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I maynot go to-night to Bethlehem,Nor follow star-directed ways, nor treadThe paths wherein the shepherds walked, that ledTo Christ, and peace, and God’s good will to men.I may not hear the Herald Angels’ songPeal through the oriental skies, nor seeThe wonder of that Heavenly companyAnnounce the King the world had waited long.The manger throne I may not kneel before,Or see how man to God is reconciled,Through pure St. Mary’s purer, holier child;The human Christ these eyes may not adore.I may not carry frankincense and myrrhWith adoration to the Holy One;Nor gold have I to give the Perfect Son,To be with those wise kings a worshipper.Not mine the joy that Heaven sent to them,For ages since Time swung and locked his gates,But I may kneel without—the star still waits,To guide me on to holy Bethlehem.

I maynot go to-night to Bethlehem,Nor follow star-directed ways, nor treadThe paths wherein the shepherds walked, that ledTo Christ, and peace, and God’s good will to men.

I may not hear the Herald Angels’ songPeal through the oriental skies, nor seeThe wonder of that Heavenly companyAnnounce the King the world had waited long.

The manger throne I may not kneel before,Or see how man to God is reconciled,Through pure St. Mary’s purer, holier child;The human Christ these eyes may not adore.

I may not carry frankincense and myrrhWith adoration to the Holy One;Nor gold have I to give the Perfect Son,To be with those wise kings a worshipper.

Not mine the joy that Heaven sent to them,For ages since Time swung and locked his gates,But I may kneel without—the star still waits,To guide me on to holy Bethlehem.

Sonear at hand (our eyes o’erlooked its nearnessIn search of distant things)A dear dream lay—perchance to grow in dearnessHad we but felt its wingsAstir. The air our very breathing fannedIt was so near at hand.Once, many days ago, we almost held it,The love we so desired;But our shut eyes saw not, and fate dispelled itBefore our pulses firedTo flame, and errant fortune bade us standHand almost touching hand.I sometimes think had we two been discerning,The by-path hid awayFrom others’ eyes had then revealed its turningTo us, nor led astrayOur footsteps, guiding us into love’s landThat lay so near at hand.So near at hand, dear heart, could we have known it!Throughout those dreamy hours,Had either loved, or loving had we shown it,Response had sure been ours,We did not know that heart could heart command,And love so near at hand!What then availed the red wine’s subtle glisten?We passed it blindly by,And now what profit that we wait and listenEach for the other’s heart beat? Ah! the cryOf love o’erlooked still lingers, you and ISought heaven afar, we did not understandTwas—once so near at hand.

Once, many days ago, we almost held it,The love we so desired;But our shut eyes saw not, and fate dispelled itBefore our pulses firedTo flame, and errant fortune bade us standHand almost touching hand.

I sometimes think had we two been discerning,The by-path hid awayFrom others’ eyes had then revealed its turningTo us, nor led astrayOur footsteps, guiding us into love’s landThat lay so near at hand.

So near at hand, dear heart, could we have known it!Throughout those dreamy hours,Had either loved, or loving had we shown it,Response had sure been ours,We did not know that heart could heart command,And love so near at hand!

What then availed the red wine’s subtle glisten?We passed it blindly by,And now what profit that we wait and listenEach for the other’s heart beat? Ah! the cryOf love o’erlooked still lingers, you and ISought heaven afar, we did not understandTwas—once so near at hand.

Thesun’s red pulses beat,Full prodigal of heat,Full lavish of its lustre unrepressed;But we have drifted farFrom where his kisses are,And in this landward-lying shade we let our paddles rest.The river, deep and still,The maple-mantled hill,The little yellow beach whereon we lie,The puffs of heated breeze,All sweetly whisper—TheseAre days that only come in a Canadian July.So, silently we twoLounge in our still canoe,Nor fate, nor fortune matters to us now:So long as we aloneMay call this dream our own,The breeze may die, the sail may droop, we care not when or how.Against the thwart, near by,Inactively you lie,And all too near my arm your temple bends.Your indolently crude,Abandoned attitude,Is one of ease and art, in which a perfect languor blends.Your costume, loose and light,Leaves unconcealed your mightOf muscle, half suspected, half defined;And falling well aside,Your vesture opens wide,Above your splendid sunburnt throat that pulses unconfined.With easy unreserve,Across the gunwale’s curve,Your arm superb is lying, brown and bare;Your hand just touches mineWith import firm and fine,(I kiss the very wind that blows about your tumbled hair).Ah! Dear, I am unwiseIn echoing your eyesWhene’er they leave their far off gaze, and turnTo melt and blur my sight;For every other lightIs servile to your cloud-grey eyes, wherein cloud shadows burn.But once the silence breaks,But once your ardour wakesTo words that humanize this lotus-land;So perfect and completeThose burning words and sweet,So perfect is the single kiss your lips lay on my hand.The paddles lie disused,The fitful breeze abused,Has dropped to slumber, with no after-blow;And hearts will pay the cost,For you and I have lost,More than the homeward blowing wind that died an hour ago.

