early years of the nineteenth century; and looking through them, wishing
that some of them had fallen into my hands when I was a child I recalled
the books I had read at that time—especially two or three. Like any
normal child I delighted in such stories as the Swiss Family Robinson,
but they were not the books I prized most; they omitted the very quality
I liked best—the little thrills that nature itself gave me, which half
frightened and fascinated at the same time, the wonder and mystery of it
all. Once in a while I got a book with something of this rare element in
it, contained perhaps in some perfectly absurd narrative of animals
taking human shape or using human speech, with such like transformations
and vagaries; they could never be too extravagant, fantastic and
incredible, so long as they expressed anything of the feeling I myself
experienced when out of sight and sound of my fellow beings, whether out
on the great level plain, with a glitter of illusory water all round me,
or among the shadowy trees with their bird and insect sounds, or by the
waterside and bed of tall dark bull-rushes murmuring in the wind.
These ancient memories put it in my mind to write a book which, I
imagined, would have suited my peculiar taste of that early period, the
impossible story to be founded on my own childish impressions and
adventures, with a few dreams and fancies thrown in and two or three
native legends and myths, such as the one of the Lady of the Hills, the
incarnate spirit of the rocky Sierras on the great plains, about which I
heard from my gaucho comrades when on the spot—the strange woman seldom
viewed by human eye who is jealous of man’s presence and is able to
create sudden violent tempests to frighten them from her sacred haunts.
That’s the story of my story, and to the question in your publisher’s
practical mind, I’m sorry to have to say I don’t know. I have no way of
finding out, since children are not accustomed to write to authors to
tell them what they think of their books. And after all these excuses it
just occurs to me that children do not read forewords and introductions;
they have to be addressed to adults who do not read children’s books, so
that in any case it would be thrown away. Still if a foreword you must
have, and from me, I think you will have to get it out of this letter.
I remain,
Yours cordially,
W. H. HUDSON.
November 14, 1917.
ANCIENT MUSIC[20]
_By Ezra Pound_
Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, ‘tis why I am, Goddamm,
So ‘gainst the winter’s balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm,
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.
NOTE.—This is not folk music, but Dr. Ker writes that the tune is to be
found under the Latin words of a very ancient canon.
FIRE AND THE HEART OF MAN[21]
_By J. C. Squire_
It was eleven o’clock at night. I was preparing to write an essay. I was
going to write it about a book. The book was a good and a beautiful
book; it filled me with the noblest thoughts, made me a better man and
fit for the most heroic actions. It was full of sagacity, of sound
reasoning, of imagination checked by sense, of reflection shot through
with vision. It was not only a good book, but a large and solid book, a
book to be chewed like the cud, remembered and returned to, a virtuous
and courageous book, a book of mettle, a book of weight. Unfortunately,
or fortunately, just as I had finished reading the book and was biting
the end of my fountain-pen, wondering how in God’s name I was to do it
justice, I looked out of my attic window. The trees stood dark across
the road; the river lay dark beyond the trees; but the light of the
stars was not the only light. On the horizon, behind some trees and a
house, glowing, reddening, rolling, there was a Fire.
There may be people who, when they see Fire in the distance, say, “Oh,
what a pity! I hope the Insurance Company will not suffer heavily”; or
“What a waste of material.” There may be people who say, “There is a
Fire”—and then go to bed. There may even be people who say, “Well, what
if there is a Fire?”—and turn grumpily to resume their discussion about
the Ethics of Palaeontology or the Finances of a Co-operative Kitchen.
If such people exist, I am not among them. When I saw this Fire I ran
downstairs as hard as I could pelt and knocked up a neighbour. I said to
him, “There is a Fire. Look!” He answered, “By Jove! so there is.” I
said, “It may be twenty miles away or two miles away. The farther the
bigger. If it is a long walk the compensation is proportionate.” He
said, “Wait a minute till I put on my boots.” I said, “All right; but
buck up or the Fire may die down.” He hurried; and we started walking.
We did not know whither we were walking. All we knew was, and this
thought slightly depressed us, that the direction of the Fire put out of
the question any hope that it was the Albert Memorial or the Queen
Victoria Memorial that was in process of combustion.
