COSY CORNER CLUB.

Otago Witness, Issue 3774, 13 July 1926, Page 67

COSY CORNER CLUB.

SECOND MEETING. TOPIC: “THE MOST ENJOYABLE BOOK (OR BOOKS) I READ LAST YEAR.” “IN TUNE WITH THE INFINITE.’* Dear Esther, —There recently came m 7 way a very remarkable book entitled “In Tune with the Infinite,” by R. W. Trine. In the preface the author says: “There is a golden thread that runs through every religion in the world. This same golden thread must enter into the lives of all who to-day, in this busy, work-a-day world of ours, would exchange impotence for power, weakness and suffering for abounding health and strength, pain and unrest for perfect peace, poverty of whatever nature for fullness and plenty.” Apparently this thread is made up of many strands. At the outset we are urged to cultivate the spirit of optimism. It is within everybody’s power to become either an optimist or a pessimist. Optimism leads to success, pessimism to failure. The author goes on to propound a theory that Divine Spirit permeates everything. Wherever the right conditions are made for its entrance, there it is to be found in abundance. We may attract it to ourselves by making our livfes all they should be. N*?:t, we are advised to develop love In its broadest sense. We are to seek the good in everything, consistently Ignoring all that Is otherwise. Unselfish service to others is the outcome of love, and is the only solution of every social problem. Wisdom also Is very desirable. It Is not to be confused with knowledge. Knowledge comes from without, wisdom springs from within. Wisdom is akin to common sense—a fairly safe guide at all times. Nevertheless, knowledge is not to be disregarded, but it must always be conditioned and directed by wisdom. Learned lumber is no longer learned lumber when Its possessor develops sufficient wisdom to use it advantageously. We must think, reason, weigh, but never needlessly worry. An old French proverb runs: “Some of your griefs you have cured, And the sharpest you still have survived; But what torments of pain you endured From evils that never arrived.” The author discusses the subject of mindaction. He states that what we live in our thought world we are continually actuallstng in our visible, material world. If we would have the things around us, all that we might wish, we must first make the necessary change In our thoughts. The power or physical man Is small, but the power of spiritual man is tremendous. It is the latter power which enables one to condition one’s environment, to rise from the ranks, to command aucoess. If we continually visualise poverty we will remain in poverty, but if we continually think of prosperity we net in operation subtle forces that will in time ensure prosperous conditions. The author ooncludea by declaring that by

following the rules laid down we may “exchange weakness and impoteuce for strength, sorrows and sighlngs for joy, fears and forebodings for faith, longings for realist* tlons. This It is to come into fullness of peace, power, and plenty. This It is to be in tune with the Infinite.” Somehow this book, in common with others of the same type, seems to lack something somewhere. Perhaps the author lays insufficient stress on the fact that to succedri In life one must possess the ability and desire to "work hard.” The power of thought is tremendous, but it has its limitations. Still, to conclude on a light note, we must not forget the case of the man in the motor car who, coming one day to an impassable ford, simply sat quietly in his car and “thought” it over! ' ORLANDO. I read “In Tune with the Infinite" a number of years ago, Orlando, and was pleased with much in it: beautiful and uplifting ideas finely expressed. But I fully agree with your criticism that in this and similar' books there is something lacking.— Esther. “ RAYMOND LANCHESTER.” Dear Esthar,. —Looking back over the books I have read during the last year, there are two or three that stand out in my memory—C. R. Allen’s “The Ship Beautiful,” one of Lord Frederic Hamilton’s delightful books of reminiscences, H. G. Wells’s “Christina Alberta’s Father,” which not only impressed me but depressed me, so that I don’t think I will dbhoose it to write about anyway, and Instead will say something about the very last I have read, because it is something in the nature of a discovery. Do any of you know any books by Ronald Macdonald, or this particular one, “Raymond Lanchester”? I picked it out of a little circulating library to which I am a subscriber, and went in the first place by the outside of the book, for it is one of John Murray’s publishing, and I seldom find I am disappointed with the contents of any book inside the grey cover bearing the ship, the crown, and the olive wreath. Nor was I in this case, for I strijek a most delightfully written, rather unusual, and interesting story, placed for some reason or other (though the publisher’s imprint is 1912) back in the ’eighties of the last century. The very first chapter intrigued me. Raymond Lanchester, happily married and already