The Magic House, and Other Poems by 81864f3b-abbc-40a6-a24c-afb414d4dcea, Scott, Duncan Campbell

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[Illustration: colophon]


Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty






The sunset in the rosy west, 1


Are the little breezes blind, 2


The slender moon and one pale star, 5


It would be sweet to think when we are old, 7


Wind of the gentle summer night, 8


My heart would need the earth, 10


The stars are in the ebon sky, 11


The night wind moves the gloom, 13


The wave is over the foaming reef, 15


Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble, 17


Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim, 19


Come, O thou conqueror of the flying year, 20


Come, O thou season of intense repose, 21


Let your soul grow a thing apart, 22


Last night a storm fell on the world, 23


I thought of death beside the lonely sea, 25


This is the acre of unfathomed rest, 26


I have done, 32


In her chamber, wheresoe’er, 33


The lady Lillian knelt upon the sward, 36


There’s a town where shadows run, 38


The moon, Capella, and the Pleiades, 40


The bay is set with ashy sails, 41


I rested on the breezy height, 42


When April moved in maiden guise, 45


O ship incoming from the sea, 48


You had two girls--Baptiste-- 50


I hear the bells at eventide, 54


By a dim shore where water darkening, 56


Over the field the bright air clings and tingles, 58


All her hair is softly set, 60


Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes, 63


The field pools gathered into frosted lace, 64


The ruddy sunset lies, 66


Touched with some divine repose, 68


The world is heated seven times, 70


I see a schooner in the bay, 72


Move not so lightly, Time, away, 73


An hour before the dawn I dreamed of you, 74


I never trod where Leonardo was, 75


There are no clouds above the world, 76


City about whose brow the north winds blow, 78


Here’s the last rose, 79


Here in the pine shade is the nest of night, 80


At eve the fiery sun went forth, 82


The morns are grey with haze and faintly cold, 86


Come hither, Care, and look on this fair place, 87


The sunset in the rosy west Burned soft and high; A shore-lark fell like a stone to his nest In the waving rye.

A wind came over the garden beds From the dreamy lawn, The pansies nodded their purple heads, The poppies began to yawn.

One pansy said: It is only sleep, Only his gentle breath: But a rose lay strewn in a snowy heap, For the rose it was only death.

Heigho, we’ve only one life to live, And only one death to die: Good-morrow, new world, have you nothing to give?-- Good-bye, old world, good-bye.



Are the little breezes blind, They that push me as they pass? Do they search the tangled grass For some path they want to find? Take my fingers, little wind; You are all alone, and I Am alone too. I will guide, You will follow; let us go By a pathway that I know, Leading down the steep hillside, Past the little sharp-lipped pools, Shrunken with the summer sun, Where the sparrows come to drink; And we’ll scare the little birds, Coming on them unawares; And the daisies every one We will startle on the brink Of a doze. (Gently, gently, little wind), Very soon a wood we’ll see, There my lover waits for me. (Go more gently, little wind, You should follow soft, behind.) You will hear my lover say How he loves me night and day, But his words you must not tell To the other little winds, For they all might come to hear, And might rustle through the wood, And disturb the solitude. (Blow more softly, little wind, You are tossing all my hair, Go more gently, have a care; If you lead you can’t be blind, So,--good-bye:) There he goes: I see his feet On the grass; Now the little pools are blurred As they pass; And he must be very fleet, For I see the bushes stirred Near the wood. I hope he’ll tell, If he isn’t out of breath, That he met me on the hill. But I hope he will not say That he kissed me for good-bye Just before he flew away.


The slender moon and one pale star, A rose-leaf and a silver bee From some god’s garden blown afar, Go down the gold deep tranquilly.

Within the south there rolls and grows A mighty town with tower and spire, From a cloud bastion masked with rose The lightning flashes diamond fire.

The purple-martin darts about The purlieus of the iris fen; The king-bird rushes up and out, He screams and whirls and screams again.

A thrush is hidden in a maze Of cedar buds and tamarac bloom, He throws his rapid flexile phrase, A flash of emeralds in the gloom.

A voice is singing from the hill A happy love of long ago; Ah! tender voice, be still, be still, ‘’Tis sometimes better not to know.’

The rapture from the amber height Floats tremblingly along the plain, Where in the reeds with fairy light The lingering fireflies gleam again.

Buried in dingles more remote, Or drifted from some ferny rise, The swooning of the golden throat Drops in the mellow dusk and dies.

A soft wind passes lightly drawn, A wave leaps silverly and stirs The rustling sedge, and then is gone Down the black cavern in the firs.


It would be sweet to think when we are old Of all the pleasant days that came to pass, That here we took the berries from the grass, There charmed the bees with pans, and smoke unrolled, And spread the melon nets when nights were cold, Or pulled the blood-root in the underbrush, And marked the ringing of the tawny thrush, While all the west was broken burning gold.

And so I bind with rhymes these memories; As girls press pansies in the poet’s leaves And find them afterwards with sweet surprise; Or treasure petals mingled with perfume, Loosing them in the days when April grieves,-- A subtle summer in the rainy room.


Wind of the gentle summer night, Dwell in the lilac tree, Sway the blossoms clustered light, Then blow over to me.

Wind, you are sometimes strong and great, You frighten the ships at sea, Now come floating your delicate freight Out of the lilac tree.

Wind, you must waver a gossamer sail To ferry a scent so light, Will you carry my love a message as frail Through the hawk-haunted night?

For my heart is sometimes strange and wild, Bitter and bold and free, I scare the beautiful timid child, As you frighten the ships at sea;

But now when the hawks are piercing the air, With the golden stars above, The only thing my heart can bear Is a lilac message of love.

Gentle wind, will you carry this Up to her window white; Give her a gentle tender kiss, Bid her good-night--good-night.


My heart would need the earth, My voice would need the sea, To only tell the one half How dear you are to me.

And if I had the winds, The stars and the planets as well, I might tell the other half, Or perhaps I would try to tell.


The stars are in the ebon sky, Burning, gold, alone; The wind roars over the rolling earth, Like water over a stone.

We are like things in a river-bed The stream runs over, They see the iris, and arrowhead, Anemone, and clover.

But they cannot touch the shining things, For all their strife, For the strong river swirls and swings-- And that is much like life.

For life is a plunging and heavy stream, And there’s something bright above; But the ills of breathing only seem, When we know the light is love.

The stars are in the ebon sky, Burning, gold, alone; The wind roars over the rolling earth, Like water over a stone.



The night wind moves the gloom In the shadowy basswood; Mysteriously the leaves sway and sing; So slow, so tender is the wind, The slender elm-tree Is hardly stirred.

The sky is veiled with clouds, With diaphanous tissue; Through their dissolving films The stars shine, But how infinitely removed; How inaccessible!

In the distant city Under the obscure towers The lights of watchers gleam; From the dim fields At intervals in the silence A cuckoo utters A distorted cry; Through the low woods, Haunted with vain melancholy, A whip-poor-will wanders, Forcing his monotonous song.

All the ancient desire Of the human spirit Has returned upon me in this hour, All the wild longing That cannot be satisfied. Break, O anguish of nature, Into some glorious sound! Let me touch the next circle of being, For I have compassed this life.


The wave is over the foaming reef Leaping alive in the sun, Seaward the opal sails are blown Vanishing one by one.

’Tis leagues around the blue sea curve To the sunny coast of Spain, And the ships that sail so deftly out May never come home again.

A mist is wreathed round Richmond point, There’s a shadow on the land, But the sea is in the splendid sun, Plunging so careless and grand.

The sandpipers trip on the glassy beach, Ready to mount and fly; Whenever a ripple reaches their feet They rise with a timorous cry.

Take care, they pipe, take care, take care, For this is the treacherous main, And though you may sail so deftly out, You may never come home again.



Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble, Brimmed with silver lie the ruts, Purple the ploughed hill; Down a sluice with break and bubble Hollow falls the rill; Falls and spreads and searches, Where, beyond the wood, Starts a group of silver birches, Bursting into bud.

Under Venus sings the vesper sparrow, Down a path of rosy gold Floats the slender moon; Ringing from the rounded barrow Rolls the robin’s tune; Lighter than the robin; hark! Quivering silver-strong From the field a hidden shore-lark Shakes his sparkling song.

Now the dewy sounds begin to dwindle, Dimmer grow the burnished rills, Breezes creep and halt, Soon the guardian night shall kindle In the violet vault, All the twinkling tapers Touched with steady gold, Burning through the lawny vapours Where they float and fold.



Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim, On the lowlands where sedges chaff and nod; The withered fringes of the golden-rod Hang frayed and formless at the quarry’s rim. Filled with the wine of sunset to the brim, These limestone pits are cups for the night god, Set for his lips when he strays hither, shod With shadows, all the stars following him. And as gloom grows and deepens like a psalm, This broken field which summer has passed by Has caught the ultimate lethean calm, The fabulous quiet of far Thessaly, And though the land has lost the bloom and balm, Nature is all content in liberty.


Come, O thou conqueror of the flying year; Come from thy fastness of the Arctic suns; Mass on the purple waste and wide frontier Thy wanish hosts and silver clarions.

Then heap this sombre shoulder of the world With shifting bastions; let thy storm winds blare; Drift wide thy pallid gonfalon unfurled; And arm with daggers all the desperate air.

These are but raids in dreams, and friendly brawls; Thou art a gentle giant that half sleeps, And blusters grandly to his frozen thralls, The more to charm them with the wealth he keeps:

We hardly hear thy bluff and hearty word, When over the first flower sings the first bird.


