William Chambers Morrow (1854-1923) was an American writer, now noted mainly for his short stories of horror and suspense. He is probably best known for the much-anthologised story His Unconquerable Enemy (1889). He moved to California in 1879 and began selling stories to the Argonaut. His first novel was Blood-Money (1882). A Strange Confession, was serialised in the Californian in 1880-81, but was never published in book form. His stories were collected in The Ape, the Idiot and Other People in 1897, but he published few stories thereafter. By 1899 Morrow had begun a school for writers, and in 1901 he produced a pamphlet, The Art of Writing for Publication. Morrow published two romantic adventure novels, A Man: His Mark (1900) and Lentala of the South Seas (1908). He also published a journalistic work called Bohemian Paris of Today and a short travel booklet, Roads Around Paso Robles (1904).
A classic collection of eighteen chilling stories from a little known American master Born in 1854, Morrow was the son of Baptist minister, hotelier and farmer in Mobile, Alabama. Moving to California in 1879, he began selling stories to 'The Argonaut' periodical where the famous author Ambrose Bierce had been working for the previous two years. Bierce recognised Morrow's talent as a writer of short stories and it is believed that it was due to Bierce's patronage that several of Morrows best known and highly regarded stories appeared in William Randolph Hearst's 'San Francisco Examiner' newspaper. Although Morrow's fame has not endured in to the same degree as some of his contemporaries, it is considered in modern academic circles that his was an enormous talent and that he deserves a place in the pantheon of significant 19th century American authors. Of course, to the aficionado of the supernatural and bizarre what matters most is whether he tells a genuinely chilling tale. Bierce certainly believed that he could and as he was no mean exponent of ghostly and horrific fiction himself he was well placed to deliver a considered judgment. However, perhaps Morrow's highest accolade came in one of Bierce's own satirical pieces in which a character exclaims, 'I have one of Will Morrow's tales in my pocket, but I don't dare to go where there is light enough to read it!' High praise indeed! In this collection readers will discover the story that is arguably Morrow's most famous, the horrible tale of dismemberment that is 'The Unconquerable Enemy' together with 'The Inmate of the Dungeon, ' 'Treacherous Velasco, ' 'The Faithful Amulet, ' 'The Haunted Burglar, ' 'The Gloomy Shadow, ' 'The Haunted Automaton, ' 'The Woman of the Inner Room' and nine more short stories of the disturbing and unusual. Leonaur editions are newly typeset and are not facsimiles; each title is available in softcover and hardback with dustjacket; our hardbacks are cloth bound and feature gold foil lettering on their spines and fabric head and tail band
ÊFor two weeks we had been lodging temporarily in the top of a comfortable little hotel, called the Grand something (most of the Parisian hotels are Grand), the window of which commanded a superb view of the great city, the vaudeville playhouse of the world. Pour la premi�re fois the dazzle and glitter had burst upon us, confusing first, but now assuming form and coherence. If we and incomprehensible at could have had each a dozen eyes instead of two, or less greed to see and more patience to learn! Day by day we had put off the inevitable evil of finding a studio. Every night found us in the cheapest seats of some theatre, and often we lolled on the terraces of the CafŽ de la Paix, watching the pretty girls as they passed, their silken skirts saucily pulled up, revealing dainty laces and ankles. From the slippery floor of the Louvre galleries we had studied the masterpieces of David, Rubens, Rembrandt, and the rest; had visited the PanthŽon, the MusŽe Cluny; had climbed the Eiffel Tower, and traversed the Bois de Boulogne and the Champs-ElysŽes. Then came the search for a studio and the settling to work. It would be famous to have a little home of our very own, where we could have little dinners of our very own cooking! It is with a shudder that I recall those eleven days of ceaseless studio-hunting. We dragged ourselves through miles of Quartier Latin streets, and up hundreds of flights of polished waxed stairs, behind puffing concierges in carpet slippers, the puffing changing to grumbling, as, dissatisfied, the concierges followed us down the stairs. The Quartier abounds with placards reading, "Atelier d'Artiste ˆ Louer!" The rentals ranged from two hundred to two thousand francs a year, and the sizes from cigar-boxes to barns. But there was always something lacking. On the eleventh day we found a suitable place on the sixth (top) floor of a quaint old house in a passage off the Rue St.- AndrŽ-des-Arts. There were overhead and side lights, and from the window a noble view of Paris over the house-tops.
Now with an Historical Afterword by Ron MillerIncludes the original illustrations Featured in Ron Miller's The Conquest of Space Book Series. In this homage to H. Rider Haggard, author W.C. Morrow sets his adventure in the remote islands of Oceania, where a mysterious lost race is discovered, ruled by the beautiful barbarian queen, Lentala. Originally published in 1908. At the publisher's request, this title is sold without DRM (Digital Rights Management).
“Soyez tranquilles, mesdames.… Je suis un jeune homme pressé.… Mais modeste.”—Labiche. AT ten minutes before five in the evening the office doors of the Florida and Key West Railway Company flew open, and a young man emerged in a hurry. Suit-case in one hand, umbrella in the other, he sped along the corridor to the elevator-shaft, arriving in time to catch a glimpse of the lighted roof of the cage sliding into depths below. “Down!” he shouted; but the glimmering cage disappeared, descending until darkness enveloped it. Then the young man jammed his hat on his head, seized the suit-case and umbrella, and galloped down the steps. The spiral marble staircase echoed his clattering flight; scrub-women heard him coming and fled; he leaped a pail of water and a mop; several old gentlemen flattened themselves against the wall to give him room; and a blond young person with pencils in her hair lisped “Gee!” as he whizzed past and plunged through the storm-doors, which swung back, closing behind him with a hollow thwack. Outside in the darkness, gray with whirling snowflakes, he saw the wet lamps of cabs shining, and he darted along the line of hansoms and coupés in frantic search for his own. “Oh, there you are!” he panted, flinging his suit-case up to a snow-covered driver. “Do your best now; we’re late!” And he leaped into the dark coupé, slammed the door, and sank back on the cushions, turning up the collar of his heavy overcoat. There was a young lady in the farther corner of the cab, buried to her nose in a fur coat. At intervals she shivered and pressed a fluffy muff against her face. A glimmer from the sleet-smeared lamps fell across her knees. Down-town flew the cab, swaying around icy corners, bumping over car-tracks, lurching, rattling, jouncing, while its silent occupants, huddled in separate corners, brooded moodily at their respective windows. Snow blotted the glass, melting and running down; and over the watery panes yellow light from shop windows played fantastically, distorting vision. Presently the young man pulled out his watch, fumbled for a match-box, struck a light, and groaned as he read the time.
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