[M. L. Mirman, who is a Fellow of the University of Paris and was a Mathematical Lecturer at the LycÉe of Reims, was elected Deputy for Reims in 1893. He represented the city in Parliament till 1905, when he resigned his post as Deputy to become Directeur de l’Assistance et de l’HygiÈne Publiques. Interesting as this office was in time of peace, it did not agree in time of war with his ideas of active work, and at the beginning of the month of August, 1914, he was appointed, at his own request, to the frontier post of Prefect of Nancy.—G. F. C.]

My dear Campbell,

You wrote the last words of your book on the 1st of January, 1916, at DelÉmont. I am very sorry that you did not open the year 1916 where you began the year 1915, among your friends at Nancy. You would have witnessed there a fresh crime, bearing the unmistakable hall-mark of “Kultur.”

Nancy—as you proved for yourself de visu, and as you state in the course of your book—is a ville ouverte, without any fortifications. It does not contain a single military establishment. The barracks, which are full of soldiers in time of peace, were emptied on the first day of the war, and were all converted either into hospitals or else into homes of refuge for women and children, refugees whom I gathered in from the destroyed communes. Not one cannon, not one shell, not one soldier is housed in the town. And yet, by means of a long-range gun, mounted at a distance of about 33 kilometres, the Boches are sending us shells of 800 kilos., which fall from a height of 8000 metres and crush a house like a walnut. They have no military objective. What, then, is their purpose? Their intention is twofold. In the first place they wish to “terrorize”; these people are fools, they will never understand that they inspire not fear but horror, and that by acts of this kind they are sowing not terror but hatred. In the second place, they hope to kill, in this great industrial town, a few women and children. This object they can obviously attain more easily than the other; it lies within the reach of every artilleryman, however poor a gunner he may be, who takes a large town as his target.

So far this statement tells you nothing that you did not know before. It is a long time since the Boches gave us their first samples. Every one is acquainted with their methods. To-day it is only of set purpose that it is possible to ignore them. The bombardment, without any military reason, of open towns with no garrison, has become, on the part of the Germans, an everyday affair. But these last bombardments of Nancy show a particularly studied nicety, full of the most delicate refinement.

These heavy guns began to fire on our beloved city of Lorraine in the dawn of the new year, on the sunny morning of the 1st of January, 1916. Picture to yourself, cher ami, on the evening of that 1st of January, the family hearth of a German intellectual, a chemist, a philosopher, a historian, or an artist. Herr Doktor is surrounded by his children, they are celebrating the feast of the New Year by eating sausages and jam, or black puddings and sugar. The evening paper arrives. The family stop talking. Herr Doktor unfolds the sheet, and reads aloud the stop-press news: “To-day, January 1, twelve shells of 800 kilos, were fired on Nancy. Several houses were reduced to dust. Two old men were buried under the ruins of one of them. The explosion of a shell killed a child of fifteen months in the arms of its grandmother....” Herr Doktor exclaims: “Wife, children, stand up! We must celebrate this victory on our feet. Hoch! Hoch! Hoch! The children of Nancy have received some New Year’s presents, some kolossal presents, explosive sugar-plums weighing 800 kilos. The year 1916 has opened magnificently. This victory of Nancy will fill with pride and enthusiasm all the sons of Great Germany. Let us thank our old German God for having granted it to us. Let us praise our mighty Emperor. Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!”

As for us we buried our dead, poor innocent victims, in silence. We washed the pavement red with blood. We put down this new crime in the list of accounts that has to be settled. And we set ourselves again to our work, with our spirits not cast down but invigorated by the ordeal.

German crimes! You have seen some of them, my dear Campbell, in Lorraine. A day will come when we shall have to make a complete list of them, for the instruction of future generations. There will be some of us, I hope, who will devote ourselves to this task. It would be too monstrous that the veil of oblivion should be drawn over all these crimes.

It is imperative that we should know, that the whole world shall recognize, that our school-children shall learn all the evil that the German has done to mankind. At the head of these plain statements—all the more terrible indictments for the dryness of the official reports—we will place the following declarations, the authors of which are classed amongst the most notorious German writers:

“There is nothing in common between them (Kultur and Civilization). The war which is being waged is that of Kultur against Civilization. Kultur, the spiritual (!) organization of the world, which does not exclude bloody savagery—Kultur which is above morals, reason, science; Kultur, die Sublimerung des DÄmonischen.” This unforgettable profession of faith appeared under the signature of Thomas Mann in the Neue Rundschau, in the number of November, 1914.^[A]

And this criticism, addressed by Maximilian Harden to the German Government, after having treated as lies their distracted efforts to excuse the violation of Belgium neutrality:—

“What is the use of all this fuss?... Might creates right for us. Does a strong man ever submit to the foolish pretensions or the sentimentality of a band of weaklings?”