Come, O thou season of intense repose; Come with thy lidded eyes and crystal breath; Come gently with thy soft release of snows; And bring thy few short months of tender death.

Build a huge tomb within the desert frore, With green clear chambers in the icy rift, Carve the sleep rune above the crystal door, And trench a legend in the pallid drift.

Let the large stars about the horizon lie, Watching the confines of the world’s great sleep; Spread the vast province of the purple sky, With thy wan curtains dropped from deep to deep.

Then hush the stir and bid the movement cease; Pass gently, leave the tired world in peace.


Let your soul grow a thing apart, Untroubled by the restless day, Sublimed by some unconscious art, Controlled by some divine delay.

For life is greater than they think, Who fret along its shallow bars: Swing out the boom to float or sink And front the ocean and the stars.


Last night a storm fell on the world From heights of drouth and heat, The surly clouds for weeks were furled, The air could only sway and beat,

The beetles clattered at the blind, The hawks fell twanging from the sky, The west unrolled a feathery wind, And the night fell sullenly.

The storm leaped roaring from its lair, Like the shadow of doom, The poignard lightning searched the air, The thunder ripped the shattered gloom,

The rain came down with a roar like fire, Full-voiced and clamorous and deep, The weary world had its heart’s desire, And fell asleep.

And now in the morning early, The clouds are sailing by Clearly, oh! so clearly, The distant mountains lie.

The wind is very mild and slow, The clouds obey his will, They part and part and onward go, Travelling together still.

’Tis very sweet to be alive, On a morning that’s so fair, For nothing seems to stir or strive, In the unconscious air.

A tawny thrush is in the wood, Ringing so wild and free; Only one bird has a blither mood, The white-throat on the tree.


I thought of death beside the lonely sea, That went beyond the limit of my sight, Seeming the image of his mastery, The semblance of his huge and gloomy might.

But firm beneath the sea went the great earth, With sober bulk and adamantine hold, The water but a mantle for her girth, That played about her splendour fold on fold.

And life seemed like this dear familiar shore, That stretched from the wet sands’ last wavy crease, Beneath the sea’s remote and sombre roar, To inland stillness and the wilds of peace.

Death seems triumphant only here and there; Life is the sovereign presence everywhere.



This is the acre of unfathomed rest, These stones, with weed and lichen bound, enclose No active grief, no uncompleted woes, But only finished work and harboured quest, And balm for ills; And the last gold that smote the ashen west Lies garnered here between the harvest hills.

This spot has never known the heat of toil, Save when the angel with the mighty spade Has turned the sod and built the house of shade; But here old chance is guardian of the soil; Green leaf and grey, The barrows blossom with the tangled spoil, And God’s own weeds are fair in God’s own way.

Sweet flowers may gather in the ferny wood: Hepaticas, the morning stars of spring; The bloodroots with their milder ministering, Like planets in the lonelier solitude; And that white throng, Which shakes the dingles with a starry brood, And tells the robin his forgotten song.

These flowers may rise amid the dewy fern, They may not root within this antique wall, The dead have chosen for their coronal, No buds that flaunt of life and flare and burn; They have agreed, To choose a beauty puritan and stern, The universal grass, the homely weed.

This is the paradise of common things, The scourged and trampled here find peace to grow, The frost to furrow and the wind to sow, The mighty sun to time their blossomings; And now they keep A crown reflowering on the tombs of kings, Who earned their triumph and have claimed their sleep.

Yea, each is here a prince in his own right, Who dwelt disguised amid the multitude, And when his time was come, in haughty mood, Shook off his motley and reclaimed his might; His sombre throne In the vast province of perpetual night, He holds secure, inviolate, alone.

The poor forgets that ever he was poor, The priest has lost his science of the truth, The maid her beauty, and the youth his youth, The statesman has forgot his subtle lure, The old his age, The sick his suffering, and the leech his cure, The poet his perplexed and vacant page.

These swains that tilled the uplands in the sun Have all forgot the field’s familiar face, And lie content within this ancient place, Whereto when hands were tired their thought would run To dream of rest, When the last furrow was turned down, and won The last harsh harvest from the earth’s patient breast.

O dwellers in the valley vast and fair, I would that calling from your tranquil clime, You make a truce for me with cruel time; For I am weary of this eager care That never dies; I would be born into your tranquil air, Your deserts crowned and sovereign silences.

I would, but that the world is beautiful, And I am more in love with the sliding years, They have not brought me frantic joy or tears, But only moderate state and temperate rule; Not to forget This quiet beauty, not to be Time’s fool, I will be man a little longer yet.

For lo, what beauty crowns the harvest hills!-- The buckwheat acres gleam like silver shields; The oats hang tarnished in the golden fields; Between the elms the yellow wheat-land fills; The apples drop Within the orchard, where the red tree spills, The fragrant fruitage over branch and prop.

The cows go lowing through the lovely vale; The clarion peacock warns the world of rain, Perched on the barn a gaudy weather-vane; The farm lad holloes from the shifted rail, Along the grove He beats a measure on his ringing pail, And sings the heart-song of his early love.

There is a honey scent along the air; The hermit thrush has tuned his fleeting note. Among the silver birches far remote His spirit voice appeareth here and there, To fail and fade, A visionary cadence falling fair, That lifts and lingers in the hollow shade.

And now a spirit in the east, unseen, Raises the moon above her misty eyes, And travels up the veiled and starless skies, Viewing the quietude of her demesne; Stainless and slow, I watch the lustre of her planet’s sheen, From burnished gold to liquid silver flow.

And now I leave the dead with you, O night; You wear the semblance of their fathomless state, For you we long when the day’s fire is great, And when stern life is cruellest in his might, Of death we dream: A country of dim plain and shadowy height, Crowned with strange stars and silences supreme:

Rest here, for day is hot to follow you, Rest here until the morning star has come, Until is risen aloft dawn’s rosy dome, Based deep on buried crimson into blue, And morn’s desire Has made the fragile cobweb drenched with dew A net of opals veiled with dreamy fire.


I have done, Put by the lute; Songs and singing soon are over, Soon as airy shades that hover Up above the purple clover-- I have done, put by the lute. Once I sang as early thrushes Sing about the dewy bushes, Now I’m mute; I am like a weary linnet, For my throat has no song in it, I have had my singing minute. I have done, Put by the lute.


In her chamber, wheresoe’er Time shall build the walls of it, Melodies shall minister, Mellow sounds shall flit Through a dusk of musk and myrrh.

Lingering in the spaces vague, Like the breath within a flute, Winds shall move along the stair; When she walketh mute Music meet shall greet her there.

Time shall make a truce with Time, All the languid dials tell Irised hours of gossamer, Eve perpetual Shall the night or light defer.

From her casement she shall see Down a valley wild and dim, Swart with woods of pine and fir; Shall the sunsets swim Red with untold gold to her.

From her terrace she shall see Lines of birds like dusky motes Falling in the heated glare; How an eagle floats In the wan unconscious air.

From her turret she shall see Vision of a cloudy place, Like a group of opal flowers On the verge of space, Or a town, or crown of towers.

From her garden she shall hear Fall the cones between the pines; She shall seem to hear the sea, Or behind the vines Some small noise, a voice may be.

But no thing shall habit there, There no human foot shall fall, No sweet word the silence stir, Naught her name shall call, Nothing come to comfort her.

But about the middle night, When the dusk is loathéd most, Ancient thoughts and words long said, Like an alien host, There shall come unsummonéd.

With her forehead on her wrist She shall lean against the wall And see all the dream go by; In the interval Time shall turn Eternity.

But the agony shall pass-- Fainting with unuttered prayer, She shall see the world’s outlines And the weary glare And the bare unvaried pines.



The lady Lillian knelt upon the sward, Between the arbour and the almond leaves; Beyond, the barley gathered into sheaves; A blade of gladiolus, like a sword, Flamed fierce against the gold; and down toward The limpid west, a pallid poplar wove A spell of shadow; through the meadow drove A deep unbroken brook without a ford.

A fountain flung and poised a golden ball; On the soft grass a frosted serpent lay, With oval spots of opal over all; Upon the basin’s edge within the spray, Lulled by some craft of laughter in the fall, An ancient crow dreamed hours and hours away.


The lady watched the serpent and the crow For days, then came a little naked lad, And smote the serpent with a spear he had; Then stooped and caught the coil, and straining slow, Took the lithe weight upon his shoulder, so, And tugged, but could not move the ponderous thing, Then flushing red with rage, his spear did fling, And cut the gladiolus at one blow.

Then back he swung his flaming weapon high, And smote the snake and called a magic name; Then the whole garden vanished utterly, And through a mist the lightning went and came, And flooded all the caverns of the sky, A rosy gulf of unimprisoned flame.


There’s a town where shadows run In the sparkle and the blue, By the river and the sun Swept and flooded thro’ and thro’.

There the sailor trolls a song, There the sea-gull dips her wing, There the wind is clear and strong, There the waters break and swing.

But at night with leaden sweep Come the clouds along the flood, Lifting in the vaulted deep Pinions of a giant brood.

Charging by the slip, the whole River rushes black and sheer, There the great fish heave and roll In the gloom beyond the pier.

All the lonely hollow town Towers above the windy quay, And the ancient tide goes down With its secret to the sea.


