(_ By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
In these days, when everybody has his reminiscences, there should still be
a welcome for so genial a volume as _A Soldier's Memories_ (JENKINS), into
which Major-General Sir GEORGE YOUNGHUSBAND has gathered his "Recollections
of People, Places and Things." The title truly indicates the character of
the contents, which are exactly what you would expect from a plain blunt
man, who loves his friends, and equally loves a good story about them, at
his own or their expense, impartially. The anecdotes in the book are
legion, and the actors in them range from troopers to generals, and beyond.
KING EDWARD, their present Majesties, Sir DOUGLAS HAIG ("a nice-looking
clean little boy in an Eton jacket and collar") all figure in the author's
pictures of the past, which include also a highly characteristic study of
WILLIAM THE FRIGHTFUL, congratulating the "citizens of Salisbury,"
represented by a handful of curious urchins, upon their "beautiful and
ancient cathedral." (One can fancy the unspoken addition in the Imperial
mind, "And what a target for Bertha!") Many of Sir GEORGE'S pages are
devoted to stories of the Boer campaign, that old unhappy far-off thing
that seems somehow, as one looks back to-day, further off than Waterloo. In
fine, a book that all Service folk, and many besides them, will find a
treasure-house of good stories, of exactly the kind that should be certain
of their appeal now, when we are all, or like to think ourselves, soldiers
in the greatest of England's wars, and inheritors of the traditions here
shown in the making.
* * * * *
A short hour's reading and you will have laid down, with a sigh for its
brevity, a little book that is a very model of artistry. It is by Mr. E.V.
LUCAS, and _Outposts of Mercy_ is its happy name. But I am not to seek
reflected glory by the praising of a colleague; simply for the sake of the
cause that he pleads I wish to commend this fascinating account of the
author's visit, in the company of Lord MONSON, Chief Commissioner, to the
stations of the British Red Cross on the Carso, at Gorizia and among the
Carnic and Julian Alps. Resisting sternly the temptation to embroider his
theme with the distractions of scene and circumstance (of course he had to
tell us of that dinner at the mess of an Alpine regiment where he met the
man who had discovered the "Venus of Cyrene"), he keeps as closely as may
be to his main subject, but cannot escape from infusing it with his own
sense of colour and romance and the unconscious appeal of his personality.
One may envy him his rare experience, yet fully share his pride in the
fearless devotion of the men and women of our race (one can imagine it of
no other) in these perilous and lonely outposts of mercy. A little paper
book, illustrated with little photographs, and costing just a shilling. The
author and his publishers (METHUEN) are devoting the profits to the British
Red Cross; so you who buy and read it--and I don't see how anybody can
refuse--may extract a claim to virtue from an hour of pure delight.
* * * * *
A quiet style, keen powers of observation, and a delightful assumption of
his own unimportance combine to make Mr. FREDERICK PALMER'S _With the New
Army on the Somme_ (MURRAY) a book that will be read long after the Hun has
returned to the place from which he came. "Those whose business it was to
observe, the six correspondents ... went and came always with a sense of
incapacity and sometimes with a feeling that writing was a worthless
business when others were fighting." There we have his apology for doing
what obviously seemed to him a second-best thing; but much as I like his
modesty I can assure him that no finer tribute has yet been paid to our new
army. Mr. PALMER was the accredited American correspondent at the British
Front, and though the days are happily passed when he was a neutral in name
his position as an impartial spectator gives him an advantage denied to the
most veracious of our own correspondents. Our French Allies too may be
congratulated, by themselves as well as by us, on being observed by eyes so
shrewd and friendly. "No two French soldiers seem quite alike on the march
or when moving about a village on leave. Each seems three beings--one a
Frenchman, one a soldier, a third himself." Anyone who has been in the
war-zone and seen a French regiment resting cannot fail to be struck by the
acuteness of this remark; indeed it provides the key to what, for an
ordinary British mind, is a puzzle. It is one of Mr. PALMER'S many virtues
that, although his main business was to watch the soldiers and the
fighting, he never forgets the man inside the uniform. This gives to his
historical record the added interest of a study in psychology.
* * * * *
_The Unspeakable Perk_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) and his attendant puppets
are, to put it kindly, selected from the stock characters of Lesser
American Fiction. There is the "radiant" heroine from Squeedunkville, Wis.
