Withan audacity of outline denied to them in the softer seasons, the Alps rear themselves aloft in Winter more grandly self-revealed than at any other time—still with their brave and ancient pretence of being unconquerable. The black and white become them best; and they know it: the savage, iron black that seems pitiless, and that shining, silvery white that dazzles so piercingly. They are really not summer things at all, but creatures of the winter—the short, brilliant day of icy keenness, and the long night of tempest, wind, and drifting snows. Then, at least, clothed so simply in their robes of jet and ermine, they stand in something of their old true majesty, solemn, forbidding, terrible. Summer, as it were, over-dresses them, with its skirts of emerald-bright meadows and fringe of purple forests, and all its flying scarves of painted air and mist. The colours are so brilliant, the skies so soft, the flowers climb so high. Then winter comes, undressing them slowly, from the head and shoulders downwards,till they emerge, austere in black and white, naked and unashamed beneath the skies.
The associations of summer, of course, help very largely to emphasise the contrast. Those stubborn peaks that lie in January beneath forty feet of packed and driven snow, on many a morning in July and August carried twenty tourists prattling to one another of the sunrise, sucking thermos flasks, giggling of the hotel dances to come, not a few having been bodily dragged up, probably, by guides and porters overburdened with the latest appliances for comfort and ease. And the mere thought of them all somehow makes the Alps—dwindle a little. But in winter they become free again, and hold uninterrupted converse with the winds and stars. Their greatest characteristic becomes manifest—theirsilence. For the silence of the Winter Alps is genuinely overwhelming. One feels that the whole world of strife, clamour and bustle, and with it all the clash of vulgar ambitions among men, has fallen away into some void whence resurrection is impossible. Stand upon one of the upper slopes in mid-winter and listen: all sound whatsoever has fled away into the remotest comers of the universe. It seems as though such a thing had never existed even, the silence is so enormous, yet at the same time more stimulating than any possible music, more suggestive than the sweetest instrument ever heard. It encompasses the sky and the earth like an immense vacuum.
In summer, there would be bells, bells of goats and cows; voices, voices of climbers, tourists, shepherds; people singing, pipes playing, an occasional horn, and even the puffing and whistling of at least several funiculaires in the valley. But now all these are hushed and gone away—dead. Only silence reigns. Even above, among the precipices and ridges, there is no crack and thunder of falling stones, for the sun has hardly time to melt their fastenings and send them down; no hiss of sliding snow, no roar of avalanches. The very wind, too, whirring over this upper world too softly cushioned with thick snow to permit “noise”—even the wind is muted and afraid to cry aloud. I know nothing more impressive than the silence that overwhelms the world of these high slopes. The faint “sishing” of the ski as one flies over the powdery snow becomes almost loud in the ears by comparison. And with this silence that holds true awe comes that other characteristic of the Winter Alps—theirimmobility; that is, I mean, of course, the immobility of the various items that crowd their surface in summer with movement. All the engines that produce movement have withdrawn deep within their frozen selves, and lie smothered and asleep. The waving grasses are still, beneath three metres of snow; the shelves that in July so busily discharge their weights of snow into the depths stand rigid and fastened to the cliffs by nails of giant ice. Nothing moves,slides, stirs, or bends; all is inflexible and fixed. The very trees, loaded with piled-up masses of snow, stand like things of steel pinned motionless against the background of running slope or blue-black sky. Above all, the tumbling waters that fill the hollows of all these upper valleys with their dance of foam and spray, and with their echoing sweet thunder, are silent and invisible. One cannot even guess the place where they have been. Here sit Silence and Immobility, terrifically enthroned and close to heaven.
The Alps, tainted in summer with vulgarity, in winter are set free; for the hordes of human beings that scuttle about the fields at their base are ignored by the upper regions. Those few who dare the big peaks are perforce worthy, and the bold ski-runners who challenge the hazards of the long, high courses are themselves, like the birds, almost a part of the mountain life. The Alps, as a whole, retire into their ancient splendour.
