Let me heartily commend to you a book of stories by doughty penmen turned swordsmen for the period of the War—A. E. W. Mason, of the Manchester Regiment; A. A. M., of the Royal Warwicks; W. B. Maxwell, Royal Fusilier; Ian Hay, A. and S. Highlander; Compton Mackenzie, R.N.; "Q.," of the Duke of Cornwall's L.I.; Oliver Onions, A.S.C.; Barry Pain, R.N.A.S.; and just short of a dozen others. Published by Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton, under title, The Red Cross Story Book, to be sold for the benefit of The Times Fund. It's the sort of book about which even the most conscientious reviewer feels he can honestly say nice things without any too thorough examination of the contents. With that thought I started turning over the pages casually, but found myself dipping deeper and deeper, until, becoming entirely absorbed, I abandoned all pretence of professional detachment and had a thoroughly good time. I should like to be able to state that the quality of these stories of humour, adventure and sentiment was uniform, if only for the sake of this appropriate word. But I can say that the best are excellent, the average is high, and the tenor so varied as to suit almost any age and taste.
Severe mental collapse experienced by a journalist who attempted to write an article on the rat plague in the trenches without making any reference to "The Pied Piper of Hamelin."
Mr. B. G. O'Rorke, Chaplain to the Forces, has written a short account of his experiences in confinement—In The Hands of the Enemy (Longmans). Seeing that he was allowed, as a minister of religion, unique opportunities of meeting our officers (though not men of the ranks) shut up in different fortresses, and particularly because he has been thoughtful enough to mention many of them by name, his narrative is one which nobody with near friends now in Germany can afford to miss. The general reader, on the other hand, may have to confess to some disappointment, since the foggy shadow of the Censor, German or English, still looms over the pages here and there, blotting out the sensational episodes which we felt we had reason, if not right, to expect; and if their absence is really due to Mr. O'Rorke's steady refusal to indulge us by embellishing his almost too unvarnished recital the effect is just the same. Or perhaps the suggestion of flatness is to be ascribed to the enemy's failure on the whole to treat certain of his victims in any very extraordinary manner, and if so we can accept it and be thankful. There are lots of interesting passages all the same, such as the account of the specially favourable treatment of officers from Irish regiments, accorded in all Teutonic seriousness as preparatory to an invitation to serve in the ranks of Prussia; or the pathetic incident of the white-haired French priest sent to the cells for urging his congregation to pray pour nos âmes. Nowhere outside the Fatherland, I should imagine, would prisoners be forbidden to pray even pour nos armes, and the stupidity of the misunderstanding is typical enough. The cheerful dignity shown by prisoners under provocation makes a fine contrast to such pitiful smallness, and of that this little book is a notable record.
I suppose it would not be possible to travel in the Pacific without a fountain-pen and a note-book. At all events this seems a privation from which the staunchest of our literary adventurers have hitherto shrunk. Do not however regard this as anything more than a casual observation, certainly not as implying any complaint against so agreeable a volume as Voyaging in Wild Seas (Mills and Boon). There must be many among the countless admirers of Mr. Jack London who will be delighted to read this intimate journal of his travellings in remote waters, written by the wife who accompanied him, and who is herself, as she proves on many pages, one of the most enthusiastic of those admirers. You may say there is nothing very much in it all, but just some pleasant sea-prattle about interesting ports and persons, and a number of photographs rather more intimate than those that generally illustrate the published travel-book. But the general impression is jolly. Stevensonians will be especially curious over the visit to Samoa, concerning her first impressions of which Mrs. London writes: "As the Snark slid along, we began to exclaim at the magnificent condition of this German province—the leagues of copra plantation, extending from the shore up into the mountainous hinterland, thousands of close-crowded acres of heavy green palms." This was in May, 1908. Vailima was at that time the residence of the German Governor (a desecration since happily removed); but the Londons were able to explore the gardens and peep in at the rooms whose planning Stevenson had so enjoyed. Later of course they climbed to the lonely mountain grave of "the little great man"—a phrase oddly reminiscent of one in an unpublished letter of Rupert Brooke (about the same expedition) that I had just been reading. Mrs. London deserves our thanks for letting us share so interesting a holiday in these restricted days.