Callers loaded with gifts, and tradesmen bending under packages, come and go in endless procession. The servants are at the end of their endurance. As for the family and the betrothed, they no longer

In the busy rush of life, the virtues of single individuals too often escape notice, or make but slight impression on the minds of their contemporaries. It is in after years, when the actors are dead

The scene of this Prologue to the story about to be written was a certain cathedral town, of which most of you have heard before, and the time close upon midnight.

It is in the staging of her comedies that fate shows herself superior to mere human invention. While we, with careful regard to scenery, place our conventional puppets on the stage and bid them play

“There; that's it. That's where they buried Frenchman,” said Andrew—known as River Andrew. For there was another Andrew who earned his living on the sea. River Andrew ha

“It is the Professor von Holzen,” said a stout woman who still keeps the egg and butter shop at the corner of St. Jacob Straat in The Hague; she is a Jewess, as, indeed, are most

Many years ago, there lived in the high regions of Switzerland and France a people called the Lake-Dwellers.

Il faut se garder des premiers mouvements, parce qu'ils sont presque toujours honnétes. “Dearest Anna,—I see from the newspaper before me of March 13, that I am reporte

The sun had set behind the mountains, and the rich plain of Athens was suffused with the violet glow of a Grecian eye. A light breeze rose; the olive-groves awoke from their noonday trance, and rustl

There is an island in the Indian Ocean, so unfortunate as not yet to have been visited either by Discovery Ships or Missionary Societies. It is a place where all those things are constantly found whi

Mr. Joseph P. Mangles, at his ease in a deck-chair on the broad Atlantic, was smoking a most excellent cigar. Mr. Mangles was a tall, thin man, who carried his head in the manner curtly known at a gi

My object is to explain the motive which has induced me to refuse the right hand of friendship to my cousin, John Herncastle. The reserve which I have hitherto maintained in this matter has been misi

The afternoon sun was lowering towards a heavy bank of clouds hanging still and sullen over the Mediterranean. A mistral was blowing. The last yellow rays shone fiercely upon the towering coast of Co

Henry Seton Merriman published his first novel, “Young Mistley,” in 1888, when he was twenty-six years old. Messrs. Bentley's reader, in his critique on the book, spoke of its &am

At the request of a person who has claims on me that I must not disown, I consent to look back through a long interval of years and to describe events which took place within the walls of an English