expression, must thoroughly enjoy and approve. Notable are many of the fragments of translation contained in it some from already published sources, some original with this book. Often the translations are themselves English poetry of unusual excellence, giving fresh poetic pleasure to the reader of the book.

In their final chapter the authors discuss interestingly and sensibly the future of poetry. They discern several losses which the domain of poetry has suffered since its origin - losses coincident with the rise of other arts and of the sciences and with the development of prose. They observe reluctantly the extent to which poetry has fallen into neglect, and declare that a new attitude toward it must await 'the shock of a great poet's personality.' But the office of poetry still lives and enjoys its privilege. 'Poetry speaks most fully and briefly as much of the high mystery and meaning of life as man can utter. To speak in its fashion is the most difficult way of talking. It is also the most glorious.'

THEODORE MORRISON

The Letters of Gertrude Bell, edited by Lady Bell, D.B.E. New York: Boni and Liveright. 1927. 8vo. xvii+400+375 pp. Illus. 2 vols. $10.00.

THE first volume, with its talk of clothes and dizzy mountain climbing and journeys to the Near East, prepares us somewhat for the energy that was focused so fiercely on the problems of the war and the problems that came after.

Pitchforked into the dirty mess of war and politics in Arabia, the reader is first of all impressed with the depth of Miss Bell's scholarship. He then pauses to admire her rare quality of human understanding. 'Unless I am very much mistaken we have got the confidence of the people we are working with.' These people, with whom we take tea daily in her letters, turn out to be learned Doctors of Islamic Divinity or bloodthirsty border chieftains coming to her, as a trusted friend, for advice on war and peace and the probable attitude of the British Government. To win their confidence meant, first of all, a remarkable fluency in the vernacular; next, a mastery of the details of local customs, religious prejudices, the whereabouts of well water, and the mating season of camels, which perhaps no other white person but Lawrence could boast. Last, and most important of all, it meant sympathy. It was probably this quality more than any other which raised her mere information concerning facts to a level where it became of national - even international -- importance.

It has been commonly said of Miss Bell that she did a man's work for the Allied cause and for Arabia. But the astonishing thing is that she did a woman's work as well. It speaks volumes for her superior officers and for that unexpectedly adaptable machine, the British Empire, that she was allowed to make use of her particularly feminine gifts. Wisdom, political acumen

amounting to statecraft, and even an amazing adroitness in languages were probably all traceable to this same quick sympathy that never failed. Lawrence, important as a fighter, was chiefly useful for his feminine qualities - - tact. sympathy, and incurable love of intrigue. He and Gertrude Bell took an unmannish joy in personalities. Both appreciated that a leader is more significant than a cause in the East.

It is an unusual book of letters, which is interrupted by chapters from a Major General and a British High Commissioner 'cordially welcoming this opportunity of paying tribute to the memory of a dear friend and a most devoted comrade.' Their chapters on the war and the post-war history of Arabia and Mesopotamia are added to elucidate the letters which Miss Bell wrote to her family and friends. These two famous administrators do her the honor of describing the campaigns and the complicated political situation rather than continually writing about her and her work. They take it for granted that we know how much she was in the thick of it and what a voice she had in making laws, crowning kings, advising H. B. M.'s government, and writing White Books to be read in England. So, too, Lawrence mentions her name with that of Mr. Wilfrid Blunt (and no other) in his preface to the new edition of Doughty. That fact alone is sufficient to prove what her place will be in history and in literature.

If 'letters are the only true reading,' these are indeed among the great examples of a great form of literature. Happily they are written with no eye on posterity and have no conscious style. Lady Bell has edited them so dextrously that, in the midst of Bagdad politics, an order to a London dressmaker or a message to a friend crops up to remind us that the author is, after all, an English woman of our own day who has been presented at court, climbed Swiss peaks, and taken a most brilliant First at Oxford. That Miss Bell was a poet could perhaps be guessed from her simple prose; but the few translations from Hafiz which are given in the preface leave one amazed that she did not devote her life to the practice of the art.