You know, my dear Campbell, the spirit in which we began this war—the same spirit as that of our English friends. For our part we were governed by respect for treaties, for international agreements, for the laws of war, for the rights of nations, for everything by which men, in their bloody struggles one against the other, had tried to raise themselves little by little above the level of wild beasts. Since the war had come, since it had been forced upon us by the enemy—who, after an elaborate preparation, had chosen his own time—we wished, while engaging in it and carrying it through, to minimize its calamities as much as possible, by strictly observing the articles of agreement by which the nations had mutually bound themselves to consider the wounded as res sacra, not to maltreat civilians, not to bombard open towns, and so on. We have paid dearly for the chivalrous illusions which we had at the outset.

Let me give you two examples of the state of mind which prevailed in France at that moment.

The Boches—I say it not to justify but to explain their acts of murder—pretended, as you remind us in the course of your book, that civilians had fired upon them. It is a cynical falsehood. Since the beginning of August, 1914, I have administered the Department of Meurthe et Moselle, and I have made a searching investigation in all my communes. I affirm that no non-combatant, no man not regularly classed in the ranks of the army, has ever fired on the enemy. Never? I exaggerate. There has been one case. One day, in 1914, a German aeroplane flew over the plains of Lorraine; it dropped murderous bombs at random on the peaceable population of certain rural communes. On seeing this, the Mayor of one of these communes, close to Nancy, lost his sangfroid, armed himself with an old fowling-piece, and began to fire at the aeroplane. There was certainly some excuse for him, was there not? But I considered that he was at fault. Assassins must not be killed by passers-by; it is the business of the gendarmes to arrest them. In war it is the army’s business—it is strong enough for the job—to punish the enemy. Consequently the action of this mayor called for censure. I did not hesitate to make an order against this honest but over-strung magistrate; in virtue of the powers conferred upon me by the law, I suspended him from his functions. This order was universally approved; it interpreted the unanimous wish of all civilians not to provide any pretext for German brutality.

I take another example of our standard of behaviour from the story of Badonviller. This Lorraine commune was one of the first that suffered the horrors of Kultur. It was entered by the Germans at the beginning of the month of August. Because our troops had met them with a stubborn resistance which cost them dear, they were mad with fury when they entered the little town; it was there that they first used the special implements with which their soldiers had been supplied for methodical and “scientific” house-burnings; they destroyed, with fire applied by hand, half the commune. That was not enough for them; they shot down the people in the streets like rabbits, they killed women and children on the threshold of their doors. The mayor, M. Benoit, a much-respected business man, saw his young wife assassinated before his eyes; he saw his house burnt, and was himself the object of the worst forms of violence. These scenes of outrage only lasted for a short time. On the next day the French troops retook Badonviller by a vigorous effort, and, after a hot pursuit, made a number of prisoners. These prisoners were brought to the square in front of the Mairie. They were some of the brute-beasts with human faces, who, a few hours before, had burnt the commune and bathed it in blood. The houses to which they had set fire were still smoking. The bodies of their innocent victims were not yet buried. A crowd of infuriated peasants gathered round them, shaking their fists at them, and abusing them with angry cries. The situation was becoming awkward, when the mayor arrived. M. Benoit had just seen his poor wife placed in her coffin. He had no longer a home. His house was a mass of smoking ashes. He was ruined. His heart was broken. He drew near the scene. The prisoners thought that their last hour had come, and turned livid with terror.

But M. Benoit is a Mayor of France. He knows the traditions of our country. He respects the law. He forced a way through the crowd. With a single gesture he called for silence. He reminded them that these men were prisoners, that prisoners were protected by international agreements, and that no one had a right to lay a finger on them—no, not even on them. He put himself in front of them. He made a rampart for them with his body. He declared that while he lived not a hair of the head of one of these prisoners of war should be touched. And the peasants, mastered by their sense of duty, stifled their cries of anger, unclenched their fists, and respectfully moved away and went into their houses.

The Bavarian assassins were decorated by the Kaiser, for their crimes, with the Iron Cross. The French Government at my request granted to M. Benoit the Cross of the Legion of Honour, and a few days later I presented it to him with my own hands.

