(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
Not once or twice have I paid tribute to the craftsmanship of Mr. NEIL
LYONS, generally as a portrayer of mean urban streets and their
inhabitants. His latest volume, however, _Moby Lane and Thereabouts_
(LANE), finds him at large in the Sussex countryside. But the old skill
and quick-witted charm serve him equally in these different
surroundings. Mr. LYONS, as I have noticed before, achieves his
ingenious effects not only by the quaint unexpected things he says but
equally by the things that he skilfully omits to say. As an example of
the second method I might cite one of the best of the sketches in the
book, that called "Viaduct View," after the name of the detestable and
dreary little house which a loving aunt has preserved for the
problematical return of the nephew who would certainly not endure it for
two days. This shows Mr. LYONS at his best--sympathetic, subtle and
gently ironical. I am not saying that every one of the thirty-seven
chapters is on the same high level. "Befriending Her Ladyship," for
instance, a story that tells how a cottage-dweller repaid in kind the
interfering house-inspection of the lady from the Hall, though amusingly
told, is neither original in idea nor quite fair in execution.
Throughout I found indeed that Mr. LYONS'S natural good-humour and
sympathy were severely tried when they came in contact with squires and
the ruling classes; and that now and then he was unable to resist the
temptation to burlesque. But for one thing at least he deserves
unstinted praise; I know of no other writer who can transfer, as he can,
the genuine flavour of dialect into print. Try reading some of the _Moby
Lane_ dialogue aloud and you will see what I mean.
* * * * *
If spacious hobbies make for happiness then is Sir MARTIN CONWAY the
happiest of men. He has been before us at various times of his crowded
life, now as an undaunted peak-compeller in Alps and Himalayas, or
skiing over Arctic glaciers, or pushing forward into hazardous depths of
Tierra del Fuego; now sitting authoritative in the SLADE Chair at
Cambridge, or contesting an election, or restoring an old castle, or
picking up priceless primitives for paltry pence in Paduan pawnshops;
and always as a resourceful author setting it all down (in a couple of
dozen books or so) with an easy-flowing pen incapable of boring. In _The
Crowd in Peace and War_ (LONGMANS) he makes his bow as the political
philosopher. It is a lively essay packed with observation, reflection,
modern instances; it intrigues us with audacious and disputable
generalisations, acute criticism, and a liberal temper. Solemnity and
dulness are banished from it, and it might well serve as a light pendant
to the admirable _Human Nature in Politics_ of Mr. GRAHAM WALLAS. Let no
student (and no mandarin either) neglect it. And we others, however
scornful we may profess to be, are all at heart desperately interested
in the confounded thing called politics, and can all appreciate this
shrewd analysis of the vices and virtues of the crowd "which lacks
reason but possesses faith," whose despotism is now on trial as once was
that of our kings--"unlimited crowddom being as wretched a state as
unlimited monarchy." As a dose of politics without tears I unreservedly
commend this book.
I am like Mr. JACOBS' _Night Watchman_; it's very hard to deceive me. I
had read only a few pages of Miss UNA SILBERRAD'S _The Mystery of
Barnard Hanson_ (HUTCHINSON) when I guessed who had done the murder.
Unfortunately, when I had read a few pages more, I found that I had
picked the wrong person. Then I accused another character on perfectly
good circumstantial evidence, and he was not the man. After that I
decided to withdraw from the detective business and let Miss SILBERRAD
unravel her mystery for herself. If you are of the opinion that a woman
cannot keep a secret read _The Mystery of Barnard Hanson_ and become
convinced that Miss SILBERRAD at least is an exception. If I have ever
read a more perfectly sustained mystery novel I cannot recall it. There
is just a chance that in the last few pages you may get on the right
track, but, if you are honest with yourself, you will have to admit that
you did it simply by a process of elimination, after you had made an ass
of yourself and arrested every innocent person in the book on suspicion.
I think it is Miss SILBERRAD'S manner that throws the detective reader
out of his stride. She is so detached. She conveys the impression that
she herself is just as puzzled as you are, and that, for all she knows,
_Barnard Hanson_ may have been murdered by somebody who is not in the
book at all. In other words she gives her story just that reality which
a murder mystery has when unfolded day by day in the papers. I confess
that, when I unwrapped the book and found that a polished artist like
Miss SILBERRAD had written a detective story, I was a little shocked;
but I need not have been. There are no dummies in this novel. Each
character is as excellently drawn as if delineation of character were
the author's main object; and in the matter of style there is no
concession to the tastes of the cruder public which makes murder novels
its staple diet.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mistress._ "I see you had a card from your young man at
the Front, Mary."
_Mary._ "Yes'm. And wasn't it a saucy one! I wonder it passed the
sentry."]
* * * * *
In her preface to _Morlac of Gascony_ (HUTCHINSON) Mrs. STEPNEY RAWSON
apologizes for producing an historical novel in these days when the
present rather than the past is occupying people's minds. But a good
historical novel is never really untimely, and _Morlac of Gascony_ is
not only well written but deals with a period of English history not
often exploited by the historical novelist--the days of EDWARD THE
FIRST, when the future of England as a naval power rested on the energy
and determination of the sailors of the Cinque Ports. Although _Jehan
Morlac_, the young Gascon, is the principal character in the story the
most arresting figure is that of EDWARD himself, as dexterous a piece of
character-drawing as I have come upon in historical fiction for some
time. The plot is cleverly constructed to throw a high light on one of
the most interesting personalities in the history of the English
monarchy. We see EDWARD as a young man, wild, reckless and brutal; then,
grown to his full powers and sobered by responsibility, making by sheer
force of character something abiding and coherent out of the strange
welter of warring factions from which Great Britain emerged as a united
kingdom. Wales was a hot-bed of rebellion, Scotland the "plague-spot of
the North," the Cinque Ports on the verge of going over to France. Only
a strong man, with strong men under him, could have saved England then.
_Morlac of Gascony_ is not the easy reading which many people insist on
in novels which deal with the past, and for this reason it may not be so
popular as some historical novels of far less merit; but if you are
prepared to make something of an effort to carry the trenches of the
earlier portion of the story you will have your reward.
* * * * *
I suppose that what a CRAWFORD doesn't know about Roman society may
fairly be dismissed as negligible. Therefore the name of J. CRAWFORD
FRASER (in association with Mrs. HUGH FRASER) on the title-page of _Her
Italian Marriage_ (HUTCHINSON) is a sufficient guarantee that the local
colour at least will be the genuine article. And it happens that the
scheme of the tale, the union between a Roman of the old nobility and an
American girl, makes the local colour of special significance. It was
just this matter of doing as the Romans do that _Elsie Trant_ found at
first one of life's little difficulties. There is a very pleasant scene
of the dinner-party at which she was formally presented to her husband's
family; the contrast in atmospheres between that of the new-risen West
and that of the severely Papal circles to which _Prince Pietro_ belonged
being suggested most happily. I wish, though, the authors had been
content to leave it at that, as a social comedy about pleasant people
getting to understand one another. In an ill-inspired moment, however,
they decided to have a dramatic plot, and truth compels me to say that
this is a dreary affair, tricked out with such dust-laden devices as
secret marriages, missing heirs and concealed papers. There is a steward
person who alternately is and isn't the rightful Prince, as we delve
deeper into the revelations. Finally, if I followed the intrigue
correctly, the long arm of coincidence brought it about that _Elsie's_
mother was the eloping wife of _Pietro's_ uncle. Frankly, all this bored
me, because we readers could have been so much more profitably engaged
in renewing our Roman memories under such expert guidance. But of course
this is a merely personal opinion, which you may not share.
* * * * *