by loss of memory halfway through the ordeal.  One wonders if this rather surprising record exists to-day.  I am not going to assert that the non-technical reader may not find the pages devoted to reprinted criticism rather over-numerous; old newspaper files, like old theatrical photographs, too quickly fade.  But the author’s humour endured; and I like to think that she could appreciate a joke made at her own expense; witness her quotation from the gushing friend who, at the moment of the first triumph of The Persian Garden, overwhelmed the composer with the tribute, “Do let me thank you!  The local colour is too wonderful.  I simply felt as if I was at Liberty’s!”

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To the jaded reader I recommend The Road to En-Dor (LANE) as a book which should undoubtedly stir him up.  It is the most extraordinary war-tale which has come my way.  With such material as he had to his hand Lieutenant E.H.  JONES would have been a sad muddler if he had not made his story intriguing; but, anyhow, he happens to be a sound craftsman with a considerable sense of style and construction.  And he has a convincing way of handling his facts that compels belief in the most incredible of stories.  Lieutenant JONES was a prisoner in the hands of the Turks at Zozgad, and to amuse himself and his fellow-prisoners he raised a “spook” which in time gained such a reputation that it had the Turkish officials almost hopelessly at its mercy.  From being merely a joke his spook soon began to suggest, to him a way of escaping from the camp, and then, in conjunction with Lieutenant C.W.  HILL, he worked it for all it was worth.  His record of their adventures and of the sufferings, physical and mental, which they had to face is really astounding; but I fear it will be received coldly by the psychist.  Spiritualism, indeed, is treated with scant respect, and whatever our own view of this vexed subject may be most of us will admit that Lieutenant JONES has considerable reason for his strong opinion.

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In The Green Shoes of April (HURST AND BLACKETT) Miss RACHEL SWETE MACNAMARA has got together quite a lot of people and situations that other novelists have used before.  There is the fine young Irishman soldiering in India, the soulless actress who marries and leaves him, and the splendid Irish girl, his true mate, whom he weds in happy ignorance of his first partner’s continued existence.  But the hero has a maiden aunt, with a story of her own, and the heroine a terrific grandmother who are Miss MACNAMARA’S creations, and as she makes wife number one lie like a trooper in order to preserve the happiness of wife number two a soupcon of freshness is imparted to the rechauffe.  Of course the well-meaning first wife is not allowed to succeed in her efforts, and Beau and Perry (you would never guess from that which was which, but in this case it doesn’t matter) have a very bad time indeed until, reassured by a friendly barrister, they settle down again into wedded happiness.  These are the confiding souls whom novelists and lawyers love, and I can see Miss MACNAMARA, by-and-by, getting quite a nice story out of someone’s attempt to oust their eldest son from his inheritance.  I hope she will.