Thesun’s red pulses beat,Full prodigal of heat,Full lavish of its lustre unrepressed;But we have drifted farFrom where his kisses are,And in this landward-lying shade we let our paddles rest.

The river, deep and still,The maple-mantled hill,The little yellow beach whereon we lie,The puffs of heated breeze,All sweetly whisper—TheseAre days that only come in a Canadian July.

So, silently we twoLounge in our still canoe,Nor fate, nor fortune matters to us now:So long as we aloneMay call this dream our own,The breeze may die, the sail may droop, we care not when or how.

Against the thwart, near by,Inactively you lie,And all too near my arm your temple bends.Your indolently crude,Abandoned attitude,Is one of ease and art, in which a perfect languor blends.

Your costume, loose and light,Leaves unconcealed your mightOf muscle, half suspected, half defined;And falling well aside,Your vesture opens wide,Above your splendid sunburnt throat that pulses unconfined.

With easy unreserve,Across the gunwale’s curve,Your arm superb is lying, brown and bare;Your hand just touches mineWith import firm and fine,(I kiss the very wind that blows about your tumbled hair).

Ah! Dear, I am unwiseIn echoing your eyesWhene’er they leave their far off gaze, and turnTo melt and blur my sight;For every other lightIs servile to your cloud-grey eyes, wherein cloud shadows burn.

But once the silence breaks,But once your ardour wakesTo words that humanize this lotus-land;So perfect and completeThose burning words and sweet,So perfect is the single kiss your lips lay on my hand.

The paddles lie disused,The fitful breeze abused,Has dropped to slumber, with no after-blow;And hearts will pay the cost,For you and I have lost,More than the homeward blowing wind that died an hour ago.

To-nightthe west o’er-brims with warmest dyes;Its chalice overflowsWith pools of purple colouring the skies,Aflood with gold and rose;And some hot soul seems throbbing close to mine,As sinks the sun within that world of wine.I seem to hear a bar of music floatAnd swoon into the west;My ear can scarcely catch the whispered note,But something in my breastBlends with that strain, till both accord in one,As cloud and colour blend at set of sun.And twilight comes with grey and restful eyes,As ashes follow flame.But O! I heard a voice from those rich skiesCall tenderly my name;It was as if some priestly fingers stoleIn benedictions o’er my lonely soul.I know not why, but all my being longedAnd leapt at that sweet call;My heart outreached its arms, all passion throngedAnd beat against Fate’s wall,Crying in utter homesickness to beNear to a heart that loves and leans to me.

I seem to hear a bar of music floatAnd swoon into the west;My ear can scarcely catch the whispered note,But something in my breastBlends with that strain, till both accord in one,As cloud and colour blend at set of sun.

And twilight comes with grey and restful eyes,As ashes follow flame.But O! I heard a voice from those rich skiesCall tenderly my name;It was as if some priestly fingers stoleIn benedictions o’er my lonely soul.

I know not why, but all my being longedAnd leapt at that sweet call;My heart outreached its arms, all passion throngedAnd beat against Fate’s wall,Crying in utter homesickness to beNear to a heart that loves and leans to me.

Soullessis all humanity to meTo-night. My keenest longing is to beAlone, alone with God’s grey earth that seemsPulse of my pulse and consort of my dreams.To-night my soul desires no fellowship,Or fellow-being; crave I but to slipThro’ space on space, till flesh no more can bind,And I may quit for aye my fellow kind.Let me but feel athwart my cheek the lashOf whipping wind, but hear the torrent dashAdown the mountain steep, twere more my choiceThan touch of human hand, than human voice.Let me but wander on the shore night-stilled,Drinking its darkness till my soul is filled;The breathing of the salt sea on my hair,My outstretched hands but grasping empty air.Let me but feel the pulse of Nature’s soulAthrob on mine, let seas and thunders rollO’er night and me; sands whirl; winds, waters beat;For God’s grey earth has no cheap counterfeit.

