a flame-coloured robe who stares from a distance in a tessellated solitude. As London two days ago celebrated Independence Day like an American city, and displayed the Stars and Stri

tights who find themselves in abandoned temples alone with such ladies, must clearly have left Whittier with the nursery biscuits. Long

ght for murder:

ng sought

y zest, being paltry and early Victorian in our murders. Yet in this symphony i

s are pale and

from the grass i

n music amid

mortal lives

the, we

e as cold and br

grow young

ourselves as e

cturnal secrets

woman whose "mouth is a sly carnivorous flower"; where we escape the greenish light of a vampire's eyes to enter a tavern where men strike each other with bottles. Mermaids are there, an

wife to brush his clothes, though when he caught her at it she was doing it in apparent kindness. Instead of the truth making us free, its dread countenance, when we glimpse it, only startles us into a pallid mimicry of its sinister aspect. It is like the sardonic grin I have seen on the face of an intelligent soldier as he strode over filth and corpses towards shell-fire. Soldiers, when they are home again, delight in watching the faces and the ways of children. They want to play with the youngsters, eat buns in the s