This is a work of pure fiction, and is one of the most splendidly
imaginative books we have met with for a long time. It is attributed to
the author of the "First and Last" sketches in _Blackwood's Magazine_,
some of which have already been transferred to our pages. No further
recommendation can be requisite; but to give the reader some idea of the
vivid style in which the work is written, we detach two episodal extracts.


THE IDIOT GIRL.


When Peverell reached his own house, his man Francis met him with a
strangely mysterious look and manner.

"Here is one within," said he, "that will not, by any dint of persuasion,
go; though I have been two good hours trying my skill to that end."

"Who is it?" inquired Peverell.

"That, neither, can I discover," quoth Francis. "She knocked at the
door--it might be something after eleven, perhaps near upon twelve--and
when I opened it, she whips into the hall without saying a word, walks
into every room in the house--I following her, as a beadle follows a rogue,
till he sees him beyond the parish bounds--and at last takes possession of
your low chair, and, without so much as 'by your leave,' begins to wring
her hands, and cry 'Lord! Lord!'--What do you want, good woman?" said I.
But I might as well have addressed myself to the walls, for 'Lord! Lord!'
was all her moan."