Mr. Max Pemberton has become a recognised leader in sword and cloak literature. None can tell bet er than he those delightful romances in which a stirring period of history, with its intrigues and battles, is made to serve as stage, scenery, and footlights, to say nothing of limelight when necessary, for the development of a charming love story. His latest attempt, The Hundred Days (Cassell: 65.) is delightfully done, and though one suspects that here and there Mr. Pemberton takes liberties with the Napoleon Bonaparte of the last phase but one, what does it matter? Napoleon helps our pair of lovers, and incidentally helps the book towards a happy ending, so what do we care? And Yvonne de Feyrolles - pretty, impetuous, at one moment as cold and harsh as a March wind, at another as soft and warm as a June zephyr-is a delightful creation, and the expatriated Englishman, Bernard St. Armand, was in every way worthy of her. Decidedly a novel to read and to enjoy. Our only regret is that The Hundred Days were not a thousand, for one's enjoyment would then have been longer.

The man who would set out to confute Mr. Gilbert Chesterton must be a very skilled dialectician indeed, for "G. K. C." is not only a maker of paradoxes, but he is a very close and convincing reasoner. Messrs. Pitman have just published, in a new series of reprints they are issuing, an abridged edition, in two volumes, of Boswell's Johnson. To this, Mr. Chesterton has written a preface, so clever and so sweetly reasonable for him that the reader is bound

to

pronounce this last abridgement of Boswell's famous biography a good thing. Of course, Mr. Chesterton, as a Daily News man and a Reformer, hammers, as of old and with unmitigated vigour, the age in which he lives and (dare we say it?) which has produced him. This time it is the sodden and sulky realism which is too common today" that excites his wrath. However, after reading his preface, we have nothing but praise for Messrs. Pitman's newly abridged edition of " Bozzy," Johnson the

advertisements of new series of reprints with the "Vicar of Wakefield" or Sterne's "Sentimental Journey" as a start off. It was time somebody found out there were other classics than these.

The novel still continues to hold its sway, and for every halfdozen books published, fiction will account for about four. We have only space enough left to mention a few by name. Divers Vanities, by Arthur Morrison (Methuen: 65.), is a volume of short stories, mostly dealing with that side of London life which the author introduced us to in his "Tales of Mean Streets." Dilys, by F. E. Penny (Chatto: 6s.), is a romantic story of life in India, in which the gipsies of the Great Dependency play a prominent part. The Last Chance, by Rolf Boldrewood (Macmillan: 6s.), is a tale of the Australian goldfields in Mr. Boldrewood's well-known style. We can recommend all these as worthy of being put on this week's library list. A litttle book which should be bought is The Pocket Richard Jefferies (Chatto and Windus: 25.). It contains extracts

Illus

irritable, the good-natured, the ill-humoured, the witty and the dogmatic, yet always the scholar, still stands out a majestic figure, with this difference, that he can be more easily compreLended. The mental vision of the business or professional man with little time to spare is not put to any strain, for, in "G. K. C.'s" words, this abridgement "is not all of Boswell certainly; but it is the best of him, and much more than any man having read can remember." And, if this is all that is wanted, you have it in these volumes, tastefully bound, and well printed in good, large, readable type. At five shillings, this edition of Poswell is not dear. Messrs. Pitman have also issued in this new series The Journal of George Fox, the famous Quaker, who has come down to fame as the "classic passive resister"; and also The Journal (abridged) of John Wesley. The late Hugh Price Hughes once said that the man who desires to understand the real history of the English people during the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries should read most carefully three books: George Fox's Journal,' 'John Wesley's Journal,' and John Henry Newman's 'Apologia Pro Vità Suâ."" Here then is the cultivated reader's opportunity to acquire the first two of these books, which are published in leather (5s.) and in paper (Is. net). The other book mentioned -Newman's "Apologia "—can be obtained in the Scott Library (Walter Scott) at one shilling. Messrs. Pitman are to be commended, not only on the get-up of their series of reprints, but also on the choice of the Looks selected. One is tired of seeing

from Jefferies various books and essays-just the sort of extracts that will make the reader long to know more of Jefferies. It is good to see this brilliant writer at last coming into his own, and receiving the popular attention which should have been his due and would have sweetened his lot so much while he

was living. The book is published in the same form as the "Pocket R. L. S." issued by the same firm, and we hope that it will be as widely read as it deserves to be.

