THE HUNDRED WINDOWS '.i BY H. D. LOWRY 1 A ' A — = — ■ 3 — ■ 6 — ■ 7 = ■ 9 — ■ 3 ^ 3 /W r _r 9 '•■ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES i I fj CCoC d^/tc ,^, /*to ^ //• Ct- ?A ^y^^ />v^ ~? THE HUNDRED WINDOWS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. Wreckers and Methodists. Women's Tragedies. A Man of Moods. The Happy Exile. Make-Believe. The Hundred Windows BY H. D. LOWRY LONDON ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET, W. MCMIV. PRINTED BV R. FOLKARU AND SON, 21, DEVONSHIRE STREET, QUEEN SQUARE, BLOOMSBURY, LONDON, W.C. TO BEATRICE These to you^ deat\ that you may wall^ with me Down the long Street of Memories^ and gaze ^ As through the Hundred Windows^ till you know What like they were^ the years before you came^ When the dear truth — O, Heart 36 XXIX. So we have come to the parting of the ways, And you, dear heart — O, kindest heart on earth, And truest, and most beautiful — forget All that you knew when first you came to me, Utterly trustful. I, who am alone, Still keep my gladness : years on years have passed, And every day a song was in my heart, And faith bred faith ; and shall I lose it now, The best of all you gave me ? Heart o' mine. You will come back ; and though I may not see The dear brown eyes, nor ever hear again The voice that haunts me, surely I shall know. As now I know. . . . You will come back to me. 37 XXX. THE HUNDRED WINDOWS Still the day lingers, but the night Waits only to be summoned : light The candles, let my Japanese Dear Geisha-girls step forth to please. One window shows the ashen day, Gaunt chimneys in their disarray ; But draw the curtain close, and scan My windows opening on Japan. A hundred frames upon the wall Reveal the mousme's life, and all The little joys that come and go 'Twixt cherry-bloom and fall of snow. 38 One sits and looks across the sea, And haply wonders what may be Beyond the West, but will forget, Her mirror killing all regret. And one, supremest of them all, Stares from her window in my wall. . . Dear, I could love you, even so As men loved vainly long ago. Yet, here in robes of rich brocade, Your shameful Bfeauty you parade. Who keep within your heart for flowers The simple love of happier hours. The cherry-blossom falls as snow, A score of maidens sit below. And while one strums the samisen Some talk there is of foolish men. 39 And, look: like him of old Japan, I turn in vain from Fuji-San ! Across the rice fields, or the stream, The snowy summits gleam and dream. White sails are scattered on the blue, And in the nights of wondrous hue A million stars to sudden fire Break, and the gentle folk admire. Here, on a river wrapped in night, The fairy craft with many a light And many a lilt of laughter, go Beneath the bridge that spans its flow. It is the bridge I cross at night To gain the land of my delight; And many a dawn has seen me stand Where yon fair maids go hand in hand 40 Has seen me, fearful of the day, The chimneys in their disarray, Turn back, as now I turn, to scan The laughing life of old Japan. 41 XXXI. Every kiss I had of you Cost me many sorrows. Each day I was glad of you Brought me bitter morrows. Now I say farewell to you, Yet, by Heaven above me, I would win through Hell to you Did you come to love me. 42 XXXII. The sullen dawn in the East comes creeping, Grey and heavy with woes of the day. The love I must lose lies softly sleeping With never a dream that can bring dismay. And it 's well that my love lies softly sleeping, Lulled with dreams at the break of the day That shall hear ere it end the sound of her weeping For love that is over — joy that's away. 43 XXXIII. AT MEETING If weeping follow laughter, Clear sunlight follows rain, And hours like this come after The times when we are twain. So hark not to the beating Swift wings of Time, who fain Within the hour of meeting Would make us part again. But give of your caresses The first as 'twere the last. . . . Perchance the hour fate blesses Is even now o'erpast. 44 XXXIV. ROSA ROSARUM Now will the roses bloom in vain, Vainly their perfumes shed. She will not wear the rose again, My rose of roses, dead. 45 XXXV. By day I would forget you, if I might, And that dear country where we waliced of old, So glad together. Haply I have sinned, Yet I had never a dream but was of you. Nor any hope save one I dared not breathe. And my eyes told it, and I think my voice, When I spoke lightly of trivial happenings, Changed unawares and showed you all my heart. You knew I loved you, yet we dwell apart And shall not meet. The years are slow to pass, And we are young, and have so long to live, 46 It seems we are not mortal. . . . Little heart, I shall not hear your laughter any more, Nor watch your eyes, so like the sea we loved, Where sunlight chased the shadow ; yet the night — Beautiful Night the Angel of us all — Gives me the antient dream. You come to me And we forget the years, and once again We wander where the earliest primrose comes. In that most magical valley that we knew So long ago, as in a fairy-tale. Doves croon upon the nest, the blackbirds shriek. 