The Next Volme, perhaps not a book of importance, is still one of charm. By the pleasure and occasional excellence of the author's muse, by the brilliant pastiche of the artist, and by the high level of the production - Baskerville italics set off by the delicate collotypes and white buckram semée of golden stars - it becomes one of those works like Pine's Horace which, though essential to no one's shelves, is an ornament to any.