The Irish Literary Movement.* Mr. Yeats as Shepherd. Ar the present rate of events we shall all soon be claiming Irish descent. We have seen Mr. George Moore sob his way from London to Dublin with Art in his portmanteau. On Saturday thousands of Englishmen will be wearing clover leaves in honour of St. Patrick. In April the Queen's visit. It is all very pleasant and important; and now, to give the joy its crown of song, Mr. W. B. Yeats comes wandering by-with dreams in his eyes-telling us that Ireland's new poets are to "lead many that are sick with theories and trivial emotions to some sweet well waters of primeval song." It is most true that many of us are sick with theories; all the bolder then is Mr. Yeats when he advances another. It is not as though his chosen band of poets were living in Ireland, cultivating the Muse on a few potatoes. Mr. Yeats himself lives in London and has been seen in hansom cabs; and Mrs. Hinkson, Miss Nora Hopper, Mrs. Clement K. Shorter, and Mr. Lionel Johnson are all Londoners; several of them, indeed, have sung the praises of London with rapture. However, Mr. Yeats produces documentsan anthology of modern Irish verse and an introductory essay-in support of his message; the least we can do is to examine these. At once we are captivated by Mr. Yeats's knowledge, his subdued fervour, and his golden phrases. He tells first how slowly and fitfully English-speaking Ireland found poets after the dissolution of the bardic order in the wars of the seventeenth century. Irish poets rose, but they were of little use to Ireland. Goldsmith came to London; Swift was, in Mr. Balfour's phrase, an Irishman only by the visitation of God, and against his will; Congreve turned gentleman at an early age; and Parnell, Denham, and Roscommon hardly count. Moore, with all his Irish melodies, was not very melodious. But at last a little band of translators arose who put old Gaelic verses into English; and then came a band of "Young Ireland" poets like George Darley and Samuel Lover and James Clarence Mangan and Edward Walsh. Most of these were too given to politics; "they had no time to listen to the voice of the insatiable artist, who stands erect, or lies asleep waiting until a breath arouses him, in the heart of every craftsman." Mangan-the laureate of the group eschewed politics, but not opium. Mr. Yeats says of this unhappy poet: "Mangan knew nothing of the happiness of the outer man; and it was only when prolonging the tragic exultation of some dead bard that he knew the unearthly happiness which clouds the outer man with sorrow, and is the fountain of impassioned art." That explains "Dark Rosaleen," with its glorious energy that seems to outlive its last stanza, and go thrilling wordlessly through space and time. Undoubtedly, with Mangan we come to the 'osses. A little later came Samuel Ferguson, William Allingham, and Aubrey de Vere, working apart from politics, and turning an ear not A Book of Irish Verse. Selected from Modern Writers, by W. B. Yeats. (Methuen.) only to the Gaelic bards, but to the poets of the big world. To Allingham Mr. Yeats awards this fine praise: "He is the poet of the melancholy peasantry of the West, and, as years go on, and voluminous histories and copious romances drop under the horizon, will take his place among those minor immortals who have put their souls into little songs to humble the proud." That is the criticism of a poet. But Mr. Yeats knows that these poets of Fenian days are not worthy of all imitation. From their successors of to-day a finer and more alluring craftsmanship is asked, in alliance with the old passion, the immemorial legends. A spell more potent and more delicate is needed to evoke poetry from a world full of cross-currents of noise and vulgar energy. Unfortunately, the world is much with the young Irishman he goes to Trinity College, or to the English Universities, and the poet is worn out of him. "He loves the mortal arts which have given him a lure to take the hearts of men, and shrinks from the immortal, which could but divide him from his fellows." Still Mr. Yeats has his little flock of the faithful. Besides the London colony, there is the mysterious A. E., whose poetry "has a more disembodied ecstasy than any poetry of our time." By the way, A. E. is accounted the "chief poet of the school of Irish mystics which has shaped Mr. Charles