'Tis mating time — what need of any word ? You know I love you, and full well you know It is for ever. So the lovely night Gives me for guerdon of the barren day Clear dawns, with grey-birds singing, and the scent 47 Of roses newly blown, and dusky hours When the world's heart beats quietly, and from the sky The starlight falls like rain on drouthy fields In the hot summer. And you are with me. And we are most content, and well we know It is for ever. Heart of mine, I sinned, And yet I love you, yet make prayer to you. Regaining for an hour the lovely dream Night gives me always. Come again to me ! O, as the wind comes whispering from the West, And makes life good again, and gives you back All that was lost, come you again to me. Making the desolate years a summer day, With Death for twilight and the call to sleep. 48 XXXVI. THE RETURN I HAVE come back. . . . O, shall I swear again Never to leave you, Mother, be the call Of the imperious city ne'er so loud Here where the quiet blesses ? Mother mine, I read the answer in those eyes serene, So sad, so loving, I have come to you Tired of all things men deem desirable, And I would only watch the twilight fall Over the sea, and wander as of old Through the soft night, alone and unafraid. I have come back to dwell with you awhile, 49 E But soon, — O, soon ! — the call will come again, And I must go. And I shall learn of men, Who should have learned of God and learned of you. Gaining a gradual wisdom. Long ago I was the heir of all that's good in life, And the flowers knew me, and the antient sea Whispered to me in many a magic night Secrets untold. O, Mother, I come back And none will know me here, but you will know. And I shall walk barefoot o'er twilit sands Alone and unafraid. Is it the sea Calling so softly through the night ? The stars Look down contemptuous, and I am afraid. Have you forgotten ? Is there none who knows 50 That once this reahn of quiet was my own ? 'Tis London calls me. Never any more May I regain the kingdom I have lost. I will return, a prisoner of the streets, To where the night is clamorous as the day. And sleep half lifts the curtains that have hid The hell awaiting sons that you forget. 51 E 2 XXXVII. THE SPRING CALLS Let us go forth, my heart, to watch the Spring Wherever most you love it : let us learn The lesson April teaches every year And every Winter makes forget . . . O, come To that so distant valley where the stream Sings always, and the wind-flower blows to-day, And men go quietly from birth to death. Even as the happy days from dawn to dusk. There is so much we have forgot j so much Hurting us now, 'twere easy to forget Hearing the stream sing softly. Or shall we go, While London sleeps, to where we once were glad- 52 Where water whispers, rippling o'er the weir, And warblers in the willows, for sheer joy. Sing all the day? Surely by Bablockhithe The king-cups wait and would not die unplucked. And there's a wood of beeches, set on high, Where silence dwells ; and, underneath, the downs Stretch to the sea. . . . O, Heart o' mine, the sea : Have you not heard it calling ? For the Spring Wakes us again to know we are not old, Nor blind, nor deaf, as we have been — to know The rapture of the morning, and what peace Falls from the shining stars. Let us go forth That we may learn again the truths forgot In Winter days: how wondrous good is life — Life that holds love — and children we will be, And find the Spring's dear ways all new again. 53 XXXVIII. CORNISH CAROL It came upon the frosty night, The sound of voices singing clear, The moon was down, the stars were bright ; The shepherds left their flocks to hear — Noel, Noel, Christ is born in Israel. A little child, I woke and heard The sound of voices far away. My heart sang — following word by word. Until I slept at break of day — Noel, Noel, Christ is born in Israel. 54 Grown old, I seek my home again, And still the voices sing to me. My heart, forgetful of its pain, Is glad as it was used to be. Noel, Noel, Christ is born in Israel. O, ye that suffer, and are sad, Bethink^you of His love, and so Hark to the voices and be glad. There is no sorrow, since ye know — Noel, Noel, Christ is born in Israel. 55 XXXIX. Once, when my home was by the sea, In the old days that were so blest. Whene'er the wind was in the West Then would my father say to me : "If you could travel without rest At swallow's pace, unceasingly, You'd come not for a week or more Where this cool wind last touched the shore.' But now the sea is leagues away. And when I know by heart's unrest The wind is blowing from the West — Ah, then, all bitterly, I say : " O happy wind, thou hast caressed To-day, or maybe yesterday, A maiden yet more far from me Than the last star the eye can see." 56 XL. 