f Learned Clerks_.)

Undeniably ours is an age in which fond memory fills not only the heart of
man but the shelves of the circulating libraries to a degree bordering upon
excess. But, let reminiscences be even more frequent than they are, there
would yet remain a welcome for such a book as Mr. W.H. MALLOCK'S attractive
_Memoirs of Life and Literature_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL). The reason of this
lies not more in the interest of what is told than in the fact that these
memories have the advantage of being recalled by one who is master of a
singularly engaging pen. Nothing in the book better displays its quality of
charm than the opening chapters, with their picture of an old-world
Devonshire, and in particular the group of related houses in which the
boyhood of the future anti-socialist was so delightfully spent. Gracious
homes have always had a special appeal to the author of _The New Republic_,
as you are here reminded in a score of happy recollections. Then comes
Oxford, and that meeting with SWINBURNE in the Balliol drawing-room that
seems to have been the common experience of memoir-writers. Some
entertaining chapters give a cheerful picture of London life when Mr.
MALLOCK entered it, and Society, still Polite, opened its most exclusive
doors to the young explorer. The rest of the book is devoted to a record of
friendships, travel, an analysis of the writer's literary activities, and a
host of good stories. Perhaps I have just space for one quotation--the
prayer delivered by the local minister in the hall of Ardverike: "God bless
Sir John; God bless also her dear Leddyship; bless the tender youth of the
two young leddies likewise. We also unite in begging Thee to have mercy on
the puir governess." A book of singular fragrance and individuality.

The Victorians used to talk, perhaps do still, about the lure of the stage;
but I am inclined to suppose this was as nothing beside the lure of the
stage-novel. All our writers apparently feel it, and in most cases their
bones whiten the fields of failure. But amongst those of whom this
certainly cannot be said is Mr. HORACE A. VACHELL, whose new book, _The
Fourth Dimension_ (MURRAY), has both pleased and astonished me by its
freedom from those defects that so often ruin the theatrical story. For one
thing, of course, the explanation of this lies in my sustaining confidence
that I was being handed out the genuine stuff. When a dramatist of Mr.
VACHELL'S experience says that stage-