Soullessis all humanity to meTo-night. My keenest longing is to beAlone, alone with God’s grey earth that seemsPulse of my pulse and consort of my dreams.

To-night my soul desires no fellowship,Or fellow-being; crave I but to slipThro’ space on space, till flesh no more can bind,And I may quit for aye my fellow kind.

Let me but feel athwart my cheek the lashOf whipping wind, but hear the torrent dashAdown the mountain steep, twere more my choiceThan touch of human hand, than human voice.

Let me but wander on the shore night-stilled,Drinking its darkness till my soul is filled;The breathing of the salt sea on my hair,My outstretched hands but grasping empty air.

Let me but feel the pulse of Nature’s soulAthrob on mine, let seas and thunders rollO’er night and me; sands whirl; winds, waters beat;For God’s grey earth has no cheap counterfeit.

Whatof the days when we two dreamed together?Days marvellously fair,As lightsome as a skyward-floating featherSailing on summer air—Summer, summer, that came drifting throughFate’s hand to me, to you.What of the days, my dear? I sometimes wonderIf you too wish this skyCould be the blue we sailed so softly under,In that sun-kissed July;Sailed in the warm and yellow afternoon,With hearts in touch and tune.Have you no longing to relive the dreaming,Adrift in my canoe?To watch my paddle blade all wet and gleamingCleaving the waters through?To lie wind-blown and wave-caressed, untilYour restless pulse grows still?Do you not long to listen to the purlingOf foam athwart the keel?To hear the nearing rapids softly swirlingAmong their stones, to feelThe boat’s unsteady tremor as it bravesThe wild and snarling waves?What need of question, what of your replying?Oh! well I know that youWould toss the world away to be but lyingAgain in my canoe,In listless indolence entranced and lost,Wave-rocked, and passion-tossed.Ah me! my paddle failed me in the steeringAcross love’s shoreless seas;All reckless, I had ne’er a thought of fearingSuch dreary days as these,When through the self-same rapids we dash by,My lone canoe and I.

What of the days, my dear? I sometimes wonderIf you too wish this skyCould be the blue we sailed so softly under,In that sun-kissed July;Sailed in the warm and yellow afternoon,With hearts in touch and tune.

Have you no longing to relive the dreaming,Adrift in my canoe?To watch my paddle blade all wet and gleamingCleaving the waters through?To lie wind-blown and wave-caressed, untilYour restless pulse grows still?

Do you not long to listen to the purlingOf foam athwart the keel?To hear the nearing rapids softly swirlingAmong their stones, to feelThe boat’s unsteady tremor as it bravesThe wild and snarling waves?

What need of question, what of your replying?Oh! well I know that youWould toss the world away to be but lyingAgain in my canoe,In listless indolence entranced and lost,Wave-rocked, and passion-tossed.

Ah me! my paddle failed me in the steeringAcross love’s shoreless seas;All reckless, I had ne’er a thought of fearingSuch dreary days as these,When through the self-same rapids we dash by,My lone canoe and I.

Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded armBends back the brier that edges life’s long way,That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.Because I never knew your care to tire,Your hand to weary guiding me aright,Because you walk before and crush the brier,It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.Because so often you have hearkened toMy selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,That these harsh hands of mine add not untoThe crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.

Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded armBends back the brier that edges life’s long way,That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.

Because I never knew your care to tire,Your hand to weary guiding me aright,Because you walk before and crush the brier,It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.

Because so often you have hearkened toMy selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,That these harsh hands of mine add not untoThe crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.

To-nightI hunger so,Belovéd one, to knowIf you recall and crave again the dreamThat haunted our canoe,And wove its witchcraft throughOur hearts as neath the northern night we sailed the northern stream.Ah! dear, if only weAs yesternight could beAfloat within that light and lonely shell,To drift in silence tillHeart-hushed, and lulled and stillThe moonlight through the melting air flung forth its fatal spell.The dusky summer night,The path of gold and whiteThe moon had cast across the river’s breast,The shores in shadows clad,The far-away, half-sadSweet singing of the whip-poor-will, all soothed our souls to rest.You trusted I could feel,My arm as strong as steel,So still your upturned face, so calm your breath,While circling eddies curled,While laughing rapids whirledFrom boulder unto boulder, till they dashed themselves to death.Your splendid eyes aflamePut heaven’s stars to shame,Your god-like head so near my lap was laid—My hand is burning whereIt touched your wind-blown hair,As sweeping to the rapids verge, I changed my paddle blade.The boat obeyed my hand,Till wearied with its grandWild anger, all the river lay aswoon,And as my paddle dipped,Thro’ pools of pearl it slippedAnd swept beneath a shore of shade, beneath a velvet moon.To-night, again dream youOur spirit-winged canoeIs listening to the rapids purling past?Where, in delirium reeledOur maddened hearts that kneeledTo idolize the perfect world, to taste of love at last.