'Tis good to watch the yellow lights Come out across the bay ; And well the music of your voice Closes a perfeft day. Only . . . the sunset seemed a rose O'erblown, whose leaves are falling; And while I listen to your voice I hear the old sea calling. 57 XLI. When I was but a little lad My master set me rhyming, And often bade me stand and hark When Blagden bells were chiming. And so I grew, and many a day Loved well this game of rhyming, For all the fated words rang sweet As Blagden bells a-chiming. But times are changed, and if I say, As all must say, " To-morrow," All out of tune the bells reply, " To-morrow — morrow — sorrow." 58 XLII. I LOOK over the moorland, I look out to sea, And into the shining heavens — Empty are all three. Only, across the moorland, Out of the lonely sea. The voice of a child for ever Calls and calls on me. I look over the moorland, I look out to sea: And God's great world is empty, Child, for lack of thee. 59 XLIII. When the sea calls, that lieth leagues away, Athwart the lighted city and the din, This little room is Hell till dawn of day, And I a sinner damned for sordid sin. Better the long day and the dripping rain, The hateful cries of hawkers in the street, Small hateful tasks to do and do again — These let me dream my dream that rest is sweet. 60 XLIV. The old sea here at my door, The old hills there in the West — What can a man want more Till he goes at last to his rest ? I have wandered over the earth, I have lived in the years gone by. Now here, in the place of my birth, I wait till 'tis time to die: To sleep and to take my rest. The old sea here at my door, The grey hills there in the West , . What can a man want more? 6i XLV. Now what avail the barren hopes of Spring, The lying promise of the early year, Since never any day to come shall bring The sole fulfilment that I crave more near ? The garden of dear hopes that I have kept Lies hedgeless, that the world may walk therein. Strangers have trampled it and winds have swept : It ends a desert as it did begin. So what avail the hopes that come with Spring, And what the steadfast faith that I have kept? Ah, sweetheart, these are grown so slight a thing, I was most near to laughter when you wept. 62 XLVI. Sing hey for the wind in the barley green. And the great clouds drifting over ; For the dear brown sails, far out, that] lean To the kiss of the sea, their lover. Sing hey for the fields of barley green, With the mad wind rushing over, And hey for the path that runs between Where my dearest waits for her lover. 63 XLVII. DEATH AND A TOWN Changes have fallen, yet the little town — Ugly, and grey, and huddled under the hill- Keeps the same face, and when you come in the dawn Rain falls. It is not winter, but the air Chills to the bone, and O, the drawn white blinds Make you a stranger — here, at home again After so long. The time of waking comes. Carts rattle by, and men that you have known Year after year, whose aspeft is unchanged, Go to their work, that must have been the same Year after year, since first the little town Came and was ugly. 64 But you wander forth And walk the accustomed streets, and are afraid. Surely the world is dead, and these are ghosts, Ev'n as the others are that meet you here, But greet you not ? O Mother^ Mother mine^ Have you forgotten, that you pass me by. Bent on some errand of sweet charity y And do not heed me ? In the coming days Life shall be given again, and there shall be Warm homes, and happy laughter, and the sound Of fireside hymns. But Death is here to-day: The living are estranged, the throng of the dead Walk in the streets under the low grey sky, And you, a ghost, go with them and are afraid. 65 XLVIII. PEACE P'oR two long years, serene and beautiful, With luminous eyes that still must speak the truth, Whate'er her will, the girl went to and fro As if she held her heart, as if the world Ended where ends the village. Noon and night She talked of all that happened yesterday, And what might come to-morrow — little things. But still the life of the village ; and we knew Her heart was worn — a golden amulet — By her sworn knight, the boy that we had loved But once took lightly. Underneath the elms, As the calm twilight settled into night 66 And country folk came into the good air Out of the ancient church, I told the news, Being most glad to bring her back her heart — The heart denied mej and I did not guess What tears must come when fear took wing at last And the long day was ended, and the night, Shining with stars, gave largesse of good sleep And happy trust. So I brought peace to