So many have gone ‘into the world of light’ that it is a happiness to think of him to whom _The Ballade of Golf_ was dedicated, and to remember that he is still capable of scoring his double century at cricket, and of lifting the ball high over the trees beyond the boundaries of a great cricket-field. Perhaps Mr. Leslie Balfour-Melville will pardon me for mentioning his name, linked as it is with so many common memories. ‘One is taken and another left.’ A different sort of memory attaches itself to _A Ballade of Dead Cities_. It was written in a Theocritean amoebean way, in competition with Mr. Edmund Gosse; he need not be ashamed of the circumstance, for another shepherd, who was umpire, awarded the prize (two kids just severed from their dams) to his victorious muse. The _Ballade of the Midnight Forest_, the Ballade of the Huntress Artemis, was translated from Théodore de Banville, whose beautiful poem came so near the Greek, that when the late Provost of Oriel translated a part of its English shadow into Greek hexameters, you might suppose, as you read, that they were part of a lost Homeric Hymn. I never wrote a _double ballade_, and stanzas four and five of the _Double Ballade of Primitive Man_ were contributed by the learned _doyen_ of Anthropology, Mr. E. B. Tylor, author of Primitive Culture. _À tout seigneur tout honneur_! In _Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre_, the Windburg is a hill in Teviotdale. _A Portrait of 1783_ was written on a French engraving after Morland, and _Benedetta Ramus_ was addressed to a mezzotint (an artist’s proof, ‘very rare’). It is after Romney and is ‘My Beauty,’ as Charles Lamb said (once, unluckily, to a Scot) of an engraving, after Lionardo, of some fair dead lady. The sonnet, _Natural Theology_, is the germ of what the author has since written, in _The Making of Religion_, on the long neglected fact that many of the lowest savages known share the belief in a benevolent All Father and Judge of men. Concerning verses in _Rhymes à la Mode_, visitors to St. Andrews may be warned not to visit St. Leonard’s Chapel, described in the second stanza of _Almae Matres_. In the writer’s youth, and even in middle age, He loitered idly where the tall Fresh-budded mountain-ashes blow Within its desecrated wall.