The moon, Capella, and the Pleiades Silver the river’s grey uncertain floor; Only a heron haunts the grassy shore; A fox barks sharply in the cedar trees; Then comes the lift and lull of plangent seas, Swaying the light marish grasses more and more Until they float, and the slow tide brims o’er, And then a rivulet runs along the breeze.

O night! thou art so beautiful, so strange, so sad; I feel that sense of scope and ancientness, Of all the mighty empires thou hast had Dreaming of power beneath thy palace dome, Of how thou art untouched by their distress, Supreme above this dreaming land, my home.


TO M. E. S.

The bay is set with ashy sails, With purple shades that fade and flee, And curling by in silver wales, The tide is straining from the sea.

The grassy points are slowly drowned, The water laps and over-rolls, The wicker pêche; with shallow sound A light wave labours on the shoals.

The crows are feeding in the foam, They rise in crowds tumultuously, ‘Come home,’ they cry, ‘come home, come home, And leave the marshes to the sea.’


I rested on the breezy height, In cooler shade and clearer air, Beneath a maple tree; Below, the mighty river took Its sparkling shade and sheeny light Down to the sombre sea, And clustered by the leaping brook, The roofs of white St. Irénée.

The sapphire hills on either hand Broke down upon the silver tide, The river ran in streams, In streams of mingled azure-grey, With here a broken purple band, And whorls of drab, and beams Of shattered silver light astray, Where far away the south shore gleams.

I walked a mile along the height Between the flowers upon the road, Asters and golden-rod; And in the gardens pinks and stocks, And gaudy poppies shaking light, And daisies blooming near the sod, And lowly pansies set in flocks, With purple monkshood overawed.

And there I saw a little child Between the tossing golden-rod, Coming along to me; She was a tender little thing, So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild, I thought her name Marie; No other name methought could cling To any one so fair as she.

And when we came at last to meet, I spoke a simple word to her, ‘Where are you going, Marie?’ She answered and she did not smile,

But oh! her voice,--her voice so sweet, ‘Down to St. Irénée,’ And so passed on to walk her mile, And left the lonely road to me.

And as the night came on apace, With stars above the darkened hills, I heard perpetually, Chiming along the falling hours, On the deep dusk that mellow phrase, ‘Down to St. Irénée:’ It seemed as if the stars and flowers Should all go there with me.


When April moved in maiden guise Hiding her sweet inviolate eyes, You saw about the hazel roots, Beyond the ruddy osier shoots, The violets rise.

At even, in the lower woods, Amid the cedarn solitudes, You heard afar amid the hush The argent utterance of the thrush In slower interludes.

When bees above in arboured rooms Were busy in the basswood blooms, You drowsed within the sombre drone, Dreaming, and deemed yourself alone, Harboured in glooms.

The singing of the sentient bees Brought wisdom for perplexities; They taught you all the murmured lore Of seas around an ancient shore, Of streams and trees.

You saw the web of life unrolled, Fold and inweave, weave and unfold, Crimson and azure strand on strand, From some great gulf in vision-land, Deep and untold.

And as the soft clouds opal-gray Against the confines of the day Seem lighter for the depth of skies, So, lighter for your saddened eyes, Your fair thoughts stray.

I pluck a bunch before the spring, Of field-flowers reflowering, Upon a fell that fancy weaves, A memory lingers in their leaves Of songs you sing.

You must have rested here sometime, When thought was high and words in chime, Your seed thoughts left for sun and showers Have blossomed into pleasant flowers, Instead of rhyme.

And so I bring them back to you, These pensile buds of tender hue, Of crimson, pink and purple sheen, Of yellow deep, and delicate green, Of white and blue.


O ship incoming from the sea With all your cloudy tower of sail, Dashing the water to the lee, And leaning grandly to the gale;

The sunset pageant in the west Has filled your canvas curves with rose, And jewelled every toppling crest That crashes into silver snows!

You know the joy of coming home, After long leagues to France or Spain; You feel the clear Canadian foam And the gulf water heave again.

Between these sombre purple hills That cool the sunset’s molten bars, You will go on as the wind wills, Beneath the river’s roof of stars.

You will toss onward toward the lights That spangle over the lonely pier, By hamlets glimmering on the heights, By level islands black and clear.

You will go on beyond the tide, Through brimming plains of olive sedge, Through paler shallows light and wide, The rapids piled along the ledge.

At evening off some reedy bay You will swing slowly on your chain, And catch the scent of dewy hay, Soft blowing from the pleasant plain.


TO W. W. C.

You had two girls--Baptiste-- One is Virginie-- Hold hard--Baptiste! Listen to me.

The whole drive was jammed In that bend at the Cedars, The rapids were dammed With the logs tight rammed And crammed; you might know The Devil had clinched them below.

We worked three days--not a budge, ‘She’s as tight as a wedge, on the ledge,’ Says our foreman; ‘Mon Dieu! boys, look here, We must get this thing clear.’

He cursed at the men And we went for it then; With our cant-dogs arow, We just gave he-yo-ho; When she gave a big shove From above.

The gang yelled and tore For the shore, The logs gave a grind Like a wolf’s jaws behind, And as quick as a flash, With a shove and a crash, They were down in a mash, But I and ten more, All but Isaac Dufour, Were ashore.

He leaped on a log in the front of the rush, And shot out from the bind While the jam roared behind; As he floated along He balanced his pole And tossed us a song. But just as we cheered, Up darted a log from the bottom, Leaped thirty feet square and fair, And came down on his own.

He went up like a block With the shock, And when he was there In the air, Kissed his hand To the land; When he dropped My heart stopped, For the first logs had caught him And crushed him; When he rose in his place There was blood on his face.

There were some girls, Baptiste, Picking berries on the hillside, Where the river curls, Baptiste, You know--on the still side One was down by the water, She saw Isaac Fall back.

She did not scream, Baptiste, She launched her canoe; It did seem, Baptiste, That she wanted to die too, For before you could think The birch cracked like a shell In that rush of hell, And I saw them both sink--

Baptiste!-- He had two girls, One is Virginie, What God calls the other Is not known to me.


I hear the bells at eventide Peal slowly one by one, Near and far off they break and glide, Across the stream float faintly beautiful The antiphonal bells of Hull; The day is done, done, done, The day is done.

The dew has gathered in the flowers, Lake tears from some unconscious deep: The swallows whirl around the towers, The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars, And leaves the single stars; ’Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep, ’Tis time for sleep.

The hermit thrush begins again,-- Timorous eremite-- That song of risen tears and pain, As if the one he loved was far away: ‘Alas! another day--’ ‘And now Good Night, Good Night,’ ‘Good Night.’


TO B. C.

By a dim shore where water darkening Took the last light of spring, I went beyond the tumult, hearkening For some diviner thing.

Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves, Over the ebon pool Brooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grieves Lands ancient, bountiful.

I saw the fireflies shine below the wood, Above the shallows dank, As Uriel from some great altitude, The planets rank on rank.

And now unseen along the shrouded mead One went under the hill; He blew a cadence on his mellow reed, That trembled and was still.

It seemed as if a line of amber fire Had shot the gathered dusk, As if had blown a wind from ancient Tyre Laden with myrrh and musk.

He gave his luring note amid the fern; Its enigmatic fall Haunted the hollow dusk with golden turn And argent interval.

I could not know the message that he bore, The springs of life from me Hidden; his incommunicable lore As much a mystery.

And as I followed far the magic player He passed the maple wood, And when I passed the stars had risen there, And there was solitude.


TO C. G. D. R.

Over the field the bright air clings and tingles, In the gold sunset while the red wind swoops; Upon the nibbled knolls and from the dingles, The sheep are gathering in frightened groups.

From the wide field the laggards bleat and follow, A drover hurls his cry and hooting laugh; And one young swain, too glad to whoop or hollo, Is singing wildly as he whirls his staff.

Now crowding into little groups and eddies They swirl about and charge and try to pass; The sheep-dog yelps and heads them off and steadies And rounds and moulds them in a seething mass.

They stand a moment with their heads uplifted Till the wise dog barks loudly on the flank, They all at once roll over and are drifted Down the small hill toward the river bank.

Covered with rusty marks and purple blotches Around the fallen bars they flow and leap; The wary dog stands by and keenly watches As if he knew the name of every sheep.

Now down the road the nimble sound decreases, The drovers cry, the dog delays and whines, And now with twinkling feet and glimmering fleeces They round and vanish past the dusky pines.

The drove is gone, the ruddy wind grows colder, The singing youth puts up the heavy bars, Beyond the pines he sees the crimson smoulder, And catches in his eyes the early stars.


All her hair is softly set, Like a misty coronet, Massing darkly on her brow, Like the pines above the snow; And her eyebrows lightly drawn, Slender clouds above the dawn, Or like ferns above her eyes, Ferns and pools in Paradise.

Her sweet mouth is like a flower, Like a poppy full of power, Shaken light and crimson stain, Pressed together by the rain, Glowing liquid in the sun, When the rain is done.

When she moves, her motionings Seem to shadow hidden wings; So the cuckoo going to light Takes a little further flight, Fluttering onward, poised there, Half in grass and half in air.

When she speaks, her girlish voice Makes a very pleasant noise, Like a brook that hums along Under leaves an undersong: When she sings, her voice is clear, Like the waters swerving sheer, In the sunlight magical, Down a ringing fall.

