THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN
 
 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 A Soggarth's Secular Verses 
 
 BY THE 
 
 Rev. MATTHEW RUSSELL, S.J. 
 
 LONDON 
 JAMES BOW DEN 
 
 10 HENRIETTA STREET 
 
 1899
 
 Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable, Pi inters to Her Majesty
 
 PR 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Of the rich old language which many earnest men 
 and women are trying now to revive or keep alive 
 in Ireland;, the two phrases that are most familiar to 
 outsiders are (So^g-ar/A ^roow and Cead mile failte — 
 ' Priest dear/ and 'A hundred thousand welcomes.' 
 The first of these explains the sub-title of my book ; 
 may the other be an omen of the reception that 
 awaits it ! < 
 
 The verses are called Killowen Idyls because 
 many of them are concerned about rustic themes 
 and scenes, and were inspired by recollections of 
 early years spent in Killowen, a country district 
 in County Down, stretching along the northern 
 shore of Carlingford Lough, between Rostrevor and 
 Mourne. 
 
 A companion volume — Vespers and Compline : 
 the Sacred Verses of a Lifetime — will contain the
 
 vi IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 rest of the rhymes which I have written since those 
 old Killowen days, and which have already had 
 considerable circulation in various forms. 
 
 The word ' Idyl ' occurs so often in the following 
 pages that it seems well to defend that way of 
 spelling it. Tennyson's Idylls of the King, imitated 
 by the titles of some other books, has accustomed 
 the eye to double /; but surely the analogy of 
 ' label ' from lahellian, ' libel ' from lihellus, ' metal ' 
 from metallum, and ' pupil ' from pupillus, should 
 make us content with a single / in 'idyl' from 
 idyllium. 
 
 I will venture — not in the prominent way in 
 which dedications are usually set forth, but with- 
 out leave, with many misgivings, and as it were by 
 stealth — I will venture to inscribe these Killowen 
 Idyls to Lord Russell of Killowen, whose public life 
 is before the world, and who in all the relations 
 of private life — as son, brother, husband, father, 
 and friend — has always been faithful, generous, 
 
 and true-hearted. 
 
 M. R.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE IRISH FARMER S SUNDAY MORNING 
 A PICNIC AT ROSTREVOR 
 THE YARRA-YARRA UNVISITED 
 THE ALIjO UNVISITED 
 DOWN BY THE DODDER 
 THE LIFFEY UNSUNG 
 TO THE GLANRYE 
 
 THE IRISH children's FIRST COMMUNION — 
 I. THE CATECHISM CLASS 
 11. ANNIE 
 
 III. THE GREAT DAY 
 COCK-CROW IN FRANCE 
 A BIRTHDAY IN RELIGION 
 THE POOR man's KNOCK 
 TO C. W. R. ON FIRST READING A CERTAIN 
 
 CARDINAL NEWSIAn's ' APOLOGIA ' 
 IN MEMORIAM C. W. R. 
 A MIRACLE OF ST. ALOYSIUS 
 
 PAGE OF 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 13 
 
 19 
 24 
 
 28 
 
 32 
 
 34 
 
 37 
 44 
 49 
 57 
 59 
 63 
 
 65 
 72 
 
 75
 
 Vlll 
 
 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 glenaveena 
 
 baby's consecration 
 
 TO M. J. 
 
 retrospection 
 
 sadness 
 
 a woodland ramble 
 
 THE little flower STREWERS 
 
 FLOWERS FOR THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 
 
 THE A5IETHYST : A TEMPERANCE LECTURE 
 
 MONOTONY AND THE LARK : A PROSE IDYL 
 
 THE FIRST REDBREAST : A LEGEND OP GOOD FRIDAY 
 
 IRISH LITERARY ' LEARICS ' 
 
 THE OAK AND THE REED. (fROM LA FONTAINE) 
 
 A father's memory 
 
 THE OLD SPOT 
 
 DEATH, MY DEATH ! 
 
 LAND ! LAND ! 
 
 PAGE 
 
 77 
 8i 
 
 84 
 86 
 92 
 94 
 
 97 
 100 
 104 
 116 
 120 
 123 
 127 
 129 
 132 
 136 
 138 
 140
 
 THE IRISH FARMER'S SUNDAY MORNING 
 
 Through bi-east of careworn mortal rarely darts 
 More keen delight than honest peasant knows 
 When out of slumbers long and deep he starts, 
 And thinks ' 'tis Sunday ! ' and his fancy goes 
 Sporting amid the restful hours, and shows 
 His one whole day for ease and chatting friends, 
 Himself refulgent in his Sunday clothes ; 
 While a vague sadness with his rapture blends — 
 The Sunday's come; but soon, too soon, the Sunday 
 ends ! 
 
 To-day no need to start at chilly dawn. 
 Or drudge the misty, hungry morning through. 
 Sleep, honest soul ! you 're weary still — sleep on, 
 Since God ordains, less for Himself than you, 
 That man shall 'neath this sun no labour do. 
 And yet, betimes, into the moist^ raw air, 
 Some needful Sunday duties to pursue. 
 Noiseless he sallies forth Avith tiptoe care. 
 Lest his stout tramp disturb the dear ones sleeping 
 there.
 
 2 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 The mother slumbers on : for she had toiled 
 Till it was almost Sunday, striving hard 
 That in her children's garb should nothing soiled 
 Or torn appear. Vain effort ! rudely marred 
 Ere half the day be done, though pious ward 
 Is by the elder sister kept o'er all — 
 So matronly and of so grave regJird. 
 Ah ! many a bramble, many a leap and fall. 
 Await those Sunday clothes now hanging on the 
 wall! 
 
 The breakfast ready, what a welcome beams 
 On every well-washed face, that looks its best. 
 While from the brownest crockery up steams 
 That beverage which of its magic zest 
 The disenchanter Use can ne'er divest ; 
 But here, reserved for feasts and Sunday morns. 
 It comes a ten-times honoured, welcome guest. 
 Simple their fare beside : yet whoso scorns 
 Knows not how rich the board that hale content 
 adorns. 
 
 Before the sire an egg, one only, lies, 
 Laid by as good a duck as ever swam ; ^ 
 Whereof the top, removed 'neath wistful eyes, 
 
 1 Duck's eggs commend themselves more to the rustic palate 
 than eggs of milder flavour.
 
 THE IRISH FARMER'S SUNDAY MORNING 3 
 
 Regales his little pet, his youngest lamb — 
 Her with the flaxen curls and eyes so calm. 
 Before the sire the loaf-bread,^ too, is laid 
 To be dispensed in slices thin, like ham : 
 For it, alas ! the hard-earned pence were paid ; 
 The gulf still left is filled with coarser sort, home- 
 made. 
 
 Now clattering cups and crunching teeth give o'er. 
 
 And all consent to sign a truce at last ; 
 
 Albeit Tom thinks he could do somethins" 
 
 more. 
 And Bess and Mary at the teapot cast 
 Glances not quite indifferent. But fast 
 All hurry off, their toilets to complete ; 
 For easy undress graced their brisk repast. 
 Had they sat down elaborately neat. 
 Their work had been performed less freely and less 
 
 fleet. 
 
 Then was there brushing in hot haste ; the vest, 
 
 Tight-fitting jacket, pants of royal cord 
 
 Are burnished up with zeal that knows no rest 
 
 Till industry has met its due reward : 
 
 For when did frameless looking-glass afford 
 
 1 As contra-distingiiished from griddle-bread.
 
 4 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Glimpse of more brilliantly apparelled boy ? 
 Ah, may no rent or accident untoward 
 His elegant placidity alloy, 
 Enshrined in stoutest frieze and roughest corduroy. 
 
 With face washed spotless — ah, laborious task ! — 
 And chin close-shorn blocked up in starched 
 
 snow, 
 The ' good-man ' of the house his boys doth ask 
 If they at last are ready. ' Come, let 's go : 
 No time to lose' — though well the rogue doth 
 
 know 
 They really have ample time to spare. 
 The lads, however, no reluctance show — 
 An hour too soon is neither here nor there, 
 While folk have tongues to wag and eyes to wink 
 
 and stare. 
 
 Meanwhile the eldest sister scrubs amain 
 With tender roughness at the younger fry. 
 Achieving cleanliness with trifling pain 
 When soap invades the incautious half-closed eye. 
 May God be blessed, with all my soul I cry. 
 For giving elder sisters ! Who as they 
 Can soothe and chide us, guard and purify, 
 Discreetly scold, and then, good-humoured play. 
 Mother and sister both, so grave and yet so gay }
 
 THE IRISH FARMERS SUNDAY MORNING 
 
 At length the mother issues forth arrayed 
 In all her splendour — for the sun shines bright — 
 Grumbling benignly that she is delayed 
 By her two youngest, not yet wholly ' right.' 
 But now they beam before her, and delight 
 The mother's heart with prettiness sedate. 
 Off hand in hand they set, a touching sight ; 
 While she, half angry, cries, as clinks the gate, 
 ' Mind, 'tis the curate's day — I '11 lay my life you 're 
 late.' 
 
 Ah ! ma'am, take care lest thou thyself to-day 
 Be later still : for lo ! before thee there 
 Two of thy cronies loiter by the way. 
 Come, hasten on, their converse sweet to share. 
 First having marked what sort of gown they wear. 
 And then the three discourse of auld lang syne. 
 The hardships which e'en thirty housewives bear — 
 The measles' ravages 'midst babes and swine, 
 The price of tea, the health of horses, husbands, kine. 
 
 The hedgerows green now bursting out in song — 
 The fields that glow with blossomed stalks or 
 
 corn — 
 The sights, sounds, scents, the summer air that 
 
 throng — 
 All voiceless cry, ' This, this is Sunday morn ! '
 
 6 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Oh, on this day of graces do not scorn 
 
 Your neighbour yonder with the shabby cloak. 
 
 Whose little girl's best frock is patched and 
 
 worn — 
 Once rich as you, till pestilential stroke 
 Smote three fine cows ; and then the husband's 
 
 spirit broke. 
 
 Our honest friend thus chats away, and eyes 
 The groups that pass. But who's that maiden tall 
 Shining in muslin of the gayest dyes ? 
 ' Why, that 's my Mary, bravest of them all ! ' 
 Then doth she with meek pride her daughter call. 
 On whose young cheek an artless blush is raised — 
 Oh, may no darker shadow ever fall ! 
 Pure soul, the love wherewith the angels gazed 
 Upon her then shall last for ever, God be praised ! 
 
 Thicker the pilgrim bands now throng the road ; 
 And see, it peers from out yon clump of trees. 
 The whitewashed chapel. Ah ! too mean abode 
 To lodge the King of Ages, who yet sees 
 More 'neath that lowly roof His heart to please 
 Than greets His eye in vast cathedral fane. 
 From pomp and pride the Lord of Glory flees, 
 Whilst 'midst the simple-hearted, poor and plain. 
 With a peculiar joy His spirit doth remain.
 
 THE IRISH FARMER'S SUNDAY MORNING 7 
 
 Around the churchyard-gate a buzzing crowd. 
 Wouldst learn the theme that stirreth every 
 
 tongue ? 
 It is the question roared so oft aloud, 
 Whispered so oft men's eager throngs among. 
 As if the noblest ever said or sung — 
 O'er which in every rank and clime men gloat — 
 Which on men's lips for ages must have hung 
 Ere spake Demosthenes,^ ere Horace wrote : 
 ' Tell me, I prithee tell, the newest thing afloat ! ' 
 
 The reverend patriarchs, throned on yonder wall. 
 With ardour keen their last debate renew 
 Upon the great world's politics, and all 
 The current wars and markets : though 'tis true 
 Their facts are stale, apocryphal, and few. 
 Their judgments wrong, predictions false no 
 
 doubt ; 
 And, like to councils of more weight which you 
 And I could name, they'd make more modest rout. 
 Knew they a little more of what they talk about. 
 
 Where are the boys ? My muse is grieved to tell 
 That some are 'pitching buttons' at their ease. 
 Screened by the alders round a neighbouring well ; 
 While others these expectant moments seize 
 
 1 BavKecrOe. . . . irvpOdveadac Kara t7]v ayopav, 'K^yerai rl 
 Kaivov ; Demosthenes, I. Philip, circa init.
 
 8 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 To hurl the 'shoulder stone.' More staid than 
 
 these^ 
 A few aspire to join the gaping crowd 
 Who listen while, with mystic cough and sneeze. 
 The ' Master ' reads, bespectacled, aloud 
 A journal five days old, with whine serenely proud. 
 
 Nor deem that all the parish in the sun 
 Their Sunday legs are idly dangling here. 
 The women all^ and all the males who've won 
 Repute of sanctity, and those who fear 
 The threatening rain, their course directly steer 
 To where the drone of this most saintly hive, 
 A learned tailor, chants forth bold and clear 
 The rosary-prayers, while ancient matrons strive 
 With zealous haste for one shrill decade of the 
 five. 
 
 What bodes that lull among the herd profane 
 Out in the grassy churchyard congregate .'' 
 At last the priest glides through the narrow lane 
 Of bowing heads with grave, paternal state. 
 The good old man hastes not, though very late, 
 But has his joke for some, his smile for all. 
 Heedless of those who long impatient wait 
 Round the small room behind the altar wall 
 Which serves as sacristy, parlour, confessional.
 
 THE IRISH FARMER'S SUNDAY MORNING 9 
 
 And now each seeks his place within the pile 
 'Mid the last warnings of yon tongue of brass, 
 Which from aloft screams round o'er half a mile, 
 ' The priest is here — O come, O come to Mass ! ' 
 Those strains, I ween, in angel's thoughts surpass 
 Viol and harp, and e'en in carnal ears 
 Sound less discordant than that hymn, alas ! 
 Now bellowed forth as if each singer fears 
 His part 's unheard. But hush ! the vested priest 
 appears. 
 
 Before him strut two chubby surpliced boys : 
 One rings a bell with somewhat pompous skill. 
 If skilful ringing aim at making noise ; 
 The other looks and listens, pleased but ill — 
 Well, never mind, when his turn comes, he will 
 Beat Tommy's ringing hollow. Then the pair 
 Kneel with crossed hands and eyes half-closed, 
 
 yet still, 
 While watching for Amen, they 've time to spare 
 For sidelong peeps to note their comrades' envious 
 
 stare. 
 
 The Acts of sorrow, faith, hope, love are read ; 
 The Holy Water sheds its cleansing shower ; 
 All rise, and Mary's Angelus is said. 
 And then begins the rite of mystic power.
 
 10 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 What portents crowd that quiet happy hour ! 
 The tide of grace swells high in many a heart 
 Which of simplicity hath ample dower^ 
 Lending it strength to bear the worrying smart 
 Of all the toils and cares that form a poor man's part. 
 
 The maid that hath with letters tinctured been 
 Her prayer-book doth with holy face peruse, 
 Conscious the while she prayeth not unseen- 
 Well, let him watch her praying if he choose : 
 Her lips move none the less for that. Ah ! Suse, 
 Are not you thinking how, ere months be flown. 
 The parish may be startled by the news : 
 ' You 've heard the wedding ? ' ' That I long 
 have known — 
 A decent boy, but not too good for Susie Sloan.' 
 
 Then, this distraction slowly thrust aside. 
 With graver piety her prayers she reads : 
 While some, less learned, survey take more 
 
 wide, 
 Consulting duly for the spirit's needs 
 By fingering audibly their huge black beads. 
 The good old crones close to the altar kneel 
 In glaring cotton or in sober weeds. 
 While vigorous sighs and motions quaint reveal 
 Not more devotion than their simple bosoms feel.
 
 THE IRISH FARMER'S SUNDAY MORNING 11 
 
 Beseems it not in such rude, playful strain, 
 
 To dare aught more than meekly bow the head 
 
 In hush of soul as chimes that bell again 
 
 To tell the sacrifice is midway sped. 
 
 He who will judge the living and the dead 
 
 Steals hither now in less terrific form 
 
 As if His low-born love disguised to wed, 
 
 Nor yet unloved, unworshipped. Hark ! the 
 
 storm 1 
 Of stifled sighs that burst from hearts unstained 
 
 and warm. 
 
 But now no more : though more, much more is said, 
 And thought and done, the muse might not dis- 
 own. 
 But ah ! for me those pastoral days are fled. 
 And 'mid the garish streets my lot is thrown. 
 For fields and flowers and waves I trust alone 
 To Memory, garrulous, half-welcome guest. 
 That chatters gaily lest the door be shown. 
 Call upon her and Fancy for the rest, 
 Or mark such scenes yet found in Erin, poor but 
 blest. 
 
 1 ' The long wave yearns along the coast 
 
 With sob suppressed, like that which thrills 
 ("WTiile o'er the altar mounts the Host) 
 Some chapel on the Irish hills.' 
 
 Aubrey de Verb,
 
 12 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 O Erin ! O my mother ! fondest child 
 Of our own Mothei*, Queen of earth and heaven — 
 Truest to her, who, while on earth exiled, 
 Has been to us as nursing mother given. 
 May ne'er thy chain of Roman faith be riven ! 
 And from her throne celestial may our Queen, 
 On one sweet morn out of each weary seven, 
 Gaze down with joy on many a holy scene 
 Like that I 've sung Mith more of truth than skill, 
 I ween.
 
 A PICNIC AT ROSTREVOR 
 
 It lies 'twixt the sea and the mountain. 
 
 Or rather the bay and the hill. 
 Which cool the warm breath of the summer, 
 
 And take from the winter its chill. 
 It nestles 'mid oak-trees and beeches 
 
 That stretch their green arms o'er the street, 
 Whose bi-eadth, to its length nearly equal, 
 
 Expands where the four roadways meet. 
 As you wind by the bay's breezy margin, 
 
 Rostrevor you mark from afar. 
 Betrayed by its spire of Our Lady's, 
 
 And joyful you cry : ' Here we are ! ' — 
 Betrayed by its spire gleaming brightly 
 
 High o'er its embowering trees : 
 As the breath of the sea is detected 
 
 In this bracing and life-giving breeze. 
 That white granite spire of Our Lady's 
 
 On the oaks and the beeches looks down, 
 And it cries up to heaven for a blessing 
 
 On the simple Arcadian town. 
 
 13
 
 14 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 A blessing in sooth is the convent 
 
 That hides in the shadow serene 
 Of that beautifid Church of our Lady, 
 
 Of Mary our Mother and Queen. 
 
 The convent and church crown the village 
 
 Which clusters in peace at their feet ; 
 A stream from the hills saunters past it. 
 
 Reluctant to leave scene so sweet. 
 Dark stream where the branches hang thickly, 
 
 Bright stream where the sun pierces through ; 
 'Tis shallow, yet keeps a broad channel — 
 
 Who knows what the winter may do ? 
 A bridge takes you over this river 
 
 Which dreamily murmurs along. 
 Too lazy to wet all its pebbles. 
 
 Too lazy for ripple or song. 
 You then, 'neath the long, leafy branches 
 
 Interlacing o'erhead, wend your way, 
 Near plashing of waves on the shingle. 
 
 Towards the mouth of the mountain-locked bay. 
 And soon on your left you will notice 
 
 The Woodside Hotel at the quay — 
 (This rhyme is pronounced as if rhyming 
 
 With not very distant Crock Shee,^ 
 
 1 Phonetic spelling for Croagh Sidhe, the Fairies' Moimtain.
 
 A PICNIC AT ROSTREVOIl 15 
 
 Though personal taste would incline me 
 
 To go for a rhyme to Mill Bay ; 
 But Walker and Worcester and Webster 
 
 Conspire to point t' other way.) 
 
 Further on, the road glides through a forest 
 
 Which covers the mountain's steep side — 
 Green leaves all around you, above you, 
 
 Down, down to the brink of the tide. 
 And here, where the Wood House lies 
 hidden, 
 
 A path tempts you up through the trees — 
 But first let me risk a suggestion 
 
 You're free to reject if you please. 
 This climbing of mountains is pleasant 
 
 For lads loose from schoolroom and desk ; 
 But a well-furnished hamper enhances 
 
 The beauty of scenes picturesque. 
 Without a fat hamper ascend not ! 
 
 We 're made of both body and soul ; 
 Ev'n poets can't do without dinner. 
 
 And maybe 'tis best on the whole. 
 So take turn about with the hamper. 
 
 And, crawling zigzag, scale the steep ; 
 Puff, pant, and perspire towards the summit. 
 
 Disturbing the mountaineer sheep.
 
 16 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 These, wiry and hardy and agile. 
 
 Climb mountains more deftly than you 
 
 Who frequently find it expedient 
 To pause and admire the view. 
 
 Come, rest in the shade of this boulder. 
 
 Called truly in Irish Clough More,^ 
 Once hurled o'er the lough by the giant 
 
 Who fought from the southern shore. 
 You see where the Carlingford giant 
 
 Lies under yon mountain ridge high — 
 In outline his figure recumbent 
 
 Is traced clear against the blue sky. 
 Here, too, you observe how his fingers 
 
 Sank deep in this wonderful stone — 
 But now peradventure your hunger 
 
 Sufficiently wolfish hath grown. 
 Clough More shall behold a new battle ; 
 
 Here pitch we our camp for a halt. 
 Be hampers unpacked ! Where 's the corkscrew ? 
 
 I fear we 've forgotten the salt. 
 With eating and laughing and quaffing, 
 
 Uncounted the sunny hours pass. 
 Where the bottles of many a picnic 
 
 Are strewn o'er the crisp, trodden grass. 
 
 ^ Big stone.
 
 A PICNIC AT ROSTREVOR 17 
 
 Awaiting dessert^ you have leisure 
 
 To bend your rapt gaze on the scene — 
 These parallel ranges of mountain. 
 
 The salt waves that sparkle between. 
 The white sails that speckle those waters. 
 
 The cornfields that speckle the side 
 Of yon mountain, repulsing the heather 
 
 Far up from the marge of the title. 
 Where the mountains slope downward and 
 inland, 
 
 And melt in blue distance away, 
 The stout Frontier-town of old Newry 
 
 Keeps guard at the head of the bay. 
 God bless the good town and each homestead 
 
 That peoples this ocean-lake's shore. 
 All round from the Hill of the Violets 
 
 To the lighthouse that faces Greenore ! 
 
 In yonder must lie Narrow Water, 
 
 Where smoke-wreaths from Warrenpoint town 
 Curl upward beyond this rich woodland 
 
 Of green, patched with yellow and brown. 
 How white winds the road down beneath us ! 
 
 Ev'n dust at this distance looks nice ! 
 'Tis well to commune thus with Nature — 
 
 (Oh ! thank you, just give me one slice.) 
 
 B
 
 18 IDYLS OF KILLOWEX 
 
 At last we hie homeward. The journey 
 
 Down hill through the crags and the trees 
 (The freight of the hamper stowed elsewhere) 
 
 Is made with comparative ease. 
 How swift, how unheeded the swiftness 
 
 Of the last downhill stage of life's way ! 
 How pleasant is home to the weary ! 
 
 In heav'n may we feel it one day ! 
 
 But ah ! though the charms I have chanted 
 Have dear to my memory grown, 
 
 I think of thee more, O Rostrevor ! 
 Because thou art near to Killowen.
 
 THE YARRA-YARRA UNVISITED 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN AUSTRALIAN ALBUM ON ITS HOME TOUR 
 
 Ne'er have I rambled on its marffe, 
 
 Ne'er angled 'mid its willows ; 
 I ne'er have sailed in skiff or barge 
 
 Upon its languid billows. 
 Yet will I sing^as Callanan 
 
 Once sang of Gougaune Barra — 
 Yet will I sing as best I can 
 
 The lazy, winding Yarra. 
 
 Ah ! many a day of weary toil 
 
 And much privation well borne 
 Have served to tame the rampant soil 
 
 And raise this rising Melbourne. 
 Some sixty years ago a wild 
 
 As lonely as Sahara — 
 Now rife with life and trade's keen strife. 
 
 Just at the mouth of Yarra. 
 
 19
 
 20 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 It creeps between high wooded sides, 
 
 And ere it reach the city 
 Past holy Abbotsford it ghdes — 
 
 To which it owes this ditty. 
 For in Austrahan alburn^ why 
 
 Waste praise on Connemara ? 
 Thy heart 's in Abbotsford, and I 
 
 Will praise its Yarra-Yarra. 
 
 The friend whose friendship gave me thine. 
 
 With kindness past all telling. 
 Pursues me since the 'auld lang syne,' 
 
 When first with him I fell in. 
 Ah ! while we watched the summer tide 
 
 Lap thy grey rocks, Kinvara, 
 We recked not that o'er oceans wide 
 
 He 'd fly to Yarra-Yarra ! 
 
 He tells me that the sky above 
 
 Is bluer far and brighter 
 Than that which spans the Isle we love ; 
 
 The air is warmer, lighter. 
 Gay flowers along the margin float, 
 
 And many an avis rara, 
 Of brilliant plume but tuneless throat. 
 
 Skims o'er the sparkling Yarra.
 
 THE YARRA-YARRA UNVISITED 21 
 
 When shall I breathe that purer air ? 
 
 Quite lately I have had some 
 Fair chance of being summoned there — 
 
 If summoned, ecce adsum ! 
 The motto of our Bedford race 
 
 Is this : Che sara sara. 
 (The accent slightly I misplace, 
 
 To coax a rhyme for Yarra.) 
 
 More musical than new Adare 
 
 Its olden name Athdara, 
 And Tennyson's meek Lady Clare 
 
 Grows statelier as Clara. 
 Had not my Muse such gems to spare 
 
 For gemming thy tiara, 
 She would not waste a double share 
 
 On this one stanza, Yarra. 
 
 There is not unity of theme, 
 
 I grant it, in these stanzas ; 
 The subjects as far sundered seem 
 
 As Kensington and Kansas. 
 'Twere better if in graceful round 
 
 My thoughts could move — but arrah ! 
 What can a poet do, who 's bound 
 
 To close each verse with Yarra ?
 
 22 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 And notice here, our rhythmic chords 
 
 Are strict in orthodoxy. 
 Nor do they force two Httle words 
 
 For one to act as proxy. 
 An article to harshly treat 
 
 (As in this line) would mar a 
 Most conscientious rhyming feat 
 
 Achieved to honour Yarra. 
 
 But now, at last, we must give o'er 
 
 With our Wordsworthian ^ sapphic. 
 Though sundry rhymes remain in store, 
 
 Historic, topographic, 
 Like those we 've hitherto impressed. 
 
 As Lara and Bokhara, 
 Carrara, Marat, and the rest; 
 
 But how link these with Yarra ? 
 
 My trickling thread of metre wells 
 
 As if 'twould well for ever : 
 So mountain streamlet swells and swells 
 
 Into a stream, a river. 
 
 1 See Wordsworth's 'Yarrow Unvisltcd,' 'Visited,' and 
 'Revisited.' The title of this poem and of some that follow 
 was of course suggested by the first of this exquisite trio.
 
 THE YARRA-YARRA UNVISITED 23 
 
 But now my harp as mute must grow 
 
 As that which hangs at Tara. 
 Farewell, dear maid from Bendigo ! 
 
 Farewell, O Y^arra-Yarra !
 
 THE ALLO UNVISITED 
 
 An Irishman, I love the fair 
 
 And fruitful land that bore me. 
 (O'Connell, you 're no doubt aware, 
 
 Made this remark before me.^) 
 I love dear Ei-in's vales and hills. 
 
 Her tillage land and fallow ; 
 I love her rivers and her rills, 
 
 And thus I love the Alio. 
 
