(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
MR. CHARLES INGE has brought to the shaping of _Square Pegs_ (METHUEN)
some good and healthy thoughts about life and love and the waste of
both, so that you get a wholesome impression of soundness and sincerity.
And there's a dedication which makes one think the author is writing of
realities which have been seen at close quarters. _Bernard Farquharson_,
the big-hearted colonial, returning to England and seeing the waste of
potentially good men in preposterous casual jobs which cannot lead
anywhere, longs to give them the chances of the big spaces in South
Africa (where, of course, there are no Labour troubles and a man's a man
for a' that!). He ventures his capital in _The Dictator_, a Fleet Street
derelict, in order to promote his emigration scheme, and his capital
departs before either his public or the big-wigs are convinced. I can't
think that _Bernard_ had really thought out his scheme. And I wonder
what he would have done if the little band of square pegs he got
together in desperation hadn't had the sense to refuse his offer to ship
them over to South Africa with his few remaining sovereigns. They would
certainly have been in a fine round hole at the other side. But
_Bernard_ did a better thing. The only emigrant in his party was
_Leonora_, and I like to think they lived happily ever after on his
little orange-farm. I can only hope that his rival, _Pike-Sarpe_, a
horrible little unctuous cad of a solicitor, will shortly do something
to attract the official attention of the Law Society.
* * * * *
There will, I have no doubt, be joy in many a gentle heart over the glad
news that Mrs. GEORGE WEMYSS, whose _Professional Aunt_ made for her so
many friends, has created yet another charming relation. _Grannie for
Granted_ (CONSTABLE) is the story of a delightful old lady who from her
country home takes a placid and grandmaternal interest in the affairs of
her descendants--their love affairs mostly, of course, or the engaging
chatter of the smaller third generation. Some of the sayings of the
latter are worthy examples of the "good enough for _Punch_" variety,
which, as most persons with married friends know too well, is a phrase
covering a wide range of quality. Most of them, however, are excellent
and ring true. Of the love-affairs I feel myself a less competent judge,
but I should fancy their appeal will be compelling to the expert. It is
perhaps impossible for a book of this type wholly to avoid the charge of
being sugary or pretty-pretty, but with my hand on my heart I can
declare that Mrs. WEMYSS has done less to deserve it than most other
writers would. I shudder, for example, to imagine what certain
Transatlantic novelists would have done with the same material. In fine,
here is as pleasant and likeable a treatise on _l'art d'être
Grand'-mère_ as anyone need wish to read. I am uncertain as to the
precise significance of the title, which may refer to the fact that you
have only to ask a grannie and get what you want, or to the equal truism
that grandmotherly devotion is often accepted as a matter of course.
However it doesn't really matter. The important thing is that the public
have asked Mrs. WEMYSS for "another of the same," and the request has
been appropriately "granted."
* * * * *
I happen to have incontrovertible proof (of the external kind) that the
one and only Mr. G. K. CHESTERTON is the author of _The Flying Inn_
(METHUEN). Otherwise I should have judged, by internal evidence, that it
was the work of an inferior writer of the same name as himself, and,
curiously enough, the same initials. Though hesitating to encourage
litigation I should have been inclined to recommend Mr. CHESTERTON to
apply as soon as possible for an injunction to restrain this person from
doing anything further to damage the real G. K. C.'s reputation. I
should have hinted that every now and then I had come upon a passage
which might well be the work of the author of _Heretics and Tremendous
Trifles_, and that only the intolerable dulness of the book as a whole
persuaded me that it had been written by another hand. It deals with the
adventures of _Lord Ivywood_ and _Captain Dalroy_, men of opposite views
on the subject of temperance. _Lord Ivywood_, having by some mysterious
means (not explained) acquired despotic power in England, issued an
edict that all inns should be abolished. At the same time he decreed
that alcoholic liquor might be sold wherever an inn-sign stood. _Captain
Dalroy_ accordingly stole the sign of "The Old Ship," and carried it
about with him, setting it up wherever his fancy dictated. And that, on
my honour as a Learned Clerk, is the whole plot of a fat,
closely-printed book of more than three hundred pages. I hope I have a
fairly catholic appreciation of humour; certainly, I can enjoy most
things, from MEREDITH to the American coloured comic supplement; but
_The Flying Inn_ was too much for me. It cannot have been easy to write,
even given useful characters like _Lord Ivywood_ and _Captain Dalroy_,
whose remarks can be made to run into three or four pages; but it is
considerably harder to read. There are good things in it, just as there
is gold (I understand) in sea-water, but the process of extraction is
tedious.
* * * * *
Miss UNA SILBERRAD's novels are invariably good, and _Cuddy Yarborough's
Daughter_ (CONSTABLE), is among the best of them. _Cuddy_ himself is
delightfully irresponsible, and I felt a pang of disappointment when he
disappeared from the scene, although, considering that he became
increasingly lazy and comatose as he grew older, his decease, perhaps,
was not premature. Apart from his affability, _Cuddy's_ only claim to
distinction lay in the fact that he was the father of his daughter.
_Violet's_ lot fell in rather stony places; as a child she was
practically the guardian of her own father, and after his death she was
governess to the child of a woman as irresponsible as _Cuddy_, but not
half so comfortable to live with. Men swarmed round this _Lady
Lassiter_, and she loved most of them. Under the circumstances it was
fortunate that she had a most unsuspicious and tolerant husband. With no
hesitation I recommend the tale of _Cuddy_ and his daughter to the
notice of all except the ultra-moderns. But, lest I should fail as a
critic if I did no carping, I will say that, though I do not belong to
any Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Infinitives, I should like
Miss SILBERRAD to look at page 94, where she will find one that is not
only split but split to smithereens.
* * * * *
On the paper wrapper of _Sarah Eden_ (MILLS AND BOON) the publishers
themselves call it "a novel of great distinction." Filled as I am with
the natural lust of the reviewer to contradict a publisher about his own
wares, I am bound to admit that I can find no phrase more apt for the
impression this book has made upon me. There is exceptional distinction
in the scheme of Miss E. S. STEVENS' story, and there is even more in
the grave charm and dignity of its telling. It is the record of the
development of a singular and beautiful character; "a spiritual
adventure" might have been its sub-title, for the events in _Sarah
Eden's_ life were those of mind rather than body. There are two main
divisions of the story: in the first we watch _Sarah_ from her
beginnings as a quiet introspective child in her Devon home, and through
the short course of her unsatisfactory married life. With considerable
skill the author has here shown the various forces that were at work
building up the heroine's character, and that strange blending of a
practical and commanding efficiency with the idealism of a dreamer that
exactly fitted her for the part she plays in the second half of her
story. The change comes with the sudden death of her husband, and the
first of the ecstatic visions that compelled _Sarah Eden_ to leave her
native country and prepare a place for her Divine Master in the home of
His first coming. Thenceforward the scene is in Jerusalem, where _Sarah_
establishes herself at the head of her strange little company of
fanatics. You can see how large is the plan of such a tale; it is one of
which you could not reasonably expect a wholly satisfactory ending, and
to my mind the latter portion is the weaker. But there are some
delightful scenes of life in modern Jerusalem. And _Sarah Eden_ herself
remains always a profoundly moving personality. For her alone the book
deserves to be called "a novel of great distinction."
* * * * *