in his thirties, a successful journalist and novelist, is returning to London by a night train from an expedition in search of “local colour.” He shares the carriage with a clergyman, George Harkness, to whom he has been introduced on the station, and the ensuing discussion as to the reason of the prejudice most men feel against a “parson,” initiated by Harkness himself, who has seen Lanchester’s involuntary expression of dismay when he finds who his travelling companion is to be, gives an insight into the characters of both men, who from mere chance acquaintance become firm friends. And Lanchester needs a friend, for on that night his life was cut in half, as it were. He arrives home unexpectedly early to find that his wife has been consoling herself in his absence, and that a divorce is necessary, but he arranges it so that he appears as the guilty party. He goes abroad on special work for three or four years, and on his return learns that his wife is married again to one of his oldest friends, who, having been abroad himself at the time knows nothing of the real facts of the case, as, indeed : nobody does for certain except those immediately concerned. Lanchester also finds that his little son, a boy of seven or eight, is rapidly deteriorating through being left mainly to the care of servants by the mother, who no longer loves him, and so he abducts the child—quite an exciting episode,—and the main part of the book is devoted to an account of Dickie’s education in manliness and other things at the hands of his father and a very charming girl, Diana Alston, who is the leading lady of a small theatrical company managed by an old friend of Lanchester’s, which he joins with Dickie, at first as a means of concealment, until he finds that concealment is no longer necessary, as Lady Stallwood, as his wife now is. does not claim the boy from him. Diana is a most unconventional young person, who with her independence of action, her breezy manners, and slangy speech must have scandalised the good people of the ’eighties very badly; but she is a true woman nevertheless, and, of course, she and Lanchester, who was a hero to her through his books before they ever met, come togethfir in the end. TEMPLETON. I do not know any of Ronald Macdonald’s books, Templeton. There are such hosts of readable books published to-day that one must miss a good many. The plot of this novel does not attract me; but, of course, everything depends on the author’s treatment and power of creating character.— Esther. t • • • “ THE OTHER-SIDE OF THE LANTERN.” Dear Esther, —Some months ago I read with great pleasure a book written by Sir Francis Treaves called “The Other Side of the Lantern.” It was the second of a series of two books of a tour round the world. The first treats of the West; the second, “The Other Side of the Lantern,” of the East, and this was the one I read. I think Sir F. Treaves a most Interesitng writer, and although he Is very exhaustive in his descriptions, one never thinks him prosy, and the interest never fails. Moreover, he is so clear and convincing, one sees quite vividly the scenes he portrays. He carries one along through all the weird and beautiful countries of the East in such an easy, discursive vein that one feels one actu»]ly sees the places he describes with such delity. His portrayal of Japan is especially good. Hi 3 descriptions of the beautiful, quaint, Old World gardens, with their lovely exotic flowers of bright, vivid colours and delightful scents, the entrancing costumes of rich brocaded satins and silks and unique flowered stuffs, and the inimitable grace with which the quaint little ladies wear them, and of their wonderful houses, temples, and gateways, with their old traditions, are very good. I was much interested In his descriptions of the old religion of Shintoism, but I can’t do better than tell of that in his own words: “A Religion of Cherry Blossom and Old Memories.—By the shores of Lake Biwa in an old temple gate the path from the gate winds solemnly uphill through a wood of pines and cedars to the temple. It is an old Shinto worshipping place, which may have relapsed of late years Into Buddhism; but the gate, the path through the woods, and the shrine on the hill, overlooking the lake, are all expressive of the ancient religion of Japan. The Shinto belongs only to Japan. It is the indigenous religion of the country, and although it may have been much modified by the teaching of Buddha, it remains still the religion of the people. It Is the simplest of all the faiths In the world. Shinto merely means 'God’s Way,’ and to the founder of the sect God’s way must have been a way of pleasantness, and a path of peace. Shintoism possesses'neither sacred books nor an austere code of ethics. It has burdened itself with no dogmas, while the unseemly cackle of theological discussion has never come within its treeencircled walls. Of the malignity of religious hate, of the bitterness of religious persecution, the Shinto faith knows nothing. It has been to the people the familiar friend, not the pedagogue; the comforter, not the censor. Shintoism Is represented mainly by two elements—by ancestor worship and the adoration of Nature. . . . It has made of great men demigods; and It has done more than this, for It has served to keep their memories green. The Shinto faith is the religion of old friends, the religion of lovers, since high among the objects of Its homage Is fidelity la

