A War-Time Wooing: A Story

by Charles King

  XI.

  Cold and gray in the mist of the morning the long columns have fileddown from the heights, and are massed at the water's edge. It is chillDecember, and the frost has eaten deep into the ruddy soil of Virginia,but the Rappahannock flows swiftly along, uncrusted by the ice thatfetters Northern streams, yet steaming in the biting air. Fog-wreathsrise from the rippling surface, and all along the crowded shore theclouds hang dense and heavy. Nowhere can one see in any direction morethan a dozen yards away; all beyond is wrapped in swirling, eddyingfog-bank. Here in the thronging ranks, close at hand, men speak in lowtones as they stamp upon the frozen ground or whip their mittened handsacross the broad blue chests to restore circulation and drive the acheand numbness away. Here and there are some who have turned their lightblue capes up over their heads, and take no part in the low-toned chat.Leaning on their muskets, they let their thoughts go wandering faraway, for all men know that bloody work is coming. The engineers arehammering at their bulky pontoons now, and down at the water's edge theclumsy boats are moored, waiting for chess and balk carriers to be toldoff, and the crews to man the heavy sweeps. Up on the heights to therear, planted thickly on every knoll and ridge, are the black-mouthedguns, and around them are grouped the squads of ghostly, grisly,fog-dripping cannoneers. One may walk along that line of heights formile after mile, and find there only grim ranges of batteries andwaiting groups of men. All is silence; all is alertness; all is fog.Back of the lines of unlimbered cannon, sheltered as far as possiblefrom returning fire, the drivers and horses and the heavy-laden caissonsare shrouded in the mist-veil, and the staff officers, groping to andfro, have to ask their way from battery to battery, or go yards beyondtheir real objective point. Little fires are burning here and there, andbattery-lanterns are flickering in the gloom. Out on the face of thestream, too, one can see from the northern shore weird, dancing lights,like will-o'-the-wisps, go twinkling through the fog; and far acrossthe waters, from time to time, there is heard the sudden crack of rifle.The Southern pickets are beginning to catch faint glimpses of thoselights, and are opening fire, for vigilant officers are there tointerpret every sound and sight, and with the first break of the wintrydawn they grasp the meaning of the murmur that has come for hours fromthe upper shore. "The Yanks are laying bridges" is the word that goesfrom mouth to mouth, and long before the day is fairly opened thenearing sounds and the will-o'-the-wisp lights out there in the fog tellthe shivering pickets that the foe is more than half-way across.Daybreak brings strong forces into line along the southern bank, alleyes straining through the fog. Out to the front the ping! ping! of therifles has become rapid and incessant, and by broad daylight all theriver bank and the walls of the buildings that command a view of it arepacked with gray riflemen ready for work the instant those bridge-headsloom into view. When seven o'clock comes, and the fog thins just alittle, there are the bridge-ends, sure enough, poking drearily intospace, but the only signs of the builders are the motionless forms inblue that are stretched here and there about the boats or planks, onlyfaintly visible through the mist; the working parties have been forcedto give it up. Back they come, what is left of them, and tell their taleamong the sympathizing blue overcoats in the wearying ranks, andofficers ride away up the slopes, and there are moments of suspense andquestion, and then the thud of sponge-staff and rammer among thebatteries, and a sudden flash and roar, tearing the mists asunder;another, another; and then, up and down along the line of heights, theorder goes, and gun after gun belches forth its charge of shot andshell, and back from the walls of Fredericksburg comes the direful echoand the crash of falling roof or gable. "Depress those muzzles!" is thegrowling order. "The whole bank is alive with rebs, and we must shell'em out before those bridges can be finished." The elevating screws arespun in their beds, the shell fuzes cut down to the very edge. Some gunsare so near the river that they are rammed with grape and canister; andso, for an hour, the thundering cannonade goes on, and the infantrycrouch below, and swear and shiver, and once in a while set up a cheerwhen occasion seems to warrant it. And then, covered by this furiousfog-bombardment, the engineers again push forward theirbridge-builders, and cram their pontoons, and launch them forth upon thestream. It is all useless. No sooner do they reach the bridge-end whendown they go by the dozens before the hot fire of a thousand Southernrifles. So dense is the fog that the gunners cannot aim. Shot, shell,and canister go shrieking through roof and wall, and ripping up streetsand crossings; but the plucky riflemen hug the shore in sterndetermination, and again the bridges are abandoned.

