this delightful book, but from
the few that have been selected some idea can be formed of the vivacity
and picturesqueness of the Margravine's style. As for her character, it
is very well summed up by the Princess Christian, who, while admitting
that she often appears almost heartless and inconsiderate, yet claims
that, 'taken as a whole, she stands out in marked prominence among the
most gifted women of the eighteenth century, not only by her mental
powers, but by her goodness of heart, her self-sacrificing devotion, and
true friendship.' An interesting sequel to her _Memoirs_ would be her
correspondence with Voltaire, and it is to be hoped that we may shortly
see a translation of these letters from the same accomplished pen to
which we owe the present volume. {63}

_Memoirs of Wilhelmine Margravine of Baireuth_. Translated and edited by
Her Royal Highness Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, Princess of
Great Britain and Ireland. (David Stott.)

A VILLAGE TRAGEDY

One of the most powerful and pathetic novels that has recently appeared
is _A Village Tragedy_ by Margaret L. Woods. To find any parallel to
this lurid little story, one must go to Dostoieffski or to Guy de
Maupassant. Not that Mrs. Woods can be said to have taken either of
these two great masters of fiction as her model, but there is something
in her work that recalls their method; she has not a little of their
fierce intensity, their terrible concentration, their passionless yet
poignant objectivity; like them, she seems to allow life to suggest its
own mode of presentation; and, like them, she recognizes that a frank
acceptance of the facts of life is the true basis of all modern imitative
art. The scene of Mrs. Woods's story lies in one of the villages near
Oxford; the characters are very few in number, and the plot is extremely
simple. It is a romance of modern Arcadia--a tale of the love of a
farm-labourer for a girl who, though slightly above him in social station
and education, is yet herself also a servant on a farm. True Arcadians
they are, both of them, and their ignorance and isolation serve only to
intensify the tragedy that gives the story its title. It is the fashion
nowadays to label literature, so, no doubt, Mrs. Woods's novel will be
spoken of as 'realistic.' Its realism, however, is the realism of the
artist, not of the reporter; its tact of treatment, subtlety of
perception, and fine distinction of style, make it