human affection, unforgetfulness of human ties. Another aspect of this homely creed concerns itself with the adoration of Nature and whatever in it is beautiful and lovable. The temple gateway by the lake Is an emblem of this religion of cherry blossom and old memories. The common thatched roof is the cottage roof —a token of homeliness and simplicity. By the gate is the worshipful plum tree, and under the tree is a granite lantern, placed there to keep alight the memory of a friend. The standard of Japanese morality is high. It is influenced ty an ancient and curious code of morality called Bushido, meaning * the precepts of knightly behaviour.’ Bushido insisted upon the power of the voice of conscience, taught the nobleness of selfsacrifice, of valour, of patriotism, of benevolence. The worship of family ancestors influences and directs every act in the worshipper’s life. The Japanese woman facing the great crisis of her life would speak in the words of Pompilia’s prayer: 'O lover of my life! O soldier saint! No work begun shall ever pause for death! Love will be helpful to me more and more I’ the coming course, the new path I must tread, “ My weak hand in thy strong hand strong for this.’ ” HINE KUPANGO. I congratulate you on your selection of an interesting and delightful book, Hine Kupango, which enlarges our Ideas of Far Eastern civilisations. —Esther. * * * * “SILAS MARNER.” Dear Esther, —To-day I have chosen a very ' old book in preference to the new, up-to-date book called "Masterson,” dealing with sex and socialistic problems. Some of the best literary judges consider “Silas Marner” to be George Eliot’s masterpiece. This story, so natural, so touching, and so beautiful, is intended to set in a strong light the remedial influences of pure, natural human relations. Silas Marner, a linen weaver, was a young man of exemplary life and ardent faith, but was subject to cataleptic fits. When the senior deacon was taken ill Silas and William Dane, with others, took turns watching. Silas fell Into a trance one night while watching, and during that time death had come, and, further, a bag of money had been stolen from the deacon’s bureau and Silas’s knife was found inside the bureau. Marner said, “Search me and my dwelling.” William Dane found the bag, empty, in Silas’s room. To find out the culprit it was their custom to pray and draw lots. Silas knelt, relying on his own innocence being certified by immediate Divine interference. The lots declared Silas guilty—so he was suspended from church membership. Going to Williaba Dane, he said: “The last time I used iny knife was when I cut a strap for you, William. I don’t remember putting it In my pocket again. You stole the money, and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door. But you may prosper for all that. There is no Just God, but a God of lies, that bears witness against the innocent.” There was a general shudder at this blasphemy. Poor Marner went out with black despair in his soul, and soon after left his home and settled at Raveloe. His life had now become reduced to the functions of weaving and hoarding. Fifteen years after a great change came over his life. One night, returning from the village, he found his hidden gold—£272 12s 6d—had been stolen from beneath the floor Silas set the machinery of the law in motion, but no thief was ever captured. Dunstan Cass, the squire’s reprobate son, was in difficulties for want of money, and, calling at Maruer’s house and finding him out, went in and searched, and found the money. Cass went out into the darkness with the money, but was seen no more alive. Squire Cass’s son Geoffrey had married unknown to his people. The marriage had been an unhappy one, for his wife was the slave of opium. This wife and her child one snowy night were making their way to Squire Cass’s house, when the woman callapsed. The child, seeing a light, went in and sat down at Marner's fire. Imagine Marner’s astonishment when coming out of a trance to find the little girl there. On the child wakening he lifted her on his knee and gave her some porridge. He then went out, and traced the child’s steps till he came upon the dead woman. Marner said: “It’s a lone thing and I’m a lono thing. My money’s gone—l don’t know where; and this Is come from I don’t know where." Something had now come to replace his hoard which gave a growing purpose to hts earnings, drawing his hope and joy continually onward beyond the money. Even a little child may be the means of leading. Silas aaya: 'There's good i* this world. I’ve a feeling of that now. That drawing of the lota ia dark; bjit the child waa aent to me." BUBNA VISTA. .

