HOW I TRIED TO ACT THE GOOD SAMARITAN
One of the chief actors in the incident about to be related was a machine, and it is important that the reader should have this machine in his mind's eye. It was a motor-bicycle, furnished in the midst with a sputtering little engine, said to contain in its entrails the power of three horses and a half. To the side thereof was attached a small vehicle like a bath-chair, in which favoured friends of the writer are from time to time either permitted or invited to ride.
On this occasion the bath-chair was empty, and a long journey was drawing to a close. It is true that at various periods of the day I had enjoyed the company of a passenger in this humble but lively little carriage. The first had been a clergyman, who, I believe, had invented a distant engagement for the sole purpose of inducing me to give him a ride in my car. To him there had succeeded a series of small boys, picked up in various villages, each of whom, at the conclusion of a brief but mad career through space, was duly dismissed with a penny and a strict injunction to be a good lad to his mother. The last lift had been given to an aged wayfarer whose weary and travel-stained appearance had excited my compassion. No sooner, however, was the machine under weigh than I discovered, in spite of my will to believe otherwise, that my passenger was suffering not from fatigue, but from intoxication. To get rid of him was no easy matter, and the employment of stratagem became necessary. What the stratagem was, I shall pass over; I will only say that it was not in accordance with any recognised form of the categorical imperative. However, the ruse succeeded, and now, as I have said, the car was empty. Thus were concluded the prolegomena to that great act of altruism which was to crown the day.
It was in a part of the country consecrated by the genius of a great novelist (as what part of England is not?) that these things took place. I found myself in the narrow streets of an ancient town—and it was market-day. The roadway was thronged with red-faced men and women; and flocks of sheep, herds of cattle and pigs, provided the motor-cyclist with a severe probation to the nerves. With much risk to myself, and not a little to other people, I emerged from this place of danger and joyfully swept over the bridge into the broad highway beyond the town.
Turning a corner, I became suddenly aware that the road a hundred yards ahead was again blocked. Two carriers' carts, a brewer's waggon, and some other miscellaneous vehicles were drawn up anyhow in the road, and the drivers of these, having descended from their various perches, were gathered around a figure lying prostrate on the ground. I, too, alighted and forced my way into the group. In the midst was an old man, his countenance pallid as death, save where a broad stream of blood pouring from a gash two inches long, crimsoned his cheek from eye to chin. There was a great bruise on his temple, and again on the back of his head—for he had spun round in falling—was a lump the size of a pullet's first egg.
"'Oss ran away and pitched him on the curb," said one whom I questioned. "He's dying," said another, "if not already dead." For myself, I turned sick at the sight; nevertheless, I could not help being struck by the vigorous actions and attitude of an old woman, who, armed with a bucket of water and a roller towel, seemed to be not merely bathing his wounds, but giving the whole man a bath. I also noted the figure of a clergyman, of whom all that I distinctly recall is that he had a tassel round his hat.
"We must take him to the hospital," said I. "No," said an elderly man; "he'll be dead before you get him there. He's nearly gone already. Better fetch a doctor."
"Has anybody got a bicycle?" said the clergyman in the slightly imperious accents of Keble College. "Yes," I replied, "I've got one, and just the sort of bicycle for this business, too." "You'd better fetch Ross," said the same voice, speaking once more in the tones which indicate conscious possession of the Last Word on Everything Whatsoever. "No," said the old woman, with enough defiance in her manner to frighten a Pope, "No, Ross's no good. Fetch Conklin." "All right," I said; "if one of you will show me where Conklin lives, I'll fetch him in a brace of shakes."
Instantly the whole company, saving only the parson and the old woman, volunteered. Selecting one who seemed of lighter weight than the rest (he was a boy), I jumped up, called to my three horses, yoked up the half-horse (kept in reserve for great occasions), and, letting all loose at once, drove at top speed in the direction of Conklin's abode.
