[Illustration: Book Markers.]
"Bring me my Scotch Dictionary!" cried the Baron. "Alas, my Lord!" was
the answer of the faithful servitor, "there is none such here."
"I'fakins!" quoth the Baron, "then will I buckle to and read _A Window
in Thrums_ without it, even though I break all my teeth and nigh choke
myself, as indeed, I have well-nigh done in my gallant attempt to master
the first two chapters." So I, the Baron, being convalescent and having
a few hours to spare, lay me down and read, and read, and read, and
stumbled over the Scotch words and phrases, until I hit on the plan of
reading it aloud to two or three other convalescents; just to see how
_they_ would like it. And as I read aloud, this book,--which on account
of its apparent difficulty, and by reason of my education having been
neglected, "lang syne," in respect to the Scotch language, an intimate
knowledge of which I have not yet acquired "the noo,"--it gained my
affection gradually, steadily, and increasingly. Though I could not have
translated individual words and phrases, yet I instinctively understood
them, and was delighted with the homely simplicity of the style, the
keen observation, the shrewd wit, and the gentle pathos of _A Window in
Thrums_. The BARON DE BOOK-WORMS is grateful to Mr. J. M. BARRIE; and
when an opportunity is offered him, he is seriously thinking of
re-reading some of the Scotchiest of Sir WALTER SCOTT'S Novels, and
having a "Nicht or twa wi' ROBBIE BURNS."
I await the Reminiscences of Mr. MONTAGU WILLIAMS, Q.C. and P.M., with
considerable interest.
Mr. KEITH FLEMING'S romance, _Can such Things be? or, the Weird of the
Beresfords_,--no relation to Lord CHARLES of that ilk,--starts, and will
make the reader start too, with a very creepy idea. The story would have
been a genuine weird and eerie one but for the continual twaddling
interruptions about "spookikal" research and metaphysical problems,
which, however, the experienced skipper, who knows the chart, can easily
avoid after the first two or three bumps, and even the inexperienced
reader will be able, after an hour or two, to hop from point to point
like a robin from twig to twig. But skipping and hopping is wearying,
and the story is too long, and so we become familiar with the ghost, and
we all know what the fatal consequence of familiarity is. The
repetitions of the Spook's appearance are monotonous. Had _The Weird_
been condensed like milk in tins, or essenced like Liebig, and been
presented to the public as a story in two numbers of _Blackwood_ (always
such an appropriate title for a Magazine full of mysterious
stories,--BLACK WOOD so like Black Forest) or _Macmillan_, or _Cornhill_
(where, somehow, a ghost-story always reads uncommonly well), this
romance would have created a great sensation. As it is, it doesn't, at
least not much. BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
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