Morgan_, her dead
brother's soldier friend, I have told you just nothing at all. I will
merely add that you will be foolish if you miss this book.
* * * * *
I have to begin by confessing that, despite its most attractive title, my
first glance into _French Windows_ (ARNOLD) produced in me some feeling of
prejudice. It was not that I failed to recognise both dignity and beauty of
phrase in the writing; on the contrary, I told myself that "Mr. JOHN
AYSCOUGH" had been betrayed by his own appreciation of beautiful phrases
into an indulgence in "style," a deliberate arrangement of his war-pictures
that was somehow out of harmony with the stark and horrible simplicity of
their subject. But I hasten to make confession that this was but a passing
and, I am convinced, a wrong judgment. Indeed, the abiding impression that
the book has left upon me is one of enormous sincerity. Both as a soldier
and a priest, the writer enjoyed (as his publishers quite justly say)
special opportunities for getting into touch with men of all sorts and
conditions.
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