(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
It may be as well for me to confess at once the humiliating fact
that I am not, and never have been, an Etonian. If that be a serious
disqualification for life in general, how much more serious must it
be for the particular task of reviewing a book which is of Eton all
compact, a book, for example, like _Memories of Eton Sixty Years Ago_,
by A.C. AINGER, with contributions from N.G. LYTTELTON and JOHN MURRAY
(MURRAY). For I have never been "up to" anybody; I have never been
present at "absence"; I have no real understanding of the difference
between a "tutor" and a "dame"; I call a "_p[oe]na_" by the plebeian
name of "imposition"; and, until I had read Mr. AINGERS'S book, I had
never heard of the verb "to brosier" or the noun substantive "bever."
Altogether my condition is most deplorable. Yet there are some
alleviations in my lot, and one of them has been the reading of this
delightful book. I found it most interesting, and can easily imagine
how Etonians will be absorbed in it, for it will revive for them
many an old and joyful memory of the days that are gone. Mr. AINGER
discourses, with a _mitis sapientia_ that is very attractive, on the
fashions and manners of the past and the gradual process of their
development into the Eton of the present. He is proud, as every good
Etonian must be, of Eton as it exists, but now and again he hints that
the Eton of an older time was in some respects a simpler and a better
place. The mood, however, never lasts long, and no one can quarrel
with the way in which it is expressed. General LYTTELTON, too, in one
of his contributions, relates how on his return from a long stay in
India he visited Eton, expecting to be modestly welcomed by shy and
ingenuous youths, and how, instead, he was received and patronised by
young but sophisticated men of the world. The GENERAL, I gather,
was somewhat chilled by his experience. Altogether this book is
emphatically one without which no Etonian's library can be considered
complete.
* * * * *
Perhaps of all our War correspondents Mr. PHILIP GIBBS contrives
to give in his despatches the liveliest sense of the movement, the
pageantry and the abominable horror of war. Pageantry there is, for
all the evil boredom and weariness of this pit-and-ditch business,
and Mr. GIBBS sees finely and has an honest pen that avoids the easy
_cliché_. You might truthfully describe his book, _The Battles of the
Somme_ (HEINEMANN), as an epic of the New Armies. He never seems to
lose his wonder at their courage and their spirit, and always with an
undercurrent of sincerely modest apology for his own presence there
with his notebook, a mere chronicler of others' gallantry. This
chronicle begins at the glorious 1st of July and ends just before
Beaumont-Hamel, which the author miserably missed, being sent home on
sick leave. It is a book that may well be one of those preserved and
read a generation hence by men who want to know what the great War
was really like. God knows it ought to help them to do something to
prevent another. Yet there is nothing morbid in it. As the sergeant
thigh-deep in a flooded trench said, "You know, Sir, it doesn't do
to take this war seriously." The armies of a nation that takes its
pleasures sadly take their bitter pains with a grin; and that grin
is what has made them such an unexpectedly tough proposition to the
All-Seriousest.
* * * * *
An old adage warns us never to buy a "pig in a poke." Equally good
advice for the heroines of fiction or drama would be never under any
circumstances to marry a bridegroom in a mask. In more cases than I
can recall, neglect of this simple precaution has led to a peck of
trouble. I am thinking now of _Yvonne_, leading lady in _The Mark of
Vraye_ (HUTCHINSON). I admit that poor _Yvonne_ had more excuse than
most. Hers was what you might call a hard case. On the one hand there
was the villain _Philippe_, a most naughty man, swearing that she was
in his power, and calling for instant marriage at the hands of _Father
Simon_, who happened to be present. On the other hand, the gentleman
in the mask revealed a pair of eyes that poor _Yvonne_ rashly supposed
to belong to someone for whom she had more than a partiality. So when
he suggested that the proposed ceremony should take place during
_Philippe's_ temporary absence from the stage, with himself as
substitute, _Yvonne_ (astonished perhaps at her own luck so early in
the plot) simply jumped at the idea. Then, of course, the deed being
done, off comes the mask, and behold the triumphant countenance of
her bitterest foe, _Charles de Montbrison_, whom she herself had
disfigured as the (supposed) murderer of her brother. Act drop and ten
minutes' interval. Need I detail for you the subsequent course of this
marriage of inconvenience? The courage and magnanimity of one side,
the feminine cruelty melting at last to love, and finally the
inevitable duologue of reconciliation, through which I can never help
hearing the rustle of opera-cloaks and the distant cab-whistles.