  And so a cold and cheerless morning ebbs away; and at last, towardsnoon, there comes relief. The sun bursts through the clouds, and licksup the fog-bank. The mist-veil is withdrawn, and there standsFredericksburg, with shattered roof and spire, backed by a long line ofgun-bristling heights, and there are the unfinished bridges juttinghelplessly out two thirds across the water. A number of the heavypontoons are still moored close to shore, and while all along under thebank the regiments are ranging into battle order, two or three of themare tumbling into those clumsy arks, cramming them with armed men, andthen pushing off into the stream. Failing in working across a narrowcauseway, the "Yanks" are taking to their boats and sending over aflotilla. It is a daring, desperate feat, but it tells. Despite thefierce resistance, despite the heavy loss that befalls them, animated bythe cheers of their comrades, they push ahead, answering the fire aswell as they can, and at last, one after another, the boats are groundedon the southern shore, and, though sadly diminished in numbers, the menleap forth and go swarming up the bank, driving the gray pickets tocover. Others hurry across and reinforce them; then more and more, untilthey are strong enough to seize the nearest buildings and hold theapproaches, and then the working parties leap forward; the bridge isfinished with a will, and the comrades of their brigade come trampingcheerily across. Three splendid regiments are they which made thatdaring venture, mere companies in numbers as compared with their earlystrength, and one of them is the--th Massachusetts, now led by acaptain. Colonel Putnam stands at his side at this moment of triumph andpartial rest. He commands the brigade that has done this brilliant work,and now is receiving the thanks sent over from corps headquarters; andthe mounted officer, the first one across the bridge, who bears thegeneral's congratulations, is his young chief-of-staff, Major Abbot.

  There has been fierce fighting through the streets, stubborn resistanceon part of the occupants of the town, and determined effort on part ofthe thronging force of Union men who are constantly gaining accessionsas the brigades come marching over. Just at sunset, with the town fullyin their possession, there is sudden turmoil and excitement among theblue-coats gathered around an old brick building near the western edge.There is rushing to and fro; then savage exclamations, shouts of "Killhim!" "Hang him!" "Run him down to the creek and duck him!" and thebrigade commander, with Major Abbot and one or two other mountedofficers, has quite as much as he can do to rescue from the hands of aninfuriated horde of soldiers a bruised, battered, slouching hulk of aman in a dingy Confederate uniform. He implores their protection, and itis only when they see the piteous, haggard, upturned face, and hear thewail of his voice, that Putnam and Abbot recognize the deserter, Rix.Abbot is off his horse and by his side in an instant. Sternly orderingback the men who had grappled and were dragging him, the major holdsRix by the coat-collar and gazes at him in silent amaze.

  "In God's name, how came you here, and in this garb?" he finally asks.

  Weak with sickness, suffering, and the horrible fright he has undergone,the bully of former days simply shudders and cringes now. He crouches atAbbot's feet, gazing fearfully around him at the circle of vengeful,powder-blackened faces.

  "Don't let them touch me, Mr. Abbot! Oh, for God's sake help me. I'm'most dead, anyhow. I can't talk now. We're 'most starved, too, andMr. Hollins is dying."

  "Hollins!" exclaims Abbot, almost losing his hold on the collar anddropping the limp creature to earth. "What do you mean? where?"

  "In t
here; in the bedroom up-stairs. Oh, major, don't leave me here;these men will murder me!" he implores, clutching the skirts of Abbot'sheavy overcoat; but Colonel Putnam signals "Go on," and, leaving hisabject prisoner, Abbot hastens up the stairs of the old brick house, andthere, in a low-ceilinged room, stretched upon the bed, with wild,wandering eyes and fevered lips, with features drawn and ghastly, liesthe man who has so bitterly sinned against him, and whom he has sooften longed to meet eye to eye--but not this way.

  And it is an awful look of recognition that greets him, too. Shotthrough and through as he is, tortured with thirst and suffering,praying for help and longing for the sight of some friendly face, itseems a retribution almost too cruel that, in his extreme hour, the mansent by Heaven to minister to his needs should be the one he has sofoully wronged, the one of whom he lives in dread. He covers his eyeswith a gesture of dismay, and turns fearfully to the wall. There is amoment of silence, broken only by the rattle of the window in its casingas it shudders to the distant boom of the guns far down the line. ThenAbbot steps to the bedside and places his gauntleted hand upon theshoulder of the stricken man.

