and cumbrous scaffolding upon which to mount as lecturer on the beauties of the famous châteaux of Touraine-Chambord, Blois, Amboise, Chenonceau-among the best known, and might have given us more details about these noble monuments themselves. The photographs are admirable.

The author of A Sportswoman in India not only did a vast deal of hunting, killing boars, tigers, snakes and bears, of which achievements she gives a spirited and highly interesting account, but she studied. the people and the geography of India to excellent purpose. The book, however, is primarily a hunting tale and no one who loves a spice of danger will be disappointed. Miss Savory seems to have been in the thick of every fray; she was bowled over by wild boars, and she stood

so near a tiger when she fired that his blood sprinkled her rifle as he bounded past. What she saw of society in India she found extremely dull and ridiculously formal. The natives and their English furnished her with more amusement. Here is a curiosity in the way of a letter from a subordinate seeking promotion: "Most Respected and Benevolent Sir: As a calf seeks earnestly its mother when strayed in the forest, so we seek for you. As your honour attain a high position now, I humbly beg that my case for promotion be considered," etc., etc. While some of the photographs of buildings are excellent, the hunting episodes should have been allowed to go without the impossible pictures supposed to represent them.

A SPORTS WOMAN IN INDIA. By Isabel Savory. Lippincott & Co., 8vo, $4.50.

Americans. An unsophisticated young woman from Vermont (whose prototype is said to be the daughter of a distinguished Harvard professor), with cousins in Boston, through whom she seems to have established a mysterious social claim on an English family residing near Rome, manages quite artlessly to interrupt Eleanor's affair with her fascinating cousin. Without passing judgment on the strength of the book-which in parts is as strong as the strongest parts of "David Grieve" the American reader cannot but smile at some of Mrs. Ward's minor slips. She indeed refers with journalistic accuracy to the "dead and dying" of a Harvard-Yale football game, but speaks of some delightful "Harvard people," as if Harvard were a town as her own Oxford is. She derives the Puritan Lucy of mixed Methodist-Universalist ancestry, when the accepted parentage of that sort of type is Congregational-Unitarian, and hangs a framed copy of the Declaration of Independence on the wall of Lucy's Vermont home-perhaps an impression from something or other Matthew Arnold picked up in New England, which he passed on to the family as the traditional custom. Taking Lucy seriously, one cannot quite escape the impression that she was adapted from Hilda in "The Marble "The Marble Faun."

Who was it that has said of Andrew Lang that he once wrote a dull thing just to show "his versatility"? Mr. Hawkins has not by any means given so extreme an illustration of his versatility-could he if he tried?-for "Quisanté" is the farthest possible remove from dullness. At the same time it is distinctly disagreeable to find so agreeably amusing a storyteller and commentator on the passing show as Anthony Hope proving his allaroundness by the production of a dis

QUISANTÉ. By Anthony Hope. Frederick A. Stokes Co., 12mo, $1.50.

tinctly problem-novel. Ought Lady May, high-bred, beautiful and accomplished, to have married the Portuguese Jew, a cad adventurer, when she might have mated with her own kind? And having married him to be at last a widow well rid of him, ought she, still posthumously impressed by the strength of the personality that "gets there," have remained "true to his memory," despite just the right sort of temptation? A profound essay by a professor fresh from a psychological laboratory would still leave such mysteries unrevealed. One must imagine Mr. Hawkins turning in relief from his own subtleties to his natural fun-making. For who that heard him during his American readings can forget the lighting of the eye in sympathetic anticipation of the fun of sharing a good thing in the "Dolly Dialogues"?

It needed no authority of announcement to divine that the Dr. North of "Dr. North and His Friends" is substantially Dr. S. Weir Mitchell himself. The delightful stream of sparkling comment on almost every phase of life or art, reflecting now this strange conceit and now that odd character, could only find its source in a man of the world who has seen much, read widely and observed closely. The thought of how much is missed by many of Dr. Mitchell's profession, lacking his all-aroundness amid so many curious contacts, is emphasized by such a book as this. Could any story-teller in search of "material," or any philosopher in search of the exceptional, ask fuller opportunity than is vouchsafed in the physician's vocation? Yet the doctor who writes is the conspicuous exception. Pressure of work, but especially the absorption of specialism, no doubt accounts for it. Dr. Mitchell was fortunate in his specialty. Taking for granted, of course, the literary gift, his skill in treating nervous disorders, his

DR. NORTH AND HIS FRIENDS. By S. Weir Mitchell, M. D. The Century Co., 12mo, $1.50.