CHAPTER XXI.

_The Last, and Most Eventful, of the History._

I took my mother and Fanny to the play that night, to see Madge act, and we three met her after the performance and were driven to her lodgings with her. I then bade the ladies good-night, with a secret tenderness arising from the possibility, unknown to them, that our parting then might be for as many months as they supposed hours.

Returning to Philip at the tavern, I found he had passed the evening in writing letters; among others, one for me to copy in my own name, to be left at Madge's lodgings in case of my having to flee the country for awhile. It was so phrased that the result of the duel, whether in Philip's death or his antagonist's, could be told by the insertion of a single line, after its occurrence.

Phil and I rose betimes the next morning, and went by hackney-coach, in the darkness, to a place in the Oxford road, near Tyburn; where we left our conveyance waiting, and proceeded afoot to the chosen spot in the Park.

No one was there when we arrived, and we paced to and fro together to keep in exercise, talking in low voices, and beguiling our agitation by confining our thoughts to a narrow channel. The sod was cool and soft to our tread, and the smell of the leaves was pleasant to our nostrils. As the sky whitened above the silent trees, and the gray light penetrated to the grassy turf at our feet, Phil quoted softly the line from Grey's Elegy in which the phrase of "incense-breathing morn" occurs; and from that he went to certain parts of Milton's "L'Allegro" and then to Shakespeare's songs, "When Daisies Pied" and "Under the Greenwood Tree."

"'Faith," said he, breaking off from the poetry, "'tis a marvel how content I feel! You would not believe it, the serene happiness that has come over me. 'Tis easy to explain, though: I have adjusted my affairs, provided for my wife, left nothing in confusion or disorder, and am as ready for death as for life. I feel at last responsible to no one; free to accept whatever fate I may incur; clear of burdens. The great thing, man, is to have one's debts paid, one's obligations discharged: then death or life matters little, and the mere act of breathing fresh air is a joy unspeakable."

We now descried the figures of Falconer, Idsleigh, and a third gentleman, approaching under the trees. Civil greetings passed as they came up, and Falconer overwent the demands of mere courtesy so far as to express himself upon the coolness and sweetness of the morning. But he was scrutinising Philip curiously the while, as if there were some reason why he should be less indifferent regarding this antagonist than he had shown himself regarding Tom Faringfield and me.

The principals removed their hats, coats, and waistcoats. As they were not booted, but appeared in stockings and low shoes, they made two fine and supple figures to look upon. The formalities between Mr. Idsleigh and me were as brief as possible. Falconer chose his sword with a pretence of scarce looking at it, Philip gave his the usual examination, and the two men stood on guard.

There was a little wary play at first, while each sought an inkling of the other's method. Then some livelier work, in which they warmed themselves and got their muscles into complete facility, followed upon Phil's pretending to lose his guard. All this was but overture, and it came to a stop for a short pause designed as preliminary to the real duel. Both were now perspiring, and breathing into their lungs deep draughts of air. Falconer's expression showed that he had recognised better fencing in Phil's work than he had thought to find; but Phil's face conveyed no such surprise, for he had counted upon an adversary possessed of the first skill.

'Twas Falconer who began what we all felt was to be the serious part of the combat. Phil parried the thrust neatly; made a feint, but, instantly recovering, availed himself of his opponent's counter movement, and sank his point fair into Falconer's left breast. The English captain tumbled instantly to the ground. The swiftness of the thing startled us. Idsleigh and his medical companion stared in amazement, wondering that the fallen man should lie so still. It took a second or two for that which their eyes had informed them, to penetrate to their understanding. But Philip and I knew that the lunge had pierced the heart, and that the accomplished Lovelace on the ground would charm no more women.

'Twas only when we were hastening back to our hackney-coach, that Philip trembled. Then for a few moments his teeth chattered as if he were taken with a chill, and his face was deathly pale.

"'Tis terrible," he said, in an awed tone, "to kill a man this way. 'Tis not like in war. On a morning like this, in the civil manner of gentlemen, to make of such a marvellous living, thinking, feeling machine a poor heap of senseless flesh and bone that can only rot:--and all in the time of a sword-thrust!"

"Tut!" said I, "the world is the better for the riddance. Think of Tom, and all else!"