Yet their winter moods hold moments of tenderness as well, and of colour, too, that at first the strong black and white might seem to deny. The monotony of the snow-world comes to reveal itself as a monotony of surface only, thinly hiding an exquisite variety. The shading is so delicate, however, that it eludes capture by words almost. Half unearthly seem to me sometimes the faint veils of tinted blues, greys, and silvers that lie caught upon thoseleagues of upper snow; half hidden in the cuplike hollows, nestling just beneath the curved lip of some big drift, or sifted like transparent coloured powder over half a hill when the sun is getting low. Under boulders, often, they lie so deep and thick that one might pick them up with the hands—rich, dark blues that seem almost to hold substance. And the purple troops of them that cloak the snow to the eastward of the pine forests surpass anything that summer can ever dream of, much less give. The long icicles that hang from branch or edge of stones, sparkling in the sun while they drip with sounds like the ticking of a clock, flash with crowded colours of a fairy world. And at the centre of the woods there are blacks that might paint all London, yet without suffering loss.
At dawn, or towards sunset, the magic is bewildering. The wizardry of dreams lies over the world. Even the village street becomes transfigured. These winter mountains then breathe forth for a moment something of the glory the world knew in her youth before the coming of men. The ancient gods come close. One feels the awful potentialities of this wonderful white and silent landscape. Into the terms of modern life, however, it is with difficulty, if at all, translatable. Before the task was half completed, someone would come along with weights and scales in his hand and mention casually the exact massand size and composition of it all—and rob the wondrous scene of half its awe andallits wonder.
The gathering of the enormous drifts that begins in November and continues until March is another winter fact that touches the imagination. The sight of these vast curled waves of snow is undeniably impressive—accumulating with every fresh fall for delivery in the spring. The stored power along those huge steep slopes is prodigious, for when it breaks loose with the firstFöhnwind of April, the trees snap before it like little wooden matches, and the advance wind that heralds its coming can blow down a solid châlet like a playing-card. One finds these mighty drifts everywhere along the ridges, smooth as a billiard-table along the surface, their projecting cornices running out into extensions that alter the entire shape of the ridge which supports them. They are delicately carved by the wind, curved and lined into beautiful sweeping contours that suggest suddenly arrested movement. Chamois tracks may be seen sometimes up to the very edge—the thin, pointed edge that hangs over the abyss. One thinks of an Atlantic suddenly changed into a solid frozen white, and as one whips by on ski it often seems as though these gigantic waves ran flying after, just about to break and overwhelm the valley. Outlined on a cloudless day against the skies of deep wintry blue—seen thus from below—they present a spectacle of weirdest beauty. And thesilence, this thick, white-coated silence that surrounds them, adds to their singular forms an element of desolate terror that is close to sublimity.
The whole point of the Winter Alps, indeed, is that they then reveal themselves with immensities of splendour and terror that the familiarity of summer days conceals. The more gaunt and sombre peaks, perhaps, change little from one season to another—like the sinister tooth of the old Matterhorn, for instance, that is too steep for snow to gather and change its aspect. But the general run of summits stand aloof in winter with an air of inaccessibility that adds vastly to their essential majesty. The five peaks of the Dent du Midi, to take a well-known group, that smile a welcome to men and women by the score in August, retreat with the advent of the short dark days into a remoter heaven, whence they frown down, genuinely terrific, with an aspect that excites worship rather than attack. In their winter seclusion, dressed in black and white, they belong to the clouds and tempests, rather than to the fields and woods out of which they grow. Watch them, for instance, on a January morning in the dawn, when the wild winds toss the frozen powdery snow hundreds of feet into the air from all their summits, and upon this exaggerated outline of the many-toothed ridge the sunrise strikes in red and gold—and you may see asight that is not included in the very finest of the summer’s repertoire.
But it is at night, beneath the moon, that the Winter Alps become really supreme. The shadows are pitch black, the snow dazzling as with a radiance of its own, the “battlements that on their front bear stars” loom awfully out of the sky. In close-shuttered châlets the peasants sleep. In the brilliant over-heated salons of hotels hundreds of little human beings dance and make music and play bridge. But out there, in this silent world of ice and stars, the enormous mountains dream solemnly upon their ancient thrones, unassailable, alone in the heavens, forgotten. The Alps, in these hours of the long winter night, come magnificently into their own.