Weekes." When Mr. Yeats talks like that we realise that we have not the wedding garment. For of Mr. Weekes we know nothing beyond the fact, mentioned with respect by Mr. Yeats, that he "published recently, but withdrew immediately, a curious and subtle book." Such fawn-like flight is surely far above three signed copies, and unobtainable vellum. Then there is Mr. John Eglinton, "best known for the orchestral harmonies of his Remnant," and behind these a pale wavering crowd of "young writers, who have thought the labours that bring the mystic vision more important than the labours of any craft." Is it possible that Mr. Yeats can at any moment lay his hands on a poet with mystic vision, and no visible means of support? If so, the Irish literary movement may indeed endure. So much for the poets, what of their work? Criticism of individual poems is not needed. The questions to be answered are surely these: Do these poems, gathered from many hands in two centuries, seem to belong to each other; do they form a recognisable homogeneous body of verse about which general conclusions can be formed? Secondly, if they are homogeneous, have they qualities which entitle them to be accepted as good leaven? have we here an influence, and a valuable influence? To these questions our answer is "Yes." For setting aside all other and, as we think, minor considerations, we find in these poems a love of nature more intimate and spiritual than we think could be found in any collection of English or Scottish poets of the same, perhaps even of a higher, literary rank. The Irish heart has loved Nature not only with the love of a bruised patriot, but with the old indefinable temperamental love of the Celt for Mother Earth. These Irish poets do not seem to come to Nature with eyes, they seem to be dwelling with her in spirit; they love to be alone with her, not naming her trees and flowers, not curiously observant of detail, but deeply conscious of her large life and her warm permanent embrace of them in life or death. It recurs this note-in many keys, many standards of expression, but it is the recurrent and magisterial note of all these poems. You have it in Sir Samuel Ferguson's ballad of "Aideen's Grave": Here, far from camp and chase removed, The humming of the noontide bees, The lark's loud carol all day long, And, borne on evening's salted breeze, The clanking sea-bird's song, Shall round her airy chamber float, And with the whispering winds and streams, Attune to Nature's tenderest note The tenor of her dreams; And oft, at tranquil eve's decline, When full tides lip the Old Green Plain, Shall round her breathe again. You have it in Mr. Charles Weekes's "Think": Think, the ragged turf-boy urges Think, in woodland under oak-boughs To the same all-moving hand. You have it as sheer description, which achieves more by what it selects than by what it says, in Mrs. Hinkson's "Children of Lir": Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling, And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing, You have it when no bird sings, the poet refusing all material help to his thought. Thus A. E.: Things Seen. The Lesson. He asked for a match, which should, in the fitness of things (common decency, even !), have been denied him severely, but was not denied him; and, for the little comedy that followed, there is one who, realising everything, bears his responsibility lightly, nor can find it in his heart to be other than grateful exceedingly (to himself by example-the condemned match his!) and most impenitently glad. The cigaretted, but matchless, was seven, perhapsperhaps eight; his smaller companion, six. The owner of the match that changed hands is-well, never mind . . . old enough to know better ! The attenuation of the cigarette, maybe, influenced him. It was such a cigarette as in Piccadilly or Bond-street you may see in neat crimson boxes, labelled "Ladies'," and possibly "Scented": in less notable thoroughfares cigarettes of such narrow dimensions are to be seen in packets of six (is it ten?), in the windows of shops trading comprehensively in tobacco, sweets, newspapers (the like and unlike), at a penny a packet! Whatever the poison enwrapped in the meagre roll, its proportions were infinitesimal. So much excuse had the match-giver. . . . But excuse? . . . It was not the poison, but the principle-and, there! he hugs himself, making and seeking no excuse whatsoever. A favour was asked of him, he granted it regally-nay, more, giving quickly, he gave twice. Seven, then, the asker, holding cigarette and match securely in one hand, took Six by the other, and led him to a doorway close by. Into the recess Seven pushed Six with some energy, and then, putting his head out, looked up and down the street. All was safe, it seemed. The giver of the match, as an accomplice, evidently "counted " no longer. Nothing was to be feared from him, it was plain-so do sinners commit themselves!