A LITERARY CORNER

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXII, Issue 7021, 8 January 1910, Page 9

A LITERARY CORNER

BOOKS. (BY “LIBER") AT THE SIGN OF THE LYEB • SOME RECENT VERS.E, "LAST POEMS.” By George Meredith. London: Constable and Co. There is an astonishing and dcUgbtfnl savour of youth about these Last I’ocins” which proves what a nmrvel3ous mental youth was preserved by h m who had reached the ripe old age ot eighty Take for instance the poonx entitled “The Years Had Worn Ihwr Seaeon’a ilclt.” It has all the gat ">S of youth and hope and I rank an fear would W oiSd c, note the whole, but a few verses must suffice. She'dwelt where twist low-beaten thorns. Two mill-blades, like a snail Enormous, with inquiring horns Looked down on hall the vale. Ton know the grey of dew on grass Ere with the young sun bred. And you. know well the thirst one has For the coming and desired. Quick in our ring she leapt and gave Her hand to left, to right. No claim on her had any, save To feed the joy of sight. For man and maid a laughing word She tossed in notes as clear. As when the February bird Sings out that Spring is near.

On us aid She bestow the hour. And fixed it firm in thought; Her spirit like a meadow flower That Wves, and asks for nought.

She seemed to moke the sunlit:lit stay And show her in its pride. 0 she w-R« fair as n beech in May With the sun on the yonder side.

There was more life than breath can In K the'looks in her fair form; For little can we say we live Until the heart is warm.

Meredith, it is sometimes forgotten, was an Irishman by birth, and an ardent Horae Euler. To preach pobtms in poetry is dangerous—tor a webcal reputation—but there are some fine lines In “Ireland,” a stirring appeal to(Englishmen ; to do justice to ‘a- land distraught.”

Tho limits once raw with gnawing WilWret at silken when God’s beams Of Freedom beckon o’er the plains From mounts that show it more than dreams.

She, generous. craves your generous That will not rouse the crack of doom. It ends the blundering past control Simply to Rive her elbow-room. Her offspring feel thev are a race To be a nation is their claim: Tet stronger bound in your embrace Than when the tie was hut a name.

Liberal, even Radical, as was Meredith. he was no believer in a peace-at-any price policy, and his faith in Britain s future was as great as his pride in her past.

The grandeur of her deeds recall; Look on her face so kindly fair This Britain ! and were she to tall, _ Mankind would breathe a harsher air, The nations miss a light of leading rare.

But never must we be lulled, into a feeling of false security. Here is another reuse from “The Call, from which we have just quoted':—

It can not be declared we are A nation till from end to end This land can show such front to war As bids a crouching foe expend _ His ire in air, and preferably be friend.

And when danger does threaten, when the battle does come, the poet is confident that the Briton of the Oyer-Seas will act his part like a brave man and a loyal son: —

Australian, Canadian, To tone old veins with streams of youth. Our trust bo on the best in man Henceforth, and we shall prove that truth. , , . Prove to a world of brows down-bent. That in the Britain thus endowed, ' Imperial means beneficent. And strength to service vowed.

In two poems is the fame of Nelson sung. There is a fine spirit of patriotic! pride in ‘Trafalgar.Bay” : .

Upon the soul of him a star On that brave day of ocean days It rolled the smoke from Trafalgar To darken Austerlitz ablaze.

Are we the men of old,, its light Will point ns under every sky The path he took : and mnst we fight Our Nelson be our battle-cry.