Then was seen in the streets of that old town such a scurrying and scattering, both of men and beast, as the world has not beheld since the most desperate moments of John Gilpin's ride. Back over the bridge, where Cavaliers and Roundheads once stood at push of pike for fifty minutes by "the towne clocke"; through the market-place, where the cheap-jack ceased lying that he might regard us; past the policeman at the Cross (slower at this point); up the steep gradient of the High Street; right through a flock of geese (illustrious bird! who not only warnest great cities of impending ruin, but keepest thyself out of harm's way better than any four-footed beast of the field), we drove our headlong course; and, in less time than this paragraph has taken to write I stood on the doorstep, of the doctor's house. In another minute I had seen him and told my tale.
The doctor received my gushings with perfect impassivity, and responded with the merest apology for a grunt. But the repeated allusion to flowing blood seemed at last to rouse him. He seized a black bag that stood on the table, thrust in the necessary tackle, and said, "Come along."
In the race back to the Field of Blood, I had no leisure to analyse the structure of Conklin's mind. But a few remarks which he shouted in my ear revealed the fact that his interests were by no means confined to the performance of professional duty. I could not help wondering what Ross was like. If any reader should be taken suddenly ill while staying in that town, my advice, formed mainly on negative data, would be to send for Ross during the acute stage of the malady, and to try Conklin's treatment in convalescence. Or, better still, call them both in at once, and then take your choice.
These mental observations were scarcely completed when a turn in the road brought us in sight of our goal. Will the reader believe me when I tell him that the goal seemed to have vanished? I could scarcely believe it myself. Not a soul was to be seen. Stare as I would, no human form, living or dead, prostrate or upright, wounded or whole, answered to my gaze. Men, horses, and carts—all were gone! The whole insubstantial pageant had faded, leaving not a wrack behind.
"This is the place," I said to Conklin; "but the man has disappeared." For answer, he looked fixedly into the pupil of my left eye, expecting, no doubt, to find there unmistakable signs of lunacy. "Wait a bit," I cried, divining his thoughts; "here's somebody who will clear it up." And I pointed to a cottage-door at which I suddenly espied the old woman whose handling of the roller-towel had so impressed me. "Where," I shouted, addressing her, "where is the wounded man?" "Took away," was the laconic reply. "Took away!" I said; "and who has had the impudence to take him away?"
"Why," said the old woman, "you hadn't been gone more'n two minutes when his niece—her as keeps his house—comes driving home in a big cart. 'Hello!' she says, 'blest if that isn't Uncle Fred!' 'Yes,' says one of 'em, 'and got it pretty badly this time, I can tell yer. There's a gentleman just gone to fetch Conklin.' 'Conklin?' says she. 'I'll Conklin 'im! Who do you think's going to pay 'im? Not me! Let 'im as fetches 'im pay 'im. 'Ere,' she says, 'some of yer help to put this old man on the bottom of my cart, and look sharp, or Conklin'll be here in a minute.' So they shoves the poor old thing on to the floor of the cart with a sack of 'taters to keep him steady, and Eliza—that's her name—'its the 'oss with a long stick as she carried instead of a whip, sets off at full gallop, and was out of sight almost before you could say so. Somebody else took the old man's pony, and the rest of 'em all made off as fast as they could."
"And what did that clergyman do?" I asked.
"Jumped on his bicycle and went 'ome to his tea," said the old woman.
"The sneak!" I cried.
"You couldn't ha' used a better word," said the old woman, "and there's plenty of people in this parish who'd be glad to hear you say it. And the worst of it is, there's plenty more like him!" This last was shouted with great emphasis, perhaps with a view to Conklin's edification, but at all events with the air of a person who could produce supporting evidence were such to be demanded.
There was a pause, and I endeavoured to collect my thoughts. "Doctor," I said, making a desperate attempt to get as near the Good Samaritan as these untoward developments rendered possible, "Doctor, what's your fee?"
"The expression on your face is the best fee I've had for a long time," said the doctor; "I'm sorry I didn't bring my kodak."