-and he was suffered to look on undisturbed. "Now," said Seven. Six looked pale but determined -as one who has made up his mind and will see something through. "Put it in y' mouth," said Seven. "Not that end, silly! Don'tch see the silver tip?" "Aw-right," said Six. Seven struck the match in a workmanlike way, shading the flame at once with his cupped hands. Oh, but Seven was experienced! And oh, but the match-giver was hardened, to have looked on unmoved-unmoving rather let us say at the infamy! Draw," said Seven authoritatively. "Draw?" said Six doubtfully. "Yus, dror it, y' silly!" Six drew. "That's right," said Seven. "You'll do. Dror again. That's better. Now spit!" The Flag. WHEN midnight fell on the day of national rejoicing I turned from the garish streets still thronged with delirious crowds and went homewards. The shouts died away, glimmering lights took the place of the flaring illuminations, and so I came to a great Square silent save for the rustling of the tall trees. As I passed through it the door of one of the solemn houses opened, disclosing an old man with a letter in his hand. He paused a moment on the threshold, and then, reaching out, grasped a flag that had been stuck with others above the doorway, and descended the steps. A servant who came running up the stairs at that moment observed the incident and smiled. As the old man crossed the road to the pillar-box he shouldered the flag, squared his shoulders, and stepped out as if he were marching to music. He posted his letter, and returned across the roadway with the flag fluttering in the night breeze, and his chin tilted in the air. Now all the day and night I had been watching patriotism-patriotism inspired and encouraged by the contact with excited patriots, patriotism whose infection caught and carried London away in a whirl of enthusiasm. But here was a man-alone, at midnight, and old-doing a thing for its own sake, without onlookers, without encouragement: doing it secretly, and so bravely. His action seemed to me rather remarkable, and I said as much to the policeman at the corner. His manner was noncommittal; but he stalked a few steps nearer to the house, at the open door of which the servant stood waiting his master's return. As the old man ascended the steps and replaced the flag, the servant caught the policeman's eye, smiled, and winked. The policeman turned to me, and remarked with the air of one who says a good thing: "No man's a hero, sir, to his own valet." "You know how Hegel explains that proverb," I said sharply. He stuck his hands into his belt and shook his head. "Can't say as I do !" "Not because the hero is no hero, but because the valet is only a valet." "Well," said the constable as he turned on his heel, "there's room for all sorts in the world.” Mr. Kipling and Mark Twain. THE interview with Mark Twain which Mr. Kipling enjoyed in 1889, and which is described in From Sea to Sea (reviewed elsewhere in this number), is in some respects the best interview that we have ever read. Historically the meeting was of the highest importance, for, as we have before remarked in the ACADEMY, Mark Twain was the greatest factor in the literary education of the younger man, and the younger man's homage suggests that he knew it. The thing that struck me first was that he was an elderly man; yet, after a minute's thought, I perceived that it was otherwise, and in five minutes, the eyes looking at me, I saw that the grey hair was an accident of the most trivial. He was quite young. I was shaking his hand. I was smoking his cigar, and I was hearing him talk-this man I had learned to love and admire fourteen thousand miles away. Reading his books, I had striven to get an idea of his personality, and all my preconceived notions were wrong and beneath the reality. Blessed is the man who