He leads: wo bear our seamen’s call In the roll of battles won; For be is Britain's Admiral Till setting of her sun. It is only natural for the author of “Vittoria" to eulogise, in noble verse, the courage and self-sacrifice of Garibaldi: Now breaking up the crusts of temporal strife. Who reads their acts enshrined in History. sees „ , That Tyrants were the Revolutionaries, The Rebels, men heart-vowed to hallowed life. Pule as the Archangel's cleaving Darkness thro’. f The Sword fie sees, the keen, unwearied Sword. , A single blade against a circling horde. And aye for Freedom and the trampled few. Bohokl, a warrior dealing mortal strokes, Whose nature was a child’s: amid his foes A wary trickster: at the "battle’s close No gentler friend this leopard dashed with fox. Earth crave him : blese-ed be the Earth that cave Earth’s Master crowned his honest work on. earth ; Proudly Italia names his place of birth: The bosom of Humanity his crave. There are a few poems in the collection which might well have "been omitted; for instance, a sonnet which begins : We have seen mighty men ballooning hich And in another moment blimp the ground. nnd other verses are there which might be quoted as being merely journalistic, both in subject and tone of treatment. But these may b© wisely overlooked as small blemishes upon a whole in which there is so much that is well worth unstinted admiration. (Price 4s 6d). ''BAND OF THE MORNING.” By Jessie Mackoy. - Christchurch and Wellington r vVhitcombe and Tombs, Ltd. It is a pleasant duty to welcome a volume of verse by_ Jesdo Mackay, a poet of whoso work New Zealanders may

well he proud. The only grievance we hape against the author is that too seldom dees she seek inspiration in the splendid .scenery, ilic free, open-aii country life, Hm forest, and tho flower beauties of her native country. That most fascinating xxjem, “Dunedin in the Gloaming,” the quaint and delightful “Phantom Ford,” ami two or three poems on Maori themes, are all so charming as to make us all the more regret that so much of Miss Mackay's verse is inspired by Old World motifs. Sbo is evidently deeply enamoured of subjects taken from Celtic traditions and folklore, and quite a number of her poems remind us of “Fiona Macleod’s” weird but beautiful stories. As an example of the old Scots songs in which our forefathers delighted, and which are still so eagerly collected, “The Ballad of Lobe 1 Hume” is really a tour do force in its fidelity to tho old spirit of mingled simplicity and strength which characterised this favourite form ot verse:—

It was T sob el Hume they christened me,. An’ Isobel Hume I’ll gang To the bed o’ the just i’ St. Mary’s Kirk, Where tho dead die laigh an’ lang.

Yet ioo’od was I by gallants three An’ weel it might ha’e been That ilka ane had been a king. An’ the ae love o’ a queen.

Allan o’ Lauder, Keith Munro. An’ Ninian Graeme o’ Darrow,— Scotland basna anither three To bo their like or marrow.

With three gallants to her how the fair Isobel might well have deemed it incredible that her fate should be to go “unwed,” but, alas, she lost them all.

Allan o’ Lauder wears the cowl For a word 1 spak’ in anger.

and the second lover dies in winning a flower

I set my heart on the flower that grew By the gowden eagle's home. An’ Keith Munro had sworn a vow That ho wad win the same.

Mary's mercy! when they' drew His corse frao rock an’ sand, His mither hadna kenned his face But the flower was in his hand.

As for Ninian Graeme, he quarrelled with «a lordling and met his death like a brave man, and poor Isobel consoles herself with the thought that

It was Isobel Hume they christened me. An’ Isobel Hume I’ll dee. But to Heaven's Gate I’ll tak’ the love 0’ Scotland’s noblest three.

Some of Miss Mackay’s lyrics are very daintily and deftly wrought. In other poems a strain of mysticism seems predominant and finds expression in lines of subdued strength and great dignity, We regret wo can only spare space for a brief extract from “Phantom'Ford” and an exquisitely musical lyric, “Lingering Low.” From the first named poem we take the following:—

Yo ho, from their long wanderings (Hast© ye, my love, and haste ye* my lord!) Birds of the waste in the silver mean-

derings,— 1 Snow-mothered waters of Phantom Ford, — Calm as at Eden gate, seek to their

nest (Haste to tho shoaling of shells in. the west)! Yo ho, the sweet croon of their call By Phantom Ford at even-fall!

Yo ho, pale is the gold of it; Feathery toi a-drearaing and meek I Dream? yea. one shall lay hold of it, — Ha! by the ti-tree, down by the creek—(Lost in a trembling, where shall we hide? We tremble together, you tall toi-bride) I Yo ho. my lover, my .lord. Rides in to the tryst at Phantom Ford!