(or Mass.); the tame Poppa with the simoleons, the hero heavily disguised
as a worm, and a worm or so to do the real heavy worming when the hero's
turn comes to pull off the grand-stand play (this doesn't sound like
English but it is really the standard "line of talk" in Lesser American
Fiction). And last but not least there is the "fiery" Southerner. In real
life Southerners are melancholy men with a tendency to _embonpoint_ and
clawhammer coats of ante-bellum design. But in Lesser American Fiction they
are for some undiscovered reason always "fiery." To the fiery one the
heroine "unconsciously turns" when the apparent earmarks of the hero's
wormhood are dramatically revealed, and of course she hands him what she
would probably describe as the "sister" stuff when the gentleman emerges in
his natural colours. That is what makes the story-book Southerner so fiery.
Place these complex characters in an imaginary Carribean Republic, a sort
of transpontine Ruritania; add a revolution fostered by the serpentine
diplomats of a European power; let the American eagle issue a few screams,
and there you have the environment in which _The Unspeakable Perk_ lives
and moves and has his unreal being. The keynote of SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS'
story is what the _Perk_ person would describe as a want of "pep." Even the
villains turn out to be comparative gentlemen in the end, the dirty work
being conveniently fastened upon some "person or persons unknown." The yarn
is well enough to wile away an hour; but in these days of burning realities
fiction has lost its bite unless it too is informed with the spirit of
reality.
* * * * *
I have to warn you that the early chapters of _The_ _Moulding Loft_
(METHUEN) are liable to plunge you into some mental agitation, due to the
author's deliberately baffling method of starting her plot. The hero, for
example, is introduced to us abed, and semi-delirious, waited upon by a
pale and sinister young female whom he detests. He appears to be in a house
strange to him, which contains also an unpleasant old woman and a queer
little boy whose behaviour is wrop in mystery. Slowly, perhaps somewhat too
slowly, it is revealed that the hero has been knocked silly by a large
stone dropped upon his unoffending head by the small boy. But why? And why
does the child protest his innocence with such apparent good faith? These
problems I must leave MARGARET WESTRUP (Mrs. W. STACEY) to resolve in her
own unhurried way. Of course before long the "little aversion" between hero
and heroine gives place to an emotion more appropriate. But there remains
an obstacle to their union, one concerned (also, of course) with the
detestable grandmother and the mysterious small boy. Shall I give you one
clue? Somebody is mad; nor is it (as you may at one time have been tempted
to suppose) either the author or reader. More than this wild horses should
not extort from me. But I confess to a rewarding thrill and a very grateful
relief when the mystery was finally cleared up. A good and interesting
book, both for its plot and for some very agreeable Cornish scenes, which
would have been even more welcome had the delectable Duchy not already
engaged the pens of our novelists more than enough.
* * * * *
Mrs. "J.E. BUCKROSE" is one of those writers whose work can always be
depended upon. A pinch of pathos, a _soupcon_ of sentiment, a spice of
humour--there you have the recipe, and a very palatable mixture it makes.
The common element that pervades the dozen stories which compose _War-Time
in Our Street_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), all in the author's best manner, is
the staunch devotion to duty displayed by her heroines under stress of war.
Pangs of hunger are endured nobly, hard-hearted folk are softened, lonely
women fight and win the battle against depression. If these pictures of
life behind the windows of our village streets are too _couleur de
BUCKROSE_ to be quite true, there is nevertheless a real quality in them.
They are not for the cynic, but for readers who can appreciate simple tales
of simple people, told without affectation.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The Airman._ "I SAY, HAVE YOU SEEN A CIGARETTE-HOLDER
ANYWHERE ABOUT? I DROPPED MINE YESTERDAY WHEN I WAS FLYING OVER THIS
PLACE."]
* * * * *
"To shoot well at fixed targets, after the range has been exactly
registered, as in trench warfare, is one thing, but front and pick up
distances smarly, is quite to trot into action, unlimber and form
action another, and this is where many phophets anticipated our new
Army would be found wanting, but prophecy is becoming a profitless
business in this war."--_Bath Herald._
Well, why not try proof-reading as a change?
* * * * *
"The Rector nominated Mr. C. Yells as his warden. Captain Noyes was
appointed sidesman."--_Provincial Paper._
Otherwise the proceedings seem to have gone off quietly.