Those are the principles with which, on one side and the other, we began the war, and these two incidents, taken at random from a hundred of the same kind, seem to me to show accurately the difference between the two methods, the difference between the Civilization on which Thomas Mann heaps his contempt, jeering at its “reason, its gentleness, and its emancipation,” and the Kultur which, according to him, is “above morality, reason, and science,” the Kultur which he hails as “die Subliemerung des DÄmonischen.”

Have these principles been modified? Those of the Germans, no; our own, yes. The Germans have systematically continued the practical application of their gentlemanly instincts. After the crimes of Lorraine and Belgium came the unpardonable outrage of the Lusitania, followed by others so numerous and so varied that I must give up the idea of finding room for them in this letter; a whole volume would not be long enough to give a full list of them.

If the principles of the Boches have remained the same and have incited them every day to the commission of fresh outrages, ours—I say it frankly—have changed.

We want three things—to-day reprisals of defence—to-morrow compensations—finally, to save the future, punishment.

Reprisals? Most certainly. There are two kinds of reprisals, those of vengeance and those of defence. The first I reject; the second I demand. I should be proud if French soldiers and their brothers-in-arms kept their hands clean when they penetrate into Germany. I swear that no violence could have stained them if the Boches had not been piling up provocations for months and months. In any case I am quite sure that if, contrary to my hopes, they were to give way to these provocations, our dear soldiers would never commit a tenth part of the acts of violence which have been suffered by our unhappy populations; they would dismiss with horror the idea of setting fire to ambulances, or of massacring old men and women and children.

But there are reprisals of defence. These I hope for, and our Nations demand them. We have got to defend our soldiers and our civilians. To reply, in the trenches, to grenades with oranges, to gases which kill with gases which make the eyes smart, to liquid fire with cold water, would not only be idiotic, it would be criminal. In battle, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Abel must fight with the same weapons as Cain. However varied the forms of human folly may be, I imagine that no one will dispute this necessity. If, however, any soft-hearted philanthropists raise a protest and entreat us not to answer gas by gas and fire by fire, it would be easy to form a few gangs of them and place them in the front-line trenches, with instructions, when asphyxiating gases of the enemy arrive, to disperse the clouds by blowing upon them, and to put out the flames of the liquid fire with their gentle tears.

We have also got to defend civilians. Intoxicated by their philosophers the Boches can only understand the arguments of force. They laugh ponderously at our protests in the name of right. Blows are the only things that they can feel. We ought thoroughly to convince them that every time that one of our open towns is bombarded by cannon, by Zeppelin, or by aeroplanes, one of our aeroplanes, while we are waiting for something better, will bombard one of theirs. An excellent effect was produced by the operations at Carlsruhe and Stuttgart. Let us equip hundreds of aeroplanes for purposes of bombardment, and let each outrage of the Boches on our towns be followed by an immediate riposte, frankly announced in the newspapers to the whole world. Is that cruelty? I would accept that reproach from no one. I have immense pity in my heart—pity for our children and our women who are the victims of German assassins, pity for our children and our women whom it is our duty to protect, and whom we can protect in this way only! That, I repeat, is not a reprisal of vengeance, but a reprisal of defence. The people who protest against the use of such means ought not to remain far from the danger zone. Let them go—not alone, that would be too easy, but with their family, their old mothers, their wives, their children—let them go and take up their abode in the open towns which serve most often as targets, to Reims, to Pont-À-Mousson, to Nancy, to Dunkerque; let them go and live there in the houses of the poor, which are crushed like walnuts by big shells and split from top to bottom by Zeppelin bombs, or else let them take a berth for a few months on a transatlantic steamer; when they have been there long enough, when they have observed at close quarters the acts of the Boches, when they have seen some loved one fall by their side, when they have felt on their own brow the wind of a Camarde, then, if they still demand that the Allies should not engage in reprisals of defence, their advice, though it may not be wise, will at least be worthy of respect. In the meantime, in the name of the women and children already assassinated, and that the list of these pitiable victims may not be lengthened, those people had better be silent who, from the asylum of their safe and comfortable homes, invite us to reply to crime by diplomatic notes or by prayers, and to counter actions that kill with words that lull to sleep!

I said that from to-day our wish is for reprisals of defence, and that to-morrow we shall want compensation and punishment.

One word only about compensations. It is not enough that everything which has been destroyed and can be paid for shall be paid for. Those who have wilfully set our villages on fire must be compelled to rebuild them; we shall, I hope, requisition in “Boche”-land enough manual labour to repair all that can be repaired of their crimes. When they have not destroyed our manufactories they have pillaged them, stealing raw material, manufactured articles, and machines; I sincerely hope that they will be compelled to restore our plant to us in good condition, that in case of need, while we wait for better, we shall not hesitate to take theirs in place of our own, which they have no doubt broken up, and that we shall have the sense to impose upon them a whole category of economic measures calculated to restore those of our industries which they have deliberately ruined.

