A Novelist of the Unknown."

EVERYONE knows that Mr. Wells, as a novelist, has two fields of vision. Broadly speaking, one is stellar, the other mundane. In the one he looks for big things that may be, in the other for little things that are. He must be a singular reader who is not struck by the divergencies of power which have given us the Time Machine and Mr. Hoopdriver's bicycle; which have shown us the Martians devasting London, and Mr. Lewisham devastated by love. Yet we would remark that the distance between these two fields is more than obviously great. For whenever Mr. Wells returns-we had almost written "homeward plods his weary way"-from Mars, or from the forward abysms of Time, to this dull little nineteenth-century Earth, he straightway throws off the trappings of distances and æons and sits down to depict suburban manners. His gestures no longer connote measureless ether, or a fifth sense. He does not even call the nations into his study, like Mr. Kipling, or desire, with Stevenson, to dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea and be the Ariel of Literature. Unspoiled by the influences of the Pleiades, he dissects the mind of a Kensington draper's-assistant; unblinded by visions of Science in her glory, he tells us how a student jilted Science for a poor girl in Clapham.

Now there is one description which applies to Mr. Wells in both these characters. To discover it would be something of a feat if it were anything more than this: that in both he is breaking fresh ground, in both he is an explorer. Not in Mars and not in Clapham has he stepped in another man's tracks. Hoopdriver, with his pins and aspirations, was as much to seek, really, as Graham and his flying machine. So far, then, Mr. Wells is revealed as the most enterprising of novelists, exploiting a planet and a draper's shop as calmly as Cinquevalli tosses a cannon ball with a pea. But the simile-like every simile calls for correction. There are profound literary differences to be named and considered. We deny in toto (to use a loved phrase of Smithers in Love and Mr. Lewisham) that Mr. Wells's stellar novels are to be compared with his mundane novels. That seems a strong view, but it is our view. We hear an opponent blurt: "Consider the imagination of The War of the Worlds." But the word "imagination" does not satisfy us here. Four-fifths of what passes for "imagination" in Mr. Wells's scientific novels is not essential imagination; it is rather the skilful-the absolutely daring and decorativeuse of science. It is science in purple; science producing her "effects"-the glory and smoke of the "experiment"; science rehearsing what she will be. When Mr. Wells appears to be soaring, he is really only calculating generously; when he seems to be creating, he is only playing behind the professor's back; and the ladder by which he climbs, immeasurably aerial though it seems, is an extension ladder taken from the laboratory cupboard.

The Time Machine. By H. G. Wells. (1895.)
The War of the Worlds. By H. G. Wells. (1898.)

The Wheels of Chance: A Holiday Adventure. By H. G.
Wells. (1896.)

Love and Mr. Lewisham. By H. G. Wells. (Harper, 1900.)

Science, taking the bit between her teeth, can run gloriously amok among the principalities and powers; but the Phaeton who gives her her head is not exercising his imagination-he is merely having a lark. We have a deeper objection to scientific novels. It is that their subject-matter is outside literature, and is, indeed, as noxious to literature as we feel that spiritualism is to life. We have the strongest conviction that scientific anticipations of the future of man and of the universe, even when, like Mr. Wells's, they are brilliantly conceived, have no more to do with the art of the novel than The Battle of Dorking.

These our troubles pass like a summer cloud when we turn to Mr. Wells's two novels of human life, The Wheels of Chance (1898) and his new novel, Love and Mr. Lewisham. Here Mr. Wells is doing really fine work, and we use the word in a sense far beyond clever. To call such novels as these "clever" is the first infirmity of ignoble critics. Clever they are; and, if one must dabble in the word, we are prepared to rant with Laertes, and pile Pelions of proof on Ossas of assertion that Mr. Wells is clever. But we dislike the word, and we resent its application to a fine novelist. "Clever" in dealing with flesh and blood! Clever in tracing tears to their springs in the human heart! Clever in justifying the ways of God to men or of men to God! No. The great novelists cannot be thought of as clever. They are sagacious, charitable, wise, and tender. Was Scott clever, or Cervantes, or Sterne, or Dickens? No one would use so base a word. It is just a suspicion of cleverness which causes a few minds to see an everlasting ghostly mark of interrogation at the end of every proclamation of the genius of Thackeray. It is precisely because we see in Mr. Wells those greater things-the sympathy of one who knows and the big hand of one who loves-that we feel eager about his work. If the analysis of the mind of Hoopdriver, the Kensington draper's-assistant who longed. for gentility, who cajoled and lied and blundered toward higher things, was clever, then assuredly it was a higher quality that saved The Wheels of Chance from being one long humorous butchery of Hoopdriver. It is indeed alight with humour, and Hoopdriver is not spared a single shaft of ridicule that a good man may give or take. But there is one thing that Mr. Wells never does, or allows his reader to do, and that is to doubt the essential manhood, dignity, and native sweetness of the man who cannot help sticking pins into his lapels. You have the queerest feelings of regret as you see Hoopdriver's back disappear with his bicycle into the stable yard attached to Messrs. Antrobus's emporium in Kensington-his holiday, his dream of culture, his worship of a beautiful girl, all to be settled and adjusted in the intervals of "Hoopdriver, Forward!"