Here her spirit came to dwell From the passionate Israfel; One of those great songs of his Rounded to a soul like this; And when she seems so strange at even, He must be singing in the heaven; When she wears that charméd smile, Listening, listening all the while, She is stirred with kindred things, Starry fire and sweeping wings, And the seraph’s sobbing strings.


Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes, A tender touch on either lid; They cover, as a cloud, the skies Where like a star your soul lies hid.

My love is like a fire that flows, This touch will leave a tiny scar, I’ll claim you by it for my rose, My rose, my own, where’er you are.

And when you bind your hair, and when You lie within your silken nest, This kiss will visit you again, You will not rest, my love, you will not rest.



The field pools gathered into frosted lace; An icy glitter lined the iron ruts, And bound the circle of the musk-rat huts; A junco flashed about a sunny space Where rose stems made a golden amber grace; Between the dusky alders’ woven ranks, A stream thought yet about his summer banks, And made an August music in the place.

Along the horizon’s faded shrunken lines, Veiling the gloomy borders of the night, Hung the great snow clouds washed with pallid gold; And stealing from his covert in the pines, The wind, encouraged to a stinging flight, Dropped in the hollow conquered by the cold.


Then a light cloud rose up for hardihood, Trailing a veil of snow that whirled and broke, Blown softly like a shroud of steam or smoke, Sallied across a knoll where maples stood, Charged over broken country for a rood, Then seeing the night withdrew his force and fled, Leaving the ground with snow-flakes thinly spread, And traces of the skirmish in the wood.

The stars sprang out and flashed serenely near, The solid frost came down with might and main, It set the rivers under bolt and bar; Bang! went the starting eaves beneath the strain, And e’er Orion saw the morning-star The winter was the master of the year.


TO J. A. R.

The ruddy sunset lies Banked along the west; In flocks with sweep and rise The birds are going to rest.

The air clings and cools, And the reeds look cold, Standing above the pools, Like rods of beaten gold.

The flaunting golden-rod Has lost her worldly mood, She’s given herself to God, And taken a nun’s hood.

The wild and wanton horde, That kept the summer revel, Have taken the serge and cord, And given the slip to the Devil.

The winter’s loose somewhere, Gathering snow for a fight; From the feel of the air I think it will freeze to-night.


Touched with some divine repose, Isabelle has fallen asleep, Like the perfume from the rose In and out her breathings creep.

Dewy are her rosy palms, In her cheek the flushes flit, And a dream her spirit calms With the pleasant thought of it.

All the rounded heavens show Like the concave of a pearl, Stars amid the opal glow Little fronds of flame unfurl.

Then upfloats a planet strange, Not the moon that mortals know, With a magic mountain range, Cones and craters white as snow;

Something different yet the same-- Rain by rainbows glorified, Roses lit with lambent flame-- ’Tis the maid moon’s other side.

When the sleeper floats from sleep, She will smile the vision o’er, See the veinéd valleys deep, No one ever saw before.

Yet the moon is not betrayed, (Ah! the subtle Isabelle!) She’s a maiden, and a maid Maiden secrets will not tell.


The world is heated seven times, The sky is close above the lawn, An oven when the coals are drawn.

There is no stir of air at all, Only at times an inward breeze Turns back a pale leaf in the trees.

Here the syringa’s rich perfume Covers the tulip’s red retreat, A burning pool of scent and heat.

The pallid lightning wavers dim Between the trees, then deep and dense The darkness settles more intense.

A hawk lies panting in the grass, Or plunges upward through the air, The lightning shows him whirling there.

A bird calls madly from the eaves. Then stops, the silence all at once Disturbed, falls dead again and stuns.

A redder lightning flits about, But in the north a storm is rolled That splits the gloom with vivid gold;

Dead silence, then a little sound, The distance chokes the thunder down, It shudders faintly in the town.

A fountain plashing in the dark Keeps up a mimic dropping strain; Ah! God, if it were really rain!


I see a schooner in the bay Cutting the current into foam; One day she flies and then one day Comes like a swallow veering home.

I hear a water miles away Go sobbing down the wooded glen; One day it lulls and then one day Comes sobbing on the wind again.

Remembrance goes but will not stay; That cry of unpermitted pain One day departs and then one day Comes sobbing to my heart again.


Move not so lightly, Time, away, Grant us a breathing-space of tender ruth; Deal not so harshly with the flying day, Leave us the charm of spring, the touch of youth.

Leave us the lilacs wet with dew, Leave us the balsams odorous with rain, Leave us of frail hepaticas a few, Let the red osier sprout for us again.

Leave us the hazel thickets set Along the hills, leave us a month that yields The fragile bloodroot and the violet, Leave us the sorrage shimmering on the fields.

You offer us largess of power, You offer fame, we ask not these in sooth, These comfort age upon his failing hour, But oh, the charm of spring, the touch of youth!


An hour before the dawn I dreamed of you; Your spirit made a smile upon your face, As fleeting as the visionary grace That music lends to words; and when it flew, I thought of how the maid Francesca grew, So lovely at Ravenna, until Time Ripened the fruit of her immortal crime. As pure as light my vision took this hue To paint our sorrow: so your lips made moan; ‘Upon that day we read no more therein’: I wept, such tears Paolo might have known; And all the love, the immemorial pain, Swept down upon me as I felt begin, That furious circle rage and reel again.


I never trod where Leonardo was, Then why art thou within this house of dreams, Strange Lady? From thy face a memory streams, Of things, forgotten now, that came to pass; The flower of Milan floated in thy glass: Thy dreaming smile; thy subtle loveliness! Ah! laughter airier far than ours, I guess, Lighted thy brow, fleeter than fire in grass.

Yet, there is something fateful in thy face: Say, when the master caught it, didst thou know, Almost thy name would perish with thy grace, Thine artifices melt away like snow, And all the power within this painted space, Be his alone to hold and haunt us so?


There are no clouds above the world, But just a round of limpid grey, Barred here with nacreous lines unfurled, That seem to crown the autumnal day, With rings of silver chased and pearled.

The moistened leaves along the ground, Lie heavy in an aureate floor; The air is lingering in a swound; Afar from some enchanted shore, Silence has blown instead of sound.

The trees all flushed with tender pink Are floating in the liquid air, Each twig appears a shadowy link, To keep the branches mooréd there, Lest all might drift or sway and sink.

This world might be a valley low, In some lost ocean grey and old, Where sea-plants film the silver flow, Where waters swing above the gold Of galleons sunken long ago.


City about whose brow the north winds blow, Girdled with woods and shod with river foam, Called by a name as old as Troy or Rome, Be great as they, but pure as thine own snow; Rather flash up amid the auroral glow, The Lamia city of the northern star, Than be so hard with craft or wild with war, Peopled with deeds remembered for their woe.

Thou art too bright for guile, too young for tears, And thou wilt live to be too strong for Time; For he may mock thee with his furrowed frowns, But thou wilt grow in calm throughout the years, Cinctured with peace and crowned with power sublime, The maiden queen of all the towered towns.


Here’s the last rose, And the end of June, With the tulips gone And the lilacs strewn; A light wind blows From the golden west, The bird is charmed To her secret nest: Here’s the last rose-- In the violet sky A great star shines, The gnats are drawn To the purple pines; On the magic lawn A shadow flows From the summer moon: Here’s the last rose, And the end of the tune.


Here in the pine shade is the nest of night, Lined deep with shadows, odorous and dim, And here he stays his sweeping flight, Here where the strongest wind is lulled for him, He lingers brooding until dawn, While all the trembling stars move on and on.

Under the cliff there drops a lonely fall, Deep and half heard its thunder lifts and booms; Afar the loons with eerie call Haunt all the bays, and breaking through the glooms Upfloats that cry of light despair, As if a demon laughed upon the air.

A raven croaks from out his ebon sleep, When a brown cone falls near him through the dark; And when the radiant meteors sweep Afar within the larches wakes the lark; The wind moves on the cedar hill, Tossing the weird cry of the whip-poor-will.

Sometimes a titan wind, slumbrous and hushed, Takes the dark grove within his swinging power; And like a cradle softly pushed, The shade sways slowly for a lulling hour; While through the cavern sweeps a cry, A Sibyl with her secret prophecy.

When morning lifts its fragile silver dome, And the first eagle takes the lonely air, Up from his dense and sombre home The night sweeps out, a tireless wayfarer, Leaving within the shadows deep, The haunting mood and magic of his sleep.

And so we cannot come within this grove, But all the quiet dusk remembrance brings Of ancient sorrow and of hapless love, Fate, and the dream of power, and piercing things Traces of mystery and might, The passion-sadness of the soul of night.


At eve the fiery sun went forth Flooding the clouds with ruby blood, Up roared a war-wind from the north And crashed at midnight through the wood.

The demons danced about the trees, The snow slipped singing over the wold, And ever when the wind would cease A lynx cried out within the cold.

A spirit walked the ringing rooms, Passing the locked and secret door, Heavy with divers ancient dooms, With dreams dead laden to the core.

‘Spirit, thou art too deep with woe, I have no harbour place for thee, Leave me to lesser griefs, and go, Go with the great wind to the sea.’

I faltered like a frightened child, That fears its nurse’s fairy brood, And as I spoke, I heard the wild Wind plunging through the shattered wood.

‘Hast thou betrayed the rest of kings, With tragic fears and spectres wan, My dreams are lit with purer things, With humbler ghosts, begone, begone.’

The noisy dark was deaf and blind, Still the strange spirit strayed or stood, And I could only hear the wind Go roaring through the riven wood.

