Classics Books

CHAPTER I.PROLOGUE—THE WANDERER. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Tennyson’s . Not much of a picture, certainly! Only a stretch of wide sunny road, with a tamarisk hedge and a clump of shadowy elms; a stray sheep... more...

PREFACE.*          *          *          *          *          *"'I should like to show you a series of eight articles, Sir, that have appeared in the Eatanswill Gazette. I think I may venture to say that you would not be long in establishing your opinions on a firm and solid basis, Sir.' "'I dare say I should turn very blue long... more...

FOREWORD. In the first rare spring of song, In my heart's young hours, In my youth 't was thus I sang, Choosing 'mid the flowers:— "Fair the Dandelion is, But for me too lowly; And the winsome Violet Is, forsooth, too holy. 'But the Touchmenot?' Go to! What! a face that's speckled Like a common milking-maid's, Whom the sun hath freckled. Then the Wild-Rose is a... more...

INTRODUCTION The following narrative, written over eighty years ago, and now at last given to the world in 1906, is remarkable in many respects. It is remarkable for its subject, for its style, and for its literary history. The subject—a deathbed scene—might seem at first sight to be a trite and common one. The mise-en-scène—the Field of Waterloo—alone however redeems it from such a charge;... more...

ARMS AND THE MAID Through the gateway flanked by tall recruiting posters came rather hurriedly a youth of no great stature, but of sturdy build and comely enough countenance, including bright brown eyes and fresh complexion. Though the dull morning was coldish, perspiration might have been detected on his forehead. Crossing the street, without glance to right or left, he increased his pace; also, he... more...

The Closed Door Opens In his aimless wanderings around Boston that night Wilson passed the girl twice, and each time, though he caught only a glimpse of her lithe form bent against the whipping rain, the merest sketch of her somber features, he was distinctly conscious of the impress of her personality. As she was absorbed by the voracious horde which shuffled interminably and inexplicably up and down... more...

CHAPTER I Kedzie Thropp had never seen Fifth Avenue or a yacht or a butler or a glass of champagne or an ocean or a person of social prominence. She wanted to see them. For each five minutes of the day and night, one girl comes to NewYork to make her life; or so the compilers of statistics claim. This was Kedzie Thropp's five minutes. She did not know it, and the two highly important, because... more...

When the concealed gong sounded, the man sitting on the floor sighed. He continued, however, to slump loosely against the curving, pearly plastic of the wall, and took care not to glance toward the translucent ovals he knew to be observation panels. He was a large man, but thin and bony-faced. His dirty gray coverall bore the name “Barnsley” upon grimy white tape over the heart. Except at the... more...

CHAPTER I The young surgeon examined the man as he lay on the hospital chair in which ward attendants had left him. The surgeon's fingers touched him deftly, here and there, as if to test the endurance of the flesh he had to deal with. The head nurse followed his swift movements, wearily moving an incandescent light hither and thither, observing the surgeon with languid interest. Another nurse,... more...

THE PROSECUTED FUNERAL PROCESSION. The news of the Manchester executions on the morning of Saturday, 23rd November, 1867, fell upon Ireland with sudden and dismal disillusion. In time to come, when the generation now living shall have passed away, men will probably find it difficult to fully realize or understand the state of stupor and amazement which ensued in this country on the first tidings of... more...