(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
We are apt to think of Lord NORTHCLIFFE as the "onlie begetter" of the New
Journalism. But here comes Mr. KENNEDY JONES, M.P., to remind us, in _Fleet
Street and Downing Street_ (HUTCHINSON), that he too had a very large share
in its parentage. And up to a point he is a proud father. Circulations
reckoned in millions instead of thousands, journalistic salaries raised
from hundreds to thousands, advertisement-revenues multiplied many-fold--
these are some of the outward signs of the success of a policy which the
author summarised when he told Lord MORLEY, "You left journalism as a
profession; we have made it a branch of commerce." But there is another
side to the medal. _Frankenstein's_ monster was perfect in everything save
that it lacked a soul. In all material things the New Journalism is a long
way ahead of the Old; and yet, after chronicling its many triumphs--
culminating in the capture of _The Times_--its part-creator is fain to
admit that "public distrust of news is the most notable feature in
journalism of recent years," and that the influence of the daily Press on
the public mind has hardly ever been at a lower ebb. This frankness is
characteristic of a book which on nearly every page contains something to
startle or amuse. The author's experiences on his first day in London,
including an encounter with a sausage-seller (more friendly than CLEON'S
rival); his negotiations for the purchase of _The Times_, and his offer of
the editorship to Lord CURZON, who unfortunately refused it; the
_provenance_ of "The Pekin Massacre," which originated, it appears, not
with a "stunt" journalist, but with a Chinese statesman wishing to pull the
Occidental leg--these and many other incidents are admirably described by a
writer who, though he long ago doffed his journalistic harness, has not
forgotten how to write up a "good story." Be your opinion of the New
Journalism what it may I guarantee that you will find its champion an
agreeable companion.
* * * * *
There are parts of Mr. W.J. LOCKE'S latest novel, _The House of Baltazar_
(LANE), which will, I fear, make almost prohibitive demands upon the faith
(considered as belief in the incredible) of his vast following. To begin
with, he introduces us to that problematical personage, whose possibility
used to be so much debated, the Man Who Didn't Know There Was A War On.
_John Baltazar_ had preserved this unique ignorance, first by bolting from
a Cambridge professorship through amorous complications, next by living
many years in the Far East, and finally by settling upon a remote moorland
farm (locality unspecified) with a taciturn Chinaman and an Airedale for
his only companions. This and other contributory circumstances, for which I
lack space, just enabled me to admit the situation as possible. Naturally,
therefore, when a befogged Zeppelin laid a couple of bombs plonk into the
homestead, the ex-professor experienced a mental as well as a bodily
shake-up. I had no complaint either with the transformation that developed
_John Baltazar_ from the only outsider to apparently the big boss of the
War; while the scenes between him and the son of whose existence he had
been unaware (a situation not precisely new to fiction) are presented with
a sincere and moving simplicity. So far so good, even if hardly equal to
the author's best. But the catastrophe and the melodramatics about
War-Office secrets, preposterously put on paper, and still more
preposterously preserved, simply knocked the wind of reality out of the
whole affair. A pity, since Mr. LOCKE (though I prefer him in more
fantastic vein) has clearly spent much care upon a tale that, till its
final plunge, is at least lively and entertaining.
* * * * *
The amateur of lace, whether as expert or owner, will be pleasantly stirred
by learning that another book has been added to the already large
bibliography of a fascinating subject in _The Romance of the Lace Pillow_
(H.H. ARMSTRONG), published at Olney from the pen of Mr. THOMAS WRIGHT.
Olney, of course, has two claims on our regard--COWPER and Lace, and it is
now evident that Mr. WRIGHT has kept as attentive an eye on the one as on
the other. His book makes no pretence to be more than a brief and frankly
popular survey of the art of lace-making chiefly in Northamptonshire and
Bucks, and to it he has brought a wealth of various information (which the
average reader must take on trust) and an enthusiasm that can be judged by
his opening statement that "lace ... is the expression of the most
rapturous moments of whole dynasties of men of genius." So now you know.
Even those of us who regard it with a calmer pulse can take pleasure in the
many excellent photographs of lace-work of different periods and schools
that adorn Mr. WRIGHT'S volume. As for the letter-press, though I will not
call the writer's style wholly equal to his zeal, his chapters are full of
interesting gossip, ranging from the late KATHERINE OF ARAGON (the
originator, according to one theory, of English lace-making), to some jolly
stuff on the literature of Bobbins and the old Tells, or working-songs,
sung by "the spinners and the knitters in the sun, and the free maids that
weave their threads with bones." I have a fancy that the whole volume has
been more or less a labour of love (never certainly did I meet an author
with such a list of helpers to thank), so I am glad to think that its
reward in one sense is already assured.
* * * * *
In _The Fairy Man_ (DENT), a most engrossing phantasy, Mr. L. COPE CORNFORD
takes for raw material a family of Maida Vale, victims of all those petty,
sordid, but deadly troubles known only to the middle class. Without
warrant, explanation, or excuse he introduces into their routine a sudden
touch of magic; the tired City man, the acid foster-mother, the children
(mercifully devoid of any priggishness), and the pre-eminently human
housemaid and cook are transplanted for a moment into the age of the
knights-errant. Thither also are transplanted their special friends and
enemies, all retaining their modern identities and their current troubles,
and all getting unpleasantly involved in the troubles of the ancients, to
boot. Eventually the interlude is found to have provided the solution of
the difficulties, pecuniary and other, of the home in Maida Vale; and I
will say no more than that a very telling story ends well and naturally. No
reader should imagine he has read all this before; the admixture of fairy
imagination with the intensely practical things of life is something new,
and there is a definite purpose in it all. The book may be labelled
intellectual, but the characters always remain very human; thus _George_,
finding himself back in the times of a thousand years ago, says critically,
"It looks old, but it feels just the same;" and his father, seeing him
engaged in an assault on the castle, shouts, "George! put that sword down
instantly." Mr. CORNFORD makes his points with such discretion and
understanding that even the most solid materialist must, after reading,
feel a little less sure of himself.
* * * * *
I rather think that if I had the opportunity of discussing with ELINOR
MORDAUNT her _Old Wine in New Bottles_ (HUTCHINSON) and had the courage to
say what was in my mind: "Don't you think perhaps that your vigorous and
unexpected characters are out of story-land rather than out of life?" and
if she riposted, "But is it necessary they should be like life if they are
life-like?" I should be left with no more effective retort than "Quite," or
something just as futile. For there's no doubt that these queer villains,
Chinese dealers, bold sailormen, travellers, rapt lovers, do get over the
footlights in an effective way. They do the things that are only done in
magazines, but they do them with a gusto which engages the attention.
Perhaps indeed that's what the author meant by her ingenious title; though
I suppose her device of setting before each story a longer or shorter, more
or less relevant, passage from the Old Testament gives a clearer clue to
the precise way in which she interprets "nothing new under the sun." I
cheerfully prescribe of this old wine one or two bottles at bedtime. Better
not, I think, the whole case at a sitting.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Tramp._ "YES, MUM, I'M AN OLD SOLDIER; FOUGHT IN THE--"
_Mrs. Tommy Atkins._ "D'YOU STILL REMEMBER THE ARMY TRAINING?"
_Tramp._ "THAT I DO, MUM. HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN A SINGLE WORD O' COMMAND."
_Mrs. T.A._ "THEN, ABOUT--TURN! QUICK--MARCH!"]