Cordelia (Melrose) is a story as agreeable as its name, or as the pretty, if rather chocolate-box-school, picture on its wrapper. One small defect I find in the dissipation of its interest. Beginning with one hero, it goes on with another; and the result is some confusion for the reader who has backed the wrong horse. But Mr. E. M. Smith-Dampier might very justly retort that this is but fidelity to life. When in the early chapters we see the first hero turned from home by an unsympathetic parent, and faring forth to seek romance in a new world, it was surely reasonable to suppose that he would eventually be rewarded by the pretty lady of the wrapper, especially as Savile Brand (though his name inevitably suggests tobacco) is a character drawn with understanding and skill. But Mr. Smith-Dampier is good at lovers. He has another, even better, up his sleeve. This is Peter, the forty-year-old American cousin, who cherishes a tender regard for Mistress Cordelia. I should explain that all this happened in the time of powder, lace coats, and witches. This last is important. Those were the days when Cherchez la sorcière was the unfailing remedy in New England for every ill, material or emotional. It is from this, coupled with the mistaken jealousy of her sister, that Cordelia's troubles come, and so nearly turn her story to tragedy. The main motive may remind you a little of that grim play of witchcraft that we saw at the St. James's Theatre some years ago. But fortunately the end is more comfortable. Cordelia, in short, is a nicely-flavoured romance of old America, with at least three unusually well-drawn characters to give it substance. I have no doubt at all of its success.
OUR ECONOMISTS.
Customer. "I've called about the cough mixture I bought. The first dose cured me."
Chemist. "The instantaneous effect of that preparation, Sir, has been remarked by everybody."
Customer. "it's amazing; and, as there's only one dose gone, I thought perhaps you'd change what was left for some photographic plates."
Lady Poore's Recollections of an Admiral's Wife (Smith, Elder) is as excellent a book of its kind as readers of Punch are likely to find reviewed in a month of Wednesdays. Scrapbooks of reminiscences are so often dumped upon a surfeited world that it is at once a pleasure and a duty to draw attention to a volume of real worth and significance. Wherever Lady Poore was living—whether in Australia before the War or in Chatham after August, 1915—her main object was to arrive at a sympathetic understanding of the people with whom she had to deal, and, without a hint of patronage, to be of service to them. It is impossible to read of the work she did and helped to do during the last dozen years or so without recognising how possible it is to be official and still remain very human. In spite of little outbursts of opinion which refuse to be suppressed, Lady Poore is as discreet as the most censorious of censors could desire. One of her anecdotes—for the most part well told and fresh—is as funny a tale as I have I ever encountered; but I will leave you to find it for yourself. Altogether a book to thank the gods for.