 Thus only ; for I must avow 
 'Tis but by name I know it. 
 
 Its name has more than once ere now 
 Slid from the pen of poet. 
 
 The Laureate of the Fairy Queen 
 Erst tarried near Duhallow, 
 
 1 In beginning his speech in the debate on the Repeal of the 
 Union, in the Dublin Corporation, February 1843, in which his 
 opponent was Alderman Isaac Butt: — 'I am an Irishman, and 
 I am an ardent admirer of the lovely and fruitful land of my 
 birth, my fatherland.' 
 24
 
 THE ALLO UNVISITED 25 
 
 And oft he traced thy margin green, 
 Broadwater, alias Alio ! ^ 
 
 In our own day, or near our day. 
 
 In Desmond the deep-valley ed, 
 Poor Callanan was wont to stray 
 
 On summer eves, and dallied 
 Along thy brink with poet-dreams 
 
 And legends sad that hallow 
 The windings of our Irish streams 
 
 And 'float down echoing Alio.' 
 
 Simmons of Blachvood here was ' raised ' 
 
 (Loquendo yankice) at Kilworth, 
 Whose poems, by Kit North o'erpraised, 
 
 A passing glance are still worth ; 
 And Edward Walsh, not far away. 
 
 Sang his ' Mairgread ni Challa,' 
 But where his rustic schoolhouse lay, 
 
 In sooth I know not. Alio ! 
 
 One poet more I '11 link with thee. 
 More sweet than lark or mavis, 
 
 From manly heart sincere and free 
 Forth flowed the song of Davis. 
 
 1 Spenser mentions it in ' Colin Clout's come home again,' line 
 123. I hope there is no need to quote Callanan's 'Gougaune 
 Barra,' which the next stanza recalls. The Alio flows into the 
 Blackwater near Kanturk.
 
 2G IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Nor all at random do I name 
 The patriot bard of Mallow, 
 
 For in his boyhood oft he came 
 To muse along the Alio, 
 
 Thou swellest lovely Avondhu 
 
 (Now called, alas ! Blackwater) ; 
 Her broader tide takes up anew 
 
 The chorus thou hast taught her. 
 Belov'd art thou of coot and crane. 
 
 Of willow and of sallow : 
 (The difference betwixt these twain 
 
 Is more than / know, Alio !) 
 
 But now enough I 've named thy name, 
 
 Enough I 've sung my saga ; 
 And shrined for ever is thy fame 
 
 Within the leaves of Maga, 
 Hatched is my tiny brood of rhymes. 
 
 Which are, I grant, but callow : 
 Perchance their wings will grow betimes 
 
 And waft me to thee. Alio, 
 
 Farewell until we meet. If e'er 
 My pilgrim-steps should ramble 
 
 To where Kilcolman's crumbling stair ^ 
 Grows green with weed and bramble, 
 
 1 Edmund Spenser lived at Kilcolman Castle,
 
 THE ALLO UNVISITED 27 
 
 No stranger shall I feel, and thou, 
 O limpid stream and shallow ! 
 
 Wilt greet me as a friend. But now 
 Farewell, my winsome Alio !
 
 DOWN BY THE DODDER 
 
 Nature I love in all her moods, 
 
 But I more oft have sought her 
 Where on the silence of green woods 
 
 Breaks in the rush of water. 
 The noise of streamlet's ceaseless flow 
 
 Has soothed my spirit ever — 
 Blank seems fair Nature's fairest show 
 
 Without some gleaming river. 
 
 Had I to own a grand estate — 
 
 (The notion makes me shiver) — 
 For these three things I 'd stipulate : 
 
 A lake, a hill, a river. 
 Your dull, flat, woody parks may be 
 
 Baronialler and broader — 
 A glen for me 'twixt hills and sea, 
 
 With a live stream like Dodder. 
 
 Too long have I thy neighbour been. 
 Dear Stream, without exploring 
 
 Thy course amid the meadows green. 
 Thy purling and thy roaring : 
 
 28
 
 DOWN BY THE DODDER 29 
 
 For thou, too, placid Stream, hast roared, 
 
 While in wild wintry weather 
 Thou hast thy mountain torrent poured 
 
 Between the crags and heather. 
 
 Thy mountain cradle 's far away. 
 
 Thy race is run ; and mine is 
 Nearer perhaps — ah ! who can say 
 
 How near ? — unto its Jitiis. 
 And so from Life's loud, dusty road, 
 
 A somewhat jaded plodder, 
 I steal to this serene abode, 
 
 And thee, suburban Dodder. 
 
 I lean me on this orchard wall 
 
 And sniff the pears and cherries — 
 Each shrub and tree, both great and small. 
 
 Stoops 'neath its load of berries. 
 That redbreast thieving yonder, see ! 
 
 Poor innocent marauder, 
 The seventh commandment binds not thee 
 
 A-robbin' near the Dodder. 
 
 And now our seaward ramble meets 
 A rustic, quaint, and still town, 
 
 Which you must spell with double / — 
 God bless it, dear old Milltown !
 
 30 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Yet here, even here, one likes to dine : 
 Rich scenery 's poor fodder 
 
 For poet going up the Rhine, 
 Or going down the Dodder. 
 
 My song must cease, but thine goes on ; 
 
 Thy musical, meek murmur 
 Broke Nature's silence ages gone — 
 
 Thy voice has but grown firmer. 
 In shade and shine, grave, gay, sing on. 
 
 And scoop thy channel broader ; 
 From dawn to dark, from dark to dawn. 
 
 Flow on, sing on, O Dodder ! 
 
 Flow on ! Poor Moore once warbled here 
 
 ' Flow on, thou shining river ! ' 
 Thy race is run, the sea is near, 
 
 My muse grows sad — forgive her. 
 And as we 've strewn upon thy banks 
 
 Our very softest sawder, 
 Flash back thy sunniest smile in thanks 
 
 Upon thy Laureate, Dodder ! 
 
 I leave thee. Shall it be for aye, 
 
 A river's long For ever ? 
 ' I will return,' we often say. 
 
 And vet return, ah ! never.
 
 DOWN BY THE DODDER 31 
 
 Well, on Life's road, through dust and flowers, 
 
 A not less useful plodder 
 I '11 be, please God, for these calm hours 
 
 Spent on the banks of Dodder.
 
 THE LIFFEY UNSUNG 
 
 Since first the trick of rhyme I tried, 
 
 I 've sung full many a river. 
 Whene'er I see bright waters glide, 
 
 I bless the Almighty Giver 
 Who bade them flow ; and long ago 
 
 (What 's this aetatevi siipplet ?) 
 In boyish days I to their praise 
 
 Would cobble many a couplet. 
 
 The Yarra through far Melbourne flows. 
 
 Through Donnybrook the Dodder — 
 These, far apart, have touched ray heart. 
 
 And (what is even odder) 
 A Munster river quite unknown. 
 
 And one that rhymes with ' polka,' 
 Dear to my wayward Muse has grown — 
 
 The Alio and the Tolka. 
 
 The dearest last of all I sang — 
 Glanrye that flows through Newry. 
 
 The spot where first my life-stream sprang 
 Such tribute claimed dejure. 
 
 32
 
 THE LIFFEY UNSUNG 33 
 
 Yet on its banks I do not dwell ; 
 
 Not far but long I 've wandered. 
 How many years I dare not tell — 
 
 Please God, not wholly squandered. 
 
 My home is where the LifFey strays 
 
 Through Erin's queenly city — 
 Not here, as in its rural days. 
 
 Pellucid, pure, and pretty. 
 But, ere at last its windings end 
 
 In yon salt tide before it, 
 Grattan, O'Connell, Butt extend 
 
 Their ample arches o'er it. 
 
 What memories of the bygone cling 
 
 Where LifFey' s wavelets glisten ! 
 What ballads all its stream might sing. 
 
 Were we but skilled to listen ! 
 Then^ why no rhyme through all this time } 
 
 I '11 tell you in a jiffey : 
 That low word is the only rhyme 
 
 That pairs with Anna LifFey.
 
 TO THE GLANRYE 
 
 WHICH FLOWS THROUGH NEWRY INTO CARLINGFORD BAY 
 
 If I had known your name, fair Stream ! 
 
 When this worn heart was young, 
 When life seemed still a happy dream, 
 
 You had not lurked unsung ; 
 But only after many a year 
 
 Of exile has gone by, 
 Far from your grassy banks, I hear 
 
 Your name, O dear Glanrye ! 
 
 Still dear, though centuries seem fled 
 
 Since that warm summer day 
 When last, an eager boy, I sped 
 
 Along your marge to play. 
 Out by the Downshire road, before 
 
 You reach the dusty sti'eets 
 Where, all your rural rambles o'er, 
 
 The tide your current meets. 
 
 34
 
 TO THE GLANRYE 35 
 
 They say your lakelet cradle lies 
 
 Near steep Rathfriland town. 
 Though some urge stoutly that you rise 
 
 More Mourneward, oozing down 
 From Ballyvally's hilly ridge — 
 
 In proof of which proud claim 
 The stream that passes Mayo Bridge 
 
 Already bears your name. 
 
 When both those streams have joined in yo\i, 
 
 Be your source where it may, 
 Your goal would almost seem in view — 
 
 Yon mountain-girdled bay. 
 But no, not yet. Full many a grace 
 
 To grain and beast and man 
 Glanrye must bring, before its race 
 
 Shall have fulfilled God's plan. 
 
 Back from the Bay you westward wind. 
 
 And, as your eddies pass. 
 They leave God's benison behind. 
 
 Air purer, greener grass. 
 Then south you turn to that fair town 
 
 Where first the light I saw. 
 Where meet Armagh and Louth and Down — 
 
 The ancient Yewrkintraw.^ 
 
 1 This is the sound of Newry's old name, lubhar-keann-tragh, 
 ' The Yew-trees at the head of the Straud.'
 
 36 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Glanrye, God bless you^ and each stone 
 
 You wash upon your way ! 
 God bless Rostrevor and Killowen 
 
 Far down the noble Bay ! 
 Some friends have o'er the ocean sped. 
 
 Some in the graveyard lie : 
 God bless the living and the dead ! 
 
 God bless you, old Glanyre !
 
 THE IRISH CHILDREN'S FIRST 
 COMMUNION 
 
 IN THREE PARTS 
 
 Part L— THE CATECHISM CLASS 
 
 My story wafts me — if so slight a thing 
 
 Be deemed a story — backward many years ; 
 I dread to count them^ for on viewless wing 
 Fast fleeteth from me with its hopes and fears 
 Life's week of work-days, and the Sabbath 
 nears. 
 Silent and swift. Far back and far apart 
 
 From present duties fond remembrance peers, 
 While scenes, long vanished, into being start 
 From bygone summer-times of year and life and 
 heart. 
 
 How sweet the mem'ry of those summer days. 
 Whose sun shone brighter far than sun shines 
 now. 
 
 When down the steep and rugged mountain-ways 
 
 Sped many a peasant-child whose sunburnt 
 
 brow 
 
 87
 
 38 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Told of long watches shared with sheep and 
 cow. 
 Out on the brae, in fair or blustering weather. 
 But now released they come with merry row 
 Of shouts and laughter, skipping o'er the heather, 
 The girls linked arm-in-arm, the boys in bands 
 together. 
 
 So many helping hands can parents spare ? 
 
 They 're bidden to the catechism class. 
 And all the parish youngsters must be there. 
 For though on ev'ry Sunday, after Mass, 
 The children who are old enough to ' pass ' 
 Are dinned with Christian doctrine, yet 'tis 
 found 
 Most of their giddy little heads, alas ! 
 Imbibe it slowly, and the priest feels bound 
 To stretch the Sunday-school at times the whole 
 week round. 
 
 When winter days have lengthened into spring, 
 And spring's chill rains have ceased to pour 
 amain, 
 
 When larks begin to make the welkin ring — 
 Then down the hillside and across the plain. 
 Noisy and blithesome, winds the swelling train
 
 THE CHILDREN'S FIRST COMMUNION 39 
 
 Of children, to the chapel hieing fast. 
 
 No tight-laced boot or boddice causeth pain : 
 Such cramping fashions to the winds they cast — 
 Barefoot and free they speed, and reach their goal 
 at last. 
 
 For on last Sunday, when ' the Book was changed' 
 The second time, arose the mild uproar 
 
 Of women, who with careful hand arranged 
 Their Sunday gowns behind them and before, 
 Half kneeling and half sitting on the floor ; 
 
 While on their side the men, in frieze bedight, 
 Relieved their wearied ankles less or more, 
 
 Not standing, sitting, nor yet kneeling quite. 
 But lolling on left knee, with elbow on the right. 
 
 Yet soon they stood ; and when the stir had 
 ceased. 
 
 And gallery grandees their seats had ta'en — 
 After some moments' solemn pause, the priest 
 
 Turned to instruct his simple flock with plain 
 
 And earnest words, whereof they best retain 
 This final warning : ' Come, my children dear. 
 
 Work at your catechism might and main. 
 For some of you are backward still, I fear, 
 And now within a month the Bishop will be here.'
 
 40 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Then with a father's mild authority. 
 
 Strong in his priestly power and love, he 
 spake ; 
 Knowing full well his people would but be 
 Happy and proud such sacrifice to make 
 For holy faith and for their children's sake. 
 And so poor mothers, till the month be o'er, 
 
 Must the routine of household duties break. 
 That their ' wee girleens ' may be free to store 
 Within their innocent minds a hoard of Christian 
 lore. 
 
 Thus through the bygone week the children 
 
 came. 
 
 Not (as in towns) from streets and lanes hard by. 
 
 But most from distant homes ; and who could 
 
 blame 
 
 Those entering late? Yet doth the wise priest 
 
 try 
 To frown a little, as, demure and sly, 
 The truants fain by stealth would reach their 
 
 place. 
 How swift the eager, crowded moments fly. 
 As rival classes through their chapters race — 
 Till lo ! again 'tis come, the day of rest and 
 grace.
 
 THE CHILDREN'S FIRST COMMUNION 41 
 
 No day of rest for First Communion class ! 
 
 The priest his tardy breakfast speeds, to come 
 To the young swarm that tarries after Mass. 
 
 Hushed at his coming is the busy hum 
 
 Of question and reply, and all grow dumb 
 While Father John repeats his explanation 
 
 (Not yet half frequently enough for some) 
 Of what each one must do in preparation 
 For First Communion these, and those for Confir- 
 mation. 
 
 Deftly he then examines lads and lasses. 
 
 Mingling judicious praise with kind reproof. 
 Transfixing culprits through his silver ' glasses ' — 
 
 But hark ! the clink-dink of a horse's hoof. 
 
 A frieze coat hurries in, yet stands aloof 
 Till asks the priest what may his business be. 
 
 Death is a visitor beneath his roof ! 
 'Tis a sick-call away behind Croagh Shee — 
 Thither the pastor hastes, the children breathe 
 more free. 
 
 Then swells anew the catechism clatter — 
 
 * Hoiv many Gods are there ? ' and ' What is sin ? ' 
 
 For the poor teachers 'tis no easy matter 
 Within fair limits to control the din,
 
 42 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Especially when ' ups and downs ' begin,^ 
 But when the tumult soars beyond due bounds. 
 
 The ' Master ' takes his cane^ ne'er used within 
 These hallowed walls — and yet the eager sounds 
 Calm down, as, cane in hand, he sternly goes his 
 rounds. 
 
 Among the boys a mighty monarch, he 
 Doth all the week hold undivided sway 
 
 Within the sultry schoolhouse which you see 
 Out yonder near the churchyard gate. To-day 
 A gentler sovereign, easier to obey. 
 
 Rules meekly 'mid the girls : 'tis Miss O'Neill 
 From Hawthorn Nook, a mile along the bay. 
 
 Who tries to make her three young charges feel 
 For this most holy task some of her own bright 
 zeal. 
 
 For these the hours of class seem all too brief, 
 But to their pupils tardy sounds the bell 
 
 Which brings tired head and restless limb relief, 
 Gathering them round the altar-rails to swell 
 
 ^ Is a note needed here ? ' Let us have ups and downs ! ' was 
 a common cry of the children when I was one of them — namely, 
 ' Let us change our places according as we answer right or wrong, 
 so that the good ones may reach the head of the class and the 
 others gravitate towards the bottom.'
 
 THE CHILDREN'S FHIST COMMUNION 43 
 
 The chorus of Hail Marys. Then pell-mell 
 The urchins scramble for their caps, and press, 
 
 With that rude crushing schoolboys love so -well, 
 Out to the road. The girls depart with less 
 Of disregard for peace, propriety, and dress. 
 
 Then what a merry progress homeward ! Some 
 Proceed but intermittently, delaying 
 
 Betimes with this or that familiar chum. 
 
 At pitch-and-toss, or tig, or marbles playing. 
 So long that motherkind at home are saying : 
 
 ' What can be keeping Billy there this late ? ' 
 William, meanwhile, his chances sagely weigh- 
 ing. 
 
 Decides that though the charm of 'mebs' be great. 
 
 For dinner cold or scant it scarce will compensate. 
 
 The Sunday dinner ! Epicures, in vain 
 
 My muse to you Avould picture what that means 
 
 For those whose week-day fare is passing plain, 
 At best a herring ; but to-day brown beans 
 Steam round their bit of bacon, with young 
 greens 
 
 Or cauliflower to enhance the zest 
 
 Of what to hungry health is worth tureens 
 
 Of turtle to the rich — potatoes dressed 
 In native jackets all, smiling their very best.
 
 44 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 This is the bait which wileth Billy home 
 E'en fi'om that fascinating pitch-and-toss. 
 
 Lured by this prospect, he will scorn to roam 
 After the brightest butterflies that cross 
 His homeward pathway. Without further loss 
 
 Of time he hast'neth in with cheeks aglow. 
 And doth his cap upon the dresser toss ; 
 
 Whilst mother mildly grumbles, ' Home so slow ! 
 The Catechism class was over long ago.' 
 
 Part II.— ANNIE 
 
 Thus, months beforehand, twice at least a week. 
 
 And, as the end drew nearer, twice a day, 
 Did these dear, simple Irish children seek 
 
 That whitewashed chapel 'twixt the hills and 
 
 bay. 
 Turning their holy taskwork into play. 
 Yet learning well Faith's verities sublime. 
 
 God bless and guard them ! Heaven 's for 
 such as they. 
 May all reach safe in turn that brighter clime — 
 Heirs of eternity, though children frail of time. 
 
 The boys flock down in noisy bands; the girls 
 More slowly but more steadily proceed. 
 
 That modesty and all heaven's jiurest pearls 
 Their souls adorn, on each bright face you read.
 
 THE CHILDREN'S FIRST COMMUNION 45 
 
 As on Her face who o'er the hills with speed 
 Went to the Baptist's mother. May they ne'er 
 Darken their souls with evil thought or deed. 
 Kept pure by poverty and work and prayer, 
 And by that Food Divine for which they now 
 prepare ! 
 
 Among these little girls came three at first 
 
 With their kind governess from Hawthorn 
 Nook ; 
 But one of these three sisters, fondly nursed, 
 Caressed and cherished, seemed unfit to 
 
 brook 
 Life's gentlest gales. The pretty blush forsook 
 Her cheek, her tiny hands yet whiter grew : 
 Then Avas she left at home with some good 
 book. 
 Or set some easy fireside task to do : 
 She was the youngest child — youngest and dearest 
 too. 
 
 And here a curious fancy crosses me 
 
 Which Muse less homely would austerely 
 smothei- — 
 Something that I have sometimes seemed to see 
 
 About the namesakes of our Lady's mother,
 
 46 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 (More numerous than those of any other 
 Except our Lady's own). If arch and canny 
 
 And prone to play one sly trick or another — 
 If wild and frolicsome, their name is Nannie : 
 If ffentle, meek, and fair, we soften it to Annie. 
 
 And such was Annie Desmond. Fair and bright, 
 
 Alas ! too bright and fair to cheer us long — 
 Hers the sad brightness of a starry night : 
 'Twas easy seeing Annie was not strong. 
 That pink tinge showed that something must 
 
 be wrong. 
 ' Nay, Annies always die,' I heard one say ; 
 And I indeed 'mid the celestial throng 
 Know some dear angels of that name, and they 
 In their fresh dewy morn did heavenward steal away. 
 
 Why should they not ? How good soe'er and dear, 
 We must not grudge them to God's loving care. 
 Lord ! it is well for us to serve Thee here, 
 But better, safer to be with Thee there — 
 In Thy blest home which slie must surely share. 
 Who gracefully the cross did late resign 
 
 That Thou hadst willed her long and well to 
 bear. 
 May light perpetual upon her shine, 
 And may her faith and hope, in life, in death, be 
 mine !
 
 THE CHILDREN'S FIRST COMMUNION 47 
 
 Our Annie's place in heaven is ready now; 
 
 The angels call her, and she must not stay. 
 God lays His hand upon her innocent brow 
 
 And draws her to His loving heart for aye — 
 
 One cloudless morning is her life's brief day. 
 She to her nest on high her flight will take. 
 
 And, as on dovelet's wing, soar far away. 
 So the good priest the sad news tries to break : 
 She on her deathbed must her First Communion 
 make. 
 
 For though a catechism class she taught, 
 
 She, too, was but preparing for the Feast 
 Of First Communion when the death-bliffht 
 caught 
 Her delicate frame, and all her labours ceased. 
 Her pupils (youngest she herself and least) 
 Are now another's ; but each day they steal 
 
 To ask for ' poor Miss Annie,' and the priest 
 Bids them all pray for her each time they kneel. 
 And then her little friends look graver than they 
 feel. 
 
 Annie must die. But, though Death held her fast. 
 His grasp relaxed a little, and she tried 
 
 To gain as much of vigour as might last 
 Till, with her mother watching by her side.
 
 48 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 She creptj pale as her snow-white frock, to 
 hide 
 Hard by the altar rails. There, bending low. 
 
 She prayed that Jesus as His little bride 
 Would make her, too, that holy rapture know 
 Whereof Imelda ^ died so sweetly long ago. 
 
 Angels unseen play with her round about 
 
 Until He comes to hush her longing sighs, 
 The Lord of angels ; and the joy shines out 
 On her pale face and through her meek bright 
 
 eyes. 
 Unheard on earth, her grateful hymns arise 
 Up to the Throne, and showers of grace descend 
 
 Where 'mid the lilies the Beloved lies. 
 Soon, soon that Lord His messenger will send 
 To bid her to His Feast whose joy shall never 
 end. 
 
 Then, tired and happy, to her little bed 
 
 Home she is borne, till Jesus comes once more 
 
 For the last time, to give her strength to tread 
 The perilous road we all must travel o'er, 
 
 1 Blessed Imelda Lambertiui died at Bologna in the rapture 
 of her miraculous First Communion, on Easter Sunday, in the 
 year 1333.
 
 THE CHILDREN'S FIRST COMMUNION 49 
 
 From life to judgment. With her little store 
 Of merits gained, her trivial debts to pay, 
 
 She goes to Him who calls her. Evermore 
 All bright and pure in heaven's unfading May, 
 Her glad eternity one First Communion Day. 
 
 And so another angel sings in heaven ; 
 Another hillock rises 'mid the grass 
 Of old Kilbroney, where on summer even, 
 Or on fine Sundays after latest Mass, 
 Poor Annie's mother and her sisters pass 
 A cheerful hour in loving talk and prayer. 
 
 But she is safe : not so are these, alas ! 
 Who Life's stern, glorious perils still must 
 dare — 
 May they the fullest grace of First Communion 
 share ! 
 
 Pakt III.— the great DAY 
 
 A week, one brief week only, and the day 
 
 Of First Communion shall have dawned. Dear 
 child ! 
 Thy Saviour cometh. Oh ! prepare the way : 
 He only wants a pure heart undefiled. 
 
 n
 
 50 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Banish from thine each thought untoward and 
 wild, 
 And grow more like to Him this heavenly 
 Guest, 
 More holy, and more humble, and more mild. 
 So will He come with joy into thy breast. 
 Lavish His treasures there, and sweetly take His 
 rest. 
 
 Another week ! But much is still to do — 
 
 In turn the children at the good priest's side 
 Must kneel to purify their souls anew 
 In that all-cleansing, sanctifying tide 
 Which from the Sacred Heart flows far and 
 wide. 
 No heart is pure enough for this great feast. 
 
 Yet Christ would share it with us ere He died. 
 And His Heart's yearnings never since have 
 ceased ; 
 And now He comes to these. His dearest though 
 His least. 
 
 There are rich, vivid moments in life's day — 
 Chiefly to young and guileless spirits given — 
 
 Keen, exquisite joy that will not, must not stay, 
 For this is earth around us, and not heaven.
 
 THE CHILDREN'S FIRST COMMUNION 51 
 
 This fullest rapture, without taint or leaven 
 Of sin or sadness, can be felt by none 
 
 More perfectly than by the child that, shriven 
 From its least trace of evil, thought or done. 
 Sees in clear morning sky the First Communion 
 sun. 
 
 The sun shines brightly out, as if it knew 
 
 How many hearts are glad to see it shine ; 
 For all the dresses white and ribbons blue 
 Borrow a brighter glow, O sun ! from thine. 
 Whole months of sunshine would these maids 
 resign 
 (What matters hay-crop or the ripening corn ?) 
 
 To be secured until this day's decline 
 From drenching downpour and from mist for- 
 lorn — 
 All sunshine bright as now, this First Communion 
 morn. 
 
 Yes, till the day's decline ; for not till then 
 
 These snowy garments shall be doffed. In 
 bands. 
 Through lanes and hamlets, and then home 
 again, 
 They '11 shyly march, with interwoven hands.
 
 52 IDYLS OF KILLO'SV^EX 
 
 Less gay but happier than their wont. Thy 
 sands, 
 O Time ! should glide less rapidly to-day. 
 
 But now 'tis early morning, yet there stands 
 A little knot at stages on the way, 
 Eager to shine among the churchward-bound array. 
 
 Thus the procession gathers on its course, 
 And in fair order gains the chapel-gate. 
 
 Where Father John with pride reviews his force. 
 Chiding the few who even now come late 
 (As come they will, how long soe'er you wait). 
 
 Then to its proper place each class proceeds. 
 And each one tries, although the strain is great. 
 
 Not to look round, but kneeling prays or reads — 
 The prayer of such as these the great God hears 
 and heeds. 
 
 And now the belfry's hushed. A final thrill 
 Of deeper expectation ; for at last 
 
 The vestry-door opes wide and wider still : 
 In red and white the servers flutter fast. 
 Each to his post, with tapers tall which cast 
 
 A dull glare 'mid the sunshine. Then all stand 
 Until the mitred Sire hath slowly passed, 
 
 Bearing his crozier in his trembling hand — 
 A fatherly old man, austere, yet kind and bland.
 
 THE CHILDREN'S FIRST COMMUNION 53 
 
 The children think that bishops must perforce 
 Have snowy heads like this Avhich lowly bends 
 
 In prayer at altar-foot. Meanwhile, of course, 
 Each little heart its private prayers suspends^ 
 For see^ the Bishop now the steps ascends 
 
 With Father John in surplice by his side. 
 Who slightly timorous himself pretends 
 
 The boys' manoeuvres carelessly to guide. 
 And rubrical mistakes with quiet skill to hide. 
 