her, But the dear eyes were clouded, and the voice Broke, and I left here underneath the elms. Lest I should hear her, sobbing in the dusk. 67 F — 2 XLIX. EPILOGUE (To H. S. R.) Songs are sung, and the people hear, And the Lord knows what they think of it all. But the name of the lady you hold most dear You would not breathe though the skies should fall. It's sad — O, sad ! to have broken your heart, To pine and wish you were spent and old. But, bless you, lad, though you've told a part, There's still some secret you have not told. 68 L. TWO GARDENS Her garden is not fair, you say, Where never a flower may be, Soon as the gardener takes away Hammock from apple-tree ? When dahlias fail and fade away, When frosts begin to be, Her garden is not fair you say, With never a flower to see ? My Queen is queen of half the earth : Wherever you may go. In wondrous gardens flowers have birth Because she loves them so. 69 In winter time the sunlight smiles On fields of daffodil, Down yonder in the western isles, To give her flowers at will. She loves the faithful violets: And do you think the sun Ever at any time forgets Her bidding must be done ? Violets travel through the day, They travel all the night ; Then, while the morning still is grey. She smiles and gives them light. And roses, too : she loves them well, And well the flowers remember ; More roses than a man could tell Come to her in November. 70 Her garden is not fair, you say, With never a flower to see j Go to her, ask her, if you may, What winter flowers can be. 71 TWO GARDENS II She walks by shadowed garden ways ; The h'ly and the rose Fulfil for her the golden days : She knows each bud that blows. The lime-leaves quiver overhead Whene'er she passes there : In summer sport they sift and shed The sunlight on her hair. The grey-bird sits upon the nest, Watching with shining eye, Thinking what song will be the best To make her lullaby. 72 The wind has pleasant things to tell. The babble of the stream Comes softly from a woodland dell, Like music in a dream. Nor sad nor angry may you be Who have the leave to lie, Cool, in the shadow of a tree. Until the Queen comes by. 73 LI. COON SONG I LOVE you, my honey, and you can't stop that, Though you wonder and you wonder what I'm at (what I'm at). Though you've told me very often That your heart will never soften, I love you, my honey, and you can't stop that. I love you, my honey, and you can't stop that, Though you wonder and you wonder what I'm at (what I'm at). For the time is surely near When you'll love me back, my dear ; For I love you, oh, I love you, and you can't stop that. 74 I love you, my honey, for I can't help that ; I love the ground you've trod on and the chair in which you've sat; Though you've told me — oh, so often — That your heart will never soften, I've got to love you, honey, and I can't help that. I love you, &c. And I'm not the fool men think me — though you've called me that, And you wonder and you wonder what I'm at (what I'm at). For though you've told me often That your heart will never soften, I love you very dearly, and I trust to that. 75 LIl. MOTHER SLEEP When Mother Sleep comes walkin' round (walkin* round, wallcin' round). Her feet move quick, but they make no sound — When Mother Sleep comes round. You did not guess you were tired at all, But when she comes, as the shadows fall, She takes you, makes you glad at last To sleep till the long, long night is past. When Mother Sleep comes softly round (softly round, softly round). You never know, for you hear no sound — When Mother Sleep comes round. 76 She takes you, makes you glad to sleep, Glad to give her your heart to keep. So you sleep, and you sleep [go to sleep !) and at last You wake, and the long long night is past. 77 LIII. When God grows tired of wintry days He looks upon the earth, Dreaming, till in a hundred ways His dreams have mortal birth. His eyes upon the barren clay Fall, and His thought, the rose, Out of the darkness day by day From bud to blossom grows : From bud to regal blossom blows 't) With fragrance wandering wide: And O, 'tis little thinks the rose Of roses that have died. 78 Till, on a wondrous night of June, Its petals one by one Fall softly underneath the moon And life's brief tale is done. There is no sorrow at the end : Still dreams the rose in death Of dews the midnight hour shall send. Of morning's fragrant breath. And when God tires of wintry days He looks upon the earth, Dreaming, till in a hundred ways His dreams have mortal birth : Till that first creature of His thought. The rose, that now is clay, From bud to regal blossom brought. Makes fair another May. 79 LIV. PIED PIPER'S SONG There's a land not far away, In the heart of yonder hill, Where all day the children play. And there's never a soul to say That the child at play does ill. Come away ! Come away ! Learn to play. There's a land not far away Where 'tis never time for bed : Where the grown-up folk obey What the smallest children say — Or go straight to bed instead. Come away ! Come away ! Come and play! 80 LV. SONG OF THE BURGHERS' WIVES Now the sparrows' twitter dies 'Neath the thatch, and only- One sad nightingale that sings Makes the night more lonely. Though the hour of prayer be come No small knee is bended. . . . Raven locks and Hair-o'-gold Whither are ye wended ? Raven locks and Hair-o'-gold, How my arms are aching Just to clasp you once again — How my heart is breaking ! 