  "Hollins! How are you wounded? Have you seen a surgeon?"

  No answer for a moment, and the question is gently repeated.

  "Shot through the body--rifle-ball. There was a surgeon here last night,but he's gone."

  "Lie still then until I get one. I would bring Doctor Thorn, but he hastoo much to do with--too much to do just now." He comes near saying"with our own men," but checks himself in time. He cannot "kick the manthat is down" with such a speech as that, and it is not long before hereappears, and brings with him a surgeon from one of the arrivingregiments. Colonel Putnam, too, comes up the stairs, but merely to takea look at the situation, and place a guard over both the wounded man andhis strange, shivering companion, Rix. Some of the soldiers are sent forwater, and others start a fire in the little stove in the adjoiningroom. The doctor makes his examination, and does what he can for hissinking patient, but when he comes out he tells Abbot that Hollins hasnot many hours to live, "and he wants to see you," he adds. "Did youknow him?"

  There is a strange scene in the cramped little room of the quaint oldhouse that night. By the light of two or three commissary candles andthe flickering glare from the fire one can see the features of thewatchers and of the fast-dying man. Abbot sits by the bedside; ColonelPutnam is standing at the foot, and the adjutant of the--thMassachusetts has been reading aloud from his notes the statement hehas taken down from the lips of the former quartermaster. One part of itneeds verification from authority not now available. Mr. Hollins aversthat he is not a deserter to the enemy as appearances would indicate,but a prisoner paroled by them.

  The statement, so far as it bears upon his official connection with theregiment, is about as follows:

  "I had personal reasons for going back to the Monocacy--reasons thatcould not be explained to the satisfaction of a commanding officer. I_had_ to see Mr. Abbot to explain a wrong I had done him, and avert, ifpossible, the consequences. I left without permission, and rode back,but found all the roads picketed, and I was compelled to hide with afarmer near Boonsboro' until Rix reached me. He had been my clerk, andwas an expert penman. He fixed the necessary papers for me, and, withthe aid of certain disguises I had, it was not so hard to get around. Imeant to resign, but feared that, if offered through the regularchannels, it would be refused, and I be brought to trial because of thecondition of my accounts. Then I found that I was too late to undo thewrong I had done, and it was while trying to make partial amends that Icame so near being captured by Colonel Putnam at Frederick. It made medesperate. That night I took the first horse I could find, and rode downthe valley, believing all was lost, and that I must get away from thatpart of the country. Money found me a hiding-place when my papers wouldno longer serve. Then money bribed a messenger to carry word of mycondition to Rix, who had been sent to the regiment at Harper's Ferry.He got away and joined me, and made out some more papers for me, andthen started, by night and alone, to get home, where he said he hadmoney. Mine was about gone by that time, and here I lay in hiding untilStuart came sweeping down the Monocacy on his way back to Virginia, andI was glad to be captured and carried along. I gave him my proper nameand rank, and when Rix came back the army had left that part of thecountry, and he followed me into Virginia. He said he would be shot,anyway, if captured; and the next I heard of him--I being then aprisoner in Richmond--was that he had enlisted in a Virginia regiment,and was dying here in Fredericksburg. He had been devoted to me, andneeded me. I gave my parole, and was allowed to come here to nurse him.He was recovering and able to be about when the bombardment opened, andI was shot at the river bank, whither I had gone to bid him good-bye,and was carried here. The rest that I have to say is for Major Abbotalone to hear."

  Putnam and the adjutant, after a few questions, withdraw; and at last,with even the soldier nurse excluded, the dying man is alone with theone officer of his regiment who had striven to befriend him, and whom hehas so basely rewarded.