And I imagine also that in the domain of art, compensations will be put down in settling up the accounts. We will leave them all their own public monuments, in the clumsy bad taste of which they take such pride. But there are in the German and Austrian museums masterpieces of art—not of German art, but of Flemish or Italian, Dutch or French, Russian or English. The Boches will entertain profound respect for us if we collect all these works, which in any case they do not understand, and form with them in beautiful maltreated towns such as Louvain, Ypres, Reims, and Arras, museums of the Great War. If we do not act in this way they would feel no gratitude towards us, but would treat us simply as imbeciles, and for once I should be of their opinion.

But to come to a graver question: the necessity for punishment. It will not be enough that the material and economic damage which they have done shall be repaired, it will not be enough that the Monster which has steeped the whole world in blood shall be struck down and rent limb from limb, and placed for ever in a condition in which it can do no harm. The outraged conscience of humanity demands personal decrees against the assassins.

Ah! If the sponge were to be passed over all the crimes that have been committed, over all the outrages and all the violations of the rights of nations, if this war were to be ended by an ordinary treaty modifying the frontiers, and stipulating for financial and economic conditions and nothing more, and if, after this treaty, wearied of hating and giving in to a great craving for moral peace, the hostile Nations were to blot from their memories the recollection of the Evil accomplished, and were to throw themselves into each other’s arms and exchange a mighty kiss of concord and of love—let us take every precaution against such a possibility! A misfortune would overtake humanity far more serious for it than all the catastrophes which it has suffered in the course of its sorrowful history. I say that if we do not strike at the head of the most exalted, the most powerful among the responsible authors of these crimes—those who let loose the war, those who gloried in tearing up treaties like “scraps of paper,” those who ordered the sinking of the Lusitania and the Persia and their thousands of passengers, those who first bombarded open towns, those who for the first time launched aeroplanes and Zeppelins over our industrial cities on both sides of the Channel (to speak only of our own front) those who burnt Louvain, who murdered the Cathedral of Reims, those who gave the order for the first acts of incendiarism and pillage and assassination, those who splashed the statue of Charity with the noble blood of Miss Cavell, those who started the rÉgime of asphyxiating gases and liquid fire, and all who have placed themselves beyond the pale of the law, and of humanity—if the sword of the law does not fall on all these men personally, this is what will happen: man will no longer believe in honour, he will no longer believe in right, he will no longer believe in justice, he will no longer believe in anything. His faith in a better future will vanish and be dispelled for ever, along with the beautiful dreams which—whether they were realizable or not—were our joy, our hope, and our pride, in which we were constructing, on the foundation of Law and of Right, better national and international organizations than those by which man up to our day had protected himself. If the criminals do not bear the punishment of their crimes the principle of responsibility gives way, carrying with it all our codes and laws. It will remain a settled principle that only Force counts. The force of Germany will not have triumphed this time, but its hateful doctrine will remain all-powerful, and that would be for humanity a terrible moral relapse.

The Germans have taught us to hate—and perhaps that is their greatest moral crime. To this new passion, but lately still unknown to us, we had for long ages closed our hearts. We should not have allowed it to enter them, if, whether as conquerors or conquered, we had been challenged by our enemies to an honourable combat. Under the repeated blows of their outrages our hearts ended by giving it admittance; hatred has entered into them, it has settled itself there, and taken up its abode. It will stay there till justice has been done. Our soul will not be freed from hatred till the day when the expiation of the chief culprits has been carried out. Then, and then only, humanity will be able to resume its enthusiastic and yet halting march in the direction of Progress.

These are not the extravagant visions of a solitary dreamer. You recognize these sentiments, friend Campbell. You have felt how strongly they were imposed upon upright consciences, however enamoured of the ideal, by the stern contact with realities. No one can remain a stranger to that fact who has made the melancholy pilgrimages which you have in the murdered lands,—for example, in the wasted fields of Lorraine or Champagne—if, in the cities of Reims or of Pont-À-Mousson, in Sermaize or Clermont en Argonne, in Nomeny or GerbÉviller—and all the other places, alas! where innocent blood has flowed—he can hear and remember with a brotherly heart the cries of the martyrs, as he passes through the midst of the ruins.