"Doctor Conklin," I resumed, "I'll tell you one thing. You and this old lady are the only members of the company who carry away an untarnished reputation from this episode. As for me, I have been made a perfect fool of. As for the rest of them,"—I waited for words to come, and, finally lapsing into melodrama, said—"as for the rest of them, I leave them to the company of their own consciences."
"There's one of 'em as hasn't got any," said the old woman.
"MACBETH" AND "BANQUO" ON THE BLASTED HEATH
The scene was the top of a lofty hill in Northamptonshire, crossed by the high road to London. The time, late afternoon of a dark and thunderous day in July.
I had journeyed many miles that day—on wheels, according to the fashion of this age—and had passed and overtaken hundreds, literally hundreds, of tramps. With some of these I had already conversed as we sheltered from recurrent storms under hedges or wayside trees; and I had committed, with a joyful conscience, all the vices of indiscriminate charity.
But now the rain came on in earnest. Blacker and blacker grew the skies, and, just as I reached the top of this shelterless hill, the windows of heaven were opened, and the flood burst.
No house was in sight. But, looking round me, in that spirit of despair bred of black weather and a wet skin, I saw, in a large bare field, a shepherd's box—a thing on wheels, large enough, perhaps, to accommodate a prosperous vendor of ice-cream. Abandoning my iron friend to the cold mercies of the ditch, I scaled the wall, crossed the field, and dived into the dry interior of the box. At one bound I entered into full possession of the freedom of Diogenes in his tub, with no Alexander to bother me. The absolute seclusion of the country was all my own.
The box was closed by a half-door, with an aperture above facing towards the road. Had the animal inside possessed four legs instead of two, his body would have filled the box, and his head would have projected into the rain. Though my head was inside, I could see well enough what was going on in the road. Presently there passed two cyclists—a young man and woman—racing through the storm. I shouted to them, but my voice was drowned in the din. Some minutes elapsed, during which I had the company of my thoughts. Then suddenly there appeared on the wall the incarnate figures of two tramps, unquestionably such. They had seen the box, and were making tracks for it with all their might.
I confess that for a moment my spirit quailed within me. Seen at that distance, the newcomers looked ugly customers; they had me in a trap, and, had I possessed pistols, I verily believe that I should have "looked to the priming." But, having no alternatives of that kind before me, necessity determined the policy I was to pursue, and I resolved at once for a friendly attitude. Waiting till the tramps were well within hearing, I thrust my head from the aforesaid aperture and cried aloud as follows:
"Walk up, gentlemen! It's my annual free day. No charge for seats."
Macbeth and Banquo were not more affrighted by the apparition of witches on the blasted heath than were these two individuals when they heard the voice from the box, and saw the face of him that spake. They stopped dead, stared, and, though I won't give this on oath, turned pale. I believe they were genuinely scared.
Presently one of them—say Macbeth—broke into a loud and merry laugh. The sound of it was worth more to me at that moment than a sheaf of testimonials, for I remembered Carlyle's dictum that there is nothing irremediably wrong with any man who can utter a hearty laugh.
"All right, guvnor," came the reply, "we'll take two stalls in the front row."
"Good!" I replied. "Wire just received from the Prince and Princess of Wales resigning their seats! Bring your own opera-glasses, and don't forget the fans."
"Got 'em both," said Macbeth.
A moment later I found myself in close physical proximity to two of the dirtiest rascals in Christendom. A reconciler of opposites, bent on knocking our heads together, would have had an easy task, for there was not more than eight inches between them. Misfortunes are said to bring out the fragrance of noble natures, and I can testify that the wetting these men had received most effectually brought out the fragrance of theirs. And the ventilation was none too good.
The language in which the newcomers proceeded to introduce themselves was not of the kind usually printed, though it had a distinctly theological tinge. More strenuous blasphemy I have never heard on land—or sea.
The introductions concluded—they were sufficient—Macbeth, as though suddenly recollecting an interrupted train of thought, broke out: "Say, mister, did yer see them two go by on bicycles just now?"
"Yes."