“Silas Marner” is a most beautiful tale, Buena Vista, and probably a good many readers are not familiar with it in spite of its fame. —Esther. * • * * “ SHACKLETON’S LAST VOYAGE.” Dear Esther, —Last year I jonwl Whitcombe and Tombs’s New Book Club. I will give you a few extracts from “Sir Ernest Shackleton’s Last Voyage,” by Commander Frank Wilde. I would like to have bought this book, but it was expensive, so I just kept a notebook and copied pieces, and wrote down the outline of the various books I read. The illustrations in this book were very fine, «also the story of the wonderful heroism of the men “Yonder the far horizon lies, And then by night and day The old ships draw to port again, The young ships sail away. And go I must and come I may/ * " And if men ask you why, You may lay the blame on the stars and the sun And the white road and the sky.” —Gerald Gould. Sir Ernest Shackleton possessed a wonderful will power and an unyielding determination to overcome difficulties. He wrote in a final letter to Mr Rowett: “Never for me the lowered banner, never the lost endeavour.” “Be well assured that on our side The abiding oceans fight, Though headlong wind and heaping tide Make us their sport to-night. Out of the mist into the murk The glimmering combers roll; Almost these mindless waters work As though they had a soul.” —Kipling. Sir Ernest was condemnatory of shortcoming and exacting in service rendered, yet he drew from all who worked for him a deep liking and an unfailing loyalty. At South Georgia he looked for a cross he had placed on the hill when on the previous trip with the Endurance, but it was down. The Quest was just a short distance past this point when Sir Ernest took a sudden illness, and died amongst his crew. After wiring to England for instructions they buried him in South Georgia, and raised the cross once more on the hill there over the grave of their leader. “The white South has thy bones, and thou, Heroic sailor soul, Hath passed on thy happier voyage now Towards no earthly Pole.” FAY.I am so pleased, Fay, that you have chosen a book about a real hero of our day rather than some merely ordinary piece of fiction. —Esther. • • • * “JANE EYRE." Dear Esther, —Sometimes it is rather difficult to decide which book out of a number proved the most enjoyable, but last year, owing to sickness, I was not able to pick and choose, and had for the most part to be content with what nurses and friends brought me; hence when I eventually came into possession of “Jane Eyre” I was more than delighted. I knew that Bronte literature was among the best, and that my mother’s aunt’s brother, Whltely Turner, had some years ago written “A Springtime Saunter Rounl About Bronteland,” but I had never read any. Naturally my curiosity nearly overbalanced when I found my little humble self running through someone’s Imagination as resembling in style, etc., the chief character in Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre,” and without more ado I bought the book. Will readers believe me when I assert that I have not as yet met my Mr Rochester, no matter • how much I .esemble Jane? Now I come to the work Itself: an autobiography and a work of art. How beautifully and delightfully the tale is written: no undue sentiment, a humorous touch here and tltere, and throughout no obscurity whatever. I do admire, as no one can fail to do, the authoress with such a wonderful brain. It might almost have been the brain of a man, but It is accompanied by a woman’s soul. Taking it for granted that all members are famViar with this work, who does not feel delighted when Jane, in reply to Mr Brocklehurst’s question as to what she must do if she wishes to avoid the torments of hell, deliberates and then makes answer with, “I must keep In good health and not die.” One fails to see why he should speak of deanlt In a child after receiving such a reply, but had he not spoken thus he would not have filled the role of the severe, hypocritical director of Lowood. Then Jane meets Helen Burns, who, suffering martyr as she la, is also condemned. How she impresses Jane with her patient piety, and one regrets to read of her being punlahed for trivialities. How beautifully the authoress closes a chapter In which she telle of Mias Soatcherd imposing more punish-