 The Mass begins. They kneel, and e'en the priest 
 Kneels where he 's wont to stand, and strikes 
 his breast 
 At their Confiteor ; and when they 've ceased. 
 He speaks out slowly, solemnly the rest. 
 O First Communicants ! pray, pray your best. 
 For time is passing, and the moment nears 
 
 For which so many prayers have been ad- 
 dressed — 
 So many longing sighs and heart-wrung tears — 
 Pray now with tears to Him who falling teardrop 
 hears. 
 
 The Gospel o'er, the servers seat them round 
 Upon the altar steps : the rest sit too. 
 
 And nought is heard save the impressive sound 
 Of many silent hearts. ' My children, you
 
 64 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Who are my joy and pride, my treasure true ' — 
 So doth the Bishop his discourse begin 
 
 Which I in vain might strive to preach anevi^. 
 For (more than words) his looks, tones, gestures 
 win 
 Their way to innocent hearts undimmed by care or 
 sin. 
 
 ' Happy, my children, happy, happy ye ! 
 
 The Lord is with you. He who said of old 
 " Suffer the little ones to come to Me, 
 
 The tender, snow-white lambkins of my 
 
 fold "— 
 He Cometh now within your breasts to hold 
 Sweet converse, and His gracious gifts to shower. 
 Ah ! not by man's tongue can the tale be told 
 Of all the works of grace and love and power 
 That He, the hidden God, works in Communion- 
 hour. 
 
 'List to His prayer: '"My child, give me thy 
 heart ! " 
 From this entreaty turn not cold away. 
 
 But beg Him of His bounty to impart 
 All gifts and graces of this blessed day, 
 And seal your hearts as all His own for aye.
 
 THE CHILDREN'S FIRST COMMUNION 55 
 
 So when the years, many or few, have fled, 
 
 Through which God willeth you on earth to 
 stay, 
 He who shall month by month your souls have 
 fed 
 Will at the last come thus to bless your dying 
 bed. 
 
 Oh ! in the days or years 'twixt now and then 
 May-God be with you all, my children dear ! 
 May you grow up good women and good men. 
 If God should spare you long to labour here, 
 May you live happy in His love and fear ! 
 Most precious earnest of that love is given 
 
 To you this morn. Pray ! for the moment 's 
 near 
 For which to fit your spirits ye have striven — 
 He comes into your hearts whose smile is heaven of 
 heaven. 
 
 ' Pray then, my dear ones ! Bow each heart and 
 head 
 
 Before the awful Deity that deigns 
 To stoop so low our wretched souls to wed. 
 
 On high, in glory, love, and light He reigns ; 
 
 Yet on our altars hidden He remains,
 
 56 IDYLS OF KILLOAVEN 
 
 To come into our hearts. Your hearts to-day 
 Will first receive Him. Children, still take 
 pains 
 To welcome Him as sweetly as ye may ; 
 Pray on, then, in your hearts ; pray, dearest chil- 
 dren, pray ! ' 
 
 The solemn rites proceed. The Sanctus bell 
 
 Is followed by the double chime that bends 
 Each head in worship. Wrong it were to tell, 
 In such rude rhyme, of Him who now descends 
 'Mid these His dearest and most cherished 
 friends — 
 The young, the poor, the simple. Let us pray 
 That these fresh hearts for ours may make 
 amends. 
 And that our icy chill may melt away 
 In these warm memories of First Communion Day !
 
 COCK-CROW IN FRANCE 
 
 Hark to that voice ! Methinks I recognise 
 
 Accents familiar to these ears condemned 
 
 So long to strain at half-guessed foreign sounds. 
 
 Say, dost thou come fx-om those far-distant isles — 
 
 Far distant in sad verity to me. 
 
 Though many a magic vapour-steed each day 
 
 Achieves the journey over land and main ? 
 
 Art thou of Celtic or of Saxon race, 
 
 That thus the feelings of thy soul find vent 
 
 In language to my soul intelligible ? 
 
 No ; but the birds and beasts of all the climes. 
 
 Each several species to its idiom true. 
 
 Concordant thus hold converse as they may. 
 
 The robin, chirping on the grey tombstone 
 
 Where rest my father's bones, might chant its 
 
 hymn 
 Here by the banks of this most fair Mayenne, 
 Nor need interpreter with Gallic robin. 
 There is one dialect, but one, for all 
 The robins of the universe. And thou, 
 Thou, too, proud-crested bird, thy crow recalls
 
 58 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 That farmyard monitor whose matin chimes 
 Would chide my sloth on summer morns of yore. 
 Nay, such it was that thrice reproachful smote 
 The tortured, wavering, noble heart of him 
 Who, rushing from the gaze of those meek eyes, 
 Wept bitterly. 
 
 Nor deem the Muse profane. 
 If, 'mid her play, such solemn thoughts intrude. 
 Not without solemn purpose she contrasts 
 The peaceful uniformity of all 
 The races of God's creatures animate ; 
 All save their lord and master, him for whom 
 The one sole Lord and Master made them. Men, 
 With but a mound of earth, a stream between them. 
 Differ, like worlds apart, in thought and speech. 
 Not so the lower tribes that live and move ; 
 For list ! the cock-crow of this quaint French town 
 Re-echoes faithfully the chanticleer, 
 That flaps his wing and crows, perchance, this hour. 
 Before George Kielty's door in dear Killowen.
 
 A BIRTHDAY IN RELIGION 
 
 I FEEL it hard, and very hard to hold — 
 
 The world grows wicked as the world grows old. 
 
 Through many a changeful year I 've breathed its 
 
 air. 
 And found it ever genial, bracing, fair. 
 But, ah ! my lot has been a special choice ; 
 Not all can lift to heaven so glad a voice — 
 A gladsome voice, yet broken by sweet tears 
 Of grateful wonder at the happy years 
 My soul hath known. Not all are forced to 
 
 cry. 
 How strange, how strange that I, yea, such as I, 
 Should be so fondly tracked from hour to hour, 
 Unworthy trophy of God's pitying power ! 
 For which of all the changes of my fate 
 But whispers of a love too good, too great 
 For any, save the only Great and Good ? 
 Vainly my stubborn heart had long withstood 
 The onset of those graces, till at last, 
 
 59
 
 60 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Like impious Julian, when the fight was past, 
 Writhing in death upon the Persian sod. 
 The cry leaped forth, ' Oh ! thou hast won, my 
 God ! ' 1 
 
 Nor, 'mid the graces lavished on me, least 
 I prize the providence which, soon as ceased 
 The blessed bondage of the Novice, set 
 Over the novice (novice then and yet) 
 A master, father, brother, friend so kind,- 
 So strong, so gentle, wise, unselfish — blind 
 To others' faults, keen-sighted for his own — 
 Duty by labours, not by precepts shown — 
 That grave good-nature which so many bless. 
 That Avise facility in smiling Yes, 
 Able betimes so kind a No to smile. 
 As doth refusal of its pang beguile. 
 
 Ah ! timid Muse, despise thee as they may. 
 Thou yet enablest this mute heart to say 
 Things that would sound more tasteless still in 
 
 prose. 
 My birthday thanks might glibly, had I chose. 
 Have trickled out amid the fruit and wine — 
 Such ' acts of hope ' were never in my line, 
 
 1 Vicisti, Galilcee! " Father Edward Kelly, S.J.
 
 A BIRTHDAY IN RELIGION 61 
 
 Unless to turn an artless rhyme or two 
 
 When some rare courtesy has pierced me through. 
 
 For who but you could think to deck more gay 
 
 Our board in homage to my natal day ? 
 
 Not one of all the twenty-five hath e'er 
 
 Been graced with such observance anywhere : 
 
 E'en in those early days which slid away 
 
 Close on the marge of our dear northern bay, 
 
 Nor yet, when under Neilsbrook's summer shade 
 
 ' On Lough Neagh's bank,' the freed collegian 
 
 strayed. 
 While groups of laughing angels gambolled round, 
 Than whom none kinder out of heaven are 
 
 found. 
 
 Than 7vhom none kinder ? Kinder still are here. 
 Friends still more patient, surer, more sincere : 
 For here are ties which Death but faster binds ; 
 Hearts more devoted still, and richer minds. 
 Thus he, with father, brother, friend, who parts, 
 A hundredfold of helping hands and hearts 
 In this life wins, and in the next, oh ! what ? 
 Yet (God forgive me if He blames the thought) 
 I own I cannot vehemently sigh 
 To go and spend my next birthday on high. 
 At six or sixty, not midway between. 
 But better fall full ripe than plucked oif green.
 
 62 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 For 'tis our hope and prayer that each fresh year 
 That God may let us hve and labour here. 
 May each pass quietly and each improve 
 Our lot eternal in the home above. 
 Well, short or long, we must not dare to ask. 
 But do our best at each day's petty task ; 
 To us the gain, to God the praise be given. 
 And may each birthday find our souls more ripe 
 for heaven.
 
 THE POOR MAN'S KNOCK 
 
 'Tis many a year, a score and more, 
 
 Since a little boy in blue frock 
 Would run to open the great hall-door. 
 Whose latch he scarce could reach from the floor- 
 
 ' It is only a poor man's knock.' 
 
 The harsh word ' beggar ' was under ban 
 In that quaint old house by the sea ; 
 And little Blue Fi-ock's announcements ran : 
 ' 'Tis a poor little girl — 'tis a poor blind man — 
 Poor woman with children three.' 
 
 And when our little boy would say, 
 
 ' There 's a poor person at the door,' 
 The sister who carried the keys that day 
 From a willing mother leave would pray 
 To give to him of her store. 
 
 But the little boy, ah ! not always 
 
 Thus back to the parlour ran. 
 Often he hushed the whisper of grace. 
 And only said, with kind voice and face, 
 
 'There 's nothing for you, poor man.' 
 
 63
 
 64 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 ' Well, dear, God bless you all the same ! ' 
 
 Thus meekly they would reply. 
 Ah ! hard little heart, what a pity and shame 
 To let the poor creatures go as they came — 
 
 Bid them wait till again you try. 
 
 Long years have fled. All changed his lot 
 
 Since that era of belt and frock ; 
 Yet oft from the Judge doth he hear in thought— 
 ' I was hungry, and you — you gave me nought 
 
 When you answered the poor man's knock.' 
 
 And therefore he 'd teach this rhyme, if he could, 
 
 To each little boy in blue frock : 
 ' If you wish to be happy, try to be good, 
 And think that our Saviour asks you for food 
 
 When you ope to the poor man's knock.'
 
 TO C. W. R. 
 
 on first reading a certain page ^ of cardinal 
 Newman's ' apologia' 
 
 Again betrayed ! Another of thy deeds. 
 Performed by stealth to help a brother's needs. 
 Divulged by happy accident at last. 
 Not listlessly thy tranquil years have passed, 
 Rut with a placid energy to dare 
 All that thy well-trained strength could do — 
 whate'er 
 
 1 'My dear fiieml, Dr. Paissell, the president of Mayuooth, 
 had perliaps more to do with my conversion than any one else. 
 He called upon me in passing through Oxford in the summer of 
 1841. ... I do not recollect that he said a word on the subject 
 of religion. He sent me at different times several letters ; he 
 was always gentle, mild, unobtrusive, uucontroversial. He let 
 me alone.' 
 
 In the original edition of the Apologia 'pro Vita Sua these 
 words are found at page 317, which corresponds with i^age 197 of 
 the later form of that work called The History of my Eeli'jious 
 Opinions. The passage is given also at page 52 of Character- 
 istics of John Henry Newman. These lines were at once 
 prompted by the delighted surprise which I felt in reading the 
 foregoing passage, not having heard from Dr. Russell anything 
 about his close connection with Cardinal Newman, either in our 
 private conversations or in his class of ecclesiastical history, though 
 I was a member of it while he treated of the Oxford movement. 
 
 E
 
 66 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Might serve God's glory in thy time and place. 
 Yet keen thy glance that aim divine to trace 
 In humblest fellow-creature's humblest good : 
 Work for the toiler — for the hungry, food. 
 If thou but learn where merit suffers need. 
 Word of encouragement and generous deed 
 Are sure to come. From learned toil or play 
 To weep with those who weep thou turn'st away. 
 And as the eye — yes, in our measure we 
 Must Him resemble who hath deigned to be 
 Our Father — as that eye, which guides the race 
 Of star and comet over lonely space, 
 Marks every flutter of the tiniest wren : 
 So from plain Duty's pettiest task thy ken 
 With earnest sympathy can range apart 
 Through all that thrills or pains the world's great 
 heart. 
 
 But God's own woi-d that order has assigned 
 Which guides us best in working for our kind : 
 ' Chiefly for those at home, by faith and blood 
 Thy kin,' ^ thou livest. Whatsoe'er of good 
 Thou canst — or others, moved by thee — thou dost. 
 Hast done, wilt do, through lengthened years, I trust, 
 For this dear land, for holy Faith and Truth, 
 And Her, till now unnamed in song — Maynooth. 
 1 ' Maxime domesticorum fidei.' Gal. vi. 10.
 
 TO C. W. R. 67 
 
 Maynooth, unhallowed yet by hoary hair. 
 
 Mother of myriad souls ! lo, by her care 
 
 The faith of Peter and of Pati'ick sown 
 
 In distant regions, fostered in her own. 
 
 May true apostles, trained by her, each year 
 
 Speed on their glorious mission far and near, 
 
 To waft abroad, at home to guard from taint. 
 
 The faith that made this land the martyr-saint 
 
 Of Christian lands, the suffering Holy Isle 
 
 Which greener from the stormy waves doth smile — 
 
 To feed the love our Erin aye displayed 
 
 For Jesus' Mother, that each Celtic maid 
 
 May smile in virgin dignity and be 
 
 What generous strangers have rejoiced to see 
 
 In the poor homesteads of our scattered I'ace — 
 
 Rich in God's gifts of purity and grace. 
 
 With these three names, names prized in heaven at 
 
 least — 
 Maynooth, the Irish race, the Irish priest — 
 Long with these names close linked shall be thy 
 
 name. 
 And grateful blessings shall thy memory claim. 
 
 ' Unconti'oversial, unobtrusive, mild ' — 
 Gentle, unselfish, simple as a child. 
 True cheerfulness from serious thought has birth, 
 Natures the gravest bend to gayest mirth.
 
 68 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Courteous alike to menial and to peer, 
 Kindest of hearts to those who see thee near. 
 Though some might deem thee from afar austere.^ 
 My courage fails me when I fain would paint 
 A nineteenth-century gentlemanly saint. 
 True sanctity respects the where and when — 
 The saints of God are truly gentle men. 
 This purse-proud age, with its galvanic heat. 
 Votes many of God's wonders obsolete, 
 And from the noonday glare smiles back with 
 
 scorn 
 Coldly benignant, at the dewy morn 
 Of Christendom — if all this garish light 
 Be noon, indeed, and not mere gaslit night. 
 Yet God is still of His poor earth the Lord — 
 True progress with His law must still accord. 
 
 Stay ! such grave fancies misbeseem my strain — 
 I read the Oratorian's page again, 
 
 1 ' II n'y a que les personnes qui ont de la fermete qui puissent 
 avoir une veritable douceur. Celles qui paraissent douces n'ont 
 d'ordinaire que de la faiblesse qui se convertit aisement en 
 aigreur.' After Rochefoucauld let me cite Tennyson :— 
 
 ' Such fine reserve and noble reticence. 
 Manners so kind but stately, such a grace 
 Of tenderest courtesy — that gentleness 
 Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.' 
 
 I have often applied to the subject of these lines this phrase from 
 Tacitus: 'Neque illi ((juod est rarissimum) aut facilitas auctori- 
 tatem aut severitas amorem diminuit.'
 
 TO C. W. R. 69 
 
 And marvel how in all those years no word 
 
 To such noteworthy incident referred. 
 
 Though oft the easy context of discourse 
 
 From lips least egotistical might force 
 
 Some tiny crumb of personal anecdote, 
 
 A ' Thus I heard him say,' or ' Once he ivrole.' 
 
 And what high privilege, dear Friend, was 
 
 thine. 
 Guiding Faith's pilgrim to her one true shrine ! 
 Pilgrim far-famed, in whom God deigned to 
 
 see 
 Fit instrument for work sublime — to be 
 For many in our day and through all days 
 Himself a guide from out the dreary maze 
 Of error and half-truth and crumbling creeds — 
 Himself a ' Note ' for all whom candour leads. 
 Not such as he grope blindly in God's sight 
 From light to darkness, but from dark to light. 
 When helped by such as thou. Had he not all 
 The faculties, the graces which might call 
 God's blessing on his painful years of thought 
 And prayer and study } Found he what he 
 
 sought .'' 
 Happy who have so much to sacrifice, 
 Happy who buy the pearl at such a price ! 
 Rare intellect, rich culture, marvellous pen, 
 A gently potent sway o'er thinking men —
 
 70 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Humble and pure, his tale proclaims anew, 
 
 ' The clean of heart have eyes to see the True.'^ 
 
 He pays thee tribute thou wouldst fain forbid. 
 
 Blessed are they whose best from men is hid. 
 
 Oh ! that the vain and selfish understood. 
 
 Like thee, ' the luxury of doing good/ 
 
 And how its zest is ne'er so exquisite 
 
 As when the All-seeing only seeth it. 
 
 The flower, the stream, the prayer, in secret 
 
 springs — 
 God loves, as thou, the '.silence of good things.'^ 
 The ways of God are surely not men's ways. 
 And what of all those years of studious days 
 Which e'en Liguori's vow,^ from boyhood till 
 This reverend age, could scarce more richly fill ? 
 The self-denying, conscientious toils 
 That have amassed of many climes the spoils ; 
 Not the harsh pedant's ill-assorted store — 
 Here learning's purest and most copious ore 
 Is in the crucible of thought refined. 
 Poured through a style as limpid as thy mind. 
 These, God be thanked, reap harvest scant of fame. 
 Though many love and more respect thy name. 
 
 ' 'Beati mundo corcle quoniam ipsi Deum videbuut.' 
 
 2 .Jean Reboul, the baker poet of Nimes. 
 
 3 St. Alphonsus Liguori made a vow not to waste a moment of 
 his time.
 
 TO C. W. R. 71 
 
 So be it to the end ! So shall the Lord 
 Reproach thee not : 'Thou hadst thy due reward.' 
 Praise from a Newman's lips must needs be rare. 
 May those thou servest heed thy wish, and spare 
 The pang of such revealings here, that they 
 May take us unawares upon the Accounting Day.
 
 IN MEMORIAM C. W. R.i 
 
 Our tongues are loosed, for thou art dead ! 
 
 Our hearts may utter what they feel. 
 We dared not, till thy spirit fled, 
 
 Our worship and our love reveal. 
 
 But God has ended thy long pain, 
 Thy term of forced repose is run. 
 
 Kind friends to keep thee strove in vain — 
 God's will be done, God's will be done ! 
 
 His gracious will had struck thee down 
 While fruitfullest thy labours seemed ; 
 
 For God would finish thus thy crown, 
 And not as proud affection dreamed. 
 
 We dreamed thy i-ipened wisdom still 
 Might train the soggarlhs of our race ; 
 
 And that thy reverend form might fill 
 For many a year its lofty place ; 
 
 ^ Charles AVilliam Russell, D.D., President of Maynooth 
 College (1857-1880), died, February 26th, 1880, in the 68th year 
 of his age, and the 45th year of his priesthood. 
 
 72
 
 IN MEMORIAM C. W. R. 73 
 
 That thou wouldst spend thyself still more 
 In serving all, thy aid who sought, 
 
 And using well the treasured lore 
 By many a studious vigil bought. 
 
 But suddenly thy course is checked. 
 Thy hand its toils reluctant stays ; 
 
 And many a hope and plan are wrecked, 
 'Mid sleepless nights and workless days. 
 
 Three patient years of painful rest 
 Ere yet the generous heart grew still. 
 
 We wanted thee — but God knows best. 
 And welcome be His holy will ! 
 
 He would thy meek endurance prove, 
 And so He willed thee long to be 
 
 The grateful object of that love 
 
 Two kindred hearts poured out on thee. 
 
 Two faithful wedded hearts as pure. 
 
 As rich, as noble as thy own — 
 (He will remember you, be sure, 
 
 Dear friends, before the gi*eat white Throne). 
 
 Farewell ! Thy strong and tender heart, 
 Thy earnest will, thy spacious mind. 
 
 Had well and fully played their part. 
 
 Though more, we thought, remained behind.
 
 74 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Much do we know, yet little know 
 Of all the worth that filled thy days ; 
 
 For thy fine nature hated show. 
 
 Did good by stealth, and shrank from praise. 
 
 In spheres of duty wide apart. 
 
 Thy calm, unresting zeal found scope ; 
 
 Of many a home and many a heart 
 The comfort thou and stay and hope. 
 
 Yet none of those who prized thee best, ' 
 To pain thee with their praise might dare ; 
 
 And hearts with gratitude oppressed 
 Could only whisper it in prayer. 
 
 But thou art gone ! And now we may, 
 Unchidden, all our love proclaim. 
 
 And vow, whilst we behind thee stay. 
 To honour and to bless thy name. 
 
 Farewell ! Whate'er the future brings 
 To us — no longer by thy side — 
 
 'Twill urge us on to higher things 
 
 To think that thou hast lived and died.
 
 A MIRACLE OF ST. ALOYSIUS 
 
 O Aloysius, to my heart most dear 
 
 Has ever been the music of your name — 
 
 Dearer henceforward, since to-day I hear 
 Of yet another most engaging claim. 
 
 Which makes this grateful bosom thrill anew 
 
 With joy that such a grace was sent through you ! 
 
 A tiny maiden, seven sweet springtimes old, 
 Was taking flight from this dark earth of ours. 
 
 Ah ! had she gone, our earth more dark and cold 
 Would since have been, more bleak, more bare of 
 flowers. 
 
 But you, St. Aloysius, whispered : ' Nay, 
 
 The child must longer in her exile stay. 
 
 ' The world has need of her. In years to come 
 The old will find in her fresh heart a store 
 
 Of filial piety ; a true man's home 
 
 Her love will bless, till angels hovering o'er 
 
 Will mark with wonder 'mid the world's light throng 
 
 Goodness and peace that to our heaven belong.' 
 
 76
 
 76 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 God yielded to our needs and to your prayer. 
 
 How many since have blessed Him for her sake ! 
 Decrepit age revives beneath her care. 
 
 Young hearts from hers a purer sunshine take. 
 O Aloysius, only heaven will tell 
 The fruits of this your gracious miracle. 
 
 We need her still. Ah ! for a lengthened space 
 Keep her, kind Saint ! from her bright heavenly 
 crown. 
 
 While every moment adds its meed of grace 
 And every moment finds you looking down 
 
 With fonder love and more approving smile 
 
 On her you saved from early death erewhile.
 
 GLENAVEENA i 
 
 I HAVE been at Glenaveena, 
 And on earth can scarce be seen a 
 Sweeter spot, or happier lot, 
 Than I 've seen at Glenaveena. 
 
 Where is perched this Glenaveena ? 
 O'er the Bay from Bohernabreena, 
 North-bound skiffs, that skirt Howth's cliffs, 
 On the slope spy Glenaveena. 
 
 Though the sun of Terracina 
 Shine not here, dear Signorina ! 
 Yet how bi'ight without its light 
 Are the days at Glenaveena ! 
 
 Queenlier than Queen Christina, 
 Yet as gay as Nora Creina, 
 Rich in grace of soul and face 
 Is the Lady Glenaveena. 
 
 ^ Once the beautiful seaside home of two most dear friends, 
 and sacred now to many holy memories, affections, and hopes, 
 which link earth very closely to heaven. 
 
 77
 
 78 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Dignified as the Czarina, 
 Just as just as St. Justina : 
 Young and old say ' Good as gold 
 Is the Lady Glenaveena.' 
 
 Sweeter than the sweet verbena. 
 Or the strains of Palestrina, 
 Hearts rejoice at smile and voice 
 Of the Lady Glenaveena. 
 
 But the Lord of Glenaveena ! 
 Themis, hast thou ever seen a 
 Judge before so like to More ? 
 But my theme is Glenaveena. 
 
 Pure and peaceful Glenaveena ! 
 Never surely has there been a 
 Calmer life, more free from strife, 
 Than the life at Glenaveena. 
 
 I at first, O Glenaveena ! 
 Meant to give thee merely hhia 
 Camwia, at farthest t7i?ia ; ^ 
 
 1 A lazy student of my acquaintance, who was bound to pro- 
 duce at least a couple of Latin verses for a certain occasion, con- 
 tented himself with this minimum of two adonics : 
 
 ' Accipe bina 
 Carmina, Phoebe.' 
 Without this note 'bina vel trina carmina' would hardly be under- 
 stood as meaning ' two or three lines.' The present nonsense-verses 
 have a little more coherence than may appear to the uninitiated.
 
 GLENAVEENA 79 
 
 But by sounding final hia, 
 
 Like to Homer's irapa diva, 
 
 And by anglicising ena — 
 
 As in making a lagena 
 
 (Flagon) rhyme with a sestina — 
 
 I of rhymes could forge, I ween, a 
 
 Nearly limitless catena 
 
 In thy honour, Glenaveena, 
 
 Without visiting i^gina, 
 
 Or enlisting Agrippina, 
 
 Or the Grecian dame Alcmena, 
 
 Or great Nap of St. Helena, 
 
 Or his marechal, Massena : 
 
 For my muse without angina 
 
 Pectoris, at home can glean a 
 
 Sheaf of rhymes for Glenaveena. 
 
 When in straits (like thine, Messina) 
 
 She can easily suhpcena 
 
 Many a ' special ' rhyme, as Nina 
 
 Sahib, and the Scotch Edina, 
 
 And the Irish Crossmolina, 
 
 And the good P.P. of Feenagh — 
 
 Jena, Nenagh, Carthagena, 
 
 And the Jesuit Molina ; 
 
 Many an Ina and Malvina 
 
 Fair as Goldsmith'a Angelina, 
 
 Ere she caught the scarlatina.
 
 80 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Playing on a seraphina 
 
 Or perchance a concertina. 
 
 With the sweet saint Philomena, 
 
 Wooed by many a prayer-novena, 
 
 Join the sinner Messalina ; 
 
 Link with canonised Martina 
 
 The pure novelist^ Georgiana 
 
 Lady Fullerton — Macrina, 
 
 Valentina, and Sabina : 
 
 Saints by the score and rhymes galore 
 
 Throng to greet our good Regina — 
 
 Not Victoria Wilhelmina^ 
 
 Also named Alexandrina, 
 
 But your Queen, O Glenaveena !
 
 BABY'S CONSECRATION 
 
 No need, dear Infant, for thy friends to pray 
 That thou mayst have a happy New Year's Day. 
 The simple happiness of life is thine. 
 The joy of merely living — to repine, 
 To grieve, to yearn, to feel that half-despair. 
 Which is the worst that human hearts can bear, 
 Are far beyond thee. Thou hast childish fears 
 And childish longings, and the ' gift of teai's ' 
 Is thine already — tears that clear the head — 
 Not the sad tears that men and women shed. 
 Not yet can real sorrow cloud thy path : 
 Thy life begins, thy dawn of being hath 
 Promise of every fairest grace and joy — 
 Parents who will not treat thee as a toy 
 To sport with for a day, but as a soul 
 Who, while the everlasting ages roll. 
 Will, by God's grace, adore and bless for aye 
 Him to whose Heart they offer thee to-day. 
 This opening day of Eighteen-eighty-three 
 Is the first Jour de I' An, sweet Babe, for thee. 
 