Is it impossible to realize these projects? Is it an idle fancy to talk of such conditions and to demand such punishments, while the enemy is still burrowing in trenches dug in our soil? No! No! Whatever trials we may still have to submit to, whatever long sufferings we may still have to endure, in France, as in England, in Russia, in Italy, in Belgium, and in Servia, we all know perfectly well—as the rest of the world is beginning to know—that absolute victory, with the conditions dictated by us, will without any doubt be the prize of our efforts, if we pursue those efforts with enough resolution and method, that is to say if we are determined to have it, if our determination and our actions are in proportion to the importance of the object we have to attain. And you, friend Campbell, will have the honour of being of the number of those who, from the first hour, have had a clear vision of the future, of those who have taught your noble Nation to understand and to be determined. And so with all my heart I give you my hand.

The autobiography of Sir C. Rivers Wilson covers a long period and touches on many interesting historical events. Sir Rivers, who was born in 1831 and died in 1916, passed the greater part of his life in the service of his country. While still a young man at the Treasury, he was for some time private secretary to Mr. Disraeli, of whom he has some good stories to tell, and he has much to say about the celebrated “Bob Lowe,” whose notorious “match tax” has lately been passed by Mr. McKenna. For over twenty years Sir Rivers Wilson was the head of the National Debt Office, but his most interesting work during that time was when he was specially detached for financial diplomacy in Egypt, and his account of his difficult dealings with the Khedive Ismail Pasha brings much that is new to light. It is particularly relevant at the present time, when Prince Hussein, the son of Ismail Pasha, has been established as independent Sultan of Egypt under the British Protectorate. Sir Rivers gives us most entertaining chapters on Ferdinand de Lesseps, le Grand FranÇais, whom he knew intimately, and on many other Parisian celebrities of later days. At the age of sixty-four Sir Rivers became connected with America, first through C. P. Huntington and the Central Pacific Railway, then as President of the Grand Trunk Railway, which he raised to a position of great prosperity. All this he tells in a modest and unassuming way, with many touches of humour. His style is “chatty” and genial, and it is obvious that Sir Rivers Wilson was a man of few enemies and many friends.

LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, W.

Admiral Fitzgerald’s life has been an exceptionally full and varied one, and whether he was afloat or ashore, engaged in his professional duties, or enjoying a strenuous sporting holiday, he is always interesting, because whatever he turned his hand to—work or play—he did it with all his might. Of the active work at sea which is comprised in the present volume, perhaps the most remarkable portion is the cruise with the squadron which accompanied the Bacchante when King George and his brother made their memorable voyage—not round the world. If any tour was likely to be carried out according to prearranged plans, one would have said it was this one, and the story of the vicissitudes in its progress and programme is curious and highly instructive.

On shore, Admiral Fitzgerald was at one time in charge of the Royal Naval College, and for two years Superintendent of the Pembroke Dockyard, entertaining in the latter capacity a number of distinguished visitors, among them the ill-fated Admiral Rosjesvenski. He was more than once stationed in the Mediterranean in circumstances which enabled him to take ample advantage of the wonderful sporting opportunities then available. Among his most attractive chapters are those which describe the shooting—woodcock, duck, wild-boar, etc.—in Albania, Syria, and Turkey; and he has a rare knack of conveying much of his own whole-hearted enjoyment to the reader.

He is almost apologetic with regard to his passion for sport, and, indeed, admits that in the eighties the navy suffered somewhat from a tendency to rest on its laurels and take things easily. Much more did this tendency affect those in charge of affairs at home, the politicians—a class whom the Admiral, quite irrespective of party, holds in very low esteem. The remaining principal section of the book describes the stages in the struggle against this tendency, initiated by Admiral Fitzgerald and a few other far-seeing men, fortunately not too late.

Not many bodies of men have a more distinguished tradition than the Irish Bench and Bar, and among the legal luminaries of Ireland in recent years there was no more representative and characteristic figure than Lord Chief Justice O’Brien. After his retirement he occupied his leisure in putting together his reminiscences. They were unfortunately left unfinished at his death, but have been edited and completed with the fullest knowledge and sympathy by his daughter, the Hon. Georgina O’Brien.

He has much to say of sport, of youthful frolics, and of prominent figures in the social life of Dublin, but the main interest of the book lies, as was to be expected, in his professional recollections. These include the trials arising out of the Phoenix Park murders, and those which followed another no less sombre tragedy—the Maamstrasna massacre; but for the most part they are of a more cheerful character. The impress of a vigorous and intensely independent personality is stamped on every page, and few people could attain to the detached serenity with which he records the bestowal of the once well-known sobriquet of “Peter the Packer.”

