(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
Mr. BELLOC can, I am sure, write entertainingly about any phase of the
French Revolution on his head, and in _The Last Days of the French
Monarchy_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL) he has apparently done so. I cannot think
it will add to his reputation. It will be something if it doesn't hurt
it. He has taken a short story, and by a process of dextrous padding
and the practice of a method, which is becoming an obsession with him,
of going deep into the obvious with much industry and circumstance, he
has contrived, with the addition of a number of plates--some of
singular irrelevance--a fattish book. Even ignorant persons like this
Learned Clerk are apt to be chagrined by being so obviously written
down to. On the other hand, naturally, an author who knows his
intriguing subject so well and drives so forceful a pen cannot fail to
be interesting. The historian seems most concerned to prove, by his
familiar and plausible method of going over the ground "in the same
season, in the same weather, after the same rains, in the same mist,"
that the Prussian charge by Valmy Mill miscarried only because the
infantry got bogged in marsh that looked like stubble. So now we know!
* * * * *
From the list of books already published by Mr. CECIL HEADLAM it is
easy to see that he is by choice a topographer rather than a novelist.
Indeed the fact is made sufficiently obvious to the reader of _Red
Screes_ (SMITH, ELDER). Its sub-title is _A Romance of Lakeland_, and
so strongly developed is the place-spirit in its author that he is
constantly breaking the rather tenuous thread of his story to
introduce long descriptions of Cumberland scenery and people, and as
this is most easily done by sending his chief characters for walks in
the districts that Mr. HEADLAM wishes to talk about the result is that
I seldom read a novel in which the protagonists were kept so sternly
on the move. But I am far from saying that the result is not happy
enough, especially for those readers who already know and love the
neighbourhood that the author handles so well. As for the tale, that,
as I have hinted, is nothing to keep you awake o' nights. There is a
millionaire in it, with one daughter (whom he hates) and a very
unpleasant secretary, who loves the daughter for her prospects and a
country lass for her looks; and there is a great deal of the most
unconvincing finance that ever I read, even in fiction. As for the
secretary's end, it wouldn't be fair to give that away, as it is
really the only point at which the plot quickens into sufficient
vigour to hold its own with the setting. Mr. HEADLAM obviously both
knows and loves the land of red screes; I am doubtful whether he is as
much at home with the stock-manipulators of Wall Street or their
emotional offspring. And I don't like his introduction of the second
heroine--"The girl's head was bare, save for the crowning glory of
womanhood." What I mean is, if it hadn't had that much covering----
* * * * *
_The King's Men_ (SECKER) are just our friends, yours and mine and Mr.
JOHN PALMER'S, who have exchanged their tools and toys, their pens,
wigs, brushes, books, spats and dreams for stars (one, two or three)
and scars; all drawn into the Great Adventure which began on that 4th
of August so many long years ago. Dilettante _Pelham_, prig and
pacificist not from passion but from detachment, always so unbeatable
in argument and always so wrong; sportsman _Rivers_, seeing simply and
straight; crank _Smith_; comfortable _Baddeley_ in his snug Government
berth; poser _Ponsonby_, always doing the thing that's the thing to
do; exquisite _Graham_, with his fair lodge in the wilderness--all
hallowed by the great consecration. There are, too, the King's women
and an unhappy necessary stay-at-home or two, and a big and rather
crude contractor, who will be master in his own works. But the young
men are the folk Mr. PALMER best understands and presents in turns of
clever and vehement talk. I beg you to read this book for these good
things and for a tender love of England which shines nobly between the
lines of it.
* * * * *
Perhaps _Fauvette_, the heroine of _The Green Orchard_ (CASSELL), was
too modern to have much acquaintance with the works of the late
WILLIAM BLACK. Which was a pity, as a recollection of _A Daughter of
Heth_ might have withheld her from her impulsive marriage with _Martin
Wilderspin_, or from feeling so much like a gold-fish out of water
when he took her away from Paris to share a life that was a dreary
contrast to all her previous experience. In any case I cannot hold her
blameless for the resulting shipwreck. A bride who comes down late for
a most critical little dinner to her husband's family, and attires
herself (see cover) like a circus-rider, simply is not giving
matrimony a fair chance. Moreover I seem to observe that Mr. ANDREW
SOUTAR thinks this was rather sporting in his heroine. He certainly
loads the dice in her favour, for, when the inevitable had happened
and _Martin_ and _Fauvette_ had separated, the lady sought the
consolations of literature and became (as heroines will) the sensation
of the hour. Though _The Green Orchard_ is a brisk easy-running tale
fidelity to life is hardly its strong point. Of course it was not to
be expected that _Fauvette_ would escape being adored by _Martin's_
best friend; the real touch of originality is the final reward of this
kind gentleman. For my own part I certainly expected--but to tell you
that would be to betray what doesn't happen. The whole affair is a
pleasant respite from actuality: more, I fear, it would be impossible
to say.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Kind Old Lady._ "I SEE THERE IS AN URGENT APPEAL FOR
MORE LITERATURE FOR OUR FIGHTING MEN. I THOUGHT SOME LONELY SOLDIER OR
SAILOR MIGHT LIKE TO REVIVE MEMORIES OF THE DEAR HOMELAND WITH THIS
VOLUME OF THE POST OFFICE DIRECTORY FOR 1899."]
* * * * *
From the description of a polar-bear's escapade in the Edinburgh
"Zoo":--
"The keepers now appeared, and with the assistance of
of gun-firing and much noise the animal was quietly
shepherded back to its accustomed place of confinement."
_North British Agriculturist._
"Quietly" was a happy thought.