ready that the methods of Mr. PATRICK MACGILL are made of sterner
stuff. This "Story of Donegal," which I have no intention of giving in
detail, is the history of the course of true love in an Irish village, full
of types which, I dare say, are realistically observed; verbose in places
to an almost infuriating degree (not till page 61 does the heroine so much
as put her nose round the scenery), but working up to a climax of
considerable power. _Maureen_, I need hardly say, was as fair as moonrise,
but suffered from the drawback of an irregular origin, which took the poor
girl a great deal of living down. Nor need I specify the fact that most of
the male characters in the district are soon claimants for her hand. Really
this is the plot. Having betrayed so much, however, nothing shall persuade
me to expose the bogie scenes on the midnight moor, where the villain
combines his illicit whiskey manufacture with his courtship, and where
finally the three protagonists come by a startling finish. _Maureen_ is not
a story that I should recommend save for readers with abundant leisure; but
those whose pluck and endurance carry them to the kill will certainly have
their reward.

* * * * *

In _Memories of a Marine_ (MURRAY) Major-General Sir GEORGE ASTON records
for us, cosily and anecdotally, a life spent in service, not only of the
active kind--in Egypt and South Africa--but also as a Staff College
Professor, and, more intriguingly, as an expert in Secret Intelligence in
the cloisters of Whitehall or up and down the Mediterranean. If his book is
not so sensational in the matter of revelations as the current fashion
requires, it has a restful interest all its own, varied here and there with
some very attractive stories. To give just one example, the author, when
setting out to co-ordinate the work of various authorities in a certain
harbour, found a signal buoy, a torpedo station, a fixed mine and a boom,
each under separate control, all included in the defences. But the torpedo
could not be launched unless the buoy were first cleared away, and the
mine, if fired, would blow up the boom. One would have welcomed more of
this sort of thing, for the truth is that even restfulness may be overdone
and discretion become almost too admirable. Occasionally too the writer
enlarges a little on--well, he enlarges a little, as anyone would with half
his provocation. Still, for all comrades of his service, at any