finds no disillusion when he is brought face to face with a revered writer. That was a moment to be remembered; the landing of a twelve-pound salmon was nothing to it. I had hooked Mark Twaio, and he was treating me as though under certain circumstances I might be an equal. That was how Mr. Kipling felt. And he wrote to the Pioneer: "You are a contemptible lot, over yonder. Some of you are Commissioners, and some Lieutenant-Governors, and some have the V.C., and a few are privileged to walk about the Mall arm in arm with the Viceroy; but I have seen Mark Twain this golden morning, have shaken his hand, and smoked a cigar-no, two cigars-with him, and talked with him for more than two hours! Understand clearly that I do not despise you; indeed, I don't. I am only very sorry for you, from the Viceroy downward." It must sometimes occur to the author of this interview, not without sadness, that there is now no one of whom he can write like this. Youth has its compensations—and, indeed, hero-worship is by no means the least of them. For a while copyright was the subject of talk. And then the younger man asked if Tom Sawyer married Judge Thatcher's daughter. The question was not answered, but this is how Mark Twain spoke of that immortal boy : "I have a notion of writing the sequel to Tom Sawyer in two ways. In one I would make him rise to great honour and go to Congress, and in the other I should hang him. Then the friends and enemies of the book could take their choice." Here I lost my reverence completely, and protested against any theory of the sort, because, to me at least, Tom Sawyer was real. "Oh, he is real," said Mark Twain. "He's all the boy that I have known or recollect; but that would be a good way of ending the book"; then, turning round, "because, when you come to think of it, neither religion, training, nor education avails anything against the force of circumstances that drive a man. Suppose we took the next four-and-twenty years of Tom Sawyer's life, and gave a little joggle to the circumstances that controlled him, he would, logically and according to the joggle, turn out a rip or an angel." "Do you believe that, then?" "I think so. Isn't it what you call Kismet?" He "Yes; but don't give him two joggles and show the result, because he isn't your property any more. belongs to us.' Then came humorous words on autobiography, truthtelling, and conscience, and anon Mark Twain dropped into autobiography himself. Says his companion and observer: He spoke always through his eyes, a light under the heavy eyebrows; anon crossing the room with a step as light as a girl's, to show me some book or other; then resuming his walk up and down the room, puffing at the cob pipe. I would have given much for nerve enough to demand the gift of that pipe-value, five cents when new. I understood why certain savage tribes ardently desired the liver of brave men slain in combat. That pipe would have given me, perhaps, a hint of his keen insight into the souls of men. But he never laid it aside within stealing reach. Once, indeed, he put his hand on my shoulder. It was an investiture of the Star of India, blue silk, trumpets, and diamond-studded jewel, all complete. If hereafter, in the changes and chances of this mortal life, I fall to cureless ruin, I will tell the superintendent of the workhouse that Mark Twain once put his hand on my shoulder; and he shall give me a room to myself and a double allowance of paupers' tobacco. So, to a large extent, may young men to-day feel also about Mr. Kipling, for if any man may be said to have succeeded Mark Twain, it is he. Not that Mark Twain's sway is done, by any means, nor that Mr. Kipling has given us a Huckleberry Finn; but the American is read less than he was a dozen years ago and the Anglo-Indian reigns at this moment over the male Anglo-Saxon intellect. Correspondence. Stevenson's Beginnings. SIR, - Allow me to endorse Dr. Japp's letter in the ACADEMY, March 10, as the correct account of my connexion with the original publication of Treasure Island. Following Dr. Japp's letter, Stevenson's own account of the origin of Treasure Island would be timely and conclusive. Here is an extract from his article, entitled "My First Book-Treasure Island," which appeared in the Idler magazine, August, 1894: "At Castleton of Braemar, on a chill September morning, by the cheek of a brisk