‘Art thou the fate for some wild heart, That scorned his cavern’s curve and bars, That leaped the bounds of time and art, And lost thee lingering near the stars?’

It was so still I heard my thought, Even the wind was very still, The desolate deeper silence brought The lynx-moan from the lonely hill.

‘Art thou the thing I might have been, If all the dead had known control, Risen through the ages’ trembling sheen, A mirage of my desert soul?’

The wind rushed down the roof in wrath, Then shrieked and held its breath and stood, Like one who finds beside his path, A dead girl in the marish wood.

‘Or have I ceased, as those who die And leave the broken word unsaid, Art thou the spirit ministry That hovers round the newly dead?’

The auroras rose in solitude, And wanly paled within the room, The window showed an ebon rood, Upon the blanched and ashen gloom.

I heard a voice within the dark, That answered not my idle word, I could not choose but pause and hark, It was so magically stirred.

It grew within the quiet hour, With the rose shadows on the wall, It had a touch of ancient power, A wild and elemental fall;

Its rapture had a dreaming close: The dawn grew slowly on the wold, Spreading in fragile veils of rose, In tender lines of lemon-gold.

The world was turning into light, Was sweeping into life and peace, And folded in the fading night, I felt the dawning sink and cease.


The morns are grey with haze and faintly cold, The early sunsets arc the west with red; The stars are misty silver overhead, Above the dawn Orion lies outrolled. Now all the slopes are slowly growing gold, And in the dales a deeper silence dwells; The crickets mourn with funeral flutes and bells, For days before the summer had grown old.

Now the night-gloom with hurrying wings is stirred, Strangely the comrade pipings rise and sink, The birds are following in the pathless dark The footsteps of the pilgrim summer. Hark! Was that the redstart or the bobolink? That lonely cry the summer-hearted bird?


TO E. W.

Come hither, Care, and look on this fair place, But leave your gossip and your puckered face Beyond that flowering carrot in the glow, Where the red poppies in the orchard blow, And come with gentle feet; the last thing there Was a white butterfly upon the air, And even now a thrush was in the grass, To feel the sovereign water slowly pass. This pool is quiet as oblivion, Hidden securely from the flooding sun; Its crystal placid surface here receives The wan grey under light of the willow leaves; And shy things brood about the grass unheard; Only in sunny distance sings the bird. O Time long dead, O days reclaimed and done, Thou broughtest joy and tears to every one, And here by this deep pool thou wast not slow, To deal a maiden all her tender woe; Be kindlier to her now that she is dead, Let her charmed spirit visit this well-head More often, for at eve in honey-time, Drifting in silence from her ghostly clime, She haunts the pool about the willows pale: Be gentle, for my feeling art may fail, I’ll freshen sorrow and retell her tale.

She was a fragile daughter of the earth, And touched with faery from her fatal birth; For many summers she was hardly shy, Not clouded with her hovering destiny, But only wild as any woodland thing, That comes at even to a trodden spring; And scarce she seemed of any settled mood, That lights the peaceful hills of maidenhood, But shifted strangely on the whimsy air, Not quiet nor contented anywhere. She gathered sunshine in an earthen cruse, And thought to keep it for her own sweet use; Or fluttered flowers from her window high, And wept upon them when they would not fly; And when she found the brownish mignonette Had blossomed where a little seed was set, She planted her rag playmate in the sun, Because she wanted yet another one; And when she heard the enraptured sparrow sing, She clamoured for a song from everything. For many years she was as strange and free, As a pine linnet in a cedar tree. Her folk thought: She is very wild and odd, But she is good, we’ll wait and trust in God. O love, that watched the weird and charméd child, Change from her airy fancies sweet and mild, Like a blue brook that clears a meadow spring, And threads the barley where the bobolinks sing, Then wimples by the roots of dusky firs, And gathers darkness in those deeps of hers, Then makes an arrowy movement through a pass, Where rocks are crannied with the clinging grass, Then falls, almost dissolved in silver rain, She gathers deeply to a pool again; But something wild in her new spirit lies, She never can regain her limpid eyes: O love, alas! ’twas ever so to be, When streams set out to reach the bitter sea. It was a time within the early spring, Before the orchards had done blossoming, Before the kinglet on his northern search, Had ceased his timorous piping in the birch, When streams were bright before the coming leaves And gurgled like the swallows in the eaves, She wandered led by fancy to this place, And looked upon the water’s crystal face; She saw--what thing of beauty or of awe I know not, no one knoweth what she saw. But ever after she was constant here, As silent as her shadow in the mere, Sitting upon a stone which many feet Had grooved and trodden for the water sweet, And leaning gravely on her slanted arm, Her fingers buried in the gravel warm, She gazed and gazed and did not speak or sigh, As if this gazing was her destiny. They led her nightly from the magic pool, Before the shadows grew too deep and cool; They thought to win her from the liquid spell, And tried to tease the elfin maid to tell, What was the charm that led her to the spring; But all their words availed not anything. Then gazed they on the surface of the pool To read the reason of such subtle rule; Their eyes were overclouded, they could see (Who had drawn water there perpetually) Nothing but water in a depth serene, With a few moony stones of palish green. They thought perchance it was her face she saw And answered, beauty unto beauty’s law, But when they showed her image in a glass, She was not cured and nothing came to pass; So then they left her to her own strange will, And here she stayed when the fair pool was still. But when the wind would hurl the heavy rain, She peered out sadly from her window-pane; And when the night set wildly close and deep, She took her trouble down the dale of sleep: But when the night was warm and no dew fell, She waked and dreamed beside the starlit well.

Then came a change, each day some offering She laid beside the clear soft flowing spring; And there she found them at the break of morn, And everything would take away forlorn; Until beside the unconscious spring was laid Each treasure held most precious by a maid. After, she offered flowers and often set A bowlful of the pleasant mignonette, And starred the stones with the narcissus white, And pansies left athinking all the night, Then ruffled dewy dahlias, and at last, When sundown told the summer-time had passed, The stainéd asters; but from day to day, Sadly she took the untouched flowers away. With autumn and the sounding harvest flute, She brought her timid god the heavy fruit; But found it still and cool at early dawn, Beaded with dew upon the crispy lawn. At last one eve she placed an apple here, Smooth as a topaz and as golden clear, Scented like almonds, with a flesh like dew And luscious-sweet as honey through and through. She left it sadly on the sleepy lawn, But when she came again her apple gold was gone.

Day after day for days she mutely strove, Not to be separate from her placid love; Perchance she thought that, breaking through the spell, Her shadow-god, deep in the tranquil well, Had taken her last gift;--no man may know; Her fancies merged with all mute things that go The poppied path, dreams and desires foredone, The unplucked roses of oblivion. But now she searched for words that would express Something of all her spirit’s loneliness; And formed a liquid jargon, full of falls As weird and wild as ariel madrigals; Our human tongue was far too harsh for this, Or her slight spirit bore too great a bliss; But always grew she very faint and pale, Day after day her beauty grew more frail, More mute, more eerie, more ethereal; Her soul burned whitely in its waning shell.

Then came the winter with his frosty breath And made the world an image of white death, And like to death he found the charméd child; Yet could not kill her with his bluster wild. Only in his first days she went about, And sadly hearkened to his hearty shout; From windows where the wizard frost had traced Moth-wings of rime with silver ferns inlaced, She saw her pool set coldly in the drift, Where in the autumn she had left her gift, Capped with a cloud of silver steam or smoke, That hovered there whether she dreamed or woke; And often stealing from her early sleep, She watched the light cloud in the midnight deep, Waver and blow beneath the moon’s white globe, Shivering and whispering in her chilly robe. At last she would not look or speak at all, And turned her large eyes to the shaded wall. Now she is dead, they thought; but never so, She died not when the winter winds did blow; She was a spirit of the summer air, She would not vanish at the year’s despair.

At length the merry sun grew warm and high, And changed the wildwood with his alchemy; The violet reared her bell of drooping gold, And over her the robin chimed and trolled. When the first slender moon of May had come, That finds the blithe bird busy at his home, They missed the spirit maiden from the room, That now was sweet with light and spring perfume, And called her all the echoing afternoon; She answered not, but when the growing moon Went down the west with the last bird awing, They found her dead beside her darling spring.

This is her tale, her murmurous monument Flows softly where her fragile life was spent, Not grooved in brass nor trenched in pallid stone, But told by water to the reeds alone.

She cometh here sometimes on summer eves, Her quiet spirit lingers in the leaves, And while this spring flows on, and while the wands Sway in the moonlight, while in drifting bands, The thistledown blows gleaming in the air, And dappled thrushes haunt the precinct fair; She will return, she will return and lean Above the crystal in the covert green, And dream of beauty on the shadow flung Of irised distance when the world was young.

Let us be gone; this is no place for tears, Let us go slowly with the guardian years; Let us be brave, the day is almost done, Another setting of the pleasant sun.

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press.

* * * * *


MAY 1893.



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=Norris.= HIS GRACE. By W. E. NORRIS, Author of ‘Mademoiselle de Mersac,’ ‘The Rogue,’ etc. Third and Cheaper Edition. _Crown 8vo. 6s._


An edition in one volume of a novel which in its two volume form quickly ran through two editions.