"Well, I see 'em, quarter of a mile oop the road, crouching oonder t'hedge"—he spoke Yorkshire[4]—"wet to skin, and she nowt on but a cotton blouse. So I sez to her, 'My dear, ye'll get yer death o' cold,' 'Yes,' she says, 'and me with a weak chest.' Pore young thing, I'm fair sorry for her. I towd t'young man to tek his co-at off and put it ra-ownd her. 'That'll do no good,' he sez; 'she's wet through a'ready.' 'Well,' I sez, 'she's not been wet through all her life, has she? Why didn't you put it on her while she were dry? Sense? You've got no more sense nor a blind rabbit.' But it was no good. My! What rain! Nivver see nothing like it. They'll be fair drownded. I think I'll go and fetch 'em in. Holy potatoes!" (Will anyone explain this expression? It was evoked by a crash of thunder which burst immediately above the box and seemed to hurl us into space.)
"No good fetching 'em in now," I replied, taking a point of view which I afterwards saw to have been that of the Priest and the Levite. "They'd suffer more damage getting here than staying where they are. Besides, where would you put 'em?"
"That's trew," said Macbeth. "This ain't no place for ladies, anyhow." (It wasn't!) "But just think of that pore young thing—nowt on, I tell yer, but a cotton blouse. Hello! there's a cart coming. I'll tell t'man to tek 'em oop."
Out jumped Macbeth into the pelting rain, and presently I heard him shouting to the man in charge: "Hey, mister! There's a young man and woman crouching under t'hedge oop t'ro-ad. She nowt on but a cotton blouse! It isn't sa-afe, yer know, in this thoonder and lightnin'. Tek her oop, and put a sack or two on her."
I gathered the result of the interview was satisfactory to Macbeth, for presently he came back, steaming, into the box. For some minutes he continued to mutter with the thunder, about "poor young things," "cotton blouses," and "weak chests."
But the altruistic passion in the man had spent itself for the moment, and now the conversation began to take other forms. Banquo began to enter into the dialogue. His contributions so far had been mainly interjectory and blasphemous—a department of which he was obviously a more versatile exponent than the other, who was by no means a 'prentice hand. And here I must note a curious thing. Whether it was that the box afforded no proper theatre for exhibiting the natural dignity of my carriage, or that the light was not good, or that I am a ruffian at heart and had been caught at an unguarded moment—whatever the true cause may have been, I am certain that up to this moment my two companions had no suspicion that I was not a tramp like themselves.
It was Banquo who unmasked the truth. His mind was less preoccupied with the sufferings of the "poor young thing," and no doubt had been taking observations. The result of these he proceeded to communicate to Macbeth by a series of nudges and winks which, in the close proximity of the moment, I felt rather than saw. On the whole, I am sorry that their first delusion—if, indeed, it was a delusion, of which I am genuinely doubtful—was not maintained. However, the discovery opened the way to fresh developments. They ceased to address me as "Johnny," "Old Joker," or something worse; ceased swearing, for which, lover of originality as I am, I was thankful; and began generally to pay me the respect due to the fact that the soles of my boots were intact. Theirs were in a very different condition.
I can't disguise that there was something like an awkward pause. But I exerted myself to bridge the chasm, and, thanks to them rather than to me, it was bridged.
"Where are you going to-night?" I asked as soon as the modus vivendi was assured.
"Ain't going nowhere in particular," said Banquo. "We just go anywhere."
"What!" I said, "don't you know where you'll pass the night?"
"Well, it's just this way," returned the other. "Me and my mate here are musicians, and we just go this way and that according to where the publics are. It's in the publics we makes what living we gets—singing in the bars and cadging for drink and coppers."
"And a bloomin' shame we should have to do it!" chimed in Macbeth. "But what can yer do? My trade's a mason; Leeds is where I come from; but when they're short of work, if you've got two grey hairs and another chap's got only one, you gets the sack, and has to live as best yer can.