Griffith Weston is a child with a temperament. With his rather ordinary but quite nice relations he lives in the ordinary world on the usual footing. On his own account he lives another life in a world of his own. Hence minor escapades which alarm and exasperate his governess and his kind but conventional aunt, and which are told with an insight and sympathy that invest their details with indefinable charm. Into this happy young life enters the sinister figure of the Parish Organist. In him, too, ordinary folk see nothing but a queer-tempered old musician, but he, like Grif, lives in a world of his own, though a very different one, it would seem, from that of the gentle, dreamy boy. The tragedy which ensues may be baldly summarized as follows: The Organist, a homicidal maniac, supposed to be cured, gives form and substance to Grif’s other world, and instils into his mind, enfeebled by illness, the suggestion that in it there is another boy, summoning him with a call which is not to be resisted. The maniac’s lurid death fails to break the spell which grips the child, and the relief of telling his story to an understanding listener comes too late. To the real nature of the tragedy Grif’s own people remain blind to the end. The doctor knows more, but he only sees when he has been enlightened by the third of the outstanding figures in the story, a friend of Grif’s elder brother, and a delightful study of the school-boy turned Sherlock Holmes. These two are helplessly aware that the sensitive child has been scared into his grave. Does this exhaust the matter, or is there still more behind? Throughout the story the reader is haunted by a feeling that there is another, more elemental, world, peopled by powers both kindly and malign, with which both the dreamy boy and the mad musician have kinship, and by virtue of which the currents of their lives are intermingled. It is this sense of mystery and doom which gives the book its glamour and distinction, and provides scope for Mr. Forrest Reid’s elusive and delicate art.

Put as concisely as possible, the theme of Dr. Wood Jones’s book is a demonstration of the fact that Man, the supreme product of Evolution, could only have been developed from animals which had their homes and spent much of their lives in trees; the main point in the argument being that the descendants of primitive animals living on the ground were inevitably doomed to become quadrupeds, and so missed the chance of acquiring the upright posture which is one of Man’s distinctive attributes, at the same time paying for more immediate advantages by losing for ever that invaluable organ, the hand.

Stated in these crude terms, the matter might at first sight seem to be only a chapter, though an important one, in the story of Human Evolution; but before the reader has progressed very far, he will begin to realize that the arboreal habitat is not merely one of the conditions, but the central and dominating factor in the whole process. Not that living in trees was in itself sufficient to determine the line of progress in an upward direction. Many classes of animals lived, as many still live, mainly in trees. Mr. Wood Jones, reasoning on lines which would delight the heart of M. Henri Bergson, shows how and why only one of these classes continuously achieved “the successful minimum of specialization,” and moved slowly but surely in a direction which ended in Man, and not in a Lemur or a Sloth.

There is much more in the matter than this, but the whole argument of the book does not admit of being summarized briefly. Much of it is based on data supplied by Comparative Anatomy, of a character which only experts can appreciate, but the author has skilfully and considerately marshalled his material in such a way that the successive steps in the development which he proves to have taken place can be followed and understood by any intelligent layman.

The poems of which some renderings are here offered to those who cannot read the originals cover a period of about a thousand years. The poets of the elegy and the melos appear in due succession after those of the epic. A little gem from Mimnermus (seventh century B.C.) is the first in the collection, and some lines from Macedonius (sixth century A.D.) mark the close. The interpretation of these lyrics has been the author’s sole and grateful distraction during a period of ceaseless work and intense anxiety in the tragic years of 1914 and 1915—“yet another proof,” says a review in the Morning Post, “of the worth of true poetry as manna for the soul in these dread and inexorable days.... The little book is like a vase of rose-leaves, faded yet fragrant, which, as you pour them out, whisper sympathy from the dead to the living.”

In this edition a new poem, entitled “Inter Arma Silent,” is printed as an introduction, and all matter has been eliminated which has not strictly to do with the sea. The volume appears during a struggle even more stern and momentous than that recorded in the Ballads. But the chivalries of the sea and the test of high endurance are the same as in the days of our fathers, and while the Island race endures the spirit of Drake, who sleeps “’neath some great wave,” will never call to them in vain.

