In The Royal Artillery War Commemoration Book Messrs. G. Bell and Sons have produced a noble volume worthy of the great record of the Royal Regiment. To the energy and enthusiasm of Mrs. Ambrose Dudley is largely due the collection of the fine material which Major-General Sir Herbert Uniacke has here set out in fair order and proportion. Personal diaries dealing with various phases of the War on all fronts or with the daily routine of batteries are here interspersed with articles and poems of a more purely literary quality and with original illustrations, largely the work of Gunner-officers and extremely well reproduced. Among the most notable contributors are Brigadier-General J. H. Morgan, Major V. R. Burkhardt, D.S.O., Major The Master of Belhaven, Captain Victor Walrond (the last two killed in action), Captain Gilbert Holiday, Captain H. Asquith, Lieut. Robert Nichols, Lieut. Gilbert Frankau, Gunner Mears, the Hon. Neville Lytton, Mr. Septimus Power, Mr. W. Rothenstein, Miss Lucy Kemp-welch and Mr. C. CLARK. Punch is represented by several artists, including Captain E. H. Shepard, M.C., and Lieut. Wallis Mills (both of the Regiment), who have contributed some delightful colour-sketches, very faithfully observed. Many of the poems, too, that appear in the volume have been reprinted from the pages of Punch. There are brief records of those members of the Regiment who won the V.C., many portraits of "Representative Artillerymen," and a Roll of Honour of fallen officers, numbering 3,507. Lack of space alone prevented the inclusion of the names of the 45,442 Other Ranks who gave their lives for their country. Every Gunner who does not possess this splendid memorial work should have it given to him this Christmas by some proud relative or friend. Like the Regiment, it should go Ubique.
When Mr. Robert Chambers decides to give his neurotic New York society women a miss, and exploit his more imaginative and adventurous vein, I always know that I am in for a late night and an extra large gas bill. Like the British soldier Mr. Chambers does not carry the word "impossible" in his vocabulary. Why should he, since he can give the semblance of reality to the utterly unbelievable? Then one mutters, "What utter rubbish!" and sends round to the bookseller to enquire if by any chance there is a sequel coming out. In The Slayer of Souls (Hodder and Stoughton) Mr. Chambers is at his best and most impossible. A race of dreadful magicians, the descendants of the Old Man of the Mountain, who have been multiplying and acquiring extraordinary psychic powers in the interior of China for centuries, come forth to do battle with the United Secret Service for the souls of men. They have inspired the Hun, and the Bolshevik has been their tool. Fortunately a beautiful young American girl, who was brought up in their midst and has learned all their grizzly powers and (as it seems) a bit more, is on the side of the "forces of law and order." The struggle is titanic, for these magicians can slay and be slain corporeally and incorporeally with equal ease. I do not need to tell you who wins out, but neither will I intimate how it is done. I can only say that I envy anybody who is fortunate enough to have a long evening before him and The Slayer of Souls at his elbow, still unread.
In Uncle Pierce's Legacy (Methuen) Mrs. Dorothea Conyers gives us once more all that we have learned to expect of her novels: the friendly, witty, blundering servants; the hunting society in which wealth and poverty, breeding and vulgarity, cheerfully rub shoulders; the descriptions of the wistful beautiful West of Ireland in autumn and winter; and above all the horses. Added to all this there are Sinn Fein raids, real and imaginary, to bring things up to date. A rather unconvincing plot, with a dash of Great Expectations in it, yet offers a situation which has plenty of amusing possibilities. Honor and Evie Nutting, two middle-aged spinsters, find themselves the possessors of eight thousand a year, on condition that they spend it all. That sounds, of course, a very pleasant arrangement; but they have been struggling for years to make ends meet and economy has become a habit. The end of the first quarter finds them sending Harris, the English manservant, in haste to buy a frying-pan with the last unspent three shillings and sixpence. That the Uncle Pierce of the title should be really a brother, that characters should change their names without rhyme or reason from paragraph to paragraph, and that inverted commas should make their appearance just anywhere—all this, I think, is the author's clever way of suggesting an atmosphere of Irish irresponsibility, and it is quite successful. Uncle Pierce's Legacy is a pleasant tale most pleasantly told, and it is not Mrs. Conyers' fault, but her misfortune (and ours), that novels which describe the lighter side of Irish life, even with the tenderest humour, are more likely just now to make one sigh than smile.
I do not know whether The Scar (Hodder and Stoughton) first saw publication in any of our popular dailies, but from internal evidence I should be strongly inclined to suspect it. At least Miss Ruby M. Ayres has written an admirable example of the class of tale, beloved of our serial public, in which new every morning are the tribulations of the elect, only to vanish with startling suddenness in the last days of June or December. For example, Mark, the hero, begins as the misunderstood son of one of those widower-fathers who in such stories dwell for ever behind the locked doors of studies, leaving in this instance Mark to be the victim of an aunt whose lack of sympathy approaches the pantomimic. All the usual results follow, even to the acquisition by Mark of a faithful hound, which the least experience of sentimental fiction would have caused any insurance company to refuse on sight. When therefore Aunt Midian, following her appointed course, effaced this friend-of-man, I confess that my grief was to some extent tempered by a recognition of the inevitable. Of course, however, Mark does not remain for long in what I might call these dog-days of his young affection; love, strong, passionate and not too slavishly restricted to a single object, soon has his world going round as fast as the most exacting reader could desire. For the decorous details of this delirium I need only add that, if you want them, you know where to go to find them.
Had I been asked to godfather Smith and the Pharaohs (Arrowsmith) I should have refused to stand, unless its name was changed to "Barbara who Came Back," for the tale of Barbara is by far the best in this book of short stories. It would be boastful—as well as untrue—to say that I have read all of Sir H. Rider Haggard's many books, but as far as my experience of them goes I find a delightfully fresh quality in this tale. It may be old-fashioned and over-sentimental, but in spite of these defects it has a very definite charm, and its conclusion makes a curious and legitimate appeal to the emotions. All the other stories are well up to standard, and it is amazing that an author who has written so much still shows no symptoms either of weariness or vain repetition.