"God knows I don't want this beastly life. But it's a good thing I've got it to turn to. Most on 'em has nowt but their trades, and them's the ones as has to starve. But me and my mate here happens to be moosical. Used to sing in St. —— Church in Leeds. Leading bass, I was—a bit irregular, I'll own, and that's why they wouldn't keep me on. My mate plays the cornet. He used to be in the band of the —— Fusiliers. Served in South Africa, he did, and got a sock in the face from a shell; yer can see the 'ole under his eye. Good thing it didn't 'it him in the ma-outh, or he wouldn't ha' been able to play the cornet any more. Know Yorkshire, mister?"
I replied that I did.
"Well, if yer knows Yorkshire, yer knows there's plenty of music up there. They can tell music, when they hear it, in Yorkshire, that they can! But these caownties down here, why, the people knows no more about music nor pigs. They can't tell the difference between a man what really can sing and one of these 'ere 'owlin' 'umbugs that goes draggin' little children up and daown t' streets. That sort makes more money than we does. And I tell you, him 'ere"—indicating Banquo—"is a good cornet player. 'Ere, Banquo, fetch it out o' your pocket, lad, and play the gentleman a toon."
As far as I could judge, Banquo's pocket was situated somewhere in the middle of his back, for it was from a region in that quarter, where I had already felt a hard excrescence, due as I might have thought to an unextracted cannon-ball received in South Africa, that the cornet was produced.
"Play the gentleman 'The Merry Widder,'" said Macbeth, "and wait till the thunder's stopped rolling before you begin."
The "Merry Widder" was well and duly played, and fully bore out Macbeth's eulogy of the player. It was followed by something from Maritana, and other things which I forget. Though the mouth of the trumpet was only a few inches from the drum of my ear, yet the din of the rain on the roof was such that the effect was not unpleasant—at all events, it was a welcome relief from the frightful strains on the olfactory organ. The man, I say, was a good player, and I remember wishing, as I listened to him, that there was anything in life that I could do half as well.
As he finished one of his selections, the gloom deepened, it became almost as dark as night, the rain ceased for a moment, and there was silence; and then there shot in upon us a blast of fire and a bolt of thunder, so near and so overwhelming that I verily believe it was a narrow escape from death.
"That's something to put the fear of God into a man," said Macbeth, as the volley rolled into distance. "My crikey! But I've heard say, mister, that the thunder is the voice of the wrath of God."
"I'm sure it is," I replied.
"Sounds like it anyhow. I wonder if that there chap with the cart has got the young woman under cover. She'll be scared out of her life. Eh, but isn't it dark? It might be half-past ten. Here, matey"—to Banquo—"let's have something in keepin' loike. Give us 'Lead, Kindly Light,' lad, on t' cornet, and I'll sing the bass. I want t' gentleman to hear my voice."
The hymn was sung in a voice as good as some that have made great fortunes, but with a depth of emotion which occasionally spoilt the notes; and I can say little more than that the singing, in that strange setting, with muttering thunder for an undertone, was a thing I shall not forget.
"Do you know anything about that hymn?" said Macbeth (the tears made watercourses down his dirty face) when it was over.
"Yes," I said, "a little."
"But I know all about it," replied Macbeth. "Him as wrote that hymn was Cardinal Newman. They say he wrote it at sea, maybe he wrote it in a storm—like this. He was a Protestant, and was just turning into a Catholic. Didn't know whether he would or whether he wouldn't, loike. That's what he means when he says, 'Lead, Kindly Light.' He was i' th' dark, and wanted lightin'. It was all dark, don't you see, just loike it is naow."
Some minutes elapsed, during which neither Banquo nor I said a word. I stole a glance at the "'ole under his eye," and saw that it was no laughing matter to "get a sock in the face from a shell." The human profile, on that side, had virtually disappeared; jaw and cheek-bone were smashed in; there was neither nostril nor ear; the lower eyelid was missing; the eye itself was evidently sightless, and a constant trickle of tears ran down into the hideous scar below.