Sometimes, in a moment of sharp experience, comes that vivid flash of insight that makes a platitude suddenly seem a revelation: its full content is abruptly realised. “Ten yearsisa long time, yes,” he thought, as he walked up the drive to the great Kensington house where she still lived.
Ten years—long enough, at any rate, for her to have married and for her husband to have died. More than that he had not heard, in the outlandish places where life had cast him in the interval. He wondered whether there had been any children. All manner of thoughts and questions, confused a little, passed across his mind. He was well-to-do now, though probably his entire capital did not amount to her income for a single year. He glanced at the huge, forbidding mansion. Yet that pride was false which had made of poverty an insuperable obstacle. He saw it now. He had learned values in his long exile.
But he was still ridiculously timid. Thisconfusion of thought, of mental images rather, was due to a kind of fear, since worship ever is akin to awe. He was as nervous as a boy going up for aviva voce; and with the excitement was also that unconquerable sinking—that horrid shrinking sensation that excessive shyness brings. Why in the world had he come? Why had he telegraphed the very day after his arrival in England? Why had he not sent a tentative, tactful letter, feeling his way a little?
Very slowly he walked up the drive, feeling that if a reasonable chance of escape presented itself he would almost take it. But all the windows stared so hard at him that retreat was really impossible now; and though no faces were visible behind the curtains, all had seen him. Possibly she herself—his heart beat absurdly at the extravagant suggestion. Yet it was odd; he felt so certain of being seen, and that someone watched him. He reached the wide stone steps that were clean as marble, and shrank from the mark his boots must make upon their spotlessness. In desperation, then, before he could change his mind, he touched the bell. But he did not hear it ring—mercifully; that irrevocable sound must have paralysed him altogether. If no one came to answer, he might still leave a card in the letter-box and slip away. Oh, how utterly he despised himself for such a thought! A man of thirty with such a chicken heart was not fit to protect a child, much less a woman.And he recalled with a little stab of pain that the man she married had been noted for his courage, his determined action, his inflexible firmness in various public situations, head and shoulders above lesser men. What presumption on his own part ever to dream ...! He remembered, too, with no apparent reason in particular, that this man had a grown-up son already, by a former marriage.
And still no one came to open that huge, contemptuous door with its so menacing, so hostile air. His back was to it, as he carelessly twirled his umbrella, but he “felt” its sneering expression behind him while it looked him up and down. It seemed to push him away. The entire mansion focused its message through that stern portal: Little timid men are not welcomed here.
How well he remembered the house! How often in years gone by had he not stood and waited just like this, trembling with delight and anticipation, yet terrified lest the bell should be answered and the great door actually swung wide! Then, as now, he would have run, had he dared. He was still afraid; his worship was so deep. But in all these years of exile in wild places, farming, mining, working for the position he had at last attained, her face and the memory of her gracious presence had been his comfort and support, his only consolation, though never his actual joy. There was so little foundation forit all, yet her smile, and the words she had spoken to him from time to time in friendly conversation, had clung, inspired, kept him going. For he knew them all by heart. And, more than once, in foolish optimistic moods, he had imagined, greatly daring, that she possibly had meant more....
He touched the bell a second time—with the point of his umbrella. He meant to go in, carelessly as it were, saying as lightly as might be, “Oh, I’m back in England again—if you haven’tquiteforgotten my existence—I could not forgo the pleasure of saying how do you do, and hearing that you are well ...,” and the rest; then presently bow himself easily out—into the old loneliness again. But he would at least have seen her; he would have heard her voice, and looked into her gentle, amber eyes; he would have touched her hand. She might even ask him to come in another day and see her! He had rehearsed it all a hundred times, as certain feeble temperaments do rehearse such scenes. And he came rather well out of that rehearsal, though always with an aching heart, the old great yearnings unfulfilled. All the way across the Atlantic he had thought about it, though with lessening confidence as the time drew near. The very night of his arrival in London, he wrote; then, tearing up the letter (after sleeping over it), he had telegraphed next morning, asking if she would be in. He signed his surname—such a very common name, alas! but surely she would know—and her reply, “Please call 4.30,” struck him as oddly worded—rather.... Yet here he was.