=Pryce.= TIME AND THE WOMAN. By RICHARD PRYCE, Author of ‘Miss Maxwell’s Affections,’ ‘The Quiet Mrs. Fleming,’ etc. New and Cheaper Edition. _Crown 8vo. 6s._


Mr. Pryce’s work recalls the style of Octave Feuillet, by its clearness, conciseness, its literary reserve.’--_Athenæum._

=Dickenson.= A VICAR’S WIFE. By EVELYN DICKENSON. _Cheap Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._


=Prowse.= THE POISON OF ASPS. By R. ORTON PROWSE. _Cheap Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._


=Taylor.= THE KING’S FAVOURITE. By UNA TAYLOR. _Cheaper Edition. 1 vol. Crown 8vo. 6s._


A cheap edition of a novel whose style and beauty of thought attracted much attention.

=Baring Gould.= THE STORY OF KING OLAF. By S. BARING GOULD, author of ‘Mehalah,’ etc. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 6s._


A stirring story of Norway, written for boys by the author of ‘In the Roar of the Sea.’

=Cuthell.= TWO CHILDREN AND CHING. By Mrs. CUTHELL. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 6s._


Another story, with a dog hero, by the author of the very popular ‘Only a Guard-Room Dog.’

=Blake.= TODDLEBEN’S HERO. By M. BLAKE, author of ‘The Siege of Norwich Castle.’ With over 30 Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 5s._


A story of military life for children.


_Crown 8vo, Picture Boards._




ELECTRICAL SCIENCE. By GEORGE J. BURCH. With numerous Illustrations. 3_s._


AGRICULTURAL BOTANY. By M. C. POTTER. Copiously Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._


_Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d._


BACK TO THE LAND. By HAROLD E. MOORE, F.S.I., Author of ‘Hints on Land Improvements,’ ‘Agricultural Co-operation,’ etc.

New and Recent Books


=Rudyard Kipling.= BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS; And Other Verses. By RUDYARD KIPLING. _Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

A Special Presentation Edition, bound in white buckram, with extra gilt ornament. 7_s._ 6_d._

‘Mr. Kipling’s verse is strong, vivid, lull of character.... Unmistakable genius rings in every line.’--_Times._

‘The disreputable lingo of Cockayne is henceforth justified before the world; for a man of genius has taken it in hand, and has shown, beyond all cavilling, that in its way it also is a medium for literature. You are grateful, and you say to yourself, half in envy and half in admiration: “Here is a _book_; here, or one is a Dutchman, is one of the books of the year.”’--_National Observer._

‘“Barrack-Room Ballads” contains some of the best work that Mr. Kipling has ever done, which is saying a good deal. “Fuzzy-Wuzzy,” “Gunga Din,” and “Tommy,” are, in our opinion, altogether superior to anything of the kind that English literature has hitherto produced.’--_Athenæum._

‘These ballads are as wonderful in their descriptive power as they are vigorous in their dramatic force. There are few ballads in the English language more stirring than “The Ballad of East and West,” worthy to stand by the Border ballads of Scott.’--_Spectator._

‘The ballads teem with imagination, they palpitate with emotion. We read them with laughter and tears; the metres throb in our pulses, the cunningly ordered words tingle with life; and if this be not poetry, what is?’--_Pall Mall Gazette._

=Henley.= LYRA HEROICA: An Anthology selected from the best English Verse of the 16th, 17th, 18th, and 19th Centuries. By WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY, Author of ‘A Book of Verse,’ ‘Views and Reviews,’ etc. _Crown 8vo. Stamped gilt buckram, gilt top, edges uncut. 6s._

‘Mr. Henley has brought to the task of selection an instinct alike for poetry and for chivalry which seems to us quite wonderfully, and even unerringly, right.’--_Guardian._

=Tomson.= A SUMMER NIGHT, AND OTHER POEMS. By GRAHAM R. TOMSON. With Frontispiece by A. TOMSON. _Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Also an edition on handmade paper, limited to 50 copies. _Large crown 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._

‘Mrs. Tomson holds perhaps the very highest rank among poetesses of English birth. This selection will help her reputation.’--_Black and White._

=Ibsen.= BRAND. A Drama by HENRIK IBSEN. Translated by WILLIAM WILSON. _Crown 8vo. 5s._

‘The greatest world-poem of the nineteenth century next to “Faust.” “Brand” will have an astonishing interest for Englishmen. It is in the same set with “Agamemnon,” with “Lear,” with the literature that we now instinctively regard as high and holy.’--_Daily Chronicle._

“=Q.=” GREEN BAYS: Verses and Parodies. By “Q.,” Author of ‘Dead Man’s Rock’ etc. _Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

‘The verses display a rare and versatile gift of parody, great command of metre, and a very pretty turn of humour.’--_Times._

“=A. G.=” VERSES TO ORDER. By “A. G.” _Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt top. 2s. 6d. net._

A small volume of verse by a writer whose initials are well known to Oxford men.

‘A capital specimen of light academic poetry. These verses are very bright and engaging, easy and sufficiently witty.’--_St. James’s Gazette._

=Langbridge.= A CRACKED FIDDLE. Being Selections from the Poems of FREDERIC LANGBRIDGE. With Portrait. _Crown 8vo. 5s._

=Langbridge.= BALLADS OF THE BRAVE: Poems of Chivalry, Enterprise, Courage, and Constancy, from the Earliest Times to the Present Day. Edited, with Notes, by Rev. F. LANGBRIDGE. _Crown 8vo. Buckram 3s. 6d._ School Edition, 2_s._ 6_d._

‘A very happy conception happily carried out. These “Ballads of the Brave” are intended to suit the real tastes of boys, and will suit the taste of the great majority.’--_Spectator._

‘The book is full of splendid things.’--_World._

History and Biography

=Gladstone.= THE SPEECHES AND PUBLIC ADDRESSES OF THE RT. HON. W. E. GLADSTONE, M.P. With Notes and Introductions. Edited by A. W. HUTTON, M. A. (Librarian of the Gladstone Library), and H. J. COHEN, M.A. With Portraits. _8vo. Vol. X. 12s. 6d._

=Russell.= THE LIFE OF ADMIRAL LORD COLLINGWOOD. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of ‘The Wreck of the Grosvenor.’ With Illustrations by F. BRANGWYN. _8vo. 15s._

‘A really good book.’--_Saturday Review._

‘A most excellent and wholesome book, which we should like to see in the hands of every boy in the country.’--_St. James’s Gazette._

=Clark.= THE COLLEGES OF OXFORD: Their History and their Traditions. By Members of the University. Edited by A. CLARK, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Lincoln College. _8vo. 12s. 6d._

‘Whether the reader approaches the book as a patriotic member of a college, as an antiquary, or as a student of the organic growth of college foundation, it will amply reward his attention.’--_Times._

‘A delightful book, learned and lively.’--_Academy._

‘A work which will certainly be appealed to for many years as the standard book on the Colleges of Oxford.’--_Athenæum._

=Hulton.= RIXAE OXONIENSES: An Account of the Battles of the Nations, The Struggle between Town and Gown, etc. By S. F. HULTON, M.A. _Crown 8vo. 5s._

=James.= CURIOSITIES OF CHRISTIAN HISTORY PRIOR TO THE REFORMATION. By CROAKE JAMES, Author of ‘Curiosities of Law and Lawyers.’ _Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d._


This is a translation from the French of the best history of Florence in existence. This volume covers a period of profound interest--political and literary--and is written with great vivacity.

‘This is a standard book by an honest and intelligent historian, who has deserved well of his countrymen, and of all who are interested in Italian history.’--_Manchester Guardian._

=Kaufmann.= CHARLES KINGSLEY. By M. KAUFMANN, M.A. _Crown 8vo. 5s._

A biography of Kingsley, especially dealing with his achievements in social reform.

‘The author has certainly gone about his work with conscientiousness and industry.’--_Sheffield Daily Telegraph._

=Lock.= THE LIFE OF JOHN KEBLE. By WALTER LOCK, M.A., Fellow of Magdalen, Subwarden of Keble, Oxford. With Portrait. _Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. Buckram, 5s._

‘This modest, but thorough, careful, and appreciative biography goes very far to supply what has been wanted. It is high but well-deserved praise to say that the tone and tenor of the memoir are thoroughly in harmony with the character and disposition of Keble himself.... All Churchmen must be indebted to Mr. Lock for this admirable memoir, which enables us to know a good and great churchman better than before; and the memoir, which to be appreciated must be carefully read, makes one think Mr. Keble a better and greater man than ever.’--_Guardian._

=Hutton.= CARDINAL MANNING: A Biography. By A. W. HUTTON, M.A. With Portrait. _Crown 8vo. 6s. Cheap Edition, 2s. 6d._

=Wells.= THE TEACHING OF HISTORY IN SCHOOLS. A Lecture delivered at the University Extension Meeting in Oxford, Aug. 6th, 1892. By J. WELLS, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Wadham College, and Editor of ‘Oxford and Oxford Life.’ _Crown 8vo. 6d._

=Pollard.= THE JESUITS IN POLAND. By A. F. POLLARD, B.A. Oxford Prize Essays--The Lothian Prize Essay 1892. _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._

=Clifford.= THE DESCENT OF CHARLOTTE COMPTON (BARONESS FERRERS DE CHARTLEY). By her Great-Granddaughter, ISABELLA G. C. CLIFFORD. _Small 4to. 10s. 6d. net._

General Literature

=Bowden.= THE IMITATION OF BUDDHA: Being Quotations from Buddhist Literature for each Day in the Year. Compiled by E. M. BOWDEN. With Preface by Sir EDWIN ARNOLD. _Second Edition. 16mo. 2s. 6d._

=Ditchfleld.= OUR ENGLISH VILLAGES: Their Story and their Antiquities. By P. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A., F.R.H.S., Rector of Barkham, Berks. _Post 8vo. 2s. 6d._ Illustrated.

