UPON IMPULSE
The seminary buildings stood not far from the low, lodgelike railwaystation, and a path led through a gap in the fence across the meadow.People were soberly converging toward its central building, as ifproceeding to church.
Among the people who alighted from the two o'clock train were ProfessorBlakesly and his wife and a tall, dark man whom they called Ware.
Mrs. Blakesly was plump and pretty, plainly the mother of two or threechildren and the sovereign of a modest suburban cottage. Blakesly was asevidently a teacher; even the casual glances of the other visitors mightdiscover the character of these people.
Ware was not so easy to be read. His face was lean and brown, and hissquarely clipped mustache gave him a stern look. His body was wellrounded with muscle, and he walked alertly; his manner was direct andvigorous, manifestly of the open air.
As they entered the meadow he paused and said with humorousirresolution, "I don't know what I am out here for."
"To see the pretty girls, of course," said Mrs. Blakesly.
"They may be plain, after all," he said.
"They're always pretty at graduation time and at marriage," Blakeslyinterpreted.
"Then there's the ice cream and cake," Mrs. Blakesly added.
"Where do all these people come from?" Ware asked, looking about. "It'sall farm land here."
"They are the fathers, mothers, and brothers of the seminary girls. Theycome from everywhere. See the dear creatures about the door! Let's hurryalong."
"They do not interest me. I take off my hat to the beauty of the day,however."
Ware had evidently come under protest, for he lingered in the daisiedgrass which was dappled with shadows and tinkling with bobolinks andcatbirds.
A broad path led up to the central building, whose double doors wereswung wide with most hospitable intent. Ware ascended the steps behindhis friends, a bored look on his dark face.
Two rows of flushed, excited girls with two teachers at their head stoodflanking the doorway to receive the visitors, who streamed steadily intothe wide, cool hall.
Mrs. Blakesly took Ware in hand. "Mr. Ware, this is Miss Powell. MissPowell, this is Mr. Jenkin Ware, lawyer and friend to the Blakeslys."
"I'm very glad to see you," said a cool voice, in which gladness wasentirely absent.
Ware turned to shake hands mechanically, but something in the steadyeyes and clasp of the hand held out turned his listless manner intosurprise and confusion. He stared at her without speaking, only for asecond, and yet so long she colored and withdrew her hand sharply.
"I beg your pardon, I didn't get the name."
"Miss Powell," answered Mrs. Blakesly, who had certainly missed thislittle comedy, which would have been so delicious to her.
Ware moved on, shaking hands with the other teachers and bowing to thegirls. He seized an early moment to turn and look back at Miss Powell.His listless indifference was gone. She was a fine figure of a woman--astrong, lithe figure, dressed in a well-ordered, light-colored gown. Herhead was girlish, with a fluff of brown hair knotted low at the back.Her profile was magnificent. The head had the intellectual poise, butthe proud bosom and strong body added another quality. "She is a moderntype," Ware said, remembering a painting of such a head he had seen in arecent exhibition.
As he studied her she turned and caught him looking, and he felt again acurious fluttering rush at his heart. He fancied she flushed a littledeeper as she turned away.
As for him, it had been a very long while since he had felt thatsingular weakness in the presence of a young woman. He walked on, tryingto account for it. It made him feel very boyish. He had a furtive desireto remain in the hall where he could watch her, and when he passed upthe stairs, it was with a distinct feeling of melancholy, as if he wereleaving something very dear and leaving it forever.
He wondered where this feeling came from, and he looked into theupturned faces of the girls as if they were pansies. He wandered aboutthe rooms with the Blakeslys, being bored by introductions, until atlast Miss Powell came up the stairway with the last of the guests.
While the girls sang and went through some pretty drills Ware againstudied Miss Powell. Her appeal to his imagination was startling. Hesearched for the cause of it. It could not be in her beauty. Certainlyshe was fine and womanly and of splendid physique, but all about herwere lovely girls of daintier flesh and warmer color. He reasoned thather power was in her eyes, steady, frank as sunlight, clear as water ina mountain brook. She seemed unconscious of his scrutiny.
At last they began moving down the stairs and on to the other buildings.Ware and Blakesly waited for the ladies to come down. And when they camethey were in the midst of a flood of girls, and Ware had no chance tospeak to them. As they moved across the grass he fell in behind Mrs.Blakesly, who seemed to be telling secrets to Miss Powell, who flushedand shook her head.
Mrs. Blakesly turned and saw Ware close behind her, and said, "O Mr.Ware, where is my dear, dear husband?"
"Back in the swirl," Ware replied.
Mrs. Blakesly artfully dropped Miss Powell's arm and fell back. "I mustnot desert the poor dear." As she passed Ware she said, "Take my place."
"With pleasure," he replied, and walked on after Miss Powell, who seemednot to care to wait.
How simply she was dressed! She moved like an athlete, without effortand without constraint. As he walked quickly to overtake her a finerlight fell over the hills and a fresher green came into the grass. Thedaisies nodding in the wind blurred together in a dance of light andloveliness which moved him like a song.
"How beautiful everything is to-day!" he said, as he stepped to herside. He felt as if he had said, "How beautiful you are!"