"I know it," said Phil, conquering his weakness. "And such men know what they risk when they break into the happiness of others. I could not have lived in peace while he lived. Well, that is all behind us now. Yonder is our coach."

We got in, and were driven to the tavern in Dean Street. We there dismissed the coach, and Philip started afoot for the inn, in the Strand, where our post-chaise was to be in readiness. I was to join him there after completing the letter and leaving it at Madge's lodgings, Philip using the mean time in attending to the posting of certain letters of his own. We had no baggage to impede us, as we intended to purchase new wearables in France: we had, on the previous day, provided ourselves with money and letters of credit. My affairs had been so arranged that neither my wife nor my mother could be pecuniarily embarrassed by my absence. Philip's American passport, used upon our former travels, was still in force and had been made to include a travelling companion. So all was smoothed for our flight.

Taking my letter to the house in which Madge lived, I asked for her maid, telling the house servant I would wait at the street door: for, as I did not wish to meet any of the three ladies, I considered it safer to entrust the letter to Madge's own woman. The girl came down; but I had no sooner handed her the letter, and told her what to do with it, than I heard Madge's voice in the hall above. She had come out to see who wanted her maid, suspecting some trick of Falconer's; and, leaning over the stair-rail, had recognised my voice.

"What is it, Bert? Why don't you come up?"

"I can't--I'm in haste," I blundered. "Good morning!"

"But wait! What's wrong? A moment, I entreat! Nay, you shall--!" And at that she came tripping swiftly down the stairs. The maid, embarrassed, handed her the letter. Without opening it, she advanced to me, while I was wildly considering the propriety of taking to my heels; and demanded:

"What is it you had to write? Sure 'tis your own hand. Why can't you tell me?"

"Not so loud," I begged. "My mother and Fanny mustn't know till I am gone."

"Gone!" With this she tore open the letter, and seemed to grasp its general sense in a glance. "A duel! I suspected--from what Philip said. Oh, my God, was he--?" She scanned the writing wildly, but in her excitement it conveyed nothing to her mind.

"Captain Falconer will not annoy you again," I said, "and Philip and I must go to France for awhile. Good-bye! Let mother and Fanny see the letter in half an hour."

"But wait--thank God, he's not hurt!--France, you say? How? Which road?"

She was holding my coat lapel, to make me stay and tell her. So I answered:

"By post to Hastings; there we shall get the Doughty boys to--"

At this, there broke in another voice from above stairs--that of Fanny:

"Is that Bert, Madge dear?"

"Tell her 'no,'" I whispered, appalled at thought of a leave-taking, explanations, weeping, and delay. "And for God's sake, let me--ah, thank you! Read the letter--you shall hear from us--God bless you all!"

The next moment I was speeding from the house, leaving Madge in a tumult of thoughts at the door. I turned into Gerrard Street without looking back; and brisk walking soon brought me to the Strand, where Philip himself was just ready to take the post-chaise.

"A strange thing delayed me," said he, as we forthwith took our seats in the vehicle; which we had no sooner done than the postilions set the four horses going and our journey was begun.

"What was it?" I asked, willing to reserve the account of my interview with Madge till later.

"The most remarkable thing, for me to witness on this particular morning," he replied; and told me the story as we rattled through Temple Bar and Fleet Street, on our way to the bridge and the Surrey side. "After I left you, I don't know what it was that kept me from coming through St. Martin's Lane to the Strand, and made me continue East instead. But something did; and finally I turned to come through Bow Street. When I was nearly in front of the magistrate's house, a post-chaise stopped before it, and a fellow got out whom I took to be a Bow Street runner. Several people ran up to see if he had a prisoner in the chaise, and so the footway was blocked; and I stopped to look on for a moment with the rest. A man called out to the constable, 'What you got, Bill?' The constable, who had turned around and reached into the chaise, stopped to look at the speaker, and said, 'Nobody much--only the Soho Square assault and robbery--I ran him down at Plymouth, waiting for a vessel--he had a mind to travel for his health.' The constable grinned, and the other man said, 'Sure that's a hanging business, and no mistake!'"

"And so it is," said I, interrupting Philip. "I read of the affair at the time. A fellow named Howard knocked down his landlady, robbed her money-box, and got away before she came to."