In

In Love and Mr. Lewisham Mr. Wells's qualities appear to even greater advantage. For one thing, this novel is a higher organism than The Wheels of Chance. In The Wheels of Chance the incidents of a bicycle chase through several counties supply a kind of material or mechanical interest-the easy interest of every chase. The analysis of character triumphs, but somewhat by emergence. Love and Mr. Lewisham character is all; Mr. Wells is doing his best work all along. We are not going to describe the story in any detail. When we meet Mr. Lewisham he is a very young master-in fact, eighteenat Whortley Proprietary School, Whortley, Sussex. There he "hears his years before him, all the tumult of his life"; sees it every morning as his head comes through his shirt, and his eyes fall on the magnificent schema of study which he has pinned on the bedroom wall of his humble lodging. Chance-wise, he meets Ethel Henderson, and the pretty fools steal walks and talks and plight their love; and Mr. Lewisham is dismissed the school with his character (in the Proprietary School sense) considerably damaged. In London he toils at the Kensington Normal

Science School; toils manfully, little embarrassed by memories of Ethel, who has vanished into Clapham. The Career flourishes. It enlists a supporter, too, in a fellowstudent, Miss Heydinger, a girl of the period, who encourages him to wear the red tie of Socialism. Laboratory work, examinations, and glowing talks in the Gallery of Old Iron at the Museum with his Egeria. But Ethel is to come again into his life, and she does it, so to speak, with a vengeance. More naturally than it sounds, he meets her in a darkened room, at a spiritualistic séance, whither he has gone in laughing scepticism with some fellow-students; meets her, too, as the docile accomplice of her step-father, Mr. Chaffery, in a despicable imposture. Her helplessness and her beauty and the old Whortley days are too much for his common sense and strength of will. And when he finds that Ethel is innocent at heart, though not quite in conscience, it is enough; he loves her, will save her. There are wonderful walks to Clapham, dwindling honours at the school, tears and dismays in Miss Heydinger's bosom, and remorses (about the Career) which cannot be uttered. At times he sees all things with deadly clearness :

He suddenly perceived with absolute conviction that after the séance he should have gone home and forgotten her. Why had he felt that irresistible impulse to seek her out? Why had his imagination spun such a strange web of impossibilities about her? He was involved now, foolishly involved. All his future was a sacrifice to this transitory ghost of love making in the streets.

Transitory ghost it should have been, but was not. Marry the stepdaughter of a Chaffery, a quack, a blasphemer of science! Marry on a legacy of one hundred pounds! A pretty pitiful marriage, full of its own mad sweetness. For she was sweet, was Ethel, and for a time her wifehood could hold its own against the Career. It was the bills and the price of coal that brought complete revelation these, and the reproaches of Miss Heydinger, and the blankness of his scholastic prospects. The revulsion, the rebellion, the final solution-need we speak of them? Lewisham is submissive to Love, and passes with resolute resignation into the obscurity of a small home, parentage, and Clapham. The child is coming, and thisyes, this--is life; the other was just vanity; at any rate, it is over, quite over. The schema that had long lined a trunk is torn up without a pang-in the stillness of thought.

That is the theme, and it is worked out with a searching analysis that would be merciless if it were not, in fact, so very merciful. We have need of such themes. Modern fiction will be regenerated by these faithful seizures of neglected types. It has great work to do in floating little men (who are not little) and narrow lives (which yet globe all life) into our ken. Dickens did it by caricature, by an emphasis necessary in his day. But it has yet to be done in the noble manner; and it is much that for Mr. Horatio Sparkins we have now Mr. Hoopdriver. Let Mr. Wells travel this road. These two novels may be masterpieces or not (we should be the last to deny it); but we are certain that their production tends to create the atmosphere in which masterpieces are born. Our own faith in his future is immovable, and we know not how we can pay him a less formal compliment than by saying that when we closed Love and Mr. Lewisham, full of gratitude and stimulations, we involuntarily groped for a definition of good novel writing which might celebrate our mood. And, groping, we found one which, with all its defects and bizarrerie, seems to sweep into its net every writer in whom is greatness, or the seed of greatness: a definition adapted from Coleridge:

He writeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small,
For the great God who loveth us
He made and loveth all.

