and the biologist had to take turns with the sails or the cook's galley, and because every mother's son of them was a sportsman the cruise was a success. It certainly was adventurous. The money to provide the expedition was subscribed, begged, or borrowed by themselves, their only real wealth was in language; and the wonder is that they went through with it and returned without disaster, for they had the narrowest of escapes from the ice-fall of a calving berg, from being entrapped and wrecked in Hell's Kitchen,' from fog and floe and the winds that blow. Yet they won their battle against moody Nature; and, doubtless, by this time are renewing plans for another bout with the impossible.

Now that, it seems, the mutual relations of Britain with Ireland are growing more sympathetic, and the old misunderstandings are being relegated, it is hoped, to the darker shelves of history, it is possible, without prejudice, to recall the past and to recognise how cruel often have been the mistakes, and sometimes the good intentions, of the people of the two islands; who, instead of the old hatreds, should have grown together, as the races of northern and southern Britain have grown together. Scotland has had her blood grievances with England; but the union of the two kingdoms now is close and mutually beneficial. Such reflexions as these are inevitable when a volume like 'The Book of the Galtees and the Golden Vein' (Hodges, Figgis), by Mr Paul J. Flynn, appears. The strip of land between Tipperary, Limerick, and Cork with which this work treats is drenched with cruel history. Back to the wildest days of Ireland, through the troubled years of Elizabeth's intervention, when Raleigh and Spenser were 'undertakers' in those parts, it goes; and shows how one small district may be the theatre of an infinite tragical drama.

The recent issue of a part of a report by the League of Nations on the worst of social vices makes comparatively timely Mr Herbert Stringer's book on the 'Moral Evil in London' (Chapman and Hall). We say comparatively because his treatment of the subject, in which he describes well-known facts and some of the curative methods used, is uneven. At the end, instead of offering a series of definite practical suggestions, as is

expected of social inquirers nowadays, he goes into a vague denunciation of the Churches for more-or-less leaving the horror alone. The first chapter, in which he describes a house in Hope Alley, with its grime and loathly insects, is vivid, and makes one shudder at the vastness of such an abode of love. That is the way, by detailing the horrid truth, to bring the disgust which will destroy, if anything can, the supreme evil. Vast and ancient as the iniquity is it is not past curing, and the more we know of its dangers and sheer nastiness the more reasonable and effective will be the reform.

Miss Monica Gardner, who for some years has devoted her studies to the literature of Poland, has a sympathetic subject in Henryk Sienkiewicz' (Dent). Unusually well known, for foreign authors, as this novelist is to English readers because of Quo Vadis,' he is far more than merely the writer of that picturesque and somewhat theatrical romance. He is pre-eminently an exponent of the lives and ideals of his native folk; and as among the revived nations of Europe (one of the good results of the War) the future of the Poles is as hopeful as any, it is well that we should know more of this patriot-novelist and his works. To secure that end we suggest that the publishers should re-issue it eventually in simpler and cheaper form, with a corresponding edition of the translations of Sienkiewicz's novels. There should be a public large enough to welcome the venture; especially as Messrs Dent, in their 'Everyman' series, to which twenty further excellent volumes have just been added, have proved that good works in literature can be issued attractively and cheaply and secure sufficient popular appreciation to realise commercial success.

Sailors are known to be 'handy men'; but even in the Navy it cannot be easy to find such versatility as is shown by Admiral Mark Kerr who has published his reminiscences under the title of 'Land, Sea and Air' (Longmans). Whether navigating a large ship in the estuary of a strange river in a dense fog, or riding a steeplechase, or piloting an aeroplane, or playing polo, or discussing world politics with the Ex-Kaiser, or shooting alligators, or giving dances for the family of King Constantine in Athens, or helping the Tsar to bombard a wedding couple with rice and slippers, or writing prose

or verse, or 'spotting' old masters at Italian picture dealers', he seems equally at home and successful. Mr W. B. Yeats's volume of Autobiographies' (Macmillan), which is a collection of earlier writings revised, is interesting to those who remember the unattractive 'nineties; but would have been improved with omissions, especially of the occult ramblings which amount to nothing at all. Its author is most agreeably himself when he is least himself, recalling political and literary events and persons of the late Victorian years; and although he is apt to regard as swans the thirsty geese of what he calls the 'tragic generation,' he shows himself a genial and kindly observer of men, and displays sometimes a broad sense of humour which has only been developed in his later period. Many people, pleasant and otherwise, have crossed his path, and he has studied them sometimes with, sometimes without, illusion. Oscar Wilde and Madame Blavatsky, Rossetti, and even Edward Dowden, are painted with a hard sincerity; but that lame giant Henley is realised with sympathy, and the story of his emotion over his little girl, then recently dead, is moving. They were talking of visions and black magic, when of a sudden in a low voice, Henley said, 'I want to know how I am to get to my daughter. I was sitting here the other night when she came into the room and played round the table and went out again. Then I saw that the door was shut, and I knew that I had seen a vision.'

The 'Memories and Opinions' (Putnam) of Dr William Barry, whose graceful and dignified writings have sometimes appeared in the pages of this Review, comprise an autobiography characteristic of its author, who although most of his hours were spent in his church and study, has shared in some interesting passages of history. Born poor and Irish, his early good reading helped him greatly in the schools. While still a boy, he won a reputation for scholarship which led to his being pushed into the priesthood, where his career has been distinguished and, what is better, humane. He was a witness of the 'free state' of the Papacy under Pio Nono; he was present at the Vatican Council which, despite the agitations of Lord Acton and others, finally declared its acceptance of the doctrine of Papal Infallibility; he was in Rome when Vol. 248.-No. 492.

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the Temporal Power was finally smashed. This tribute is due to the learned Doctor and Protonotary Apostolic that while he does not shroud in the least degree his heart-whole devotion to Rome, he has fully the charity which makes the men of the world one kin.

The fiction of realistic fantasy which Miss Stella Benson writes is not for the majority; possibly it is a very small minority that enjoys her fun and sometimes impudent fancy; which merely shows that often it is best to belong to the blessed few. 'Goodbye Stranger' (Macmillan) will delight those few and probably bring mere confusion to the many who venture to undertake it in experiment; for changelings nowadays are not a frequent experience. Clifford Cotton, according to his mother, was a fairy's changeling, or else he had had a touch of sun. Until another touch of sun gives him relief he is most reasonably irresponsible and possessed of a finely eccentric logic, which leads him, amongst other examples, to love frankly away from Daley, his wife, and to cut strange capers in nudity and a forest.

'All his thoughts were bees, humming and dancing, all his thoughts were green stars and crackling air. He was a cloud in the sky, a leaf in the grove; he was a note of music. For a second all the wind was music and all the grasses bowed under the advancing feet of an army of the changeling's kinsmen.'

Clifford was not so happy in his elfin translation as he should have been; and somehow all the people in this, as in the other Stella Benson books, have touches of his rational-irrational, actual, and fantastic tendencies; and that is the reason why this work of comic imagination, though not for everybody, is sure to be sought and enjoyed by those who have found themselves sympathetic to its author's peculiar vein. 'Epigrams: Wit and Wisdom in Brief' (Simpkin), which that kindly, cultured, and experienced good bookman, Mr Walter Jerrold, has brought together, makes a bright and happy ending to this study of generally serious books.

INDEX

TO THE

TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHTH VOLUME OF THE

QUARTERLY REVIEW.

[Titles of Articles are printed in heavier type. The names of authors of
articles are printed in italics.]