This is the first we have heard of this highly-remunerated official. We hope it is not a case of nepotism.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
A literature of Antarcticana is gradually growing up, and the last volume, With Scott: The Silver Lining (Smith, Elder), is a notable addition to it. Let me say at once that I opened Mr. Griffith Taylor's book with some trembling because I saw the difficulties in the way of its success. In the first place I recalled the simple dignity with which Scott wrote of his exploits, and I felt that to fall away from this high standard would be to fail; secondly, anyone writing now of this expedition must to a certain extent travel over ground already covered. These are the main difficulties which Mr. Taylor had to fight against, and he has overcome them. To a writer of his fluency and particular vein of humour it could not have been an easy task to put a right restraint upon his pen. The only criticism I have to pass on his style is that it could quite comfortably have done without the cloud of notes of exclamation in which it is enveloped. Apart from its great scientific value the main interest of the book is found in the light that it casts upon the characters of the author's companions. His observation is always shrewd and always kindly; you are left to guess his dislikes from his omissions. Mr. Taylor was himself in command, during Scott's last expedition, of two parties, and of the work done on these journeys he writes with the modesty characteristic of men who speak of dangers and adventures in which they have personally taken part. One opinion of his I cannot refrain from quoting; it is that the tragedy of Scott's expedition was caused by Seaman Evans's illness. "I believe that, short of abandonment, the party had no hope with a sick man on their hands." No tale of heroism that the War has given us can obscure the noble loyalty of this sacrifice. And to-day, when some of us have neither the time nor the taste for lighter things, there should be a grateful welcome for a book that deals with men whose courage and endurance remain the imperishable possession of our race.
Somewhere towards the end of The Tragedy of an Indiscretion (Lane), we arrive at the Court of Criminal Appeal, where, in the course of unravelling the plot, one of the judges is moved to exclaim, "This is the most hopelessly complicated story I ever had the pain of listening to!" His lordship certainly has my sympathy. Personally speaking, the first twenty pages of it nearly gave me a nervous breakdown, so wild and whirling were the events into which it plunged. Let me start the thing for you. Ronald Warrington, who was heir to the aged Duke of Glenstaffen, eloped with Mrs. Greville, assuming for no very understandable reason the name of his friend and secretary, Essendine. So, the pair being established at an hotel, the supposed Mr. E. goes to a station to buy an evening paper, is fallen upon by the real one, and thrust into a train to attend the deathbed of his ducal relative. Essendine himself, entering the hotel to explain matters to the lady, finds (1) that she is the wife who divorced him before marrying Greville; (2) that she has just died of heart disease. Next, being of a placidity almost inhuman, he decides to bury the corpse as that of his wife, and not worry anyone with explanations. What he didn't know then, or I either, was that another lady was at the moment gadding about London in one of Mrs. Greville's cast-off frocks, and pretending to be that much-married female. And when in due course she is murdered, and the strangely apathetic widower, Mr. Greville, who never set eyes upon her, is arrested for the crime—well, you may begin to think that the judge's remark was an understatement. What I should like to ask Mr. J. W. Brodie-Innes is, if this is his notion of an "indiscretion," what would he have to say of a real social error?