ist of the hundred best books (or,
to be strictly accurate, of ninety-nine of them) is also given. It
provides heavy reading for a hundred years at the very least. As a
set-off to this ponderosity there are the letters of BURNE-JONES,
fresh, amiable and delightful, as also those of Professor JAMES
STUART, which are among the best in the collection. Mr. A.J. BALFOUR
appears as the owner of four concertinas, on which he was willing "to
play with anyone who would accompany him through any of the oratorios
of Handel." RUSKIN writes to CARLYLE, addressing him as "Dearest
Papa," and signing himself "Ever your faithful and loving son." The
letters of GEORGE WYNDHAM are a charming collection, shining with hope
and idealism yet never losing their touch of the firm earth. This book
was nearly completed by the late Mr. MARCH PHILLIPS, and after his
untimely death the task was brought to a conclusion by Mr. CHRISTIAN.
On the whole the work has been done with great discretion, but there
is a passage relating to GEORGE ELIOT on pp. 193, 194 which ought to
have been omitted.

* * * * *

Miss MILLS YOUNG tells us that _John Musgrave_, the middle-aged hero
of _Coelebs_ (LANE), "was not a prig, but he came perilously near to
being one at times." Well, if anyone ought to know, it is his creator,
so I will accept her word for it, though for myself I should have
called him a first-class prig. The little village in which he lived
his bachelor existence was invaded by some up-to-date people who took
the Hall, and proceeded to liven up things. _Mrs. Chadwick_ freely
shocked the poor man; she smoked, was a reckless conversationalist and
had modern ideas, all which disturbed the decorous manner of his life.
Moreover, she had taken upon herself the heavy task of finding him
a wife, and _John's_ phlegmatic heart began to flutter when he saw
_Peggy_, her lady-gardener and niece, standing on a ladder, in blue
trousers. He was incensed by such apparel, but he was also intrigued.
From that moment his number, as they say, was up. Apart from a
dog-incident, which is far too prolonged, and some rather cheap
sarcasm at the expense of a wretched spinster, this tale of _John's_
conversion from something drier than dust to a human being is neatly
told. All the same I prefer Miss YOUNG'S South African stories.

* * * * *

My conjecture about _The Magic Gate_ (HUTCHINSON) is that its author,
MA