Things Seen.

A Harvest Home.

WE went into the kitchen when the men had taken their tea, and found them sitting round the room on benches against the wall-Angus, Murdoch, Eachan, Duncan, and Ian, the boy. Their dogs, collies of uncertain breed, lay about the stone floor at their feet-Old Smart, the amiable and talented shepherd; Tweed, the one-eyed and dour, who detested strangers; Gloun and Sirdar, the boisterous friendly youngsters; and Chairl, the house-dog. All had done justice to the meal; and the men, having been awarded a wine-glass of neat whiskey with their pipes, were as silent and somnolently blissful as their dogs. They had three meals a day in this kitchen the year round, but the whiskey and tobacco were harvest extras. A glowing peat fire and one small misty lamp provided a sleepy light. On the huge dresser stood the "maiden," a last gleaning of corn, decorated and cherished till next year, when it would be given, for luck, to the first horse taken out to "shear" (reap). A grey parrot in a cage by the window cried "Thugad!" at intervals, the Gaelic for "Get out!"

We suggested a reel, and the apathy of the Highlanders vanished. Our farmer host brought out his pipes, and we danced like maniacs to the weird stimulating music, two of the men taking off their boots to do their steps the better. How they flung up their arms and yelled! It was hard to believe they had been shearing since five a.m.; the firelight flickered on such ecstatic faces! Then, exhausted, we sat down while Angus, the bard, sang Ho-ro mo nighean dhonn Bhoidheach and songs of his own composition. Once started, there was no stopping him, until someone remarked that Mrs. Angus might be sitting up. The effect was electrical. He rose and shook hands all round several times.

"I will no be keeping the leddies up," he said gallantly, "but I will be thinking this wass the bonniest harvest nicht I will effer be had."

The rest concurred. All but the parrot, who wanted to go to sleep.

"Thugad!" she croaked peevishly, and the dreaming collies round the fire rose, stretched, and followed their masters out into the night.

Juggernaut.

THE setting sun shone right down the village street: it lent the white road a dusty radiance, and glowed on the red roofs of the houses. It was Sunday evening, the first warm Sunday of the year. Cheerful groups stood in every doorway, shy youths and maidens lingered in dim corners, clean and uncomfortable children roamed restlessly from house to house. It was the hour of gossip, courtship, and tobacco. Suddenly someone cried "Here comes a motor." In an instant the road was empty.

It came from the west, the golden sunset behind it. One moment it was a speck on the road, the next it was in our midst. As it tore through the twilight, this strange misshapen monster from an alien world seemed some horrible uncanny thing, the living chariot of an evil god. With a hoot and rattle it was past; but as it fled a boy, struck with a sudden passion for brute powers, cried out: "I would like to go to heaven on that motor."

Beyond the village, where the fields come down to the highway, a flower had chosen to blossom in the very road. It was an extremely nice flower upright, individual, impertinent.

But the motor passed by-rapid, relentless, unswerving: and the flower was gone.

Presently a vague scent of petroleum drifted slowly down to the village.

In

WEEK after week the remark, "Another poor number of Punch," may be made; but it matters nothing. the aggregate in the "loomp"-Punch always scores, is always satisfying. As one turns over the leaves of a bound volume the inferior recedes into the background, the genuine holds the eye.

The little volume entitled An Evening with "Punch" has been very well prepared by its anonymous editor. We cannot agree with everything he says we must demur, for example, to his description of Mr. H. W. Lucy as the "greatest of diarists"-but his taste in humour is fairly satisfying, although, by the necessities of the case, he has been compelled to include a great deal of rather thin and excessively out-of-date padding, not because it is first-rate, but because it was needful to illustrate the manner of such venerable jokers as Albert Smith and Gilbert à Beckett, to name only these. A paper like Punch must always have a permanent bodyguard of writers ready to supply, not humour itself, but that which stands for humour. It is, indeed, one of the secondary uses of a comic journal to bring home to each generation the symbols of humour. Now and then the real thing is supplied, as when Punch had the good fortune (to keep the illustrations to our own day) to stimulate Mr. Anstey to study the Voces populi," or when Mr. Burnand's "Happy Thoughts" began. But, for the most part, Punch, together with its journalistic companions, uses counters rather than current coin. The printed pun, for example, unless it is as good as Hood's, has not the true ring; and Punch has latterly loved puns far too well. The younger generation to-day cares nothing for the printed pun, and not much more for the spoken. It does not, however, suit the book of the bodyguard of a comic paper to recognise this, and the tiresome old convention therefore goes on.