She flashed a quick, inquiring glance at him.
"Yes; June can be beautiful with us. Still, there is a beauty moremature, when the sickle is about to be thrust into the grain."
He did not hear what she said. He was thinking of the power that lay inthe oval of her face, in the fluffy tangle of her hair. _Ah! now heknew._ With that upward glance she brought back his boy love, histeacher whom he had worshiped as boys sometimes will, with a love aspure as winter starlight. Yes, now it was clear. There was the same flexof the splendid waist, the same slow lift of the head, and steady,beautiful eyes.
As she talked, he was a youth of seventeen, he was lying at histeacher's feet by the river while she read wonderful love stories. Therewere others there, but they did not count. Then the tears blurred hiseyes; he remembered walking behind her dead body as it was borne to thehillside burying ground, and all the world was desolate for him.
He became aware that Miss Powell was looking at him with startled eyes.He hastened to apologize and explain. "Pardon me; you look so much likea schoolboy idol--I--I seem to see her again. I didn't hear what yousaid, you brought the past back so poignantly."
There was something in his voice which touched her, but before he couldgo on they were joined by Mr. and Mrs. Blakesly and one of the otherteachers. There was a dancing light in Mrs. Blakesly's eyes as shelooked at Ware. She had just been saying to her husband: "What asplendid figure Miss Powell is! How well they look together! Wouldn't itbe splendid if----"
"Oh, my dear, you're too bad. Please don't match-make any more to-day.Let Nature attend to these things," Mr. Blakesly replied with manifestimpatience; "Nature attended to our case."
"I have no faith in Nature any more. I want to have at least a finger inthe pie myself. Nature don't work in all cases. I'm afraid Nature can'tin his case."
"Careful! He'll hear you, my dear."
"Where do we go now, Miss Powell?" asked Blakesly as they came to a halton the opposite side of the campus.
"I think they are all going to the gymnasium building. Won't you come?That is my dominion."
They answered by moving off, Mrs. Blakesly taking Miss Powell's arm. Asthey streamed away in files she said: "Isn't he good-looking? We'veknown him for years. He's all right," she said significantly, andsqueezed Miss Powell
's arm.
"Well, Lou Blakesly, you're the same old irrepressible!"
"Blushing already, you _dear_! I tell you he's splendid. I wish he'dtake to you," and she gave Miss Powell another squeeze. "It would be_such_ a match! Brains and beauty, too."
"Oh, hush!"
They entered the cool, wide hall of the gymnasium, with its red brickwalls, its polished floor, and the yellow-red wooden beams lining theceiling.
There were only a few people remaining in the hall, most of them havingpassed on into the museum. As they came to the various appliances, MissPowell explained them.
"What are these things for?" inquired Mrs. Blakesly, pointing at the rowof iron rings depending from long ropes.
"They are for swinging on," and she leaped lightly upward and caught andswung by one hand.
"Mercy! Do you do that?"
"She seems to be doing it now," Blakesly said.
"I am one of the teachers," Miss Powell replied, dropping to the floor.
It was glorious to see how easily she seized a heavy dumb-bell and swungit above her head. The front line of her body was majestic as she stoodthus.
"Gracious! I couldn't do that," exclaimed Mrs. Blakesly.
"No, not with your style of dress," replied her husband.--"I have to pinher hat on this year," he said to Ware.
"I love it," said Miss Powell, as she drew a heavy weight from the floorand stood with the cord across her shoulder. "It adds so much to life!It gives what Browning calls the wild joy of living. Do you know, fewwomen know what that means? It's been denied us. Only the men haveknown
"'The wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, The strong rending of boughs from the fir tree, the cool silver shock Of a plunge in the pool's living water.'
I try to teach my girls 'How good is man's life, the mere living!'"
The men cheered as she paused for a moment flushed and breathless.
She went on: "We women have been shut out from the sports too long--Imean sports in the sun. The men have had the best of it. All theswimming, all the boating, wheeling, all the grand, wild life; now we'regoing to have a part."
The young ladies clustered about with flushed, excited faces while theirteacher planted her flag and claimed new territory for women.
Miss Powell herself grew conscious, and flushed and paused abruptly.
Mrs. Blakesly effervesced in admiring astonishment. "Well, well! Ididn't know you could make a speech."
"I didn't mean to do so," she replied.
"Go on! Go on!" everybody called out, but she turned away to show someother apparatus.
"Wasn't she fine?" exclaimed Mrs. Blakesly to Ware.
"Beyond praise," he replied. She went at once to communicate her morselof news to her husband, and at length to Miss Powell.
The company passed out into other rooms until no one was left but Mrs.Blakesly, the professor, and Ware. Miss Powell was talking again, and toWare mainly. Ware was thoughtful, Miss Powell radiant.
"I didn't know what life was till I could do that." She took up a largedumb-bell and, extending it at arm's length, whirled it back and forth.Her forearm, white and smooth, swelled into strong action, and hersupple hands had the unwavering power and pressure of an athlete, andwithal Ware thought: "She is feminine. Her physical power has notcoarsened her; it has enlarged her life, but left her entirely womanly."
