate Voyage. ByE. F. Knight, Author of "The Cruise of the Falcon," "Where Three Empires Meet," etc. A novel by the well-knownTimeswar-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 MajorArthur 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.
"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 MajorArthur 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.
"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 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, byElizabeth 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 Brontë's works."—Scotsman.
"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 Brontë's works."—Scotsman.
The Passion for Romance.
The Passion for Romance. ByEdgar 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?"—Athenæum."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.
"'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?"—Athenæum.
"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. ByJ. 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.
"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. ByW. 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.
"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. ByHelen Atteridge. With Sixty-five Illustrations byGordon 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.
"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, byAugustin Filon. Translated from the French byFrederic Whyte, with an Introduction byHenry 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.
"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, byF. 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."—Athenæum."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.
"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."—Athenæum.
"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.