Ah! dear, if only weAs yesternight could beAfloat within that light and lonely shell,To drift in silence tillHeart-hushed, and lulled and stillThe moonlight through the melting air flung forth its fatal spell.

The dusky summer night,The path of gold and whiteThe moon had cast across the river’s breast,The shores in shadows clad,The far-away, half-sadSweet singing of the whip-poor-will, all soothed our souls to rest.

You trusted I could feel,My arm as strong as steel,So still your upturned face, so calm your breath,While circling eddies curled,While laughing rapids whirledFrom boulder unto boulder, till they dashed themselves to death.

Your splendid eyes aflamePut heaven’s stars to shame,Your god-like head so near my lap was laid—My hand is burning whereIt touched your wind-blown hair,As sweeping to the rapids verge, I changed my paddle blade.

The boat obeyed my hand,Till wearied with its grandWild anger, all the river lay aswoon,And as my paddle dipped,Thro’ pools of pearl it slippedAnd swept beneath a shore of shade, beneath a velvet moon.

To-night, again dream youOur spirit-winged canoeIs listening to the rapids purling past?Where, in delirium reeledOur maddened hearts that kneeledTo idolize the perfect world, to taste of love at last.

Intothe rose gold westland, its yellow prairies roll,World of the bison’s freedom, home of the Indian’s soul.Roll out, O seas! in sunlight bathed,Your plains wind-tossed, and grass enswathed.Farther than vision ranges, farther than eagles fly,Stretches the land of beauty, arches the perfect sky,Hemm’d through the purple mists afarBy peaks that gleam like star on star.Fringing the prairie billows, fretting horizon’s line,Darkly green are slumb’ring wildernesses of pine,Sleeping until the zephyrs throngTo kiss their silence into song.Whispers freighted with odour swinging into the air,Russet needles as censers swing to an altar, whereThe angels’ songs are less divineThan duo sung twixt breeze and pine.Laughing into the forest, dimples a mountain stream,Pure as the airs above it, soft as a summer dream,O! Lethean spring thou’rt only foundIn this ideal hunting ground.Surely the great Hereafter cannot be more than this,Surely we’ll see that country after Time’s farewell kiss.Who would his lovely faith condole?Who envies not the Red-skin’s soul,Sailing into the cloud land, sailing into the sun,Into the crimson portals ajar when life is done?O! dear dead race, my spirit tooWould fain sail westward unto you.

Intothe rose gold westland, its yellow prairies roll,World of the bison’s freedom, home of the Indian’s soul.Roll out, O seas! in sunlight bathed,Your plains wind-tossed, and grass enswathed.

Farther than vision ranges, farther than eagles fly,Stretches the land of beauty, arches the perfect sky,Hemm’d through the purple mists afarBy peaks that gleam like star on star.

Fringing the prairie billows, fretting horizon’s line,Darkly green are slumb’ring wildernesses of pine,Sleeping until the zephyrs throngTo kiss their silence into song.

Whispers freighted with odour swinging into the air,Russet needles as censers swing to an altar, whereThe angels’ songs are less divineThan duo sung twixt breeze and pine.

Laughing into the forest, dimples a mountain stream,Pure as the airs above it, soft as a summer dream,O! Lethean spring thou’rt only foundIn this ideal hunting ground.

Surely the great Hereafter cannot be more than this,Surely we’ll see that country after Time’s farewell kiss.Who would his lovely faith condole?Who envies not the Red-skin’s soul,

Sailing into the cloud land, sailing into the sun,Into the crimson portals ajar when life is done?O! dear dead race, my spirit tooWould fain sail westward unto you.