We walked along the river, past the terrace and the cocoa-butter
factory, and the nuns’ school, and the creek, and the boathouses. The
glare increased steadily as we went. When we reached the bridge it was
in full view. An enormous factory was blazing away on the edge of the
river below the bridge; the great span cut dark across the flames and
the glow. As we climbed to the bridge we saw that there was a thin row
of silent people leaning over the ironwork—looking at the Fire. The
stars were above them and the velvet dark sky; the river flowed below
them; a few hundred yards away great flames and intervolved clouds of
smoke poured out of a huge building, the top windows of which were
almost intolerably bright. The roof had gone and the pillars of
stonework between the windows looked like the pillars of some ruined
Greek temple against a magnificent gold sunset. It was all gold and
blue; the moving gold and the still, all-embracing blue; and the crowd
said nothing at all. There was no sound except when a great stretch of
masonry fell in, and then there was a swelling sigh like that which
greets the ascent of a rocket at a firework display. There was a wind,
and it was chill; we passed on over the bridge and descended to the
tow-path on the opposite bank. Along that path we went until we were
opposite the Fire. About eight people, very indistinct in the gloom,
were scattered amongst the waterside bushes. In front of us a fire-boat
took up its position. Below and around the Fire little lights flashed;
there were lights above the river (which was at low tide); voices
shouted terrifically from the other bank; voices, addressed to ‘Arry,
answered from the boat, and made reference to a line. An engine began
working; hoses could be seen sending rising and falling sprays of water
against a blaze that seemed capable of defying all the water in all the
seas.
There we stood, watching. Only one sentence did we hear from our awed
neighbours. There was a man who in the darkness looked portly and
moustached. He took his pipe out of his mouth and said, optimistically,
“Nice breeze; it _ought_ to fan it along.” “Along” meant an enormous oil
warehouse and wharf. Overhearing that remark, I told myself the truth.
The moral man in me, the citizen, the patriot, were all fighting hard
for supremacy. I was trying to say to myself: “This may mean ruin to
somebody; you ought to pray that it should be got under at once”; and
“How can you bear to see so much painfully-won material wastefully
consumed!” and “This stuff would probably be useful at the Front; it has
employed labour; its loss may be serious; its replacement may be
difficult; Germany, Germany, Germany, Germany....” But all that company
of virtuous selves fought a losing battle. Aloud or in quietness I (or
they) could say all this and much more; but the still, small voice kept
on repeating, “Don’t you be a humbug. It’s too good. You _want_ this
Fire to spread. You want to forget what it all means. You will be
disappointed if the firemen got it under. You would like to see the next
place catch fire, and the next place, and the next place, for it would
be a devil of a great display.” Peccavi; that was certainly so.
They got it under. They cornered it. Flames gave way to a great smoke;
the smoke grew and grew; the path and the bushes faded from red into the
indistinct hue of the starlit night. The mental glow died down; we felt
cold, and moved, and walked towards home. And as we walked I meditated
on the glory of Fire, fit subject for a poet, refreshment for the human
spirit and exaltation for the soul. My emotions, when looking at it, had
not been entirely base; I had felt, not merely a sensuous pleasure in
the glories of that golden eruption under the blue roof of night, but
wonder at the energies we keep under, their perpetuity and their source,
and the grandeur of man, living amid so much vastness and power,
valiantly struggling to cope with things greater than himself, save that
they have no souls. And I thought that in the perfect and hygienic State
where the firemen would find water, water everywhere, where the
Super-Hose would be in use, where everything would be built of fireproof
materials, and where extinguishers of a capacity not conceived by us
would be available as a last resort, the wise sovereign would set apart
beautiful large buildings, all made of timber, filled with oil, tar and
sugar, surrounded with waste land and fronted by a wide reflecting
river, which would periodically be set on fire for the consolation and
the uplifting of men. I don’t want a big Fire made impossible.
And I wondered why it was that fire on a huge scale had never yet
adequately inspired a poet. And then I thought that poets had, after
all, done as yet very little, considering the materials that are daily
displayed before them; and then I found great comfort and courage in the
thought that the commonplace things, the things we all see and know,
live by and live with, have so far merely been skirted, and that the
provinces which remain to be explored and described and celebrated by
imaginative writers are endless, and that only corners have as yet been
spied into.
PREFACE TO “DELIVERANCE”[22]
_By E. L. Grant Watson_
When I had completed my first book, I had a desire to write a preface,
but was so strongly advised to let the book carry its own message that I
refrained: with the result that only one reviewer saw what I was driving
at. Later when the book was published in America, I was asked by my
American publisher to write the preface which at first I had desired to
write. Eighty per cent. of the American reviewers were not only
sympathetic, but intelligent. Having been given the key, they read the
book in the mood in which it was written. It seems to me permissible to
provide such a key.