meats on the almost saintly disposed Helen Burns. The passage impressed me greatly: “Such is the imperfect nature of man. Such spots are then* on the disc of the clearest planet, and eyes like Miss Scatcherd’B can only see those minute defects and are blind to the full brightness of the orb. One feels glad that Miss Temple existed, for the housekeeper, we are told, was made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron, jane eventually takes up the position of governess at Thernfield to Mr Rochester s charge, Adele Varens, and then we are introduced to Mrs Fairfax, Grace Poole and her drop of porter with its consequent results, the house party, and also Mr __ Rochester’s insane wife, after he has been thwarted in his attempt to marry Jane. Here it is where the moral seems to begin to manifest itself. Later on, Jane, after wandering homeless and destitute, is admitted into the home of St. John and his sisters. There one evening, after much persuasion from St. John, who wants her to marry Mfim and go out with him to India, she fancies she hears Mr Rochester call from out of the night. Was it. fhind telegraphy or coincidental imagination? From further facts one is inclined to believe it to be the former. One is sorry to find Mr Rochester such a poor wreck of humanity, but he admits that it is a just retribution ; on the other hand, one is glad that Jane marries $ man v/ith at least a really noble soul. CHRISTABEL. You w r ould enjoy reading Mrs Gaskell’s “Life of Charlotte Bronte,” Christabel, or some later one. A great many books about the Bronte sisters have since been published, but Mrs Gankell had the advantage of knowing them personally.—Esther. SOME POPULAR STORIES. Dear Esther, —I have read some very interesting books within the last year, two of which I liked being “The Trance,” by Rachel Swete Macnamara, and “Penny Plain,” by O. Douglas. The first-named is rather a peculiar story, whilst “Penny Plain” is very amusing, but one that I deeply interested in was “The Step-mother,” by Annie Swan. I wonder why step-mothers are always supposed to be hard dnd unfeeling in their treatment of step-children. I know I for one could not be so, for I always remember a verse of an old Scottish song my mother used to Bing: “The spirit that fled in the hour of his birth Now watches his lone, lorn wanderings on earth, Recording in heaven the blessings they Who kindly *deal with the mitherlcss bairn.” The fact of a child having lost that priceless treasure, a mother, should make any woman with a spark of motherly love at all deal more kindly than ever with it. The character of Margaret Cardine in “The Stepmother” should surely prove to many readers that step-mothers are not the dreadful poeple they are supposed to be. I can speak from experience, as I am one, and have many a time heard that unkind remark, “Oh, she is only a step-mother." One would almost think they are annoyed at the children showing any fondness or attention to one who is not their real mother. It Is a difficult position to fill, but Margaret Gardine filled it well and nobly. Mr Cardine’s three daughters left the housd rather than meet their step-mother, but her tactful way and loving kindness even when she was so rudely treated won them at last, and they returned home to find that the one they had expected t’o be so horrid was in reality their friend, guide, and confidant. I read another book lately—“ The Mistress of Shenstone.” It was rather an interesting book, but the last pages were missing, and I wished I had not started it. HEARTSEASE. It is satisfactory to meet with a story showing a step-mother in a pleasing light, Heartsease. Both step-mothers and mothers-in-law are much calumniated.—Esther. • * • • “WHILE PARIS LAUGHED.” Dear Esther, —I should like to write about one of those charming books by Lord Frederic Hamilton, “My Yesterdays"; but as they are being so widely read I feel sure some member will choose one of them, so I will take Leonard Merrick’s “While Paris Laughed” for my topic. Leonard Merrick hardly seems as well known as he deserves to be, and to finyone who has enjoyed those clever short stories by H. H. Munro ("Saki”) I recommend "A Chair on the Boulevard” and “While Paris Laughed.” Both books contain ten or twelve delightful, funny stories, mainly centring around three or four impecunious studentß residing at Montmartre—poets, painters, musicians. Their innumerable love affairs, which transport them into the seventh heaven of delight, and when all Is over toss them into the depths of despair—for a few moments—are amusing. As when Pltou asks why all is over between Tricotrln and Fill, Tricotrin replies, “We simply found each other tedious.” Baoh story is rich in droll humour. These quaint characters are always in want, and tholr endeavours to capture the elusive sou are

very funny. At one stage one of them is commissioned to write the “memoirs” of an actress, and finds he has to invest a nature for her as well as a history. Eventually he decides she is to be “a woman whose genius had thrust her into notoriety against the dictates of a simple heart." The embarrassments caused by his sympathetic “writing up” of the lady make very good reading. However, I might quote indefinitely. Every story has some original incidents told in a gay, light-hearted way, and, being combined with a distinctly foreign atmosphere, lifts one completely away from presen', surroundings. Then, too, one can read a chapter and put the book down, without a guilty feeling of having wasted too much time in such frivolous company. 