"Yes," Phil went on, "I remembered it, too. And I waited for a glimpse of the robber's face. He stepped out, and the constable, with a comrade from inside the chaise, led him to where they hold prisoners for examination. He was all mud-stained, dishevelled, and frowsy: for two seconds, though he didn't notice me, I had a good view of him. And who do you think this Howard really was?"

"Bless me, how should I know? My acquaintance among the criminal classes isn't what it might be."

"'Twas Ned Faringfield!" said Philip. "I should have known him anywhere--heavens, how little a man's looks change, through all vicissitudes!"

"Well, upon my soul!" I exclaimed, in a chill. "Who'd have thought it? Yet hanging is what we always predicted for him, in jest. That it should come so soon--for they'll make short work of that case, 'tis certain."

"Yes, I fear they'll not lose much time over it, at the Old Bailey. We may expect to read his name among the Newgate hangings in a month or two. Poor devil!--I'll send him some money through my lawyer, and have Nobbs see that he gets decent counsel. Money will enable him to live his last weeks at Newgate in comfort, at least; though 'tis beyond counsel to save his neck. His people must never know. Nor Fanny."

"Unless he gives his real name at the trial, or in his 'last dying speech and confession.'"

"Why, even then it may not come to their ears. Best bring Fanny and your mother soon to France. Madge will never tell, if she learns; I'll warrant her for that. To think of it!--the dear old house in Queen Street, and the boys and girls we used to play with--Tom's fate--and now Ned's--Fanny in England--and Madge--! Was ever such diversity of destinies in so small a family?"

He fell into his thoughts: of what strange parts we play in the world, how different from those anybody would predict for us in our childhood--how different, from those we then predict for ourselves. And so we were borne across the Thames, looking back to get our last view of St. Paul's dome for some time to come; through Southwark, and finally into the country. The postilions kept the horses at a good gait Southward. We did not urge them to this, for indeed we saw but little necessity for great haste, as there was likely to be some time ere Falconer's death became known to the authorities, and some time longer ere it was traced to us. But as Mr. Idsleigh, before getting out of the way himself, _might_ take means to lay written information against us, which would serve at least to put the minions of the law on the right track, and as we might be subjected to some delay at Hastings, we saw no reason to repress the postilions' zeal, either.

In our second stage we were not favoured with so energetic conductors, and in our third we had unfit horses. So we had occasion to be glad of our excellent start. Thus, between good horses and bad, live postilions and lethargic, smooth roads and rough, we fared on the whole rather well than ill, and felt but the smallest apprehension of being caught. To speak metaphorically, the coast of France was already in our sight.

At the end of the first stage, we had breakfasted upon eggs and beer. We took an early dinner at Tunbridge Wells, and proceeded through Sussex. 'Twas well forward in the afternoon, and we were already preparing our eyes, faces, and nostrils for the refreshing intimation of the sea, when our ears notified us of a vehicle following in our wake. Looking back, at a bend of the road, we saw it was a conveyance similar to our own, and that the postilions were whipping the horses to their utmost speed. "Whoever rides there," said I, "has paid or promised well for haste."

"'Tis strange there should be other folk bound in a hurry for Hastings this same day," replied Phil.

We looked at one another, with the same thought.

"Their post-boys seem to be watching our chaise as much as anything else," I remarked. "To be sure, they can't know 'tis you and I."

"No, but if they _were_ in quest of us, they would try to overtake this chaise or any other on the road. Ho, postilion!--an extra crown apiece for yourselves if you leave those fellows yonder behind for good." And Phil added quietly to me: "It won't do to offer 'em too much at first--'twould make 'em suspicious."

"But," quoth I, as our men put their horses to the gallop. "How the devil could any one have got so soon upon our track?"

"Why, Idsleigh may have turned informer, in his own interest--he was in a devilish difficult position--and men would be sent with our descriptions to the post-houses. 'Tis merely possible. Or our hackney-coachman may have guessed something, and dogged me to the Strand, and informed. If they found where we started, of course they could track us from stage to stage. 'Tis best to be safe--though I scarce think they're in our pursuit."

"Egad, they're in somebody's!" I cried. "Their postilions are shouting to ours to stop."

"Never mind those fellows' holloing," called Philip to our riders. "'Tis a wager--and I'll double that crown apiece."

