Succes we played, and silly dreams, needs unwise, and thoughts

ou are far from me it seems redthe foolishness in you:

dest ou had for me alone,

And even death can never take

The secrets only I have known

And reasured yet I shall awake,

And in that you are gone, and know Iand bitter is the smart How sweet a

When aughter of the years ago

Leasonely echoes in the heart.

The Boukman.

Mary Arden.

SONG OF PREROGATIVES.

Voice of the Night.

"Eyes re have, O people, for your

weeping!

Death carries not alway

Weep while ye may!

"Blood ye have, O people, for the spilling!

Give cause that none should plead
With ye to bleed.

"Hearts ye have, O people, for the breaking!

And Dynasties foresworn!

Hold hearts in scorn.

"Souls ye have, O people, for the losing

Whom his soul would save

Should seek the grave!"

to me after r was that of a life of the viAmerican Civil the North, fiftyI had a conscious· perhaps equaled in

d to me that I should the Rim" came to be Henry James not as a will approach this sketch Pred interest of critics than Vapathy of friends, and to

tails of its origin may be thin the Rim" was one of Henry James ever wrote, w things he wrote about the r. 1914, I organized a matinee financial foundations of the scheme started by Miss Confor the relief of artists in distress war.

aturally relied on dramatic and tainments as our chief sources at as all the four arts had beney by our fund we wished to give and literature an opportunity of their contributions through the of an album. I was lunching with nes in February, 1915, and he to write something for us. "It be about the war,' he said, "I can nothing else." Three weeks later he e to lunch with him again in order e might read me what he had written. see him now sitting in front of the us tongue caressing the words conduct

verbal orchestration with his foot, as y beating time he could force his compliDassages into a shape intelligible to the

or.

ter it was over he brushed aside my s and began talking about the war i then the younger generation till graduunder the spell of his conversation, ch faded into tea, and it was time for me go. I asked for the precious manuscript, ut he told me he would send it round by messenger, as I was certain to leave it in the taxi. I assured him that I would look after and cherish it like a child. So he confided it to my care.

Ultimately the Committee of the Arts Fund abandoned the idea of an album.

I told Henry James and asked him if he would like me to return him his manuscript, but he said: "It is yours, my dear child, to do what you will with."

The last time I saw him was in November, 1915, at a view of my sister's wedding presents. I again asked him whether he really wanted me to keep "Within the Rim," and he assured me that he did. He then inquired what I would wear as a bridesmaid. "Orange," I told him. "I shall see you tomorrow as a flame," he said. Thirty-six hours later he had his stroke, and I never saw him again.

Now that he is dead I am publishing "Within the Rim" for the purpose for which he originally intended it.

It is his legacy to the literature of the war and to the English nation, for it shows him not only as a great artist, but as a great soldier fighting our battles.

March, 1916.

Elizabeth Asquith.

vivacity my present consciousness of age. The illusion was complete, in its immediate rush; everything quite exactly matched in the two cases; the tension of the hours after the flag of the Union had been fired upon in South Carolina living again, with a tragic strangeness of recurrence, in the interval during which the fate of Belgium hung in the scales and the possibilities of that of France looked this country harder in the face, one recognized, than any possibility, even that of the England of the Armada, even that of the long Napoleonic menace, could be imagined to have looked her. The analogy quickened and deepened with every elapsing hour; the drop of the balance under the invasion of Belgium reproduced with intensity the agitation of the New England air by Mr. Lincoln's call to arms, and I went about for a short space as with the queer secret locked in my breast of at least already knowing how such occasions helped and what a big war was going to mean. That this was literally a light in the darkness, or that it materially helped the prospect to be considered, is perhaps more than I can say; but it at least added the strangest of savors, an inexpressible romantic thrill, to the harsh taste of the crisis: I found myself literally knowing "by experience" what immensities, what monstrosities, what revelations of what immeasurabilities, our affair would carry in its bosom

-a knowledge that flattered me by its hint of immunity from illusion. The sudden new tang in the atmosphere, the flagrant difference, as one noted, in the look of everything, especially in that of people's faces, the expressions, the hushes, the clustered groups, the detached wonderers, and slow-paced public meditators, were so many impressions long before received and in

The first sense of it all to me after the first shock and horror was that of a sudden leap back into life of the violence with which the American Civil War broke upon us, at the North, fiftyfour years ago, when I had a consciousness of youth which perhaps equaled in

*It has been suggested to me that I should explain how "Within the Rim" came to be written.

Those who knew Henry James not as a name but as a man will approach this sketch less with the detached interest of critics than with the warm sympathy of friends, and to them these few details of its origin may be of interest. "Within the Rim" was one of the last things Henry James ever wrote, and one of the few things he wrote about the

war.

In November, 1914, I organized a matinee which laid the financial foundations of the Arts Fund-a scheme started by Miss Constance Collier for the relief of artists in distress owing to the war.

We had naturally relied on dramatic and musical entertainments as our chief sources of income, but as all the four arts had benefited equally by our fund we wished to give to painting and literature an opportunity of making their contributions through the medium of an album. I was lunching with Henry James in February, 1915, and he promised to write something for us. "It must be about the war," he said, "I can think of nothing else." Three weeks later he asked me to lunch with him again in order that he might read me what he had written.

I can see him now sitting in front of the fire, his tongue caressing the words-conducting his verbal orchestration with his foot, as if by beating time he could force his complicated passages into a shape intelligible to the listener.

After it was over he brushed aside my thanks and began talking about the war and then the younger generation till gradually, under the spell of his conversation, lunch faded into tea, and it was time for me

to go. I asked for the precious manuscript, but he told me he would send it round by messenger, as I was certain to leave it in the taxi. I assured him that I would look after and cherish it like a child. So he confided it to my care.

Ultimately the Committee of the Arts Fund abandoned the idea of an album.

I told Henry James and asked him if he would like me to return him his manuscript, but he said: "It is yours, my dear child, to do what you will with."

The last time I saw him was in November, 1915, at a view of my sister's wedding presents. I again asked him whether he really wanted me to keep "Within the Rim," and he assured me that he did. He then inquired what I would wear as a bridesmaid. "Orange,' told him. "I shall see you tomorrow as a flame," he said. Thirty-six hours later he had his stroke, and I never saw him again.

I

vivacity my present consciousness of age. The illusion was complete, in its immediate rush; everything quite exactly matched in the two cases; the tension of the hours after the flag of the Union had been fired upon in South Carolina living again, with a tragic strangeness of recurrence, in the interval during which the fate of Belgium hung in the scales and the possibilities of that of France looked this country harder in the face, one recognized, than any possibility, even that of the England of the Armada, even that of the long Napoleonic menace, could be imagined to have looked her. The analogy quickened and deepened with every elapsing hour; the drop of the balance under the invasion of Belgium reproduced with intensity the agitation of the New England air by Mr. Lincoln's call to arms, and I went about for a short space as with the queer secret locked in my breast of at least already knowing how such occasions helped and what a big war was going to mean. That this was literally a light in the darkness, or that it materially helped the prospect to be considered, is perhaps more than I can say; but it at least added the strangest of savors, an inexpressible romantic thrill, to the harsh taste of the crisis: I found myself literally knowing "by experience" what immensities, what monstrosities, what revelations of what immeasurabilities, our affair would carry in its bosom

-a knowledge that flattered me by its hint of immunity from illusion. The sudden new tang in the atmosphere, the flagrant difference, as one noted, in the look of everything, especially in that of people's faces, the expressions, the hushes, the clustered groups, the detached wonderers, and slow-paced public meditators, were so many impressions long before received and in