I, who write this, am a dead man. Dead legally--dead by absolute proofs--dead and buried! Ask for me in my native city and they will tell you I was one of the victims of the cholera that ravaged Naples in 1884, and that my mortal remains lie moldering in the funeral vault of my ancestors. Yet--I live! I feel the warm blood coursing through my veins--the blood of thirty summers--the prime of early manhood invigorates me, and makes these eyes of mine keen and bright--these muscles strong as iron--this hand powerful of grip-- this well-knit form erect and proud of bearing. Yes!--I am alive, though declared to be dead; alive in the fullness of manly force-- and even sorrow has left few distinguishing marks upon me, save one. My hair, once ebony-black, is white as a wreath of Alpine snow, though its clustering curls are thick as ever.
"A constitutional inheritance?" asks one physician, observing my frosted locks.
"A sudden shock?" suggests another.
Marie Corelli is alive!This book, to me, is the second best of all her books after 'The Romance of two worlds.' It is a book written to a high literary standard and one that gives its readers a huge cerebral masturbation. I was enriched by it and endeared to her plot so much that when you start it, you can hardly let go. Corelli's style of writing is inimitable and I doff my 'heart' to her! I have just poured a libation in memory of this great woman, this marvellous pen-pusher. I shall surely be in Stratford-Upon-Avon some day to pay my obeisance. Bless her soul, O God!