We bowled over the road in a way to make me think of Apollo's chariot and the horses of Phaeton; but we lengthened not a rod the stretch betwixt us and our followers, though we nullified their efforts to diminish it. We could make out, more by sight than by hearing--for we kept looking back, our heads thrust out at either side--that the pursuing post-boys continued bawling vehemently at ours. What they said, was drowned by the clatter of horses and wheels.

"Well, they have seen we are two men," said Philip, "and still they keep up the race. They certainly must want us. Were they merely in a hurry to reach Hastings, they could do that the sooner by sparing their horses--this is a killing pace."

"Then we're in a serious plight," said I. "Though we may beat 'em to Hastings, they will catch us there."

"Unless we can gain a quarter of an hour's start, and, by one chance in twenty, find the Doughty boys ashore, and their boat in harbour."

"Ay, there's one chance in twenty, maybe," I growled, looking gloomily back, and wishing I might see the pursuing chaise upset, or one of its horses stumble.

There is an old proverb about evil wishes rebounding to strike the sender; and a recollection of this was my paramount thought a moment later: for at a sharp turn our chaise suddenly seemed to leap into the air and alight on one wheel, and then turned over sidewise with what appeared to be a solemn deliberation, piling me upon Philip in a heap. We felt the conveyance dragged some yards along the road, and then it came to a stop. A moment later we heard the postilions cursing the horses, and then we clambered out of the upper side of the chaise, and leaped into the road. We had been knocked, shaken, and bruised, but were not seriously hurt.

"Here's the devil to pay," cried the older postilion excitedly, turning his attention from the trembling horses to the wrecked vehicle.

"We will pay--but you will let us ride your horses the rest of the way?" asked Phil, quietly, rather as a matter of form than with any hope of success.

"No, sir!" roared the man. "Bean't there damage enough? Just look--"

"Tut, man," said Phil, examining the chaise, "a guinea will mend all--and there it is, and your extra crowns, too, though you failed. Well," he added, turning to me, "shall we take to the fields? They'll have to hunt us afoot then, and we may beat 'em at that."

But I found I was too lame, from the knocking about I had got in the upset vehicle, for any game of hare and hounds. "Go you," said I. "I was only the second--there's less danger for me."

"I'll not go, then," said he. "What a pity I drew you into this, Bert! I ought to have considered Fanny and your mother. They'll never forgive me--they never ought to.--Well, now we shall know the worst!"

The second vehicle came to a triumphant stop near us, the postilions grinning with satisfaction. Phil and I stood passive in the road: I remember wondering whether the officers of the law would put handcuffs upon us. A head was thrust out of the window--a voice called to us.

"Madge!" we cried together, and hastened to her.

"I was afraid you might sail before I got to Hastings," cried she, with relief and joy depicted on her face.

"Who is with you?" asked Phil.

"No one," she answered. "I left Bert's letter with my maid, to give to Fanny. I left the girl too, to stay with her if she will take her. I didn't wish to encumber--Your chaise is broken down: get into this one. Oh, Phil!--I couldn't bear to have you go away--and leave me--after I had seen you again. 'Twas something to know you were in London, at least--near me. But if you go to France--you must let me go, too--you must, dear--as your friend, your comrade and helper, if nothing more--your old friend, that knew you so long ago--"

She lost voice here, and began to cry, still looking at him through the mist of tears. His own eyes glistened softly as he returned her gaze; and, after a moment, he went close to the window through which her head was thrust, raised his hand so as to stroke her hair, and kissed her on the lips.

"Why, you shall come as my wife, of course," said he, gently. "If I had been sure you wished it, you might have travelled with us from London, and been spared this chase.--But think what you are giving up, dear--'tis not too late--the theatre, the praise and admiration, London--"

"Oh, hang 'em all!" cried she, looking joyous through her tears. "'Tis you I want!"

And she caught his face between her hands, and kissed it a dozen times, to the open-mouthed wonder of the staring postilions.