I thought of this man wandering over the earth, abhorred of all beholders; I thought of the music he managed to make with the remnant of his mutilated face; I thought also of the rigour of Destiny and the kindliness of Death. I remember the words running in my head, "He hath no form nor comeliness. Yet he was wounded for our transgressions, and the chastisement of our peace was upon him."
I averted my glance, but not before Banquo had discovered that I was looking at him. "Ha," he said; "you're lookin' at my face. It's a beauty, isn't it? They ought to put it on the board outside the recruitin' stations, as a sort of inducement to good-lookin' young men. Help to make the Army popular wi' the young women, don't you see? 'George, why don't you join the Army and get a face like that? You'd be worth lookin' at then.' Can't you hear 'em saying it? Oh, yes, I'm proud o' my face, that I am! So's my old gal. That's why she left me and the kids the day I come home—never seen her since. Every time I draws my pension I says to myself, 'Bill, my lad, that face o' yours is cheap at the price. Keep up your pecker, my hearty; you'll make yer fortune when Mr. Barnum sees yer! It's a bloomin' good investment, that's what I calls it. Give yer a sort o' start in life. Makes folks glad to see yer when you drops in to tea. And then I'm always feelin' as though I wanted to have my photograph taken—and that's nice, too. So you see takin' it all round, it's quite a blessin' to have a face like mine."
I was silent, not knowing what to say. Banquo went on:
"I thought when I come out o' the 'orspital as it were all up wi' playin' the cornet. But I made up my mind as I'd try. So I kep' up practice all the way home from the Cape, and when we got to Southampton I could just manage to blow into the mouthpiece. It hurt a bit, too, I can tell you. You see, I can only play on one side o' my mouth—like this. But I got used to it after a time; and now I can play a'most as well wi' half a mouth as I used to do wi' a whole un."
Again I was silent, for there was a tangle of thoughts in my mind, and behind it all a vague, uncomfortable sense that I was come to judgment. From this sprang a sudden resolve to change the subject, which was unpleasant to me in more senses than one. So I said, after the pause, "What about your pension?"
"Pension, did you say? Well, you see, sir, I've been in a bit o' trouble since I come home. There was a kind old gent as give me three months in the choke-hole for not behavin' quite as handsome as I ought to. 'It'll spile all my good looks, your Worship,' I says when he sentenced me. 'Remove the prisoner, officer!' he says; and I thinks to myself, 'I'd like to remove you, old gentleman, and see what you'd look like on a hammynition waggon, wi' two dead pals under your nose, and a pom-pom shell a-burstin' in your ear-'ole.' But I've had one good friend, anyhow; and I don't want a better—and that's him there" (indicating Macbeth). "He's a man, he is! I can tell you one thing!—if it hadn't been for him there, I'd ha' sent the other half o' my head to look for the first long ago—and that's the truth!"
While this conversation was proceeding Macbeth, more suo, continued to mutter like a man in a troubled dream, now humming a bar of the tune, now drawling out a phrase from the words, "O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till the night is gone"—this, I believe, he repeated several times, lighting his pipe in the intervals and spitting out of the door. Then he went on more articulately: "Rum go, ain't it—me singing that hymn in a place like this? Sung it in church 'undreds o' times. We give it sometimes in the streets. It's part of our répertoire" (he pronounced this word quite correctly). "But I can't help makin' a babby o' mysen whenever I think o' what it means. I don't think of it, as a rewle. I should break down if I did; like as I nearly did just naow. Oh Lor'! I can get on all right till I comes to th' end. It's them 'angel faces' wot knocks the stuffing out o' me!"
"Same 'ere," I replied; and I put my head out of the aperture for a breath of fresh air.
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?"
END
[1] See post, "The Death of Snarley Bob."
[2] I suggested to Mrs. Abel that this word wouldn't do, and proposed "Snarleyology" instead. She declined the improvement at once, remarking that 'the soul of the word was in the ch.'
[3] The name of the greatest of the Perryman rams—a brute "with more decorations than a Field-marshal."
