FROM THE HEART OF THE ROSE.
From the Heart of the Rose. By Helen Milman (Mrs. Cald- well Crofton). (J. Lane. 6s.)—To leisurely people, living out of the swim—and to such more particularly Mrs. Crofton always addresses herself—this little book of scattered thoughts, some borrowed and some original, will be all the more ac- ceptable for coming in November, for November is the month in which quiet souls—not hurried along by the torrent of up-to- dateness—having settled their Michaelmas accounts, begin to think of Christmas and Christmas presents, and to read the books they will by and by be giving to their friends. And Mrs. Crofton is one of the writers who have the knack of turning out just the sort of book that is nice to give—and to receive. Her books are always pretty inside and out. They are individual and genuine; the outcome of real feeling and personal observation. They speak to us in the voice of a friend, and tells us trifles perhaps, but trifles of pleasant savour and wholesome suggestion. The contents of this year's volume are more than usually mis- cellaneous. Besides some charming studies of bird and flower life—the kind of work that has made the writer most widely known heretofore—there are odds and ends of all sorts of matter and in a great many manners. For, as is explained in a graceful preface, is tbuight one day struck "Monica" that it was selfish to keep her correspondence to herself. What gave her so much pleasure that she could not tear herself from it, even to attend to "the heir of all the ages" playing in the "Garden of Peace," and calling to her for sympathy, must give pleasure to others also. So she resolved to fill up her book with her friends' letters to her, and some of her letters to them,—taking care, how- ever, to blot names and blunt betraying allusions. Some of the letters are from nephews "at the front," full of grim experience won in field and hospital. Others are to the same nephews, telling them of the doings at home. "Corinna" contributes some very lively epistles. She is one of those invaluable correspondents to whom "things happen." A war-balloon came down in the field just across the road while she was having luncheon. Sappers " galore came to look for the balloon, and having found it, pitched their tent in the field, and for the whole of one glorious summer evening the village girls had aerial trips for love, being gallantly handed in and out of the cradle by a sergeant of Royal Engineers. When the " Colonel of all balloons" arrived next day he said "women should never go in balloons," but the mischief was done, and nobody told. Corinna writes also about impromptu garden-parties where everything is de- lightful, and cookless luncheons where everything is heroic; about burglars, babies, husbands, and many other things. Some of Monica's own letters strike a graver chord. There is one to "a girl who thinks she is in love," and wants to be told whether she really is so. "My dear," says Monica, "how can I possibly tell you whether you love the man or not ? Are you ready to give up everything, casting aside the fallacy of the moment that he will give up everything to you ? Are you ready to be an angel in the house, a maid-of-all-work, and—a good-tempered woman? But seriously, you can't be in love if you can pause to put the question down in black and white." In another letter "to a girl who longs to publish a book" she writes : "My advice will ever be that we women must think, and we must pray, before we put pen to paper." And in another pert of the same letter she gives a little bit of personal experience. A friend once said to her, "You are on the side of the angels." "It made me feel utterly humble, but I have never forgotten it, and I use her words as a test to all I write." There is a paper full of interesting reminiscences of some hours spent in Mr. Watts's studio. There is a letter from Mrs. Ritchie telling how Thackeray wrote his books. "He was always careful, his manuscript was always orderly. His writing was never casual, but always intended. I can never remember seeing him writing out of doors, or scribbling hasty notes upon scraps of paper. What I think I must have told you was that remember hearing him say that he used to wonder when he looked at the sheet of blank paper how it was to get tilled, and where it was to come from, and yet that• he knew that in due time the writing would be there before him." Two letters of Gilbert White fill one chapter. Others from Linnell, Catherine Blake, Ferran the actor, make up another. Altogether it is an almost infinite variety of matter and manner that Mrs. Crofton gives us "from the Heart of the Rose," and there is charm in variety. But the most exquisite things in the book are her own little out-of. door sketches, such as "A Garden in June" and "A River Walk."
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