* * * * *

She took us in her post-chaise to Hastings, where the three of us embarked as we had planned to do, having first arranged that one of the Doughty boys should go to Hampstead and act as a sort of man servant or protector to my mother and Fanny during their loneliness. They joined us later in Paris, and I finally accompanied them home when Captain Falconer's fatal duel was a forgotten matter. Philip and Madge then visited Italy and Germany; and subsequently returned to New York, having courageously chosen to outface what old scandal remained from the time of her flight. And so, despite Phil's prediction, 'tis finally his children, not mine, that gladden the age of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, and have brought back the old-time cheer to the house; for Fanny and I have remained in England, and here our young ones are being reared. Each under the government for which he fought--thus Philip and I abide. 'Tis no news, that Phil has become one of the leading architects in his country. My own life has been pleasantly monotonous, save for the duel I fought against a detractor of General Washington, which, as I merely wounded my adversary, did not necessitate another exile from the kingdom.

It is still an unsolved mystery in London, as to what became of Miss Warren, the actress of Drury Lane: she was for long reported to have been carried away by a strange gentleman who killed Captain Falconer in a duel over her. 'Tis not known in New York that Mrs. Winwood was ever on the stage. And as I must not yet make it known, nor disclose many things which have perforce entered into this history, I perceive that my labour has been, after all, to no purpose. I dare not give the narrative to the world, now it is done; but I cannot persuade myself to give it to the fire, either. Let it lie hid, then, till all of us concerned in it are passed away; and perchance it may serve to instruct some future reader how much a transient vanity and wilfulness may wreck, and how much a steadfast love and courage may retrieve.

THE END.

NOTES.

NOTE 1 (Page 13).

Before the Revolution, there were Queen Street and Pearl Street, together forming a line continuous though not exactly straight. After the Revolution, the whole line was named Pearl Street. King Street and Duke Street were others that rightly underwent re-christening. But, with equal propriety, many old names smacking of the English régime were retained, and serve as memorials of the English part of the city's colonial history: such names, for instance, as William Street, Nassau Street, Hanover Square, Kingsbridge; not to mention New York itself. The old Dutch rule, too, remains marked in the city's nomenclature--for ever, let us hope. I say, "let us hope;" for there have been attempts to have the authorities change the name of the Bowery itself, that renowned thoroughfare which began, in the very morn of the city's history, as a lane leading to Peter Stuyvesant's _bauer_. I scarce think this desecration shall ever come to pass: yet in such matters one may not be sure of a nation which has permitted the spoiling (by the mutilation of headlands and cliffs, for private gain) of a river the most storied in our own land, and the most beautiful in the world.

NOTE 2 (Page 34).

In 1595 was published in London: "Vincentio Saviolo his Practise. In two Bookes. The first intreating the use of the Rapier and Dagger. The second of Honour and Honourable Quarrels." (Etc.) The celebrated swordsman sets forth only the Italian system, and has naught to say upon the French. The book that Winwood studied may have been some reprint (now unknown), with notes or additions by a later hand. In any case, he may have acquired through it sufficient rudimentary acquaintance with some sort of practice to enable him to excite the French fencing-master's interest.

NOTE 3 (Page 182).

"Lady Washington's Light Horse" was a name sometimes unofficially applied to Lieut.-Col. Baylor's Dragoons. They were sleeping in a barn and outbuildings, at Old Tappan, one night in the Fall of 1778, when they were surprised by General Grey, whose men, attacking with bayonets, killed 11, mangled 25, and took about 40 prisoners. Both Col. Baylor and Major Clough were wounded, the latter fatally. It is of course this affair, to which Lieut. Russell's narrative alludes.

NOTE 4 (Page 191).

The Morris house, now known as the Jumel mansion, was half a generation old at the beginning of the Revolution. Thither, as the bride of Captain Morris, a brother-officer of Washington's in the old French war, went Mary Philipse; whom young Washington was said to have wooed while he tarried in and about New York upon his memorable journey to Boston to solicit in vain, of Governor Shirley, a king's commission. The Revolution found the Morrises on the side opposed to Washington's; for a short time during the operations above New York in 1776 he occupied this house of theirs as headquarters. They lost it through their allegiance to the royal cause, all their American real estate being confiscated by the New York assembly. The mansion became in time the residence of that remarkable woman who, from a barefoot girl in Providence, R.I., had grown up to be the wife of a Frenchman named Jumel; and to be the object of much admiration, and the subject of some scandal. In her widowhood she received under this roof Aaron Burr, after his duel with Hamilton (whose neighbouring country-house still exists, in Convent Avenue), and under this roof she and Burr--both in their old age--were united in marriage. I imagine that some of the ghosts that haunt this mansion, if they might be got in a corner, would yield their interviewers a quaint reminiscence or two. The grounds appertaining to the house have been sadly diminished by the opening of new streets; yet it is still a fine, striking landmark, perched to be seen afar, as from the railroad trains that follow the East bank of the Harlem, or, better, from West 155th Street at and about its junction with St. Nicholas Place and the Speedway. At the time when I left New York for a temporary residence in the Old World, there was talk of moving the house to a less commanding, but still eminent, height that crowns the bluff rising from the Speedway: the owner was compelled, it was said, to avail himself of the increased value of the land whereon it stood. 'Tis some pity if this has been, or has to be, done; but nothing to the pity if the mansion had to be pulled down. Apart from all associations and historical interest, this imposing specimen of our Colonial domestic architecture, so simple and reposeful an edifice amidst a world of flat buildings, and of gew-gaw houses built for sale on the instalment plan to the ubiquitous Mr. and Mrs. Veneering, is a precious relief, nay an untiring delight, to the eye.