[4] The reader who would get the full flavour of Macbeth's conversation should translate it, if he can, into a broad Yorkshire dialect. This I have indicated here and there by the spelling of a word, which is as far as, or perhaps farther than, my own competence extends.
OTHER BOOKS TO READ
VIOLA BURHANS'S THE CAVE-WOMAN
A novel of to-day that commences in a cave so dark that the hero can see nothing of the woman he meets there. It ends in the same cave, and much of the action occurs in and near a neighboring summer hotel. Robbery and mystery, as well as love, figure in the plot.
"An excellent detective.... The action moves quickly.... Many sidelights fall upon newspaperdom, and the author tells her story cleverly."—Boston Herald.
"The most delightful of grown-up fairy-tales of modern times.... The characters ... are finely various and their conversations piquantly fresh and edifying ... a dramatic climax of great strength and beauty ... clean, clever, captivating."—The Boston Common.
"A very charming, very elusive and quite modern young lady ... a very delightful story."—Bellman.
M. LITTLE'S AT THE SIGN OF THE BURNING BUSH
A novel of such universal human appeal that locality makes little difference. It starts as a satire on Scotch divinity students, tho there is said to be "not a word of preaching in it".
"Characters drawn with a sure hand, and with unusual subtlety. The story broadens and strikes deep roots into human nature and human life ... a story that seems as if it might have been made out of the real experiences of flesh and blood, told with humor that is sometimes biting and sometimes gentle, and with very great humanness."—The New York Times Review.
GERTRUDE HALL'S THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY
A young widow comes to New York to investigate various business interests of her late husband, and finds herself face to face at the outset with the two most vital problems of a woman's life.
"Her people are alive. They linger in the imagination."—Boston Transcript.
"Seeing life with sincerity and truth ... she has a rather big idea for a working basis."—The Bookman.
"Retains the charmed interest ... the quiet, thoughtful style, and the vivid, if restrained, humanity. The tale is so natural, so lifelike.... The author's evident faith in the eternal rightness of things."—Chicago Record-Herald.
GEORGE GARY EGGLESTON'S RECOLLECTIONS OF A VARIED LIFE
By the author of "A Rebel's Recollections," "Captain Sam," "A Daughter of the South," "Long Knives," etc. With portrait.
These reminiscences of the veteran author and editor are rich in fields so wide apart as the experiences of a Hoosier schoolmaster (the basis for the well-known story), a young man's life in Virginia before the War, a Confederate soldier, a veteran in the literary life of New York.
"Jeb Stuart," "Fitz Lee," Beauregard, Grant, Frank R. Stockton, John Hay, Stedman, Bryant, Parke Godwin, "Mark Twain," Gosse, Pulitzer, Laffan, and Schurz, are among the many who appear.
The author was born at Vevay, Indiana, 1839, practiced law in Virginia; served in the Confederate Army, was Literary Editor of the New York Evening Post for 6 years, Editor of the Commercial Advertiser (now the Globe); and for 11 years Editorial writer for The World.
"There are few American men of letters whose reminiscences would seem to promise more. The man's experiences cover so wide a period; he has had such exceptional opportunities of seeing interesting men and events at first hand."—Bookman.
"Has approached the emergencies of life with courage and relish ... qualities that make for readableness ... this autobiography, despite a tendency to anecdotal divagations ... is thoroughly entertaining."—Nation.
"Told with the convincing force of actual experience ... has all the excellences, and not many of the defects, of the trained journalist ... tells us rapidly and effectively what sort of a life he has led ... full of interest."—Dial.
"Its cozily intimate quality.... One of those books which the reviewer begins to mark appreciatively for quotation, only to discover ere long that he cannot possibly find room for half the passages selected."—New York Tribune.
"Very pleasant are these reviews of the days that are gone."—Sun.
"He has much to say and says it graphically."—Times-Review.
"The most charming and useful of his many books ... sympathetic, kindly, humorous, and confidential talk ... laughable anecdotes ... a keen observer's and critic's comment on more than half a century of American development."—Hartford Courant.
