ad happened to _Jack Dampier_ after all? Ah!

* * * * *

I wonder why it is that so many books about walking tours should be
written in much the same style. At least I don't really wonder at all,
since it is quite apparent that R. L. S. and _Modestine_ are the models
responsible for this state of things. And, since the style in itself is
pleasant enough, I don't know that any one need complain. What put me
upon this reflection was _Vagabonds in Perigord_ (CONSTABLE), which, for
the modulation of its prose, might almost have been an unacknowledged
work of the Master, but is actually written by Mr. H. H. BASHFORD. It
concerns the wanderings on foot of certain pleasure pilgrims along the
course of the river Dordogne; and is, for those that like such things,
one of the most attractive volumes I have met this great while. I liked
especially the author's happy gift of filling his pages with a holiday
atmosphere; there is, indeed, so much fresh air and sunshine in them
that the sympathetic reader will emerge feeling mentally bronzed. Nor
does Mr. BASHFORD lack an agreeable humour of phrase. "Those wonderful
three-franc dinners that seem to fall like manna upon France at seven
o'clock every evening" is an example that lingers in my memory.
Moreover, running through the whole is a hidden joke, and very cunningly
hidden too, only to be revealed in the last paragraphs. Not for worlds
would I reveal it here; I content myself with admitting that I for one
was entirely fooled. I am less sure whether as a record of travel the
book tempts to emulation. The drawbacks are perhaps too vividly rendered
for this--heat and thirst through the flaming June days, and by night
not wholly unbroken repose. But I am delighted to read about it all.

* * * * *

BRAM STOKER, whose too early cutting off saddened a wide circle of
friends, was the Fat Boy of modern writers of fiction. He knew how to
provide opportunity in fullest measure for making your flesh creep. A
series of stories named after the first, _Dracula's Guest_ (ROUTLEDGE),
is a marvellous collection of weird fancies wrought with ingenuity,
related with graphic power, that come as near EDGAR ALLAN POE as
anything I am acquainted with. There are nine, widely varying in subject
and plot. I have read them all, and am not ashamed to confess that,
finishing one before commencing another of the fascinating series, I
found it conven