  "There is no time for lamenting or empty talk of forgiveness andremorse. It is time you heard the truth, Abbot. I always envied you atcollege. I envied every man who had birth or wealth or position. I hadsome brains, but was poor, burdened with the care of a vagabond brotherwho was well-nigh a jail-bird, and whose only talent was penmanship. Hewould have been a forger then if it hadn't been for me. For me heafterwards became one. You know who I mean now--Rix. Mr. Winthrop gaveme opportunities, and I worked. I had little money, though, but time andagain I was called to his house, saw his daughter, and I was ambitious.When she went abroad I followed; was as discreetly attentive as my witcould make me--and when I failed to make the impression I hoped, and wereturned, I learned the reason--she was engaged to you. It made medetermine that I would undermine it. You did not love her, nor she you.It was a family match, and not one that would make either of you happy.My life in the regiment was a hell, because they seemed to--seemed toknow me for what I was. And you simply tolerated me. It made a devil ofme, Abbot, and I vowed that proud girl should love me and turn from youif I had to hang for the means that brought it about. I wasquartermaster at Edwards's Ferry, and Rix was the man who fetched andcarried the mails. 'Twas easy enough to abstract her letters or yoursfrom time to time, but the case needed something more than that. Neglectwould not rouse her; jealousy might. One day there came the picture ofthose girls at Hastings (Abbot's hands begin to clinch; he has listenedcoldly up to this point), and I saw the group that was sent to them, andthe pretty letter written by their secretary, Miss Warren. Then came herletter saying she was Guthrie Warren's sister. I knew him well atcollege, and an idea occurred to me. I took your picture, wrote a note,and had Rix copy it, and sent it in your name. When the answer came Rixand I were on the lookout for it, and got it, and wrote again and again.I had matter enough to work on with my knowledge of Warren, and then hisdeath intensified the interest. I don't care to look in your face now,Abbot, for I'm not a fearless man; nothing but a beaten, broken,cowardly scoundrel; but I began trying on that sweet and innocentcountry girl the arts against which your _fiance_ my highbred kinswoman,had been proof; I was bound to punish _her_ pride. But I found my prettycorrespondent as shy, as maidenly and reserved, with all her sister-loveand pride, as the other was superior. It was game worth bringing down,by Heaven! and I grew desperate. I was drinking then, and gettingsnarled up in my accounts, and you had turned a cold shoulder on me; andthen came the campaign and Rix's break and more difficulties, and I wasat my wit's end to keep the letters from you; and just before SecondBull Run came Miss Winthrop's letters challenging me to prove that youdid not care for her, and I sent her three of Miss Warren's letters.But, worse than that, I had been wooing another in your name; and,because she would not betray an undue interest, I became more engrossed;became more warmly interested; and soon it was not for the sake ofshowing your _fiance_ a love-letter from another woman, but to satisfythe cravings of my own heart. I began more and mor
e to strive to winthis dainty, innocent, pure-minded girl. Aye, sir, I was wooing overyour name; but 'twas _I_ who loved; yes, loved her, Abbot. _Now_, whatthink you of me and what I suffered?"

  He pauses a moment, choked and quivering. He motions with his hand tothe cup of stimulant the doctor has left him. Abbot coldly hands it tohim, and finds that he must raise him from the pillow before he canswallow. He is stirred to his inmost soul with wrath and indignationagainst this ruthless traitor, even when the fates have laid him low. Itis hard to touch him gently, but he steps to his side and does what hecan, bidding him use no exertion and be calm as possible. A few painful,hurried breaths, and then Hollins goes on again.

  "Though not once had she confessed her love, I felt I was gaining. Shesent me her photograph. It is here, on my breast; I have carried it dayand night." Abbot's muscles grew rigid again and his stern face setswith a sterner look. "But I was in constant worry about my affairs andthe coming of those letters. Then when you were wounded and left behindat South Mountain I felt that the crisis had come. I _had_ to get backthere. Something told me she would hasten to you. They came, and I hadthe agony of seeing him--her father--returning from his visit to you;Rix told me of it afterwards. Then I strove madly to see her; to tellher the truth, though I knew she would only despise and spurn me. Iscrawled a note confessing my crime, but sending no name; gave it to thewoman to give to the doctor, and then tore myself away. I was the rebelspy the colonel nearly caught, and from that time I have been afugitive; and now--a chance shot ends it all. Rix has been faithful tome, poor devil, and I came here to do what I could for him. _Voilatout!_ Abbot, don't let them shoot him. He isn't worth it. Give me moreof that brandy."

  He lies back on the grimy pillow, breathing fast and painfully. Abbotstands in silence a moment. Then his voice, stern and constrained, isheard in question:

  "Have you any messages, Hollins? Is there any way in which I can serveyou?"