In some adroit way Mrs. Blakesly got her husband out of the room andleft Ware and Miss Powell together. She was showing him the view fromthe windows, and they seemed to be perfectly absorbed. She looked aroundonce and saw that Mrs. Blakesly was showing her husband something in thefarther end of the room. After that she did not think of them.
The sun went lower in the sky and flamed along the sward. He spoke ofthe mystical power of the waving daisies and the glowing greens which nopainter ever seems to paint. While they looked from the windows theirarms touched, and they both tried to ignore it. She shivered a little asif a cold wind had blown upon her. At last she led the way out and downthe stairs to the campus. They heard the gay laughter of the company attheir cakes and ices, up at the central building.
He stopped outside the hallway, and as she looked up inquiringly at him,he said quietly: "Suppose we go down the road. It seems pleasanterthere."
She acquiesced like one in a pleasure which made duty seem absurd.
Strong and fine as she was, she had never found a lover to whom sheyielded her companionship with unalloyed delight. She was thirty yearsof age, and her girlhood was past. She looked at this man, and asuffocating band seemed to encircle her throat. She knew he was strongand good. He was a little saddened with life--that she read in hisdeep-set eyes and unsmiling lips.
The road led toward the river, and as they left the campus they entereda lane shaded by natural oaks. He talked on slowly. He asked her whather plans were.
"To teach and to live," she said. Her enthusiasm for the work seemedentirely gone.
Once he said, "This is the finest hour of my life."
On the bank of the river they paused and seated themselves on the swardunder a tree whose roots fingered the stream with knuckled hands.
"Yes, every time you look up at me you bring back my boyish idol," hewent on. "She was older than I. It is as if I had grown older and shehad not, and that she were you, or you were she. I can't tell you how ithas affected me. Every movement you make goes deep down into mysweetest, tenderest recollections. It's always June there, always sweetand sunny. Her death and burial were mystical in their beauty. I lookedin her coffin. She was the grandest statue that ever lay in marble; theGreek types are insipid beside that vision. You'll say I idealized her;possibly I did, but there she is. O God! it was terrible to see one dieso young and so lovely."
There was a silence. Tears came to her eyes. He could only exclaim;weeping was denied him. His voice trembled, but grew firmer as he wenton:
"And now you come. I don't know exactly in what way you resemble her. Ionly know you shake me as no other human being has done since thatcoffin-lid shut out her face." He lifted his head and looked around."But Nature is beautiful and full of light and buoyancy. I am not goingto make you sad. I want to make you happy. I was only a boy to her. Shecared for me only as a mature woman likes an apt pupil, but she made allNature radiant for me, as you do now."
He smiled upon her suddenly. His somber mood passed like one of theshadows of the clouds floating over the campus. It was only arecollected mood. As he looked at her the old hunger came into hisheart, but the buoyancy and emotional exaltation of youth came backalso.
"Miss Powell, are you free to marry me?" he said suddenly.
She grew very still, but she flushed and then she turned her face awayfrom him. She had no immediate reply.
"That is an extraordinary thing to ask you, I know," he went on; "but itseems as if I had known you a long time, and then sitting here in themidst of Nature with the insects singing all about us--well, conventionsare not so vital as in drawing rooms. Remember your Browning."
She who had declaimed Browning so blithely now sat silent, but the colorwent out of her face, and she listened to the multitudinous stir andchirp of living things, and her eyes dreamed as he went on steadily, hiseyes studying her face.
"Browning believed in these impulses. I'll admit I never have. I'vealways reasoned upon things, at least since I became a man. It hasbrought me little, and I'm much disposed to try the virtue of animpulse. I feel as certain that we can be happy together as I am oflife, so I come back to my question, Are you free to marry me?"
She flushed again. "I have no other ties, if that is what you mean."
"That is what I mean precisely. I felt that you were free, like myself.I might ask Blakesly to vouch for me, but I prefer not. I ask for noone's opinion of you. Can't you trust to that insight of which women aresupposed to be happily possessed?"
She smiled a little. "I never boasted of any divining power."
He came nearer. "Come, you and I have gone b
y rule and reason longenough. Here we have a magnificent impulse; let us follow. Don't ask meto wait, that would spoil it all; considerations would come in."
"Ought they not to come in?"
"No," he replied, and his low voice had the intensity of a trumpet. "Ifthis magnificent moment passes by, this chance for a pure impulsivechoice, it is lost forever. You know Browning makes much of such lostopportunities. Seeing you there with bent head and blowing hair, I wouldthrow the world away to become the blade of grass you break. There, willthat do?" He smiled.
"That speech should bring back youth to us both," she said.
"Right action _now_ will," he quickly answered.
"But I must consider."
"Do not. Take the impulse."
"It may be wayward."
"We've both got beyond the wayward impulse. This impulse rises from theprofound deeps. Come, the sun sinks, the insect voices thicken, a starpasses behind the moon, and life hastens. Come into my life. Can't youtrust me?"
She grew very white, but a look of exaltation came into her face. Shelifted her clear, steady eyes to his. She reached her hand to his. "Iwill," she said, and they rose and stood together thus.