I amsailing to the leeward,Where the current runs to seawardSoft and slow.Where the sleeping river grassesBrush my paddle as it passesTo and fro.On the shore the heat is shakingAll the golden sands awakingIn the cove;And the quaint sand-piper, wingingO’er the shallows, ceases singingWhen I move.On the water’s idle pillowSleeps the overhanging willow,Green and cool;Where the rushes lift their burnishedOval heads from out the tarnishedEmerald pool.Where the very silence slumbers,Water lilies grow in numbers,Pure and pale;All the morning they have rested,Amber crowned, and pearly crested,Fair and frail.Here, impossible romances,Indefinable sweet fancies,Cluster round;But they do not mar the sweetnessOf this still September fleetnessWith a sound.I can scarce discern the meetingOf the shore and stream retreating,So remote;For the laggard river, dozing,Only wakes from its reposingWhere I float.Where the river mists are rising,All the foliage baptizingWith their spray;There the sun gleams far and faintly,With a shadow soft and saintly,In its ray.And the perfume of some burningFar-off brushwood, ever turningTo exhaleAll its smoky fragrance dying,In the arms of evening lying,Where I sail.My canoe is growing lazy,In the atmosphere so hazy,While I dream;Half in slumber I am guiding,Eastward indistinctly glidingDown the stream.

I amsailing to the leeward,Where the current runs to seawardSoft and slow.Where the sleeping river grassesBrush my paddle as it passesTo and fro.

On the shore the heat is shakingAll the golden sands awakingIn the cove;And the quaint sand-piper, wingingO’er the shallows, ceases singingWhen I move.

On the water’s idle pillowSleeps the overhanging willow,Green and cool;Where the rushes lift their burnishedOval heads from out the tarnishedEmerald pool.

Where the very silence slumbers,Water lilies grow in numbers,Pure and pale;All the morning they have rested,Amber crowned, and pearly crested,Fair and frail.

Here, impossible romances,Indefinable sweet fancies,Cluster round;But they do not mar the sweetnessOf this still September fleetnessWith a sound.

I can scarce discern the meetingOf the shore and stream retreating,So remote;For the laggard river, dozing,Only wakes from its reposingWhere I float.

Where the river mists are rising,All the foliage baptizingWith their spray;There the sun gleams far and faintly,With a shadow soft and saintly,In its ray.

And the perfume of some burningFar-off brushwood, ever turningTo exhaleAll its smoky fragrance dying,In the arms of evening lying,Where I sail.

My canoe is growing lazy,In the atmosphere so hazy,While I dream;Half in slumber I am guiding,Eastward indistinctly glidingDown the stream.

Nightof Mid-June, in heavy vapours dying,Like priestly hands thy holy touch is lyingUpon the world’s wide brow;God-like and grand all nature is commandingThe “peace that passes human understanding;”I, also, feel it now.What matters it to-night, if one life treasureI covet, is not mine! Am I to measureThe gifts of Heaven’s decreeBy my desires? O! life for ever longingFor some far gift, where many gifts are thronging,God wills, it may not be.Am I to learn that longing, lifted higher,Perhaps will catch the gleam of sacred fireThat shows my cross is gold?That underneath this cross—however lowly,A jewel rests, white, beautiful and holy,Whose worth can not be told.Like to a scene I watched one day in wonder:—city, great and powerful, lay underA sky of grey and gold;The sun outbreaking in his farewell hour,Was scattering afar a yellow showerOf light, that aureoledWith brief hot touch, so marvellous and shining,A hundred steeples on the sky out-lining,Like network threads of fire;Above them all, with halo far outspreading,I saw a golden cross in glory headingA consecrated spire:I only saw its gleaming form uplifting,Against the clouds of grey to seaward drifting,And yet I surely knowBeneath the seen, a great unseen is resting,For while the cross that pinnacle is cresting,An Altar lies below.* * * * *Night of mid-June, so slumberous and tender,Night of mid-June, transcendent in thy splendourThy silent wings enfoldAnd hush my longing, as at thy desireAll colour fades from round that far off spire,Except its cross of gold.

What matters it to-night, if one life treasureI covet, is not mine! Am I to measureThe gifts of Heaven’s decreeBy my desires? O! life for ever longingFor some far gift, where many gifts are thronging,God wills, it may not be.

Am I to learn that longing, lifted higher,Perhaps will catch the gleam of sacred fireThat shows my cross is gold?That underneath this cross—however lowly,A jewel rests, white, beautiful and holy,Whose worth can not be told.

Like to a scene I watched one day in wonder:—city, great and powerful, lay underA sky of grey and gold;The sun outbreaking in his farewell hour,Was scattering afar a yellow showerOf light, that aureoled

With brief hot touch, so marvellous and shining,A hundred steeples on the sky out-lining,Like network threads of fire;Above them all, with halo far outspreading,I saw a golden cross in glory headingA consecrated spire:

I only saw its gleaming form uplifting,Against the clouds of grey to seaward drifting,And yet I surely knowBeneath the seen, a great unseen is resting,For while the cross that pinnacle is cresting,An Altar lies below.* * * * *Night of mid-June, so slumberous and tender,Night of mid-June, transcendent in thy splendourThy silent wings enfoldAnd hush my longing, as at thy desireAll colour fades from round that far off spire,Except its cross of gold.

