(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
The dry sticks, as it were, of _The Bale Fire_ (HUTCHINSON) are not very
cunningly laid, with the result that from a spectacular point of view
the conflagration fizzles out rather tamely. But there are so many
bright passages in the book and so many sympathetic sketches of
characters that I cannot help wishing the FRASERS (HUGH and MRS.) had
either written a longer story depending completely on the interplay of
temperament, or else built more carefully on their melodramatic
substructure. For though _Captain Mayhune_, the villain of the piece, is
the proprietor of a gaming-hell and terrorises _Lady Trague_ with a
piece of blotting-paper on which may be read a portion of her letter to
a young man whom she indiscreetly though innocently adores, nothing very
serious comes of his machinations, and our interest in the book is
mainly confined to the emotional relations between _Sir Charles_, a
fussy elderly martinet, his too young wife, and _Maisie_, her
seventeen-year-old step-daughter, who varies from deeper moods to those
of a silly and self-willed child. Then there is _Captain Mayhune_
himself, a man of good impulses and evil, in whom, somehow or other,
though never without a struggle, the evil always triumphs. Other
characters are rather jerkily introduced, amongst whom a family of
good-natured and thoroughly "nice" Americans, who help to straighten
things out and bring people to a better understanding, are most
conspicuous. But that piece of blotting-paper! If I were a stationer and
kept a circulating library, I think I should try to turn an honest penny
by selling sand to my customers along with their packets of linen-wove
and blue-black writing-fluid. "Simple, effective, and leaves no chance
to the blackmailer."
* * * * *
It is pleasant to receive in this age of realism a novel that is
frankly romantic. Miss KAYE-SMITH in _Three against the World_ (CHAPMAN
AND HALL) colours up life with lavish brush. We have a returned convict
who fiddles in the rain for the benefit of dancing village children; we
have impresarios who stand at the doors of inns and hear him thus
fiddling; an untidy heroine who speaks in gasps and gurglings; and a
lover who goes to literary parties in London and therefore (the
inference is implied by the author) falls in love with two ladies at
once. Such a novel is refreshing after the mathematical accuracy with
which clerks, barmaids and politicians are perpetually presented to us
by our novelists, but I am not at all sure that Miss KAYE-SMITH is wise
in trusting our credulity too far. There was a day when one would have
accompanied her _Tramping Methodist_ anywhere, but of late years that
promise has not been fulfilled, and her last novel is, I think,
distinctly her poorest. I like her affection for Sussex, her catalogue
of Sussex names, the fine colour of her descriptive work; but her story
is on the present occasion too obviously arranged behind the scenes. One
can see the author working again and again for the romantic moment, and
scenes that should have convinced and wrung the reader's heart (always
eager to be wrung) have in their appearance some suspicion of the paint
and paste-pot of the cheaper drama. I hope that Miss KATE-SMITH will get
back in her next book to her earlier strength and sincerity.
* * * * *
That _Second Nature_ (DUCKWORTH), which JOHN TRAVERS has in mind, is the
innate sense of obligation which compels a gentleman to be a gentleman,
whatever else he may be, in all that he does, says, thinks, eats, drinks
and wears. The family of _Westfield_ went back to times past
remembering, and it came a little hard to the descendant of such a stock
to have to choose his wife from among women who had done time or else to
lose that legacy by the help of which alone he could hope to keep up the
ancestral castle as a going concern. But so it was, by reason of the
testamentary caprice of a spiteful uncle; and the position was not eased
by the special condition for publicity, designed to bring it about that
the family records, which began proudly in Doomsday Book, should
conclude ignominiously in _The Daily Mail_. For _Jim_, always the
gentleman, there was choice only between the devil of poverty or the
deep sea of the Prisoners' Aid Society. He resorted to the latter
(refusing Suffragettes), and came by _Joan Murphy_ for wife who, with
all her excellent capacity, was no lady. Manslaughter, however, may be a
venial crime and physical beauty is a very saving grace, and, as these
things all happened in the earliest chapters, I readily foresaw an
ultimate end of the happiest nature and a solution of all difficulties
worked out in defiance of the probabilities. A disappointed prophet is a
captious critic and, the story turning out quite otherwise, I was very
much on the alert for latent faults. Of these I found none. True, I did
not altogether like _Jim Westfield_, but then I doubt if I was
altogether meant to. Furthermore I give many extra marks to the author
(as to whose sex, by the way, I have in my ignorance had moments of
doubt) for moving the scene to India and thus giving substance and
colour to a very remarkable love-story, while at the same time assisting
his original theme with the subtle comparison, rather hinted at than
dwelt upon, of caste.
* * * * *
_Pot-Pourri Mixed by Two_ (SMITH, ELDER) is a book to live with, but not
to be read at a sitting. After spending some hours with Mrs. C. W. EARLE
and Miss ETHEL CASE I found that my critical palate was unequal to the
demands of so liberal and varied a banquet; and when I had finished a
poem by Mr. MASEFIELD, and found that it was followed by a recipe for
cucumber soup, I wanted badly to laugh out loud. My advice, therefore,
to readers is to take a snack from time to time, but not to make a
square meal of it. While dissenting from some of Mrs. EARLE'S
opinions--I do not, for instance, think that the paper she mentions is
"the best of all evening papers"--there is no getting away from her
sincerity or from a certain indefinable charm which prevents her from
causing irritation even when she is proclaiming her very pronounced
views. Miss CASE, the other mixer, supplies some really valuable hints
on gardens. These are drawn from her practical experience and are given
succinctly enough. The only fault to be found with her is that in her
efforts to be a pot-pourrist she occasionally finds it easier to mix
than to blend. With each chapter we are furnished with various recipes
which should, at any rate, gladden the heart of all vegetarians. Even I,
whom Mrs. EARLE possibly would think a heretic, am prepared to take my
chance with salsify scallops, walnut pie and hominy cutlets.
* * * * *
_The Magic Tale of Harvanger and Yolande_ (MILLS AND BOON) is set forth
by a new scrivener, to wit, one G. P. BAKER, in more than ordinarily
flamboyant Wardour Street English. _Harvanger_, a Shepherd, hies forth
on his Quest for the Best Thing in the World. It turneth out in sooth to
be LOVE and _Yolande_. Perhaps Mr. BAKER, an easy prey to the magic of
jolly old words, has let himself do a little too much embroidery to the
square inch of happening. There are indeed some good fights, though, by
reason of this excess of embroidery, they are a little vague and
difficult to follow. It is very well to have orgulous messires and men
of courteoisie, with cotehardie of crocus or hose of purpure (showing
how History repeateth herself), gearing and graithing for battle,
mounted on coal-black destriers and generally behaving right this, that
and the other withal; but when _Yolande_, asking _Harvanger_ what will
happen to her when he is away, receiveth for answer, "Truly I fear that
thou wilt be very dull"; or when _Bernlak_, the fighter, says of a dead
man, "I took over such effects as he left" (very much after the manner
of my solicitor), one can't help feeling a little let down. Of such
indeed are the perils of the Higher Tushery. They should not, however,
be allowed to prejudice the consideration of a painstaking narrative
which may well delight the confirmed romantic.
* * * * *
Illustration: ANOTHER LONG-FELT WANT SUPPLIED.