He uncovered his head. A sort of awe fell upon him. A splendid humanlife was put into his keeping.
"A pure choice," he said exultingly--"a choice untouched byconsiderations. It brings back the youth of the world."
The sun lay along the sward in level lines, the sky was full of cloudssailing in file, like mighty purple cranes in saffron seas of flame, thewind wavered among the leaves, and the insects sang in sudden ecstasy oflife.
The two looked into each other's faces. They seemed to be transfigured,each to the other.
"You must not go back," he said. "They would not understand you nor me.We will never be so near a great happiness, a great holiday. It isholiday time. Let us go to the mountains."
She drew a sigh as if all her cares and duties dropped from her, thenshe smiled and a comprehending light sparkled in her eyes.
"Very well, to the clouds if you will."
THE END OF LOVE IS LOVE OF LOVE.
They lay on the cliff where the warm sun fell. Beneath them were rocks,lichen-spotted above, and orange and russet and pink beneath.
Around the headland the ocean ravened with roaring breath, flingingitself ceaselessly on the land, only to fall back with clutching snarlover the pebbles.
The smell of hot cedars was in the air. The distant ships drove by withhuge sails bellying. Occasional crickets chirped faintly. Sandpipersskimmed the beach.
The man and woman were both gray. He lay staring at the sky. She satwith somber eyes fixed on the distant sea, whose crawling linesglittered in ever-changing designs on its purple sweep.
They were man and wife; both were older than their years. They were farpast the land of youth and love.
"O wife!" he cried, "let us forget we are old; let us forget we aredisillusioned of life; let us try to be boy and girl again."
The woman shivered with a powerful, vague emotion, but she did not lookat him.
"O Esther, I'm tired of life!" the man went on. "I'm tired of mychildren. I'm tired of you. Do you know what I mean?"
The woman looked into his eyes a moment, and said in a low voice:
"No, Charles." But the man knew she meant yes. The touch of her handgrew cold.
"I'm tired of it all. I want to feel again the wonder and mystery oflife. It's all gone. The love we have now is good and sweet and true;that of the old time was sweeter. It was so marvelous. I trembled when Ikissed you, dear. I don't now. It had more of truth, of pure,unconscious passion, and less of habit. Oh, teach me to forget!"
He crept nearer to her, and laid his head in her lap. His face wasknotted with his passion and pain.
The wife and mother sighed, and looked down at his hair, which wasgetting white.
"Well, Charles!" she said, and caressingly buried her fingers in hishair. "I'll try to forget for your sake."
He could not understand her. He did not try. He lay with closed eyes,tired, purposeless. The sweet sea wind touched his cheek, white with theindoor pallor of the desk worker. The sound of the sea exalted him. Thebeautiful clouds above him carried him back to boyhood. There were tearson his face as he looked up at her.
"I'm forgetting!" he said, with a smile of exultation.
But the woman looked away at the violet-shadowed sails, afar on thechangeful purple of the sea, and her throat choked with pain.
THE END
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Miss F. F. MONTRESOR'S BOOKS.
FALSE
COIN OR TRUE? 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
"One of the few true novels of the day.... It is powerful, and touched with a delicate insight and strong impressions of life and character.... The author's theme is original, her treatment artistic, and the book is remarkable for its unflagging interest."--Philadelphia Record.
"The tale never flags in interest, and once taken up will not be laid down until the last page is finished."--Boston Budget.
"A well-written novel, with well-depicted characters and well-chosen scenes."--Chicago News.
"A sweet, tender, pure, and lovely story."--Buffalo Commercial.
THE ONE WHO LOOKED ON. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
"A tale quite unusual, entirely unlike any other, full of a strange power and realism, and touched with a fine humor."--London World.
"One of the most remarkable and powerful of the year's contributions, worthy to stand with Ian Maclaren's."--British Weekly.
"One of the rare books which can be read with great pleasure and recommended without reservation. It is fresh, pure, sweet, and pathetic, with a pathos which is perfectly wholesome."--St. Paul Globe.
"The story is an intensely human one, and it is delightfully told.... The author shows a marvelous keenness in character analysis, and a marked ingenuity in the development of her story."--Boston Advertiser.
INTO THE HIGHWAYS AND HEDGES.
12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
"A touch of idealism, of nobility of thought and purpose, mingled with an air of reality and well-chosen expression, are the most notable features of a book that has not the ordinary defects of such qualities. With all its elevation of utterance and spirituality of outlook and insight it is wonderfully free from overstrained or exaggerated matter, and it has glimpses of humor. Most of the characters are vivid, yet there are restraint and sobriety in their treatment, and almost all are carefully and consistently evolved."--London Athenaeum.
"'Into the Highways and Hedges' is a book not of promise only, but of high achievement. It is original, powerful, artistic, humorous. It places the author at a bound in the rank of those artists to whom we look for the skillful presentation of strong personal impressions of life and character."--London Daily News.
"The pure idealism of 'Into the Highways and Hedges' does much to redeem modern fiction from the reproach it has brought upon itself.... The story is original, and told with great refinement."--Philadelphia Public Ledger.