 F
 
 82 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Only by months thy life is counted yet. 
 
 Some four or five of them — I quite forget 
 
 Whether an August or September sun 
 
 Smiled on thee first, thou beauteous little one ! 
 
 So frail, so tiny, yet what marvellous might 
 
 Thou wieldest round thee ! Many a sleepless night 
 
 Hast cost thy tender mother — many more 
 
 Do the kind years hold still for her in store. 
 
 What else are mothers made for but to show 
 
 How far the patience of true love can go ? 
 
 Well, my own mother, dead these sixteen years. 
 
 Bent o'er my crib with just the same sweet fears. 
 
 With prayers as fervent and with love as deep 
 
 As that which broods above thy rosy sleep. 
 
 God rest my mother ! And may God bless thine ! 
 
 But I have wandered far from my design. 
 
 Which merely purposed in a playful way 
 
 To point for thee the moral of this day. 
 
 Whereon thy parents and thy kinsfolk dear 
 
 Have kindly summoned thy poor poet here. 
 
 Not as a poet but a Christian priest. 
 
 To make this New Year's Day thy special feast 
 
 By offering up that little heart of thine 
 
 To Jesus' heart in this domestic shrine. 
 
 In this home-chapel of the Sacred Heart, 
 
 Where for thy welfare many a prayer will start
 
 BABY'S CONSECRATION 83 
 
 From loving lips, we lay thee, victim sweet, 
 Dear Infant, at the Infant Saviour's feet. 
 Jesus for love of thee was once a child, 
 And slept upon the breast of Mother mild, 
 The first glad Christmastide of all. And now 
 Before the Christmas Crib again we bow. 
 And at this altar, on this New Year's Day, 
 We consecrate thy heart, thy all, for aye. 
 With many a prayer and many a pious sign 
 Unto Our Lady and her Son Divine — 
 Never-^-no, never from their love to part. 
 Dear Child of Mary and the Sacred Heart.
 
 TO M. J.i 
 
 God bless you for the pious care 
 
 Which safe has kept, though long a rover, 
 
 This tiny tome of childish prayer 
 
 Which bears my name within the cover. 
 
 The giver's name : for it was writ 
 
 By far more skilful pen than mine is. 
 
 With winning piety and wit 
 
 It glows from title-page to finis. 
 
 I had forgotten it and you — 
 
 How rude a saying for a poet ! — 
 
 But can it really be true 
 
 This hand did once on you bestow it ? 
 
 1 The (laughter of a distinguished native of Newr3', the late 
 Sir Patrick Jennings of Sydney, New South Wales, paid two 
 visits to Europe — and to me. On the second occasion I threw 
 doubt on the statement that we had met before. My visitor 
 produced a copy of the exquisite prayer-book which Lady Gilbert 
 (Rosa Mulholland) wrote for children, and showed my signature 
 to a few lines of greeting to mj' little Australian friend. I 
 accepted the proof and apologised for m}' forgetfulness bj' these 
 verses. 
 84
 
 TO M. J. 85 
 
 What oceans has it crossed meanwhile, 
 This dainty booklet. Holy Childhood ? 
 
 Perchance 'twas read with tear and smile 
 In some remote Australian wildwood. 
 
 Full oft you prayed its simple prayers 
 
 And pondered on its pleasant ponderings — 
 
 Mute confidante of childhood's cares — 
 Yet here it is, safe from its wanderings. 
 
 And you are safe ! That southern sun 
 Has left you fresh and sweet as ever ; 
 
 And one might deem your years had run 
 At home in emerald Rostrevor. 
 
 So be it to the end. Alas ! 
 
 Your ' holy Childhood ' has departed : 
 May Womanhood as brightly pass, 
 
 As pure, as holy, as light-hearted !
 
 RETROSPECTION i 
 
 In the dim uncertain twilight 
 
 That the close of evening brings, 
 I sit in my lonely chamber 
 
 And think of many things ; 
 And they that are wide asunder, 
 
 And scenes that are far away. 
 And words that have long been spoken. 
 
 And deeds of a bygone day, 
 Troop thickly onward, rushing 
 
 Through my half-bewildered brain. 
 From Memory's crowded storeroom 
 
 Where they Ve long forgotten lain. 
 My fancy leapeth backward 
 
 Across some ten long years — 
 Ten years of smiles and laughter, 
 
 Flecked here and there with tears. 
 
 1 This and tlie two following pieces are more tban twent.y 
 years yovmger than the youngest of their neighbours, dating 
 back almost to boyhood. The third of them, 'A Woodland 
 Ramble,' will be found in print in Dufft/'s Fireside Magazine 
 of December ISrv.. 
 86
 
 RETROSPECTION 87 
 
 But Fancy leaps the chasm 
 
 And alights on a well-known scene. 
 
 Where in the days long bygone 
 My childish days have been. 
 
 'Tis a roomy, old-fashioned mansion 
 
 In a quiet country place, 
 And the whole starts up before me 
 
 With each well-remembered grace ; 
 And every nook and crevice 
 
 Of that dear old house doth rise, 
 As clearly before my vision 
 
 As if 'twere under my eyes. 
 The sonsy substantial kitchen. 
 
 And the parlour warm and bright, 
 And the room where we played in the daytime. 
 
 And the bed where we slept at night : 
 The queer old corners and crannies 
 
 In memory's sight arise. 
 And a twinge of sadness comes o'er me 
 
 That brings the tears to my eyes. 
 There lay a grassy meadow 
 
 The quaint green porch before, 
 And our fields, just half a dozen, 
 
 Stretched down to the fresh seashore. 
 'Twas indeed a pleasant homestead 
 
 And noisy as a hive,
 
 88 IDYLS OF KILLOAV EN 
 
 And a fathei' and a mother dwelt there, 
 
 And merry children five. 
 In that quiet, happy household 
 
 The days went merrily by — 
 Five innocent-hearted children. 
 
 And the youngest of them I. 
 But ah ! those times are over — 
 
 Far, far back in the past : 
 Sad changes come o'er all things. 
 
 Nothing but change doth last ! 
 
 And so, in the solemn twilight 
 
 That the meek-eyed evening brings. 
 Here in my lonely chamber 
 
 I think of many things : 
 And many a curious question 
 
 I put unto my heart. 
 And many a childish memory 
 
 Maketh the quick tears start. 
 How fareth now that household ? — 
 
 Who dead, and who alive .'' — 
 And where are the father and mother. 
 
 And where the children five ? 
 Ah ! first the kind, dear father 
 
 Was called to our Father's breast : 
 He was the first to leave us — 
 
 God grant his pure soul rest !
 
 RKTROSPECTION 89 
 
 Then sought we another dweUing 
 
 And left that country-place : — 
 Our new life's peaceful current 
 
 'Twere bootless now to trace. 
 But where are the pleasant faces 
 
 That lighted that quiet hearth ? 
 Ah ! where are the cheerful voices 
 
 That sang for very mirth ? 
 Two of them (souls so earnest) 
 
 -The clayey chords have riven 
 That bound them to earthly homestead — 
 
 No home for them but Heaven ! 
 And one brave soul hath entered 
 
 On the rude battle-field, 
 Where the true heart still conquers 
 
 That can a stout arm wield. 
 In the fight may the good God guard him 
 
 And bear him safely through ! 
 Go forth, 'tis the hour of battle — 
 
 Stern work hast thou to do. 
 
 All these have fled our old hearthstone ; 
 
 I too am sitting here — 
 And thou are left, sweet sister, 
 
 Alone with our mother dear. 
 It must at times be dreary. 
 
 Alone where there used to be
 
 90 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Such a merry-hearted circle 
 
 With the merriest of them thee. 
 Thy meek, firm will keeps under 
 
 All restless thoughts, I know ; 
 Yet must thy heart ring sadly 
 
 With echoes of long ago. 
 But no, I fear not for thee. 
 
 For I know thy nature well. 
 And, whithersoe'er thou goest. 
 
 An angel there shall dwell. 
 Thou couldst make of Lapland winter 
 
 A springtime warm and bland — 
 Ah no ! I fear not for thee. 
 
 Thou shalt reach the Better Land. 
 But as thou journeyest onward 
 
 To the sure and happy goal. 
 Pray for a poor fond brother 
 
 With a better heart than soul. 
 
 Small need is there to ponder 
 
 On future or on past ; 
 Do each day's little duties, 
 
 All will come right at last. 
 And so in the thoughtful twilight 
 
 That the sad, dim evening brings, 
 I sit in my lonely chamber 
 
 And think of many things :
 
 RETROSPECTION 91 
 
 And a quiet sadness steals o'er me 
 That withal can comfort give : 
 
 But no more of retrospection ! 
 In the present let us live.
 
 SADNESS 
 
 Will you sit down beside me, sister, 
 
 And sing me some dear old rhyme ? 
 It does my heart good to hear you 
 
 As I 've heard you, ah ! many 's the time. 
 It does my heart good to hear you. 
 
 And I 'm lonely and sad to-day : 
 So come and sit down beside me 
 
 And sing all my sadness away. 
 
 And your little hand soft and tender. 
 
 Give it me here to hold. 
 I like to have you so near me, 
 
 For I 'm very lonely and cold, 
 And over my heart there 's a chillness — 
 
 I 'm sad, sister dear, to-day : 
 So come and sit down beside me 
 
 And sing all my sadness away. 
 
 Don't sing me a merry ditty, 
 
 But choose some plaintive wee song. 
 
 Round which, like bees round the flowers. 
 The wistful memories throng. 
 
 92
 
 SADNESS 93 
 
 Sing me some simple old ballad 
 
 That you 've sung for me o'er and o'er ; 
 
 But better I like than any 
 
 The sad little ' Kathleen O'More.' 
 
 There is something about you, sister, 
 
 A holy, unselfish /ec/, 
 That can quiet the spirit's yearnings, 
 
 And, like grace, o'er the worn heart steal. 
 You wield a bright, gentle power 
 
 That the heart dares not gainsay : 
 So come and sit down beside me 
 
 And sing all my sadness away.
 
 A WOODLAND RAMBLE 
 
 Where the forest trees stand in serried file 
 
 For many a mile, 
 
 'Twas there that my footsteps chanced to stray 
 
 One summer's day ; 
 
 And all that I saw and heard and thought 
 
 I 'm going to tell you now, unsought. 
 
 I saw the big oaks lift their heads to the sky 
 
 With port proud and high ; 
 
 And I saw through the breaks in the leafy mass. 
 
 As I lay on the grass. 
 
 White armies of clouds troop across the blue. 
 
 And stray patches of sunlight peeping through. 
 
 And I saw in one place (and it pleased me well) 
 
 A thick shady dell. 
 
 Where a stream groped its way in the dark along, 
 
 While its gurgling song 
 
 Was half-choked by the tangled tree-roots rude : 
 
 And these were the things that I saw in the wood. 
 
 94
 
 A WOODLAND RAMBLP: 95 
 
 And the tittering laughter of leaves, too, I heard, 
 
 By the light winds stirred ; 
 
 And the hum of the stealthily -crawling rill 
 
 Was moss-stifled and still ; 
 
 And the birds sang the gleesomest songs they could. 
 
 And that was all that I heard in the wood. 
 
 And I thought how many light hearts and young 
 
 Had, those woods among, 
 
 Rambled like me, who were stricken low 
 
 Long years ago. 
 
 And who into dust have been crumbled long, 
 
 While this forest-temple 's yet stout and strong. 
 
 This old forest all green and high shall wave. 
 
 When I 'm in my grave. 
 
 And the lowliest shrub at our feet may be 
 
 Longer lived than we ; 
 
 But Who made them all shall them all outlast. 
 
 For man 's but an atom, and God is the Vast. 
 
 There ran through my head solemn thoughts like 
 these, 
 
 That day 'mong the trees ; 
 Whilst glimpses of sun through the roof above 
 
 Fell, like God's love.
 
 9fi IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Brightening the oak-roots black and rude ; 
 'Twas after this fashion I thought in the wood. 
 
 And so for hours through the cool green shade 
 
 Which the larches made, 
 
 While the bees half drowned the brooklet's song 
 
 As they buzzed along, — 
 
 'Neath an awning of emerald and blue and gold. 
 
 Plucking the cowslips and nuts, I strolled.
 
 THE LITTLE FLOWER STREWERSi 
 
 Dear children, kiss your flowers, and fling them at 
 
 His feet ; 
 He comes, the Lord of flowers, of all things fair and 
 
 sweet. 
 His glory all is hidden, but who He is you know : 
 Then throw your flowers before Him^ and kiss them 
 
 as you throw. 
 
 Yet envy not the flowers that die so sweet a 
 death — 
 
 One heart's fond sigh is sweeter than rose's per- 
 fumed breath ; 
 
 More sweet than sweetest incense the tears of love 
 that flow. 
 
 The thrill of feith that mingles with every flower 
 you throw, 
 
 1 These verses, which borrow their name from one of the 
 prettiest stories ever written — 'The Little Flower Seekers,' by 
 Lady Gilbert (Rosa Mulholland)— were suggested by seeing the 
 children kiss each handful of the flowers with which they 
 strewed the corridors of the Convent of Mercy, Baggot Street, 
 Dublin, during the procession of the QiuiranV Ore, June 24, 
 1879. 
 
 G
 
 98 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 YeSj let your flowers be emblems of holy thoughts 
 
 and prayers 
 That from your hearts are springing — for hearts 
 
 alone He cares. 
 Oh ! may your hearts before Him with loving 
 
 worship glow. 
 While thus you throw your flowers and kiss them as 
 
 you throw. 
 
 With lips unstained and rosy^ kiss all the roses 
 
 fair — 
 But thorns lurk 'mid the roses, and life is full ot 
 
 care. 
 Accept its thorns and roses — both come from God, 
 
 you know : 
 So bear your crosses gaily, and kiss them as you go. 
 
 Not all your path, dear children, can smile, like 
 
 this, with flowers : 
 For lifetimes would be fruitless, if all were sunny 
 
 hours. 
 The rain and snow in season must make the roses 
 
 grow : 
 So throw your flowers, dear children, and kiss them 
 
 as you throw.
 
 THE LITTLE FLOWER STREWERS 99 
 
 Ah ! soon the rose-leaves wither — we^ too_, like 
 
 flowers must die. 
 But in the heavenly springtime shall bloom again 
 
 on high. 
 That God unveiled beholding whom 'neath these 
 
 veils we know. 
 And at whose feet, dear children, our flowers, our 
 
 hearts, we throw.
 
 FLOWERS FOR THE CHILDREN'S 
 HOSPITAL 
 
 I 'vE sung the little children who strewed their 
 
 flow' rets fair 
 Along the convent pathways, for Christ was passing 
 
 there. ^ 
 A pious deed and holy — yet Christ Himself has 
 
 said : 
 ' The poor are always with you ; go, tend them in 
 
 My stead.' 
 
 And Christ Himself has spoken that tender word 
 
 and true : 
 ' As if for Me you did it, I take whate'er you do 
 For one of these My children, My weakest and My 
 
 least.' 
 Since first that word Avas uttered, its sway has 
 
 never ceased. 
 
 1 See the preceding poem. An advertisement from the 
 Children's Hospital, 15 Temple Street, Dublin, states : ' The 
 members of the Flower Association make the wards look bright 
 and beautiful with bouquets, supplied every week by their kindly 
 hands. The arrival of these lovely and odorous gifts is a delight 
 to the sick children.' 
 100
 
 FLOWERS FOR THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 101 
 
 That word;, and yet another : when once the 
 
 Saviour smiled, 
 And, raising to His bosom, caressed a httle child ; 
 And when the children clustered too closely round 
 
 His knee : 
 ' Of such is heaven's bright kingdom — ah ! let 
 
 them come to Me.' 
 
 Those words of meek entreaty are strong and 
 
 mighty still — 
 The breast of many a mother with patient love they 
 
 fill; 
 Round many a puny outcast, round many an orphan 
 
 lone, 
 Those blessed words of Jesus a sheltering arm have 
 
 thrown. 
 
 Those words make many a virgin vow all her life 
 
 away 
 To save poor little children — but here my lighter 
 
 lay 
 Would sing of simpler service, more passing, yet 
 
 most true. 
 Which children unto children for love of Jesus do.
 
 102 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Those words make gentle maidens search all their 
 garden-bowerSj 
 
 From plant and shrub to rifle their freight of 
 fragrant flowers, 
 
 Not now for sacred pageant to deck God's altar- 
 shrine. 
 
 Yet for a purpose holy and almost as divine. 
 
 They bring their flowers to solace the tiny captives' 
 
 chains, 
 To cheer with scent and colour sick childhood's 
 
 aches and pains. 
 To give a glimpse of nature, of sunny air and sky. 
 Where, pale and maimed and crippled, the little 
 
 children lie. 
 
 O children rich and healthy ! O raeriy girl and 
 
 boy ! 
 Give thanks to God our Father for all that you 
 
 enjoy. 
 He gives you dainty raiment and sturdy strength of 
 
 limb. 
 Bright homes and loving parents — what will you 
 
 give to Him ?
 
 FLOWERS FOR THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL 103 
 
 'Whate'er for these poor children you do is done 
 
 for Me.' 
 Ah ! in each sickly infant the Infant Jesus see. 
 As if 'twere He in person, on these your bounties 
 
 shower — 
 Kind words and food and clothing and toy and 
 
 pretty flower.
 
 THE AMETHYST 
 
 A TEMPERANCE LECTURE 
 
 Though I might well invoke the holiest muse 
 
 That poet-saint has ever dared to choose. 
 
 So sacred is the purpose of my strain — 
 
 Let me begin it in a lighter vein 
 
 By venturing in rhymed prose to seek 
 
 My title's meaning in a schoolboy's Greek. 
 
 From alpha ' non ' and methuo ' ebrius sum ' 
 
 Our amethyst's sonorous name has come : 
 
 Implying that the toper may at need 
 
 From alcohol's seductive spell be freed. 
 
 If he as antidote this stone secure — 
 
 A ' precious stone,' indeed, could it ensure 
 
 The bursting of that miserable chain 
 
 Which self-made captives strive to rend in twain. 
 
 Oh, might such amethysts in myriads gleam, 
 
 As thick as shamrocks o'er our sod ! Vain dream ! 
 
 For no mechanical device can save 
 
 The wretches who this subtle poison crave. 
 
 104
 
 THE AMETHYST 105 
 
 The feeble Will itself, upheld by grace, 
 Must all its powers for the combat brace. 
 Reason and common sense will urge in vain. 
 And this dread thraldom undisturbed remain^ 
 If Thou, O Lord, sustain not and assist — 
 Thy grace alone is our true amethyst. 
 
 But with this cure supreme for every ill, 
 
 With this divine support of man's weak will. 
 
 More human means, less lofty motives, may 
 
 Their succour lend and help to win the day. 
 
 One motive which should move each loving son 
 
 Of our dear land to fear, abhor, and shun 
 
 The drunkard's most ignoble guilt is this : 
 
 Poor Ireland's enemies are fain to hiss 
 
 Their spiteful sneers against her children's fame ; 
 
 What other slur can fall upon their name 
 
 Except this noisy, self-parading sin ? 
 
 Less sinful sometimes than the selfish grin 
 
 Of the sleek hypocrite who hides the while 
 
 In his own heart far deeper, deadlier guile — 
 
 Worse sins than this, though more respectable. 
 
 Surer, though more decorous, roads to hell. 
 
 But, if we love our country, we must labour. 
 
 Each in himself, and then with fi-iend and neighbour. 
 
 By work, word, prayer, to crush and overthrow 
 
 This crafty colleague of the fiends below —
 
 106 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 To dry this source of sin and shame and strife. 
 Which poisons and defiles full many a life. 
 
 O brothers, if in truth you Erin love. 
 
 Ye above all, who must as exiles rove, 
 
 Whether in England's grimy cities bound, 
 
 Or in new worlds, new homes, new hopes you 've 
 
 found : 
 Ye who among cold, watchful strangers dwell. 
 Show that you love the dear old country well : 
 Be honest, temperate, and pure of life ; 
 Strive hard, but oh ! keep stainless in the strife. 
 Do credit to the homeland of your love — 
 Yourselves true patriots you thus will prove. 
 A drunken patriot is a lie and fraud ; 
 He loves not Ireland who loves not God. 
 
 Dear Irish peasant, brave and pure and true. 
 Ah ! let this scandal rest no more on you ! 
 Honest, contented with your scanty store. 
 And Catholic, aye to the very core ; 
 Yet why let Pharisees their eyebrows lift 
 At your intemperance and lack of thrift .'' 
 If by no nation are ye left behind 
 In generous qualities and gifts of mind. 
 Why not do justice to your creed and race 
 By stamping out this vulgar, vile disgrace .''
 
 THE AMETHYST 107 
 
 Not that the laud we cherish as our mother. 
 
 E'en on this count is guiltier than another 
 
 To whom no Father Mathew e'er was sent. 
 
 They are not worst of sinners who repent : 
 
 The Magdalene was not the worst, but best ; 
 
 And yet her name still stands for all the rest. 
 
 Ay, others were far worse than Magdalene, 
 
 And thirstier races on this earth are seen 
 
 Than they to whom the Capuchin once preached ; 
 
 But meek repentance, loudly self-impeached. 
 
 Oft seems more guilty in the sight of men. 
 
 For hearts and thoughts come not within their ken. 
 
 Yet still, with all excuses duly made, 
 
 We have too much to blush for, I 'm afraid. 
 
 We all love Ireland. There are fairer lands. 
 More fruitful soils, more bay-indented strands, 
 Far statelier mountains, streams of vaster flood, — 
 But when our green Isle rose, God saw 'twas good,^ 
 And poured His blessing on her vales and hills. 
 What a huge space this tiny islet fills 
 In history as writ by human pen ! 
 But how her record shines in angels' ken ! 
 
 1 A plagiarism, of course, from Dr. Drennan's ' beautiful but 
 rebellious song,' 
 
 ' When Erin first rose from the dark, swelling flood, 
 God blessed the green island, and saw it was good.'
 
 10^ IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 In a half-pitying, patronising way 
 
 Men say ' Poor Ireland ! ' as men used to say 
 
 ' Poor Noll ! ' in our own gifted Goldsmith's day. 
 
 I 've sometimes thought our Celtic island-home, 
 
 And her big step-sister whom leagues of foam 
 
 And of sea-sickness keep from her apart, 
 
 Ai-e, in their qualities of head and heart, 
 
 Contrasted like that curious pair of friends 
 
 Whose fame on Boswell's gossip much depends : 
 
 Though burly Doctor Sam is wise and good 
 
 (If just a little greedy, loud and rude), 
 
 Who now reads Johnson ? Goldsmith 's loved and 
 
 read. 
 The laurels still are green around his head. 
 Thy son, O Erin, is a type of thee, 
 Least 'mid the nations, Poland of the sea — ^ 
 A happier Poland that can never be 
 Absorbed, partitioned, but distinct, unique, 
 Though thou great Shakspere's plastic language 
 
 speak, 
 Language more fit for eloquence and prayer 
 When a soft Irish accent lurketh there. 
 Like Goldsmith, too, whose very faults could charm, 
 His countrymen are apt themselves to harm. . 
 The genial, hospitable Celtic heart, 
 Cheerful and social, plays no doubt its part 
 
 1 A phrase of Montalembert's.
 
 THE AxMETHYST 109 
 
 In leading many a fine poor soul astray 
 
 In this good-natured but most ruinous way. 
 
 Where all are bad, there is not much to choose. 
 
 But basest is the solitary booze. 
 
 No Irish drunkard takes his pastime so ; 
 
 When he gets drunk, he lets the neighbours know. 
 
 May God forgive the poets who have sung 
 
 Those pleasant songs in every human tongue 
 
 Which have, alas ! too bright a halo flung 
 
 Around ' the Drink ' of every taste and hue, 
 
 The ruby wine, brown ale, and mountain dew ! 
 
 But all the poetry and music pall 
 
 For those who into beastly bondage fall. 
 
 Shame on the drunkard ! made by heaven's decree 
 
 A little lower than the angels, he. 
 
 Endowed with mind and heart almost divine, 
 
 Degrades himself beneath the grovelling swine. 
 
 Shame on the drunkard ! He 's a selfish brute : 
 
 Nay, so to call him is a mild salute ; 
 
 'Brute' is for him a complimentary name — 
 
 What beast e'er wallowed in such senseless shame ? 
 
 Alas, that poor dumb Instinct holds its own, 
 
 While godlike Reason is debased, o'erthrown ! 
 
 Beasts cease from drinking when their thirst has 
 
 ceased — 
 The sot drinks on till he outbeasts the beast.
 
 110 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Shame on the man who can ignore, displace, 
 
 His human nature and his God-given grace. 
 
 Nature is fain the moderate use to teach 
 
 Of all God's gifts that lie within our reach ; 
 
 But grace inspires (and nature gives consent) 
 
 To stretch the wholesome principle of Lent 
 
 Beyond the forty days of fast and prayer. 
 
 To have the best of all things here and there. 
 
 On earth, in heaven, were something more than fair. 
 
 Many are safe unpledged, yet share the yoke 
 
 Of total abstinence with weaker folk 
 
 Whose only safety is to never touch. 
 
 From 'just a little ' to ' a deal too much,' 
 
 The passage is more easy than to fall 
 
 Into excess from drinking none at all. 
 
 No fear of turning dizzy if men keep 
 
 Ten yards from where the precipice hangs steep ; 
 
 But let them saunter close beside the brink — 
 
 Hark to that shriek ! They stagger, fall, and sink. 
 
 This policy as cowardice you brand : 
 
 Not cowards they, but heroes who can stand 
 
 Firm, day by day, against the tempter's art. 
 
 Such cowardice is oft a brave man's part. 
 
 Nor are drink's evils all confined to those 
 Who carry their credentials on their nose —
 
 THE AMETHYST 111 
 
 Drunkard's proboscis blotched and rubicund. 
 Men who would boast of an uncommon fund 
 Of common sense, discretion, and good taste — 
 Who never once their family disgraced 
 By reckless habits or by tipsy broil : 
 Even these their Christian manhood sadly spoil 
 By self-indulgence which escapes from blame, 
 Albeit the source of secret sin and shame. 
 When scandal ceases, not all harm doth cease : 
 Foul crimes there are, not known to the police. 
 Into how many sins that soil and mar 
 Drink drags the man who ' never goes too far ' ! 
 
 We might, however, let the drunkard fall 
 Unpitied to his doom, if that were all. 
 But ah ! the innocent are forced to share 
 The punishment which he alone should bear. 
 He blights and blasts not only his own life. 
 But spreads around him want and sin and strife. 
 God help the drunkard's children and his wife ! 
 
 When Mary Dempsey changed her maiden name 
 
 And Mrs. Thomas Houlihan became, 
 
 She knew that Tom, poor fellow, took a drop ; 
 
 But he, of course, engaged to put a stop 
 
 To that and every other evil practice. 
 
 If she would only have him. And the fact is
 
 112 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 He kept his word beyond the honeymoon. 
 
 Ahj those were happy, happy days ! But soon 
 
 The wicked craving came on him again. 
 
 Helped by the words and deeds of comrade men, 
 
 Who pressed him oft to join them in a ' thrate.' 
 
 His poor young wife pined, waiting for him late. 
 
 And often Avould the heart within her sink 
 
 To see Tom stagger in, ' disguised in drink ' — 
 
 Too well disguised ! For who could know him now, 
 
 The stalwai-t youth, with brave, ingenuous brow. 
 
