When he remarries, a new step-sister enters Molly's quiet life – loveable, but worldly and troubling, Cynthia. The narrative traces the development of the two girls into womanhood within the gossiping and watchful society of Hollingford.Wives and Daughters is far more than a nostalgic evocation of village life; it offers an ironic critique of mid-Victorian society. 'No nineteenth-century novel contains a more devastating rejection than this of the Victorian male assumption of moral authority', writes Pam Morris in her introduction to this new edition, in which she explores the novel's main themes – the role of women, Darwinism and the concept of Englishness – and its literary and social context.

    ATALANTA IN CALYDON is a drama in classical Greek form, which revealed Swinburne's metrical skills and brought him celebrity. POEMS AND BALLADS brought him notoriety and demonstrates his preoccupation with de Sade, masochism, and femmes fatales. Also reproduced here is 'Notes on Poems and Reviews', a pamphlet Swinburne published in 1866 in response to hostile reviews of POEMS AND BALLADS.

    Her malicious intrigues fuel the plot of this gripping melodrama: a tale of confused identities, inherited curses, romantic rivalries, espionage, money—and murder. The character of Lydia Gwilt horrified contemporary critics, with one reviewer describing her as "One of the most hardened female villains whose devices and desires have ever blackened fiction." She remains among the most enigmatic and fascinating women in nineteenth-century literature and the dark heart of this most sensational of Victorian "sensation novels."

    I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep ;Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap :I am weary of days and hours,Blown buds of barren flowers,Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or earWan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer ;They drive adrift, and whitherThey wot not who make thither ;But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine,But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine,Pale beds of blowing rushesWhere no leaf blooms or blushesSave this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn,They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born ;And like a soul belated,In hell and heaven unmated,By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell,Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell ;Though one were fair as roses,His beauty clouds and closes ;And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she standsWho gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands ;Her languid lips are sweeterThan love’s who fears to greet herTo men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born ;Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn ;And spring and seed and swallowTake wing for her and followWhere summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings ;And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things ;Dead dreams of days forsaken,Blind buds that snows have shaken,Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure ;To-day will die to-morrow ; Time stoops to no man’s lure ;And love, grown faint and fretful,With lips but half regretfulSighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free,We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may beThat no life lives for ever ;That dead men rise up never ;That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light :Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight :Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,Nor days nor things diurnal ;Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.

    Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: 'Come buy our orchard fruits; Come buy; come by…' -Excerpt from Goblin Market

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