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.
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D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.
GILBERT PARKER'S BEST BOOKS.
THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY. Being the Memoirs of Captain robert moray,sometime an Officer in the Virginia Regiment, and afterwards ofAmherst's Regiment. 12mo. Cloth, illustrated, $1.50.
"Another historical romance of the vividness and intensity of 'The Seats of the Mighty' has never come from the pen of an American. Mr. Parker's latest work may, without hesitation, be set down as the best he has done. From the first chapter to the last word interest in the book never wanes; one finds it difficult to interrupt the narrative with breathing space. It whirls with excitement and strange adventure.... All of the scenes do homage to the genius of Mr. Parker, and make 'The Seats of the Mighty' one of the books of the year."--Chicago Record.
"Mr. Gilbert Parker is to be congratulated on the excellence of his latest story, 'The Seats of the Mighty,' and his readers are to be congratulated on the direction which his talents have taken therein.... It is so good that we do not stop to think of its literature, and the personality of Doltaire is a masterpiece of creative art."--New York Mail and Express.
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD. A Novel. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
"Mr. Parker here adds to a reputation already wide, and anew demonstrates his power of pictorial portrayal and of strong dramatic situation and climax."--Philadelphia Bulletin.
"The tale holds the reader's interest from first to last, for it is full of fire and spirit, abounding in incident, and marked by good character drawing."--Pittsburg Times.
THE TRESPASSER. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
"Interest, pith, force, and charm--Mr. Parker's new story possesses all these qualities.... Almost bare of synthetical decoration, his paragraphs are stirring because they are real. We read at times--as we have read the great masters of romance--breathlessly."--The Critic.
"Gilbert Parker writes a strong novel, but thus far this is his masterpiece.... It is one of the great novels of the year."--Boston Advertiser.
THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE. 16mo. Flexible cloth, 75 cents.
"A book which no one will be satisfied to put down until the end has been matter of certainty and assurance."--The Nation.
"A story of remarkable interest, originality, and ingenuity of construction."--Boston Home Journal.
"The perusal of this romance will repay those who care for new and original types of character, and who are susceptible to the fascination of a fresh and vigorous style."--London Daily News.
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.
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D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.
STEPHEN CRANE'S BOOKS.
THE THIRD VIOLET. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
Mr. Crane's new novel is a fresh and delightful study of artist life in the city and the country. The theme is worked out with the author's characteristic originality and force, and with much natural humor. In subject the book is altogether different from any of its predecessors, and the author's marked success proves his breadth and the versatility of his great talent.
THE LITTLE REGIMENT, and Other Episodes of the American Civil War.12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
"In 'The Little Regiment' we have again studies of the volunteers waiting impatiently to fight and fighting, and the impression of the contest as a private soldier hears, sees, and feels it, is really wonderful. The reader has no privileges. He must, it seems, take his place in the ranks, and stand in the mud, wade in the river, fight, yell, swear, and sweat with the men. He has some sort of feeling, when it is all over, that he has been doing just these things. This sort of writing needs no praise. It will make its way to the hearts of men without praise."--New York Times.
"Told with a _verve_ that brings a whiff of burning powder to one's nostrils.... In some way he blazons the scene before our eyes, and makes us feel the very impetus of bloody war."--Chicago Evening Post.
MAGGIE: A GIRL OF THE STREETS. 12mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
"By writing 'Maggie' Mr. Crane has made for himself a permanent place in literature.... Zola himself scarcely has surpassed its tremendous portrayal of throbbing, breathing, moving life."--New York Mail and Express.
"Mr. Crane's story should be read for the fidelity with which it portrays a life that is potent on this island, along with the best of us. It is a powerful portrayal, and, if somber and repellent, none the less true, none the less freighted with appeal to those who are able to assist in righting wrongs."--New York Times.
THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE. An Episode of the American Civil War. 12mo.Cloth, $1.00.
"Never before have we had the seamy side of glorious war so well depicted.... The action of the story throughout is splendid, and all aglow with color, movement, and vim. The style is as keen and bright as a sword-blade, and a Kipling has done nothing better in this line."--Chicago Evening Post.
"There is nothing in American fiction to compare with it.... Mr. Crane has added to American literature something that has never been done before, and that is, in its own peculiar way, inimitable."--Boston Beacon.
"A truer and completer picture of war than either Tolstoy or Zola."--London New Review.
New York: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
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D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.
SIR MARK. A Tale of the First Capital. By Anna Robeson Brown. 16mo.Cloth, 75 cents.
"One could hardly imagine a more charming short historical tale.... It is almost classic in its simplicity and dignity."--Baltimore News.
THE FOLLY OF EUSTACE. By R. S. Hichens, author of "An ImaginativeMan," "The Green Carnation," etc. 16mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
"In each of these stories the author of 'The Green Carnation' shows his hand without intending to. There is the same cynicism, the same epigrammatic wit. Among the new English story writers there are none more brilliant than Mr. Hichens."--Chicago Tribune.
