It is simply a society paragraph
expanded into three volumes and, like most paragraphs of the kind, is in
the worst possible taste. We are not by any means surprised that the
author, while making free with the names of others, has chosen to conceal
his own name; for no reputation could possibly survive the production of
such silly, stupid work; but we must say that we are surprised that this
book has been brought out by the Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty
the Queen. We do not know what the duties attaching to this office are,
but we should not have thought that the issuing of vulgar stories about
the Royal Family was one of them.

From Heather Hills is very pleasant reading indeed. It is healthy
without being affected; and though Mrs. Perks gives us many descriptions
of Scotch scenery we are glad to say that she has not adopted the common
chromo-lithographic method of those popular North British novelists who
have never yet fully realised the difference between colour and colours,
and who imagine that by emptying a paint box over every page they can
bring before us the magic of mist and mountain, the wonder of sea or
glen. Mrs. Perks has a grace and delicacy of touch that is quite
charming, and she can deal with nature without either botanising or being
blatant, which nowadays is a somewhat rare accomplishment. The interest
of the story centres on Margaret Dalrymple, a lovely Scotch girl who is
brought to London by her aunt, takes every one by storm and falls in love
with young Lord Erinwood, who is on the brink of proposing to her when he
is dissuaded from doing so by a philosophic man of the world who thinks
that a woodland Artemis is a bad wife for an English peer, and that no
woman who has a habit of saying exactly what she means can possibly get
on in smart society. The would-be philosopher is ultimately hoist with
his own petard, as he falls in love himself with Margaret Dalrymple, and
as for the weak young hero he is promptly snatched up, rather against his
will, by a sort of Becky Sharp, who succeeds in becoming Lady Erinwood.
However, a convenient railway accident, the deus ex machina of nineteenth-
century novels, carries Miss Norma Novello off; and everybody is finally
made happy, except, of course, the philosopher, who gets only a lesson
where he wanted to get love. There is just one part of the novel to
which we must take exception. The whole story of Alice Morgan is not
merely needlessly painful, but it is of very little artistic value. A
tragedy may be the basis of a story, but it should never be simply a
casual episode. At least, if it is so, it entirely fails to produce any
artistic effect. We hope, too, that in Mrs. Perks's next novel she will
not allow her hero to misquote English poetry. This is a privilege
reserved for Mrs. Malaprop.

A constancy that lasts through three volumes is often rather tedious, so
that we are glad to make the acquaintance of Miss Lilian Ufford, the
heroine of Mrs. Houston's A Heart on Fire. This young lady begins by
being desperately in love with Mr.