the initiated, discriminating few; their fine, golden books merely rare "items" for the collector. Among other things, posterity is going to demand of us why, when the opportunity was ours, we did not open our hearts to Arthur Machen and name him among the very great.

[1] I have let this last assertion stand as part of the original article, although Mr. Machen writes me that I am in error. "I never read a line of Baudelaire," he says, "but I have read deeply in Poe, who, I believe, derives largely from Baudelaire." Of course, it is the other way 'round, Baudelaire derives from Poe, but my own assumption is rendered clear.—V.S.

[1]

 THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE BARD In the darkness of old age let not my memory fail: Let me not forget to celebrate the beloved land of Gwent. If they imprison me in a deep place, in a house of pestilence, Still shall I be free, remembering the sunshine upon Mynydd Maen. There have I listened to the song of the lark, my soul has ascended with the song of the little bird: The great white clouds were the ships of my spirit, sailing to the haven of the Almighty. Equally to be held in honour is the site of the Great Mountain. Adorned with the gushing of many waters— sweet is the shade of its hazel thickets. There a treasure is preserved which I will not celebrate; It is glorious and deeply concealed. If Teils should return, if happiness were restored to the Cymri, Dewi and Dyfrig should serve his Mass; then a great marvel would be made visible. O blessed and miraculous work! then should my bliss be as the joy of angels. I had rather behold this offering than kiss the twin lips of dark Gwenllian. Dear my land of Gwent: O quam dilecta tabernacula. Thy rivers are like precious golden streams of Paradise, thy hills are as the Mount Syon. Better a grave on Twyn Barlwm than a throne in the palace of the Saxons at Caer-Ludd. ARTHUR MACHEN THE PRAISE OF MYFANWY O gift of the everlasting: O wonderful and hidden mystery. Many secrets have been vouchsafed to me, I have been long acquainted with the wisdom of the trees; Ash and oak and elm have communicated to me from my boyhood, The birch and the hazel and all the trees of the greenwood have not been dumb. There is a caldron rimmed with pearls of whose gifts I am not ignorant; I will speak little of it; its treasures are known to the Bards. Many went on the search of Caer-Pedryfan, Seven alone returned with Arthur, but my spirit was present. Seven are the apple-trees in a beautiful orchard; I have eaten of their fruit which is not bestowed on Saxons. I am not ignorant of a Head which is glorious and venerable; It made perpetual entertainment for the warriors, their joys 

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