My name is William Francis Furlong. My occupation is that of a commission merchant, and my place of business is on St. Paul Street, in the City of Montreal. I have resided in Montreal ever since shortly after my marriage, in 1862, to my cousin, Alice Playter, of Toronto.William gives a brief, dry account of his early life – stained by the loss of his parents – in order to explain how it was that he came to be raised by his uncle, Richard Yardington, a prominent Toronto businessman. Cousin Alice, was not so unfortunate in that she lost only her mother. However, as her father is a man of "dissipated habits," she too was taken into Uncle Richard's care. As the years pass, William's "childish attachment" to Alice ripens to "tender affection," and the two become engaged. Though their uncle shares nothing of "the prejudice entertained by many people against marriage between cousins," he is a firm believer that his male ward should demonstrate the ability to provide. Thus, William embarks for Australia, so as to better oversee his business interests.
In days when the public safety is imminently threatened, and the fate of a nation may hang upon a single act, we owe frank speech, above all other men, to him who is highest in authority.A wise man was Mr Owen.
* This image from the very poor microform copy of The Gerrard Street Mystery and Other Weird Tales available at the Internet Archive.
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| Lens, France 25 December 1917 |
Christmas Bells in War Time
From spire and tower, in silvery tune,
The chimes like birds take flight.
Where that golden boat, the moon,
Drifts slowly down the night.
Aloud, alert, alone they cease
And wake these midnight bells,
Proclaiming, through their calmer, Peace
Where Peace no longer dwells.
Yet chime by chime, like homing birds,
They float, soar up, recede,
A gust of old-time gladdening words
That back to Sorrow lead.
For as we listen, bell by bell,
They bring about us here
Our hotly dead who sleep so well
We dare not dream them near.
So be still blithe, O Bells, and gay.
Since through the old glad sound
Our dead come home this Christmas Day
From grave strewn Flanders' ground!
"You stay here with the boy," Constable Scott said to Mr Summerville. "We'll deal with him." And, holding their guns at the ready, the two uniformed men moved down the tunnel.Before dismissing The Mystery of the Muffled Man as the weakest novel read this year, it's only fair to acknowledge that it wasn't written with me in mind. The survey that informed the Secret Circle was conducted before I was even born. What's more, I've never so much as considered living in Scarborough.
In five minutes it was over. The muffled man, trapped by the wall of fallen stone, and with an empty gun in his hands, was quickly overpowered.