8l G Come, O come ! Come back again Now the night is falling. Hair-o'-the-sun and Locks-of-night, 'Tis your Mother calling. 82 Lvr. Lady Mary in your bower Why weep ye sadly ? Tall and white your lilies flower, All birds sing gladly. Mary, Lady Mary, What sorrow bear ye? ^Tis the child that shall be born [Foolish thou^ who questioneth\ ^Tis the crown of cruel thorn^ And the sure-appointed death. Mary, Mother, left alone. Why go ye gladly ? 83 G— 2 Wherefore make ye not your moan, Weeping most sadly ? Mary, Mother Mary, What comfort bear ye ? 'TVj the Child: that he hath won Victory over death and sin ; Hath the gravels stronghold undone^ Soon as he was laid therein. 84 LVII. Far had he wandered ere he found The lands where treasure doth abound ; Great was the wisdom that he brought From regions where it may be bought. And then a child, for company, Sat on a time upon his knee, And told him how the violets grow. And why your mother loves you so. He flung his treasure to the wind j He wanders now in hope to find The little wisdom of the child. The faith secure and undefiled. 85 LVIII. I LOVE my Mother more than words Can tell, also my Father; I love my Uncle and his friends ; But, still, 1 wonder rather Why God compels us to be old Before we're tired of playing ; To sit in chairs, and talk, and still Say nothing worth the saying. But I suppose He made the world, And put young children in it, To pick his flowers, climb trees, and play ; And then He saw, next minute, 86 There must be people tales to tell To children, and to feed them, To build them houses, and to find Warm clothes, if they should need them. So, children, come and play with me : You soon will be grown older ; And every day is as a night That hourly groweth colder. And you, who once were children too, Be careful what you're saying. Lest ever you should chance to speak A word to stop our playing. 87 LIX. TELLING STORIES A LITTLE child He took for sign To them that sought the way Divine. And once a flower sufficed to show The whole of that we need to know. Now here we lie, the child and I, And watch the clouds go floating by, Just telling stories turn by turn. . , , Lord, which is teacher, which doth learn? 88 LX. THE EARL OF DUFFERIN AND AVA (In Memoriam) Most grave, most dignified, and serving well God and the Realm, he reaches now the end, And death comes like the evening of a day- Fulfilled with strenuous labour and the joy- In deeds accomplished. Enemies are friends Because he loved our England and could use The statesman's and the scholar's art to turn Sudden resentment — haply not unjust, But futile still — into the happier mood Wherein men meet and differences end. 89 Well loved, and loving v^^ell, full of wise care For all vs^ho had the joy to call him friend, For all that he had ruled, he passes novi^, And men lament him over the wide earth. But rest was earned by labour, and the night Falls softly, and the sky is filled with stars. And that strong tower he built to speak of love Shall be blown dust or ever we forget. 90 LXI. G. W. STEEVENS (In Memoriam) The pages of the Book quickly he turned. He saw the languid Isis in a dream Flow through the flowery meadows, where the ghosts Of them whose names are glory of Greece and Rome Walked with him. Then the dream must have an end, For London called, and he must go to her, To learn her secrets — why men love her so, Loathing her also. Yet again he learned How God, who cursed us with the need of toil, 91 Relenting, made the very curse a boon. Then came a call to wander through the world And watch the ways of men. He saw them die Wounded and sick, and struggling still to live, To fight again for England, and again Greet those who loved them. Well indeed he knew How good it is to live, how good to love, How good to watch the wondrous ways of men — How o;ood to die if ever there be need. And everywhere our England in his sight Poured out her blood and gold, to share with all Her heritage of freedom won of old. Thus quickly did he turn the pages o'er And learn the goodness of the gift of life ; And when the Book was ended, glad at heart — The lesson learned, and every labour done — Find at the end life's ultimate