 Who won her heart in happy days gone by ? 
 
 Oft through long lonely houi-s she 'd weep and sigh 
 
 While he preferred the stupid tankard's foam 
 
 To the true comforts of a loving home. 
 
 Home, home, sweet home ! It maddens one to 
 
 think 
 Of happy homes laid desolate by drink. 
 Poor Mary Dempsey, this is what you got 
 By linking with a drunkard's life your lot ! 
 How happy might your humble home have been, 
 Pure, holy, comfortable, gay, serene ! 
 Such homes in thousands form a happy state, 
 And make a nation prosperous and great — 
 Each lowly home a little world aj^art. 
 And each most dear to the Redeemer's heart. 
 Such was Tom Houlihan's at first. Alas ' 
 His lucid fits of penitence soon pass ;
 
 THE AMETHYST 113 
 
 He settles down to sottish, dull despair — 
 His broken-hearted wife has now no prayer 
 But that he may escape a drunkard's fate. 
 And die repentant at the last, though late. 
 
 I 've shrunk from telling the whole story through. 
 Story, alas ! well known to me and you. 
 The children whom God trusted to his care. 
 Towards whom he still a father's love doth bear, 
 For whom (but for this heartless vice) he 'd die— 
 Now, if these little ones with hunger cry. 
 He glares upon them with fierce, bloodshot eye, 
 Spurns them with angry oath, and sneaks away 
 To where the flaring gas turns night to day, 
 And, while theif starve, he slakes his drunken 
 thirst — 
 
 cruel vice ! tyrannical, accursed. 
 
 1 know — for surely temperance advocate 
 Ought not to be in speech intemperate, 
 Intoxicated by his own verbosity. 
 
 As Dizzy once remarked with mock pomposity ^ — 
 I know full well there are in many a case 
 Excuses many. Not all monsters base 
 
 1 'Intoxicated with the exuberance of his own verbosity,' was 
 one of Lord Beaconsficld's elaborate gibes against his great rival, 
 Mr. Gladstone. 
 
 H
 
 114 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 Are these poor drunkards. Life is hard and dull. 
 And man is weak, and God is merciful. 
 Easy for those fenced safely round from birth 
 With the best blessings of this fallen earth, 
 A happy home, religious parents' care. 
 Firm watchful training, sacraments, and prayer. 
 Pure pleasure that from filthy pleasure weans, 
 Good education, tastes refined, fair means. 
 Congenial work (well paid) to fill the day. 
 And books to while a leisure hour away : 
 So circumstanced, a man through life might pass 
 Without the solace of the glittering glass. 
 He whom a well-cooked dinner waits at home 
 May safe through streets of public-houses roam ; 
 But the poor xTian whose lot is full of gloom. 
 His home at best one shabby, stuffy room. 
 Not overstocked with furniture or food — 
 ' Come in here, Jack, a drop will do you good' — 
 How can poor Jack refuse such respite pleasant 
 From hopeless Future and from sordid Present ? 
 
 Not that home-comfort, talent, wealth, and ease 
 Are for a sober life sure guarantees. 
 No rank, no state, and even no sex can be 
 From this fell passion or its peril free. 
 The brightest genius is by this undone. 
 Like Ancient Mariner and gifted son.^ 
 1 Hartley Coleridge, and S. T. C.
 
 THE AMETHYST 115 
 
 O womanhood, kind, tender-hearted, pure ! 
 Alas,i not even thj sacred name is sure 
 'Gainst this malignant spell, this damning taint — 
 But no, I cannot, will not, dare not paint 
 Thai saddest scene on God's poor earth below. 
 Worst depth of all life's tragedy of woe. 
 Plague-spot miholy, with dire misei'ies rife — 
 The miscalled home cursed with a drunken wife. 
 
 Dear IrisK men, dear Irish women, pray 
 
 That Ireland, having seen her darkest day. 
 
 May, in the years that now before her lie. 
 
 In peace and purity serve God on high. 
 
 But with your prayers let deeds go hand in hand ; 
 
 Prove thus your love for faith and fatherland. 
 
 Let not the scribe who hates our race and creed 
 
 Point out in scorn this rank, unsightly weed 
 
 In our fair island-garden. Oh, uproot. 
 
 Lest it should spread apace and spoil the fruit 
 
 So rich and various in the Master's eye. 
 
 Quickly this world, its griefs and joys, pass by ; 
 
 Help us. Almighty God, to wend our way 
 
 Safe through life's sins and sorrows day by day. 
 
 Weak as we are, all foes we shall resist. 
 
 Thy grace our armour and our amethyst.
 
 MONOTONY AND THE LARK 
 
 A PROSE IDYL 
 
 ' How strange one never tires of the lark ! ' We 
 were strolling round and round the garden, he and 
 she, and little Mary and I — he and she arra-in- 
 arnij and I hand-in-hand with little Mary, — and the 
 singing of the lark overhead seemed a part of the 
 August sunshine. And my gentle cousin Annie 
 said : ' How strange one never tires of the lark ! ' 
 
 Yes, although it is so monotonous : on and on, 
 almost the same always. A mere trill of joy, a 
 mere gush of love and gratitude, a mere trickle 
 of the simplest melody. No triumphant burst, no 
 riotous gurgle, no pathetic murmur, no agonising 
 spasm, no subtle gradation, no mellow fall from 
 treble down to bass, no splendid leap from bass 
 up to treble. On and on, a few artless, unvarying 
 notes. And yet it never tires us, it is always 
 musical, and fresh, and meekly joyous — image of 
 the one unceasing song of the blessed, image of the 
 rapturous monotony of heaven. 
 
 116
 
 MONOTONY AND THE LARK 117 
 
 Is there not pain in a restless multiplicity of 
 pleasure ? Amidst the whirl of changes, is not the 
 heart haunted by a vague dread that the next 
 change may be sadly for the worse ? It is a 
 symptom of disease in the soul to stand in need 
 of such vicissitudes. Only commonplace souls, 
 earthy souls, souls without depth or compass, souls 
 with paltry resources of their own, and slavishly 
 dependent upon outward things — none but these 
 desire, none but these can endm-e, perpetual 
 variety, excitement, travel, change of scene, 
 change of society, change of employment, change 
 of amusement, change of change. The higher 
 natures are stable, equable, self-contained, self- 
 sustaining, placid, domestic — concenti'ated in their 
 large memories, and in their larger thoughts and 
 hopes — seeking and finding pleasure in a noble 
 loyalty to duty, and regarding duty, not as a task- 
 mistress to be served coldly for wages during as 
 short a day as possible, but as a queenly mother, 
 to live with, and cherish, and reverence, and love, 
 and serve, day and night, in sunshine and in 
 darkness, for life — at home with themselves, at 
 home with their conscience and their God, at 
 home in their own homes, at home with a sinless 
 and happy monotony. 
 
 ' How strange one never tires of the lark ! ' said
 
 118 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 the gentlest of my gentle cousins,, Annie. And so, 
 while we talked, and were silent, and smiled, 
 and looked at each other, and at the flowers 
 (alas ! there was one of us w^ho could not see the 
 flowers except as memory might paint them), we 
 went round and roimd the garden walks, he and 
 his sisters and I, unwearied by the sameness, ai-m- 
 in-arm, and hand-in-hand. And all the while the 
 lark, to his own keen delight and ours, kept up 
 his monotonous carol, high up out of sight, above 
 the field of clover yonder, outside our garden's 
 hedge ; and his singing, like the brightness and 
 the odour of the flowers and of the fruits, almost 
 seemed to be a part of the summer sunshine. 
 
 But, ah ! there is no sunshine now and no 
 singing. It is winter. Is the lark dead ? I 
 know not ; but my gentle cousin Annie is with 
 God. And twice the ^ daisies have gleamed in 
 pink and white over the grave of him who could 
 not see the flowers, but who shall see God for 
 ever, 
 
 • •••*• 
 
 Again, after many years, this withered leaf 
 flutters across my path. Perhaps God may use it 
 as a message to some hearts simple and young as 
 ours were then. Ay, and as theirs are still ; for 
 now they are all three gone home to God. Their
 
 MONOTONY AND THE LARK 119 
 
 bodies are in the same tomb, and their souls, I am 
 sure, are in the same heaven ; and they are pray- 
 ing, I am sure, for those who remain behind. One 
 of those who remain behind writes : ' It feels 
 lonely, having no elder sister, but we get on very 
 well, though we shall have need of many more 
 acts of resignation than we should have had 
 if Mary had been left to us,' she, namely, with 
 whom hand-in-hand I walked round the garden 
 in that August forenoon long ago, while the sun 
 shone and the lark sang overhead.
 
 THE FIRST REDBREAST 
 
 A LEGEND OF GOOD FRIDAY 
 
 A QUAINT and childish story^ often told. 
 And worth, perchance, the telling, for it steals 
 Through rustic Christendom ; and boyhood, bold 
 And almost pitiless in pastime,^ feels 
 The lesson its simplicity conceals. 
 Hence kind Tradition, to protect from -wTong 
 A gentle tribe of choristers, appeals 
 To this ancestral sacredness, so long 
 In grateful memory shrined, and now in grateful 
 song. 
 
 One Friday's noon a snowy-breasted bird 
 Was flying in the darkness o'er a steep 
 Nigh to Judea's capital, where stirred 
 The rabble's murmur sullenly and deep. 
 Far had it sailed since sunrise, and the sweep 
 
 1 'Un fripon d'enfant (cet age est sans pitie).' — La Fontaine. 
 
 120
 
 THE FIRST REDBREAST 121 
 
 Of its brown wing grew languid, and it longed 
 To rest a while on some green bough, and peep 
 Around the mass that on the hill-side thronged. 
 As if to learn whereto such pageant stern belonged. 
 
 The robin whitebreast spied a Cross of wood 
 That lifted o'er the din its gory freight. 
 Beneath, the sorrow-stricken Mother stood. 
 And silent wailed her Child's less cruel fate. 
 But lest she mourn all lone and desolate, 
 Has reason whispered to that fluttering breast, 
 Whom, Whom, on Whom those fiends their fury 
 
 sate .'' 
 Mark how it throbs with pity, nor can rest. 
 Till it has freed its Lord, or tried its little best. 
 
 And see, with tiny beak it fiercely flies. 
 To wi'ench the nails that bind the Captive fast. 
 Ah ! vain, all vain those eager panting cries^ 
 That quivering agony ! It sinks at last, 
 Foiled in the generous strife, and glares aghast 
 To see the thorn-crowned Head droop faint and 
 
 low. 
 Mute the pale lips, the gracious brow o'ercast; 
 W^hile from the shattered palms the red drops flow. 
 Staining the pious bird's smooth breast of speckless 
 
 snow.
 
 122 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 That snow thus ruddied fixed the tinge of all 
 The after-race of robins ; and 'tis said, 
 Heaven's fondest care doth on the robin fall. 
 In memory of that scene on Calvary sped. 
 Hence, urchins rude, in quest of plunder led 
 To prowl round hedges, never dare to touch 
 The wee white-speckled eggs or mossy bed 
 Of 'God's own bird.' So from the spoiler's 
 
 clutch 
 Would you, God's child, be free ? Ah ! feel for 
 
 Jesus much.
 
 IRISH LITERARY 'LEARICS' 
 
 A Learic — so called from Edward Lear, whose Book of Nonsense 
 
 brought the thing into vogue — is a single-stanza poem in the 
 
 metre of Lady Jlorgan's 'Kate Keame}-,' and generally 
 
 a little comical about some place or person. 
 
 The Author of 'The History of Dublin ' 
 
 Thy marvellous lore, Sir John Gilbert, 
 Can crack the most obdurate filbert, 
 
 And many a mystery 
 
 In Erin's dark histoiy 
 Has been by thy critical skill bared. 
 
 II 
 
 The Author oj 'Vagrant Verses ' 
 
 Lady Gilbert, once Rosa Mulholland, 
 Weaves stories most deftly of all, and 
 Her ' Verses,' though ' Vagrant,' 
 Are pure, fresh, and fragrant — 
 Oft drawn from the Acta of Bolland.i 
 
 ^ St. Barbara, St. Brigid, etc., in the Acta Sanctorum of the 
 BoUandists. 
 
 123
 
 124 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 III 
 
 The Author of 'Irish Idylls ' 
 
 The Gaskell of Erin, Jane Bai-Iow, 
 Dwells nearer to Dublin than Carlow. 
 
 Irish life with its side ills 
 
 Shines out in her ' Idylls/ 
 With much of the pathos of Marlowe. 
 
 VI 
 
 The Author of' A Fairy Changeling and other Poems ' 
 
 Thy name, Dora Sigerson Shorter, 
 (Not always pronounced as it ort ter,^) 
 
 Matrimonially rounded. 
 
 Can now be compounded 
 In this amphibrachian mortar. 
 
 V 
 
 The Editor of ' Cicero's Letters ' 
 
 Professor R. Yelverton Tyrrell 
 In Latin is brisk as a squirrel ; 
 
 And e'en his Greek prose 
 
 As pleasantly flows 
 As the English of Lang or of Birrell. 
 
 1 The g ' ought to ' have its hard sound.
 
 HUSH LITERARY 'LEARICS' 125 
 
 VI 
 
 The Author of Greek Life and Thought.' 
 
 A Greek (not a Turk) is MahafFy. 
 With Egyptological chafF he 
 
 Has dealt on the plan 
 
 Of that muscular man 
 In Cymric song famous as Taffy. 
 
 VII 
 
 The Author of Shakspeare, his Mind and Art' 
 
 In matters Shakespearian^ Dowden 
 Is a glorified Mrs. Clark (Cowden). 
 He has mixed in the melee 
 That rages around Shelley, 
 But he cares not for Lingard or Plowden. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The Author ofHurrish' 
 
 I wish that Miss Emily Lawless 
 In her studies of Ireland saw less 
 Of dark ugly shade — 
 The sketch she has made 
 Is surely not truthful or flawless.
 
 126 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 XI 
 
 The Author of A Cluster of Nuts' 
 
 Katherine Tynan is now Mrs. Hinkson, 
 But her maiden name pleasantly links on 
 
 To that wonderful throng 
 
 Of story and song 
 Which amazes the more that one thinks on. 
 
 X 
 
 The Author of ' The Mystery of Killard' 
 
 I knew you a boy, Richard Dowling, 
 And, though there 's a good deal of howling 
 In your thrilling romances. 
 Most gentle your glance is, 
 And your face always smiling, not scowling. 
 
 XI 
 
 The Author of 'In a North Country Village' 
 
 Mrs. Blundell, self-called ' M. E. Francis,' 
 As bright and as keen as a lance is. 
 
 Her plots are well knit, 
 
 And a delicate wit 
 The charm of her stories enhances.
 
 THE OAK AND THE REED 
 (Le Chcne cl le Roseau of La Fontaine) 
 
 To the Reed one day the Oak-tree said : 
 ' Good reason hast thou discontented to be 
 With Nature. A wren is a burden for thee ! 
 The gentlest of breezes that chances to blow. 
 Scarce wrinkling the face of the waters below. 
 
 Forces thee to bow the head. 
 But I not thus ! 
 
 My crest, sublime as the Caucasus, 
 Bars the sunbeam's golden path 
 And braves the tempest's wrath. 
 For thee all is north-wind, all zephyr for me. 
 Nay, if thy birthplace had happened to be 
 Beneath the sheltering foliage found 
 With which I cover the country round. 
 Thy lot Avere then less harshly cast — 
 I 'd screen thee from the stormy blast. 
 But, no, thy cradle we oftenest find 
 On the humid shores of the realms of wind. 
 Ah, Nature to thee is unjust indeed.' 
 
 127
 
 128 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 ' Your comjiassion,' replies the Reed^ 
 
 ' Springs from a kindly heart. But spare 
 
 This needless care — 
 The winds are more to be feared by yoii : 
 
 I do not break but bend. 
 Till now 'gainst the worst their rage could do, 
 Erectj unbending, you 've stood, 'tis true : 
 
 But wait for the end ! ' 
 
 As he spake the word. 
 From the horizon's verge is heard 
 The terrible rush of the hurricane — 
 Fiercest that ever the north 
 From his flanks sent forth ! 
 The Reed bows low, the Oak stands fast. 
 The storm-fiend puts forth his might again : 
 And prone on the earth at last 
 Lieth he who had raised to the skies his head 
 And with his feet had touched the empire of the 
 dead.
 
 A FATHER'S MEMORY 
 
 Qui es in ccelis! 
 
 They sing of mothex-'s love. 'Tis well ; 
 For in the very word doth dwell 
 Pure poesy. But have I thought 
 As oft and fondly as I ought 
 Of still another grace which came 
 To me — another, yet the same .'' 
 What richer gift has heaven above 
 To lend us than a father's love .'' 
 
 My father died when I was young, 
 Before my heart had taught my tongue 
 To be its poor interpi*eter — 
 Nay, he was taken from us ere 
 My heart itself had learned to thrill 
 With anguish and with joy that fill 
 The eyes with sad or happy tears. 
 He only saw my opening years : 
 And so, when walking by his side, 
 I never kissed his hand or tried
 
 130 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 To falter forth my grateful love. 
 
 But surely in the home above, 
 
 'Mid heavenly joys, this joy is given. 
 
 Father, by Thee who art in heaven. 
 
 That dwellers in that world of bliss 
 
 Still love the friends they loved in this. 
 
 And smile upon us while we yearn 
 
 To make some tardy, cold return 
 
 For the unselfish toil and pain 
 
 Spent on us with such scanty gain 
 
 Of thanks or love — whence have accrued 
 
 Such long arrears of gratitude. 
 
 Thou, too, my father, art in heaven. 
 Surely Our Father hath forgiven 
 What stains soever ntiay have clung 
 To thee earth's weary ways among. 
 Therefore my heart looks up and pays 
 The debt long due of love and praise, 
 Speaking as if thou still wert here 
 To smile and listen, father dear ! 
 I bless and thank thee for the love 
 Which oft hung wistfully above 
 The cradle of my infant sleep. 
 I bless and thank thee, till I weep. 
 For all thou wouldst have done for me 
 Had God ordained that thou shouldst be
 
 A FATHER'S MEMORY 131 
 
 The guardian of my riper years, 
 
 Partaker in their hopes and fears. 
 
 God willed not thus : He thee removed. 
 
 But left a mother who has proved 
 
 That in a woman's heart can dwell 
 
 Much of a father's strength as well. 
 
 Her presence and thy memory 
 
 Made ' Home' a holy word for me. 
 
 Thank God, sin's silliness is shown 
 
 On earth and not in heaven alone. 
 
 E'en on this fallen sinful earth 
 
 True joy from duty takes its birth. 
 
 The false-named 'man of pleasure' knows 
 
 No joys so deep, so true, as those 
 
 Which e'en from cares and troubles come 
 
 Within a loving Christian home. 
 
 Such home was mine until the day 
 
 Which called me from its peace away 
 
 To do the will of God elsewhere. 
 
 May I one day thy new home share ! 
 
 Till then, full often will I kneel 
 
 And pray for thee, although I feel 
 
 That He who shares with thee His name. 
 
 And deigns my filial love to claim, 
 
 Thy everlasting crown has given. 
 
 And thou, my father, art in heaven.
 
 FATHER THOMAS BURKE, O.P. 
 
 Mute on earth too soon, the Preacher, 
 
 Greatest that our land can boast — 
 He whose heart with throb electric 
 
 Stirred the hearts of many a host — 
 He whose voice rang loudest, clearest, 
 
 O'er the clamours of the world — 
 He whose mighty arm the banner 
 
 Of the Christian law unfurled 
 To the upturned gaze of millions 
 
 In his own green island-home. 
 And where'er beyond the oceans 
 
 Irish exiles yearning roam. 
 
 He was born where glides the Corrib 
 
 Into the Atlantic wave. 
 And upon the Tallaght hill-side 
 
 They have dug his holy grave. 
 So from west to east of Erin, 
 
 And from furthest north to south. 
 Is his love in every bosom 
 
 And his name in every mouth : 
 
 132
 
 FATHER THOMAS BURKE, O.P. 133 
 
 Nay, throughout the world-wide Ireland, 
 Where our kinsmen pray and work. 
 
 Many a cry mounts now to heaven, 
 ' May God rest thee. Father Burke ! ' 
 
 Scarce had sped his merry boyhood 
 
 When the dear white robe he donned. 
 Never worn with braver bearing 
 
 Or with fealty more fond. 
 Quickly of his Angel name-saint 
 
 Mastered he the marvellous ' Sum,' 
 But he never, like that patron, 
 
 Could have passed as dull or dumb ; ^ 
 For his wealth of thought and fancy. 
 
 And his voice of music strong, 
 Soon betrayed their wondrous power 
 
 To enchant the listening throng. 
 
 Through his lips God spoke. The sinner 
 
 Felt the horror of his sin. 
 And the virtuous took courage, 
 
 Nobler heights to scale and win. 
 God's one Church, her rites and dogmas, 
 
 In his words shone out most fair, 
 
 ^ The Angel of the Schools, the author of the Summa 
 Theologica, was so silent and modest that his fellow-students, 
 at the beginning of his career, nicknamed him the Dumb Ox.
 
 134 IDYLS OF KILLOWEN 
 
 And those words fed starving orphans. 
 Built up many a house of prayer. 
 
 Celtic hearts grew, as they heard him, 
 Of their race and faith more proud, 
 
 And his country's fierce defamer 
 Shrank before his onset, cowed. 
 
 But the Preacher was a martyr. 
 
 This grand nature should be proved 
 In the crucible of suffering : 
 
 So it pleased the Lord he loved. 
 Years on years of wasting torture 
 
 Killed the strong man day by day, 
 But he bore his cross unshrinking. 
 
 With a patience brave and gay. 
 E'en the glow of inspiration 
 
 Scarcely could his pangs restrain. 
 And the hearers thrilled with rapture 
 
 While the preacher writhed with pain. 
 
 Dear to myriads the world over, 
 Dearest to the cherished few 
 
 Who Avere his by ties of nature. 
 Whom he loved with love as true. 
 
 As absorbing, fond, and trustful, 
 As a loving-hearted boy :
 
 FATHER THOMAS BURKE, O.P. 135 
 
 Years but made his heart more tender 
 
 To his kinsfolks' grief and joy. 
 To one loved young heart in anguish, 
 
 'Mid his own sore pains he said : 
 ' Gladly, gladly, O my darling. 
 
 Would I suffer in thy stead.' 
 
 Genius such as, in a cycle. 
 
 Only doAvers a brilliant few — 
 Wit the keenest and the brightest. 
 
 With a kind heart gleaming through : 
 Poorest these of all the graces 
 
 Showered on Dominic's glorious son. 
 But his toils and prayers and penance 
 
 Richest guerdon now have won ; 
 And a hundred thousand welcomes 
 
 Welcome to the heavenly feast 
 Him the prince of Friars Preachers, 
 
 Him the noble Irish priest.
 
 THE OLD SPOT 
 
 The robins sing, the river flows. 
 
 The leaves are just as green ; 
 But, ah ! but, ah ! my heart, God knows, 
 
 Is not as it has been. 
 
 Kind faces smile through cheerful tears. 
 
 Kind voices murmur round. 
 And hands, far sundered all these years. 
 
 The warm old clasp have found. 
 
 Again my yearning steps have strayed 
 
 Back to the dear old spot ; 
 But where the mates that with me played .'' 
 
 I seek, and find them not. 
 
 The boy, so thoughtless, free, and bold. 
 
 Plays in the world his part ; 
 The childish heart I knew of old 
 
 Is now a woman's heart. 
 
 136
 
 THE OLD SPOT 137 
 
 The breeze blows keen, the sun shines on, 
 
 The waves rush up the shore ; 
 But, ah ! but, ah ! old times are gone. 
 
 And home is home no more. 
 
 It matters not. We are too fain 
 
 To nestle here below. 
 Until the harsh winds and the rain 
 
 Arouse us. Better so ! 
 
 Dear pious hearts, may my place be 
 Near yours in that dark dell 
 
 Where on the Judge's lips we Tl see 
 ' Welcome ! ' 
 
 But now — farewell !
 
 O DEATH, MY DEATH ! 
 
 ' O DEATH, my death that somewhere waits for 
 
 me — ' ^ 
 What sort of death I wonder will it be, 
 Sudden or slow ! A moment's shock, all o'er ! 
 Or shall Death knock discreetly at my door^ 
 As if for but a passing visit come. 
 Then, entering, make himself so much at home 
 That one grows used to him, forgets 'tis Death ! 
 How, when, and where shall stop this vital breath 
 Which comes and goes for me unnoticed now ? 
 But, when death's dew lies thick upon my brow, 
 Each frightened gasp may be a pang, a strife 
 For some few moments more of dying life, 
 So hard an agony that kindest friend 
 Will pray God's pity for a speedy end. 
 Or else life lingers on, a faint dull spark. 
 Whose fading keenest watcher cannot mark — 
 
 ^ This is the first line of an impressive sonnet by Father Ryder, 
 Cardinal Newman's successor as Superior of the Oratory at 
 Birmingham. 
 138
 
 O DEATH, MY DEATH ! 139 
 
 The flickering taper wastes so slowly out 
 That those who pray there are a while in doubt 
 Whether to pray for dying or for dead, 
 Or if the struggling soul indeed has fled. 
 
 Slow deaths and sudden deaths occur each day ; 
 
 Which shall be mine no man on earth can say, 
 
 And even in heaven, perhaps God only knows — 
 
 A secret which He never will disclose 
 
 Till those around my deathbed say, ' 'Tis o'er' — 
 
 If quiet deathbed be for me in store. 
 
 The death that shall be mine I now embrace. 
 
 Accepting all — the time, the kind, the place — 
 
 Pleading alone for God's all-pardoning grace. 
 
 Almighty God, before Thy will I bow 
 
 And wish to do and be in all things now 
 
 And henceforth all that I shall wish for then. 
 
 All men must die, but Thou hast died for men. 
 
 To Thee for mercy till the end I '11 cry ; 
 
 May ' Jesus ! Jesus ! ' be my parting sigh. 
 
 O God, have mercy on me when I die !
 
 LAND! LANDli 
 
 My dying hour, how near art thou ? 
 Or near or far, my head I bow 
 
 Before God's ordinance supreme ; 
 
 But ah, how priceless then will seem 
 Each moment rashly squandered now ! 
 
 Teach me, for thou canst teach me, how 
 These fleeting instants to endow 
 
 With worth that may the past redeem, 
 My dying hour ! 
 
 My barque, that late with buoyant prow 
 The sunny waves did gaily plough. 
 
 Now through the sunset's fading gleam 
 Drifts dimly shoreward in a dream. 
 I feel the land breeze on my brow. 
 My dying hour ! 
 
 1 The London Correspondent of the Daily Express (May 20, 
 1898) stated on the authority of a gentleman who had just 
 visited Hawarden that these lines were among the last that 
 interested Mr. Gladstone on his deathbed.
 
 Some New Books 
 
 Published by Mr. James Bovvden 
 
 with Portraits of the Authors • 
 together with 
 
 other matter of interest • • • 
 to 
 
 every Lover of Books. • • •
 
 For the convenience of the public a genera.1 sind 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by wnom the book mentioned ^vould be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, >will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MAJOR-GEN. SIR BINYON BLOOD, K.C.B., 
 
 Commanding Malakand Field Force. 
 