But we are drifting into an indictment of Punch, while all the time we are in the best possible humour with it. For the Evening with "Punch" has left us smiling and happy, so full-flavoured is it so ripe and wise and shrewd, and now and then so gloriously comic. Whoever acted as editor holds the right opinion of Charles Keenethat penetrating humorist and humanist and magnificent artist. What a pencil was his! Look at its superb, dashing strokes. Another man would toil all day at a turnip field: Keene's hand made a score of rapid movements, and behold! not only a turnip-field, but an October breeze that you can sniff and tingle under, blowing across it! Look on p. 89 at the miserable street scene which Leech considered good enough to stand above his joke, and then recollect how Keene transferred horses and traffic to paper. There are great examples of black and white in this book; there is Sir John Tenniel's "Mose' in Egitto" (on p. 165); there is Doyle's "Napoleon of Peace" (on p. 127); there is a field scene by Randolph Caldecott, full of atmosphere (on p. 43); there is Mr. Sambourne's beautiful naiad (on p. 41). But the greatest master of the medium was Charles Keene. On laying this book aside it is Keene's strokes that dominate the memory. And his gift for character, within his boundaries, was perfect. Look at the soldier's face on p. 177; look at the submissive husband on p. 145; look at the struggling Scotsman on p. 101; and at the old gentleman on p. 37 starting at the mandate "Let loose the gorgonzola"; and look at the Economist describing the horrors of London in the "Bang went saxpence" picture on p. 27. Keene was so fine a judge of a joke. He worked at them so lovingly, with so rich an appreciation. Some of the best are here. In A Peep into "Punch" Keene is even better represented, but unfortunately the pictures are reduced to so

small a scale-almost to postage-stamp size--that the merits of the draughtsman evaporate, and only the joke remains. The jokes are well selected, and we must be grateful for small mercies; but it is a hard thing to lose Keene's lines. Still Keene's pencil was only the half of him; his sense of fun was the other half, and his joy in the humours of volunteers, of Scotchmen, of parsonages, of rustics, and of inebriety is here. It speaks volumes for the spirit of England's martial amateurs that they survived Keene's delicious ridicule. On p. 286 of A Peep into "Punch" is one of his most acceptable volunteer jeststhe excited appeal of Capt. Wilkinson to Major Walker, of the firm of Wilkinson, Walker & Co., Auctioneers and Estate Agents: "Don't you think we'd better bring our Right Wing round to attack the Enemy's Flank, so as to prevent them occupying those empty houses we have to let in Barker's Lane?" The author of A Peep into "Punch," by the way, is Mr. J. Holt Schooling, the ingenious statistician, who month after month instructs the readers of the popular magazines in such curious and valuable matters as the distance which would be covered by all the cigarettes smoked by Mr. Labouchere in a year were they placed together in a line. Mr. Schooling for the time being has forgotten his statistics, and has presented instead a very clear and informing account of the birth and career of the Fleet-street sage and of all his colleagues. A Peep into "Punch" is a book into which one dips and dips again, to the complete rout of the duties of the day.

Another humorist to whom justice is done in An Evening with "Punch" is Captain Howard. It gave us almost a thrill to come again upon the Captain's contribution of December 6, 1856 (p. 49), entitled "Mysterious.” Even without the picture it is good:

Omnibus Driver. Have you set down that party as got in at the Crescent, Jim ? Conductor. Yes.

(An interval of five minutes.)

Omnibus Driver. You recollect that there wet Sunday I druv you down?

Conductor. Ah!

Omnibus Driver. Well, do you remember a werry reemarkable surprisin' circumstance I was a relatin' of to you that afternoon?

Conductor. To be sure I do.

(Another pause)

Omnibus Driver. Well, then

Conductor. What! you don't mean to say as that—
Omnibus Driver (definitively). That's the party, sir!
(Inquisitive old Gent on the Box, who has arrived at his
destination, is upset for the rest of the day.)