In writing this my third book, I have tried to portray a process of
spiritual emancipation, of a freedom which is not content to find itself
by any premature or artificial way of denial. Emancipation of this kind
is difficult enough even for men; and for women, whose lives are, by
nature of their biological functions, more closely interwoven in the
material process, it is almost impossible. Yet sometimes it is achieved;
perhaps most frequently through long or intense suffering. Yet all
suffering ultimately entails joy; and so, also, through joy. Such a form
of deliverance from the difficult complex of material things is not
incompatible with the acceptance of life. Indeed the mistake has too
often been made, that through _any_ haphazard form of renunciation the
spirit could find a short cut to its own freedom. Only through the
acceptance of life can be attained a confidence strong enough for the
happiness and that deliverance.
In this story I have chosen a woman so sensitive to the beauty of
existence as to be conscious, through all her youth and adolescence, of
that veiled terror that lurks at the very heart of beauty. Through fear
she learns first humility, then courage and at last attains the
spiritual power that raises its possessor above accident. And at each
step her love for the increasing light of her own spirit grows stronger.
It becomes more precious than even the unique love of woman for man. It
becomes the arbiter of life, determining with a confidence unshaken by
pity or desire the material limitations through which it can best find
expression.
[Illustration]
-----
Footnote 4:
From “Punch: The Immortal Liar.” To be published May, 1921.
Footnote 5:
See Bibliography.
Footnote 6:
See Bibliography.
Footnote 7:
From “October.” See Bibliography.
Footnote 8:
See page 138.
Footnote 9:
See Couperus’ novel “Een Stille Kracht.”
Footnote 10:
“Door Duisternis tot Licht”—title under which Kartini’s Letters were
first published in Holland.
Footnote 11:
From “Collected Poems of W. H. Davies.” See Bibliography.
Footnote 12:
A PAGE FROM THE THREE MULLA-MULGARS, BY WALTER DE LA MARE, ILLUSTRATED
BY DOROTHY P. LATHROP.
See Bibliography and page 136.
Footnote 13:
From “Poems of T. S. Eliot.” See Bibliography.
Footnote 14:
See Bibliography and page 142.
Footnote 15:
See Bibliography.
Footnote 16:
From “The Forerunner.” See Bibliography.
Footnote 17:
From “Country Sentiment.” See Bibliography.
Footnote 18:
This and the following two sketches are from Mr. Howe’s “The Anthology
of Another Town.” See page 139.
Footnote 19:
When I arranged with Mr. Hudson for the publication of an American
Edition of “A Little Boy Lost” (see page 136), I asked him to write a
special foreword to his American readers. He replied with this
characteristic letter.
Footnote 20:
From “Lustra and Earlier Poems.” See Bibliography.
Footnote 21:
From “Books in General: Second Series.” See Bibliography.
Footnote 22:
See Bibliography.
PART FOUR
A BIBLIOGRAPHY
OF ALL BORZOI BOOKS
PUBLISHED FROM
25 SEPTEMBER, 1915
TO 25 SEPTEMBER, 1920
BIBLIOGRAPHY
CONRAD AIKEN
SCEPTICISMS: Notes on Contemporary Poetry. 1919. 12mo, cloth; 306 pages;
$2.00.
PEDRO A. DE ALARCÓN
THE THREE CORNERED HAT. Translated by Jacob S. Fassett, Jr. 1918. 12mo,
cloth; 208 pages; $1.50.
SHALOM ALEICHEM
JEWISH CHILDREN. Stories Translated by Hannah Berman. 1920. 284 pages;
12mo, cloth; $2.00.
LEONID ANDREYEV
THE CONFESSIONS OF A LITTLE MAN DURING GREAT DAYS. Translated by R. S.
Townsend. 1917. 12mo, cloth; 244 pages; [out of print].
THE CRUSHED FLOWER and Other Stories. Translated by Herman Bernstein.
1916. 12mo, cloth; 361 pages; $2.00.
THE LITTLE ANGEL and Other Stories. Translated by W. H. Lowe. 1915.
12mo, cloth; 255 pages; [out of print].
ANONYMOUS
GONE WEST. By a Soldier-Doctor. Edited by H. M. G. and M. M. H. With a
preface by Frederick W. Kendall. 1919. 12mo, cloth; 103 pages; $1.25.
THE BOOK OF MARJORIE. 1920. 12mo, Toyogami boards; 128 pages; $1.50.
WOMEN. 1919. 12mo, boards; 159 pages; $1.25.
