ARLES VILLIERS STANFORD'S book
of reminiscences contain so good a story that I cannot forbear to quote
them. The tale concerns the famous conductor HANS VON BUELOW, who (says
Sir CHARLES) was once taking the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra through a
rehearsal at which some ladies had been invited to be present. They
indulged in whisperings and chatterings which greatly disturbed the
players. BUELOW turned round and said, "Ladies, we are not here to save
the Capitol, but to make music." Pretty neat that for a Prussian! It is
an example of the many excellent tales to be found in _Pages from an
Unwritten Diary_ (ARNOLD). Some of the best of them concern this same
BUELOW, and have done much to disprove my personal belief in the
non-existence of German humour. But throughout his book Sir CHARLES is
the best of good company. Whether he is chatting about Royalty--there is
a rather moving little anecdote of QUEEN VICTORIA and TENNYSON that was
new to me--or telling again the often-told history of the Cambridge
Greek Plays and the A.D.C., he has a happy pen for a point, and even the
chestnuts inevitable in such a collection are served with a flavour of
originality. I must be allowed to quote one more of VON BUELOW'S good
things. A gushing lady at a musical party begged for an introduction to
the great man. Which being given, "_Oh, Monsieur von Buelow_," she said,
"_vous connaissez Monsieur Wagner, n'est-ce pas?_" Bowing, and without a
shade of surprise, BUELOW answered at once, "_Mais oui, Madame; c'est le
mari de ma femme!_" A great man!

* * *

I am quite prepared to accept Mr. LINDSAY BASHFORD'S _Cupid in the Car_
(CHAPMAN AND HALL) as a nice unpretentious diary of a motor-tour on and
about the Franco-German Frontier, ingeniously done into novel form and
wholesomely seasoned with adventure and the arrangement of marriages
shortly to take place. And I distinctly like his taciturn paragon of a
chauffeur, _Eugene_--a nephew of _Enery Straker_ the voluble, as I
should judge from a certain family resemblance and, by the way, much too
intelligent to murder his French phrases in the hopeless manner which
the author, none too scrupulous in these little touches, suggests. But
whether Mr. BASHFORD hasn't spoilt an enthusiastic travel book without
producing quite a plausible novel--a defect of tactics rather than of
capacity--and whether the book doesn't show too many signs of the hustle
and vibration of the car are questions that