"Seldom does one come upon so companionable a volume of reminiscences ... the author has good materials galore and presents them with so kindly a humor that one never wearies of his chatty history ... the whole volume is genial in spirit and eminently readable."—Chicago Record-Herald.
"Deserves to rank high in the literature of American autobiography, even though that literature boasts the masterpiece of Benjamin Franklin."—San Francisco Argonaut.
WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S JOSEPH VANCE
A touching story, yet full of humor, of lifelong love and heroic sacrifice. While the scene is mostly in and near the London of the fifties, there are some telling glimpses of Italy, where the author lives much of the time.
"The book of the last decade; the best thing in fiction since Mr. Meredith and Mr. Hardy; must take its place as the first great English novel that has appeared in the twentieth century."—Lewis Melville in New York Times Saturday Review.
"If the reader likes both 'David Copperfield' and 'Peter Ibbetson,' he can find the two books in this one."—The Independent.
WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S ALICE-FOR-SHORT
This might paradoxically be called a genial ghost-and-murder story, yet humor and humanity again dominate, and the most striking element is the touching love story of an unsuccessful man. The reappearance in Nineteenth Century London of the long-buried past, and a remarkable case of suspended memory, give the dramatic background.
"Really worth reading and praising ... will be hailed as a masterpiece. If any writer of the present era is read a half century hence, a quarter century, or even a decade, that writer is William De Morgan."—Boston Transcript.
"It is the Victorian age itself that speaks in those rich, interesting, over-crowded books.... Will be remembered as Dickens' novels are remembered."—Springfield Republican.
WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S SOMEHOW GOOD
The purpose and feeling of this novel are intense, yet it is all mellowed by humor, and it contains perhaps the author's freshest and most sympathetic story of young love. Throughout its pages the "God be praised evil has turned to good" of the old Major rings like a trumpet call of hope. This story of to-day tells of a triumph of courage and devotion.
"A book as sound, as sweet, as wholesome, as wise, as any in the range of fiction."—The Nation.
"Our older novelists (Dickens and Thackeray) will have to look to their laurels, for the new one is fast proving himself their equal. A higher quality of enjoyment than is derivable from the work of any other novelist now living and active in either England or America."—The Dial.
WILLIAM DE MORGANS IT NEVER CAN HAPPEN AGAIN
This novel turns on a strange marital complication, and is notable for two remarkable women characters, the pathetic girl Lizarann and the beautiful Judith Arkroyd, with her stage ambitions. Lizarann's father, Blind Jim, is very appealingly drawn, and shows rare courage and devotion despite cruel handicaps. There are strong dramatic episodes, and the author's inevitable humor and optimism.
"De Morgan at his very best, and how much better his best is than the work of any novelist of the past thirty years."—Independent.
"There has been nothing at all like it in our day. The best of our contemporary novelists ... do not so come home to our business and our bosoms ... his method ... is very different in most important respects from that of Dickens. He is far less the showman, the dashing prestidigitator ... more like Thackeray ... precisely what the most 'modern' novelists are striving for—for the most part in vain ... most enchanting ... infinitely lovable and pathetic."—The Nation.
"Another long delightful voyage with the best English company ... from Dukes to blind beggars ... you could make out a very good case for handsome Judith Arkroyd as an up-to-date Ethel Newcome ... the stuff that tears in hardened and careless hearts are made of ... singularly perceiving, mellow, wise, charitable, humorous ... a plot as well defined as if it were a French farce."—The Times Saturday Review.
"The characters of Blind Jim and Lizarann are wonderful—worthy of Dickens at his best."—Professor William Lyon Phelps, of Yale, author of "Essays on Modern Novelists."
WILLIAM DE MORGAN'S AN AFFAIR OF DISHONOR
A dramatic story of England in the time of the Restoration. It commences with a fatal duel, and shows a new phase of its remarkable author. The movement is fairly rapid, and the narrative absorbing, with occasional glints of humor.