The haunting refrain of "Lingering Low," a sunset fantasy, possess such a musical charm that we must fain quote in full;—

"Lingering Low." A Sunset Fantasy wo must fain, quote in full;— Lingering low! Car of the blest, Car of the dead who are never to die! Lingering tenderly waved on a sigh; Lingering low,, lingering low. Low, low, low in the west!

Lingering low! Dying is best; Dying in gold to a song of the prime,—• Caulght in a song that is older than Time; Lingering low, lingering low, Low, low, low in the west!

Lingering low! Hush thee and go; Eden tho lovelier—Eden is there. Only a step to it, hush thee and fare : Whither we know, whither we know, Low, low, lingering low.

"Land of the Morning" is a neatly printed, tastefully bound little volume, and has for frontispiece a drawing by Dagmar Hine. (The price is 3s fid).

"ALPHA CENTAURI" By M. Forrest. Melbourne: T. C/ Lothian.

The poems of M. Forrest are familiar enough to readers of the "Australasian," Sydney "Bulletin," "The Lone Hand," and other Australian periodicals, and her vers© has also found acceptance in "The Spectator," and other English journals. Only a modest sheaf is that which the author now offers under the title of "Alpha Centauri" ("Alpha Centauri, the double star, is the chief pointer to tho Southern Cross"), but in these ninety-two pages are many beautiful things. There is a touch of that greyness and sadness which seems to pervade most Australian verse, but non© of the dreary pessimism which is also, too frequently, its characteristic. A deep feeling for the beauty, the quiet majesty of nature, is here. Queensland born, if w© may judge by the opening poem, the gorgeous beauty of semi-tro-pical vegetation possesses for the author an irresistible charm. Pride in her native land does not, however, blind the author to the duties and responsibilities which her Australian brothers should recognise just as strongly as the privileges of climate and social conditions which it is their privilege to enjoy. "Australia Undefended" is a strongly worded appeal to the nation to awake to a sense of what is due from its young men in defence matters. Of the longer poems we have been most pleased with "The Valley of Lagoons," a poem of really exquisite charm, both in phrasing and motif. More than one song of eventide is there in this little volume. There is a finely rendered sense of the stillness and peace of night in the longer, poem, "On the Pier," too long- to quote, but we must find room for a shorter but equally soothing, poem, "The Honey Moon.";— ,

A lattice, oreeper-twined, that opens wide and high. One ragged wind-blown palm against an opal sky Beyond a line of white —tho sand; a gleam, of blue—the sea. With shifting undertow of weed the waves make melody. Now- flames the West to sunset’s pomp, now pales the_ vault above. Now droop tho lids o*er wearied eyes that have grown wise in love. Daylight has faded from the shore like Youth that flies too soon— But o'er the silver water-way rises the Honey Moon.

Pride of race and lore of native land are as much to the front in M. Forrest’s verse as is a sense of the beauties of nature. There ‘is an almost clamorous assertion of pride in Australia in "The Native Born": —

I was born on the black-soil Downs, and rocked by the Southern breeze.

The Kingdom I have to offer is wide to Pacific seas! And tho big grey spider hanging from a branch of the swinging pine, spins silk that were finest decking for a true sweetheart of mine! Let her take ray hand and follow ! The road to the Northward runs. Biio shall have silver of moonlightgold of Australian suns. Was it Lack-o’-Land ye would call mo? I, who am Native-Born, Have heard tho twittering parakeets in stalks ot the greening corn. Have plucked the buds from the lucerne; pulled grapes from the laden vine, , Empty-of-hand and Lack-o’-Land ! why the whole wide earth is mine.

Here is a grim but powerfully drawn picture, "The Lonely Woman

Where tho iron, barks are hanging leaves disconsolate and pale. Where the wild vine* o’er tho ranges their spilt cream of blossom trail, By the door of the bark humpey, by the rotting bloodwood gates. On the river-bound selection, there a lonely woman waits. . Waits and watches gilded sunrise glow behind the mountain peak, . Hears tho waterhens’ shrill piping, in tho rushes by the creek, And by the sullen stormy sunsets, when the anxious cattle call. Sees the everlasting gumtrees closing round her like a wall. With the hunger of her bosom notes the wild birds vseek their mates. All alone and heavy-hearted, the lonely woman waits.