 MAJOR E. A. P. Hobday, R.A., Deputy Assistant 
 Adjt. and Qr. Master General Malakand Force, 
 is the son of Lt.-Col. T. F. Hobday, Bengal Staff 
 Corps, and was born May 17th. 1859. Entered Royal 
 Military Academy, Woolwich, in 1877, and joined 
 Royal Artillery in 1879. Served in India till 1884, 
 when was appointed to R.H.A. in Ireland. Was pro- 
 moted Captain R.A. in 1887, and acted as A.D.C. to 
 Sir Auckland Colvin, Lt.-Gov. N.W. Provinces, 
 during winters of 1887 — 1888. Was appointed A.D.C. 
 to Lord Roberts, then Commander-in-Chief in India, 
 in May, 1888. After varied services in India, he went, 
 on the outbreak of frontier war in 1897, to the relief 
 of Malakand as Staff Officer to Col. Reid, com- 
 manding relief column, and was present during latter 
 half of siege of Malakand and relief of Chakdara. 
 Marched up Swat Valley as Staff Officer of Flying 
 Column during Mad Mullah's raid in 1898. Major 
 Hobday has gained numerous prizes at .■\rt Exhibi- 
 tions, is a well known amateur actor, and has produced 
 several burlesques. Faust, which was given by the 
 Guards, at Chelsea, was produced by him in conjunc- 
 tion with Mr. Martin. He has also written some 
 songs (My bearer, Gungadeen for instance), and is very 
 fond of sport. 
 
 A book to interest four 
 different classes of rea- 
 ders — military men 
 and everyone interested 
 in military affairs. 
 " old Indians," artists, 
 and travellers. It will 
 interest ui Hilary men 
 because it is an illus- 
 trated diary of the 
 Indian Frontier Cam- 
 paign of 1897, through 
 which the author 
 served, the drawings 
 being all made "upon 
 the spot .'" Hence 
 the book's attractive- 
 ness to soldiers, " old 
 Indians," and artists, 
 the last of whom will 
 be delighted with the 
 spirit and beauty and 
 artistic excellence of 
 the full-page illustra- 
 tions. To travellers 
 these pen and pencil 
 sketches of an almost 
 unknown region will 
 he full of fascination. 
 
 Sketches 
 
 ON . . 
 
 Service 
 
 Royal 8vo, beau- 
 tifully illustrated 
 with 57 full-page 
 Drawings on plate 
 paper and numer- 
 ous Portraits of 
 Ofiicers and Staff, 
 
 10/6 
 
 During the Indian Frontier 
 Campaigns of 1897. 
 
 BY 
 
 Major E. A. P. HOBDAY, R.A. 
 
 Pail Mail Gazette : " As a record of war this book 
 is unique. The author was on the staff with the 
 Malakand Field Forces, and having the eye and hand 
 of an artist, and the sang froid of a soldier, he 
 employed the time not occupied in fighting in delinea- 
 ting the scenes and circumstances of the campaigns 
 in which he participated. An album of art." 
 
 Times: "Major Hobday is an accomplished 
 draughtsman, and his pictures give an excellent 
 idea of the natural beauty of the almost unknown 
 country where our troops were called upon to fight. 
 An interesting record of campaigning in the midst of 
 some of the most striking scenery in the world." 
 
 Athenaeum : " Deserves great praise. Full of life 
 and action."
 
 For the convenience of the public a e:enerai and 
 reliable description, indicating- the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed w/ill be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. CHARLfS L,£E. 
 
 TUTR. ChARLKS Lee was born in London in 1870, 
 
 and was educated at Highgate Grammar 
 School. Hestudied wiihtheintention of becoming 
 a school-master, and matriculated at London 
 University in 1889. Before taking his B.A. his 
 health broke down, and he went 10 Newlyn to 
 recruit, and has visited Cornwall nearly every year 
 since. Though he has no Cornish blood in him, 
 Mr. Lee claims to be a Cotnishman by official 
 adoption, since he believes that he is the only 
 member of the London Cornish Association who 
 is not a West Cornishman. Of his first book, The 
 Widow Women the Times snys that it " Reminds 
 one, in its truth and simplicity, not a little of 
 Cranford. . . Life at Pendennack as represented 
 in this story will be, to persons unacquainted with 
 Cornwall and its people, the revelation of a new 
 world. . . It has immense merit." 
 
 Three different classes of 
 readers will enjoy Mr. 
 Lee's book equally. In 
 the first place, to thi 
 readers of a literary in- 
 stinct, the beauty and 
 simplicity of style, the 
 restraint and the fidelity 
 to life, will not only give 
 intense pleasure, but will 
 lead readers to say," Here 
 is a man zvith a future — 
 a man to keep one's eye 
 upon!" In the second 
 place, Mr. Lee's book will 
 be heartily enjoyed by 
 every luver of Inimoiir 
 " He has the blessed 
 quality of making you 
 chuckle — thebest of quali- 
 ties in these tired days," 
 says Black and White. 
 And thirdly, upon all 
 Cornishmen and Cornish- 
 women the book will at 
 once take hold. Few 
 living writers know Corn- 
 wall so well, or can paint 
 CotnwaltS' Cornish folk 
 half so well as Mr. Lee. 
 
 Handsomely bound, J^ 
 cloth gilt, gilt top, "/ 
 
 Paul Carah, 
 Cornishman. 
 
 By CHARLES LEE. 
 
 Illustrated by Gordon Browne. 
 
 Mr. Quiller Couch ("Q"), in the Pall Mall 
 Magazine : " Few tieroiiiLS in recent tictioii liave 
 been so delicately imaxined as the girl Jennifer; or 
 have been drawn with a finer sense of the value of 
 reticence — of that reticence which speaks of reserves 
 of beauty. That the book has humour goes without 
 saying. It has also flashes of genuinely poetical 
 imagination. Reveals a writer of high promise, who, 
 with good fortune, should go far." ' 
 
 Saturday Review: "Thoroughly realised and ad- 
 mirably presented. I'lnil is there, alive." 
 
 Westminster Gazette : •■.\s a background to this 
 picture of eager life with its underlying throb 
 of pathos we have tlie sparkling line of the Cornish 
 coast drawn lovingly by a master hand. 1-rom first 
 to last • Paul Carah ' is a book of unusual charm." 
 
 Spectator : " Shows that Mr. Baring Gould has now 
 a formidable rival. A fresh and delightful series of 
 episodes in the life of a most engaging rolling stone." 
 
 Christian World : "As refreshing as a breeze from 
 the Atlantic. Vivid, homely, fresh, natural, and 
 picturesque ; it is just the book to take up at the end 
 of a fagging d.iy." 
 
 Black and White : " So interesting that it is im- 
 possible to leave unread any of the volatile Paul's 
 doings."
 
 For the convenience o^ the public a g^eneral and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by wnom the book mentioned wrould be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, will be 'found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. JOSEPH HOCKING. 
 
 Will be thoroughly 
 enjoyed by every lover 
 of romance, especially 
 by those who look for 
 a strong love interest, 
 vividly drawn and 
 constantly changing 
 scenes and exciting 
 adventures in every 
 chapter. Like Steven- 
 son's " Treasure Is- 
 land " it is sure to 
 find favour with boys 
 as well as with men 
 and women. It is pure 
 and manly in tone, 
 beautifully produced, 
 and ivell adapted for 
 school prizes. Being 
 a Cornish story it 
 will be appreciated by 
 Cornishmen and Cor- 
 nishwomen. 
 
 ■jlTTR Joseph Hocking was born at St. Stephen's, 
 
 Cornwall, was educated at Owen's College, 
 Manchester, and began life as a land surveyor. 
 In 1884 he entered the Nonconformist Ministry, 
 and after travelling extensively in the East, and 
 visiting the Holy Land, he returned to England 
 and published his first book. All his earlier 
 work was strenuously religious in tone, and very 
 evidently written with a purpose ; but his later 
 books may be described as the Romance of 
 Adventure. Mr. Hocking is a brilliant and 
 forcible preacher, and one of the most hard- 
 working of ministers, his influence upon 
 thoughtful young men being very great. 
 
 EIGHTH THOUSAND. 
 
 MISTRESS 
 
 NANCY 
 
 Beautifully bound in 
 art linen, antique 
 lettering, gold panel, 
 gilt top edge, . . 
 Illustrated by . . . 
 F. H. TOWNSEND, 
 
 6/. 
 
 MOLESWORTH. 
 
 By JOSEPH HOCKING, 
 
 Author of "The Birthright" 
 "And Shall Trelawney Die?" 
 
 The Bookman says: " A capital historical romance. 
 There is a swing and a dash in it that no reader 
 can withstand. Mr. Weyman has given us no 
 more manly or daring hero than Roger Trevanion, 
 no more attractive' or charming heroine than Nancy 
 Molesworth." 
 
 Daily Mail : " Vigour, force, and absorbing interest, in 
 addition to a skilfully contrived and interest-gripping 
 plot. . . . Every chapter contains a dramatic 
 scene. It is all vital, sharp, and exhilarating." 
 
 Daily Graphic: "Too engrossing to relinquish for 
 a moment when once begun." 
 
 British Weekly : " From beginning to end his story 
 is one of absorbing, breathless interest, and the 
 reader who is unable to finish the book at a sitting 
 has our sincere sympathy. It would, we think, be 
 very difficult to imagine a finer hero than Roger 
 Trevanion, and more lovely^ more fascinating heroine 
 than Nancy Molesworth."
 
 For the convenience of the public a g^encral and 
 re'iabic description, indicating: the class o-f reader 
 by wnom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 
 MR. W. Clark Russell is, appropriately enough, 
 the son of the famous Mr. Henry Russell, the 
 author of "A Life on the Ocean Wave," "Far, far 
 Across the Sea," etc. He was born in New York in 
 1844, his mother being a connection of the poet 
 Wordsworth, whose sonnet 
 
 " Two voicpR are there : One is of the Sea, 
 One of the niomitains," 
 
 is known wherever the English language is spoken. 
 The sea was Mr. Russell's domain by literary inheri- 
 tance, but not content with that he shipped at the age 
 of thirteen as a midshipman, voyaging to India, Aus- 
 tralia, and China. In 1874 he published his first 
 nautical novel, John Hohlswortlt, Chief Mate, which 
 was followed by Tlie Wreck of the" Grosvenor." He 
 is now admittedly the chief of all living nautical 
 novelists. Of late years Mr. Clark Russell's health 
 has not been good, but the enforced seclusion has 
 fortunately resulted in his being able to devote him- 
 self more ardently than ever to his literary work. 
 
 Another book tvith several pub- 
 lics. To the public that loves 
 to read about the sea and sea- 
 fighting, what could be more 
 interesting than these pictures 
 from the life of our greatest sea 
 commander, told by our greatest 
 nautical novelist ? Then to those 
 who take pride in the story of 
 England's proivess, to all ivho 
 seek to encourage the Imperial 
 spirit, where can better reading 
 he found than in the life of this 
 great Englishman ? Lastly, 
 for boys — as school prizes or 
 presents — this superbly bound, 
 beautifully produced and illus- 
 trated book would be hard to 
 beat. So at least thinks Lx>RU 
 Charles Beresford who 
 says: "I think it a splendid 
 boys' book. The advantage of 
 placing Nelson 's life and work 
 before the great mass of his 
 countrymen (to whom standard 
 works have been forbidden 
 ground on account of their price) 
 cannot be over-rated. Such 
 books as Mr. Clark Russell's 
 may help to preserve in the 
 coming generation that spirit of 
 patriotism and self-sacrifice 
 which made us a great people 
 and built up the Empire." 
 
 PICTURES 
 
 FROM THE . . 
 
 Crown 8vo, 
 handsomely 
 bound, well 
 illustrated, 
 
 6A 
 
 LIFE OF NELSON. 
 
 By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 
 The Bookman says: "He will be a lucky boy 
 who becomes possessed of this book, though it is 
 not written especially for boys." 
 
 The Daily Mail says: "Glowing and vigorous, 
 and so highly coloured with personal matter as to 
 have all the vivid interest of a novel." 
 
 The Manchester Courier says : " We doubt 
 if any more attractive record of the brilliant 
 services of this intrepid and undaunted maker of 
 history has been published than this volume." 
 
 Manchester Guardian : "When he comes to 
 describe a square-rigged ' seventy-four ' beating 
 out in a gale from a lee shore, or advancing 
 solemnly over the dark water, Mr. Clark Russell 
 is unsurpassable." 
 
 Glasg:ow Daily Mail : ' Makes Nelson actually 
 live in the imagination of the reader." 
 
 Leeds Mercury: "Nothing could be better 
 
 than Mr. Clark Russell s artistic vignettes. He 
 conjures up one glorious scene after another 
 in Nelson's strenuous and dramatic career."
 
 For the convenience of the public a g^eneral and 
 reliable description, indicatingr the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned wrould be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 THE REV. E. GRIFFITH-JONES. 
 
 npHE Rev. E. Griffith-Jones, B.A. (Lond.), is a 
 •*■ Congregational Minister, his father, the Rev. 
 E. Ayron Jones, being also a Congregational Minister, 
 and an Ex-Chairman of the Welsh Congregational 
 Union. He was born at Merthyr Tydvil, Glam., in 
 i860, and was educated at Emlyn Grammar School, 
 -Newcastle Emlyn. the Presbyterian College, Car- 
 marthen, and New College. St. John's Wood, where 
 he won several exhibitions and scholarships. Mr. 
 Griffith-Jones settled at St. Johns Wood, in 1885, 
 where he remained for two years ; removing thence 
 to Llanelly. In 1890 he came to Mount View. Stroud 
 Green, London, X.W.. where a beautiful church was 
 built during his ministry. In 1898 he removed to 
 Balham, S.W., as one of the successors of Rev. 
 John Brierley, B.A. ("J. B." of the Christian World:, 
 He shared the prize for the chief Essay of the year at 
 the Welsh National Eisteddfod, on the Relation of 
 Evohtiion and Theology. The Ascent Through Christ 
 is his first published book. 
 
 Every Clergyman, Minis- 
 ter, Religious Teacher, and 
 Worker again and again 
 finds himself confronted 
 with the doctrine of Evolu- 
 tion in its hearings upon 
 the Christian Faith. The 
 author of this book, who is a 
 scientist as well as a theo- 
 logian, tells us in his preface 
 that he became unsettled in 
 mind by the questions which 
 Evolution raised, and find- 
 ing no book ivhich dealt 
 with the matter in its bear- 
 ing upon Christianity, he 
 has, for some of the most 
 precious years of his life, 
 made the question the sub- 
 ject of incessant study and 
 thought. He seeks, and he 
 believes, seeks successfully 
 to prove that Redemp- 
 tion through Christ is in 
 harmony with Evolution. 
 This scholarly book 'will 
 appeal to readers of Druni- 
 mond's " Natural Law in 
 the Spiritual World," and 
 kindred books, and to every 
 serious student of religion 
 whether lay or cleric. 
 
 THE ASCENT 
 
 THROUGH 
 CHRIST: 
 
 Handsomely 
 bound in 
 buckram, gold 
 lettering, 
 
 7/6 
 
 A STUDY OF THE DOCTRINE OF 
 REDEMPTION IN THE LIGHT OF 
 THE THEORY OF EVOLUTION. 
 
 By Rev. E. GRIFFITH JONES, B.A. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 Some Modem Expansions — What is Evolution ? 
 — Evolution and Man. 
 
 Book I. 
 
 Evolution and the Fall of Man — Genesis and 
 Creation — The Biblical Doctrine of Sin — .^nthropologv 
 and the Fall — The Relation between Death and Sin — 
 The Natural History of Sin — How a Fallen Race may 
 be Redeemed. 
 
 Book II. 
 
 Evolution and the Incarnation — Some Modem 
 Difficulties — The Purpose of the Incarnation — The 
 Mystery of the Cross — The Ideal Man. 
 
 Book III. 
 
 Evolution and the Resiurection — The Risen 
 Christ — The Resurrection and New Evolutionary De- 
 partures — The Man that is To Be — Behind the Veil — 
 Some Final Problems.
 
 For the convenience of the public a general and 
 reliable description, indicating: the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. EDWIN PUGM. 
 
 MR. Edwin Pugh comes of Welsh stock, and was 
 born in London on Jan. 22nd, 1874. He began 
 to write in his seventh year, and had a short story 
 accepted, published, and paid for when he was twelve. 
 His father died when he was thirteen, and he had to 
 turn out into the world and earn his own living. His 
 apprenticeship to life was rough. At one time he was 
 working in an iron foundry for fourteen hours a day. 
 Then he went into the City and took a clerk's place, 
 where he continued for eight years. In the evening 
 he tried to patch up the holes in his educational equip- 
 ment, read greedily and wrote prodigiously. The first 
 work that brought him any recognition was a series 
 of short stories written for the Sun, under Mr. T. P. 
 O'Connor's editorship. In 1894 he met Madame 
 Sarah Grand, to whose kindness and advice he feels 
 he owes much of his success. Mr. Pugh now devotes 
 himself entirely to literature, and has a new book 
 coming out shortly. 
 
 The " Rogues' Para- 
 dise " has only one 
 mission — to amuse. It 
 is frankly frivolous, 
 and though there is a 
 spicing of social satire 
 in its pages, the absur- 
 dities and the ridicu- 
 lous situations, keep 
 one on the broad grin 
 throughout. Readers 
 who dislike levity 
 should shun it re- 
 ligously. 
 
 THE 
 
 ROGUES' 
 PARADISE. 
 
 Attractively . . 
 bound in cloth, 
 with quaint . . 
 picture cover. 
 Frontispiece by 
 Stanley Wood, 
 
 3/6 
 
 By EDWIN PUGH and 
 CHARLES QLEIQ. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Black and White says: "Bright, amusing, laugh- 
 able. 'The Rogues' Paradise' is a book over which 
 the spirit of merry satire shakes airy wings. 
 
 Deserves a wide success." 
 
 To-Day: "There is plenty of humour, wit, and smart- 
 ness, and anyone who likes a quiet chuckle as well as 
 a laugh will find material for both in the book, for the 
 perusal of which I am truly grateful." 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette: "In the development of their 
 plot Messrs Pugh and Gleig show a feeling for scenic 
 effect which seems little short of inspiration. 
 
 P'ull of bright talk and amusing situations." 
 
 Illustrated London News: ' .\ really delight- 
 ful extravaganza."
 
 For the convenience of the public a general and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by M/hom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. CUTOUIFFE HYNE. 
 Photo by Eosemont, 6, Bond St., Leeds. 
 
 TWrR. CuTCLiFFE Hyne, who was born in 1866, 
 is the son of a clergyman. After he left 
 Cambridge (Clare Coll. ), where he took his M. A. , 
 he became a ' ' wanderer on the face of the earth " 
 as well as on the face of the waters. To say 
 where Mr. Hyne has not been would be easy. 
 To say where he has been would necessitate a 
 list long enough to pass muster for the index 
 pages of a text book of geography. As a con- 
 sequence he has seen more of life than falls to the 
 lot of one man in many millions ; and that he 
 has turned his knowledge to good account, the 
 pages of T^e Paradise Coal Boat sufficiently 
 prove. More than this they prove that Mr. Hyne 
 is a master of style. His vibrant nervous English, 
 his vigour and picturesqueness of imagery, and 
 the boldness of his delineations, carry one on 
 with a whirl. 
 
 When at his best Mr. 
 Cutcliffe Hyne is an 
 admitted master of a 
 style which for sheer 
 swinging strength and 
 nervous ponder is 
 scarcely inferior to 
 Mr. Kipling ; and 
 many critical journals 
 have declared that 
 " The Paradise Coal 
 Boat" contains far 
 and away the very best 
 work he has done. To 
 say to whom a ivriter 
 li'lth so vast an au- 
 dience specially appeals 
 is difficult, but the 
 lover of Stevenson and 
 Mr. Kipling, the revel- 
 ler in strong, sivift 
 descriptions and lumi- 
 nous metaphors will 
 delight in these pages. 
 Those who love the sea 
 and ivho like stories of 
 peril and adventure 
 that take one's breath 
 aivay may be promised 
 a thrill in every chap- 
 ter. 
 
 Handsomely bound in art cloth, with •^ / 
 gold decorative panel and gilt top. ^^Jr 
 
 The Paradise 
 Coal Boat. 
 
 By CUTCLIFFE HYNE. 
 
 The Pall Mall Gazette says: "In his tales of the 
 sea, in his pictures of life on reckless traders the 
 Board of Trade has never heard of, in his types of 
 dare-devil seamen, Mr. Hyne is only equalled by 
 Rudyard Kipling." 
 
 Times : "They are extravagant, they are all very devil- 
 may-carish, the nerves of the heroes are never shaken, 
 and they achieve feats that are absolutely incredible. 
 But ihe stories, with scarce an exception, are 'en- 
 thralling.' " , ^ rr 
 
 Echo (front page article) : " In Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne, 
 Mr. Kipling has found a worthy comrade. 'The 
 Paradise Coal Boat' is really a sweUing paean to the 
 invincible pluck, the dare-devil adventure, the heroic 
 endurance, and the superb insolence of Englishmen 
 in all quarters of the globe." _ 
 
 Illustrated London News: "Masterpieces of 
 their kind. Mr. Hyne has struck out a new genre of 
 fiction." 
 Standard : " He has the power of setting a scene in 
 few but vivid colours that arrest the eye and insist 
 on the reader's attention."
 
 For the convenience of the piiblic a genera.! and 
 reliable description, indicating the class of reader 
 by wnom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 E. LIVINGSTON PRESCOTT. 
 
 E Livingston Prescott is the daughter of a Chan- 
 • eery barrister of some reputation. Her mother 
 was the daughter of Colonel Spicer, 2nd Life Guards 
 and Queen's Bays, who subsequently held an appoint- 
 ment in Chelsea Hospital. She had five great-uncles, 
 officers in different regiments (mostly cavalry) on her 
 mother's side of the family, and another uncle, on her 
 father's side. Major Livingston, lost his arm and was 
 decorated for distinguished service. Though she has 
 always written for her own amusement since she was 
 seven years old, she never entered the literary field in 
 earnest till 1895, when, after a tolerably varied experi- 
 ence of men and things, sick and well, bad and good, 
 she found herself on her couch for the remainder of 
 her days. Then, quite as a stranger, she asked the 
 advice of a distinguished novelist about a small piece. 
 of work which she submitted to him, and on his- 
 encouragement sent out her first book, which was 
 accepted by the first publisher to whom it was offered. 
 She keeps in touch with soldiers of all ranks, and 
 occasionally contributes to regimental magazines. 
 Perhaps her own, now lifelong, imprisonment first im- 
 pelled her to become the champion of prisoners. She 
 is president of three football and two cricket teams, 
 one of which at present heads the local league. 
 
 A very unusual book. 
 So intensely pathetic 
 and beautiful is the 
 story that few readers 
 will be able to read it 
 unmoved. It is a tale 
 of prison life ivritten 
 evidently by an author 
 who has studied the 
 whole question of 
 prison reform closely, 
 and who feels that the 
 brutalising influence 
 of our present prison 
 system is often respoft- 
 sible for turning a 
 chance law - breaker 
 into a hardened and 
 habitual crim inal. 
 Appeals to all social 
 workers, but apart 
 from this side of the 
 case, the simple pathos 
 and beauty of the story 
 will charm the general 
 reader, and especially 
 the reader who loves 
 children. 
 
 A handsome volume 
 beautifully bound in 
 cloth, gilt lettering 
 and gilt edge. 
 
 A SMALL> 2/6 
 SMALL CHILD. 
 
 BY 
 
 E. LIVINGSTON PRESCOTT. 
 
 Westminster Budget (in an article devoted to the 
 book) ; " I don t know when I have read anything so 
 touching and so perfectly natural." 
 
 Glasgow Daily Mail: " We dare assert that no-one 
 will read the story with dry eyes, so deep and genuine 
 are the emotions aroused. Nothing could exceed the 
 combined power and beauty of the description." 
 
 Athenaeum : " Really touching." 
 
 Booicnnan : ' Very beautiful and touching." 
 
 Queen : "The story of this wee atom of humanity is 
 full of the deepest pathos."
 
 lO 
 
 For the convenience of the public a. erenerai and 
 reliable description, indicating- the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 ■pjR. Andrew Wilson's name is everywhere 
 known as a scientific lecturer and writer. 
 He was born in Edinburgh, Sept. 30th, 1852, 
 and educated at Edinburgh University and 
 Medical School. He was at one time editor 
 of Health, and is the writer of a weekly 
 scientific causerie in the Illustrated London 
 News. 
 
 DR. ANDREW WILSON. 
 Photo by Mr. Geo. Shaw, Edinhurgh. 
 
 To read only and always for mere 
 amusetnent is most injurious to the 
 faculties, yet thousands scarcely ever 
 think of settling down to anything 
 more serious than a newspaper or a 
 journal of stories and short para- 
 graphs. But the mind no less than 
 the body requires 7iourishment , and 
 the brain cannot exist for long in a 
 healthy state upon a diet of mental 
 scraps, any more than the body can 
 continue healthy upon a diet of sweet- 
 meats. It is no exaggeration to say 
 that thousands have so accustomed 
 themselves to "light reading" that 
 they cannot concentrate their mental 
 faculties. That science is heavy read- 
 ing is quite a fiction. Dr. Andrew 
 Wilson can write about the marvels of 
 the physical world and of animal and 
 human life in a way which renders his 
 hooks more absorbing than any novel. 
 He can entertain andamuse, and at the 
 same time instruct, and readers who have 
 once stepped with hitn into the wonderful 
 world he opens up, will not be content 
 thereafter to spend their time in un- 
 profitable chatter about the diet or dress 
 of celebrities. This scholarly and in- 
 structive but delightful book may be 
 described as ' ' Science for the Million . ' ' 
 For an intelligent boy it will prove a 
 treasure house of entertainment. 
 
 Very prettily and 
 tastefully produced, 
 cloth binding, an- 
 tique paper, gilt top, 
 
 THE 
 
 2/6 
 
 LIGHT SIDE 
 
 OF . . 
 
 SCIENCE. ■ 
 
 . . BY . . 
 
 Dr. ANDREW WIL50N. 
 
 The Sketch : ■• He has the gift of investing 
 the least attractive topic with life 
 
 and interest, thanks to the lightness of 
 his touch." 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette: "Recalls the 
 charming gift which Huxley had of 
 investing with humorous and general 
 interest the most abstruse problems of 
 
 physiology." 
 
 North British Daily Mail : "We 
 
 doubt if there is a lecturer on things 
 scientific who can be more instructiYC, 
 more accurate, and at the same time 
 more entertaining than the author of 
 this delightfully-written volume."
 
 II 
 
 For the convenience of the public a ereneral and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned wrould be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 REV. R. E. WELSH. M.A. 
 
 A young man's book — 
 not for the " namby- 
 pamby," but for the 
 manly, thoughtful 
 young fellows who 
 read and think. Mr. 
 Welsh faces the ques- 
 tions which confront 
 every young man, 
 sooner or later, but 
 writes always icith 
 reserve and delicacy. 
 A book which can 
 offend none, yet may 
 and should be the 
 means of directing the 
 feet of young men 
 aright. 
 