ETIENNE ANTONELLI
BOLSHEVIK RUSSIA. Translated by Charles A. Carroll. 1920. 12mo, cloth,
319 pages; $2.50.
WILLIAM ARCHER
GOD AND MR. WELLS. 1917. 12mo, cloth; 144 pages; [out of print].
INDIA AND THE FUTURE. 1918. 8vo, cloth; 336 pages illustrated; [out of
print].
ALMA C. ARNOLD
THE TRIANGLE OF HEALTH. 1918. 12mo, cloth; 188 pages; [now published by
Dr. Arnold].
MICHAEL ARTZIBASHEF
WAR. A Play. Translated by Thomas Seltzer. 1916. 12mo, boards; 87 pages;
[out of print].
EMILE AUGIER
FOUR PLAYS. Translated by Barrett H. Clark, with a Preface by Brieux.
1915. Contents: Olympe’s Marriage / Monsieur Poirier’s Son-in-Law / The
House of Fourchambault / The Post-Script. Small 8vo, boards; 264 pages;
$2.00.
PÍO BAROJA
THE CITY OF THE DISCREET. A Novel. Translated by Jacob S. Fassett. 1917.
12mo, cloth; 360 pages; $2.00.
CAESAR OR NOTHING. A Novel. Translated by Louis How. 12mo, cloth; 337
pages; $2.00.
YOUTH AND EGOLATRY. Translated by Jacob S. Fassett Jr. and Frances L.
Phillips. 1920. Introduction by H. L. Mencken. [Number 1 in the Free
Lance Books.] 12mo, half cloth; 267 pages; $1.75.
LILLIAN BARRETT
THE SINISTER REVEL. A Novel. 1919. 12mo, half cloth; 363 pages; $2.00.
JOHN SPENCER BASSETT
OUR WAR WITH GERMANY: A History. 1919. 8vo, cloth; 398 pages, maps;
$4.00.
C. W. BEAUMONT AND M. T. H. SADLER
NEW PATHS. 1919. 8vo, boards; 184 pages, illustrated; [out of print].
ALEXANDRE BENOIS
THE RUSSIAN SCHOOL OF PAINTING. Translated by Alexander Yarmolinsky.
1916. Small 4to, boards; 205 pages, illustrated; $5.00.
KONRAD BERCOVICI
CRIMES OF CHARITY. 1917. 12mo, cloth; 278 pages; [out of print].
HERMAN BERNSTEIN
THE WILLY NICKY CORRESPONDENCE. 1918. 12mo, cloth; 166 pages. [Now
published by Mr. Bernstein.]
ALBERTO BLEST-GANA
MARTIN RIVAS. A Novel. Translated by Mrs. Charles Whitham. 1918. 12mo,
cloth; 437 pages; $2.00.
MAXWELL BODENHEIM
ADVICE: A Book of Poems. 1920. 16mo, boards; 85 pages; $1.25.
JACOB BOEHME
SIX THEOSOPHIC POINTS and Other Writings. Translated by John Rolleston
Earle, M. A. 1920. Contents: Six Theosophic Points / Six Mystical Points
/ On the Earthly and Heavenly Mysteries / On the Divine Intuition. 8vo,
cloth; 220 pages; $3.00.
CONFESSIONS OF JACOB BOEHME. Compiled and Edited by W. Scott Palmer.
Introduction by Evelyn Underhill. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 189 pages; $2.00.
MARY BORDEN
THE ROMANTIC WOMAN. A Novel. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 347 pages; $2.50.
WILLIAM ASPINWALL BRADLEY
SINGING CARR and Other Song-Ballads of the Cumberlands. 1918. 8vo,
paper; 37 pages; $.75.
CLAUDE BRAGDON
FOUR-DIMENSIONAL VISTAS. 1916. 8vo, cloth; 144 pages; $2.00.
ARCHITECTURE AND DEMOCRACY. 1918. 8vo, cloth; 229 pages, illustrated;
$2.00.
ROBERT BRIDGES
OCTOBER and other Poems. 1920. 12mo, boards; 74 pages; $1.50.
EMMA BEATRICE BRUNNER
BITS OF BACKGROUND: In One-Act Plays. 1919. Contents: Over Age / The
Spark of Life / Strangers / Making a Man. 12mo, French boards; 120
pages; $1.00.
WITTER BYNNER
THE BELOVED STRANGER: Two Books of Song and a Divertisement for the
Unknown Lover. Preface by William Marion Reedy. 1919. 12mo, half cloth;
121 pages; $1.50.
A CANTICLE OF PAN and Other Poems. 1920. 12mo, half cloth; 230 pages;
$2.00.