Looking through tho pages of this charming little volume there are fully a score more poems from which it were tempting indeed to quote, but we must content ourselves with recommending those of our readers who enjoy wholesome, beautiful thoughts expressed in graceful verse, to turn for themselves to M. Forrest's poems, superior to the work of not a few writers upon whom a certain log-rolling clique in Australia expend extravagant eulogy. (Price 3s 6d). NOVEL NOTES (BY ''LIBER.”) “SAILORS’ KNOTS.” By W. W. . Jacobs. London; Methuen and Co. Wellington: Whitcorabe ‘andTombs. A round dozen or so of new stories from Mr Jacobs will come to many readers as what Arterons Ward called "a sweet boon.'’ AH the old methods are here; maybe, tend not a few of the old characters—including those tried and trusted fun-makers, the three sailormeii, Sam, Peter, 'and “Ginger” DicK. The scenes are still mostly the same old wharves, long-shore pubs, and hoardinghouses that we know so well. And we would not havo.it otherwise, for against these prosaic backgrounds Mr Jacobs again makes his puppets dance the merriest of jigs—merry for bis readers at least, if not always for his characters. In one story,' that of a haunted “Toll House,” there is tragedy, and proof that our jester friend can, when he so’ chooses, doff his cap and bells and give us a thrill of genuine horror. But for the rest, all is humour, the escapades of sailors ashore; the trials of husbands who are very much married; the amusing scrapes into which foil the most sedate of men; together with a welcome dash of love-making, in which the usual smart “Jacobs girl”—quite a distinct variety of the eternal feminine—and her lovers, of whom she generally has. two or three, comport themselves so humourously. Of the new “Jacobs batch” we prefer “Self Help,” “Homeward Bound,” and “Peter's Pence,” in which latter we meet somp old favourites, but really there is not a dull yarn in the lot. To dyspeptics, men “with livers,” hypochondriacs, and all dismal folk, wo can recommend “Sailors Knots” as being worth a shipload of medecine. Mr Will Owen’s illustrations are as amusing as ever.

Pour Caricatures by Joseph Simpson. Prom the Odd Volume 1909. (See "Writers and Headers’ Column).

"THE HAVEN." By Eden Philpotts. London: John Murray. "Wellington: Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd, ' Mr Philpqtts’ "Haven" is the quaint old Devonshire town of Brisham, and the characters in his story are,, with few exceptions, humble fisher folk.' The story is .that of the Major family and their friends and relatives. John Major, an industrious, sober. God-fear-, -ing old fisherman, has a son, Ned, and’ ia daughter. Lydia. The lad hates the .sea and would fain bo a farmer, but ’gives way to parental wishes and in- 1 ‘fluence for a time at least. Gradually, the even tenor of John Major’s life ist disturbed., Ned finally (revolts against' the sea-life and goes on a farm, ami Lydia disobeys her father and nearly breaks his heart -by eloping with a handsome young fisherman, Sam Brokenshire, who is steady and owns his own boat and house, but is a sea-poacher, fishing by night in Start Bay; a preserve sacred by law to the crabbers. Finally, tho pitcher goes once too often to the well, and the over-clever Sam, after having been fined more than once, goes to prison for six months . Thel father’s heart now softens to his daughter, and Sam eventually gives up fishing and- becomes a "barker"—"barking" is ( the covering of the sails with an ochre like preservative—and settles down as a decent? husband and father ought to do. Ned Major, who hasinarried a sweetheart of childhood’s days, Deborah Honeygill,i prospers, but loses his wife by an accident, and thereupon conceives that her death is Fate—sent to induce him to return to the life of his father’s and fore-| fathers. Sam’s.son, Johnnie, -whom the ex-poacher had designed to make a bootmaker, also joins his grandfather, is thus made supremely happy in. his 1 old age. The story is merely a series of pictures of humble folk and humble life, but told as Mr Philpotts tells it, is singularly fascinating. There is some l rich humour, too, in the novel, provided mainly by the town loafer, a selfstyled Socialist, Dick Varwell; Titus Peach, the "barber." and a ..Mrs Gum-midge-like person, Emma Minchelmore, Major’s widowed sister, whose woes are innumerable, and whose tear-tap rarely stops flowing. A comic publican and a host of broadly drawn fisher folk and their wives make up the little world so cleverly pictured for us. "The Haven" has not the strength, and charm of its immediate predecessor. "The Three Brothers." but it is none the less a clever and very readable 6ton,-. "LORD KENTWELL’S LOVE AFFAIR." By F. 0. Price. London: William Heinemann. There is nothing very wildly exciting about Mr Price’s story, which is almost Trollopian in its leisurely movement. Lord Kentwell is a young nobleman who more than merely flirts and philanders with a charming lady, named Mrs Gambler, who has divorced her husband; indeed, there is an engagement, much to the disgust of Kentwcll’s two sisters, with one of whom the peei*’s bosom friend, Mark Smeaton, is deeply in love. The two sisters hate the very idea of having a divorced woman for a sister-in-law-, and also consider that their brother, who is not rich, ought to make what they consider would be a more suitable match from a financial point of view. Of course they have in view "just the right girl," and this lady, a pretty, empty-headed, but decidedly sly voung person, Ada Melkham. eventually makes such a fool of the weak and wayward Kentwell that on the very ev© of his projected marriage with Mrs Gambler % he breaks his engagement and marries as his sisters had -wished. Smeaton, w© may say. has tried hard' to make his friend behave as a man of honour, despite the fact that he knew such coun--sel as he was giving was annoying Kentwell’s sister. Lady Susan,, to whom the young man was engaged, and the peer’s marriage is denounced bv him so strongly that the lovers quarrel and Mark’s engagema?k/' l is broken off. The charm

