(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
The numerous members of the public who like to take their printer's ink with something more than a grain of sea-salt will welcome Sea-Spray and Spindrift (PEARSON), by their tried and trusted friend, TAFFRAIL, the creator of Pincher Martin, O.D. TAFFRAIL, it must be admitted, has a dashing briny way with him. He doesn't wait to describe sunsets and storm-clouds, but plunges at once into the thick of things. Consequently his stories go with a swing and a rush, for which the reader is duly grateful—that is, if he is a discerning reader. Of the present collection most were written some time ago and have no reference to the War. Such, for instance, is "The Escape of the Speedwell," a capital story of the year 1805, which may serve to remind us that even in the glorious days of NELSON the English Channel was not always a healthy place for British shipping. "The Channel," says TAFFRAIL, "swarmed with the enemy's privateers.... Even the merchant-ships in the home-coming convoys, protected though they were by men-of-war, were not safe from capture, while the hostile luggers would often approach the English coast in broad daylight and harry the hapless fishing craft within a mile or two of the shore." Yet there does not appear to have been a panic, nor was anyone's blood demanded. Autres temps autres moeurs. In "The Gun-Runners" the author describes a shady enterprise undertaken successfully by a British crew; but nothing comes amiss to TAFFRAIL, and he does it with equal zest. "The Inner Patrol" and "The Luck of the Tavy" more than redress the balance to the side of virtue and sound warfare. Both stories are excellent.
Among the minor results following the entry of America into the War has been the release from bondage of several diplomatic pens, whose owners would, under less happy circumstances, have been prevented from telling the world many stories of great interest. Here, for example, is the late Special Agent and Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States, Mr. LEWIS EINSTEIN, writing of his experiences Inside Constantinople, April-September, 1915 (MURRAY). This is a diary kept by the Minister during the period covered by the Dardanelles Expedition. As such you will hardly expect it to be agreeable reading, but its tragic interest is undeniable. Mr. EINSTEIN, as a sympathetic neutral, saw everything, and his comments are entirely outspoken. We know the Dardanelles story well enough by now from our own side; here for the first time one may see in full detail just how near it came to victory. It is a history of chances neglected, of adverse fate and heroism frustrated, such as no Englishman can read unmoved. But the book has also a further value in the light it throws upon the Armenian massacres and the complicity of Germany therein. "Though in later years German officialdom may seek to disclaim responsibility, the broad fact remains of German military direction at Constantinople ... during the brief period in which took place the virtual extermination of the Armenian race in Asia Minor." It is one more stain upon a dishonoured shield, not to be forgotten in the final reckoning.
I never met a story more aptly named than Mrs. BELLOC LOWNDES' Love and Hatred (CHAPMAN AND HALL). Oliver Tropenell worshipped Laura Pavely, who returned this attachment, despite the fact that she was already married to Godfrey. Godfrey, for his part, loved Katty Winslow, a young widow, who flirted equally with him, with Oliver, and with Laura's undesirable brother, Gilbert. So much for the tender passion. As for the other emotion, Oliver naturally hated Godfrey; so did Gilbert. Laura also came to share their sentiment. By the time things had reached this climax the moment was obviously ripe for the disappearance of the much detested one, in order that the rest of the tale might keep you guessing which of the three had (so to speak) belled the cat. Followers of Mrs. LOWNDES will indeed have been anticipating poor Godfrey's demise for some time, and may perhaps think that she takes a trifle too long over her arrangements for the event. They will almost certainly share my view that the explanation of the mystery is far too involved and unintelligible. I shall, of course, not anticipate this for you. It has been said that the works of HOMER were not written by HOMER himself, but by another man of the same name. This may, or may not, give you a clue to the murder of Godfrey Pavely. I wish the crime were more worthy of such an artist in creeps as Mrs. LOWNDES has proved herself to be.
The test of the second water, as sellers of tea assure us, provides proof of a quality for which one must go to the right market. BARONESS ORCZY has not feared to put her most famous product, The Scarlet Pimpernel, to a similar trial. Whether the result of this renewed dilution is entirely satisfactory I leave you to judge, but certainly at least something of the well-known and popular aroma of romantic artificiality clings about the pages of her latest story, Lord Tony's Wife (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), while at the bottom of the cup there is not a little dash of the old strong flavour. On the other hand, though it may be that one's appetite grows less lusty, it does seem that in all the earlier chapters there is some undue proportion of thin and rather tepid preparation for episodes quite clearly on the way, so that in the end even the masterly vigour of the much advertised Pimpernel, in full panoply of inane laughter and unguessed disguise, failed to astound and stagger me as much as I could have wished. Lord Tony was a healthy young Englishman with no particular qualities calling for comment, and his wife an equally charming young French heroine. After having escaped to England from the writer's beloved Reign of Terror, the lady and her aristo father were comfortably decoyed back to France by a son of the people whose qualifications for the post of villain were none too convincing, and there all manner of unpleasant things were by way of happening to them, when enter the despairing husband with the dashing scarlet one at his side—et voilà tout. The last few chapters come nearly or even quite up to the mark, but as for most of the rest, I advise you to take them as read.
In A Certain Star (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) Miss PHYLLIS BOTTOME achieves the difficult feat of treating a love conceived in a romantic vein without declining upon sentimentality, and seasons her descriptions, which are shrewdly, sometimes delicately, observed, with quite a pretty wit. I commend it as a sound, unpretentious, honestly-written book. Sir Julian Verny, a baronet with brains and a very difficult temper, falls a captive to Marian's proud and compelling beauty. Then, just before the War flames up, secret service claims him, and he returns from a dangerous mission irretrievably crippled. Marian fails him. True, she disdains to be released, but out of pride not out of love. It is little grey suppressed Stella (her light has been hidden under the dull bushel of a Town Clerk's office) who comes into her kingdom and wins back an ultra-sensitive despairing man to the joy of living and working and the fine humility of being dependent instead of masterful. There are so many Julians and there's need of so many Stellas these sad days that it is well to have such wholesome doctrine stated with so courageous an optimism.