A CHAT ON BOOKS.

Otago Witness, Issue 2179, 28 November 1895, Page 47

A CHAT ON BOOKS.

Most of us remember how we laughed over the clever foolirjg of " Vice Versa," and here before me lies "Lyre and Lancet, 1 ' by the same author. Now, ever since I read "Vice Versa" the name of F. Austey, its author, has been a name wherewith to conjure up delightful anticipation and the smile of reminiscence which id the echo of bygone laughter. Therefore I pouncad upon " Lyre and Lancet," bearing it off in triumph, ready to laugh in anticipation. Woe is me ! I have been mildly amused, it'a true, but the effort of reading over 250 pages of dialogue, however smart, is too fatiguing a chase after pleasure. No less than 31 personages, from a countess to a footman, take part in this comedy of errorß, the very heart of which is the mistaken identity of a veterinary surgeon, who unwillingly masquerades as a sentimental poet. While the poet (who is ail soul, except what is snob) is relegated to the housekeeper's room under the impression that he is the "vet." The characteristic individuality of the various speakers is really admirably sustained, and my principal grudge against this form of book is the futility- of reading through conversations where there are no paradoxes to quote or epigrams to crib. The next book on my list is simply charming — at least to all who love nature ; and would make a delightful birthday present for any of the boys and girls whosa birthdays are approaching. Its title is, " A Naturali&t on tbe Prowl in the Jungle," by E.H.A. What the naturalist in question sees and hears and knows about panthers, cobras, monkeys, caterpillars, bul-buls, and red anta is told with such keen humour and delicate appreciation that there is not a dull page in the book.

It has been well said that women have not much sense of humour; it might fee still better said that tbe modern woman novelist has no sense of humour. Before me lies an oblong yellow book — one of the " Zeit-geist " library — entitled "A Comedy in Spasms," by the author of " A Yellow Aster." I can find the spasms— it is all spasms, so to speak ; but tbe comedy is conspicuous by its absence. I feel sure you would not care about the loosely - corsetted Australian mother, the tragic daughter, the blase suitor, the hußband with his feeble frame, his generous, beautiful nature, and his eternal headaches. I don't think you would even be able to care much about the young Hercules and Apollo mixed in one, who hunts " big game " and plays the part of hero, though he certainly behaves very well in the end, refusing to run away with the heroine and sending her back to nurse her husband's headaches. " Thoughts on Life," by Thomas Carlyle. (Ssleoted by Robert Demean.) Many of us, especially country girls, are. patiently building up little libraries of our own. We cannot afford expensive books, and yet we hate to see our noblest friends in mean attire. It is a difficult question, and yet this little shilling volume of selections from Oarlyle's writings is so nicely got up that you will not regret sending for it, I am sure, though it is " only a cheap book." There is a beautiful photogravure portrait of the author as frontispiece.

"The Stark Munro Letters," edited by Couan Doyla. This is a capital book, and justifies all we expect from Oonan Doyle. Clever, interesting, much given to that dotailed diecussion of life's riddles which is so natural between close friends such as Stark Munro and Bartie Swanborough. Are these Conan Doyle's own views which Stark Munro hammers in upon bis dissentient friend, I wonder 1 They are opinions whioh are mote widely felt than expressed among

men : for one thing, very few man cara to express their views, and those who do can scarcely hope to do so with the clear incisiveness of Conan Doyle. The book is not all views and opinions though. The fortunes of the friendless young doctor in his singlehanded fight with fortune are entirely interesting. The portraits of the dear, whimsical, shortsighted mother, the bacchanalian old half-pay captain, and the loyal, imaginative housekeeper are all excellent. Cullingworth, the ugly, eccentric genius who is at onca the hero and the villain of the book, must be a study from life ; but it is a strange and exceptional character, foreign to most expsriences. To mo this "Stark Munro Letters" seems a satisfying sort of book, since it stimulates and encourages thought and criticism. If the end is sad in a conventional sense, in a wider sense it is peace and the fulfilment of a gentle, if unorthodox, philosophy. " Nursing in a Nutshell " is a wee brown book of modest appearance, but most useful contents. It is a capital book for any young mother who does not already possess some book of the kind, and who does not desire to buy an expensive work. Children, especially babies, seem to me to be most mysterious bundles of clothes and ailments, and " Nursing in a Nutshe'l " seems to solve much of the mystery by dealing with .the management of a child from birth up to the period when it emerges from all childish disorders. My reason for mentioning this book ia that so many young women who marry and settle up country ara. in their new home removed from the neighbourhood of the mother, and all old familiar friends as well — a position which for a reticent or nervous person is extremely tryiog. I wonder if any of you were, like myself, waiting for a cheap edition of " The Story of Sonia Kovaletky " ? If so, you cstti now procure it, and for people who care about biographies, it 13 a most inteie&tiug book, dealing as it does with the life and character of a womnn marked by the most brilliant intellectual developments, and . marred by the mo3t persistent adversity. Books that deal with Russian life, and where the story is laid in Ru-sian scenery, always interest me most p >we»fully ; there is so much to be told yet about the actual inner life of the Russian in all classes. Then there is a book which will interest nay correspondent " Dolly," I think, and some of my other girl friends who wish to keep abreast of the times. Its title is "The Story of Primitive Man"; the author is Edward Olodd, wboße "Story of Creation" you may have read. The title sufficiently explains the nature of the information offered in so attractive and interesting a form, and tbe gradual evolvment of highly-civilised man through all the immeasurable ages is told with fascinating clearnesa and continuity. If I entered at too great length on the history of a single book in our last chat I have tried to make amends this time by giving a sufficiently varied bill of mental fare to suit most tastes. Next month I propose to interest ourselves in one of Zangwill's novels, for we have not at present discusied any book of this clever author. In conclusion, as I find from my correspondents' letters that it is helpful to know where to send for books mentioned, all those we have just oiscussed may be had from Mr Horsburgb, bookseller, George street.