There was a rattle of the big door knob, that aggressive, hostile knob that thrust out at him insolently like a fist of bronze. He started, angry with himself for doing so. But the door did not open. He became suddenly conscious of the wilds he had lived in for so long; his clothes were hardly fashionable; his voice probably had a twang in it, and he used tricks of speech that must betray the rough life so recently left. What would she think of him—now? He looked much older, too. And how brusque it was to have telegraphed like that! He felt awkward, gauche, tongue-tied, hot and cold by turns. The sentences, so carefully rehearsed, fled beyond recovery.
Good heavens—the door was open! It had been open for some minutes. It moved on big hinges noiselessly. He acted automatically—just like an automaton; he heard himself asking if her ladyship was at home, though his voice was nearly inaudible. The next moment he was standing in the great, dim hall, so poignantly familiar, and the remembered perfume almost made him sway. He did not hear the door close, but he knew. He was caught. The butler betrayed an instant’s surprise—or was it overwrought imagination again?—when he gave his name.It seemed to him, though only later did he grasp the significance of that curious intuition—that the man had expected another caller instead. The man took his card respectfully, and disappeared. These flunkeys, of course, were so marvellously trained. He was too long accustomed to straight question and straight answer; but here, in the Old Country, privacy was jealously guarded with such careful ritual.
And, almost immediately, the butler returned with his expressionless face again, and showed him into the large drawing-room on the ground floor that he knew so well. Tea was on the table—tea for one. He felt puzzled. “If you will have tea first, sir, her ladyship will see you afterwards,” was what he heard. And though his breath came thickly, he asked the question that forced itself up and out. Before he knew what he was saying, he asked it: “Is she ill?” Oh no, her ladyship was “quite well, thank you, sir. If you will have tea first, sir, her ladyship will see you afterwards.” The horrid formula was repeated, word for word. He sank into an arm-chair and mechanically poured out his own tea. What he felt he did not exactly know. It seemed so unusual, so utterly unexpected, so unnecessary, too. Was it a special attention, or was it merely casual? That it could mean anything else did not occur to him. How was she busy, occupied—not here to give him tea? He could not understand it. It seemed such afarce, having tea alone like this; it was like waiting for an audience; it was like a doctor’s or a dentist’s room. He felt bewildered, ill at ease, cheap.... But after ten years in primitive lands ... perhaps London usages had changed in some extraordinary manner. He recalled his first amazement at the motor-omnibuses, taxicabs, and electric tubes. All were new. London was otherwise than when he left it. Piccadilly and the Marble Arch themselves had altered. And, with his reflection, a shade more confidence stole in. She knew that he was there; and presently she would come in and speak with him, explaining everything by the mere fact of her delicious presence. He was ready for the ordeal; he would see her—and drop out again. It was worth all manner of pain, even of mortification. He was in her house, drinking her tea, sitting in a chair she even perhaps used herself. Only—he would never dare to say a word, or make a sign that might betray his changeless secret. He still felt the boyish worshipper, worshipping in dumbness from a distance, one of a group of many others like himself. Their dreams had faded, his had continued, that was the difference. Memories tore and raced and poured upon him. How sweet and gentle she had always been to him! He used to wonder sometimes.... Once, he remembered, he had rehearsed a declaration—but, while rehearsing, the big man had come in and captured her, though he hadonly read the definite news long after by chance in the Arizona paper....
He gulped his tea down. His heart alternately leaped and stood still. A sort of numbness held him most of that dreadful interval, and no clear thought came at all. Every ten seconds his head turned towards the door that rattled, seemed to move, yet never opened. But any moment now itmustopen, and he would be in her very presence, breathing the same air with her. He would see her, charge himself with her beauty once more to the brim, and then go out again into the wilderness—the wilderness of life—without her—and not for a mere ten years, but for always. She was so utterly beyond his reach. He felt like a backwoodsman. He was a backwoodsman.