1 am sorry, Esther, that this month has been so busy for me, and that .“ av ® * )een a ble to give this subject so little thought. There are so many beautiful books to talk about. However, “While Paris Laughed” amused me immensely, and I am sure will amuse many others. W. JEWL. I think many readers will be glad of your introduction to a pleasant writer and an amusing book, W. Jewl. I do not know Leonard Merrick well, but have found what Esther rCa< * °* *** a * K>oka very en J°yable.— • • * * THE GOOD BOOK. v ohP ea K F F st ? er ' —Which is the most enjoyable book I read last year? Well, I read several enjoyable books, but the one which fhlVwo de ® peat and most lasting joy was tne Bible Have you read “ More About the Doctor, by Isabel Cameron? I was dewith it. When the doctor paid a visit to an old man who was dying, feeling the antagonistic atmosphere, he said, “ We’ll ooiIL a .. of P ra y er -” Afterwards he asked, Is there anything you would like?” * lea, I would like to hear, sung in Gaelic, to the tune of Coleshill, the 118th Psalm, I in Distress Called on the Lord,' ” and with a defiant smile said, “ You can’t do that for me.” “ I'll learn it myself, and if I cannot do that I'll get someone who can, I promise. Duncan.” Outside he whispered, fahow me how to keep my promise, Father,” and God directed his steps to Robbie Kemps, who was listening entranced to his brandnew gramophone of the newest^make, and he owned a record in Gaelic of the 118th Psalm, to the tune of Coleshill. So they returned to Duncan, who started up in bed as he heard the familiar tune. But the music mastered him; he dare not speak. I in Distress Called on the Lord ” chanted the unseen singer; stately, beautiful, and solemn the note rang out. “He in a large place did me set.” Duncan’s breath came quick and hurried when at last he could speak. “It is Alastair’s voice?” he said; “ himself there? . . . Wasn’t it myself taught him yon tune?” The doctor lifted up the record, read the title: “ Coleshill, sung by the Glasgow Gaelic Choir; leader, Alastair Maclennan Ross.” Seeing the old man’s face quivering piteously the doctor said: “ The Father never does things by halves. He’s my boy, and I—l—burnt his bagpipes ” Robbie Kemp wrote away that very night, and the very thing that had divided father and son in the old times now united them. The above once more proves, Esther, that God- is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we can ask or think. FAITH. You are quite right, Faith. And “ The Doctor ” is a good book for illustrating the power of an honest belief. —Esther. • • * “THE SHIP BEAUTIFUL.” Dear Esther, —Those who have known joy in Barrie’s delightful creations, “ The Little White Bird ” and “ Peter and Wendy,” will find pleasure awaiting them in the pages of C. R. Allen’s simple yet alluring book, “ The Ship Beautiful.” For New Zealanders this book should hold a twofold appeal—its own story and the fact that its author spent his boyhood in Dunedin (was “one of us ”), and Otago’s capital is the background for what we may call the everyday part of his narrative. It is a story within a story—that of eTOry day, being most intimately concerned with the little boy Brian and his war-blinded -Uncle Dick, who tells the tale. In reading one cannot but wonder if the small, eager, tine-hearted nephew, to whom the book is dedicated, was real flesh and blood, even as we certainly feel the author’s own personality is revealed in Dick Burnard. The inner story is a conception of these two, arising from Brian’s first introduction to Uncle Dick’s little red tin box bought in one of Dunedin’s shops in his own boyhood with precious pennies saved, to become the o'wner of this priceless treasure upon whose lid was the representation of a boy, first seen and idolised on a hoarding poster, advertising “ Lane and Hartley's Reinforced Ration” ; a boy with a shock of gold-coloured hair, standing in a white sleeping suit holding back a vermilion curtain from an open French window, through which was revealed an expanse of blue sea, a half-disc of burnished rising sun upon the horizon, and in the middle distance a full-rigged ship of antique build. Across the picture ran the legend, “ Fit yourself for life's great adventure.” The keynote of all that follows lies in that picture and legend. When Brian asks Uncle Dick what the boy is going to do, and Dick counter-questions what Brian thinks he is going to do, the first seed of their story is sown. He is to seek adventure and to “ get there ” —that is plain from the beginning,—and Brian decides that he will sail away to an island. He also decides that the boy is named Christopher, and is needed where they want a man to put things straight. So Claribel Island is born —that land of forgotten pasts, of clogged aspirations and fantastic slothfulness —a town that man has not toiled to build, and within which he finds no freedom. Of old Sir Luzlfuz, who in his youth sold this freedom of those whom he sought to