I seem to remember that, in the old days of peace, when a friend was run down or in want of thorough rest, it was a commonplace of advice to suggest a long voyage in a sailing ship. Somehow I do not think that, even when mines and traffic raiders are no more, I shall be quite so ready with this counsel after reading _The Mutiny of the Elsinore_ (MILLS AND BOON). Of course I know that a voyage in nautical fiction can never be wholly uneventful, also that one is justified in looking to Mr. JACK LONDON for something rather strenuous. But really the _Elsinore_ appears to touch the limit in this kind. I wish I could tell you properly about her crew. (Mr. LONDON takes chapters and chapters in which to do it). I suppose that every possible variety of undesirable was represented among them, from dangerous maniacs downwards. And their behaviour was what you might expect. The disquieting thing about the book is that the author gives to its most horrific episodes a cold and calculated air of truth. "_Experto crede_," he seems to say; "thus and thus is the real life of ships." So I had to believe him. There was only one passenger on board the _Elsinore_, and he finished the voyage in command of her. This was after the Captain had gone wrong in the head, and the First Officer had discovered the Second to be the murderer of one whom he had sworn to avenge. By this time also the voyage (which might be called one of attrition) had considerably reduced the _Elsinore's_ company; while the survivors were mostly engaged in hurling bombs and vitriol at each other. What one might call an active, open-air book. But, though I am far from denying its grim strength, it will not be my favourite among its author's always interesting romances. * * *