It was with a secret joy that we sat up to the small hours of the morning to finish Mr. Alexander Macdonald's new book, In Search of El Dorado: A Wanderer's Experiences (Fisher Unwin: 10s. 6d. net.). It brought back reminiscences of those romances which were So eagerly sought after during boyhood, and read with such furtive zest romances in which "Wild I ill" and • Handsome Harry," loaded with an armoury of weapons (spelt "weepins," if memory serves), carried everything before them. It was with a pang that one gave them up for Scott, never to believe in them again. And now Mr. Macdonald has shattered the scepticism we have harboured against these heroes, and we are glad, for in the first few pages of his book, in a description of his arrival at Skagway, on the road to Klondike, he tells us how he was "held up by Soapy Sam, "a short, red-headed individual, with ruddy countenance to match, who fairly bristled with weapons of the most bloodthirsty description," as soon as he set foot on shore. Samuel showed an undue haste in making the author's acquaintance, and on being told so, he replied: For a darned Englisher you are mighty pert, an' I won't slaughter you—just yet. Still, for your future benefit, I may tell you that my handle is Soapy Sam, an' I've planted considerable men like you in my time. I'm a bad man, I is, but your ignorance saves ye.” Could anything be more delightful? The author's wanderings have led him all over the world digging for gold, silver, opals, and gum. The wonderful characters he has met are vividly drawn, and his two companions, Mac and Stewart, are men one would like to shake hands with. The finest thing in the book is the description of the journey over the Chilcoot Pass, and this is illustrated with an admirable photograph which gives one an idea of the terrors of travelling in that frozen country that pages of description could not do. We can conscientously say that we have had as much pleasure from this book as from the half-dozen best novels of the year. G. F. J.

From Spring to Autumn

Now that the autumn flowers of fiction are rearing their heads above the ground in such profusion, the thought occurs to one: What of the novels that bloomed in the spring? Alas! when we look around us we are impressed with the fact that most of them have faded and died, and, like all the pomp of Nineveh and Tyre, are "one with yesterday." There is no doubt and publishers are becoming increasingly alive to the fact that the life of the average novel is steadily shortening, until it is likely to become a matter of a week or two, instead of, as at present, say three months. And, note you, it has got to be a novel of considerable merit to last anything like three months. Who, for example, is talking to-day of the "Vicissitudes of Evangeline," by Mrs. Elinor Glyn, which, back in April, was the subject of so much discussion? What of "Baccarat," by Frank Danby? Why the very mention of the name seems to thro the memory back, not months, but years! "The Mask," by Mr. William Le Queux (announced as his "best novel "), does not seem to pique interest to-day, but so many stories by this same author have appeared, either serially or in book form, since the spring, that this is scarcely to be wondered at. Then there is "Peter's Mother," by Mrs. Henry de la Pasture, which was well to the front in April and May, and "A Spoiler of Men," by Mr. Richard Marsh, not to mention "Heirs of Reuben," by Mr. Chris Healy, and "Shining Ferry," by Mr. Quiller Couch, and scores of others by novelists more or less eminent-all of which may be reckoned with the butterflies of the season. Some few of them may enjoy a further spell of popularity in the sixpenny form, but for most not even this later brief happiness is reserved. Indeed, one has only to take a fairly consistent interest in fiction to realise that the monthly magazine enjoys about as long a spell of life as the average novel; and that some day new novels by writers of repute will be issued in the form of weekly publications- dailies, perhaps !-a complete novel occupying one number, as for many years used to be the feature of Lippincott's Magazine.