The underlying principle of this book is that the Soul, no less than the body, is a product of evolution, though, unlike the body which perishes, it has a destiny which will endure. The Soul, which has its origin in the dim sentience which accompanies even the lowest forms of life, is identified with the human Self-consciousness. It is carefully distinguished, however, from the Self, which is only one of its partial manifestations. The theory of Materialism is examined and found wanting, and the nature of Matter itself investigated. Following upon this, the book deals with the conditions necessary for the appearance of life and the mode of its appearance. A chapter is devoted to the controversy of the Spontaneous Generation of Life, and the curious process of Heterogenesis. The relations of physical to mental structure are dwelt upon, and the intimate connections of the two orders of development. The difficulties which beset the transition from a subhuman to a human consciousness, and the activities of consciousnesses in a subhuman condition, are discussed at some length. Speech is the distinctive mark of man, but it is shown to be connected with anatomical development and motor activity. Considerable attention is given to Weismann’s theory of the non-transmission by heredity of acquired characters, and the theory in its extreme form is rejected as improbable and unproved. This disposes of one of the chief obstacles raised by the Weismann school to the permanent value of education and the independent evolution of the Soul. There are chapters dealing with Personal Identity, the Relation of the Soul to the Self, the Unity of the Soul—in spite of the marvellous phenomena of multiple personality, and a very interesting discussion on the possible permanency of sex, even in the more spiritual stages of the Soul’s future development. The book concludes with some philosophical disquisitions on the nature and method of creation, and the place of the Soul in, and in relation to, the Universe of which it forms part. The author, regarding evolution as a process whose operation extends both to body and mind, repeatedly turns to the facts of physical evolution for hints towards elucidating the obscure course of mental evolution.

This book gives a series of sketches, in narrative form, illustrating the life of an Athenian citizen during the Peloponnesian War. Nearly all the incidents of both public and private life are covered. Besides witnessing a wedding, a funeral, a dinner-party, and the usual scenes of domestic life in town and country, the reader is introduced to a “Parliament” on the Pnyx, a dramatic festival in the Theatre, a trial in the Law Courts; he may visit a Gymnasium with Sokrates, journey with a pilgrim to Delphi, make the Mystery March to Eleusis, witness a sea-fight with Phormio, and take a hand in the Battle of Delion. A sojourn at Sparta, a celebration of the Olympic Games, and a scene at the Port of Athens, complete the picture.

The thread of the story is woven upon a more or less historical foundation; but the main purpose of the book is rather to give an insight into Athenian manners and customs, and to introduce among the characters types of every sort—the conservative farmer, the smart young aristocrat, the rich merchant, the Spartan, the slave and the philosopher. Local colour is imparted not merely by detail gathered from the Classics and archÆological research, but also by descriptions taken from Greek scenery as it is to-day.

In short, the book is intended to give to general readers and to all who are interested in Greece and its history a clear and vivid picture of Hellenic life and culture in the Great Age of Pericles.

The Authors of this book have seen, during the past two years, a great deal of the light and shade of war, the one as a War Correspondent, the other as a soldier, and, latterly, a Correspondent of The Times. Some of the war pictures which they give are classics in their way, and such articles as “The Men from the Glen” and “The Last Load” are real literature, and as such worthy of being preserved in the records of the Great War.

Captain Malcolm Ross is well known, not only in his own country, but also in the United Kingdom, as a writer of note, as a keen student of Nature, and as a daring explorer and climber in the Alps of his native land. As a War Correspondent on Gallipoli, in Egypt, and in France, he has earned further distinction by his graphic accounts of events from the battle-fields. His articles have attained a wide popularity in the English and Colonial Press and have in some instances been translated and republished in the French journals.

Mr. Noel Ross was wounded in the historic landing on Gallipoli after having taken part in the fight against the Turks on the Suez Canal. Discharged as unfit for further service, he again enlisted in England, passed a course at Shoeburyness, and received a commission in the Artillery. As a result of continued trouble from shell shock he had to relinquish his commission. After a few weeks he was taken on the staff of The Times, for which journal he has done, and is still doing, brilliant work. He is also a contributor to Punch.

The writer of this frank and simple narrative is the wife of the famous anti-Semite, but the young airman son, to whom she is devotedly attached, is the child of a first marriage. The volume consists of her diary from July, 1914, to August, 1915. This anxious French mother makes no attempt to represent herself as more heroic than she was or is, and her honesty gives a special value to her picture of the central and really fine figure in the book—that of her son Paul, many of whose letters to her during the war are here given. Among other interesting passages in the book is a description of the scene at the Paris Cabinet Council, when General Gallieni was asked by the Ministry if he would defend Paris.

