My Lady of the Chimney Corner. By Alexander Irvine. (Eveleigh
Nash. 3s. 6d. net.)—We cannot but regret that Mr. Irvine has, so to speak, fallen between three stools : his last book certainly cannot be classed as a biography, for it does not claim to be anything so exhaustive or so serious ; nor is it fiction : "I have not even changed or disguised the names of the little group of neighbours who lived with us "; nor again does it consist of the drawing, from personal recollection, of the portrait of the writer's mother, for many episodes are included and conversations recorded in detail, in which he can have had no share. The mixture which results from this indecision is somewhat bewildering, and the figure of Anna, the mother, is worthy of more faithful portraiture than has been allowed her; for it is a wonderful figure of an old Irishwoman, who has fought her life long with poverty and hardship, her heart full of love and humour and religion, and Mr. Irvine writes of her with an admirable strength of devotion. But better than his rather free sketching of her character we like his accounts of the neighbours, of the doings in " Pogue's Entry," and, above all, of the exchange of Sunday broth, with the subsequent deductions from its ingredients as to the financial state of the barterer. "Bacon an' nettles," Jamie said; "she's as bard up as we are this week." All this is delightfully intimate; indeed, the whole book is worthy of praise for its careful writing, its brave attempt to be in Irish what the life of Margaret Ogilvie is in Scots, and its spirit of love and enthusiasm.
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