‘An extremely amusing and interesting little book, which should find a place in every parochial library.’--_Guardian._

=Ditchfleld.= OLD ENGLISH SPORTS. By P. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A. _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._ Illustrated.

‘A charming account of old English Sports.’--_Morning Post._

=Burne.= PARSON AND PEASANT: Chapters of their Natural History. By J. B. BURNE, M.A., Rector of Wasing. _Crown 8vo. 5s._

‘“Parson and Peasant” is a book not only to be interested in, but to learn something from--a book which may prove a help to many a clergyman, and broaden the hearts and ripen the charity of laymen.’--_Derby Mercury._

=Massee.= A MONOGRAPH OF THE MYXOGASTRES. By GEORGE MASSEE. With 12 Coloured Plates. _Royal 8vo. 18s. net._

This is the only work in English on this important group. It contains 12 Coloured Plates, produced in the finest style of chromo-lithography.

‘Supplies a want acutely felt. Its merits are of a high order, and it is one of the most important contributions to systematic natural science which have lately appeared.’--_Westminster Review._

‘A work much in advance of any book in the language treating of this group of organisms. It is indispensable to every student of the Mxyogastres. The coloured plates deserve high praise for their accuracy and execution.’--_Nature._

=Cunningham.= THE PATH TOWARDS KNOWLEDGE: Essays on Questions of the Day. By W. CUNNINGHAM, D.D., Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, Professor of Economics at King’s College, London. _Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d._

Essays on Marriage and Population, Socialism, Money, Education, Positivism, etc.

=Bushill.= PROFIT SHARING AND THE LABOUR QUESTION. By T. W. BUSHILL, a Profit Sharing Employer. With an Introduction by SEDLEY TAYLOR, Author of ‘Profit Sharing between Capital and Labour.’ _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._

=Anderson Graham.= NATURE IN BOOKS: Studies in Literary Biography. By P. ANDERSON GRAHAM. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

The chapters are entitled: I. ‘The Magic of the Fields’ (Jefferies). II. ‘Art and Nature’ (Tennyson). III. ‘The Doctrine of Idleness’ (Thoreau). IV. ‘The Romance of Life’ (Scott). V. ‘The Poetry of Toil’ (Burns). VI. ‘The Divinity of Nature’ (Wordsworth).

=Wells.= OXFORD AND OXFORD LIFE. By Members of the University. Edited by J. WELLS, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Wadham College. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

This work contains an account of life at Oxford--intellectual, social, and religious--a careful estimate of necessary expenses, a review of recent changes, a statement of the present position of the University, and chapters on Women’s Education, aids to study, and University Extension.

‘We congratulate Mr. Wells on the production of a readable and intelligent account of Oxford as it is at the present time, written by persons who are, with hardly an exception, possessed of a close acquaintance with the system and life of the University.’--_Athenæum._

=Driver.= SERMONS ON SUBJECTS CONNECTED WITH THE OLD TESTAMENT. By S. R. DRIVER, D.D., Canon of Christ Church, Regius Professor of Hebrew in the University of Oxford. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

An important volume of sermons on Old Testament Criticism preached before the University by the author of ‘An Introduction to the Literature of the Old Testament.’

‘A welcome volume to the author’s famous ‘Introduction.’ No man can read these discourses without feeling that Dr. Driver is fully alive to the deeper teaching of the Old Testament.’--_Guardian._

WORKS BY S. Baring Gould.

Author of ‘Mehalah,’ etc.

OLD COUNTRY LIFE. With Sixty-seven Illustrations by W. PARKINSON, F. D. BEDFORD, and F. MASEY. _Large Crown 8vo, cloth super extra, top edge gilt, 10s. 6d. Fourth and Cheaper Edition. 6s._


‘“Old Country Life,” as healthy wholesome reading, full of breezy life and movement, full of quaint stories vigorously told, will not be excelled by any book to be published throughout the year. Sound, hearty, and English to the core.--_World._


‘A collection of exciting and entertaining chapters. The whole volume is delightful reading.’--_Times._

FREAKS OF FANATICISM. (First published as Historic Oddities, Second Series.) _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

‘Mr. Baring Gould has a keen eye for colour and effect, and the subjects he has chosen give ample scope to his descriptive and analytic faculties. A perfectly fascinating book.’--_Scottish Leader._

SONGS OF THE WEST: Traditional Ballads and Songs of the West of England, with their Traditional Melodies. Collected by S. BARING GOULD, M.A., and H. FLEETWOOD SHEPPARD, M.A. Arranged for Voice and Piano. In 4 Parts (containing 25 Songs each), _Parts I., II., III., 3s. each. Part IV., 5s. In one Vol., roan, 15s._

‘A rich and varied collection of humour, pathos, grace, and poetic fancy.’--_Saturday Review._


SURVIVALS AND SUPERSTITIONS. With Illustrations. By S. BARING GOULD. _Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d._

A book on such subjects as Foundations, Gables, Holes, Gallows, Raising the Hat, Old Ballads, etc. etc. It traces in a most interesting manner their origin and history.

‘We have read Mr. Baring Gould’s book from beginning to end. It is full of quaint and various information, and there is not a dull page in it.’--_Notes and Queries._

THE TRAGEDY OF THE CAESARS: The Emperors of the Julian and Claudian Lines. With numerous Illustrations from Busts, Gems, Cameos, etc. By S. BARING GOULD, Author of ‘Mehalah,’ etc. _2 vols. Royal 8vo. 30s._

This book is the only one in English which deals with the personal history of the Caesars, and Mr. Baring Gould has found a subject which, for picturesque detail and sombre interest, is not rivalled by any work of fiction. The volumes are copiously illustrated.

‘A most splendid and fascinating book on a subject of undying interest The great feature of the book is the use the author has made of the existing portraits of the Caesars, and the admirable critical subtlety he has exhibited in dealing with this line of research. It is brilliantly written, and the illustrations are supplied on a scale of profuse magnificence.’--_Daily Chronicle._

‘The volumes will in no sense disappoint the general reader. Indeed, in their way, there is nothing in any sense so good in English.... Mr. Baring Gould has most diligently read his authorities and presented his narrative in such a way as not to make one dull page.’--_Athenæum._

JACQUETTA, and other Stories. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

ARMINELL: A Social Romance. _New Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

‘To say that a book is by the author of “Mehalah” is to imply that it contains a story cast on strong lines, containing dramatic possibilities, vivid and sympathetic descriptions of Nature, and a wealth of ingenious imagery. All these expectations are justified by “Arminell.”’--_Speaker._

URITH: A Story of Dartmoor. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

‘The author is at his best.’--_Times._

‘He has nearly reached the high water-mark of “Mehalah.”’--_National Observer._

MARGERY OF QUETHER, and other Stories. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA: A Tale of the Cornish Coast. _New Edition. 6s._


=Author of ‘Indian Idylls.’= IN TENT AND BUNGALOW: Stories of Indian Sport and Society. By the Author of ‘Indian Idylls.’ _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Fenn.= A DOUBLE KNOT. By G. MANVILLE FENN, Author of ‘The Vicar’s People,’ etc. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Pryce.= THE QUIET MRS. FLEMING. By RICHARD PRYCE, Author of ‘Miss Maxwell’s Affections,’ etc. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. Picture Boards, 2s._

=Pryce.= TIME AND THE WOMAN. By RICHARD PRYCE, Author of ‘Miss Maxwell’s Affections,’ ‘The Quiet Mrs. Fleming,’ etc. New and Cheaper Edition. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Mr. Pryce’s work recalls the style of Octave Feuillet, by its clearness, conciseness, its literary reserve.--_Athenæum._

=Gray.= ELSA. A Novel. By E. M’QUEEN GRAY. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

‘A charming novel. The characters are not only powerful sketches, but minutely and carefully finished portraits.’--_Guardian._

=Gray.= MY STEWARDSHIP. By E. M’QUEEN GRAY. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Cobban.= A REVEREND GENTLEMAN. By J. MACLAREN COBBAN, Author of ‘Master of his Fate,’ etc. _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. Picture boards, 2s._

‘The best work Mr. Cobban has yet achieved. The Rev. W. Merrydew is a brilliant creation.’--_National Observer._

‘One of the subtlest studies of character outside Meredith.’--_Star._

=Lyall.= DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST. By EDNA LYALL, Author of ‘Donovan.’ _Crown 8vo. 31st Thousand. 3s. 6d.; paper, 1s._

=Lynn Linton.= THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON, Christian and Communist. By E. LYNN LINTON. Eleventh and Cheaper Edition. _Post 8vo. 1s._

=Grey.= THE STORY OF CHRIS. By ROWLAND GREY, Author of ‘Lindenblumen,’ etc. _Crown 8vo. 5s._

=Dicker.= A CAVALIER’S LADYE. By CONSTANCE DICKER. _With Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Author of ‘Vera.’= THE DANCE OF THE HOURS. By the Author of ‘Vera,’ ‘Blue Roses,’ etc. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

‘A musician’s dream, pathetically broken off at the hour of its realisation, is vividly represented in this book.... Well written and possessing many elements of interest. The success of “The Dance of the Hours” may be safely predicted.--_Morning Post._

