By the publication of _The Play Actress_ (S. R. CROCKETT) Mr. FISHER UNWIN fully maintains the success attained by his Autonym Library. My Baronite is least attracted by the scenes which possibly pleased the author most--those in which he describes life in the purlieus of London theatres. Mr. CROCKETT is much more at home in Galloway, and with the people who sparsely populate it. The opening chapter, describing Sabbath day in the Kirk of the Hill is in his best style, as are others describing the Great Preacher's tender caring for his little grand-daughter. _The Play Actress_ is just the sort of thing to buy at a bookstall on starting for a journey. It will be felt to be a matter of regret if the journey isn't quite long enough to finish it at a sitting. In _The Worst Woman in London_ ("and other stories," a subtitle craftily suppressed on the outside of the book by F. C. PHILIPS) the author gives us a number of capital detached stories of a most irritating abruptness. Almost every one of these stories is a novel thrown away; that is, every story is in itself the germ of what might have been a good novel. They are little more than "jottings for plottings." Yet, to be read with a pipe or small cigar, they just suffice to wile away time and obviate conversation. They are dedicated to Mr. WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK, who has on more than one occasion shown himself an adept at real good short stories--not merely as plots, but genuinely complete in themselves and full of humour--and from whom the Baron expects something more in the same line, or, rather, on the same lines. The BARON DE B.-W. * * * * * A MODERN ECLOGUE. SCENE--_A Crowded Thoroughfare._ _Enter_ STREPHON _and_ PHYLLIS _on bicycles, at the rate of fifteen miles an hour_. _Strephon._ We care not, PHYLLIS, my own, to-day, For walking in Kensington Park, To flirt in the old conventional way, And saunter home in the dark. Nay, pleasanter far it is to "scorch"-- To hear your silvery bell, While the answering squeak of my horn may speak For the fact that I love you well! _Both._ Oh, isn't it sweet to clear the street, While elderly persons frown! "Now, stoopid, look out!" we pleasantly shout, And bang goes a gentleman down! _Phyllis._ STREPHON, I love you, I confess, For who could fail to admire The humorous way you spoil a dress And ruin a girl's attire? To see you silently creep along, And then with a burst of speed Spread liberal dirt on the feminine skirt Is a sight for the gods, indeed! _Both._ Oh, isn't it glee to do it, and see The lady-pedestrian flinch, With jubilant rush to scatter the slush And miss her foot by an inch! _Strephon._ I frightened those horses, I'm much afraid,-- The excellent coachman's riled! _Phyllis._ And I've demolished a nursery-maid, And certainly hurt a child!