 TTHE Rev. R. E. Wklsh was born at Cum- 
 nock, in Ayrshire, in 1857, and came of 
 Covenanting stock. His early education was 
 begun at Ayr Academy, and in 1872 he became a 
 student at Glasgow University, where he look the 
 first place in Mathematics and his M.A. degree. 
 Then he was transferred to the United Presby- 
 terian Theological College at Edinburgh, where 
 he studied under Principal Cairn.s and Professor 
 John Ker. In 1880 he became a missionary, and 
 went to Japan, but returned owing to failure of 
 health, and became English Presbyterian Minister 
 at Harrogate, and afterwards at Brondesbury (at 
 each of which places he built a new church). 
 Seven years ago he spent six months in South 
 Africa, in search of health. 
 
 Crown 8vo, Buckram, 
 gilt, gilt top. 
 
 GOD'S 
 
 3/6 
 
 GENTLEMEN. 
 
 By Rev. R. E. WELSH, M.A., 
 
 . . A itthor of . . 
 ' [n Relief of Doubt," " The People anil the Priest." 
 
 The Literary World says : " Essays of such 
 brilliance and earnestness that it would be diffi- 
 cult to say anything in their praise that would 
 be exaggeration." 
 
 British Weekly : '• .\n author who (like Mr. Welsh) 
 brings a youn^ man face to face with life, weighs 
 good and evil before him in the balance, has done 
 a work which will not be forgotten." 
 
 Independent : " To read it is to recognise the genius 
 that lies behind it. Every young man should be 
 persuaded, commanded, or bribed into reading it."
 
 12 
 
 For the convenience of the public a. general and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by wnom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 THE REV. WM. J. DAWSON. 
 
 'TTHE Rev. W. J. Dawson was born in 1854, 
 at Towcester, and is the second son of a 
 Wesleyan minister. He entered the Wesleyan 
 ministry after going through the Methodist 
 Colleges, but in 1892 he resigned, and became 
 minister of the Congregational Church of High- 
 bury Quadrant. It was as a poet that he made 
 his debut, his Vision of Souls being published in 
 1878. His first novel, The Redemption of Edward 
 Strahan, published in 1891, won the commenda- 
 tion of Mr. Gladstone, since when all that he has 
 written has been most favourably received on 
 both sides of the Atlantic. Nothing that he had 
 previously published attracted so much atten- 
 tion as The House of Dreams, concerning the 
 authorship of which much curiosity was aroused 
 on its appearance in 1897. 
 
 An intensely drama- 
 tic, powerful, and pic- 
 turesque romance. 
 Readers of the Novels 
 of Mr. Hall Caine, 
 Mr. Baring Gould, 
 and Mr. Robert Bu- 
 chanan's earlier work 
 will thoroughly enjoy 
 this story. East An- 
 glians, especially those 
 who know the neigh- 
 bourhood of Yarmouth, 
 will find the local 
 colouring a strong at- 
 traction. 
 
 JUDITH 
 
 Beautifully bound 
 in cloth, with gold 
 decorative panel, 
 and gold lettering, 
 gilt top. 
 
 Frontispiece by 
 S. H. Vedder, 
 
 BOLDERO. 
 
 6A 
 
 By WILLIAM J. DAWSON, 
 
 Author of " The House of Dreams." 
 
 Dr. Conan Doyle says: " Exceedingly strong and 
 
 good— the character drawing excellent. It is some 
 time since I read anything which I liked so much." 
 
 Ian Maclaren in British Weekly : " 'Judith Boldero' 
 is a strong book." 
 
 Spectator: "The story is finely conceived, and its 
 sombre picturesqueness loses nothing by the manner 
 of its telling." 
 
 Daily Telegrraph : " Described with masterly 
 vigour and impressiveness." 
 
 To- Day : "I can only thank Mr. Dawson for his 
 magnificent story, and beg all my readers to 
 buy it." 
 
 Christian World : " It has all the strength, original- 
 ity, and fascination of ' Adam Bede." "
 
 13 
 
 For the convenience cT the public a general and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would bo most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. MARSHALL MATHER. 
 
 'T'HE Rev. J. Marshali, Mathf.r comes of 
 an old Lancashire family. He was born in 
 1851, and his father was a Nonconformist Minis- 
 ter, of Lincoln. He began life in an architect's 
 office, but afterwards forsook architecture for the 
 Nonconformist Ministry. His first book was upon 
 The Life and Teaching uf John Ruskin, and his 
 second, Popular Studies of the Niyieteenth Cen- 
 tury Poets, which he has since followed up by 
 Lancashire Idylls and The Sign of the Wooden 
 Shoon. An extremely appreciative article upon 
 Mr. Mather's work which was written by no less 
 brilliant a critic than Dr. Robertson Nicoll first 
 brought the author of By Roaring Loom into 
 prominence. 
 
 It has been said for 
 years that the novelist 
 who could take Fac- 
 tory Life and shoiv its 
 intense human interest, 
 its squalor and its 
 nobility, its hardships 
 and its romance, had 
 a great future. In 
 Mr. Marshall Mather, 
 Lancashire and fac- 
 tory life have found 
 their novelist. A book 
 of such true human 
 pathos, and written 
 with such art that it 
 cannot fail to charm 
 the " literary " as well 
 as the general reader. 
 Members of Parlia- 
 ment and Employers 
 of Labour should not 
 miss this. 
 
 By 
 
 Roaring 
 Loom. 
 
 Beautifully bound 
 in Art Buckram, 
 picture panel in 
 gold. Illustrated 
 by . . 
 Lancelot Speed, 
 
 6/. 
 
 By J. MARSHALL MATHER, 
 
 Author of . . 
 
 "At the Sign of the Wooden Shoon," 
 
 " Lancashire Idylls." 
 
 The Pall Mall Gaxette says : " Full of life and 
 verisimilitude they are, and to the Lancashire man or 
 woman exiled, they will be like a breath of native 
 
 air. Though he treats of simple folk and humble, 
 there are fine types in Mr. Mathers gallery; and the 
 sturdy independence, the dry humour, the kindly 
 natures of the Lancashire working classes are finely 
 lined. ... A masterpiece in its way." 
 
 Christian World: "Will, we are confident, have a 
 great success. They are real literature. . . . As 
 good as Ian Maclaren's work. There is not one 
 of the tragi-comedies which does not seize upon 
 tlie heart of the reader. They have force, feeling, 
 colour, humour, and restraint." 
 
 World : " Lancashire has found her story-teller, 
 
 her painter of manners, her folk-analyist in Mr. 
 Marshall Mather. . . Full of character, interest, grim 
 picturesqueness, and power "
 
 14 
 
 For the convenience of the public a genera.! and 
 reliable description, indicating' the class of reader 
 by ^hom the book mentioned ^ould be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, M#ill be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MRS. MURRAY HICKSON, 
 
 " TLTTRS. Murray Hickson " is the pen 
 name of Mrs. Sidney Kitcat, whose 
 husband is one of Gloucestershire's best gen- 
 tlemen-cricketers, and who was captain of 
 the rvlarlborough College eleven, and has 
 played in the Gentlemen v. Players match. 
 She is the daughter of Judge Greenhow and a 
 great-niece of Dr. James Martineau and the 
 late Miss Harriett Martineau. Mrs. Kitcat 
 began to write a few years ago, and has 
 contributed to many well known magazines. 
 
 Here are no goody, goody 
 children, who die and go to 
 heaven, hut a real live 
 "pickle " of a schoolboy, 
 who, full of mischief as he 
 is to his finger tips, is 
 always "a little gentleman." 
 "Grown-ups" who love, by 
 reading about children, to 
 recall their own childh od, 
 will revel in this book, which 
 is written with such literary 
 grace and charm of style as 
 to be a worthy companion 
 to Mr. Kenneth Grahame's 
 ' ' Golden Age." " Concerning 
 Teddy "appeals to both sexes, 
 for a more life-like scene from 
 the childhood of an imagina- 
 tive girl than the chapter, 
 " The Cistern Room," it 
 would be difficult to instance, 
 while every cricketer, young 
 or old, will appreciate the 
 cricketing scenes and share 
 Teddy's enthusiasm about the 
 crack batsman. 
 
 Being one of the most 
 handsomely produced and 
 beautifully illustrated books 
 of the season, it would make 
 a charming present or prize 
 for girl or boy. 
 
 Beautifully bound 
 and produced, with 
 Illustrations by . . 
 Harold Copping, 
 
 3/6 
 
 Concerning 
 Teddy . 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. MURRAY HICKSON. 
 
 Times : '• ' Concerning Teddy ' is simply delight- 
 ful." 
 
 Standard : " It might have been written by Mrs. 
 Burnett and. indeed, we have read nothing 
 since ' Little Lord Fauntleroy ' that equals it." 
 
 Athenaeum : ■■ One of those delightful books which 
 are enthralling to child-lovers." 
 
 Outlook : " Carries us back by a sort of magical 
 directness into that pretty world of childhood 
 whose gates close upon most of us too soon. 
 Since Mr. Kenneth Grahame's ' Golden Age ' 
 there has been no more understanding book about 
 children. Child-lovers will rejoice in it." 
 
 Bookman : •' A great success. . . . The pleasantest 
 and the cleverest stories about children that we 
 have met with for a long time."
 
 15 
 
 For the convenience of the public a. eenerai and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed »/ill be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. CLEMENT SHORTER. 
 
 TUTK. Clement Shorter is of East Anglican 
 parentage, though he was born in London. 
 He entered the Civil Service in 1877, but occupie.d 
 his leisure by contributing critical articles to the 
 literary reviews and magazines. These at once 
 attracted the attention of those who were on the 
 look out for new talent, with the result that 
 Sir William Ingram offered Mr. Shorter the 
 editorship of The Illustrated London JVews, 
 which he accepted, and has since carried on with 
 brilliant success. Equal success has attended 
 his connection with the Sketch, of which he has 
 been the editor from the. first, and in the starting 
 of which he was associated with .Sir William 
 Ingram. Mr. Shorter is a literary critic of dis- 
 tinction, as well as an editor and joni nalist. His 
 book on Charlotte Biont'e and her Circle has 
 probably said the last word on that gieat novelist. 
 Though still a young man, he has given years of 
 his life to the careful study of Victorian literature, 
 and is peculiarly qualified to wiite with authority 
 upon that subject. 
 
 As a text book for 
 schools, and as a hand- 
 book for the use of the 
 millions of busy men 
 and women who have 
 no time to study the 
 critical journals, but 
 want to be guided in 
 their reading, this 
 work will prove in- 
 valuable. Most of all, 
 perhaps, it appeals to 
 young men and women 
 who though engaged 
 in business pursuits 
 wish to keep an intelli- 
 gent interest in the 
 great world of books. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 VICTORIAN 
 
 Crown 8vo, 
 cloth gilt, 
 gilt top, 
 
 2/6 
 
 LITERATURE. 
 
 SIXTY YEARS OF . . 
 BOOKS .AND BOOKMEN. 
 
 By CLEMENT K. SHORTER. 
 
 The Times says: "The cleverest retrospect of the 
 literature of the reign that we have seen.' 
 
 Truth savs : "Mr. Shorter'^ ■ \'icicrian Literature' is 
 a model of the art of putting the greatest 
 number of things in the least possible space, 
 in the neatest possible way, and in the handiest 
 possible order. It will take a permanent place as 
 the most clear, succinct, well-written, and 
 judicial of handbooks of literary reference. ' 
 
 The British Weekly says: "A marvel of com- 
 pression. Even on the subject where he i.s known 
 to be a master, Mr. Shorter has not written a super- 
 fluous line. The book is full of sound criticism and 
 trustworthy information, conveyed in a clear and 
 pleasing style, with a full sense of proportion and 
 with almost invariable accuracy. It has no rival 
 in its own field, and it deserves the most cordial 
 commendation."
 
 i6 
 
 For the convenience of the public a general and 
 reliable description, indicating- the class of reader 
 by wnom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, wrill be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MRS. LEIGHTON. 
 
 ■RTTAKiE Connor LEiGHTONwas born in Clifton ' 
 in 1869, and began to devote herself to 
 literature when she was little more than a child 
 fresh from a school in France, where she was 
 educated. She had published a three volume 
 novel at fifteen. She also contributed poems to 
 the magazines, and it was as a poet that she first 
 met her husband, Mr. Robert Leighton, the 
 popular novelist and author of many books of 
 adventure that have a great vogue with boys. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Leighton have produced, in 
 collaboration, several successful novels. She is a 
 prominent member of the Pioneer Club, where 
 her able speeches are listened to with the keenest 
 attention. 
 
 The general reader 
 will be genuinely in- 
 terested in this enter- 
 taining novel, xvith its 
 strong love interest and 
 varied scenes. Though 
 not a book with a 
 purpose, it lets in a 
 flood of light upon the 
 shady places of stage 
 life, and its special 
 and particular public 
 will undoubtedly be 
 fotind among those 
 who are interested in 
 the theatre — whether 
 as actors or playgoers. 
 The atUhor is mani- 
 festly acquainted ivith 
 life upon the boards, 
 and draws a picture, 
 the accuracy of which 
 some will strenuously 
 maintain and others 
 will as strenuously 
 deny. 
 
 A Novel of Theatrical Life. 
 
 THE 
 
 HARVEST 
 OF SIN. 
 
 Bound in cloth, 
 with . . 
 Picture Cover, 
 
 6A 
 
 BY 
 
 MARIE CONNOR LEIGHTON. 
 
 British Weekly : " Admirably told. Would not dis- 
 credit the pen of our best writers." 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette: "Striking and original. . . . 
 Teems with dramatic incident, and several of the 
 characters are not likely to be easily forgotten." 
 
 Bookseller: "One of the notable books of the 
 season."
 
 17 
 
 For the convenience of the public a Kcnerai and 
 reliable description, indicating the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 'T'HE Rev. F. B, Meyer, B.A., was born 
 in 1847, and educated at Brighton 
 College and Regent's Park Baptist College. 
 He entered the Baptist ministry in 1870 as 
 Assistant Minister to the Rev. C. M. Birrell, 
 of Liverpool, and came to London in 1888 
 as Pastor of Regent's Park Chapel. In 1892 
 he succeeded the Rev. Newman Hall at 
 Christ Church, Westminster, one of the 
 finest Nonconformist Churches in London. 
 
 REV. F. B. MEYER. 
 
 // is recorded of a certain literary 
 lady that she went into a bookseller's 
 shop where she was personally un- 
 known to make some purchases. When 
 the time came to pay she said that she 
 wished to open an account, and ivas 
 very naturally asked who was her 
 reference. " The World," she replied 
 grandiloquently, being incensed that her 
 name tvas not immediately recognised. 
 
 Of the Rev. F. B. Meyer it might 
 without exaggeration be said that his 
 public is composed of Christian people 
 of the English-speaking world. In 
 England,A merica, Canada, Australia, 
 his name is almost equally honoured by 
 all denominations, for he has aimed at 
 preaching the pure Christianity of the 
 New Testament rather than to mix up 
 in the wordy zvarfare between the sects. 
 His contention is that it is not so much 
 Church-going Christianity that the 
 world wants, as the Christianising of 
 our daily life, and that ivhen professing 
 Christians do not hesitate to test every 
 act of their business and every-day life 
 by the touchstone of Christ's teaching, 
 the coyning of God s kingdom on earth 
 is not far off. His book is just what 
 its title proclaims it to be — a helpful, 
 heartening antidote against the trials, 
 temptations, and ivorries of modern 
 work-a-day life. 
 
 second; 
 
 EDITION. 
 
 Handsomely bound in cloth, 
 with gold lettering and 
 gilt top, with a beautiful '^ I f\ 
 Photogravure Portrait, ■^/ ^ 
 
 WORK-A-DAY 
 SERMONS. 
 
 By the Rev. F. B. MEYER. 
 
 The Christian World says : " We have 
 never before met Mr. Meyer in such an 
 elegant setting." 
 
 The Liverpool Mercury says : " If ever 
 a thoroughly practical and sensible book 
 of sermons was published, it is certainly 
 the volume before us. It is full of homely 
 counsel, enforced by the highest con- 
 siderations, which, if followed, would 
 make the years 'a golden stairway 
 up to God.' " 
 
 The Sun says : "Cheery, manly, homely. We 
 cordially wish the little volume a very wide 
 circulation. It is one of those unpreten- 
 tious little productions which deserve a 
 place on the favourite bookshelf ready to 
 hand for the odd ten minutes busy people 
 snatch from the world." 
 
 The Free Churchman says: " A book 
 which no possessor of the author's other 
 volumes should miss.' 
 
 Sunday School Chronicle: "E.\- 
 cellent as all his devotional books are, our 
 opinion is that these Sermons have 
 qualities of popularity and perman- 
 ence which all the others do not 
 possess. . . . Certain to bless and cheer 
 the numerous homes into which they find 
 an entrance." „
 
 For the convenience of the public a general and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by wnom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the Illustration. 
 
 
 MR. SHAN F. BULLOCK. 
 
 lyrR Shan F. Bullock was born in 1865, 
 
 at Crom, Fermanagh, the district 
 which he has so picturesquely and faithfully 
 described in his novels. After completing 
 his education at Westraeath, he entered the 
 Civil Service, and has still a seat in the 
 Audit Department at Somerset House. He 
 is an enthusiastic cricketer and football 
 player. Mr. Bullock has just finished a new 
 story, The Bavrys, which promises to be the 
 best he has yet written. 
 
 It has been said that 
 Ireland is not a book- 
 buying country. If it 
 were, and if Irishmen 
 and Irishn'omen care to 
 see the humour and the 
 pathos of Irish life des- 
 cribed with tender sym- 
 pathy and masterly skill, 
 Mr. Bullock would have 
 a huge public. To Irish- 
 men and women, whether 
 at home or abroad, this 
 light, bright, and witty 
 volume will be full of 
 charm. Andto the reader, 
 to ivhom — apart from the 
 question of nationality, — 
 a book of genuine and 
 spontaneous humour is a 
 genuine "find " " The 
 Charmer," may be con- 
 fidently recommended. 
 Mr. Bullock was in holi- 
 day mood when he wrote 
 this holiday volume, and 
 is content to delight us 
 by a sparkling Anthony 
 Hope-like comedy. 
 
 THE 
 
 Bound in cloth, gilt 
 lettering, with Full 
 Page Illustrations by 
 Bertha Newcombe, 
 
 3/6 
 
 CHARMER. 
 
 By SHAN F. BULLOCK, 
 
 Author of "By Thrasna River." 
 
 The Speaker says: ■•Brimming over with gaiety 
 
 and buoyant spirits, sparkling with Celtic drollery 
 of fancy, yet touched to graver issues with occasional 
 flashes of poetry and tenderness. The mixture is 
 delightful in its blending of grave and gay. ... It is 
 impossible to read the account of David Cuffe's 
 wooing with any feeling but that of sheer enjoy- 
 ment of so excellent a bit of comedy, nor can we 
 withhold admiration from the delicate art with which 
 the descriptions of sea-scape are wrought. There is 
 the very saltness of the broad Atlantic to be tasted 
 by all who read this very engaging little story." 
 
 Echo: " Its admirable description of open-air life, and 
 its rippling current of fun, make it akin to those 
 breezy, farcical comedies of Mr. Barrie. . . . Almost 
 flawless and perfectly charming." 
 
 The World : "' The humour nevi r misses its mark. A 
 novel at whose approach melancholy will hide 
 its diminished head. '
 
 19 
 
 for trie convenience of the public a. grenera.1 and 
 reliable description, indicating- the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned w/ould be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 OR. FRANCIS E CLARK. 
 
 The journey round the 
 world li'hich this book 
 describes was under • 
 taken chiefly in the 
 interest of the great 
 Christian Endeavour 
 Movement, of which 
 the author is the Foun- 
 der and President. 
 Such a work is natural- 
 ly of pre-eminent im- 
 portance to Christian 
 Endeavourers, Sunday 
 School Teachers, and 
 Religious Workers 
 generally. Dr. Clark 
 visited many interest' 
 ing countries, and in- 
 terviewed many celebri- 
 ties, and as he writes 
 picturesquely and pi- 
 quantly his book 
 affords pleasant and 
 entertaining reading, 
 quite apart from its 
 religious aspect. 
 
 rjR. Francis EdwakdSymmks — for Dr. Clark's 
 father was Charles Carey Syninies — is a New 
 Englander, and was born on Sept. 12th, 1851. 
 His father died of cholera in 1854, and his mother 
 survived her husband only five years. The orphan 
 boy was adopted by his uncle, the Rev. E. W. 
 Clark ; and by the wish of his adopted father and 
 mother changed his name to Clark. He gradua- 
 ted with honours at Dartmouth College and 
 studied for three years at Andover, going thence 
 to his first pastorate at the Willeston Congre- 
 gational Church, Portland, Maine. Here, on 
 Feb. and, 1881, was held the first meeting of the 
 Society which is now known all over the world as 
 The Christian Endeavour Society. Instead of a 
 single Society there are over 55,000, and the two- 
 score members have multiplied to 100,000 times 
 two-score. 
 
 Handsomely bound 
 in new and attractive 
 style, with Illustra- 
 
 tions, 
 
 A Christian 
 
 3/6 
 
 Endeavourer^s 
 
 Journey 
 
 in Lands Afar. 
 
 . . BY . . 
 
 Rev. F. E. CLARK, D.D., 
 
 Founder ^nd President of the World's Christian Endeavour 
 
 Society- 
 Sunday School Chronicle: "A series of won- 
 derfully vivid pictures whicli give astonishingly 
 comprehensive glimpses of the countries and 
 peopks (•iiibraced in tlie tour." 
 
 Christian World: "Sure to be welcomed by 
 thoiis.inds who revere the author. . . The reader 
 feels that he is really sharing the writer's 
 experience. Th<-re is not a dull line in the book." 
 
 Christian Endeavour: Altogether delightful. 
 A most winsome volume in a most attractive 
 settins;."
 
 20 
 
 For the convenience of the public a. K'cneral and 
 reliable description, indicating- the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed w/ill be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 The Frontispiece to the book is a 
 
 beautiful Photogravure of Thor- 
 
 waldsen's statue of our Lord. 
 
 ■jWrRS. Clark is the wife of Dr. Francis 
 Clark, the Founder of the great Chris- 
 tian Endeavour Movement. If Dr. Clark 
 may be called the Father of Christian En- 
 deavour, his wife is scarcely less deserving 
 of being called its Mother, for no-one has 
 worked more strenuously in its behalf than 
 Mrs. Clark. She, as her husband puts it, 
 ■' rocked the cradle of the first Christian 
 Endeavour Society," and for seventeen years 
 she has scarcely missed one of the weekly 
 meetings. 
 
 Another book with a 
 special& direct interest 
 for the religious public, 
 and particularly for 
 Christian Endeavour- 
 ers. Mrs. Clark, the 
 wife of the President 
 and Founder of the 
 Christian Endeavour 
 Movement, has, with 
 her husband's invalu- 
 able assistance, com- 
 piled a selection of the 
 most beautiful and 
 helpful thoughts that 
 bear upon the higher 
 life. An ideal gift book 
 for religious workers. 
 
 -Htk, 
 
 '3% 
 
 Beautifully produced in cloth, 
 
 with gold lettering and gilt 2/0 
 
 top, with Frontispiece . . . 
 
 A DAILY MESSAGE 
 FOR CHRISTIAN 
 ENDEAVQURERS. 
 
 By Mrs. F. E. CLARK. 
 
 Christian Leader : " By all means get it. The 
 
 passages selected will be specially valued by those 
 who have taken Paul's great word tor their life motto : 
 ' Here is daily spiritual food, manna for the hungry 
 soul, and honey from the rock.' It is a book for the 
 quiet hour, the prayer meeting, and the birthday." 
 
 Sunday School Chronicle: "We predict that it 
 will be among the most sought after of gifts. 
 Nothing so dainty, alike in its format, printing, and 
 binding, has come into our hands for many a day. 
 The book is the fruit of wide reading and a culti- 
 vated mind." 
 
 Dundee Advertiser : " Lovely gems of prose and 
 poetry." 
 
 Black and White : " Mrs. Clark has done really well 
 in her compilation. She has, moreover, done a good 
 action to the struggling preacher, for she has provided 
 him with a wonderful mine in which to burrow."
 
 21 
 
 For the convenience of the public a. g^enerai and 
 reliable description, indicating- the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned w/ould be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 'T'HE author of Lady Mary of the Dark House 
 is the wife of Mr. C. N. Williamson, 
 the founder and first editor of Black and 
 White. She is by birth an American, and a 
 member of the well-known Livingston family, 
 which has played an important part in the 
 history of the United States. She came to 
 England as the correspondent of several 
 American newspapers, but has since aban- 
 doned journalism for fiction. 
 
 MRS. C. N. WILLIAMSON. 
 
 One must admit, like Mrs. 
 Cluppins, who in the famous 
 Bardell versus Pickivick trial 
 exclaimed, " My Lord and 
 iury, I will not deceive you ! " 
 that Mrs. C. Williamson's 
 novel is sensational. But it 
 is honest, wholesome, old- 
 fashioned sensation, not sen- 
 sation of the divorce court 
 order. Mrs. Williamson is of 
 the school of Wilkie Collins. 
 She works out a really cleverly 
 constructed plot and then de- 
 velops it with vivid dramatic 
 power and imagination. Her 
 public is already very large, 
 and those who know her as 
 the author of " The Barn 
 Stormers" will not need to be 
 told that " Lady Mary of the 
 Dark House " is full of sur- 
 prises, of mystery and of 
 thrilling scenes graphically 
 pictured. The novel reader 
 who likes to be worked up to 
 a pitch of excitement which 
 compels one to race through 
 chapter after chapter to the 
 end, will find " Lady Mary 
 of the Dark House " hard to 
 beat. 
 
 6/- 
 
 Beautifully bound in art cloth, with 
 gold panel and gold lettering. 
 Frontispiece by Ernest Prater, 
 
 LADY MARY 
 
 OF THE . . 
 
 DARK HOUSE. 
 
 . . BY . . 
 
 Mrs. C. N. WILLIAMSON, 
 
 Atithor of "The Barn Stormers." 
 
 Bookman : " Excitement, suspense, mystery, and 
 more or less of horror — all these Mrs. Williamson 
 offers us in clever combination. She has an 
 effective fashion of holding back the climax till 
 the last and supreme moment, and of gratifying 
 her readers with an unexpected thrill just when 
 the nerves are at the highest tension. Yet she 
 uses admirable restraint. Her taste is excellent. 
 ' Lady Mary ' is second to none she has 
 written." 
 
 World : " A rattling good story. Mrs. Williamson's 
 methods often remind us of those of Wilkie 
 Collins. She has the same way of weaving a deep 
 and gruesome plot and of working it out through 
 its intricacies with such detail and with such an 
 air of implicitly believing in it herself as to force 
 the reader to believe, even unwillingly, in its 
 possibility. Admirably conceived and well sus- 
 tained." 
 
 Graphic : "We doubt if a more exciting series of 
 perilous and mysterious experiences ever befell 
 any young woman. The plot is worked out with 
 careful completeness, down to every touch and 
 detail."
 
 22 
 
 For the convenience of the public a greneral and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. FtRTH SCOTT. 
 
 lyrR. G. Firth Scott comes of an old border 
 family of cattle-lifting proclivities. His 
 father ran away to sea at nine years of age, and 
 he himself was on his way to Australia before 
 he was eighteen. As a journalist he saw much 
 rough life in the southern hemisphere, which he 
 translated into fiction on returning to England a 
 year or so ago. His first book, The Track of 
 Midnight, was favourably received by the press, 
 since when he has published two new volumes, 
 The Last Lemurian and At Friendly Point — 
 the first being an exciting story of romance, 
 mystery, and adventure, the second a collection 
 of realistic stories of an Australian settlement 
 of outcasts. 
 