Barring the conclusion of the story-which is enfeebled by the exaggeration that comic journalists always seem to feel needful-the thing is perfect. And it is inspired by a kind of humour now passing away. Dickens, Leech, and Keene were the great masters of this method. One wonders sometimes whether London had more of comic material in those days, in the shape of quaint 'bus drivers and conductors, cabmen and so forth, than it now has, or whether these genial middle Victorians invented them

Genuine fun is always rare, even in a selection from fifty years of a leading comic journal. Somehow the English mind does not incline much to fun. Lamb had it, Hood had it, Sydney Smith had it, Mr. Burnand (in THE Ride to Khiva, for example) had it, Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear had it; but there is little enough in ordinary comic journalism. Mr. Priestman Atkinson's "Threevolume Novel at a Glance," on p. 163 of this book, is full of fun; so is Doyle's picture of the Grenadier Guards, on p. 63; and so are many things by Keene and Leech. But these are pictures. In the prose and verse there is little that is lightheartedly frivolous. For the most part Mr. Punch takes himself seriously. The "Song of the Shirt" is here, and Tennyson's verses against Bulwer Lytton: "The padded man that wears the stays."

Correspondence.

"The Man Who Tramped."

SIR,-I have not a copy of The Wrecker beside me at the moment, but I believe the man of whom your correspondent "R. M." writes, "who tramped and toiled and had such a profit of his life among the Islands," is Mr. C. A. Stoddard, author of Summer Cruising in the South Seas. Let me draw the attention of "R. M." to letters addressed to Mr. Stoddard in The Letters of R. L. Stevenson (Vol. I., page 173, and Vol. II., page 18), and to Mr. Colvin's notes on them. Probably these will solve the difficulty.-I am, &c., A. R.

Glasgow: June 16, 1900.

"Drift."

SIR,-Five or six years ago I produced in this country and on the other side of the Atlantic a volume of poems. I had intended to call my volume Drift; but some weeks before publication a lettered friend (whom I note is still an honoured contributor to the ACADEMY), to whom I had explained this intention, sought to dissuade me from it, inasmuch as drift had no status as a noun and did not mean, as apparently I held it to mean, flotsam. But I was headstrong, and, by way of justifying my title, I added a few introductory stanzas, in which I spoke of

Spray from Huron, cones from Erie,
Hemlock from the Gatineau ;
Grasses quaint from prairies dreary,
Mocking at the ebb and flow.
Drift of weeds and drift of branches
Odd wisps from the blue-birds' nest,
Yellowed stalks from distant ranches,
Sumac from the Golden West.

and in conclusion:

There are green and humble pages

Of Love's making which do sift

Life's grey river as its rages,

And leave hidden yonder-Drift.

When the book came to be published, one or two critics, who took note of the title, fell foul of it at first, but finally held it to be justified by these same verses.

Three days ago a book was placed in my hand; it was a collection of poems; it was entitled Drift, and the author Mr. Horatio F. Brown. Were I a dead poet my friends, relations, and executors would be foolish to complain; but I still live, and I treasure the hope of bringing out a second and enlarged edition of Drift: and, moreover, I hold I have as good a title to Drift as Mr. Swinburne has to Atalanta in Calydon. And may I ask Mr. Brown, since I cannot discern the fact in his book of poems, what he means by Drift ?—I am, &c., BECKLES WILLSON.

Hope Lodge, Twickenham: June 18, 1900.

Misquotations.

SIR, I have not seen the Pall Mall Gazette list of misquotations. The commonest of all is, undoubtedly, the line from Lycidas, which, oddly enough, not long ago occurred in a lecture given here.

May I suggest these "howlers" as being only too common: Cribb'd, cabin'd, and confined," instead of "cabin'd, cribb'd, confined" (Macbeth, III. iv.); "Like angels' visits, few and far between," instead of "Visits like those of angels, short and far between "-perhaps the only lines of Blair that anyone remembers (Did Campbell honour them, I wonder, in "The Pleasures of Hope?""Like angel visits, few and far between "); and worst of all: "Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink," instead of "nor any drop to drink "?-I am, &c., N. LAWDEN BANKS. The Redlands, Tiverton, North Devon ; June 18, 1900.

How do publishers time these things? Just when the performance of "Agamemmon" is filling the papers with notices of Bradfield College comes this history of the school, written by old Bradfield scholars, and edited by Mr. Arthur F. Leach, the author of a History of Winchester School. "Bradfield, like Lancing and Radley," says Mr. Leach, was an outcome of the religious revivalism of the second quarter of the nineteenth century, known as the Oxford Movement." It was on the oldest model of a public school, that of Winchester, that Bradfield was founded by Thomas Steevens, rector of Bradfield, and lord of the manor. (Frowde. 10s. 6d. net.)