gift of rest. 92 LXII. QUEEN VICTORIA Life is grown empty, for, but yesterday, 'Twas all-in-all to have the right to say : There is a Lady whom I live to serve, For whose least pleasure it were good to die. Queen of all Oueens, so many days come back, The heart may scarce believe the tale it tells With slow beats, like the sounding of a knell. How should Death touch you? Over the wide world Millions had welcomed all there is of pain To screen you if the sun but shone too bright 93 Or if the wind blew coldly. . . . Death is come, And their great love is turned to vanity. Mother and Oueen, was ever love in vain? While hearts remember, is there any death ? Time shall not touch the glory men have won To give the Crown more splendour — yours, who held So gently, with a grace so equable, Reverence no Lady ever knew of old, Power that no dreaming Monarch dared to ask, Who wept for worlds to conquer. Woman's heart. There is an end of sorrow, and the days Shall bring no sad remembrance any more, Nor any pitiful tale of wounded hearts That you must succour — you who had the gift 94 To make the sorrowful half forget their woe Because you shared their weeping. . . . Queen of Queens, All that life held was yours, and, at the last, Death brings a tribute from his realm of sleep. 95 LXIII. «W. V." April 26, 1890 — April 15, 1901 Here's a flower for you, lying dead, Child, whom living I never met, Friends a-many I may forget — Not you, little Winifred. Men grow sick when they live alone, And long for the sound of a childish voice. And you — how often you've made me rejoice In a simple faith like your own. So here's a flower for you, Winifred — Out of London, a violet — Little child whom I never met, Winifred, lying dead. 96 LXIV. L'ENVOI O, THE years of old, they had feet of lead, And a bitter grudge they bore us. They were grey and cold ; they are done and dead ; We have golden years before us. And I bless the name of the Hope I had, The faith in a shining morrow ; For the daylight came and the world's so glad There's a wreath for the grave of Sorrow. 97 H A Selection from Elkiu Mathews' New Publications A CHAPLET OF VERSE FOR CHILDREN. By Mrs, Alfred Baldwin. With 21 Illustrations by John D. Batten, Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d, net. THE GATE OF SMARAGDUS, By Gordon BoTTOMLEY, Decorated by Clinton Balmer. Demy 4to. los. net, BROADLAND, and other Poems. By G. F. Bradby. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net. "The last poem, ' Rugby Close,' may stand for as touching a recollection of the old school as has been written since Arnold's day."— PaU Mall Gazette. " One poem [' Versailles '] stands quite apart, and we are tempted to say that, but for a last not quite effective change, it would be that rare thing— a perfect poem. —Glasgcnu Herald. THE VINTAGE OF DREAMS. By St. John Lucas. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. " It seems unfair to class this book with the ordinary fiction of the day, for Mr. Lucas yields to fantasy and dream, his style is polished and exact, and delicacy rather than robustness is the note of his work." — Morning Post. _ "A series of pleasing idylls, very simple in style and motive, and couched in a sincere, sympathetic, and contagious strain oi he:\\ng."— Pall Mall Gazette. " Bright and full of humorous touches, every story is quite distinct and unlike the other five. An odd book, but a clever ons."—Acade)ny. " Mr. Lucas writes of the golden visions of boyhood with a simplicity and a charm and tenderness which cannot fail to make an instant appeal to the affections of his TtudcTS."— Yorkshire Post. A PAINTER'S PHILOSOPHY: being a Transla- tion of the "Impressions sur la Peinture" of Alfred Stevens. By INA Mary White. With a Portrait in Photogravure, also Cover and Title Designs by Douglas Strachan. Pott 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. " Miss White has done something more for her author than mere translation. She has gathered some parallel thoughts from other artists and art teachers, and has thereby added to the value of many of Stevens' maxims."— /"«// Mall Gazette. " "There is no art student but would be the better for assimilating these tsbloids of a painter's wisdom. The little volume is beautifully printed."— .