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There is a sad interest in the title-page of Irish Memories (LONGMANS), since only by a pathetic fiction does it bear the names, as joint authors, of E. OE.  SOMERVILLE and “MARTIN ROSS,” those two gifted ladies whose association has been such a happy chance for them and for us all.  Really the book, though in part compiled from the letters and journals of “MARTIN,” is an eloquent tribute by Miss SOMERVILLE to the partner whose death has robbed her of a friend and the world of so much kindly laughter.  But, haunted as it is by this shadow of bereavement, you must in no way think of it as wholly a thing of gloom.  Looking back into the good years, the writer has recalled many incidents and scenes full of that genial and most infectious merriment that we have learnt to expect from her—­tales of the wonderful peasant chorus that one remembers first in the pages of An Irish R.M., exploits after hounds (it needs no telling how well both authors loved them), and much besides.  There will be interest also for many uninitiated admirers in the account here given of how the famous stories came first into being.  Of its more intimate and personal side I hesitate to speak; those who loved “MARTIN ROSS,” either through her writings or in the closer relationship of friend, must be glad that her ave atque vale has been spoken, as she would have wished it, by her whose right it was.  It will send many to read again those delightful volumes with a new appreciation of the sympathetic and lovable personality that helped in their making.

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I am afraid that something of the charm which, in a sympathetic preface, M. HENRI BORDEAUX claims for A Crusader in France (MELROSE) is veiled by a rather faltering translation.  I would counsel all who appreciate the exquisitely sensitive Recit d’une Soeur, with which he not unfavourably compares it, to go rather to the French original of these letters of a young captain of the famous Chasseurs Alpins.  Captain FREDERIC BELMONT fell near the stubbornly-contested Hartmannsweilerkopf in 1916.  He was the third of his family to give his life for France.  The letters reveal a character that hardships and dangers not only strengthened but refined.  He writes with a noble French ardour of his country in the crisis of her fate.  He dreads, but rises greatly to the height of, his heavy responsibility as Captain at the age of twenty-one.  The coveted cross of the Legion of Honour comes to him before the end, and he wins the affection and confidence of his men—­a soldier’s highest prize.  A deep religious conviction unclouded by superstition sustains his courage.  He is a product of the French Catholic tradition at its best.  He writes intelligently of his work, and with a greater freedom as to detail than our more exigeant censorship allows; so that you get an excellent picture of the daily life of a campaigner in the greatest of all wars.  He met the English in Flanders, admired and liked their looks and ways....  A very charming record of a gallant soldier, a chosen soul.