No apology is needed for this history of our great training college for army officers. The Royal Military College for future officers of the Army was established in 1802. Previously, the Royal Military College was maintained for the improvement of officers already commissioned. The Staff College-the senior department of the institutionis also fully described by Major Mockler-Ferryman, and the great changes which have come over this highest branch of military training are duly recorded. There is significance in the fact that two-thirds of the book is devoted to statistics of Sandhurst athletics. (Heinemann.) SOME NOTABLE HAMLETS.

BY CLEMENT SCOTT.

Having given us his somewhat inchoate recollections in The Drama of Yesterday and To-Day, Mr. Scott has collected his "Hamlet" reminiscences in this volume. Strictly speaking, the collector is Mr. L. Arthur Greening, who writes an appreciation of Mr. Scott as "a clever and often misjudged man." The Hamlets are those of Sarah Bernhardt, Sir Henry Irving, Mr. Wilson Barrett, Mr. Tree, and Mr. Forbes Robertson. (Greening. 2s. 6d.)

IN DWARF LAND AND CANNIBAL COUNTRY. BY A. B. LLOYD.

Mr. Lloyd has been for four and a half years engaged in the Church Missionary Society's work in Uganda. When, last year, his time of furlough arrived he struck out to the West Coast through Belgian territory, and through the Pygmy Forest of which Stanley was the first to give an account. The book is profusely illustrated. (Unwin. 6s.)

MISCELLANEOUS. Rye (Walter), An Index Rerum to Norfolk Antiquities .(Grose) 5) Henry (Prof. L. E. H.), England's Armed Neutrality (Mitchell) Bowker (R. R.), The Arts of Life .(Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) net 5/0 Oppenheim (Nathan), The Care of the Child in Health ..(Macmillan) 5/0 McClure (A. K.), Our Presidents and How We Make Them .(Harper) Alexander (P. Y.), More Loose Links in the Darwinian Armour

S M. C., The Fisherman's Text-Book

(Bale, Sons, & Danielsson) net 2/0

Frost (Rev. F.), The Ojibway Church Hymn Book.
Hutchinson (Horace G.), Aspects of Golf
Blaker (H. O.), The Principles of Warfare
Pycraft (W. P.), The Story of Bird-Life.

(S.P.C.K.)

(S.P.C.K.) 1/0

(Arrowsmith) 10

.(Leadenhall Press) 1/0

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Other replies received from: M. I. C., Ealing; Rev. W. A S., Manchester; Mrs. S., London; A. S. H., Dalkeith; M. M., Ramsgate; H. F. H, Nottingham; T. C., Buxted; J. J. B. Glasgow; Z McC., Whitby; C. R., Redhill; E. V., London; G. M. Bedford; J. C., London; R. F. McC., Whitby.

Competition No. 40 (New Series).

WE offer a prize of One Guinea for a "Thing Seen" written in verse and not exceeding eight lines. We need scarcely remark that all or nearly all the poem should be devoted to the Thing Seen; comment should be inferential, or come briefly at the end.

RULES.

Answers, addressed "Literary Competition, THE ACADEMY, 43, Chancery-lane, W.C.," must reach us not later than the first post of Tuesday, June 26. Each answer must be accompanied by the coupon to be found on the second page of Wrapper, 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 cannot consider anonymous answers.

PORTRAIT SUPPLEMENTS

ΤΟ

"THE ACADEMY,"

The following have appeared, and some of the numbers containing them can still be obtained; or Complete Seis may be had separately for 3s. 6d. :

[J. L., London.]

BEN JONSON.

Brother, had we but time to live,
And fleet the careless hours together,
With all that leisure has to give

Of perfect life and peaceful weather.
(Andrew Lang.) [H. P. B., Glasgow.]

Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut

(Romeo and Juliet," Act v., sc. 1.)

[A. W., London]

WILKIE COLLINS.

[C. B., Bristol.]

JOHN MILTON.

WILLIAM COWPER.

CHARLES DARWIN.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

ANDREW MARVELL.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

CHARLES DICKENS.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

SIR RICHARD STEELE.
ALEXANDER POPE.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

FRANCIS BACON.

HENRIK IBSEN.

Special cloth cases for binding the half-yearly volume of the ACADEMY can be supplied for 18. each. The price of the bound half-yearly volume is 88. 9d. Communications should be addressed to the Publisher, 43, Chancery-ian-.