  "It seems tough--but the only friend I have to close my eyes is the manI plotted against and nearly despoiled of his lady-love," muttersHollins. Either he is wandering a little bit or the brandy is potentenough to blur his sense of the nearness of death. "I wanted to tell youthe truth--not that I look for forgiveness. I know your race wellenough. You'll see fair play, but love and hate are things you don'tchange in much. I've no right to ask anything of you, but--who _is_there? My God! I believe your wife that is to be was about the onlyfriend I had in the world--except Rix. He brought me back the letters,and says she was so good to him. I hope he didn't ask her for money. Heswears he didn't, but he's such a liar! We both are, for that matter.I'm glad, though, now, that my lies didn't hurt you. They didn't, didthey, Abbot? You're still engaged?"

  "I--am engaged."

  "Oh, well; if I only hadn't brought that damnable sorrow to that poorchild, and if I could only feel that they wouldn't shoot Rix, itwouldn't be so bad--my going now. What _will_ they do with Rix?"

  "He must stand trial for desertion, I fancy. The men nearly lynched himas it was."

  "I know, and you saved him. Isn't it all strange?" Here for over a yearwe two have been plotting against you, and now, at the last, you're theonly friend we have. "Where is he?"

  "Down below, under guard. You shall see him whenever you feel like it.Is there any one else you want to see, Hollins?"

  "Any one--any one? Ah, God! Yes, with a longing that burns. It is _her_face. It is she--Bessie!" His hand steals feebly into his breast, and hedrags slowly forth a little packet of oiled silk. This he hugs close tohis fluttering heart, and his eyes seek those of the young soldierstanding there so strong, so self-reliant and erect. His glance seemsenvious, even now, with the fast-approaching angel's death-seal dimmingtheir light, and the clammy dew gathering on his brow.

  "It was your picture I sent her, just as you seem to stand there now. Itwas I who won her, but she thinks I looked like you."

  "Pardon me, Hollins," breaks in Abbot, with a voice that tremblesdespite every effort at self-control, and trembles, too, through thevery coldness of the tone. "Colonel Putnam is not far off. There areothers whom you might like to see; and shall I send Rix to you?"

  "No--not now--no use. Promise me this, Abbot. No matter where or how I'mburied--never mind coffin, or the flag, or the volleys, or the prayers;I don't deserve--They won't help me. _You_ see to it, will you, thatthis is buried on my heart? It's her picture, and some letters.Promise."

  Abbot slowly bows his head.

  "I promise, Hollins, if it will comfort you."

  "If there were only some way--some way to tell her. I loved her so. Shemight forgive when she knew how I died. You may see her, Abbot. Stop!take these three letters; they're addressed to you, anyway. Take them toher, by and by, and tell her, will you? but let the picture go with me."

  The clutching fingers of one hand clasp about the slim envelope thatcontains the little photograph; the fingers of the other hand areplucking nervously at the blanket that is thrown over the dying man.There is another moment of silence, and then Abbot again asks him if hewill have his brother brought to him. Hollins nods, and Abbot goes tothe door and whispers a few words to the orderly. When he returns afeeble hand gropes its way towards him, and Hollins looks upappealingly.

  "I'm so much weaker. I'm going fast. Would you shake hands, Abbot? What!Then you bear me no ill-will?"

  "I do not, Hollins."

  The clouding eyes seem to seek his wistfully, wonderingly.

  "And yet--I wronged you so."

  "Do not think of me. That--all came right."

  "I know--I know. It is _her_ heart I may have broken--Bessie's. My God!What could she have thought when he came back to her--after seeing you?"

  "He told her her lover was dead. I made inquiries."

  "Thank God for that! But all the same--she is sorrowing--suffering--andit's all my doing. I believe I could die content, almost happy, if Iknew she had not--if I knew--I had not--brought her misery."

  "Are you sure, Hollins?"

  "Sure! Heaven, yes! Why, Abbot? Do you--do _you_ know?"

  "She seems happy, Hollins. She is to be married in the spring; I don'tknow just when."