For one thing only was he duly prepared—though he thought about it little enough: she would, of course, have changed. The photograph he owned, cut from an illustrated paper, was not true now. It might even be a little shock perhaps. He must remember that. Ten years cannot pass over a woman without——
Before he knew it, then, the door was open, and she was advancing quietly towards him across the thick carpet that deadened sound. With both hands outstretched she came, and with the sweetest welcoming smile upon her parted lips he had seen in any human face. Her eyes were soft with joy. His whole heart leapedwithin him; for the instant he saw her it all flashed clear as sunlight—that she knew and understood. His being melted in the utter bliss of it; shyness vanished. She had always known, had always understood. Speech came easily to him in a flood, had he needed it. But he did not need it. It was all so adorably easy, simple, natural, and true. He just took her hands—those welcoming, outstretched hands in both his own, and led her to the nearest sofa. He was not even surprised at himself. Inevitable, out of depths of truth, this meeting came about. And he uttered a little, foolish commonplace, because he feared the huge revulsion that his sudden glory brought, and loved to taste it slowly:
“So you live here still?”
“Here, and here,” she answered softly, touching his heart, and then her own. “I am attached to this house, too, becauseyouused to come and see me here, and because it was here I waited so long for you, and still wait. I shall never leave it—unless you change. You see, we live together here.”
He said nothing. He leaned forward to take and hold her. The abrupt knowledge of it all somehow did not seem abrupt—as though he had known it always; and the complete disclosure did not seem disclosure either—rather as though she told him something he had inexplicably left unrealised, yet not forgotten.He felt absolutely master of himself, yet, in a curious sense, outside of himself at the same time. His arms were already open—when she gently held her hands up to prevent. He heard a faint sound outside the door.
“But you are free,” he cried, his great passion breaking out and flooding him, yet most oddly well controlled, “and I——”
She interrupted him in the softest, quietest whisper he had ever heard:
“You are not free, as I am free—not yet.”
The sound outside came suddenly closer. It was a step. There was a faint click on the handle of the door. In a flash, then, came the dreadful shock that overwhelmed him—the abrupt realisation of the truth that was somehow horrible: that Time, all these years, had left no mark upon her, and that shehad not changed. Her face was young as when he saw her last.
With it there came cold and darkness into the great room that turned it instantly otherwise. He shivered with cold, but an alien, unaccountable cold. Some great shadow dropped upon the entire earth. And though but a second could have passed before the handle actually turned, and the other person entered, it seemed to him like several minutes. He heard her saying this amazing thing that was question, answer, and forgiveness all in one. This, atleast, he divined before the ghastly interruption came:
“But, George—if you had only spoken——!”
With ice in his blood, he heard the butler saying that her ladyship would be “pleased” to see him now if he had finished his tea and would he be “so good as to bring the papers and documents upstairs with him.” He had just sufficient control of certain muscles to stand upright and murmur that he would come. He rose from a sofa that held no one but himself. But, all at once, he staggered. He really did not know exactly then what happened, or how he managed to stammer out the medley of excuses and semi-explanations that battered their way through his brain and issued somehow in definite words from his lips. Somehow or other he accomplished it. The sudden attack, the faintness, the collapse!... He vaguely remembered afterwards—with amazement, too—the suavity of the butler, as he suggested telephoning for a doctor, and that he just managed to forbid it, refusing the offered glass of brandy as well, and that he contrived to stumble into the taxi-cab and give his hotel address, with a final explanation that he would call another day and “bring the papers.” It was quite dear that his telegram had been attributed to someone else—someone “with papers”—perhaps a solicitor or architect. His name was such an ordinary one. There were so manySmiths. It was also clear that she he had come to see, andhadseen, no longer lived here—in the flesh....
And, just as he left the hall, he had the vision—mere fleeting glimpse it was—of a tall, slim, girlish figure on the stairs asking if anything was wrong, and realised vaguely through his atrocious pain that she was, of course, the wife of the son who had inherited....