SLEEPING FIRES. By George Gissing, author of "In the Year of Jubilee,""Eve's Ransom," etc. 16mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
"Intense, extremely well told, and full of discriminating study of life and character."--Buffalo Commercial.
STONEPASTURES. By Eleanor Stuart. 16mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
"This is a strong bit of good literary workmanship."--Philadelphia Public Ledger.
COURTSHIP BY COMMAND. By M. M. Blake. 16mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
"A bright, moving study of an unusually interesting period in the life of Napoleon, ... deliciously told; the characters are clearly, strongly, and very delicately modeled, and the touches of color most artistically done."--N. Y. Commercial Advertiser.
THE WATTER'S MOU'. By Bram Stoker. 16mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
"Here is a tale to stir the most sluggish nature.... It is like standing on the deck of a wave tossed ship; you feel the soul of the storm go into your blood."--New York Home Journal.
MASTER AND MAN. By Count Leo Tolstoy. With an Introduction by W. D. Howells. 16mo. Cloth, 75 cts.
"Reveals a wonderful knowledge of the workings of the human mind, and it tells a tale that not only stirs the emotions, but gives us a better insight into our own hearts."--San Francisco Argonaut.
THE ZEIT-GEIST. By L. Dougall, author of "The Mermaid," "Beggars All," etc. 16mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
"Powerful in conception, treatment, and influence."--Boston Globe.
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.
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D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.
"A better book than 'The Prisoner of Zenda.'"--London Queen.
THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO By anthony hope, author of "The God inthe Car," "The Prisoner of Zenda," etc. With photogravure Frontispieceby S. W. Van Schaick. Third edition. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"No adventures were ever better worth recounting than are those ofAntonio of Monte Velluto, a very Bayard among outlaws.... To all thosewhose pulses still stir at the recital of deeds of high courage, we mayrecommend this book.... The chronicle conveys the emotion of heroicadventure, and is picturesquely written."--London Daily News.
"It has literary merits all its own, of a deliberate and rather deeporder.... In point of execution 'The Chronicles of Count Antonio' is thebest work that Mr. Hope has yet done. The design is clearer, theworkmanship more elaborate, the style more colored.... The incidents aremost ingenious, they are told quietly, but with great cunning, and theQuixotic sentiment which pervades it all is exceedinglypleasant."--Westminster Gazette.
"A romance worthy of all the expectations raised by the brilliancy ofhis former books, and likely to be read with a keen enjoyment and ahealthy exaltation of the spirits by every one who takes it up."--TheScotsman.
"A gallant tale, written with unfailing freshness and spirit."--LondonDaily Telegraph.
"One of the most fascinating romances written in English within manydays. The quaint simplicity of its style is delightful, and theadventures recorded in these 'Chronicles of Count Antonio' are asstirring and ingenious as any conceived even by Weyman at hisbest."--New York World.
"Romance of the real flavor, wholly and entirely romance, and narratedin true romantic style. The characters, drawn with such masterlyhandling, are not merely pictures and portraits, but statues that arealive and step boldly forward from the canvas."--Boston Courier.
"Told in a wonderfully simple and direct style, and with the magictouch of a man who has the genius of narrative, making the variedincidents flow naturally and rapidly in a stream of sparklingdiscourse."--Detroit Tribune.
"Easily ranks with, if not above, 'A Prisoner of Zenda.' ... Wonderfullystrong, graphic, and compels the interest of the most _blase_ novelreader."--Boston Advertiser.
"No adventures were ever better worth telling than those of CountAntonio.... The author knows full well how to make every pulse thrill,and how to hold his readers under the spell of his magic."--BostonHerald.
"A book to make women weep proud tears, and the blood of men to tinglewith knightly fervor.... In 'Count Antonio' we think Mr. Hope surpasseshimself, as he has already surpassed all the other story-tellers of theperiod."--New York Spirit of the Times.
NEW YORK: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.
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D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.
NOVELS BY HALL CAINE.
THE MANXMAN. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"A story of marvelous dramatic intensity, and in its ethical meaning has a force comparable only to Hawthorne's 'Scarlet Letter.'"--Boston Beacon.
"A work of power which is another stone added to the foundation of enduring fame to which Mr. Caine is yearly adding."--Public Opinion.
"A wonderfully strong study of character; a powerful analysis of those elements which go to make up the strength and weakness of a man, which are at fierce warfare within the same breast; contending against each other, as it were, the one to raise him to fame and power, the other to drag him down to degradation and shame. Never in the whole range of literature have we seen the struggle between these forces for supremacy over the man more powerfully, more realistically delineated than Mr. Caine pictures it."--Boston Home Journal.
THE DEEMSTER. A Romance of the Isle of Man. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"Hall Caine has already given us some very strong and fine work, and 'The Deemster' is a story of unusual power.... Certain passages and chapters have an intensely dramatic grasp, and hold the fascinated reader with a force rarely excited nowadays in literature."--The Critic.
"One of the strongest novels which has appeared in many a day."--San Francisco Chronicle.
"Fascinates the mind like the gathering and bursting of a storm."--Illustrated London News.
"Deserves to be ranked among the remarkable novels of the day."--Chicago Times.
