(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
I am sorry that I cannot now be the first to call _King Albert's Book_
(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) The Golden Book. But, since this term has already
been applied, I can only applaud it. I suppose never in the history of
books has such a one as this been put together, just as never in the
line of kings has monarch received, under such circumstances, so rare a
tribute. If in the Belgian heart, from ruler to refugee, there is room
for more pride than should of right be there already, surely these
pages, voicing the homage of all that counts in the world to-day, will
bring it. We are all KING ALBERT'S men now, and in this book we have a
welcome chance of proving our fealty. You will observe that I say
nothing about the volume as commercial value for the three shillings
that it costs to buy. One glance at the list of those who contribute (a
kind of international supplement to _Who's Who_) is all that is needed
to satisfy you on this point. _The Daily Telegraph_ is primarily
responsible for gathering together a greater assembly of the names that
matter than was ever collected between covers. To the proprietors, to
Mr. HALL CAINE, who edits the book, and to the printers (especially for
the illustrations in colour, which are triumphs of reproduction) I can
only offer my thanks and congratulatory good wishes. Certainly, _The
Daily Telegraph_ Belgian Fund, to which will go the entire proceeds of
the sale, deserves well the shillings that this splendid effort will
bring to it. _King Albert's Book_ is indeed a noble tribute to
nobility--one that for every sake will become an historic souvenir of
the Great Days. And (if I may confess the secret wickedness of my heart
as I read) how I should love to see the Berlin Press notices!
* * *
When Mr. THEODORE ROOSEVELT stated on page 25 of _Through the Brazilian
Wilderness_ (MURRAY) that his was not a hunting-trip, but a scientific
expedition, I winked solemnly, so often have I read books in which
science is used as an excuse for a slaughter that to the unbloodthirsty
seems to be more than a little indiscriminate. Now, however, there is
nothing to do but to withdraw that wink and to say that Mr. ROOSEVELT
and his companions killed only for the sake of food and specimens,
though on one very exciting occasion a man called JULIO displayed a most
unwholesome desire to slay anybody or anything. This renegade's lust for
murder was merely a side-show, but it serves vividly to illustrate the
dangers and risks that the travellers took as they fought their way
along the River of Doubt. No escape is possible from the buoyancy of Mr.
ROOSEVELT'S style; as frankly as any schoolboy enjoying a holiday he
revelled in the ups and downs of his adventures; and if his enthusiasm
for the important work that he was helping to accomplish occasionally
leads him to relate trivialities, and also prevents him from advancing a
few kilometres without adding up the total number he has travelled, the
essential fact remains that his tale of exploit and exploration is told
with a _joie de vivre_ that carries everything before it. Among the many
discoveries that he made is one from which time has taken away any cause
for surprise. "There was," he says, "a German lieutenant with the
Paraguayan officers--one of several German officers who are now engaged
in helping the Paraguayans with their army." _Through the Brazilian
Wilderness_ is packed with wonderfully good photographs, two of which
introduce us to a game played by the Parecis Indians, of which the
initial rule requires the "kicker-off" to lie flat on the ground and
butt the ball with his head. One wonders if Brazil's future battles will
be won in the playing fields of the Parecis.
* * *
The opening lines of the Preface to Sir CHARLES VILLIERS STANFORD'S book
of reminiscences contain so good a story that I cannot forbear to quote
them. The tale concerns the famous conductor HANS VON BUELOW, who (says
Sir CHARLES) was once taking the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra through a
rehearsal at which some ladies had been invited to be present. They
indulged in whisperings and chatterings which greatly disturbed the
players. BUELOW turned round and said, "Ladies, we are not here to save
the Capitol, but to make music." Pretty neat that for a Prussian! It is
an example of the many excellent tales to be found in _Pages from an
Unwritten Diary_ (ARNOLD). Some of the best of them concern this same
BUELOW, and have done much to disprove my personal belief in the
non-existence of German humour. But throughout his book Sir CHARLES is
the best of good company. Whether he is chatting about Royalty--there is
a rather moving little anecdote of QUEEN VICTORIA and TENNYSON that was
new to me--or telling again the often-told history of the Cambridge
Greek Plays and the A.D.C., he has a happy pen for a point, and even the
chestnuts inevitable in such a collection are served with a flavour of
originality. I must be allowed to quote one more of VON BUELOW'S good
things. A gushing lady at a musical party begged for an introduction to
the great man. Which being given, "_Oh, Monsieur von Buelow_," she said,
"_vous connaissez Monsieur Wagner, n'est-ce pas?_" Bowing, and without a
shade of surprise, BUELOW answered at once, "_Mais oui, Madame; c'est le
mari de ma femme!_" A great man!
