Articles liés à Ovington's Bank

Ovington's Bank - Couverture rigide

Weyman, Stanley

 
9781910723821: Ovington's Bank

Synopsis

Ovington's Bank is a forgotten masterpiece from peerless story-teller Stanley Weyman who was once as popular as Dickens, Kipling and Robert Louis Stevenson.

Ovington's Bank was written at the height of Weyman s powers, and is considered the finest of his 24 novels.

Set in 1825, the novel's themes are as relevant today as then. The tale follows a run on a private bank: in the fall-out, the protagonists are challenged to examine their motives, their morals and their values as the surprising plot unfolds.

This is a tale of tension between traditional values and modern opportunities; between ambition and love; self-denial and passion.

In this fast-moving story, the unforgettable characters feature in a breathtaking stagecoach dash to London, a violent mugging, a cunning theft, a desperate bid to keep up appearances and the tenderest of love scenes.

This elegantly designed Merlin Unwin Books edition is a fine jacketed hardback with navy endpapers, swell-rules and is set in caslon typeface.

Jim Lawley's essay provides the most complete existing biography of Stanley Weyman (1855-1928), including Weyman s own unabridged account of his dramatic arrest and imprisonment on suspicion of spying in France in 1885.

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À propos de l'auteur

Stanley John Weyman was born in Ludlow in 1855 and educated at Shrewsbury School and Christ Church College, Oxford where he obtained a degree in Modern History.

He qualified as a barrister and was called to the bar by the Inner Temple in 1881.

He supplemented his meagre income by writing short stories for the Cornhill Magazine.

The editor s suggestion that he try his hand at writing novels proved a turning point in Weyman s career. International bestsellers such as A Gentleman of France, The Man in Black and Under the Red Robe earned him immense popularity and a substantial fortune.

For the last thirty years of his life he lived in Denbighshire, where he was also chairman of the Magistrate's Bench.

He died in 1928.

Extrait. © Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits réservés.

The sun was rising as Clement's coach rattled down the Foregate between the old Norman towers that crown the Castle Hill, and the long austere front of the school, with its wide low casements twinkling in the first beams. Early milk-carts drew aside to give the coach passage, white-eyed sweeps gazed enviously after it, mob-caps at windows dreamt of holidays and sighed to be on it and away. Soon it burst merrily from the crowded houses and met the morning freshness and the open country and the rolling fields. The mists were rising from the valley behind, as the horses breasted the ascent above the old battle-field, swept down the farther slope, and at eight miles an hour climbed up Armour Hill between meadows sparkling with dew and coverts flickering with conies. Down the hill at a canter, which presently carried it rejoicing into Wem. There the first relay was waiting, and away again they went, bowling over the barren gorse-clad heath that brought them presently through narrow twisting streets to the White Lion at Whitchurch. Again, 'Horses on!' and merrily they travelled down the gentle slope to the Cheshire plain, where miles of green country spread themselves in the sunshine, a land of fatness and plenty, of cheese and milk and slow-running brooks. The clock on Nantwich church was showing a half after eight, as with a long flourish on the bugle they passed below it, and halted for breakfast at the Crown, in the stubborn old Roundhead town.Half an hour to refresh, topping up with a glass of famous Nantwich ale, and away again. But now the sun was high, the world abroad, the roads were alive with traffic. Onwards from Nantwich, where they began to run alongside the Ellesmere Canal, with its painted barges and gay market boats, the road took on a new importance, and many a smiling wayside house, Lion or Swan, cheered the travellers on their way. Spanking four-in-hands, handled by lusty coachmen, the autocrats of the road, chaises-and-four with postboys in green or yellow, white-coated farmers and parsons on hackneys, commercials in gigs, and publicans in tax-carts, pedlars, packmen, the one-legged sailor, and Punch and Judy-all these met or passed them; and huge wains laden with Manchester goods and driven by teamsters in smocks with long whips on their shoulders. And the inns! The inns, with their swaying signs and open windows, their benches crowded with loungers and their yards echoing with the cry of 'Next team!'

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