of the story, for it has a charm, and a very distinct charm’ of its own, lies in its 'skilful if rather over-elaborate character drawing. KentwelMs but a poor creature, but Mrs Gambler is a good and clever woman; and Mark Smeaton, tne lover who losas so much through his punctilious regard for his friend’s honour; and the peer’s two sisters are all admirable creations. To a New Zealand reader the story is of interest as affording an insight into —we will not say the snobbishness, but absurd prejudices and conventions, which still govern what is known as “county society’ in the Old Country.

'SIMEON TETLOW’S SHADOW.” By Jonnettc Lee. London: Hodder and Stoughton. Wellington : Whitcombe , and Tombs. Ltd.

Simeon Tetlow, railway king, a marvellous financier, a man not yet nity, is prematurely old. and threatened # with a nervous collapse. Iron willed, a giut(ton for work/' he persists in workingi on though iVarned by his doctor that he is risking paralysis, pei'haps death. A voung man, almost a youth, becomes 1 his confidential clerk, and his good angel. Th£ President breaks down, but John Bennett pulls him through an important meeting of shareholders, and' gradually, by slow stages, not only assists his employer to outwit a daring oonspiracy against the company of which, he is the head, but, what is better still, changes his hitherto selfish and grasping character into one in which good nature and practical benevolence are dom-‘ inant. The minor characters are well uvawn, notably an old engine-driver, whom the railway magnate. had ruthlessly discharged and who, in a moment when the magnate is in grave peril, proves that pluck and technical knowledge do not always expire m a workman when once he has reached the halfcentury.

“THE BLINDNESS OF DOCTOR GRAY, OR THE FINAL LAW.” By the Very Eev. Canon P. A. Sheehan, D.D. London:' Longmans, Green and Co. There is a strain of melancholy, almost pessimism, running through this latest of Canon Sheehan’s Irish stones—stories always characterised by so Rraceful, so winning: a literary style. Dr Gray, the' venerable old Catholic priest,, is one of these truly good, one might' .almcet say noble-hearted pastors, eelftsacrificing. ever patient under misfortune, who aro so frequently found in country districts where their simple virtues and lives of self-denial are not always, nowadays at least, so well appreciated as they onght_ to bo.. The old priest, deeply read in the “Fathers,” hut scorning contemporary literature and thought, and his clever, cultured young curate who reads Goethe and Jean FanL and who possesses a real Gollard and Collard, and what is more, interprets. Bach thereon,” are cleverly Minor characters are representative ol: nearly every degree of country people, from'landowners to. peasant folk, and, that the author writes of the life ho knows and that his portraits have been mainly drawn from living originals is apparent in every chapter. The tragedy through which the fine old gentleman—for this village priest is such in the very best sense of . the word—loses his eyesight is ingeniously planned, and despite its underlying tone of sadness, the story is a most readable and able presentment of Irish life. Wo notice, incidentally, that Canan Sheehan is no great believer in the usefulness' of the Gaelic League and its laborious efforts to revive the old Irish language.