When Woman Proposes

to expect from its favourites. It is enough, however, that we may always rely upon being entertained by anything from Mr. Stoker's pen. Those of us who have read most of his books from that somewhat mystical production, "Under the Sunset," to his weird "Dracula," are apt to expect from him something that touches the supernatural, or is, at least, uncanny in its association. Indeed, "Dracula " has become almost synonymous in recent fiction with the gruesome. But there is nothing grim or grisly

in his latest novel, "The Man" (Heinemann: 6s.), which will, I fancy, prove one of the successful books of this season. It is quite unusual, both in conception and in treatment, and is written with Mr. Stoker's unfailing grace and vivacity of manner. The novelist has been very careful to prepare the reader by his ingenious description of the peculiar circumstances in which his heroine has been reared to make feasible the idea of woman proposing.

Mr. Bram Stoker

Not only in his literary work, but in his whole career, has Mr. Bram Stoker given evidence of remarkable versatility. He is a graduate of Dublin University, and served for a good number of years in the Irish Civil Service, being, at the time of his resignation, Inspector of Petty Sessions. But he had, meanwhile, been engaged in different literary enterprises, writing a good deal for the Press in literary, art, and dramatic criticism, and editing a Dublin evening paper; which indicates that the Irish Civil servant cannot be harassed with too much official work. It was in 1878 that Mr. Stoker joined Sir Henry Irving, when the later took over the management of the Lyceum Theatre, and he has continued with him ever since, chiefly as literary adviser. Among his diversions, after coming to London, was to study for the Bar, but, although he is a member of the Inner Temple, I am not aware that he has ever practised. A splendid specimen of the brawny Irishman,

Mr. Bram Stoker is one of the most versatile of our novelists. You can never quite reckon as to where you will have him in the next book he produces. With anyone but a man of Mr. Stoker's brilliant gifts this would be a disadvantage, as the public likes to know exactly what

of the last ten years. The title of his new book is "He Loved but One," and it is a romance based on the love-story of Lord Byron and Mary Chaworth. If one were sufficiently interested in the comparative merits of English and American fiction, I should advise the reading of "The Castaway," a novel by Miss Hallie Erminie Rives, an American writer, which had a huge success last year, and which is also concerned with the love-story of Byron, to be followed by a reading of Mr. Frankfort Moore's new work. Nothing could better illustrate how not to do it, and how to do it; for in every detail is Mr. Moore's romance admirable. Mr. Moore has been happily inspired in his subject, and "He Loved but One" will certainly rank with his best.

tioned to me at the time, is worth relating. He had described a picture hanging in a certain position in Annesley Hall, merely for the purpose of his story, and without having any actual warranty for doing SO. Oddly enough, after he had written this chapter, he discovered, on visiting Annesley for the first time, that just such a picture as he had imagined was actually hanging in that position! I am glad to be able to give a reproduction of a charming little miniature of Mary Chaworth, which is in the possession of a Nottingham friend of mine. It shows Mr. Frankfort Moore's heroine in the flower of her youth and beauty. "If

still it is in the way of acquiring much valuable information and some genuine literature as well. Mr. Andrew Lang writes much in the newspapers. Rather do people read too much, and fail to take that bovine leisure for the chewing of the cud of their reading, which is more important than the reading itself. I would set down to insular selfsufficiency the ignorance in respect to "Port of Moscow" (which is news to me), just as the average American is not aware of the fact that the postage on a letter to England is five cents. In many ways the Yankee is more insular than we Islanders. As a provincial editor for some years, I must have answered hundreds of times the question, "Is London a seaport?" and "Is England a peninsula?" But these questions did not arise from want of reading; from want of understanding rather. As to cheapening books on the French plan, I have never believed in it. Books are better published in a good

binding, as thus are publishers always on their mettle for improving the appearance of their volumes, and it saves the buyer a good deal of trouble to procure his book tastefully bound, instead of having to take it to a binder to clothe for him. As a matter of fact, an English book, well bound, which sells at 4s. 6d., is cheaper than a French book in paper wrapper at 3 francs 50 cent.