This volume contains the conclusion of the famous “Eye-Witness’s” Narrative from the front, which has now been discontinued. It is reprinted in full from the reports issued by the Press Bureau, and has not hitherto been accessible in a consecutive and complete form. Taken in conjunction with the previous volume published last year by Mr. Edward Arnold, this instalment of “Eye-Witness’s” Narrative provides the most valuable current commentary on the events of the war in Flanders which has yet appeared. As time goes on, its accurate and graphic story of the fighting will inevitably be appealed to as the most reliable evidence of what actually occurred whenever diverse theories are at issue.

This book is written by an expert and a novice, and designed for readers who approach the subject in a condition of complete ignorance; accordingly, nothing is taken for granted. Only rudimentary instruction is imparted, but this is given with absolute simplicity and clearness.

This work deals with a very interesting and important subject, which appeals no less to the layman than to the scientific student. The habits of sea-fish have only recently begun to be investigated seriously, but their importance in connection with our great fishing industries can hardly be overestimated. A great deal of information relating to the migrations of fish has already been accumulated, but it is scattered in books and periodicals frequently difficult to obtain. The author has aimed at giving a systematic account of the knowledge acquired, developing at the same time a theory of migrations based upon the various stages in the growth of fish in connection with currents. The book contains descriptions of the spawning habits, the eggs and the young, the passive drift to the feeding grounds, and the distribution of the species due to migrations. Practically all families of fish have been considered, but the important food fishes of the Northern Hemisphere have received specially detailed treatment.

“If Mr. Gerald Campbell had only written about such experiences as other visitors to the front have had, his remarkably readable book would have deserved high praise on its merits. But he has done much more than that; he has written of experiences which no other English Correspondent has had, and his book must be placed among the few which are really informing, even to those who are familiar with the facts of the war.”—Spectator.

“A deeply impressive, well-informed book. Mr. Campbell’s book will well repay careful and patient study. It penetrates beneath the surface of the fighting.”—Daily Telegraph.

“This book contains, so far as we know, the only careful and trustworthy account of those months of intense fighting which has yet been published. Historians will have to turn to these pages for information in regard to many details of the confused events of the early days in this theatre.”—The Times.

“A superlatively interesting book.”—Graphic.

“A book full of life and human feeling. ‘A Surgeon in Khaki’ will certainly live as a first-class description of a portion of the great war.”—Field.

“A book of extraordinary interest. There are many stories, grave and gay, in this book, which should be widely read. It is quite a remarkable book and gives a wonderful vision of what war is.”—Birmingham Daily Post.

“Mr. Williams has written an excellent book, one of the most vivid and informing accounts that have yet been produced of our men in the field. Like all good correspondents, he has an eye for significant detail. His knowledge of Germany helps him to many instructive comparisons. He is the master of an easy, vigorous style, which occasionally reaches real eloquence. Above all, he has a great gift of enthusiasm. The book is written in a fine spirit, not captious, or egotistical, or flamboyant, but honest and understanding.”—Spectator.

“This book is no mere compilation of the day-to-day dispatches from Mr. Williams, but a complete study of the army at work and at play, touched by many a scene of pathos, enlivened by many a page of vivacious anecdote, and marked throughout by keen study of all the phases and problems of the war.”—Daily Mail.

“In place of the average piece of journalistic hack-work, we have here a live book, a book with a character and a soul, a book whose literary skill and deep human feeling justify the prediction that it will be found among the few elect records which survive their hour, and are still remembered and consulted in years to come.”—Daily Telegraph.

“Admirably written and readable from beginning to end.”—Morning Post.

“Mr. Souttar is a surgeon with a gift for vivid writing. His book is a quite fascinating record of his experience.”—Daily News.

“Pending the time when a full history of the European conflict will be possible, there can be nothing better in the way of a brief general survey of the British operations than ‘Eye-Witness’s Narrative.’”—Illustrated London News.

“‘Years of Childhood’ becomes the more fascinating the more one reads and thinks about it. Aksakoff read a new and ecstatic meaning into things which are banal and tame to most men and women, and the eager eye of his mind scanned deep into the lives and loves of the people round about him.”—Morning Post.

“A charming Russian book. At this time when so many translations from the Russian are appearing, well advised and ill advised, it is good to be able to put the hand on one superlatively good book. Here is a refreshment for tired eyes and tired souls. It is put into beautiful English.”—Country Life.

“English readers may well be grateful to Mr. J. D. Duff for his translation of a very unusual book. He promises us a translation of ‘A Family History,’ which carries on the narrative of Aksakoff’s life and gives some account of his family. In the original the two make one book, and all who read this first instalment will welcome the completion of it.”—Spectator.