“TUB BLUFFSHIRE COURIER." A West Highland Story. By Bentlaiid Peile. Edinburgh: William Blackivood and Sons. Another of tho many capital stories ■with a Scots background, of which Blackwoods seem to make a speciality. Miranda Rots, a wealthy young American lady, returns to . her native Highlands imbued with the idea that she wilt devote her wealth to helping the crofter class of which her father. In Ins younger days, had been a member. Her active partisanship in the Radical cause brings her into conflict with the b'S landowners, and particularly with the great Tory magnate, tlie Duke oi -Dlunshire, whose eldest eon. Lord Griniburgh, does not share liis father’s political or social prejudices, and falls desperately in love with tho young lady, whom the Bluffshire “gentry” regard as such a mischievous interloper. Miranda, founds a Radical paper, tho '‘Bluffshire Courier,” and enlisting the services of a smart young journalist, fights the big folk” with such energy that for the first time in the history of the county a Radical member is returned to Parliament. Lord Grimburgh, who is the defeated candidate, disgusts his family by avowing his love for Miranda,’and as the Duke most conveniently dies, she steps into a position which may enable her—if her Radical opinions . stand the strain of an antagonistic environment — to carry into effect some of her projects for the uplifting of the class to which her father had belonged. The election campaign and the struggles through which the “Bluffshire Courier” have to pass are described with much humour, and there is a brightness, and gayness of spirit pervading the story which are most captivating. Altogether a very readable novel.

“SOME EVERY DAY FOLK AND DAWN.” By Miles Franklin. Edinburgh: William Blackwood and Sons. “Milos Franklin’s” latest story is far from equalling either in interest or in

literary style that exceptionally clever novel, “My Brilliant Career,” hut it contains many quaint and, interesting characters and gives a most .amusing picture of life m a little Australian township not fur distant from Sydney. The story is supposed to be narrated by an elderly lady who, sated with city Bfe and just a little disiilsioned, and inclined to be more than a little morbid in her yiews, goes to Noonoou to find rest and peace. Here she finds a neiv interest in life in studying the family of her hostess, and in developing the character of a pretty, frankly outspoken and most engaging Australian gwn. Dawn. Dawn, for whom she plans and. plots a career on the stage, mokes a brilliant and happv marriage, and with this result the author is apparently highly satisfied. The charm of the story lies in its humorous pictures of Australian country life. There is a villain, and the story of his poor deserted victim is full of pathos, but it is merely an episode, an incident; which does not' snoil the general brightness of the picture. The author is evidently a warm] supporter of women’s suffrage, and gives an amusing account of an election campaign and contest. Grandma Clay, with her reminiscences of the olden days and |the troubles and privations, the Joys and (sorrows of the pioneer settlers, is simply (delightful, and there is areally 'boy, who reminds us of some of “Dad s offspring in iSteeie Rudd’s well known stories “On Our Selection.”