<4r^f and Crafts. THE VIEWS OF CHRISTOPHER. With a Preface by CouLSON Kernahan. Fcap. 8vo. Wrapper, is. net ; Cloth, 2s. net, 'I Few more biting (but not bitter) social censures have appeared in our time ; and it is thoroughly deserved. It is audaciovis enough to arrest attention, and clever enough to carry conviction. . . . This most original and daring book." — Great Thoughts. " Here is_ a book throbbing with intensity of conviction and with personality — a book which, in spite of its prejudices, its antipathies, its arrogance, and its irrele- vancies, sets a standard of speech, of manners, and of action." — British ]Veekly. " A blend of mysticism, knight-errantry, and the higher kind of snobbery, makes of the youth an engaging if somewhat over emphatic personality You will not be uninterested in his arguments or unstirred by his rhapsodies." — Taiiei. HAND IN HAND. Verses by a Mother and Daughter. With a Frontispiece in Photogravure by J. Lock- wood Kipling. Pott 8vo. 3s.6d.net. {Second Edition. " It does not want the criticism of genius to detect the family from which these verses sprang. . . . And quite apart from relationship the verses themselves are of very unusual value. . . . This little book, we think, will come to be known as the work of a mother and a sister rather than by its present title." — Daily Chronicle. " In ' Spion Kop ' perhaps more than anywhere elso in this dainty little volume one is reminded of the influence of Rudyard Kipling, who, as is well known, is a near relative of the ' joint authors.' But both Mrs. Kipling and Mrs. Fleming have shown that the fact of their being respectively the mother and sister of the mojt popular author of the day has nothing to do with the success of a volume which shows original thought and the talent to e.\press it aptly and gracetully on every page." — IVestviinsier Gazette, A GUIDE TO THE BEST HISTORICAL NOVELS AND TALES. By Jonathan Nield. Third and Cheaper Edition, revised and much enlarged. Pott 4to. 4S. net. {Fojirtk Thousand. " The ' Guide "... shows a wide range of knowledge, and is likely to be a very useful list. . . . An introduction deals sensibly with the question what an historical novel is." — AthetuEum. " Most readers will be prepared to admit that his able preface makes out a very strong case for such an educational use of historical novels as his full and carefully classified lists make possible."— (Leading Article) Manchester Guardian. "The first business . . . would be to get 'Guides' to various fields of human interest written — guides that should be clear, explicit Bibliographies. . . . I may note here a very good little book by Mr. J. Nield, A Guide to the Best Historical Nove/s:'—'^U. H. G. Weli.s, in Mankind in the Making (Chapter IX., " The Organisation of the Higher Education "). RECOLLECTIONS OF DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI AND HIS CIRCLE: Cheyne Walk Life. l?y the late Hy. Treffry Dunn. With a Prefatory Note by W. M. RossETTi. Edited and Annotated by Gale Pedrick. Photogravure and other illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. " This excellent little book . . . valuable because Dunn knew the painter at a time when his powers were at their highest, and whea he was capable of exhibiting the utmost high spirits." — Morning Post. " Mr. Dunn's MS. was certainly worth publishing." — Spectator. " There are interesting glimpses of great men in it, and some of the Illustrations are quite tlelightful." — Saturday Kei'iezv. JOURNAL OF EDWARD ELLEKER WIL- LIAMS. Companion of Shelley and Byron in 1821 and 1822. With an Introduction by Richard Garnett, C.B., LL.D. With Collotype Portraits, &c. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. " Of deep interest to all lovers of Shelley. The complete diary of the famous ' Williams,' the friend of Shelley and Byron for eighteen months in 1821 — 22, and Shelley, companion in death. Hitherto m its entirety known only to biographers of the poets, now made available to all." — Outlook. THE WINGLESS PSYCHE. A Volume of Essays. By MoRLEY Roberts. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. " This book professes to be the fruit of a holiday. The author has taken a literary, no less than a bodily, vacation. . . . That is what gives the essays attractiveness ; their air of mental holiday, their frank laziness, the communicative setting down of the drifting mental currents as they wander at will . . cultivated and vagrant." — Athenieum. " The writing is supple and sparkling ; the attitude that of the thinker who finds his ego more immense the closer he studies it." — Times. " A. book that may be called wide-awake. We could not sit in a lounging position while reading these vivid chapters. ... It would be possible to select from ' The Wingless Psyche ' an anthology of sayings intellectual, pithy, brilliant, audacious." — Literary iVorld. THE HERBS OF MEDEA: a Five-pointed Leaf from the Tree Ygdrasil. By Theophila North (Dorothea Hollins). With Coloured Frontispiece, mounted. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. "The herbs of Medea, as they flourish in this tiny volume, are true idealism, insight, serenity, wisdom, mental discipline, union with the Divine, and love. The lesson which the author means them to teach is enforced in a tender little romance, tdd subtly and discursively."— G/^