(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
There is no doubt that one of the greatest pieces of luck that has
come the way of the Empire is LOUIS BOTHA. Mr. HAROLD SPENDER'S
legitimately uncritical biography, _General Botha: The Career and the
Man_ (CONSTABLE), fills in the details of the romance; and astonishing
details they are. BOTHA, the anti-Krugerite, one of the seven in the
Volksraad who voted against the fateful ultimatum in October, 1899,
threw himself, when war was unavoidable, with all his energy into the
task of his country's defence. Rapidly proving himself, he succeeded
his sick chief, JOUBERT, with at first, and luckily for us, a
mitigated authority. Here was no mere slim guerilla playing little
disconcerting tricks on a clumsy enemy, but a general to respect,
as BULLER found at Colenso and BENSON at Bakenlaagte. And his staff
college was just his own occiput. When the inevitable end came,
long delayed by his and his brother-generals' skill and courage, he
laboured for a lasting peace, and took a line of steady fealty to the
ideal of British citizenship, which he has unfalteringly pursued to
this day. It is good, by the way, to recall the admirable and patient
diplomacy, at and after Vereeniging, of Lord KITCHENER, who was the
chief pleader for generous concessions to the gallant beaten enemy--an
attitude BOTHA never forgot. BOTHA is indeed the pilot of modern
South Africa--the first Premier of the Transvaal after the gift of
responsible government, the first Premier of the Union after the
federation of the four states. To him has fallen the honour (and the
task) of crushing the rebellion, wherein he had the supreme wisdom to
throw the burden upon the loyal Dutch in order not to risk reopening
racial bitterness by using British elements against the rebels. He has
entered Windhuk a conqueror. May his old luck follow him in the still
difficult days of the youngest of the Dominions! I've forgotten Mr.
SPENDER'S book. But of course this is all out of it. And there's
plenty more good stuff in it.
* * * * *
I have for some time now had my prophetic eye upon Mr. J. C. SNAITH
as a writer from whom uncommon things were to be looked for. So it
has pleased me to find this belief entirely justified by _The Sailor_
(SMITH, ELDER), which is as good and absorbing a tale as anything
I have encountered this great while. It is the life-history of one
_Henry Harper_ that Mr. SNAITH sets out to tell; incidentally it is
also the record of the development of a popular novelist out of a slum
child, through such seemingly unpromising stages as tramp-sailor and
professional footballer. There is a strength and (to use the most
fitting term) a punch about the telling of it that carries the reader
forward quite irresistibly. Moreover, like all histories of expanding
fortune, it is cheery reading for that sake alone. Personally, I think
I liked most the football section. I knew from _Willow the King_ that
Mr. SNAITH knew all about cricket; for his football mastery I was
unprepared. There is a fresh poignancy in Mr. SNAITH'S handling of
professional sport in its most frankly gladiatorial aspect that gives
one a new sympathy with the young giants who are now mostly engaged
Delia raised her eyebrows contest. What I liked least about the book
were the _Sailor's_ two matrimonial adventures. His entrapment by the
detestable _Cora_ is so painful that perhaps I was glad to think it
also slightly incredible. Even the lady whose hand is his ultimate
great reward failed to rouse me to any enthusiasm. But the _Sailor_
himself is so human and likeable a figure that he perhaps absorbed my
interest to the exclusion of the other characters, which I hope is as
Mr. SNAITH intended it.
In _Verdun to the Vosges_ (ARNOLD) MR. GERALD CAMPBELL has paid a
generous tribute to the indomitable courage of our French Allies.
His position as Special Correspondent of _The Times_ gave him
opportunities--strictly limited, of course, but unique--of recording
in particular the earlier phases of the War on the fortress frontier
of France; and he has produced a volume which shows no trace of
civilian authorship, except in those qualities which confess the art
of a trained writer. Never obtruding his own personality, he gives
us here and there a glimpse of privileged experiences and happy
relationships with the French authorities, civil and military,
notably the Prefet of Meurthe et Moselle, whose letter to the author,
published as an epilogue, is a document of astounding force and
eloquence. If I have a complaint to make it is that in a serious
history--the kind that you must follow very closely on the map--Mr.
