Fiction Books

PREFACE "The second chantry" (for it would be absurd to keep "temple") of this work "is not like the first"; in one respect especially, which seems to deserve notice in its Preface or porch—if a chantry may be permitted a porch. In Volume I.—though many of its subjects (not quite all) had been handled by me before in more or less summary fashion, or in reviews of individual... more...

CHAPTER I You could not call the place a village, nor yet could it be called a town. Viewed from the bluff, on the English side of the river, it was a long stretch of small farmhouses—some painted red, with green shutters, some painted white, with red shutters—set upon long strips of land, green, yellow, and brown, as it chanced to be pasture land, fields of grain, or "plough-land." These... more...

The ringing of the door bell cut into Henderson's concentration and he made a gesture of irritation with one outflung hand. But he didn't raise his head or shift his eyes one iota from the tiny green thing on his laboratory table. Tensely absorbed, he stood watching the small miracle he had made and emotion approaching exultation gripped him. He slid one hand toward a switch, never moving his... more...

AUTHOR'S PREFACE I recall to mind a British colonel, who said to me in Calcutta: "This is the third time that I have been sent to India. Twenty-five years ago, as lieutenant, and then the Russians were some fifteen hundred miles from the Indian frontier; then, six years since, as captain, and the Russians were then only five hundred miles away. A year ago I came here as lieutenant-colonel, and... more...

During the summer of 1867 I had the opportunity (which I had often wished for) of expressing in print my estimate and admiration of the works of the American poet Walt Whitman.[1] Like a stone dropped into a pond, an article of that sort may spread out its concentric circles of consequences. One of these is the invitation which I have received to edit a selection from Whitman's writings; virtually... more...

CHAPTER I. STAR BRIGHT The Captain had sold all his lobsters. They had been particularly fine ones, and had gone off "like hot cakes," everyone who passed by the wharf stopping to buy one or two. Now the red dory was empty, and the Captain had washed her out with his usual scrupulous care, and was making preparations for his homeward voyage, when he was hailed by a cheery voice from the street.... more...

THE BANKS OF THE WYE. BOOK I. "Rouse from thy slumber, pleasure calls, arise,Quit thy half-rural bower, awhile despiseThe thraldom that consumes thee. We who dwellFar from thy land of smoke, advise thee well.Here Nature's bounteous hand around shall fling,Scenes that thy Muse hath never dar'd to sing.When sickness weigh'd thee down, and strength declin'd;When dread eternity... more...

From what is said in the Introduction to the Monastery, it must necessarily be inferred, that the Author considered that romance as something very like a failure. It is true, the booksellers did not complain of the sale, because, unless on very felicitous occasions, or on those which are equally the reverse, literary popularity is not gained or lost by a single publication. Leisure must be allowed for... more...

SCHOOL I Life seemed to Martin Leigh, as he gazed at the wooden walls of his cubicle, very overwhelming: there were so many things to remember. He had lived through his first day as a boarder at a public school and at length he had the great joy of knowing that for nine hours there would be nothing to find out. He seemed to have been finding things out ever since seven o'clock that morning:... more...

XIV THAT evening, when Pierre emerged from the Borgo in front of the Vatican, a sonorous stroke rang out from the clock amidst the deep silence of the dark and sleepy district. It was only half-past eight, and being in advance the young priest resolved to wait some twenty minutes in order to reach the doors of the papal apartments precisely at nine, the hour fixed for his audience. This respite brought... more...