fire, and the rain drumming on the window, I began The Sea Cook, for that was the original title. (It was Mr. Henderson who deleted the first titleThe Sea Cook.) . . . Day by day, after lunch, I read aloud my morning's work to the family. It seemed to me original His as sin; it seemed to belong to me like my right eye. I had counted on one boy; I found I had two in my audience. My father caught fire at once with all the romance and childishness of his original nature. own stories, that every night of his life he put himself to sleep with, dealt perpetually with ships, roadside inns, robbers, old sailors, and commercial travellers before the era of steam. He never finished one of these romances; the lucky man did not require to! But in Treasure Island he recognised something kindred to his own imagination; it was his kind of picturesque: and he not only heard with delight the daily chapter, but set himself acting to collaborate. When the time came for Billy Bones's chest to be ransacked, he must have passed the better part of a day preparing, on the back of a legal envelope, an inventory of its contents, which I exactly followed; and the name of 'Flint's old ship'-the Walrus -was given at his particular request. And now who should come dropping in, ex machina, but Dr. Japp, like the disguised prince who is to bring down the curtain upon peace and happiness in the last act; for he carried in his pocket, not a horn or a talisman, but a publisher— ready, in fact, to unearth new writers for my now old friend, Mr. Henderson's Young Folks. Even the ruthlessness of a united family recoiled before the extreme measure of inflicting on our guest the mutilated members of The Sea Cook; at the same time, we would by no means stop our readings; and accordingly the tale was begun again at the beginning, and solemnly redelivered for the benefit of Dr. Japp. From that moment on I have thought highly of his critical faculty; for when he left us, he carried away the MS. in his portmanteau." Before the story commenced (October 1, 1881) in Young Folks, Stevenson called on me, bringing the corrected proofs of the opening chapters, and it was at that interview-my first with him-I expressed my dislike to the title The Sea Cook, and suggested Treasure Island (the name of the "map"), which he readily agreed to. The latter part of the story was written at Davos, Switzerland. I am, &c., JAMES HENDERSON. Red Lion House, Red Lion Court, Fleet Street: March 14, 1900. A Revolution in Journalism. SIR,-Referring to your most admirably written article called "A Revolution in Journalism," in this week's issue, may I enter a mild protest against the existing tendency in all serious journals to deprecate the class of papers represented by Tit-Bits? Were such papers to consist exclusively of "snappy" paragraphs, bare of all useful information, the sneer would be justified. But this is not so. In order to illustrate my contention I turn to a recent issue of Tit-Bits, and find among other things: (1) A detailed explanation of military journalism; (2) an account of the workings of the Meteorological Office; (3) a biographical account of Sir George White; (4) nearly 200 scientific facts; (5) a story which, although of minor literary merit, is possessed of a certain interest. The above features alone should, in my opinion, redeem the paper from the charge of being made up of "snappy paragraphs. Further, I believe that papers of the Tit-Bits order build up a taste for serious reading-a taste which, in the absence of such papers, might never develop. I have only expressed very briefly-and I feel very poorly-my opinion on this subject, and I sincerely trust that, with your usual impartiality, you will publish this letter as a kind of gentle counterblast to the article called "A Revolution in Journalism."