Classics Books

INTRODUCTION. Of all the works of Plato the Symposium is the most perfect in form, and may be truly thought to contain more than any commentator has ever dreamed of; or, as Goethe said of one of his own writings, more than the author himself knew. For in philosophy as in prophecy glimpses of the future may often be conveyed in words which could hardly have been understood or interpreted at the time... more...

BOOK I SYLVIA AS WIFE 1. I am telling the story of Sylvia Castleman. I should prefer to tell it without mention of myself; but it was written in the book of fate that I should be a decisive factor in her life, and so her story pre-supposes mine. I imagine the impatience of a reader, who is promised a heroine out of a romantic and picturesque "society" world, and finds himself beginning with the... more...

CHAPTER ITHE WHIRLPOOL On the crucial night of his career, 14 March, 191-, Clifford Matheson, financier, was speeding in a taxi-cab to the Gare de Lyon. He was a clean-limbed man of thirty-seven. There was usually a look of masterfulness in the firm lines of his face, the straight, direct glance, the stiff, close-cut moustache. But to-night his eyes were tired, very tired. He leant back in a corner of... more...

A sleepy Sunday morning—and no need for any one to go to church. It was at Neuchâtel, under the trees by the lake, that I first became conscious of what wonderful assistance Sweetheart might be to me in my literary work. She corrected me as to the date upon which we had made our pilgrimage to Chaumont, as to the color of the hair of the pretty daughter of the innkeeper whom we had seen there—in... more...

How Gil Carr Heard a Concert in Spring. “Too soon for sweet mace—a bunch for sweet Mace,” said Gil Carr as he bent down amongst the sedges to pick the bright blue scorpion grass, its delicate flowers relieved with yellow, “so she must have forget-me-not. I wonder whether she’ll keep some when I’m far away.” He stopped and smiled and listened, for the morning concert... more...

The lights that wink across the sodden moor Like phosphorescent eyes that beckon men To risk fell footsteps in the treacherous fen, And sink in loathsome muck, without a spoor— What ghosts of former days, what dread allure, Abides within this subterranean den? Or, reaching out, snares victims to its ken, With wraith-like fingers, to a peril sure? 'Tis told that evil things lurk out of sight With... more...

"Suzy, Suzy, Suzy!" Whit Clayborne looked at the luminous face of the bulkhead clock for the hundredth time that day. Sweat started out on his forehead, and he gripped his face with a convulsed hand, moaning in helpless anguish. "Suzy, Suzy, Suzy!" The clock clicked impersonally in the darkness, and Whit moaned again. The cold. The darkness. The quiet. And the solitude. But there was... more...

CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG EMIGRANT. [Illustration] The first recollections of Fernando Stevens, the hero of this romance, were of "moving." He was sitting on his mother's knee. How long he had been sitting there he did not know, nor did he know how he came there; but he knew that it was his mother and that they were in a great covered wagon, and that he had a sister and brother, older than... more...

It was the end of May, when "spring goeth all in white." The apple trees were scattering their delicate petals on the ground, dropping them over the stone walls to the roadsides, where in the moist places of the shadows they fell on beds of snowy innocence. Here and there a single tree was tinged with pink, but so faintly, it was as if the white were blushing. Now and then a tiny white... more...

DEDICATION   Take thou this gift from out the grave of Time.  The urns of Greece lie shattered, and the cup  That for Athenian lips the Muses filled,  And flowery crowns that on Athenian hair  Hid the cicala, freedom's golden sign,  Dust in the dust have fallen. Calmly sad,  The marble dead upon Athenian tombs  Speak from their eyes "Farewell": and well have fared  They... more...