 If you want to sec life 
 painted in rose-colour, 
 donH read this book. 
 The people Mr. Firth 
 Scott pictures are, for 
 the mostpart,life' s fail- 
 ures — rascals and out- 
 casts many of them, but 
 they are real men and 
 women. Thehook holds 
 you breathless as you 
 read it, but it is not 
 pleasant, for though 
 Mr. Firth Scott can 
 tell a story with as 
 much swing and ^^ go " 
 as Mr. Guy Boothby, 
 he is as relentlessly 
 realistic as Mr. Kip- 
 ling. He draws his 
 figures just as they are, 
 and doesn't tone down 
 the colours. But about 
 the absorbing interest 
 and life-likeness of the 
 book there can be no 
 question. 
 
 AT 
 
 FRIENDLY 
 POINT. 
 
 Bound in cloth, 
 with . . 
 Picture Cover, 
 Illustrated by 
 Stanley Wood, 
 
 3/6 
 
 By Q. FIRTH SCOTT. 
 
 Bookman : " Of notable excellency. Second to 
 nothing of the kind that we have lately read. 
 
 It stirs our sympathies and rouses our imagination, 
 and it reserves its climax till the very end." 
 
 Daily Chronicle :" Mr. Scott knows the colonial, 
 native born, to the bones and marrow." 
 
 Saturday Review : " They are all entertaining folk, 
 with a purely humorous outlook on life, and Mr. 
 Firth has got them exactly." 
 
 Westminster Gazette: "To say that each of 
 them is a gem is not saying too much." 
 
 Literary World : " Romance, humour, and pathos 
 are blended for the reader's delectation. The charac- 
 ters are unique. . . . Mr. Scott's stories are alter- 
 nately imbued with rare glamour and realism. 
 
 In either atmosphere he is entertaining, and in both 
 convincing."
 
 23 
 
 For the convenience of the public a. g^eneral and 
 reiiabtc description, indicating- the class of reader 
 by wvnom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, %wili be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. WALTER WOOD. 
 
 VVTAi/rER Wood is a native of Bradford. His 
 '' earlier life was spent partly in learning the 
 staple trade (wool) of the city, partly as private 
 secretary to the director of an e.xtensive asylum 
 for idiots, and partly as assistant secretary to 
 one of the largest political organi'^ations in the 
 provinces. After this he joined the staff of a 
 morning newspaper — the Bradford Observer — 
 on which he remained for more than ten years. 
 During that time he did much special military 
 and other work, and paid visits as the journal's 
 correspondent to the North Sea fishing fleets. 
 After being a short time editor of a social and 
 religious weekly, he forsook journalism in order 
 to devote himself solely to literary work. He 
 has contrifjuted to most of the magazines, and 
 published several volumes of fiction and his- 
 torical matter. 
 
 Members of the Society 
 of Friends and of the 
 Peace Society may be 
 warned off this book, 
 but readers who love 
 the smell of powder, 
 and to whom a book 
 with plenty of fighting 
 in it, and evidently 
 written by one ivho is 
 familiar with military 
 life ill barrack and 
 in action will enjoy 
 " Through Battle to 
 Promotion." The scene 
 is laid chiefly in India, 
 and there is a most 
 spirited account of a 
 battle ivith the hill 
 tribes. A capital vol- 
 ume for boys, and being 
 handsomely got up and 
 illustrated it is admir- 
 ably adapted for school 
 prizes. 
 
 THROUGH 
 BATTLE 
 TO . . 
 
 Well bound in 
 cloth, with . . 
 picture cover, 
 gilt top, 
 
 6A 
 
 PROMOTION. 
 
 By WALTER WOOD. 
 
 The Scotsman says : " A better military romance 
 has not been published for many a day." 
 
 Sheffield Teleg^raph : "Talk of -one crowdt-d 
 
 hour of glorious life ! ' Here we have a whole 
 half-year crowded with such crowded hours. 
 
 \ very nood story, clean and sweet from cover to 
 cover." 
 
 Army and Navy Gazette : " This capital story is 
 full of picturesque incidents, scenes of character and 
 humour, and very striking fighting episodes."
 
 24 
 
 For the convenience of the public a ereneral and 
 reliable description, indicating the class of reader 
 by vwhom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed vt/ill be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 / 
 
 MR. COULSON KERNAHAN. 
 
 jITTR. CouL'iON Kernahan is the son of Dr. 
 ■'■''■'• James Kernahan, M.A., F.G.S. His father 
 hoped at one time that he would enter the Church, 
 But Mr. Kernahan's inclinations were towards 
 literature, and after contributing to many English 
 and American magazines, he issued his first book, 
 A Dead Man's Diary, anonymously in 1890. It 
 was an immediate success, and since then Mr. 
 Kernahan ha.s published several works, including 
 God and the Ant, A Book of Strange Sins, Sor- 
 row and Song, and The Child, the Wise Man, 
 and the Devil. Mr. Kernahan may be said to 
 have struck out an entirely original line of his 
 own in imaginative religious literature, though 
 he is also known as a writer of critical articles in 
 the Nineteenth Century, the Fortnightly Review, 
 and other high-class journals. 
 
 The aim of this book 
 is to show, by a series 
 of vividly - imagined 
 pictures, what the 
 world would be with- 
 out Christ. It is a 
 passionate and power- 
 ful reply to those who 
 seek to destroy belief 
 in the Divinity of the 
 Saviour. Its intense 
 and throbbing human- 
 ity, and the beauty of 
 the language have 
 caused it to be read by 
 tlwusands who cannot 
 be got to listen to ser- 
 mons or to read re- 
 ligious works. 
 
 50,000 
 
 COPIES 
 
 SOLD. 
 
 
 Can be obtained in presentation form, 
 beautifully bound in cream art buckram 
 with rich gold design, printed on an- 
 tique paper, and with Photogravure of 
 the Author drawn from life. Price 3/6 ; 
 or bound in cloth, gilt lettering, 2/-; 
 or in paper covers, 1/-. 
 
 The Child, the Wise Man, 
 and the Devil. 
 
 By COULSON KERNAHAN. 
 
 The Bishop of London (Church of England): "It 
 puts with much imaginative force and beauty the 
 
 central points in the relation of Christianity to life." 
 
 Rev. Dr. R. H. Horton (Congregational) : " No 
 laboured apology for Christianity will go so far or 
 accomplish so much as this impassioned utterance, 
 this poem in prose, this thought of the years 
 distilled in one pearl-drop of purest water." 
 
 Rev. Dr. John Clifford (Baptist): "Magnificent 
 as the offspring of fancy, it is mightiest as the 
 product of faith. There is not a false note in it. It 
 rings with sincerity. Figures crowd its pages in 
 pleasantest setting, like flowers in a sunlit landscape, 
 but it is the blending of the forces of genius and 
 faith which charms and binds men, and makes tlie 
 booklet immortal." 
 
 The Rev. J. Monro Gibson (Presbyterian): "A 
 unique and most powerful plea. I hope the author 
 will not refrain from giving full scope to his genius." 
 
 Rev. Hugh Price Hughes (Wesleyan-Methodist): 
 " I recognised in it at once Mr. Kernahan's striking 
 genius. I have no doubt that he will reach many 
 who cannot be approached by any of the or- 
 dinary agencies or modes. From every point of 
 view I regard it as a very valuable and remarkable 
 book."
 
 25 
 
 For the convenience of^ the public a ereneral and 
 reliable description, indicating: the class of^ reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MRS. FRED. REYNOLDS. 
 
 jyjRS. Fred. Reynolds is the daughter of 
 the late Sidney R. Percy (landscape 
 painter), and has herself exhibited pictures 
 in the Royal Academy and other Exhibi- 
 tions. She was born in Surrey, but her 
 early childhood was passed in the lovely 
 vale of Aylesbury. She took to literature 
 (though at first ambitious to follow her 
 father's profession) at the advice of her 
 husband. Mrs. Reynolds, though a member 
 of the Church of England, was educated at 
 a Friends' (Quakers') School. 
 
 Picture to yourself a 
 child who could des- 
 cribe child-life, child- 
 joys, and child -sorrocc, 
 just as they strike a 
 child, and yet have all 
 the gift of expression 
 and command of lan- 
 guage which only comes 
 when childhood is gone 
 — and you have this 
 book. 
 
 To most of the men 
 and women who read 
 these pages, it 'will seem 
 as if they had fallen 
 asleep, and dreamt 
 themselves back into 
 their child -days, so 
 fresh arid naive are 
 the pictures in '^ An 
 Idyll of the Dazvn." 
 Little folks to whom 
 it is read -will laugh 
 joyously at the comical 
 doings and quaint ad- 
 ventures of the wee 
 ones of whom it tells. 
 
 An Idyll 
 
 OF 
 
 Bound in 
 cloth, with 
 frontispiece, 
 
 3/6 
 
 THE Dawn. 
 
 By Mrs. FRED. REYNOLDS. 
 
 The Contemporary Review/ (article by Professor 
 Sully) : "One of the most authentic records of child- 
 hood's sayings and doings that I have ever met in 
 fiction." 
 
 Christian World : " Written in the most under- 
 standing and delightful way. There is a charm about 
 the stories that is irresistible. Takes us back in 
 smiles and tears to the almost forgotten sunny days 
 of our own childhood." 
 
 Vanity Fair: "Mrs. Reynolds knows how to steal 
 into our hearts with her vivid, yet perfectly natural 
 glimpses into a child's mind." 
 
 Lloyd's News : " She tells of childish joys and 
 sorrows in exquisite prose ; every now and then a 
 quaint phrase sparkling out and putting, with a 
 master-touch, some episode of every day life before 
 us. A book with more real interest than half the 
 povels published of late."
 
 26 
 
 For the convenience cf the public a ereneral and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed Mfill be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MRS. GEORGE DE HORNE VAtZEY. 
 
 ■jUTRS. George de Horne Vaizey is better 
 known to the public as "Jessie Mansergh," 
 under which name she has contributed short 
 stories to many well-known magazines. She 
 began her literary efforts at the age of ten, when 
 she purchased some old copybooks and wrote a 
 serial story of astounding length, which was read 
 aloud at intervals to a school-room audience. 
 Later on a chance story won a prize in an 
 American competition, and this encouragement 
 led to more serious and sustained effort. Mrs. 
 Vaizey confesses to a great love and sympathy 
 for girls in their teens, for whose benefit she has 
 written three stories. 
 
 I 
 
 " The delicate charm of ' A Rose 
 Coloured Thread ' is as impossible 
 to evade as it is difficult to des- 
 cribe," writes one 0/ Mrs. Vaizey' s 
 critics, and this same 'ujord 
 "charm" reappears again and 
 again in the many flattering re- 
 views which the work has received. 
 The reader who is looking for 
 sensational "situations," high 
 colouring and "scenic effects," will 
 put down the book dissatisfied ; 
 but everyone who is interested in 
 the tragedies which men and 
 women bring upon themselves by 
 their own actions. — the tragedies 
 which are silent and secret and in 
 which no " stage villain " plays a 
 part, will find "A Rose Coloured 
 Thread " entrancing. ' Charm " 
 pervades the book from the outset 
 to the finish —the charm of a grace- 
 ful literary style, the charm of 
 subtle insight into human nature, 
 the charm of delicacy, tenderness, 
 and fine feeling. Itsmost enthusi- 
 astic admirers will probably be 
 found aming girls and young 
 women, but readers of both sexes 
 who can appreciate good work and 
 graceful writing will thoroughly 
 enjoy these delightful pages. Those 
 who know Cairo and the Mediter- 
 ranean will appreciate the fidelity 
 and beauty of the local colouring. 
 
 A ROSE 
 
 Attractively 
 
 bound in 
 cloth, gilt. 
 
 3/6 
 
 COLOURED 
 THREAD. 
 
 By JESSIE MANSERGH. 
 
 (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey.) 
 
 The World : " A poignant study of character, 
 displaying remarkable ability. While it 
 barely escapes the charge of cruelty, so un- 
 merited and remorseless is the fate of the girl, 
 it exacts praise for strength and deUcacy in 
 the development of that fate without a touch of 
 melodrama. . . . There is not a sentence too 
 much ; nothing forced, yet a constant sense 
 of compassion kept alive. A work of art, in 
 short." 
 
 Bookseller : • Handled with marvellous 
 skill, insight and tenderness." 
 
 Christian World : " Inexpressibly tender 
 
 and pathetic." 
 
 Scotsman : " Pulsating with life and truth." 
 
 Dundee Advertiser: "A really notable 
 story, memorable for its truth, its pathos, and 
 its fine moral atmosphere."
 
 27 
 
 For the convenience of the public a general and 
 reliable description, indicating the class of reader 
 by vtfhom the book mentioned >would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 MR. JAY HICKORY WOOD. 
 
 JAY Hickory Wood was born in Manchester, 
 and comes of Scotch stock. His uncle was 
 the Rev. William Trail, whom J. M. Barrie 
 mentions in his Little Minister, and whose 
 church Dr. Barrie attended in Glasgow. Mr. 
 Wood was brought up to the insurance business, 
 and, while still a youth, used his leisure and 
 gained some pocket money by writing deadly 
 serious ai tides in the insurance press on the advisa- 
 bility of insuring ones life. He is jusi beginning, 
 he says, to see the humour of ihem now. As 
 literary work crowded in upon him"; it became a 
 question either of curtailing literary work or 
 giving up insurance business, and he decided to 
 adopt the latter course, migrating from Manches- 
 ter to London. Since then he has met with 
 sufficient success to justify his migration, and has 
 done a considerable amount of work for the stage. 
 
 Many recent works claim to 
 be the funniest book since 
 " Three Men in a Bout." 
 If the reader ivill invest one 
 shilling in "The Chronicles 
 of Mr. Pottersby" he will 
 admit that itcomes genuine- 
 ly nearer to Mr. Jerome's 
 great success than any other 
 book It is not strained 
 humour, but just the plain 
 story of every-day suburban 
 life — the story of the man 
 in the streets in fact — told 
 with that side look to the 
 humorous aspect of things 
 which is the secret of all 
 modern humour, from 
 Mark Twain downwards. 
 Anything more funny than 
 the record of the tribulation 
 endured by the Pottersby 
 family -while " moving ;" of 
 the cat and the canary in- 
 cident: and of the insurance 
 agents who wanted to in- 
 sure Mr. Pottersby' s life, it 
 would be difficult to ima- 
 gine. Reciters on the look- 
 out for something entirely 
 new and genuinely funny 
 will find several passages, 
 extremely suitable for recita- 
 tion, that cannot fail to set 
 an audience in a roar. 
 
 THE 
 
 Bound in cloth, 
 
 1/6 ; 
 
 in paper, 1/^ 
 
 CHRONICLES 
 
 OF . . 
 
 MR. POTTERSBY. 
 
 By JAY HICKORY WOOD. 
 
 The Editor of the "Temple Mag-azine" (in 
 
 an article on " New Humorists'l says : '■ I must allude 
 to the clever work of Jay Hickory Wood, whose 
 portrait I have the pleasure of presenting. The 
 • Chronicles of Mr. Pottersby ' has had a wann recep- 
 tion, and deserves it. The book is capital reading. 
 I was not surprised to find that Mr. Clifford Harrison, 
 one of the shrewdest observers of current literature, 
 has already added pieces by Jay Hickory Wood to 
 his repertoire." 
 
 Morning: Leader: "Glows with fun. As I read I 
 
 enjoved an unwonted feeling of exhilaration." 
 
 Western Mercury ; 'One of the wittiest volumes 
 we have read this season. Mr. Wnod is a cm- 
 suHunattj master of wit." 
 
 Manchester City Newrs : As humorous, as 
 distinct, and as original as Artemus Ward. 
 
 Will be read with a constant ripple of ainusinieni." 
 
 Nottingham Guardian : ■■ .\ humorist of the first 
 order. Nothing could be more quaintly funny."'
 
 28 
 
 For the convenience of the public a. g^eneral and 
 reliable description, indicating^ the class of reader 
 by wnom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed, will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 There was an old lady who said, 
 When she found a thief under the bed, 
 "So near to the door, 
 And so close to the floor, 
 I fear you'll take cold in the head." 
 
 " Nothing hut Nonsense " has two publics. 
 That it is the funniest picture book for 
 children published during the past year is 
 the general verdict. The irresistibly comic 
 colojired grotesques of the Kangaroo" who 
 had such pleasant ways, Who never stayed 
 at home at nights, and stopped out a!l his 
 days ; " of the Elephant with a top hat and 
 an umbrella making daisy chains ; of the 
 Crocodile whom to have trusted with cats 
 "might have made them gay ,"' and who 
 " had no guile in her sweet smile. And yet 
 I kept away " tnay be guaranteed to set the 
 entire nursery in an uproar of delight. 
 But, — like Lear and Lewis Carroll, — 
 Miss Kernahan, while winning the chil- 
 dren's hearts, can also win a chuckle from 
 the grave "grown-ups." The story of the 
 novelist who told the interviewer that ' For 
 cotivincing reasons, he thought poorly of 
 the Irish Sea" is funny, without the picture 
 of the yellow-faced sufferer leaning over the 
 side of the ship. '■ The Minor Poet and 
 the Kangaroo," and " The Novelist and 
 the Interviewer " are full of sly satire and 
 humour. This is the sort of book which, 
 though in constant request in the Nursery, 
 will again and again be carried to the 
 Drawing Room to set visitors in a roar. 
 
 NOTHING 
 BUT . . 
 
 PRINTED 
 
 IX 
 COLOURS, 
 
 3/6 
 
 NONSENSE. 
 
 The Nonsense Verses 
 
 By MARY KERXAHAX. 
 
 The Coloured Grotesques 
 
 By TOXY LUDOVICI. 
 
 Mr. Punch says: " Life would not be 
 worth living without its moments of 
 nonsense, and Mary Kernahan's book 
 is ' Xothing but Xonsense,' and Yery 
 good it is. The pictures are simply 
 beautifully ridiculous." 
 
 Daily Telegraph: "Laughter, 
 loud and long, awaits those who 
 dive into the pages of ' Nothing but 
 X'onsense.' " 
 
 The Spectator says: "There are 
 many attempts at this kind of thing 
 year after year, but few are so suc- 
 cessful as ' Xothing but X'onsense.'" 
 
 The Morning: Post, in an article on 
 the book, says: "The advent of a 
 new humorous draughtsman is a 
 subject for congratulation. . . . Has 
 imparted an amount of spontaneous 
 fun to his illustrations that is quite 
 astonishing."
 
 29 
 
 For the convenience of the public a general and 
 reliable description, indicatingr the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 Spuniun Illustration from " Tom 
 Ossiiigton's Ghost " (Reduced). 
 
 *■•[•■* 
 
 A book to make the 
 flesh creep. Mr. Marsh 
 is the end - of - the- 
 century Edgar Allen 
 Poe — an admitted 
 master of the element 
 of horror and of the 
 supernatural. " Tom 
 Ossington's Ghost, " is 
 one of the most un- 
 canny stories he has 
 ever written. 
 
 Tom 
 
 jyjk. Richard Marsh has, in an in- 
 credibly shoit space of time, won a 
 place for himself at the very head of the 
 novelists who deal with the supernatural. 
 During the last few years occasional 
 short stories have appeared in Cornhill 
 and elsewhere which convinced every 
 one who read them that a new writer 
 of extraordinary daring and imagination 
 had arisen. Any stoi y of his that is once 
 read, cannot again be fort;otten, and in 
 Tom Ossington's Ghost his almost un- 
 canny power in dealing with the shadow- 
 world is seen at its best. Mr. Marsh, 
 who is quite a young man, lives an open- 
 air life in the country, where he spends 
 his days in sport of every description, 
 and his nights in writing stories which, 
 for making the flesh creep, have no 
 equal in the literature of to-day. 
 
 In a striking Picture- 
 cover. Bound in cloth, 
 and Illustrated by . . 
 Harold Piffard, 
 
 3/6 
 
 ossington's 
 Ghost. 
 
 By RICHARD MARSH, 
 
 Author of" The Beetle: a Mystery," etc. 
 
 Truth : "I read 'Tom Ossington's Ghost' the other 
 night and was afraid to go upstairs in the dark 
 after it. " 
 
 To-Day : '' An entrancing book, but people with weak 
 nerves had better not read it at night." 
 
 The World : " Mr. Marsh has been inspired by an 
 entirely original idea, and has worked it out with 
 great ingenuity. We like the weird, but not repulsive 
 story better than anything he has ever done."
 
 30 
 
 For the convenience of the public a genera.1 and 
 reliable description, indicating the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space in the lower left hand corner. 
 
 ]V7[R. BowDEN regrets 
 that he is unable 
 to give a portrait or 
 biography of " Sidney 
 Pickering," as that 
 writer wishes to pre- 
 serve strict anonymity. 
 May Mr. Bowden, in- 
 stead, call attention to 
 the very interesting 
 reference to anony- 
 mous authors which 
 appears in Professor 
 Max Muller's " Ger- 
 man Love " ? 
 
 " Wanderers " 25 a 
 book K'hicli deserves 
 the name of literature. 
 It tells of a gentleman 
 of family and position 
 ivho was of irreclaim- 
 able gip^y instincts, 
 and wandered up and 
 dozen the country, liv- 
 ing in the open air, 
 meeting strange folks, 
 and seeing strange 
 sights. It reminds us 
 sometimesof Stevenson, 
 sometimes of Borrow. 
 It will not appeal to 
 the devourer of " shoc- 
 kers," but it is quite 
 out of the common, and 
 lovers of nature and of 
 literature will find it 
 refreshing, quaint, and 
 original. 
 
 From Professor M.a.x Muller's " German Love." 
 
 She showed me the picture, and waited to hear what 
 I should say. It was the portrait of a man of middle age, 
 in old German costume. The expression was dreamy 
 and resigned, but yet so true that one could not doubt 
 that the man had once lived. The whole tone of the 
 picture in the foreground was dark brown, and on the 
 horizon one perceived the first glimmer of the coming 
 dawn. I could discover nothing in the picture, and yet 
 it had a quieting effect upon me, and I could have spent 
 hours with my eyes fixed upon it. " Nothing surpasses 
 a true human countenance." I said, " and even a Raphael 
 could hardly have invented such a one as this." 
 
 '• True," she said. " But now I will tell you why I 
 wished to have that picture. I read that no-one knew the 
 painter and no-one knew whom the picture represented. 
 It is probably a philosopher of the middle ages. I wanted 
 just such a picture for my gallery, for you know that no- 
 one knows the author of the Theologies Germanica, and 
 we have, therefore, no picture of him. I wished to try 
 whether a portrait of an unknown person by an unknown 
 artist would do for our German theologian, and if you 
 have nothing to say against it, we will hang it up here . . . 
 and call it the ' German Theologian.' " 
 
 In beautiful binding, with 
 gold decorative panel, gilt- 
 edges and Frontispiece. .V 
 very handsome volume, 
 
 6/' 
 
 WANDERERS, 
 
 BY 
 
 SIDNEY PICKERING." 
 
 Bookman : "The interest is commanding, no-one 
 having started with Madge in her search for her 
 father will stop reading till she finds him. And her 
 interview with the Rector at setting out is a touch 
 of genius." 
 
 Standard : " It is fresh and romantic, has atmosphere 
 and carries the reader along. A new idea in 
 English fiction," 
 
 Spectator: 'Mr. Pickering is to be congratulated 
 alike on his choice of theme and the freshness and 
 sympathy of his treatment."
 
 31 
 
 For the convenience of the public a. K'enera.i and 
 reliable description, indicating: the class of reader 
 by whom the book mentioned >would be most 
 appreciated and enjoyed will be found in the 
 space immediately beneath the illustration. 
 
 I| 
 
 MR. JOSEPH HOCKING. 
 
 Mr. Joseph Hocking has written more 
 than one "novel with a purpose." 
 This being so, it devolves upon his 
 publisher — and for two reasons — to 
 make it clear that Mr. Hocking's 
 only purpose in " The Birthright " 
 and "And Shall Trelawney Die? " 
 was to write romance, " naked and 
 unashamed" — romance which, while 
 absolutely pure and tnanly in tone, 
 shall have no other purpose than to 
 give readers their Jill oj jun, fighting, 
 and love-making. It is necessary to 
 make this explanation, first, because 
 readers might mistakenly buy the 
 books expecting to find Mr. Hocking 
 preaching a "crusade," and secotidly, 
 because those who can and do enjoy a 
 stirring romance might be prevented 
 from doing so from the belief that 
 these were books with a purpose. 
 Their only purpose is to keep the 
 reader wide-eyed and wakeful when he 
 might otherwise be in bed, and for this 
 purpose it would be difficult to instance 
 likelier volumes. They bristle with 
 incident and adventure, and one is 
 hurried on breathlessly from chapter 
 to chapter. The general reader will 
 pronounce both books "rattling good 
 stories," and schoolboys tvill for once 
 be in 'accord with the " Spectator," 
 and pronounce them "as good as 
 Stanley IVeyman or Conan Doyle." 
 
 Fifteenth Handsomely bound in cloth, 
 Thousand. gilt, with Illustrations by 
 Harold Piffard. 3 6 
 
 THE BIRTHRIGHT. 
 
 By JOSEPH HOCKING, 
 
 Author of " A U Men are Liars," 
 ''Andrew Fairfax," &c. 
 
 The Spectator : ■■ This volume proves 
 beyond all doubt that .Mr. Hocking has 
 mastered the art of the historical roman- 
 cist. ' The Birthright ' is. in its wav. 
 quite as well constructed, as well 
 written, and as full of incident as 
 any story that has come from the pen 
 of Mr. Conan Doyle or Mr. Stanley 
 Weyman." 
 
 Daily Chronicle: "We read Mr. 
 Hocking's book at a sitting ; not because 
 we had any leisure for the task, but sim- 
 ply because the book compelled us. . . . 
 We hold our breath as each chapter 
 draws to an end, yet cannot stop 
 there, for the race is unflagging. . . . 
 We congratulate Mr. Hocking upon his 
 book, for it is a great advance upon any- 
 thing he has done. We prophesv a big 
 public for 'The Birthright.'" 
 
 Eighth 
 Thousand. 
 
 Handsomely bound in cloth, 
 gilt, with Illustrations by 
 Lan-celot Speed, 3 6 
 
 AND SHALL 
 TRELAWNEY DIE? 
 
 By JOSEPH HOCKING. 
 
 Echo (Front page article — Novels and 
 Novelists) : '• Admirable stories, quite 
 simple in construction, related in vigorous 
 English, replete with exciting incident, 
 and abundantly enriched with local 
 colour, they hold our attention in 
 tight grip from start to finish. 
 
 The Methodist Times says: • Two of 
 the best stories of the year." 
 
 The Weekly Sun says: "An engaging 
 and fascinating romance. The reader 
 puts the story down with a sigh, and 
 wishes there were more of these 
 breezy Cornish uplands, for Mr. Joseph 
 Hocking's easy style of narrative does 
 not soon tire." 
 
 The Guardian says: "There is nothing 
 pessimistic nor fin de siicle in Mr. 
 Hocking's writings, but a bright, hopeful 
 tone ; an air, as we may say, of goodness ; 
 genuine romance in treating love, with 
 real feeling for all the ties of home life."
 
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