CAMPBELL should have spent so much time on general reflections and
homilies which might just as well have been compose in Fleet Street or
the salient of Ypres. And it is perhaps a pity that, where his subject
gave him no chance of dealing with his own country's share in the War,
he should have exposed at considerable length certain defects in the
English character which delayed the adoption of national service. It
is true that universal compulsion had not been adopted at the time
when Mr. CAMPBELL was writing, and it is certain that no one who
knows the good work he has done in helping the two nations to a better
understanding of one another will question his motives; but I think
that these reflections upon England, very English in their candour,
have no proper place in a history of the achievements of France; and
I hope that they may be cut out of the French translation which
is shortly to appear. For the rest (and a good big rest) it is an
enthralling book; and if I were a Frenchman I should read it with a
very great pride. Even as it is, and notwithstanding what I have said,
I am proud enough that an Englishman should have written it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PAINFUL PREDICAMENT OF MNEMO, THE WORLD-FAMED
MEMORISER, WHO, AFTER A HARD DAY AT A MATINEE AND TWO EVENING
PERFORMANCES, FORGETS THE NAME AND NUMBER OF HIS HOUSE.]
* * * * *
_The Scratch Pack_ (HUTCHINSON) is another of those jovial, out-door
stories, for which Miss DOROTHEA CONYERS has already endeared herself
to a considerable public. As before, her scene is Ireland. It is
somewhere on the south coast of that emotional island that a maiden
called _Gheena Freyne_ determines, in the war-absence of the local
M.F.H., to do her bit by dealing faithfully with the foxes, who
are rather above themselves through neglect. So she, and one _Darby
Dillon_, who is crippled and unable to do anything but ride (and adore
_Gheena_), get together a very scratch pack of the farmers' foot-dogs.
What sport results, and how buoyantly it is told, those with
experience of Miss CONYERS' vigorous gifts can easily imagine. There
is however another thread to the story. A second suitor pervades the
scene, one _Basil Stafford_, who, though hale and vigorous, persists,
even under white-feather provocation, in an attitude of taciturn
reserve about the War. Also he takes mysterious walks at night on the
cliffs, somewhere off which a German submarine is said to be hiding,
_Gheena_ accordingly suspects him of being (i) a shirker, (ii) a spy.
Apparently, as far as young ladies on the South coast of Ireland are
concerned, Messrs. VEDRENNE and EADIE have simply lived in vain. The
more sophisticated reader, while not sharing _Gheena's_ astonishment
at the climax, will none the less enjoy some pleasant thrills that
lead up to it. In short _The Scratch Pack_ can show you an excellent
day's sport.
* * * * *
I suppose we owe our grotesquely insular ignorance of the Art of
Russia (other than music) to the fact that hitherto no one has been
so enterprising as ROSA NEWMARCH. In _The Russian Arts_ (JENKINS), she
sets out to give us a brief history of painting in Russia, from the
ikon to the Futurist diagram, with a preamble on architecture and a
postscript on sculpture. It is indeed a dismal thing to be brought
to realise, even from quite inadequate illustrations in monochrome
half-tone, that one does not know anything of such artists as REPIN
and NESTEROF--to take but two widely differing types of a notable
family. Art, such triumphant art, say, as the ballet with the gorgeous
scenic accessories that we know, does not spring into being
without ancestry, and this book gives us some notes on artistic
pedigree--enough perhaps to save us from abject shame when, after this
war, we sit at dinner next some knowledgeable Russian guest.... And
this is likely often to happen. It is odd that Mrs. NEWMARCH seems to
be interested in the literary rather than the graphic content of the
pictures she describes--odd because she seems to know the painter's
creed.
* * * * *
An Impending Apology.
Extract from a soldier's letter recently received by the wife of a
distinguished retired officer:--
"Please tell Colonel W---- I was asking for him. Tell him this
is a rough war, not the same as in his time. It is all brains
now, and machinery."
* * * * *
Extract from _The Seamanship Manual_, vol. ii., chap, vii.,
"Disembarking Troops":--
"This method is satisfactory for horses, mules, or cattle, but
does not answer with the camel. The latter, if not drowned on
the way ashore, is very little use when landed."
This disparaging remark about the "ship of the desert" is
attributable, we fear, to professional jealousy.
* * * * *
"The impression I carried away was that the Kiel Canal was a
splendid bit of engineering, and that in case of war it would
be invaluable, not only as a refuge for the German Fleet, but
also as a quick means of getting the Kiel squadron quickly
into the North Sea, or _vice versa_."--_Sunday Chronicle._
The British Fleet has proved even better than the Kiel Canal as a
quick means of accomplishing the vice-versa operation.
* * * * *
"The last sale of home mad cooking will take place on
Saturday."
_Avonlea Advocate (Saskatchewan)._
If only it were the last!