Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.
published weekly. | NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1896. | five cents a copy. |
vol. xviii.—no. 892. | two dollars a year. |
The fault that most people will find with this story is that it isunconvincing. Its scheme is improbable, its atmosphere artificial. Toconfess that the thing really happened—not as I am about to set itdown, for the pen of the professional writer cannot but adorn andembroider, even to the detriment of his material—is, I am well aware,only an aggravation of my offence; for the facts of life are theimpossibilities of fiction. A truer artist would have left this storyalone, or at most have kept it for the irritation of his private circle.My lower instinct is to make use of it. A very old man told me the tale;he was landlord of the Cromlech Arms, the only inn of a small,rock-sheltered village on the northeast coast of Cornwall, and had beenso for nine-and-forty years. It is called the Cromlech Hotel now, and isunder new management, and during the season some four coach-loads oftourists sit down each day to table d'hôte lunch in the low-ceilingedparlor. But I am speaking of some time ago when the place was a merefishing-harbor, undiscovered by the guide-books.
The old landlord talked, and I harkened, the while we[Pg 106] both sat drinkingthin ale from earthen-ware mu