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The success of this book must constitute a record in modern sermonic literature. There can be no question, however, that its success is due to its own intrinsic value. Cultured and scholarly, and yet simple and luminous, eloquent in tone and graceful in diction, practical and stimulating, it is far and away the best exposition of the Sermon on the Mount that has yet appeared.
THE HOUSE OF QUIET. An Autobiography.ByA. C. Benson.
“The House of Quiet” is an autobiography, and something more—a series of very charming essays on people and life—particularly rural life. The writer has placed himself in the chair of an invalid, an individual possessed of full mental vigour and free from bodily pain, but compelled by physical weakness to shirk the rough and tumble of a careless, unheeding, work-a-day world. Cheerfully accepting the inevitable, he betakes himself to a little temple of solitude, where he indulges himself in mild criticism and calm philosophy, exercising a gift of keen observation to the full, but setting down all that comes within his ken, with quaint and tolerant humour and tender whimsicalness. He writes with a pen dipped in the milk of human kindness, and the result is a book to read time and again.
THE THREAD OF GOLD.ByA. C. Benson.
The Guardiansays:—“The style of the writing is equally simple and yet dignified; from beginning to end an ease of movement charms the reader. The book is abundantly suggestive.... The work is that of a scholar and a thinker, quick to catch a vagrant emotion, and should be read, as it was evidently written, in leisure and solitude. It covers a wide range—art, nature, country life, human character, poetry and the drama, morals and religion.”
THE PAINTERS OF FLORENCE. From the 13th to the 16th Centuries.ByJulia Cartwright(Mrs.Ady). With Illustrations.
Mrs. Ady is a competent and gifted writer on Italian painting, and presents in these 350 pages an excellent history of the splendid art and artists of Florence during the golden period from Cimabue and Giotto to Andrea del Sarto and Michelangelo. Those who are taking up the study of the subject could not wish for a more interesting and serviceable handbook.
A LADY’S LIFE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.By Mrs.Bishop(Isabella L. Bird). With Illustrations.
The Irish Timessays:—“‘A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains’ needs no introduction to a public who have known and admired Mrs. Bishop (Isabella L. Bird) as a fearless traveller in the days when it was something of an achievement for a woman to undertake long and remote journeys. Mrs. Bishop is a charming and spirited writer, and this cheap edition of her work will be heartily welcomed.”
THE LIFE OF DAVID LIVINGSTONE.ByWilliam Garden Blaikie. With Portrait.
This is the standard biography of the great missionary who will for ever stand pre-eminent among African travellers.
DEEDS OF NAVAL DARING; or, Anecdotes of the British Navy.ByEdward Giffard.
This work contains ninety-three anecdotes, told in everyday language, of such traits of courage and feats of individual daring as may best serve to illustrate the generally received idea of the British sailor’s character for “courage verging on temerity.”
SINAI AND PALESTINE in connection with their History.By the lateDean Stanley. With Maps.
“There is no need, at this time of day, to praise the late Dean Stanley’s fascinating story of his travels in Palestine. It is enough to say that here Mr. Murray has given us, for the sum of one shilling net, a delightful reprint of that charming book, with maps and plans and the author’s original advertisement and prefaces. We would especially commend this cheap storehouse of history, tradition, and observation to Bible students.”—Dundee Courier.
THE NATURALIST ON THE RIVER AMAZONS.A Record of Adventures, Habits of Animals, Sketches of Brazilian and Indian Life, and Aspects of Nature under the Equator, during Eleven Years of Travel. ByH. W. Bates, F.R.S. Numerous Illustrations.
There are few works on natural history which appeal with the same degree of fascination to the lay person as “The Naturalist on the River Amazons.” It is a most readable record of adventures, sketches of Brazilian and Indian life, habits of animals, and aspects of nature under the Equator during eleven years of travel.
WORKS OF SAMUEL SMILES
Few books in the whole history of literature have had such wide popularity or such healthy and stimulating effect as the works of Samuel Smiles during the last half-century. How great men have attained to greatness and successful men achieved success is the subject of these enthralling volumes, which are now brought within the reach of all.
SELF-HELP. With Illustrations of Conduct and Perseverance.With Portrait.
