Voice on telephone (from Berlin)Voice on telephone (from Berlin)."Well, have you dammed the Suez Canal yet?"Turk."Yes—often!"
Voice on telephone (from Berlin)."Well, have you dammed the Suez Canal yet?"
Turk."Yes—often!"
Most of us might freely confess to some vagueness in our minds as to "the social and economic state of things in the Prairie Provinces of the Dominion," and not a few of us are ready to spend five shillings and a leisure hour or two in finding out for certain, if only to be prepared with a refuge in the event of England being Teutonised. MissE. B. Mitchell, the author ofIn Western Canada Before the War(Murray), knows her subject at first hand and deals with the right matter in the right manner for our purpose; that is to say, she is discriminating in her selection of topics and is always pleasant if never violently exciting or amusing in her treatment of them. The book is short, as such books should be; it does not pretend to be exhaustive, yet it leaves a very clear and precise impression on the mind. But (and every intelligent reader will have been waiting for this "but") why on earth should it be calledIn Western Canada Before the War, seeing that it was clearly written without any thought of the present European conditions and would have been published just about this time even if we had been at peace with everybody everywhere? The only reference in point which I can recall is a passing wonder expressed in a few lines as to what, if any, effect Armageddon will have in Canada; this is hardly enough, I fancy, to justify the topical suggestion of the cover. I cannot help feeling that the object of the last three words of that title was less literary than commercial.
In the City of Under(Arnold) shows MissEvelyne Ryndto have quite a pretty talent in the not unattractivegenreof fantastic incoherence something after the pattern ofThe Napoleon of Notting Hill, though in a less robustious mood. But I doubt if talent (however pretty) is altogether sufficient to carry the reader through three hundred pages with no possible clue as to what it is really all about. All the same I do, in justice and most gladly, say that the author keeps one piqued to the extent of wishing to find out; one also loses all suspicion of its being an improving book, and distinctly likes that uncharacteristic Cheltenham boy,Augustus Clickson, who helps littleJohn Hazardto find a job.Johnwas very small and ineffectual and engaging, and his V.C. father had left the family wofully ill off, andJohnfelt it was up to him to do something about it. He meets theHawker, who has a comforting habit of turning up at odd moments and assuring people that there's a way out of every difficulty, whereas the old lady,Mrs. Letitlie, asserted roundly and frequently that there was none. Then we have a nice wild unpractical Professor and a perplexed archæologist who get tangled in the skein; as also a spy, and, in fact, any old person and thing that occurred to the writer. There's enough good stuff and good humour in this queer patchwork to make me sure that any defect is one merely of form, and I would wager that it was the Notting Hill hero, before alluded to, that was responsible for setting our author on a dangerous path.
The Seventh Post Card(Greening) was one of a series written anonymously, as harbingers of sudden death, to motor-car drivers whose bad luck or bad management had made them run over a fellow-creature with capital consequences. Capital, also, for helping on the plot of the story; for the sudden death really did come off in such a considerable number of cases that we should have been quite justified in feeling worried when the delightfulJoanna, driving the car belonging to her equally delightfulJack, was unfortunate enough to knock down a tramp; even though the immediate consequences whenJackfound her awakening from unconsciousness by the roadside were—well, delightful too, and such as could be expected. Indeed, the sadly-worn word "delightful" seems somehow applicable to the entire string of clues, deductions, inquests, murders and other horrid thrills, or, at any rate, to Mr.Flowerdew'stelling of them. Is my capability for melodramatic emotion declining, that I thread this maze of tragic mystery in a mood no more intense than that of comfortable content? Perhaps; or it may be only the soothing effect of the author's clean English, coupled with the conviction that so long as he takes care to keepSir Julian Daymont—the famous novelist-detective—on their side, no serious harm can come to the people we care about most. So, although a really nasty charge of murdering his grandfather turns up against the hero just when things (but for the number of pages left) are beginning to look prosperous, I can defy you to get seriously uneasy about his future; and, sure enough,Sir Conan—I meanSir Julian—solves the problem in convenient time to pack the lovers safely off on their honeymoon. And, really, what more could you ask for?