(_WITH GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO THE LEADING MASTERS OF THIS
DELECTABLE ART._)
Messrs. Puffington and Co. beg to announce the immediate issue of
_Charity Blueblood_, by Faith Redfern. Speaking _ex cathedra_, with a
full consciousness of their responsibilities, they have no hesitation
in pronouncing their assured conviction that this novel will take its
place above all the classics of fiction.
Here is not only a Thing of Beauty, but a Joy for Ever, wrought
by elfin fingers, fashioned of gossamer threads at once fine and
prehensile. Yet so Gargantuan and Goliardic that the reader holds his
breath, lest the whole beatific caboodle should vanish into thin air
and leave him lamenting like a Peril shut out from Paradise.
But this is more than a Paradise. It is a Pandemonium, a Pantosocratic
Pantechnicon and a Pantheon as well. For here, within the narrow
compass of 750 pages (price 7s. 11¾d.), we find all the glory that
was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome; the Olympian serenity of
HOMER, the pity and terror of ÆSCHYLUS, the poignancy of CATULLUS, the
saucy mirth of ARISTOPHANES, the sanity of SHAKSPEARE, the _macabre_
gruesomeness of BAUDELAIRE, the sardonic _rictus_ of HEINE and the
geniality of TROLLOPE. All this and much more.
Here, as we turn every page, we expect to meet _Rosalind_ and _Jeanie
Deans_, _Tom Jones_ and _Aramis_, _Mr. Micawber_ and _Madame Bovary_,
_Eugenie Grandet_ and _Colonel Newcome_, _Casanova_ and _Casablanca_,
_Consuelo_ and "CAGLIOSTRO," and, if we do not meet them, we encounter
new and more radiant figures, compared with whom the others are as
water to wine.
Here, with its bliss and agony, its cacophony and cachinnation, is
Life, such as you and I know it, not life in absolute _déshabillé_,
but enveloped in the iridescent upholstery of genius, sublimated by
the wizardry of a transcendental polyphony.
Here, soaring high above the cenotaph in which the roses and rapture
of our youth lie entombed in one red burial blent, we see the
shimmering strands of St. Martin's Summer drawn athwart the happenless
days of Autumn, with the dewdrops of cosmic unction sparkling in the
rays of a sunshine never yet seen on land or sea, but reflecting as in
a magic mirror that far off El Dorado, that land where Summer always
is "i-cumen in," for which each and all of us feel a perpetual
nostalgia.
Here, in fine, gentle reader, is a work of such colossal force that
to render justice to its abysmal greatness we have ransacked the
vocabulary of superlative laudation in vain. SWINBURNE, compared to
the needs of the situation, is as a shape of quivering jelly alongside
of the Rock of Gibraltar. And here, O captious critic, is a Wonderwork
which not only disarms but staggers, paralyses and annihilates all
possibilities of animadversion, unless you wish to share the fate
of Marsyas, by pitting your puny strength against the overwhelming
panoply of divine and immortal genius.
* * * * *
"A bricklayer's labourer was remanded yesterday on a charge of
stealing, as bailee, two matches, value £3, the property of the
Vicar of ----."--_Provincial Paper_.
We fear there has been bad profiteering somewhere; even in London they
have not touched that price.
* * * * *
"Howells' new violin conato (E flat), which followed, is sincere
music ... whatever there is it is possible to bear."--_Times_.
The fololwing of a conata, like the bombination of a chimæra,
apparently puts some strain upon the attention of an audience.
* * * * *
_LE FRANÇAIS TEL QUE L'ON LE PARLE._
It was on my journey to Paris that I ran across little Prior in the
train. He too was going, he said, on Peace Conference work. His is
a communicative disposition and before we had fairly started on our
journey he had unfolded his plans. He said the Conference was bound
to last a long time, and as a resident in a foreign country he had
a splendid opportunity to learn the language. He meant, he said,
to get to know it thoroughly later on. He then produced his French
Pronouncing Handbook.
I thought I knew French pretty well until I saw that book. It gave
Prior expressions to use in the most casual conversation that I have
never heard of in my life. It had a wonderful choice of words. Only an
experienced philologist could have told you their exact origin.
The handbook had foreseen every situation likely to arise abroad; and
I think it overrated one's ordinary experiences. I have known people
who have resided in France for years and never once had occasion to
ask a billiard-marker if he would "_Envoyer-nous des crachoirs_." Most
people can rub along on a holiday quite cheerfully without a spittoon;
but then the handbook never meant you to be deprived of home comforts
for the want of asking.
Nor did it intend, with all its oily phraseology, that you should be
imposed on. There is a scene in a "print-shop" over the authenticity
of an engraving which gets to an exceedingly painful climax.
A good deal of reliance is placed on the innate courtesy of the
French. For it appears that, after an entire morning spent at the
stationer's, when the shop-keeper has discussed every article he has
for sale, you wind up by saying, "_Je prendrai une petite bouteille
d'encre noire,_" and all that long-suffering man retorts is, "_J'voo
zangvairay ler pah-kay,_" which is not nearly so bolshevistic as it
looks.
Prior said he was going to start to speak French directly he got on
board the steamer--he had learnt that part off by heart already. The
first remark he must make was, "Send the Captain to me at once." There
is no indication of riot or uproar at this. Evidently the Captain is
brought without the slightest difficulty, for in the very next line
we find Prior saying, "_Êtes-vous le Capitaine?_" and he goes on to
inquire about his berth.
The Captain tells him everything there is to know about berths
and then apparently offers to take down his luggage, for Prior is
commanding, "Take care of my carpet-bag, if you please."
They then begin to discuss the weather. "In what quarter is the wind?"
asks the indefatigable Prior.
"The wind," says the Captain, "is in the north, in the south, in the
east, in the south-west. It will be a rough passage. It will be very
calm."
Prior does not seem to observe that the Captain appears to be hedging.
This wealth of information even pleases him, and then quite abruptly
he demands, "_Donnez-moi une couverture,_" because, as he goes on
to explain, he "feels very sick." This gives the "Capitaine" an
opportunity to escape. He says, "I will send the munitionnaire."
Undoubtedly that Captain has a sense of the ridiculous. I like the
man. Anyone who could, on the spur of the moment, describe the
steward as the munitionnaire deserves to rank as one of the world's
humourists. But Prior is apparently in no condition to see a joke. He
says he will have the munitionnaire instantly bringing in his hand
"_un verre d'eau de vie._"
I was really sorry that in the bustle of embarking I lost sight of
Prior and therefore could not witness the meeting between him and the
Captain. It would have made me happy for the whole day.
The crossing was prolonged, for we took a zig-zag course to avoid any
little remembrances Fritz might have left us in the form of mines.
When we were nearing land I saw Prior again. He was stretched out on
a deck-chair and looked up with a ghastly smile as he caught sight of
me.
"Hullo, you're alone!" I said rather cruelly. "Is this the stage where
the Captain goes to find the munitionnaire?"
Then he spoke, but it was not in the words of the phrase-book. It was
in clear, concise, unmistakable English.
"Can you tell me," he asked, and behind his words lay a suggestion
of quiet force of despair, "about what hour of the day or night this
cursed boat is likely to get to Boolong?"
* * * * *
"Evens are moving rapidly in connection with the plan by
the Government, announced only yesterday, to call a national
industrial conference."--_Daily Paper_.
We are glad the odds are not against it.
* * * * *