—I am, &c., P. BEAUFOY. Playgoers' Club, Strand, W.C.: March 9, 1900. restore. Obsolete English Words. SIR,-If the fact that I live in partibus infidelibus (videlicit, United States) will excuse my belated letter, I would like to say how interested I have been in your lists of obsolete English words that your correspondents would On reading them I took down my copy of a book which has attracted some attention over here among Shakespeare "cranks" (we Americans call all devotees "cranks"), A Study in the Warwickshire Dialect, in which Dr. Appleton Morgan (the President of the New York Shakespeare Society) claims to demonstrate the Shakespearean authorship of Shakespeare by discovering in every one of the plays an abundance of Warwickshire dialect words and pronunciations (ie., that the puns in the plays would be unintelligible unless the vowels were pronounced as pronounced to this day in Warwickshire), and out of it alone I have taken a few words which (if I am not too belated, as aforesaid) I would like to call attention to as being, I think, picturesque, suggesting to the mind's eye something of what the act itself, if performed before us, might sound like, or seem to eye or ear to be: (1) Backfriend, meaning a surety, a backer. (2) Bibleback, meaning stout (the Bible of those days being a stout volume). (3) Brevet, meaning to flirt. (4) Burning daylight, meaning to procrastinate. (5) Cumber, meaning tribulation, anxiety. (6) Cold crowdings, meaning hard times (perhaps a scarcity of fuel as produced by res angusta domi) and huddling together to keep warm. Mumblenews, meaning a talebearer or gossip. (8) Next, meaning immediately. (9) Stitch while, meaning an instant or moment of time. (10) Still (i.e., quiet), meaning respectable, gentlemanly, or ladylike. Perhaps some of your ingenious readers will give us a narrative framed to contain these pictorial vocables.-I am, &c., IRA HOLMES HARRIS. 14, College-place, New York City: Feb. 25, 1900. Our Weekly Prize Competitions. Competition No. 25 (New Series). IN response to our request for poems of not more than fourteen lines, celebrating the adventures of the elephant which escaped from the Crystal Palace, we have received a budget of sonnets and other verse. The best of these effusions is that which follows, contributed by Mrs. Guy Branson, 44, Sandon Road, Edgbaston, Birmingham: He hatched a plot behind his twinkling eye, Replies received also from T. C., Buxted; C., Redhill; F. H. B., Sutton; H. C. H., Oxford; P. C. F.. Cambridge; R. F. M. C., Whitby; E. H. W., London; E. B. S., Ringwood; E W. H., Streatham; R. W. D. N., London; C. L. E, Matlock; C. M. W., Huddersfield; S. T., Redhill; P. K., London; L. L, London; and "Sympa. thiser," Oxford. Competition No. 26 (New Series). A correspondent writes :-"This morning, as I was nearing the end of a journey in an omnibus, two elderly ladies got in, and at once continued a conversation which seemed to have been engaging them for some time. One said: 'Well, of course, it's her own affair; but what Peter's going to do I can't think. It isn't as if there was only Henry and the spaniel; there's Margaret as well. And John is expected home at any minute. Poor John!' 'Yes, indeed,' said the other. 'Poor John! and so fond of it all, too! In the pause which followed, in which both ladies shook their heads solemnly, I had to alight. Might there not be the kernel of one of your interesting prize competitions in this fragment?" We take our correspondent's hint, and offer a prize of a guinea to what seems to us the most reasonable answers to the questions which follow : (a) Who was "she," and what was her own affair? (b) Who was Peter, and why should her conduct put him out? (c) Who was Henry? (d) Who was Margaret ? (e) Who was John, why should he be called "poor John," and what was it of which he was so fond? Answers should be as brief as possible. RULES. Answers, addressed "Literary Competition, THE ACADEMY, 43, Chancery-lane, W.C.," must reach us not later than the first post of Tuesday, March 20. Each answer must be accompanied by the coupon to be found in the first column of p. 240, or it cannot enter into competition. Competitors sending more than one attempt at solution must accompany each attempt with a separate coupon; otherwise the first only will be considered. We wish to impress on competitors that the task of examining replies is much facilitated when one side only of the paper is written upon. It is also important that names and addresses should always be given. We cannot consider anonymous answers. OUR SPECIAL PRIZE COMPETITIONS. (For particulars see inside page of cover.) Received during the week: Canadienne, Lethe, T. Lavicrep, Francesca, Inedito, Weye Farrer, Bee-Bee, Endeavour, Kirodo, Klapa, Sirius, Mondelambe, Catfordian, Webspinner, Lamorra, Brynach, Dum Spiro Spero, Hathor, Whirlpool, Grellier, Florac, Woolhana, Dormie, Cecil Gray, Antique Mores, The