FELDWEBEL C....
THE DIARY OF A GERMAN SOLDIER. 1919. 12mo, boards; 253 pages; [out of
print].
COULSON T. CADE
DANDELIONS. A Novel. 1917. 12mo, cloth; 356 pages; $2.00.
WILLA CATHER
YOUTH AND THE BRIGHT MEDUSA. 1920. Contents: Coming Aphrodite! / The
Diamond Mine / A Gold Slipper / Scandal / Paul’s Case / A Wagner Matinée
/ The Sculptor’s Funeral / “A Death in the Desert.” 12mo, cloth; 303
pages; $2.25.
ANNIE VIVANTI CHARTRES
THE OUTRAGE. A Novel. 1918. 12mo, cloth; 261 pages; $1.50.
SHELDON CHENEY
THE ART THEATRE. 1917. 12mo, half cloth; 251 pages, illustrated; $2.00.
EUGENE CHRISTIAN
EAT AND BE WELL. 1916. 12mo, cloth; 147 pages; $1.25.
MEATLESS AND WHEATLESS MENUS. 1917. 12mo, cloth; 144 pages; $1.20.
CHESTER CORNISH
BEATING ‘EM TO IT, or, The Sultan and the Sausages. Illustrated by
Alfred J. Frueh. 1917. 12mo, boards; 126 pages; [out of print].
ADELAIDE CRAPSEY
A STUDY IN ENGLISH METRICS. 1918. 8vo, cloth; 80 pages; $1.00.
WARREN H. CUDWORTH [Translator]
THE ODES OF HORACE. 1917. 12mo, cloth; 181 pages; $1.50.
RICHARD CURLE
THE ECHO OF VOICES. Stories. 1917. 12mo, cloth; 304 pages; $2.00.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
COLLECTED POEMS OF WILLIAM H. DAVIES. 12mo, boards; 190 pages;
frontispiece by W. Rothenstein; $1.50.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SUPER TRAMP. With a preface by Bernard Shaw.
1917. 8vo, cloth; 367 pages; $2.50.
ALLAN DAVIS [AND ANNA R. STRATTON]
THE INWARD LIGHT. A Play. 1919. 12mo, cloth; 137 pages; $1.35.
C. A. DAWSON-SCOTT
THE ROLLING STONE. A Novel. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 383 pages; $2.25.
CLARENCE DAY, JR.
THIS SIMIAN WORLD. 1920. Illustrated by the author. 12mo, cloth; 101
pages; $1.50.
L. J. DeBEKKER
THE PLOT AGAINST MEXICO. Introduction by John Farwell Moors. 1919. 12mo,
cloth; 308 pages, illustrated; $1.50.
E. M. DELAFIELD
ZELLA SEES HERSELF. A Novel. 1917. 12mo, cloth; 315 pages; $2.00.
THE WAR WORKERS. A Novel. 1918. 12mo, cloth; 296 pages; $2.00.
THE PELICANS. A Novel. 1919. 12mo, cloth; 358 pages; $2.50.
CONSEQUENCES. A Novel. 1919. 12mo, cloth; 350 pages; $2.50.
WALTER DE LA MARE
THE THREE MULLA MULGARS. Illustrated by Dorothy P. Lathrop. 1919. 8vo,
cloth; 275 pages; boxed; $5.00.
FLOYD DELL
WERE YOU EVER A CHILD? 1919. 12mo, cloth; 206 pages; $1.75.
BEULAH MARIE DIX
MOLOCH. A Play. 1916. 12mo, boards; 102 pages; [out of print].
OSSIP DYMOW
NJU. A Play. Translated by Rosalind Ivan. 1917. 12mo, boards; 96 pages;
[out of print].
SOLOMON EAGLE [J. C. Squire]
BOOKS IN GENERAL. 1919. 8vo, cloth; 280 pages; $2.00.
BOOKS IN GENERAL: Second Series. 1920. 8vo, cloth; 273 pages; $2.50.
MAX EASTMAN
COLOURS OF LIFE: Poems and Songs and Sonnets. 1918. 16mo, boards; 129
pages; $1.25.
JOURNALISM VERSUS ART. 1916. Square 12mo, cloth; 144 pages illustrated;
[out of print].
DOROTHY EASTON
THE GOLDEN BIRD and Other Sketches. Introduction by John Galsworthy.
1920. 12mo, cloth; 281 pages; $2.00.
JOSÉ ECHEGARAY
EL GRAN GALEOTO. Edited by Aurelio M. Espinosa. 1918. 12mo, cloth; 271
pages; $1.50.
