ent trials," are the concluding words of his preface. That this
prophecy may come true must be the prayer of all of us who remember what we
owed to Russia during the earlier part of the War.

* * * * *

It was perhaps my misfortune that, not having read the book in which Mr.
EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS recorded the earlier adventures of his hero, _John
Carter_, in the red planet Mars, when that gentleman precipitated himself
thither (from the banks of the Hudson, of all places), I found myself in
more senses than one out of my element. Not that it really matters; since
the Martian existence of _Mr. Carter_ was apparently of that wild and
whirling character, familiar to patrons of the Continuous Programme, in
which one thrill follows upon another so fast that their precise order
becomes of small moment. When I tell you that the opening chapters of this
remarkable nightmare--_The Gods of Mars_ (METHUEN)--contain monsters with
one white eye and mouths in their hands, flying pirates, an air-ship that
sinks down a volcano, an ageless witch who--but why continue? The
publishers call these happenings "bold;" but this is a pitiful
understatement. Really they are of a character to make the wildest
imaginings of JULES VERNE, friend of my youth, or Mr. WELLS, companion of
my riper years, read like the peaceful annals of a country rectory. To
quote again from the publishers, "only the man who created _Tarzan_ could
write such stories." If _Tarzan_ were in any way comparable with the
present volume, it would perhaps not be unfair to add the corollary that
only those readers who appreciated the one could swallow the other.
Mercifully, Mr. BURROUGHS writes so continually at the top of his voice
that after a time the clatter comes to have an effect merely soporific.

* * * * *

Since Major-General Sir C.E. CALLWELL has, in _The Dardanelles_
(CONSTABLE), added a volume to a series called _Campaigns and Their
Lessons_, it is clear that he is writing mainly for military students, but
none the less at least one man in the street--meaning myself--has been
glad, after reading plenty of merely descriptive accounts of the Gallipoli
affair, to find a book that frankly and justifiably does lay claim to
technical proficiency. The exponents of vivid narrative, modestly
disclaiming expert knowledge, have been painfully liable to break off just
short of what one wanted most to know. They told