hearing the rustle of opera-cloaks and the distant cab-whistles. Charming, charming. Mr. H.B. SOMERVILLE has furnished a pleasant entertainment, and one that (like all good readers or spectators) you will enjoy none the less because of its entire familiarity. * * * * * _The Flight of Mariette_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL) is a slender volume, whose simplicity gives it a poignancy both incongruous and grim. Much of it you might compare to the diary of a butterfly before and whilst being broken on the wheel. _Mariette_, the jolly little maid of Antwerp, was so tender and harmless a butterfly; and the machine that broke her life and drove her to the martyrdom of exile was so huge and cruel a thing. How cruel in its effects it is well for us just now to be again reminded, lest, in these days of hurrying horrors, remembrance should be weakened. To that extent therefore Miss GERTRUDE E.M. VAUGHAN has done good service in compiling this human document of accusation. In a preface Mr. JOHN GALSWORTHY pleads the cause of our refugee guests, not so much for charity as for comprehension. Certainly, _The Flight of Mariette_ will do much to further such understanding. I think I need only add that half the proceeds of its sale will go to feed the seven million Belgians still in Belgium (prey to the twin wolves of Prussia and starvation) for you to see that three shillings and sixpence could hardly be better used than in the purchase of a copy. * * * * * I was beginning to wonder whether Mr. EDEN PHILLPOTTS was suffering from writer's cramp, so much longer than usual does it seem since I heard from him. Now, however, my anxiety is relieved by _My Devon Year_ (SCOTT), a delightful book which could have come from no other pen than his. It is a marvel how many fragrant things he still finds to say, and with what inexhaustible freshness, about his beloved county. I hesitate to give these sketches an indiscriminate recommendation, because to those who walk through the country with closed eyes they will have little or no meaning; but if you are in love with beauty and can appreciate its translation into exquisite language you will draw from them a real and lasting joy. Let me confess now that I once asked Mr. PHILLPOTTS to give Devonshire a rest, and that I accept _My Devon Year_ as a convincing proof that this request was ill-considered. * * * * *