Lucky Colours

I have long had it in my mind to say a word on the colour of book-covers, a matter that exercises the thoughts of publishers more than the ordinary reader might suppose. Even the books of Our novelists, whose reputations are established beyond all such adventitious aid as the outward attractiveness of their works, are usually issued in some distinctive binding. Miss Corelli's books are generally bound in blue cloth; Mr. Hall Caine's, in a ruddy brown; Mr. Barrie s, in dark blue buckram (thick boards and bulking paper, as they are all so short); Mr. Crockett's, invariably, in dark green. But, generally speaking, the colour which publishers believe in is red. I would venture the guess that seventy-five per cent. of the novels issued last year were bound in red. It is supposed to be the most serviceable colour, as it does not soil readily, and is always noticeable. In a word, it is the "lucky" colour; but the fact that it is so greatly run upon would suggest that any colour which would be in contrast ought now to attract attention. It is seldom wise to produce a dainty book that is liable to soil-say, in white linen-as the bookseller will not stock it.

I have known of several excellent works which were failures for this reason.

Jatt.

The season which has just come The International to an end has been so entirely Interest Predominant dominated by what I may term the American and Australian invasion, that its history seems to have begun, continued, and ended in a chronicle of the doings of our distinguished visitors. And, after all, it is quite natural that this should be so, for, apart from those doings, there has been little or nothing of exceptional interest to arrest our attention. The play has had a successful run, and the leading actors in it have performed their parts with credit; time has added to, rather than impaired, their skill, and yet, however satisfied we may be with the performance as a whole, we cannot help wishing that there had been a few more competent understudies in the cast, just to assure us that when the old hands drop out, their rôles will be adequately filled. As things are at present, we cannot point with confidence to anyone, with the exception of A. F. Wilding, and perhaps of H. N. Marrett, if he can find sufficient time,

Photo by

Miss Eastlake Smith Who has a very chic appearance on a tennis court

among the men, and Miss Eastlake Smith among the women, who is likely to prove equal to this.

The Game

And yet, on the other hand, there can be no question that the game itself is going ahead. Of the hold which it has obtained, and the progress which it has made, in nearly every civilised portion of the globe, it is unnecessary to speak-only the other day I was asked to decide a knotty point which arose in connection with the Championship of the Island of Mauritius-but in the United Kingdom itself, the number of people who play tennis, not merely for amusement, or for the sake of the exercise, but, as it were, in a competitive spirit, and with the desire to improve, if not to excel, is increasing year by year. The list of tournament fixtures grows and grows, and while, speaking generally, there are entries enough for them all, the stress of competition is just heavy enough to keep them up to the mark, with the result that we get better courts, better management, and so on, than

G. and R. Lavis

we did a few years back. The public, too, are beginning to recognise that lawn tennis yields to no other game from a spectacular point of view, and that plenty of amusement can be obtained from watching matches even between moderately good players. I am not sure that the handicap business is not being a bit overdone; the good players, I know, are beginning to tire of incessant handicap play, and I think that any tournament which cannot go in for the full number of loca' events, and handicaps as well, might find it pa to cut down the latter instead of the former. Especially would I like to see more Men's Doubles (level), and I attribute the fact that there are so few pairs-in the sense of pairs who play regularly together at the present time to the comparative neglect with which this most fasc nating branch of the game is treated by tournament organisers.

The Players

Turning to the players themselves, we may congratulate ourselves on having as our champion, a player who is a little better than the best that other countries can send against us. H. L. Doh rty has not proved absolutely invincible, for he was beaten by Brookes in the "friendly "- to torrow a football expression