arms on one uplifted from the goddess's side, an exquisite piece of composition, the awakening image stoops from the carved capital, blossom-strewn by the adoring Pygmalion, her eyes raised in awe up to the goddess, who with fixed gaze and pointed finger inspires her with the Promethean fire of life. Lastly, 'The Soul Attains.' Heart and soul are alike satisfied. Pygmalion kneels, looking up in trembling worship at the beautiful creature who lingeringly yields him her hands, though she still gazes out beyond him in dumb amazement at the mystery of consciousness that has suddenly been born in her. Marble no longer, but not yet altogether woman." "Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time," is even more appropriate to Burne-Jones than to its author, William Morris, and it is an ever-to-be-regretted misfortune that two poems only of those comprised in _The Earthly Paradise_ should have received at his hands that illuminative pictorial treatment which he, "the arch-dreamer of the nineteenth century," as Cosmo Monkhouse styles him, alone could give. Thanks to Mr. Frederick Hollyer, we have in the reproductions which follow faithful transcripts, in all but color, of the original paintings, and can carry out, after the lapse of a quarter of a century and in another hemisphere, a project which both Burne-Jones and William Morris held dear, but which neither of them lived to see realized. To their memory this book, together with the recently re-issued _Doom of King Acrisius_, is dedicated. FITZROY CARRINGTON. ORIENTA COTTAGE, MAMARONECK, NEW YORK, DECEMBER ELEVENTH, 1902 [Illustration: A] MAN OF CYPRUS, A SCULPTOR NAMED PYGMALION, MADE AN IMAGE OF A WOMAN, FAIRER THAN ANY THAT HAD YET BEEN SEEN, AND IN THE END CAME TO LOVE HIS OWN HANDIWORK AS THOUGH IT HAD BEEN ALIVE: WHEREFORE, PRAYING TO VENUS FOR HELP, HE OBTAINED HIS END, FOR SHE MADE THE IMAGE ALIVE INDEED, AND A WOMAN, AND PYGMALION WEDDED HER. _WILLIAM MORRIS_ [Illustration: A]t Amathus, that from the southern side Of Cyprus looks across the Syrian sea, There did in ancient time a man abide Known to the island-dwellers, for that he Had wrought most godlike works in imagery, And day by day still greater honor won, Which man our old books call Pygmalion. Yet in the praise of men small joy he had, But walked abroad with downcast, brooding face. Nor yet by any damsel was made glad; For, sooth to say, the women of that place Must seem to all men an accursed race, Who with the turner of all hearts once strove, So in their hearts must carry lust for love. Now on a day it chanced that he had been About the streets, and on the crowded quays, Rich with unopened wealth of bales, had seen The dark-eyed merchants of the Southern seas In chaffer with the base Propoetides, And heavy-hearted gat him home again, His once-loved life grown idle, poor, and vain.