e tale
Of deeds heroic, wrought at Duty's call!
The wind's our trumpeter; and east and west,
And north and south, all day, as on a quest
Of mirth and marvel,--all the live-long day
It bears the news about
Of all we do and dare, in our degree,
And all the land's great shout,
And all the pomp and pageant of the Sea!

[Decoration]

[Printer's Device: _Printed by R. Folkard & Son, 22, Devonshire St.,
Queen Sq., London._]

JUST READY: _Author's Edition, Crown 8vo., Price 5s. nett._

LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST

By ERIC MACKAY

LONDON: LAMLEY & CO., EXHIBITION ROAD, S.W.

"'LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST.'--Letters to make the ordinary writer
envious, and to awaken in lovers thanks to the poetical pen that has
given forth utterances so suited to their good health or malady. Here a
verse to cheer the almost hopeless; a stanza to teach the refraining a
lesson in charge and capture; lines to fall in love with the memory, to
charm the darkness, and be another light to rule the day. London was
yawning behind her giant hand. The moment was propitious, and any strain
of beauty was sure of an audience. At this felicitous moment a pipe of
splendour sounded. London ceased to yawn. A violinist was communicating
the passions of his heart to those who would listen, and amid great
interest he went from house to house a-singing.... Eric Mackay is one of
those wise men who have no immature volumes to haunt them. He first
asked right of way on the road to Parnassus with a bundle of melodies
which have never lost their appeal. While youth seeks the pink cheek,
these Love Letters will command the homage of lovers. Your Petrarchs are
not as common as sparrows.... These outpourings from a burning heart
will always compel the student of our literature to weigh them, sift
them, and establish them in some very honourable position. The charm of
this early book is its freedom from drag. It moves on always. The reader
is hastened along; he has wonderful and unexpected views, which ravish
him as the abrupt magnificences of the Pyrenees ravished Gautier.
Perhaps you expect a tree, but you see a stream. Now, at last, it must
be a great green hill, and behold! you peep down into an echoless mossy
depth of glen. At the next break in the quick, up towers a height of
fancy and simile! Thus the everlasting surprise goes on enchanting. From
wild to wild, from passion to passion, from cavern to star, are we