NOTE 5 (Page 202).

During this Winter (1779-80) the Continental army was in two main divisions. The one with which Washington made his headquarters was hutted on the heights about Morristown, N.J. The other, under General Heath, was stationed in the highlands of the Hudson. Intermediate territory, of course, was more or less thoroughly guarded by detached posts, militia, and various forces regular and irregular. The most of the cavalry was quartered in Connecticut; but Winwood's troop, as our narrative shows, was established near Washington's headquarters. This was a memorably cold Winter, and as severe upon the patriots as the more famous Winter (1777-78) at Valley Forge. About the latter part of January the Hudson was frozen over, almost to its mouth.

NOTE 6 (Page 269).

Long before I fell upon Lieut. Russell's narrative, a detailed account of a British attempt to capture Washington, by a bold night dash upon his quarters at Morristown, had caught my eyes from the pages of the old "New Jersey Historical Collections." Washington was not the only object of such designs during the War of Independence. One was planned for the seizure of Governor Livingstone at his home in Elizabeth, N.J.; but, much to Sir Henry Clinton's disappointment, that influential and witty champion of independence was not at home when the surprise party called.

NOTE 7 (Page 277).

Lieut-Gen. Knyphausen was now (January, 1780) temporarily in chief command at New York, as Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis had sailed South (December 26, 1779) to attack Charleston and reduce South Carolina.

NOTE 8 (Page 311).

At that time, the Bristol and Bath stage-coaches took two days for the trip to London. Madge doubtless would have slept a night or two at Bristol after her landing; and probably at the Pelican Inn at Speenhamland (opposite Newbury), the usual midway sleeping-place, at the end of the first day's ride. But bad weather may have hindered the journey, and required the passengers to pass more than one night as inn-guests upon the road.

NOTE 9 (Page 325).

Mrs. Sheridan's surpassing beauty, talent, and amiability are well-known to all readers; as is the fact that her brilliant husband, despite their occasional quarrels, was very much in love with her from first to last.

NOTE 10 (Page 359).

Sir Ralph Winwood, born at Aynho, in Northamptonshire, in 1564, was frequently sent as envoy to Holland in the reign of James I., by whom he was knighted in 1603. He was Secretary of State from a date in 1614 till his death in 1617. His collected papers and letters are entitled, "Memorials of Affairs of State in the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James I.," etc. His portrait painted by Miereveldt, is in the National Portrait Gallery in London.

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Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages. $1.25

We take pleasure in introducing to the reading public a writer of unique charm and individuality. His style is notable for its quaint poetic idiom and subtle imaginative flavor. In the present story, he treats with strength and reticence of the relation of the sexes and the problem of marriage. Certain social abuses and false standards of morality are attacked with great vigor, yet the plot is so interesting for its own sake that the book gives no suspicion of being a problem novel. The descriptions of natural scenery are idyllic in their charm, and form a fitting background for the love story.

The Black Terror. A ROMANCE OF RUSSIA. By JOHN K. LEYS.

With frontispiece by Victor A. Searles.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages. $1.50

A stirring tale of the present day, presenting in a new light the aims and objects of the Nihilists. The story is so vivid and true to life that it might easily be considered a history of political intrigue in Russia, disguised as a novel, while its startling incidents and strange denouement would only confirm the old adage that "truth is stranger than fiction," and that great historical events may be traced to apparently insignificant causes. The hero of the story is a young Englishman, whose startling resemblance to the Czar is taken advantage of by the Nihilists for the furtherance of their plans.

