English peasants—­at least it would have looked natural to English people? and the wekeel would not seem so like a madman if he had taken off a hat!’ I cordially agree with Yoosuf’s art criticism. Fancy pictures of Eastern things are hopelessly absurd.

Mrs. Ross has certainly produced a most fascinating volume, and her book is one of the books of the season.  It is edited with tact and judgment.

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Caroline, by Lady Lindsay, is certainly Lady Lindsay’s best work.  It is written in a very clever modern style, and is as full of esprit and wit as it is of subtle psychological insight.  Caroline is an heiress, who, coming downstairs at a Continental hotel, falls into the arms of a charming, penniless young man.  The hero of the novel is the young man’s friend, Lord Lexamont, who makes the ‘great renunciation,’ and succeeds in being fine without being priggish, and Quixotic without being ridiculous.  Miss Ffoulkes, the elderly spinster, is a capital character, and, indeed, the whole book is cleverly written.  It has also the advantage of being in only one volume.  The influence of Mudie on literature, the baneful influence of the circulating library, is clearly on the wane.  The gain to literature is incalculable.  English novels were becoming very tedious with their three volumes of padding—­at least, the second volume was always padding—­and extremely indigestible.  A reckless punster once remarked to me, apropos of English novels, that ‘the proof of the padding is in the eating,’ and certainly English fiction has been very heavy—­heavy with the best intentions.  Lady Lindsay’s book is a sign that better things are in store for us.  She is brief and bright.

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What are the best books to give as Christmas presents to good girls who are always pretty, or to pretty girls who are occasionally good?  People are so fond of giving away what they do not want themselves, that charity is largely on the increase.  But with this kind of charity I have not much sympathy.  If one gives away a book, it should be a charming book—­so charming, that one regrets having given it, and would not take it back.  Looking over the Christmas books sent to me by various publishers, I find that these are the best and the most pleasing:  Gleanings from the ‘Graphic,’ by Randolph Caldecott, a most fascinating volume full of sketches that have real wit and humour of line, and are not simply dependent on what the French call the legende, the literary explanation; Meg’s Friend, by Alice Corkran, one of our most delicate and graceful prose-writers in the sphere of fiction, and one whose work has the rare artistic qualities of refinement and simplicity; Under False Colours, by Sarah Doudney, an excellent story; The Fisherman’s Daughter, by Florence Montgomery, the author of Misunderstood, a tale with real charm of idea and treatment; Under a Cloud, by the author of The Atelier du Lys, and quite worthy of its author; The Third Miss St. Quentin, by Mrs. Molesworth, and A Christmas Posy from the same fascinating pen, and with delightful illustrations by Walter Crane.  Miss Rosa Mulholland’s Giannetta and Miss Agnes Giberne’s Ralph Hardcastle’s Will are also admirable books for presents, and the bound volume of Atalanta has much that is delightful both in art and in literature.