Wheneach white moon, her lantern idly swinging,Comes out to join the star night-watching band,Across the grey-green sea, a ship is bringingFor me a letter, from the Motherland.Naught would I care to live in quaint old Britain,These wilder shores are dearer far to me,Yet when I read the words that hand has written,The parent sod more precious seems to be.Within that folded note I catch the savourOf climes that make the Motherland so fair,Although I never knew the blessed favourThat surely lies in breathing English air.Imagination’s brush before me fleeing,Paints English pictures, though my longing eyesHave never known the blessedness of seeingThe blue that lines the arch of English skies.And yet my letter brings the scenes I covet,Framed in the salt sea winds, aye more in dreamsI almost see the face that bent above it,I almost touch that hand, so near it seems.Near, for the very grey-green sea that dashesRound these Canadian coasts, rolls out once moreTo Eastward, and the same Atlantic splashesHer wild white spray on England’s distant shore.Near, for the same young moon so idly swingingHer threadlike crescent bends the self-same smileOn that old land from whence a ship is bringingMy message from the transatlantic Isle.Thus loves my heart that far old country better,Because of those dear words that always come,With love enfolded in each English letterThat drifts into my sun-kissed Western home.

Wheneach white moon, her lantern idly swinging,Comes out to join the star night-watching band,Across the grey-green sea, a ship is bringingFor me a letter, from the Motherland.

Naught would I care to live in quaint old Britain,These wilder shores are dearer far to me,Yet when I read the words that hand has written,The parent sod more precious seems to be.

Within that folded note I catch the savourOf climes that make the Motherland so fair,Although I never knew the blessed favourThat surely lies in breathing English air.

Imagination’s brush before me fleeing,Paints English pictures, though my longing eyesHave never known the blessedness of seeingThe blue that lines the arch of English skies.

And yet my letter brings the scenes I covet,Framed in the salt sea winds, aye more in dreamsI almost see the face that bent above it,I almost touch that hand, so near it seems.

Near, for the very grey-green sea that dashesRound these Canadian coasts, rolls out once moreTo Eastward, and the same Atlantic splashesHer wild white spray on England’s distant shore.

Near, for the same young moon so idly swingingHer threadlike crescent bends the self-same smileOn that old land from whence a ship is bringingMy message from the transatlantic Isle.

Thus loves my heart that far old country better,Because of those dear words that always come,With love enfolded in each English letterThat drifts into my sun-kissed Western home.

Printed byBallantyne, Hanson & Co.London & Edinburgh

List ofBooksINBe l l e sLe t t r e sAll the Books in this Catalogueare Published at Net Prices

1895.

List of BooksINBELLES LETTRES(Including some Transfers)Published by John LaneThe Bodley HeadVigo Street, London, W.

N.B.—The Authors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting any book in this list if a new edition is called for, except in cases where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of printing a separate edition of any of the books for America irrespective of the numbers to which the English editions are limited. The numbers mentioned do not include copies sent to the public libraries, nor those sent for review.

Most of the books are published simultaneously in England and America, and in many instances the names of the American publishers are appended.

ADAMS (FRANCIS).

Essays in Modernity.Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.[Shortly.Chicago: Stone & Kimball.A Child of the Age.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

Essays in Modernity.Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.

[Shortly.

Chicago: Stone & Kimball.

A Child of the Age.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

ALLEN (GRANT).

The Lower Slopes: A Volume of Verse. With title-page and cover design byJ. Illingworth Kay. 600 copies, cr. 8vo. 5s.net.Chicago: Stone & Kimball.The Woman Who Did.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

The Lower Slopes: A Volume of Verse. With title-page and cover design byJ. Illingworth Kay. 600 copies, cr. 8vo. 5s.net.

Chicago: Stone & Kimball.

The Woman Who Did.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

BEARDSLEY (AUBREY).

The Story of Venus and Tannhäuser, in which is set forth an exact account of the Manner of State held by Madam Venus, Goddess and Meretrix, under the famous Hörselberg, and containing the adventures of Tannhäuser in that place, his repentance, his journeying to Rome, and return to the loving mountain. ByAubrey Beardsley. With 20 full-page illustrations, numerous ornaments, and a cover from the same hand. Sq. 16mo. 10s.6d.net.In preparation.