The Baron's Sons. By MAURUS JOKAI.

Author of "Black Diamonds," "The Green Book," "Pretty Michal," etc. Translated by Percy F. Bicknell.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with photogravure portrait of the author, 350 pages. $1.50

An exceedingly interesting romance of the revolution of 1848, the scene of which is laid at the courts of St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Vienna, and in the armies of the Austrians and Hungarians. It follows the fortunes of three young Hungarian noblemen, whose careers are involved in the historical incidents of the time. The story is told with all of Jokai's dash and vigor, and is exceedingly interesting. This romance has been translated for us directly from the Hungarian, and never has been issued hitherto in English.

Slaves of Chance. By FERRIER LANGWORTHY.

With five portraits of the heroines, from original drawings by Hiel.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages. $1.50

As a study of some of the realities of London life, this novel is one of notable merit. The slaves of chance, and, it might be added, of temptation, are five pretty girls, the daughters of a pretty widow, whose means are scarcely sufficient, even living as they do, in a quiet way and in a quiet London street, to make both ends meet. Dealing, as he does, with many sides of London life, the writer sketches varied types of character, and his creations are cleverly defined. He tells an interesting tale with delicacy and in a fresh, attractive style.

Her Boston Experiences. By MARGARET ALLSTON (nom de plume).

With eighteen full-page illustrations from drawings by Frank O. Small, and from photographs taken especially for the book.

Small 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 225 pages. $1.25

A most interesting and vivacious tale, dealing with society life at the Hub, with perhaps a tinge of the flavor of Vagabondia. The story has appeared serially in _The Ladies' Home Journal_, where it was received with marked success. We are not as yet at liberty to give the true name of the author, who hides her identity under the pen name, Margaret Allston, but she is well known in literature.

Memory Street. By MARTHA BAKER DUNN.

Author of "The Sleeping Beauty," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages. $1.25

An exceedingly beautiful story, delineating New England life and character. The style and interest will compare favorably with the work of such writers as Mary E. Wilkins, Kate Douglas Wiggin, and Sarah Orne Jewett. The author has been a constant contributor to the leading magazines, and the interest of her previous work will assure welcome for her first novel.

Winifred. A STORY OF THE CHALK CLIFFS. By S. BARING GOULD.

Author of "Mehala," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages. $1.50

A striking novel of English life in the eighteenth century by this well known writer. The scene is laid partly in rural Devonshire, and partly in aristocratic London circles.

At the Court of the King: BEING ROMANCES OF FRANCE. By G. HEMBERT WESTLEY, editor of "For Love's Sweet Sake."

With a photogravure frontispiece from an original drawing.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages. $1.25

Despite the prophecies of some literary experts, the historical romance is still on the high tide of popular favor, as exemplified by many recent successes. We feel justified, consequently, in issuing these stirring romances of intrigue and adventure, love and war, at the Courts of the French Kings.

God's Rebel. By HULBERT FULLER.

Author of "Vivian of Virginia."

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 375 pages. $1.25

A powerful story of sociological questions. The scene is laid in Chicago, the hero being a professor in "Rockland University," whose protest against the unequal distribution of wealth and the wretched condition of workmen gains for him the enmity of the "Savior Oil Company," through whose influence he loses his position. His after career as a leader of laborers who are fighting to obtain their rights is described with great earnestness. The character drawing is vigorous and varied, and the romantic plot holds the interest throughout. _The Albany Journal_ is right in pronouncing this novel "an unusually strong story." It can hardly fail to command an immense reading public.

A Georgian Actress. By PAULINE BRADFORD MACKIE.

Author of "Mademoiselle de Berny," "Ye Lyttle Salem Maide," etc.

With four full-page illustrations from drawings by E.W.D. Hamilton.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages. $1.50

An interesting romance of the days of George III., dealing with the life and adventures of a fair and talented young play-actress, the scene of which is laid in England and America. The success of Miss Mackie's previous books will justify our prediction that a new volume will receive an instant welcome.

God--The King--My Brother. A ROMANCE. By MARY F. NIXON.

