Gleams of Memory; with Some Reflections, is the happy title of Mr. James Payn's last book, published by Smith and Elder. The wit of the title flashes through every page of the single volume. Within its modest limits of space will be found not only some of the best stories of the day, but stories the best told. Not a superfluous word spoils the gems, which have been ruthlessly taken out of their setting and spread widecast through the circulation of many newspapers reviewing the work. My Baronite, fortunately, has not space at his disposal to join in this act of flat, though seductive, burglary. He advises everyone to go to the book itself. The reader will find himself enjoying the rare privilege of intimacy with a cultured mind, and a heart so kindly that temptation to say smart things at the expense of others, which underlies the possession of overflowing humour, is resisted, apparently without effort. Like the German Emperor or Mr. Justin Mccarthy, Mr. Payn probably "could be very nasty if he liked." He doesn't like, and is therefore himself liked all the better.

That little tale entitled The Black Patch, by Gertrude Clay Ker-Seymer, introduces to the public a rather novel character in the person of a Miss Clara Beauchamp an amateur female detective, to whom Sherlock Holmes, when he chooses to "come out of his ambush," (for no one believes he fell over that precipice and was killed about a year ago,) ought at once to propose. It would be an excellent firm. Clara would make our Holmes happy, and a certain advertising medicine provider bearing the same name as the heroine of this sporting story would have another big chance of increasing his "hoardings." The Baron, skilled as he is in plots, owns to having been now and again puzzled over this one which clever Clara the Clearer soon makes apparent to everybody. The story is a working out of the description of twins, how "each is so like both that you can't tell t'other from which." But mind you, not ordinary biped twins—oh dear no—they are.... No ... the Baron respects a lady's secret, and recommends the inquisitive to get the book and penetrate the mystery.

To all those who like a mystery, and who gratefully remember Florence Warden's House on the Marsh, let the Baron recommend A Perfect Fool, by the same authoress. Dickensian students will be struck by the fact of a "Mr. Dick" being kept on the premises. He is a caged Dickie, poor chap; but, like his ancestor the original Mr. Dick, he sets everybody right at last. The Baron dare not say more, lest he should let the Dickie out of the cage. The only disappointment, to old-fashioned novel-readers, at least, who love justice to be done, and the villain to receive worse than he has given, is in the moral of the tale; yet in these decadent Yellow Asterical and Green Carnational days it is as good as can be wished. Florence Warden is neither priggish nor Church-Wardenish; and so, when the scoundrel——But here, again, the Baron must put his finger to his lips, and ask you to read the story; when, and not till then, he may imagine whether you do not agree with him, "MystÈre!"

Curiosity has ever been a weakness of human nature, and that seems to be the only reason why so many make themselves uncomfortable by taking journeys to the Pole. Imitating Nansen, Gordon Stables, M.D., R.N., sends his hero To Greenland and the Pole, which he reaches after much "skilÖbning" (the book must be read to grasp its meaning), and receiving a chilly but polite welcome, with the arrogance of an Englishman breaks the cold silence by singing the "National Anthem," when of course the Pole is thawed at once!

Writes a Baronitess Junior, "Those little boys and girls who delight in fairy lore will find a charming story of magical adventures in Maurice; or, the Red Jar, by the Countess of Jersey, or more appropriately Countess of Jarsey. It is fantastically illustrated by Rosie M. M. Pitman, and published by Macmillan & Co., and shows how unpleasant a jar can be in a family. And yet has not the poet finely said, 'A thing of beauty is a Jar for ever!'"

The Baron is anxiously expecting the appearance from The Leadenhall Press of Mr. Tuer's Chap-book. Of course, all "the Chappies" from "Chap 1" to "Last Chap" are on the look out for it. The Baron fancies it will be a perfect fac-simile, and if not perfect, the merciful critic who is merciful to his author will say with the poet Pope

"Tu er is human,"

which is a most pope-ular quotation; while as to the latter half of the line "to forgive, divine"—that, in a measure, is one of the unstrained prerogatives of the

Beneficent Baron de B.-W.