In preparation.

BEDDOES (T. L.).

SeeGosse (Edmund).

BEECHING (Rev. H. C.).

In a Garden: Poems. With title-page and cover design byRoger Fry. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.New York: Macmillan & Co.

In a Garden: Poems. With title-page and cover design byRoger Fry. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.

New York: Macmillan & Co.

BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER).

Lyrics.Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s.net.New York: Macmillan & Co.

Lyrics.Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s.net.

New York: Macmillan & Co.

BROTHERTON (MARY).

Rosemary for Remembrance. With title-page and cover design byWalter West. Fcap. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

CAMPBELL (GERALD).

The Joneses and the Asterisks.With six illustrations and title-page byF. H. Townsend. Fcap. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.New York: The Merriam Co.

The Joneses and the Asterisks.With six illustrations and title-page byF. H. Townsend. Fcap. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

New York: The Merriam Co.

CASTLE (Mrs. EGERTON).

My Little Lady Anne: A Romance. Sq. 16mo. 2s.6d.net.[In preparation.Philadelphia: Henry Altemus.

My Little Lady Anne: A Romance. Sq. 16mo. 2s.6d.net.

[In preparation.

Philadelphia: Henry Altemus.

CASTLE (EGERTON).

SeeStevenson (Robert Louis).

CROSS (VICTORIA).

Consummation: A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 4s.6d.net.[In preparation.

Consummation: A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 4s.6d.net.

[In preparation.

DALMON (C. W.).

Song Favours.With a specially designed title-page. Sq. 16mo. 3s.6d.net.[In preparation.Chicago: Way & Williams.

Song Favours.With a specially designed title-page. Sq. 16mo. 3s.6d.net.

[In preparation.

Chicago: Way & Williams.

D’ARCY (ELLA).

Monochromes.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

DAVIDSON (JOHN).

Plays: An Unhistorical Pastoral; A Romantic Farce; Bruce, a Chronicle Play; Smith, a Tragic Farce; Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime. With a frontispiece and cover design byAubrey Beardsley. Printed at the Ballantyne Press. 500 copies, sm. 4to. 7s.6d.net.Chicago: Stone & Kimball.Fleet Street Eclogues.Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s.net.[Out of print at present.A Random Itinerary and a Ballad.With a frontispiece and title-page byLaurence Housman. 600 copies. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 5s.net.Boston: Copeland & Day.Ballads and Songs.With title-page designed byWalter West. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s.net.Boston: Copeland & Day.

Chicago: Stone & Kimball.

Fleet Street Eclogues.Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s.net.

[Out of print at present.

A Random Itinerary and a Ballad.With a frontispiece and title-page byLaurence Housman. 600 copies. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 5s.net.

Boston: Copeland & Day.

Ballads and Songs.With title-page designed byWalter West. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 5s.net.

Boston: Copeland & Day.

DAWE (W. CARLTON).

Yellow and White.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

DE TABLEY (LORD).

Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical.ByJohn Leicester Warren(Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and cover design byC. S. Ricketts. 2nd edition, cr. 8vo. 7s.6d.net.New York: Macmillan & Co.

Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical.ByJohn Leicester Warren(Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and cover design byC. S. Ricketts. 2nd edition, cr. 8vo. 7s.6d.net.

New York: Macmillan & Co.

DE TABLEY (LORD).

Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical.2nd series, uniform in binding with the former volume. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.New York: Macmillan & Co.

Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical.2nd series, uniform in binding with the former volume. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.

New York: Macmillan & Co.

DIX (GERTRUDE).

The Girl from the Farm.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

DOSTOIEVSKY (F.).

(SeeKeynotes Series, Vol. III.)

ECHEGARAY (JOSÉ).

SeeLynch (Hannah).

EGERTON (GEORGE).

Keynotes.(SeeKeynotes Series.)Discords.(SeeKeynotes Series.)Young Ofeg’s Ditties.A translation from the Swedish ofOla Hansson. Cr. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.Boston: Roberts Bros.

Keynotes.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

Discords.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

Young Ofeg’s Ditties.A translation from the Swedish ofOla Hansson. Cr. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

Boston: Roberts Bros.

FARR (FLORENCE).

The Dancing Faun.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

FLETCHER (J. S.).

The Wonderful Wapentake.By “A Son of the Soil.” With 18 full-page illustrations byJ. A. Symington. Cr. 8vo. 5s.6d.net.Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Co.