  "_Draws forth her precious picture and lays it at arival's feet._"]

  There is another moment of intense silence in the little room. Outsidethe muffled tramp of the night patrols and the gruff challenge ofsentries fall faintly on the ear. Within there is only the quickbreathing of the sinking man. There is a long, long look from the dyingeyes; a slow movement towards the well-nigh pulseless heart. Then comesthe sound of heavy feet upon the stair, and presently the uncouth formof Rix is at the threshold, a piteous look in his haggard face. Abbotraises a hand in warning, and glances quickly from the prisoner at thedoor to the frame whence fast is ebbing the imprisoned soul. The handthat had faintly clasped his is slowly creeping up to the broad andbrawny chest, so feeble now. Far across the rippling waters of theRappahannock the notes of a bugle, prolonged and distant, soft andsolemn, float upon the still night air. 'Tis the soldiers' signal"Lights Out!"--the soldiers' rude yet never-forgotten lullaby. Aninstant gleam as of recognition hovers in the glazing eyes. Then followa few faint gasps; then--one last gesture as the arm falls limp andnerveless; but it draws forth her precious picture and lays it at arival's feet.

  THE END.

  * * * * *

  BY AMELIE RIVES.

  A BROTHER TO DRAGONS, AND OTHER OLD-TIME TALES. Post 8vo, Cloth, Extra, $1 00.

  VIRGINIA OF VIRGINIA. A Story. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Extra, $1 00.

  One is permitted to discover qualities of mind and a proficiency and capacity in art from which something new and distinctively the work of genius may be anticipated in American literature.--_Boston Globe._

  Miss Rives has imagination, breadth, and a daring and courage oftenest spoken of as masculine. Moreover, she is exquisitely poetical, and her ideals, with all the mishaps of her delineations, are of an ex
alted order.--_N. Y. Star._

  It was little more than two years ago that Miss Rives made her first literary conquest, a conquest so complete and astonishing as at once to give her fame. How well she has sustained and added to the reputation she so suddenly won, we all know, and the permanency of that reputation demonstrates conclusively that her success did not depend upon the lucky striking of a popular fancy, but that it rests upon enduring qualities that are developing more and more richly year by year.--_Richmond State._

  It is evident that; the author has imagination in an unusual degree, much strength of expression, and skill in delineating character.--_Boston Journal._

  There are few young writers who begin a promising career with so much spontaneity and charm of expression as is displayed by Miss Rives.--_Literary World_, Boston.

  The trait which the author seems to take the most pleasure in depicting is the passionate loyalty of a girl to her lover or of a young wife to her husband, and her portrayal of this trait has feeling, and is set off by an unconventional style and brisk movement.--_The Book Buyer_, N. Y.

  There is such a wealth of imagination, such an exuberance of striking language in the productions of this author, as to attract and hold the reader.--_Toledo Blade._

  Miss Rives is essentially a teller of love stories, and relates them with such simple, straightforward grace that she at once captures the sympathy and interest of the reader.... There is a freshness of feeling and a mingling of pathos and humor which are simply delicious.--_New London Telegraph._

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  * * * * *

  A STRANGE MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A COPPER CYLINDER.

  A Romance. Richly Illustrated by GILBERT GAUL. 12mo, Cloth, Extra, $1 25.

  The writer of this book, whose name is still kept from the public, is in every way qualified to rank with Mr. Haggard. Indeed, his clever analysis of Kosekin social laws is far more able, from a strictly literary point of view, than anything Mr. Haggard has ever done--_N. Y. Herald._

  A story of remarkable power and originality, as weird and as wild as the most extravagant of Rider Haggard's romances, but better fiction and better literature in every way.... The book is well worth the reading, not only for the strangeness of the story, but for the fancy and poetic sentiment that pervade it, for the brilliancy of the invention that has been brought to bear upon it, and for the immense vividness and animation of the descriptive narrative.--Saturday _Evening Gazette_, Boston.

  In close connection with the author's fanciful creations there is noticeable a fine play of irony and humor, which lends a special charm to the story. The latter is full of movement, and even in the more exciting passages the exaggeration necessarily employed has no effect in wearying the reader's attention.--_N. Y. Sun._

  Written in an inviting manner, it preserves throughout a lively pictorial charm and dramatic interest. The theme is original in the extreme.... Withal the book is marvellously entertaining. Mr. Gaul's illustrations are unusually fine, as we should expect.--_Brooklyn Times._

  It surpasses the best of Haggard's works in literary tone, and its fine dramatic construction and peculiar power of diction will readily be acknowledged by all readers.... Taking it altogether, this book is the most remarkable piece of fiction the new year has yet seen, and a revelation of the identity of the author would be welcomed.--_Boston Commonwealth._

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  * * * * *

  NARKA, THE NIHILIST.

  By KATHLEEN O'MEARA. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00.