T. S. ELIOT
POEMS. 1920. 12mo, boards; 63 pages; $1.25.
EZRA POUND: His Metric and Poetry. 1918. 12mo, boards; 32 pages,
frontispiece; $.35.
HAL G. EVARTS
THE CROSS PULL. A Novel. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 273 pages, frontispiece;
$2.00.
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
MADAME BOVARY. Translated by Eleanor Marx Aveling. Introduction by
Burton Roscoe. 1919. 8vo, cloth; 455 pages; $3.50.
J. S. FLETCHER
THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER. 1919. 12mo, cloth; 319 pages; $2.00.
THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 295 pages; $2.00.
THE PARADISE MYSTERY. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 306 pages; $2.00.
DEAD MEN’S MONEY. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 313 pages; $2.00.
WILSON FOLLETT
THE MODERN NOVEL: A Study of the Purpose and Meaning of Fiction. 1918.
12mo, cloth; 336 pages; $2.00.
E. M. FORSTER
WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD. A Novel. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 283 pages;
$2.25.
GILBERT FRANKAU
THE OTHER SIDE: and Other Poems. 1918. 16mo, boards; 80 pages; $1.00.
PETER JAMESON: A Romance. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 439 pages; $2.50.
FUTABATEI
AN ADOPTED HUSBAND. A Novel. Translated by M. Mitsui and Gregg M.
Sinclair. 1919. 12mo, half cloth; 275 pages; $2.00.
ALFRED GANACHILLY
THE WHISPERING DEAD. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 281 pages; $2.00.
W. M. GARSHIN
THE SIGNAL and Other Stories. Translated by Captain Rowland Smith. 1915.
12mo, cloth; 363 pages; [out of print].
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN. Translated from the French with an Introduction
by Burton Roscoe. 1920. 8vo, cloth; 424 pages; $4.00.
KAHLIL GIBRAN
THE MADMAN: His Parables and Poems. 1918. With three drawings by the
author. 8vo, cloth; 73 pages; $1.50.
TWENTY DRAWINGS. With an Introductory Essay by Alice Raphael. 1919. 4to,
half cloth; 62 pages; $5.00.
[There is also an edition of one hundred numbered copies, specially
bound and autographed by Mr. Gibran. $15.00.]
THE FORERUNNER: His Parables and Poems. 1920. With five drawings by the
author. 8vo, cloth; 64 pages; $1.50.
NIKOLAI V. GOGOL
THE INSPECTOR GENERAL. A Comedy. Translated by Thomas Seltzer. 1916.
12mo, boards; 119 pages; [out of print].
TARAS BULBA: A Tale of the Cossacks. Translated by Isabel F. Hapgood.
1915. 12mo, cloth; 284 pages; $2.00.
IVAN ALEKSANDROVICH GONCHAROV
THE PRECIPICE. A Novel. Translated from the Russian by M. Bryant. 1916.
12mo, cloth; 320 pages; [out of print].
CARL H. GRABO
THE WORLD PEACE AND AFTER. 1918. 12mo, boards; 154 pages; $1.25.
ROBERT GRAVES
FAIRIES AND FUSILIERS. Poems. 1918. 16mo, boards; 97 pages; $1.25.
COUNTRY SENTIMENT. Poems. 1920. 16mo, boards; 104 pages; $1.25.
J. B. HARRIS-BURLAND
THE WHITE ROOK. 1918. 12mo, boards; 239 pages; $1.75.
THE SHADOW OF MALREWARD. 1919. 12mo, boards; 336 pages; $1.90.
ALEXANDER HARVEY
SHELLEY’S ELOPEMENT. 1918. 8vo, cloth; 296 pages; [out of print].
OWEN HATTERAS
PISTOLS FOR TWO. 1917. Contents: George Jean Nathan / H. L. Mencken.
12mo, paper; 48 pages; [out of print].
HAROLD M. HAYS, Major, M. C., U. S. A.
CHEERIO. 1919. 12mo, cloth; 297 pages, frontispiece; $1.50.
OTTO HELLER
PROPHETS OF DISSENT. 1918. 12mo, cloth; 228 pages; $1.50.
DANIEL HENDERSON
GREAT HEART. Introduction by Major-General Leonard Wood. 1919. 8vo,
cloth; 256 pages, illustrated; $2.50.
A. P. HERBERT
THE SECRET BATTLE. A Novel. 1920. 12mo, cloth; 266 pages; $2.00.