LIFE AND LABOUR; or, Characteristics of Men of Industry, Culture, and Genius.
CHARACTER. A Book of Noble Characteristics.With Frontispiece.
A CHEAPER ISSUE OF THE THIN PAPER EDITION OF
THE WORKS OF
SAMUEL SMILES
Cloth, 1s. net; lambskin, 2s. net
SELF-HELP. With Illustrations of Conduct and Perseverance.512 pages, with 6 Half-tone Illustrations.
CHARACTER. A Book of Noble Characteristics.448 pages, with 6 Half-tone Illustrations.
DUTY. With Illustrations of Courage, Patience, and Endurance.496 pages, with 5 Half-tone Illustrations.
THRIFT. A Book of Domestic Counsel.448 pages, with 7 Half-tone Illustrations.
THIN PAPER EDITION OF
THE WORKS OF
GEORGE BORROW
Cloth, 1s. net; leather, 2s. net
THE BIBLE IN SPAIN; or, the Journeys, Adventures and Imprisonments of an Englishman in an Attempt to Circulate the Scriptures in the Peninsula.With the Notes and Glossary ofUlick Burke. With 4 Illustrations.
THE GYPSIES OF SPAIN. Their Manners, Customs, Religion, and Language.With 7 Illustrations byA. Wallis Mills.
LAVENGRO: the Scholar, the Gypsy, the Priest.Containing the unaltered Text of the original issue; some Suppressed Episodes printed only in the Editions issued by Mr. Murray; MS. Variorum, Vocabulary, and Notes by ProfessorW. I. Knapp. With 8 Pen and Ink Sketches byPercy Wadham.
ROMANY RYE.A Sequel to “Lavengro.” Collated and revised in the same manner as “Lavengro” by ProfessorW. I. Knapp. With 7 Pen and Ink Sketches byF. G. Kitton.
WILD WALES: Its People, Language, and Scenery.With Map and 8 Illustrations byA. S. Hartrick.
ROMANO LAVO LIL: the Word Book of the Romany or English Gypsy Language.With Specimens of Gypsy Poetry, and an account of certain Gypsyries or Places inhabited by them, and of various things relating to Gypsy Life in England.
POPULAR EDITIONS OF
Mr. Murray’s Standard Works
Large Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net each
CAPTAIN JAMES COOK, R.N., F.R.S., the Circumnavigator.ByArthur Kitson. With Illustrations.
At the time of the appearance of this book, it was accepted by the Press as the best authority so far published on the life of the “Great Circumnavigator.” In this cheaper edition the Author has been able to bring to light “some new facts,” and to clear up decisively several doubtful points.
JOHN MURRAY: A Publisher and his Friends.Memoir and Correspondence of the second John Murray, with an Account of the Origin and Progress of the House, 1768-1843. BySamuel Smiles, LL.D. Edited byThomas Mackay. With Portraits.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF LIEUTENANT-GENERAL SIR HARRY SMITH, 1787-1819.Edited byG. C. Moore Smith. With Map and Portrait.
A COTSWOLD VILLAGE: or, Country Life and Pursuits in Gloucestershire.ByJ. Arthur Gibbs. With Illustrations.
DOG BREAKING: the Most Expeditious, Certain, and Easy Method.With Odds and Ends for those who love the Dog and Gun. By GeneralW. N. Hutchinson. With numerous Illustrations.
THE VOYAGE OF THE “FOX” IN THE ARCTIC SEAS IN SEARCH OF FRANKLIN AND HIS COMPANIONS.By the late Admiral SirF. Leopold McClintock, R.N. A Cheap Edition. With Portraits and other Illustrations and Maps.
THE STORY OF THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.By the Rev.G. R. Gleig. With Map and Illustrations.
LIFE OF ROBERT, FIRST LORD CLIVE.By the Rev.G. R. Gleig. Illustrated.
THE WILD SPORTS AND NATURAL HISTORY OF THE HIGHLANDS.ByCharles St. John. With Illustrations.
Complete List of the Volumes in this Series will be sent post freeon Application.
London: JOHN MURRAY,Albemarle Street, W.