(_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.
* * * * *
There is a sentence on page 149 of _A Castle to Let_ (CASSELL) which,
though not for its style, I feel constrained to quote: "It was a
glorious day, the sunshine poured through the green boughs, and the
moss made cradles in which most people went to sleep with their
novels." Well, given a warm day and a comfortable resting-place, this
book by Mrs. BAILLIE REYNOLDS would do excellently well either to
sleep or keep awake with, according to your mood. The scene of it is
laid in Transylvania, where a rich young Englishwoman took an old
castle for the summer. Incidentally I have learned something about the
inhabitants of Transylvania, but apart from that I know now exactly
what a novel for the holidays should contain. Its ingredients are many
and rather wonderful, but Mrs. REYNOLDS is a deft mixer, and her skill
in managing no fewer than three love affairs without getting them and
you into a tangle is little short of miraculous. Then we are given
plenty of legends, mysteries and dreams, just intriguing enough to
produce an eerie atmosphere, but not sufficiently exciting to cause
palpitations of the heart. Need I add that the tenant of the castle
married the owner of it? As she was both human and sporting, it
worries me to think that she may now be interned.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Patriot Golfer_ (_seeing British aeroplane and not
wanting to take any risks_). "FORE!"]