Fiction Books

CHAPTER I. I, who write this, am a dead man. Dead legally—dead by absolute proofs—dead and buried! Ask for me in my native city and they will tell you I was one of the victims of the cholera that ravaged Naples in 1884, and that my mortal remains lie moldering in the funeral vault of my ancestors. Yet—I live! I feel the warm blood coursing through my veins—the blood of thirty summers—the... more...

ISTER TERESA had wept bitterly for two days. The vanity for which she did penance whenever her madonna loveliness, consummated by the white robe and veil of her novitiate, tempted her to one of the little mirrors in the pupil's dormitory, was powerless to check the blighting flow. There had been moments when she had argued that her vanity had its rights, for had it not played its part in weaning... more...

CHAPTER I A glorious midsummer day was drawing to a close; its heat had passed; the tall forest trees, whose leaves were pleasantly rustled by the cool breeze of approaching night, flung a bridge of tremulous shadows across the surface of Loch Meg, and all nature was at peace. The tiny lake, though bearing an old-world name, was of the new world, and was one of the myriad forest gems that decked the... more...

CHAPTER I THE HORSE VALLEY ADVENTURE "The first time I saw the boy, Jack Irons, he was about nine years old. I was in Sir William Johnson's camp of magnificent Mohawk warriors at Albany. Jack was so active and successful in the games, between the red boys and the white, that the Indians called him 'Boiling Water.' His laugh and tireless spirit reminded me of a mountain brook. There... more...

JOHN BUNYAN.      "Wouldst see     A man I' the clouds, and hear him speak to thee?" Who has not read Pilgrim's Progress? Who has not, in childhood, followed the wandering Christian on his way to the Celestial City? Who has not laid at night his young head on the pillow, to paint on the walls of darkness pictures of the Wicket Gate and the Archers, the Hill of Difficulty,... more...

THE RUINS.   "She look'd and saw that all was ruinous,  Here stood a shattered archway plumed with fern;  And here had fall'n a great part of a tower,  Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,  And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers,  And high above a piece of turret stair,  Worn by the feet that now were silent,  Bare to the sun." The first thing... more...

How Deacon Tubman and Parson Whitney Kept New Year's I ew Year's, eh?" exclaimed Deacon Tubman, as he lifted himself to his elbow and peered through the frosty window pane toward the east, where the colorless morning was creeping shiveringly into sight. "New Year's, eh?" he repeated, as he hitched himself into an upright position and straightened his night-cap, that had... more...

A LIGHT MAN. BY Henry James.[1]   "And I—what I seem to my friend, you see—     What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess.  What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?     No hero, I confess." A Light Woman.—Browning's Men and Women. April 4, 1857.—I have changed my sky without changing my mind. I resume these old notes in a new world. I hardly know of what use they... more...

CHAPTER I It was a quiet night in the Shovel. At the bar, which ranged along one side of the large chinked-log room, leaned half a dozen men, two of whom were discussing the relative merits of spruce-tea and lime-juice as remedies for scurvy. They argued with an air of depression and with intervals of morose silence. The other men scarcely heeded them. In a row, against the opposite wall, were the... more...

CHAPTER I EARLY LIFE, AND FIRST WRITINGS It will soon be a hundred and twenty years since Burke first took his seat, in the House of Commons, and it is eighty-five years since his voice ceased to be heard there. Since his death, as during his life, opinion as to the place to which he is entitled among the eminent men of his country has touched every extreme. Tories have extolled him as the saviour of... more...