‘■‘THE MASTER SCHEMER," By Mrs Veto Campbell. London; Greening and" Co. Wellingtons Whitcomb© and Tcunbs, Ltd. t . This is a somewhat sensational story with some of the most artificial and hysterical characters that we 'have comet across of late in English fiction. The death of Sir Eoyaume Carr—the -.very •title smacks of the “London Journal or the “Family Novelette" —makes his eldest -son, Sir Gains Carr, a very weal- 1 thy roan, much to the disgust of a stepbrother, Gerald Carr, an extravagant, tippling ne'er-do-well, and his wife Priscilla, who regard life on two thous-, ■and a year as genteel poverty. There -are other relatives whoaro disappointed, 'also a mysterious gentleman named {Jerome Varavate, concerning whose ,birth ithere is some mystery, connected in a (way with Sir .Eoyaume's first wife, who has died in a German maison de sante. Sir Cains marries a governess, Inez' Eden, who conceals the fact from her; husband that she knows Varavate's supposed .secret, and Priscilla falling in love, with the handsome adventurer, “complications set in," as the doctor said of the old lady with a carbuncle, but ofi ■exactly what nature we leave it to thoso | who may cavo to plough through the story to its bitter end. Most of the chaIracters are emotional to a degree which] i’savours of hysteria, and there is a gen-' eral air of unreality about the wholei story.

'JUSTIFIED.” By C. El. Poulton. • London.: 1 Greening and Co. Wellington ; Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd.

■ Helen Gilmour, a pure and good and beautiful woman, had "a trick of walking in her sleep, but her somnambulism, is. unknown to or unsuspected by her hitsbaud —which is hard to believe. This trick is the cause of a heap of troubles, in India and elsewhere, and finally leads her husband, Lord Westcrbrook©, who is a Cabinet Minister, to suspect bi« wife’s chastity. He is loath to-be-lieve that his beautiful Helen is a wan-, ton, but' finally receives what he considers such da mil i n £ evidence of the wanton immorality of a woman he has; once deemed the personification of inno-j cone© and wifely honour, that he de- 1 liberately poisons their two children and then commits suicide. And what is even worse for Helen to bear is that her father, Dean Gilmour, believes in guilt and openly denounces her as “ a. harlot and murderess-.”' It is not until the very last chapter of the story is reached that the reader is enlightened as to the real cause of the heroine’s troubles, and that the much injured Helen is righted in the sight of her friends, and relatives. The abtion of the story takes place partly in India and partly in London. Although the central motif is painful the story has its lighter side, and despite the fact that both characters and dialogue are a trifle stilted and artificial, the general effect is not unpleasing.

'ROYAL LOVERS.: THE ADVENTURES OF TWO EMPRESSES.” By Helene Vacaresco. London ; Mills and Boon. Wellington; Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd.

The author of this extraordinary hotchpotch of thinly disguised scandalmongering is credited with having at one time occupied a nosition of trust in the family of one ‘of tho minor royalties of Europe, and may therefore bo fairly ‘supposed to have tome knowledge of the inner life of kings, queens, princes, and princesses. Truth to tell, however, if her book is in any way founded upon fact these highly-placed personages must rank amongst tie silliest, most stupid, most malicious, and not the least immoral'of people. “Royal Lovers” is a story told in the form of letters passing between various members of two or three royal families. Whether it be a roman a clef wo cannot say, but we confess that a more tedious and, indeed, more wearisome book WO have rarely had the misfortune to .read. The descriptions of certain characters seems to have a smack of deliberate ill-nature about them which is hardly more objectionable than the hysterical gush which, is put Into the mouths of other characters, for whom apparently the author has a liking. Tho effect in either case is the reverse of pleasant. There may be readers

who can find pleasure in royal intrigues, morganatic marriages, and court scandals generally, but personally we would prefer a turn at the treadmill to being condemned to a second perusual of this long drawn-out farrago of tedious tittletattle.

"A STUDY IN SEPIA.” By Robert Castleton. Loudon: Greening and Co. Wellington: Gordon and Gotch.

The chief feminine figure in Mr Castleton's singularly vulgar and most objectionably suggestive story first attracts the loutish hero when sitting in a London park. “She was daintily dressed in muslin, of varying shades of sepia, which suited her hair and complexion, and wore a very recherche pair of dark tan shoes.” Also her eyes “were very largo, round rather than oval, and of the same peculiar colouring as her hair and dress. She presented a ‘Study in Sepia.’” We only desire to say of Mr Castleton’s story that there is hardly a character in it who is not either a fool or a knave, or worse —and as for its general tone it may best be imagined when we express our opinion that a more correct title would have been “A Study in Blue" 1