Charming, charming. Mr. H.B. SOMERVILLE has furnished a pleasant
entertainment, and one that (like all good readers or spectators) you
will enjoy none the less because of its entire familiarity.
* * * * *
_The Flight of Mariette_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL) is a slender volume, whose
simplicity gives it a poignancy both incongruous and grim. Much of it
you might compare to the diary of a butterfly before and whilst being
broken on the wheel. _Mariette_, the jolly little maid of Antwerp, was
so tender and harmless a butterfly; and the machine that broke her
life and drove her to the martyrdom of exile was so huge and cruel a
thing. How cruel in its effects it is well for us just now to be again
reminded, lest, in these days of hurrying horrors, remembrance should
be weakened. To that extent therefore Miss GERTRUDE E.M. VAUGHAN has
done good service in compiling this human document of accusation. In
a preface Mr. JOHN GALSWORTHY pleads the cause of our refugee guests,
not so much for charity as for comprehension. Certainly, _The Flight
of Mariette_ will do much to further such understanding. I think I
need only add that half the proceeds of its sale will go to feed the
seven million Belgians still in Belgium (prey to the twin wolves
of Prussia and starvation) for you to see that three shillings and
sixpence could hardly be better used than in the purchase of a copy.
* * * * *
I was beginning to wonder whether Mr. EDEN PHILLPOTTS was suffering
from writer's cramp, so much longer than usual does it seem since I
heard from him. Now, however, my anxiety is relieved by _My Devon
Year_ (SCOTT), a delightful book which could have come from no other
pen than his. It is a marvel how many fragrant things he still finds
to say, and with what inexhaustible freshness, about his beloved
county. I hesitate to give these sketches an indiscriminate
recommendation, because to those who walk through the country with
closed eyes they will have little or no meaning; but if you are in
love with beauty and can appreciate its translation into exquisite
language you will draw from them a real and lasting joy. Let me
confess now that I once asked Mr. PHILLPOTTS to give Devonshire a
rest, and that I accept _My Devon Year_ as a convincing proof that
this request was ill-considered.
* * * * *
I wish Mr. DOUGLAS SLADEN would not throw so many bouquets at
his characters. _Roger Wynyard_, the hero of _Grace Lorraine_
(HUTCHINSON), was really just a very ordinary youth, but when I
discovered that he was "the fine flower of our Public-School system,"
"as chivalrous as a Bayard," and so forth, I began--unfairly, perhaps,
but quite irresistibly--to entertain a considerable prejudice against
him. Let me hasten, however, to add that Mr. SLADEN has packed his
novel with the kind of incident which appeals to the popular mind,
though his conclusion may cause a shock to those who think that our
divorce-laws are in need of reform. In the matter of style Mr. SLADEN
is content with something short of perfection. "It was easier for her
to forgive a man, with his happy-go-lucky nature, for getting
into trouble, than to forgive his getting out again by not being
sufficiently careful not to add to the other person's misfortune."
For myself, I do not find it so easy to forgive these happy-go-lucky
methods in a writer who ought to know better by now.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Sentry_. "WHO GOES THERE?"
_Tommy_. "FRIEND."
_Sentry_ (_on recognising voice_). "FRIEND! I DON'T THINK. WHY, YOU'RE
THE CHAP WHO BAGGED MY MESS-TIN BEFORE THE LAST KIT-INSPECTION."]
* * * * *