THE BONDMAN. New edition, 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"The welcome given to this story has cheered and touched me, but I am conscious that, to win a reception so warm, such a book must have had readers who brought to it as much as they took away.... I have called my story a saga, merely because it follows the epic method, and I must not claim for it at any point the weighty responsibility of history, or serious obligations to the world of fact. But it matters not to me what Icelanders may call 'The Bondman,' if they will honor me by reading it in the open-hearted spirit and with the free mind with which they are content to read of Grettir and of his fights with the Troll."--From the Author's Preface.
CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON. A Manx Yarn. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth,$1.00.
"A new departure by this author. Unlike his previous works, this little tale is almost wholly humorous, with, however, a current of pathos underneath. It is not always that an author can succeed equally well in tragedy and in comedy, but it looks as though Mr. Hall Caine would be one of the exceptions."--London Literary World.
"It is pleasant to meet the author of 'The Deemster' in a brightly humorous little story like this.... It shows the same observation of Manx character, and much of the same artistic skill."--Philadelphia Times.
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.
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D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.
THE STORY OF THE WEST SERIES.
Edited by Ripley Hitchcock.
"There is a vast extent of territory lying between the MissouriRiver and the Pacific coast which has barely been skimmed over sofar. That the conditions of life therein are undergoing changeslittle short of marvelous will be understood when one recalls thefact that the first white male child born in Kansas is still livingthere; and Kansas is by no means one of the newer States.Revolutionary indeed has been the upturning of the old condition ofaffairs, and little remains thereof, and less will remain as eachyear goes by, until presently there will be only tradition of theSioux and Comanches, the cowboy life, the wild horse, and theantelope. Histories, many of them, have been written about theWestern country alluded to, but most if not practically all byoutsiders who knew not personally that life of kaleidoscopicallurement. But ere it shall have vanished forever we are likely tohave truthful, complete, and charming portrayals of it produced bymen who actually knew the life and have the power to describeit."--Henry Edward Rood, in the Mail and Express.
NOW READY:
THE STORY OF THE INDIAN. By George Bird Grinnell, author of "Pawnee Hero Stories," "Blackfoot Lodge Tales," etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"In every way worthy of an author who, as an authority upon the Western Indians, is second to none. A book full of color, abounding in observation, and remarkable in sustained interest, it is at the same time characterized by a grace of style which is rarely to be looked for in such a work, and which adds not a little to the charm of it."--London Daily Chronicle.
"Only an author qualified by personal experience could offer us a profitable study of a race so alien from our own as is the Indian in thought, feeling, and culture. Only long association with Indians can enable a white man measurably to comprehend their thoughts and enter into their feelings. Such association has been Mr. Grinnell's."--New York Sun.
THE STORY OF THE MINE. By Charles Howard Shinn. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"The author has written a book, not alone full of information, but replete with the true romance of the American mine."--New York Times.
"Few chapters of recent history are more fascinating than that which Mr. Shinn has told in 'The Story of the Mine.'"--The Outlook.
"Both a history and a romance.... Highly interesting, new, and thrilling."--Philadelphia Inquirer.
IN PREPARATION.
The Story of the Trapper. By Gilbert Parker. The Story of the Cowboy. By E. Hough. The Story of the Soldier. By Capt. J. McB. Stembel, U.S.A. The Story of the Explorer. The Story of the Railroad.
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.
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NOVELS BY MAARTEN MAARTENS.
THE GREATER GLORY. A Story of High Life.
By Maarten Maartens, author of "God's Fool," "Joost Avelingh," etc.12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"Until the Appletons discovered the merits of Maarten Maartens, the foremost of Dutch novelists, it is doubtful if many American readers knew that there were Dutch novelists. His 'God's Fool' and 'Joost Avelingh' made for him an American reputation. To our mind this just published work of his is his best.... He is a master of epigram, an artist in description, a prophet in insight."--Boston Advertiser.
"It would take several columns to give any adequate idea of the superb way in which the Dutch novelist has developed his theme and wrought out one of the most impressive stories of the period.... It belongs to the small class of novels which one can not afford to neglect."--San Francisco Chronicle.
"Maarten Maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power."--Boston Beacon.
GOD'S FOOL. By Maarten Maartens. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"Throughout there is an epigrammatic force which would make palatable a less interesting story of human lives or one less deftly told."--London Saturday Review.
"Perfectly easy, graceful, humorous.... The author's skill in character-drawing is undeniable."--London Chronicle.
"A remarkable work."--New York Times.
"Maarten Maartens has secured a firm footing in the eddies of current literature.... Pathos deepens into tragedy in the thrilling story of 'God's Fool.'"--Philadelphia Ledger.
"Its preface alone stamps the author as one of the leading English novelists of to-day."--Boston Daily Advertiser.
"The story is wonderfully brilliant.... The interest never lags; the style is realistic and intense; and there is a constantly underlying current of subtle humor.... It is, in short, a book which no student of modern literature should fail to read."--Boston Times.
"A story of remarkable interest and point."--New York Observer.