LANGDON WARNER

Red Sky at Morning, by Margaret Kennedy. New York: Doubleday, Page & Co. 1927. 12mo. x+331 pp. $2.50.

THOUGH the courts acquitted Norman Crowne, the question whether he did or did not murder his evil genius and familiar friend was sufficiently unresolved to force him into exile, where he shortly died, leaving a little brilliant verse, a really first-class scandal, and twin children. William and Emily, with whom Miss Kennedy's story deals. Saved from full consciousness of their situation by their own youth and their elders' vigilance, they spend an uneventful childhood in dreamy submissiveness to the tutelage of their cousins Trevor and Charlotte Frobisher.

At twenty-one the emancipated twins take their very handsome fortune to London, where their brilliance and their father's unforgotten name bring them most of the pleasures that the world is considered to offer. Their fundamental. absorption in each other keeps quick the Ariel lightness of their childhood, and enables them to combine a passionate enjoyment of their surroundings with the airy detachment of the soap bubbles to which Trevor compares them. "They keep making incredible, miraculous escapes, but sooner or later they come into contact with the solid ugly things around . . . and then they'll just disappear.'

...

And it is the wise youth Trevor who effects this tragic contact. By making use of William's compassion to get the baggage Tilli Van Tuyl taken off his hands at a party, he paves the way for the lamentable abortion of William's first play. The greedy welcome which the Crownes' acquaintance extends to this disaster and to the opportunities it offers for reminiscences of the first 'Crowne show' awakens Emily to the burden of notoriety she must carry. She takes refuge in Philip Luttrell, a country neighbor of the Frobishers', who consents—though reluctantly, because he loves her - to help her turn into Mrs. Luttrell, the Rector's wife. So Emily Crowne disappears.

William can take the Crowne scandal and the shock of his failure fairly elastically; but Emily's defection shatters his sinking bubble, and the small soapy drop remaining falls into Tilli Van Tuyl's plump, unscrupulous hand. She does n't want William; but she does very much want a husband, she would like to punish Trevor's elusiveness, and she desires to be mistress of just such a solid, comfortable country house as Monk's Hall, which William has lately bought.

Tilli, meaning to use William as the instrument of her vengeance upon Trevor, feels herself defeated by William's complete spiritual remoteness. She cannot realize what Trevor half suspects

that with Emily's renouncement of her

Crowne existence William's slender hold on everyday life has loosened dangerously. Unfortunately Trevor fails to see that William's growing indifference to his companions and to social sanctions generally does not necessarily imply emotional apathy; and surprise must have been faintly mixed with his terror and pain on the wet spring night when William, finding him in Tilli's room. shot and killed him after a confused pursuit through the fields.

There the story ends, while Philip, waiting in the cold red dawn for Emily to wake and hear of the Crowne show 'William must face alone this time,' wishes that day might never come.

'Il n'y a qu'une manière de refuser demain; c'est de mourir.' The effort to deny the morrow is not commonly made by minds wholly resolute and sound. As charming children or as lovely semiconventionalized rhythmic patterns, it is possible to feel both sympathy and admiration for the Crownes; but the more one considers them in relation to their surroundings, the more puzzling does the book become. If Miss Kennedy is really anxious to have us believe that the Crownes share with medieval rock crystal the power of exposing the black corruption of whatever poison they may touch, why is it that the poison persists in looking so wholesome? Not its subtlety, certainly. If, on the other hand, the Crownes are only stunted victims of maladjustment, why do Frobishers and Londoners both vary their aspects with the grotesque rapidity of figures seen in a convex mirror? Do we know them only through the distorting lens of the Crownes' bubble? In The Constant Nymph the balance between absolute and relative was implicit on every page; here it is a problem continually renewed, just disturbing enough to take the edge from one's pleasure in Trevor's model community, or the Crownes' Hampstead 'nursery,' or Philip's vision of Emily in her April meadow, or any other of the delightful pieces of writing animated by Miss Kennedy's powerful sense of the tragic. MARION VAILLANT

Andrew Jackson, by Gerald W. Johnson

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