(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
I think I never read a story that impressed me as more untimely than
this to which Mr. IVOR BROWN has given the title of _Security_ (SECKER).
It is about an Oxford Don, one _John Grant_, who became, as others have
become, irked by the placid routine of Senior Common-Room existence, and
yearned for adventure. So he came to London, and got his first dose of
it as a labour-agitator and backer of strikes. I suppose that the
atmosphere of labour-agitating and strike-backing is skilfully conveyed
(that of Oxford donship undoubtedly is), but I can't tell you how
antique it all seems. These scornful quotations from an imaginary
Capitalist press and the fierce denial that industrial strife was ever
assisted by foreign agencies--it all sounds like a voice from ancient
history. One rubs one's ears at it. Eventually militant Socialism
wearies _John_ as much as academic torpor had done, and to escape from
both he marries a wife. More atmosphere, this time of a dreary little
seaside town and its so-called society. But _John_ fares no better here;
and at last, on his return from a walking holiday, he finds that _Mrs.
John_, unable to put up with him any longer, is putting up without him
at a London hotel in company with Another. That seems a situation
insecure enough to satisfy the most exacting. But even from this nothing
results, and husband and wife drift together again. I like to think that
nowadays, what with Zeps and other things, poor old _John_ may grow
really contented. Meanwhile, clever as it is, the tale seems oddly
anæmic and unreal. It is like those tragically trivial journals of 1914
that still survive in the dusty waiting-rooms of dentists. I don't
suggest that Mr. BROWN, whose previous book I much admired, should write
about the War; but I could wish him a little more in tune with the
spirit it has produced.
* * * * *
_Faith Tresilion_ (WARD, LOCK) is a book of brave and of some diabolical
deeds, but as Mr. EDEN PHILLPOTTS sees to it that his murderers and
wreckers get their due he leaves me with the hopeful feeling that what
happened to super-criminals a hundred years or so ago will also be their
fate in this year of grace. _Faith_ is the type of heroine with whom
readers of this amazingly industrious author are familiar--a fearless
girl who does a man's work without for a moment becoming unsexed. She
was in a difficult position enough, for her brother was a smuggler and
she was in love, head to heels, with the local gangster. There are other
complications, but this is the chief one, and it is worked out in Mr.
_Phillpotts_' best West-country manner. I accept _Faith_ and salute her,
but it is before her mother that I completely bow the knee. Mrs.
_Tresilion_ was paralysed up to her waist, which was just as well, for
if her activities had not been limited she would have swamped the whole
book. As it was she lay in bed, drank gin, directed various operations
with her eye fixed rather upon this world than the next, and told her
visitors precisely what she thought of them. I am thankful not to have
met this devastating lady in the flesh, because to be called "a
hookery-snidy, trundle-trailed king-crab," and then told to kiss her,
would have been more than I could bear.
* * * * *
I feel that Miss CONSTANCE HOLME will be the first to agree with me on
reflection that as a beginning of a chapter in _The Old Road from Spain_
(MILLS) the following will not do: "The long bright day idled
interminably to its tryst with night. Luis ate his lonely meals in the
silent room," etc. It illustrates a defect of her rather over-intense
method. She would readily forgive me this stricture if she could know
the eagerness with which I read her picturesque pages to find out
exactly what was the matter with the _Huddlestons_ of Thorn. From a
Spanish ancestor, who had been wrecked with the Armada, they had
inherited a CURSE. It was a very original curse, and I dare not deprive
you of the pleasure of finding out what it was for yourself. Miss HOLME
puts in her background of mystery with skilful touches and handles her
characterisation with a good deal more subtlety than your mere
mystery-monger can command. She observes both men and things with
affection, writes of them with imagination. _Rowly Huddleston_, the
committee-ridden squire of Thorn, looks like a careful portrait from
life, and probably somebody also sat for that faithful soul, _Crane_,
the butler. A book to be commended. Its defects are the defects of
exuberance, the sort one only begins to notice after one has said,
"Hello! this is pretty good!"
* * * * *
_The Greater Glory_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is a collection of very short
sketches concerned with the War. They are a little unequal, some being
better than others, and others (naturally) being worse than some. They
all reveal their author, Miss EVELYN ORCHARD, as possessed of a
pleasantly unforced style, and perhaps rather more ease than
imagination. One of them, my own favourite, the story of a parson who
enlisted, is conspicuous as containing so admirable a recruiting speech
that I can only hope it is transcribed from life. Having said so much,
perhaps I may be forgiven by Miss ORCHARD if I add that I would rather
have read her up upon some lighter theme. Her tuneful pipe contains some
very pleasant notes, both of sentiment and humour, but is altogether too
thin for variations upon so tremendous a motive as she has chosen. I
express, of course, only my personal feeling; but I am certain that
unless a book can rise to the magnitude of the War it had best leave it
alone. Still it may well be that others will find interest, and even
consolation, in these little papers. They have at least the charm of
simplicity, and are obviously the products of a gentle and sympathetic
nature. Thus, Miss ORCHARD can still see the pathos of the German
private. Well, well.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "Look, dear--isn't that good? 'Will you march too, or
wait till March the Second'?"]
* * * * *