Author of "With a Pessimist in Spain," "A Harp of Many Chords," etc.

With a frontispiece by H.C. Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages. $1.25

An historical tale, dealing with the romantic period of Edward the Black Prince. The scene is laid for the most part in the sunny land of Spain, during the reign of Pedro the Cruel--the ally in war of the Black Prince. The well-told story records the adventures of two young English knight-errants, twin brothers, whose family motto gives the title to the book. The Spanish maid, the heroine of the romance, is a delightful characterization, and the love story, with its surprising yet logical dénouement, is enthralling.

Punchinello. By FLORENCE STUART.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages. $1.50

A love story of intense power and pathos. The hero is a hunchback (Punchinello), who wins the love of a beautiful young girl. Her sudden death, due indirectly to his jealousy, and the discovery that she had never faltered in her love for him, combine to unbalance his mind. The poetic style relieves the sadness of the story, and the reader is impressed with the power and brilliancy of its conception, as well as with the beauty and grace of the execution.

The Golden Fleece. Translated from the French of Amédée Achard, author of "The Huguenot's Love," etc.

Illustrated by Victor A. Searles.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 450 pages. $1.50

Amédée Achard was a contemporary writer of Dumas, and his romances are very similar to those of that great writer. "The Golden Fleece" compares favorably with "The Three Musketeers" and the other D'Artagnan romances. The story relates the adventures of a young Gascon gentleman, an officer in the army sent by Louis XIV. to assist the Austrians in repelling the Turkish Invasion under the celebrated Achmet Kiuperli.

The Good Ship _York_. By W. CLARK RUSSELL.

Author of "The Wreck of the _Grosvenor_," "A Sailor's Sweetheart," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages. $1.50

A romantic and exciting sea tale, equal to the best work of this famous writer, relating the momentous voyage of the clipper ship _York_, and the adventures that befell Julia Armstrong, a passenger, and George Hardy, the chief mate.

"Mr. Russell has no rival in the line of marine fiction."--_Mail and Express_.

Tom Ossington's Ghost. By RICHARD MARSH.

Author of "Frivolities," "Ada Vernham, Actress," etc. Illustrated by Harold Pifford.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages. $1.50

"I read 'Tom Ossington's Ghost' the other night, and was afraid to go up-stairs in the dark after it."--_Truth_.

"An entrancing book, but people with weak nerves had better not read it at night."--_To-day_.

"Mr. Marsh has been inspired by an entirely original idea, and has worked it out with great ingenuity. We like the weird but _not_ repulsive story better than anything he has ever done."--_World_.

The Glory and Sorrow of Norwich. By M.M. BLAKE.

Author of "The Blues and the Brigands," etc., etc., with twelve full-page illustrations.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 315 pages. $1.50

The hero of this romance, Sir John de Reppes, is an actual personage, and throughout the characters and incidents are instinct with the spirit of the age, as related in the chronicles of Froissart. Its main claim for attention, however, is in the graphic representation of the age of chivalry which it gives, forming a series of brilliant and fascinating pictures of mediæval England, its habits of thought and manner of life, which live in the mind for many a day after perusal, and assist to a clearer conception of what is one of the most charming and picturesque epochs of history.

The Mistress of Maidenwood. By HULBERT FULLER.

Author of "Vivian of Virginia," "God's Rebel," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages. $1.50

A stirring historical romance of the American Revolution, the scene of which for the most part being laid in and about the debatable ground in the vicinity of New York City.

Dauntless. A TALE OF A LOST CAUSE. By CAPTAIN EWAN MARTIN.

Author of "The Knight of King's Guard."

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages, illustrated. $1.50

A stirring romance of the days of Charles I. and Cromwell in England and Ireland. In its general character the book invites comparison with Scott's "Waverley." It well sustains the reputation gained by Captain Martin from "The Knight of King's Guard."

The Flame Of Life. (IL FUOCO.) Translated from the Italian of Gabriel D'Annunzio, author of "Triumph of Death," etc., by KASSANDRA VIVARIA, author of "Via Lucis."

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages. $1.50

This is the first volume in the Third Trilogy, "The Romances of the Pomegranate," of the three announced by the great Italian writer. We were fortunate in securing the book, and also in securing the services as translator of the talented author of "Via Lucis," herself an Italian by birth.