PROLOGUE.

CHAPTER I.

THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS.

The House by the Sea—The Round Window—God's eyes in Flowers—The Day-Dreamers—A Picture—An Angel—Old Nanny—On the Sea-Shore— Shell-Hunting—Bell's Freak and Mortimer's Dream—Asleep.

CHAPTER II.

THE DEAD HOPE.

Time's Changes—Fall-down Castles—Little Bell waiting—When will Father come Home?—Little Bell weary—What the Sea said—Nevermore.

CHAPTER III.

SOUL-LAND.

Autumn and Winter—By the Fireside—Where little Bell is going—Nanny sings about Chloe—Bell reads a poem—The flight of an Angel—The Funeral—The good Parson—The two Grave-stones.

CHAPTER IV.

A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY.

Down Town—Messrs. Flint & Snarle—Tim, the Office Boy, and the pale Book-keeper—The Escritoire—The Purloined Package—Mr. Flint goes Home—Midnight—Miss Daisy Snarle—The Poor Author.

CHAPTER V.

DAISY SNARLE.

Sunday morning—Harvey Snarle and Mortimer—A Tale of Sorrow—The Snow-child—Mortimer takes Daisy's hand—Snarle's death.

CHAPTER VI.

THE PHANTOM AT SEA.

A Storm in the Tropics—The Lone Ship—The Man at the Wheel—How he sang strange Songs—The Apparition—The drifting Bark.

CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN.

Mr. Flint sips vino d'oro—The Stranger—The Letter—Mr. Flint Outwitted—Mr. Flint's Photograph—The Madman's Story—The Wrecked Soul—How Mr. Flint is troubled by his Conscience, and dreams of a Pair of Eyes.

CHAPTER VIII.

MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A VISION.

The Light Heart—A Scene—The Sunny Heart—A Dream of Little Bell—A Hint.

CHAPTER IX.

DAISY AND THE NECKLACE.

Our petite Heroine—How she talked to the Poets—The Morocco Case—Daisy's Eyes make Pictures—Tears, idle Tears!

CHAPTER X.

ST. AGNES' EVE.

The Old Year—St. Agnes—Keats' Poem—The Circlet of Pearls—A Cloud—The Promise—Mrs. Snarle continues her Knitting.

CHAPTER XI.

MORTIMER HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT PUBLISHER, AND MR. FLINT MAKES A DISCOVERY.

H. H. Hardwill, Publisher—Criminal Literature—Alliterative Titles—Goldwood—Poor Authors—A Heaven for them in the Perspective—Flint's Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma.

CHAPTER XII.

WHAT DAISY DID.

The Arrest—Doubt and Love—Daisy and the Necklace—The Search—The Heart of Daisy Snarle.

CHAPTER XIII.

IN THE TOMBS.

The Author's Summer Residence—The Egyptian Prison—Without and Within—A Picture—Sunshine in shadow—Joe Wilkes and his unique Proposal—Gloomy Prospects—The Face at the Cell-window.

CHAPTER XIV.

A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.

The Strange Visit—The Lawyer—Walters and Mr. Flint—The Clouds—A Strip of Sunshine—Mortimer.

CHAPTER XV.

IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES.

A Picture—The Lawyer's Note—Mr. Hardwill once more—The Scene at the Law Office—Mr. Flint Hors du Combat—Face to Face.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA.

Clap-trap—John Flint—The Old House—Joe Wilkes—Strephon and Chloe—Tim enjoying himself—Edward Walters and Little Bell—A Last Word.

EPILOGUE.

TO THE

UNFORTUNATE READER.

In this little Extravaganza, I have done just what I intended.

I have attempted to describe, in an auto-biographical sort of way, a well-meaning, but somewhat vain young gentleman, who, having flirted desperately with the Magazines, takes it into his silly head to write a novel, all the chapters of which are laid before the reader, with some running criticism by T. James Barescythe, Esquire, the book-noticer of "The Morning Glory," ("a journal devoted to the Fine Arts and the Amelioration of all Mankind,") and the type of a certain class which need not be distinctly specified for recognition. I have endeavored to make the novel of my literary hero such a one as a young man with fine taste and crude talent might produce; and I think I have succeeded. It is certainly sufficiently unfinished.

In drawing the character of Barescythe, the point of my quill may have pierced a friend; and if you ask, like Ludovico,

"What shall be said of thee?"

I shall answer, like Othello,

The only audacious thing I have done is the writing of this preface. If there is anything more stupid than a "preface," it is a book-critic. If anything could be more stupid than a book-critic, it would be a preface. But, thank heaven, there is not. In saying this, I refer to a particular critic; for I would not, for the sake of a tenth edition, malign in such a wholesale manner those capital good fellows of the press—those verbal accoucheurs who are so pleasantly officious at the birth of each new genius. Not I. I have

"A fellow-feeling"

and a love for them, which would seem like a bid for their good nature, if expressed here.

I have put my name on the title-page of this trifle from principle. My pen-children are all mine, and I cannot think of disowning one, though it may happen to be born hump-backed. But I beg of you, gentlest of unfortunate readers, not to take Daisy's Necklace as a serious exponent of my skill at story-telling. It is not printed at the "urgent request of numerous friends"—I am so fortunate as not to have many—but a seductive little argument in the shape of a cheque is the sole cause of its present form; otherwise, I should be content to let it die an easy death in the columns of the journal which first had the temerity to publish it. If the world could always know, as it may in this case, why a book is printed, it would look with kindlier eyes on dullness bound in muslin. It would say, with honest Sancho Panza: "Let us not look the gift-horse in the mouth."

When the sunshine of this dear old world has reddened the wine in my heart—melted down its sparkles to a creamy flavor, I will give you a richer draught—mayhap a beaker of Hippocrene.

Till then, may God's blessing be on us both, though neither of us deserve it.

Clinton Place, 1856.