Dingo, Maryomet, Kerma, Irene, Babie, Annonaylles, Ariel, Passionate Pilgrim, Catalle, Sarasvate, Noé, Rose Mortimer, Chasm, F. Luckett, Hermon, Memor. New Books Received. [These notes on some of the New Books of the week are preliminary to Reviews that may follow.] RABELAIS. TRANSLATED BY SIR THOMAS URQUHArt. This is a most welcome edition to the Tudor Translations, and Mr. Whibley's introduction, running to nearly a hundred pages, puts the reader in possession of all the main facts about Rabelais and his translator. Mr. Whibley has some interesting remarks on Rabelais' contemporaries, whose freedom of expression seems to have rivalled his own. (Nutt.) EDWARD THE THIRD (1327-1377). BY JAMES MACKINNON. Some of the soundest historians have devoted their study to a single reign, and this method, which has many Mr. advantages, is carried out with great care by Mackinnon, who contends that a history of Edward III. required to be written. Official documents and the chronicles of the period form the basis of his narrative, which is by no means an apology for its hero. (Longmans, Green & Co. 18s.) W. THACKER & CO.'S NEW BOOKS. AN EDITION DE LUXE OF THE WORKS OF WHYTE-MELVILLE. Edited by the Rt. Hon. 8IR HERBERT MAXWELL, Bart., M.P. Vols. 1 to 13, demy 8vo, gilt tops, £6 16s. 6d. The volumes are printed from new type on hand-made paper, specially manufactured for this edition, and handsomely bound in buckram with gilt tops. Coloured Frontispiece on Japanese Vellum and other Full-Page Illustrations by well-known Artists. WITH SAMPSON THROUGH the WAR. By W. A. M. GOODE. An Account of the Naval Operations of the North Atlantic Squadron "A graphic account of what took place."-Engineer. "A very admirable history of Admiral Sampson's doings."-Journal of Commerce. "Seldom indeed have the technicalities of naval warfare been so popularly dealt with." Nautical Magazine. THE IMPERIAL RUSSIAN NAVY. By Fred. T. JANE, Author of "All the World's Fighting Ships," The Torpedo in Peace and War," "Mr. Jane's book is valuable, and it is certainly very instructive."-Army and Navy Gazette. "Ce magnifique ouvrage édité avec un soin tout particulier."-Le Yacht. "To naval students this volume will be of the utmost value."- Western Morning News. "An up-to-date, well arranged, and concise Encyclopedia of the subject."-Daily News. "Fills a distinct gap in our naval literature."-Daily Chronicle. THE TORPEDO in PEACE and WAR. By Fred T. JANE, Author of "Blake of the Rattlesnake," "All the World's Fighting Ships," THE CARLSBAD TREATMENT, and How to A SUMMER in HIGH ASIA. A Summer Ramble through Baltistan and Ladakh. By Capt. F. E. S. ADAIR (late Rifle Brigade), Author of Sport in Ladakh." With a Chapter on Central Asian Trade by Capt. S H. Godfrey, late British Joint Commissioner at Leh. Illustrated by a series of beautiful Photographs and Drawings taken on the spot, and a Map of the route. Medium 8vo, cloth extra, 12s. 6d. net "There are few guides as good and as interesting."-Daily News. "This record of big game will appeal forcibly to sportsmen."-Publishers' Circular. "He gives striking pictures of scenes of grandeur."-Bradford Observer. "A very readable book of sport and travel."-Spectator, "The general reader and the naturalist will, scarcely less than the sportsman, find much in the book that is attractive or amusing."-Scotsman. "We cordially commend it to all sportsmen."-The Asian Calcutta. A JAUNT in JAPAN; or, Ninety Days' Leave in the Far East. By Capt. S. C. F. JACKSON, D.S.O. the Hampshire Regt., D.A.A.G. Bombay. 8vo, cloth, 4s. 6d. net. BULLET and SHOT in INDIAN FOREST, PLAIN, and HILL. With Hints to Beginners of Indian Shooting. By C. E. M. RUSSELL late Senior Deputy Conservator of Forests, Mysore Service. Demy 8vo, cloth, 10s. 6d. "A useful addition to Indian sporting literature."-Spectator. THE ROD in INDIA: being Hints how to obtain Sport, with Remarks on the Natural History of Fish and their Culture. By H. S THOMAS, F.L.S. Third Edition, Revised. With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo' cloth, 158. USEFUL HINTS to YOUNG SHIKARIS on the GUN and RIFLE. By "THE LITTLE OLD BEAR." Crown 8vo. Second Edition. THE SPORTSMAN MANUAL in QUEST of GAME in KULLU, LAHOUL, and LADAK, to the TSO MORARI LAKES. With 9 Maps. By Lieut. Colonel R. H. TYACKE, late H.M.'s 98th and 34th Regiments. Fcap. 8vo, 68. PHIL MAY'S ANNUAL, 1s. Humorous Sketches, |