aid by his dream-city to the strange and beautiful red butterfly which alighted on his wrist and promised him power for all he desired to accomplish if he placed himself without question under its direction and at its own price—for it was “ desire on the wing ’’ — the story alone can tell. Of that strange butterfly that grew with power into the huge bird-like terrifying Baldareel Buzz, whose great red wings shadowed the whole island life—a tyranny that the boy Christopher is called upon to break—and the antique ship that he alone can see which called not in vain. It is all there. It is the story of a lost illusion, which is well lost. It is Christopher who says: “ You cannot kill an idea, but you can make it look small.” That, alas, is well when the idea has become a despotism. He made those happy whom he freed to independence, though toil came to them in place of idleness. He had fulfilled his mission, which is ever " to put a wrong thing right.” But how it all happens can only be found in “ The Ship Beautiful.” GABRIELLE. I mußt read this book first opportunity.—* Esther. # # # “WE OF THE NEVER-NEVER.” Dear Esther, —When first I read “ We of the Never-never ” it seemed to me most charming; rereading it after a lapse of many years I find that the charm has not diminished in any way. Being an Australian book, by an Australian writer, and dealing with a life that belongs entirely to our side of the world, I think I cannot do better than bring it to our meeting to-day. A record of one brief year in the Never-never, told by a woman who, in that short comEe>( time knew the land and loved it, e one of its people, experienced its Itles, its drawbacks, its joy, its mirth, its sorrow, such It is—a record of one year only, but the woman’s heart and soul guided

her pen, and all that that year gave to her is given again to her readers in pages that are full of life. Few brides have had the peculiar homecoming that fell to the lot of “ the little missus ” when her husband, the newly-appointed “ boss ” of the Elsey cattle station, took her from a town life “ down south " to the “ out-back ” of the Northern Territory, where the news of her advent brought consternation, indignation, anger, and determined from a bachelor establishment that had never known a white woman—and feared her as a " snorter! " A series of telegrams sent to Darwin with the express object of “ blocking her,” together with the lugubrious prophecies of the ladies, of that town, did not discourage nor dissuade her. She possessed three things that proved short roads to the hearts of the bush folk — her size (“You'can’t beat the little ’uns,” the bushman say), her absence of “side,” and her very keen sense of humour, which stood her in good' stead even when she discovered that the merriment convulsing the camps of black “ boys ” and lubras was the faithful imitation of "How the missus climbed a tree” to avoid a thirsty mob of cattle on their way to water. The thread of humour, strong and keen, runs all through the book; but the author’s pen knows poetry also, and paints vivid pictures, in few words, of the wonder and beauty of a wonderful land. The portraits of men and women are portraits of real life. Black “boys” and lubras, stockmen, travellers, and guests—all are drawn with magic touch. And foremost among them stands Cheon, the Chinese cook and gardener, “the Jolliest old josser going,” who “saveyed” everything, and swept the reins of domestic government into the most capable of hands from the first moment he “sat down” at the Elsey. I dare not enumerate his deeds lest I overrun the space limit by many words. The description of his management of all, from lubras and fowls to the I>oss and missus themselves, is full of amusement. What a boon he would be to many a New Zealand household! His “Clisymus” dinner is a sheer delight. EVE. Your contribution and Gabrielle’s arrive at the last moment, Eve, and are most welcome.—Esther. • • • • This concludes our book symposium. I looked for a larger number of contributions, and am sorry to miss many writers whom I am sure could have written interestingly of some favourite book. But the papers sent in are interesting, and show considerable variety in the class of literature chosen. I am pleased that several members have chosen biography, travel, and books of thought; for, though I admire a good novel as much as anyone, I think fictionreading is much overdone —so many women seem to have no idea that books other than novels exist. Just last night one said to me in reference to a book stall at a church sale, “One may as well pass on one’s books; one doesn’t want them once one has read them.” Quite true, certainly, of the ordinary contemporary novel. I thank members who' have contributed, and hope they and others will muster in good force to make the three remaining meetings successful. The topic for next meeting is “A Foremost Man or Woman of To-day.” Papers to be in by August 9. ESTHER.