  "The scenes and incidents of Miss O'Meara's tale are purely Russian, and the time is the present period of which Tolsto[=i] treats. Naturally they suggest the marvellously realistic pictures of the author of 'Anna Karenina,' although it would be very unjust to the younger novelist to compare her work with his. Tolsto[=i] is always introspective; he deals rather with character than with the incidents which develop character. 'Narka' portrays an involved and ingenious complication of events which hold the interest of the absorbed reader until the end is reached. Tolsto[=i]'s stories, even when he has a story to tell, are simply the intuitive outgrowth of the thoughts and actions of the real men and women he draws. His _dramatis personae_ make his plots, while Miss O'Meara's plots, on the other hand, make her men and women.... Narka Larik, a low-born Russian Jewess, is a peculiar product of Russian soil and of autocratic Russian rule. She is possessed of a beautiful person, a glorious voice, and a strong moral and mental constitution; she is suspicious, as all Muscovites are, a thorough and consistent hater, a devoted friend, truthful to a degree; and she calmly swears on the holy image of the blessed St. Nicholas to an utter falsehood in order to screen her lover and to aid his cause.... The scenes are laid among that curious mixture of Oriental magnificence and barbaric discomfort, of lavish expenditure and shabby makeshift, to be found in a Russian castle, with its splendid vastness, the immensity of its grounds, the immensity of the forests on all sides of it, and the general scale of immensity on which everything about it, and within it, is invariably conducted. Add to these Russian prisons, Paris _salons_, French convents, the lyric stage at Milan, Socialists, Nihilists, priests, patriots, and vivisectionists, and it will readily be seen how strong and effective a story can be made by a woman so gifted in the telling of stories, the weaving of plots, and the study of character as Miss O'Meara has already proved herself to be. Narka Larik is a better woman morally than Anna Karenina, intellectually she is the superior of Katia, and she is quite worthy to stand by the side of these two illustrious countrywomen of hers as the exponent of all that is true and womanly in modern Russian life."

  _The above work sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price._

  * * * * *

  H. RIDER HAGGARD'S STORIES.

  There are color, splendor, and passion everywhere; action in abundance; constant variety and absorbing interest. Mr. Haggard does not err on the side of niggardliness; he is only too affluent in description and ornament.... There is a largeness, a freshness, and a strength about him which are full of promise and encouragement, the more since he has placed himself so unmistakably on the romantic side of fiction; that is, on the side of truth and permanent value.... He is already one of the foremost modern romance writers.--_N.Y. World._

  Mr. Haggard has a genius, not to say a great talent, for story-telling.... That he should have a large circle of readers in England and this country, where so many are trying to tell stories with no stories to tell, is a healthy sign, in that it shows that the love of fiction, pure and simple, is as strong as it was in the days of Dickens and Thackeray and Scott, the older days of Smollett and Fielding, and
the old, old days of Le Sage and Cervantes.--_N. Y. Mail and Express._

  That region of the universe of romance which Mr. Haggard has opened up is better worth a visit than any that has been explored for many a long year.--_St. James's Gazette_, London.

  There is a charm in tracing the ingenuity of the author, and a sense of satisfaction in his firm grasp of his subject. There is no uncertainty at all, no groping after material, but one vivid scene follows another until the reader says to himself, "Here, at last, is a novelist who is not attempting to spread out one dramatic situation so thin that it can be made to do duty for an entire volume; a man of resource, imagination, and invention."--_Chicago Herald._

  SHE. Illustrated. 16mo, Half Cloth, 75 cents; Paper, 25 cents; 4to, Paper, 25 cents.

  KING SOLOMON'S MINES. 16mo, Half Cloth, 75 cents; 4to, Paper, 20 cents.

  MR. MEESON'S WILL. 16mo, Half Cloth, 75 cents; Paper, 25 cents.

  JESS. 16mo, Half Cloth, 75 cents; 4to, Paper, 15 cents.

  DAWN. With One Illustration. 16mo, Half Cloth, 75 cents.

  THE WITCH'S HEAD. 16mo, Half Cloth, 75 cents.

  ALLAN QUATERMAIN. Illustrated. 16mo, Half Cloth, 75 cents; Paper, 25 cents.

  MIAWA'S REVENGE. Illustrated. 16mo, Half Cloth, 75 cents; Paper, 25 cents.

  PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.

  _Any of the above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price._