=Norris.= A Deplorable Affair. By W. E. NORRIS, Author of ‘His Grace.’ _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

‘What with its interesting story, its graceful manner, and its perpetual good humour, the book Is as enjoyable as any that has come from its author’s pen.’--_Scotsman._

=Dickinson.= A VICAR’S WIFE. By EVELYN DICKINSON. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Prowse.= THE POISON OF ASPS. By R. ORTON PROWSE. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

=Parker.= PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE. By GILBERT PARKER. _Crown 8vo. Buckram. 6s._

‘Stories happily conceived and finely executed. There is strength and genius in Mr Parker’s style.’--_Daily Telegraph._

=Marriott Watson.= DIOGENES OF LONDON and other Sketches. By H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON, Author of ‘The Web of the Spider.’ _Crown 8vo. Buckram. 6s._

‘Mr. Watson’s merits are unmistakable and irresistible.’--_Star._

‘A clever book and an interesting one.’--_St. James’s Gazette._

=Clark Russell.= MY DANISH SWEETHEART. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of ‘The Wreck of the Grosvenor,’ ‘A Marriage at Sea,’ etc. With 6 Illustrations by W. H. OVEREND. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

‘The book is one of the author’s best and breeziest.’--_Scotsman._

=Bliss.= A MODERN ROMANCE. By LAURENCE BLISS. _Crown 8vo. Buckram. 3s. 6d. Paper. 2s. 6d._

‘Shows much promise.... Excellent of dialogue.’--_Athenæum._

Novel Series

MESSRS. METHUEN will issue from time to time a Series of copyright Novels, by well-known Authors, handsomely bound, at the above popular price of three shillings and sixpence. The first volumes (ready) are:--



2. JACQUETTA. By S. BARING GOULD, Author of ‘Mehalah,’ etc.

3. MY LAND OF BEULAH. By Mrs. LEITH ADAMS (Mrs. De Courcy Laffan).


5. ARMINELL: A Social Romance. By S. BARING GOULD, Author of ‘Mehalah,’ etc.

6. DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST. With Portrait of Author. By EDNA LYALL, Author of ‘Donovan,’ etc. Also paper, 1_s._










Other Volumes will be announced in due course.



_Crown 8vo, Ornamental Boards._


_Picture Boards._


Books for Boys and Girls

=Cuthell.= ONLY A GUARD-ROOM DOG. By Mrs. CUTHELL. With 16 Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. _Square Crown 8vo. 6s._

‘This is a charming story. Tangle was but a little mongrel Sky terrier, but he had a big heart in his little body, and played a hero’s part more than once. The book can be warmly recommended.’--_Standard._

=Collingwood.= THE DOCTOR OF THE JULIET. By HARRY COLLINGWOOD, Author of ‘The Pirate Island,’ etc. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

‘“The Doctor of the Juliet,” well illustrated by Gordon Browne, is one of Harry Collingwood’s best efforts.’--_Morning Post._

=Walford.= A PINCH OF EXPERIENCE. By L. B. WALFORD, Author of ‘Mr. Smith.’ With Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

‘The clever authoress steers clear of namby-pamby, and invests her moral with a fresh and striking dress. There is terseness and vivacity of style, and the illustrations are admirable.’--_Anti-Jacobin._

=Molesworth.= THE RED GRANGE. By Mrs. MOLESWORTH, Author of ‘Carrots.’ With Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

‘A volume in which girls will delight, and beautifully illustrated.’--_Pall Mall Gazette._

=Clark Russell.= MASTER ROCKAFELLAR’S VOYAGE. By W. CLARK RUSSELL, Author of ‘The Wreck of the Grosvenor,’ etc. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

‘Mr. Clark Russell’s story of “Master Rockafellar’s Voyage” will be among the favourites of the Christmas books. There is a rattle and “go” all through it, and its illustrations are charming in themselves, and very much above the average in the way in which they are produced.’--_Guardian._

=Author of ‘Mdle. Mori.’= THE SECRET OF MADAME DE Monluc. By the Author of ‘The Atelier du Lys,’ ‘Mdle. Mori.’ _Crown 8vo. 5s._

‘An exquisite literary cameo.’--_World._

=Manville Fenn.= SYD BELTON: Or, The Boy who would not go to Sea. By G. MANVILLE FENN, Author of ‘In the King’s Name,’ etc. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

‘Who among the young story-reading public will not rejoice at the sight of the old combination, so often proved admirable--a story by Manville Fenn, illustrated by Gordon Browne? The story, too, is one of the good old sort, full of life and vigour, breeziness and fun.’--_Journal of Education._

=Parr.= DUMPS. By Mrs. PARR, Author of ‘Adam and Eve,’ ‘Dorothy Fox,’ etc. Illustrated by W. PARKINSON. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

‘One of the prettiest stories which even this clever writer has given the world for a long time.’--_World._

=Meade.= OUT OF THE FASHION. By L. T. MEADE, Author of ‘A Girl of the People,’ etc. With 6 Illustrations by W. PAGET. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

‘One of those charmingly-written social tales, which this writer knows so well how to write. It is delightful reading, and is well illustrated by W. Paget.’--_Glasgow Herald._

=Meade.= A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE. By L. T. MEADE, Author of ‘Scamp and I,’ etc. Illustrated by R. BARNES. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

‘An excellent story. Vivid portraiture of character, and broad and wholesome lessons about life.’--_Spectator._

‘One of Mrs. Meade’s most fascinating books.’--_Daily News._

=Meade.= HEPSY GIPSY. By L. T. MEADE. Illustrated by EVERARD HOPKINS. _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._

‘Mrs. Meade has not often done better work than this.’--_Spectator._

=Meade.= THE HONOURABLE MISS: A Tale of a Country Town. By L. T. MEADE, Author of ‘Scamp and I,’ ‘A Girl of the People,’ etc. With Illustrations by EVERARD HOPKINS. _Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d._

=Adams.= MY LAND OF BEULAH. By MRS. LEITH ADAMS. With a Frontispiece by GORDON BROWNE. _Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d._

Leaders of Religion

Edited by H. C. BEECHING, M.A. _With Portrait, crown 8vo, 2s. 6d._

A series of short biographies, free from party bias, of the most prominent leaders of religious life and thought.


The following are ready--


‘Few who read this book will fail to be struck by the wonderful insight it displays into the nature of the Cardinal’s genius and the spirit of his life.’--WILFRID WARD, in the _Tablet_.

‘Full of knowledge, excellent in method, and intelligent in criticism. We regard it as wholly admirable.’--_Academy._


‘It is well done: the story is clearly told, proportion is duly observed, and there is no lack either of discrimination or of sympathy.’--_Manchester Guardian._




Other volumes will be announced in due course.

University Extension Series

A series of books on historical, literary, and scientific subjects, suitable for extension students and home reading circles. Each volume will be complete in itself, and the subjects will be treated by competent writers in a broad and philosophic spirit.

Edited by J. E. SYMES, M.A., Principal of University College, Nottingham. _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._


_The following volumes are ready_:--

THE INDUSTRIAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND. By H. DE B. GIBBINS, M.A., late Scholar of Wadham College, Oxon., Cobden Prizeman. _Second Edition._ With Maps and Plans.


A compact and clear story of our industrial development. A study of this concise but luminous book cannot fail to give the reader a clear insight into the principal phenomena of our industrial history. The editor and publishers are to be congratulated on this first volume of their venture, and we shall look with expectant interest for the succeeding volumes of the series.’--_University Extension Journal._


PROBLEMS OF POVERTY: An Inquiry into the Industrial Conditions of the Poor. By J. A. HOBSON, M.A.



PSYCHOLOGY. By F. S. GRANGER, M.A., Lecturer in Philosophy at University College, Nottingham.

THE EVOLUTION OF PLANT LIFE: Lower Forms. By G. MASSEE, Kew Gardens. With Illustrations.

AIR AND WATER. Professor V. B. LEWES, M.A. Illustrated.





Social Questions of To-day

Edited by H. DE B. GIBBINS, M.A.

_Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._


A series of volumes upon those topics of social, economic, and industrial interest that are at the present moment foremost in the public mind. Each volume of the series will be written by an author who is an acknowledged authority upon the subject with which he deals.

_The following Volumes of the Series are ready_:--

TRADE UNIONISM--NEW AND OLD. By G. HOWELL, M.P., Author of ‘The Conflicts of Capital and Labour.’

THE CO-OPERATIVE MOVEMENT TO-DAY. By G. J. HOLYOAKE, Author of ‘The History of Co-operation.’

MUTUAL THRIFT. By Rev. J. FROME WILKINSON, M.A., Author of ‘The Friendly Society Movement.’

PROBLEMS OF POVERTY: An Inquiry into the Industrial Conditions of the Poor. By J. A. HOBSON, M.A.

THE COMMERCE OF NATIONS. By C. F. BASTABLE, M.A., Professor of Economics at Trinity College, Dublin.

THE ALIEN INVASION. By W. H. WILKINS, B.A., Secretary to the Society for Preventing the Immigration of Destitute Aliens.



A SHORTER WORKING DAY. By H. DE B. GIBBINS and R. A. HADFIELD, of the Hecla Works, Sheffield.

BACK TO THE LAND, being an inquiry as to the possible conditions under which those now unemployed can be provided with rural work, with practical suggestions as to the means by which a larger number of persons than at present can be maintained from the land. By HAROLD E. MOORE, F.S.I., Author of ‘Hints on Land Improvements.’