The Wonderful Wapentake.By “A Son of the Soil.” With 18 full-page illustrations byJ. A. Symington. Cr. 8vo. 5s.6d.net.

Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Co.

GALE (NORMAN).

Orchard Songs.With title-page and cover design byJ. Illingworth Kay. Fcap. 8vo. Irish Linen. 5s.net.Also a special edition limited in number on hand-made paper bound in English vellum. £1 1s.net.New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons.

Orchard Songs.With title-page and cover design byJ. Illingworth Kay. Fcap. 8vo. Irish Linen. 5s.net.

Also a special edition limited in number on hand-made paper bound in English vellum. £1 1s.net.

New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons.

GARNETT(RICHARD).

Poems.With title-page byJ. Illingworth Kay. 350 copies, cr. 8vo. 5s.net.Boston: Copeland & Day.Dante, Petrarch, Camoens.CXXIV Sonnets rendered in English. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.[In preparation.

Poems.With title-page byJ. Illingworth Kay. 350 copies, cr. 8vo. 5s.net.

Boston: Copeland & Day.

Dante, Petrarch, Camoens.CXXIV Sonnets rendered in English. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.

[In preparation.

GEARY (NEVILL).

A Lawyer’s Wife: A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 4s.6d.net.[In preparation.

A Lawyer’s Wife: A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 4s.6d.net.

[In preparation.

GOSSE (EDMUND).

The Letters of Thomas Lovell Beddoes.Now first edited. Pott 8vo. 5s.net.Also 25 copies large paper. 12s.6d.net.New York: Macmillan & Co.

The Letters of Thomas Lovell Beddoes.Now first edited. Pott 8vo. 5s.net.

Also 25 copies large paper. 12s.6d.net.

New York: Macmillan & Co.

GRAHAME (KENNETH).

Pagan Papers: A Volume of Essays.With title-page byAubrey Beardsley. Fcap. 8vo. 5s.net.Chicago: Stone & Kimball.The Golden Age.Cr. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.Chicago: Stone & Kimball.

Pagan Papers: A Volume of Essays.With title-page byAubrey Beardsley. Fcap. 8vo. 5s.net.

Chicago: Stone & Kimball.

The Golden Age.Cr. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

Chicago: Stone & Kimball.

GREENE (G. A.).

Italian Lyrists of To-Day.Translations in the original metres from about 35 living Italian poets with bibliographical and biographical notes. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.New York: Macmillan & Co.

Italian Lyrists of To-Day.Translations in the original metres from about 35 living Italian poets with bibliographical and biographical notes. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.

New York: Macmillan & Co.

GREENWOOD (FREDERICK).

Imagination in Dreams.Crown 8vo. 5s.net.New York: Macmillan & Co.

Imagination in Dreams.Crown 8vo. 5s.net.

New York: Macmillan & Co.

HAKE (T. GORDON).

A Selection from his Poems.Edited by Mrs.Meynell. With a portrait afterD. G. Rossetti, and a cover design byGleeson White. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.Chicago: Stone & Kimball.

A Selection from his Poems.Edited by Mrs.Meynell. With a portrait afterD. G. Rossetti, and a cover design byGleeson White. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net.

Chicago: Stone & Kimball.

HANSSON (LAURA MARHOLM).

Modern Women: Six Psychological Sketches. [Sophia Kovalevsky,George Egerton,Eleonora Duse,Amalie Skram,Marie Bashkirtseff,A. Edgren Leffler.] Translated from the German byHermione Ramsden. Cr. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.[In preparation.

[In preparation.

HANSSON (OLA).

SeeEgerton.

HARLAND (HENRY).

Grey Roses.(SeeKeynotes Series.)

HAYES (ALFRED).

The Vale of Arden, and Other Poems.With a title-page and cover design byE. H. New. Fcap. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.Also 25 copies large paper. 15s.net.

The Vale of Arden, and Other Poems.With a title-page and cover design byE. H. New. Fcap. 8vo. 3s.6d.net.

Also 25 copies large paper. 15s.net.

HEINEMANN (WILLIAM).

The First Step: A Dramatic Moment. Sm. 4to. 3s.6d.net.

HOPPER (NORA).

Ballads in Prose.With a title-page and cover byWalter West. Sq. 16mo. 5s.net.Boston: Roberts Bros.

Ballads in Prose.With a title-page and cover byWalter West. Sq. 16mo. 5s.net.

Boston: Roberts Bros.

HOUSMAN (LAURENCE).

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