* * *
I am quite prepared to accept Mr. LINDSAY BASHFORD'S _Cupid in the Car_
(CHAPMAN AND HALL) as a nice unpretentious diary of a motor-tour on and
about the Franco-German Frontier, ingeniously done into novel form and
wholesomely seasoned with adventure and the arrangement of marriages
shortly to take place. And I distinctly like his taciturn paragon of a
chauffeur, _Eugene_--a nephew of _Enery Straker_ the voluble, as I
should judge from a certain family resemblance and, by the way, much too
intelligent to murder his French phrases in the hopeless manner which
the author, none too scrupulous in these little touches, suggests. But
whether Mr. BASHFORD hasn't spoilt an enthusiastic travel book without
producing quite a plausible novel--a defect of tactics rather than of
capacity--and whether the book doesn't show too many signs of the hustle
and vibration of the car are questions that intrude themselves; and
certainly one has a right to jib at the Preface, which seems to suggest
that the novel, written before war broke out, was to enlighten the
public, by a sugar-coated method, as to the general terrain of the
conflict inevitable at some future date, so that we might "better
picture the work our loved ones were doing at the Front." If this were
indeed so, then it was distinctly untactful that the only British
officer who appears should be a tosh-talking General obviously too fond
of his food. The fact is that the topical preface is being overdone
these days.
* * *
My only complaint against _The Flute of Arcady_ (STANLEY PAUL) is that
Miss KATE HORN, who wrote it, seems somewhat to have disregarded the
classic advice of _Mr. Curdle_ to _Nicholas Nickleby_ in the matter of
observing the unities. It struck me, indeed, that she had begun it as a
Cinderella-tale and then found that there wasn't enough of this to go
round. Thus the early chapters roused my sympathetic interest for
_Charlotte Clairvaux_ (the bullied companion of the hateful cat, _Mrs.
Menzies_) and her admiring suitor, _Dr. Shuckford_. I felt deeply for
poor _Charlotte_, and longed for the moment when the doctor, who was
eminently desirable, would fold her in his manly arms. But this moment
came confusingly early, in the third chapter, and left us with
three-quarters of the book to fill up. So _Charlotte_, for no
reason--that I could see--but this of space, refuses her _Shuckford_,
and off go she and _Mrs. Menzies_ to Versailles, where they meet a good
number of pleasantly-drawn people, and encounter a variety of
adventures, some amusing, some merely farcical. Without doubt Miss HORN
has a pretty wit, but I admired its exercise far more in character than
incident. There is, for example, a delightful new version of _Mrs.
Malaprop_ in the lady whose ambition it was "to live in a mayonnaise in
a good part of London." I loved her, and the terrible French infant, and
the nuns, and the old countess and the other Versailles folk. But of the
incidents, fantastic adventures with elephants and such, one sometimes
feels that their humour is, as the author says of _M. de Lafontaine's_
smile, a thing that seemed to be jerked out by machinery. Yet I am bound
to confess that it made me laugh. So why grumble?
* * * * *
Illustration: THE WILHELM MISTLETOE.
A CARD OF TEUTONIC ORIGIN NOT LIKELY TO HAVE A BIG SALE OVER HERE THIS
SEASON.
* * * * *
_The Times_, describing the attempted escape of a German officer in the
disguise of 'Safety Matches,' says: "There was nothing in the box to
excite suspicion." Except, of course, the officer.
* * * * *
"Never again will one rigid form of civilisation prevail.... The
world has grown too big to rest content with one standard."
_Evening Standard._
Hence _The Evening Standard_.
* * * * *