JOOST AVELINGH. By Maarten Maartens. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"So unmistakably good as to induce the hope that an acquaintance with the Dutch literature of fiction may soon become more general among us."--London Morning Post.
"In scarcely any of the sensational novels of the day will the reader find more nature or more human nature."--London Standard.
"A novel of a very high type. At once strongly realistic and powerfully idealistic."--London Literary World.
"Full of local color and rich in quaint phraseology and suggestion."--London Telegraph.
"Maarten Maartens is a capital story-teller."--Pall Mall Gazette.
"Our English writers of fiction will have to look to their laurels."--Birmingham Daily Post.
RUDYARD KIPLING'S NEW BOOK.
THE SEVEN SEAS. A new volume of poems by Rudyard Kipling, author of "Many Inventions," "Barrack-Room Ballads," etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50; half calf, $3.00; morocco, $5.00.
"The spirit and method of Kipling's fresh and virile song have taken the English reading world.... When we turn to the larger portion of 'The Seven Seas,' how imaginative it is, how impassioned, how superbly rhythmic and sonorous!... The ring and diction of this verse add new elements to our song.... The true laureate of Greater Britain."--E. C. Stedman, in the Book Buyer.
"The most original poet who has appeared in his generation.... His is the lustiest voice now lifted in the world, the clearest, the bravest, with the fewest false notes in it.... I do not see why, in reading his book, we should not put ourselves in the presence of a great poet again, and consent to put off our mourning for the high ones lately dead."--W. D. Howells.
"The new poems of Mr. Rudyard Kipling have all the spirit and swing of their predecessors. Throughout they are instinct with the qualities which are essentially his, and which have made, and seem likely to keep, for him his position and wide popularity."--London Times.
"He has the very heart of movement, for the lack of which no metrical science could atone. He goes far because he can."--London Academy.
"'The Seven Seas' is the most remarkable book of verse that Mr. Kipling has given us. Here the human sympathy is broader and deeper, the patriotism heartier and fuller, the intellectual and spiritual insight keener, the command of the literary vehicle more complete and sure, than in any previous verse work by the author. The volume pulses with power--power often rough and reckless in expression, but invariably conveying the effect intended. There is scarcely a line which does not testify to the strong individuality of the writer."--London Globe.
"If a man holding this volume in his hands, with all its extravagance and its savage realism, is not aware that it is animated through and through with indubitable genius--then he must be too much the slave of the conventional and the ordinary to understand that Poetry metamorphoses herself in many diverse forms, and that its one sovereign and indefeasible justification is--truth."--London Daily Telegraph.
"'The Seven Seas' is packed with inspiration, with humor, with pathos, and with the old unequaled insight i
nto the mind of the rank and file."--London Daily Chronicle.
"Mr. Kipling's 'The Seven Seas' is a distinct advance upon his characteristic lines. The surpassing strength, the almost violent originality, the glorious swish and swing of his lines--all are there in increased measure.... The book is a marvel of originality and genius--a brand-new landmark in the history of English letters."--Chicago Tribune.
"In 'The Seven Seas' are displayed all of Kipling's prodigious gifts.... Whoever reads 'The Seven Seas' will be vexed by the desire to read it again. The average charm of the gifts alone is irresistible."--Boston Journal.
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.
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YEKL. A Tale of the New York Ghetto. By A. Cahan.
Uniform with "The Red Badge of Courage." 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
"A new and striking tale; the charm, the verity, the literary quality of the book depend upon its study of character, its 'local color,' its revelation to Americans of a social state at their very doors of which they have known nothing."--New York Times.
"The story is a revelation to us. It is written in a spirited, breezy way, with an originality in the telling of which is quite unexpected. The dialect is striking in its truth to Nature."--Boston Courier.
"Is in all probability the only true picture we have yet had of that most densely populated spot on the face of the earth--the ghetto of the metropolis, rather the metropolis of the ghettos of the world."--New York Journal.
"A series of vivid pictures of a strange people.... The people and their social life the author depicts with marvelous success."--Boston Transcript.
"The reader will become deeply interested in Mr. Cahan's graphic presentation of ghetto life in New York."--Minneapolis Journal.
"A strong, quaint story."--Detroit Tribune.
"Every feature of the book bears the stamp of truth.... Undoubtedly 'Yekl' has never been excelled as a picture of the distinctive life of the New York ghetto."--Boston Herald.
THE SENTIMENTAL SEX. By Gertrude Warden. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
"The cleverest book by a woman that has been published for months.... Such books as 'The Sentimental Sex' are exemplars of a modern cult that will not be ignored."--New York Commercial Advertiser.
"There is a well-wrought mystery in the story and some surprises that preserve the reader's interest, and render it, when all is said, a story of considerable charm."--Boston Courier.
"An uncommonly knowing little book, which keeps a good grip on the reader up to the last page.... The author's method of handling the plot is adroit and original."--Rochester Herald.
"Miss Warden has worked out her contrasts very strikingly, and tells her story in a cleverly flippant way, which keeps the reader on the qui vive for the cynical but bright sayings she has interspersed."--Detroit Free Press.
"The story forms an admirable study. The style is graphic, the plot original and cleverly wrought out."--Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue.
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