(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
The news that Mr. STEPHEN LEACOCK has published a fresh series of
burlesques will, I do not doubt, add to the Christmas jollity of a
vast crowd of laughter-lovers. The name of it is _Winsome Winnie, and
other New Nonsense Novels_ (LANE), and I can only describe it in that
pet phrase of the house-agents as "examined and strongly recommended"
for the merriest five-shillings' worth that I have enjoyed this long
time. If ever a volume demanded to be read aloud over the Yule log
here it is. Which of the eight novels is the most irresistible must
remain, I suppose, a matter of individual taste; for myself I found
the opening chapter in the title-tale the funniest thing in the
collection, and that not forgetting the billiard match in the
detective story, a contest that I defy anyone to follow without tears.
To attempt analysis of such happily unforced humour would be a dark
and dreadful task; but I incline to think that, more than most, the
fun of Mr. LEACOCK (to be accurate one should, I suppose, say Dr.
LEACOCK) depends upon the sudden tripping-up of the reader in
his moment of fancied security. The _cliché_, with its deceptive
appearance of solid and familiar ground, conceals an unexpected trap.
Thus _Winnie_, the thrown-upon-the-world heroine, asked by the family
lawyer how she proposes to gain a livelihood, replies in consecrated
phrase, "I have my needle." "_Let me see it_," says the lawyer. But I
grow pedantic; far more important than the method of this little book
is its gift of seasonable entertainment, for which we need only wipe
our eyes and be grateful.
* * * * *
In _The Royal Artillery War Commemoration Book_ Messrs. G. BELL AND
SONS have produced a noble volume worthy of the great record of the
Royal Regiment. To the energy and enthusiasm of Mrs. AMBROSE DUDLEY is
largely due the collection of the fine material which Major-General
Sir HERBERT UNIACKE has here set out in fair order and proportion.
Personal diaries dealing with various phases of the War on all fronts
or with the daily routine of batteries are here interspersed with
articles and poems of a more purely literary quality and with original
illustrations, largely the work of Gunner-officers and extremely well
reproduced. Among the most notable contributors are Brigadier-General
J. H. MORGAN, Major V. R. BURKHARDT, D.S.O., Major The Master of
BELHAVEN, Captain VICTOR WALROND (the last two killed in action),
Captain GILBERT HOLIDAY, Captain H. ASQUITH, Lieut. ROBERT NICHOLS,
Lieut. GILBERT FRANKAU, Gunner MEARS, the Hon. NEVILLE LYTTON, Mr.
SEPTIMUS POWER, Mr. W. ROTHENSTEIN, Miss LUCY KEMP-WELCH and Mr. C.
CLARK. _Punch_ is represented by several artists, including Captain E.
H. SHEPARD, M.C., and Lieut. WALLIS MILLS (both of the Regiment), who
have contributed some delightful colour-sketches, very faithfully
observed. Many of the poems, too, that appear in the volume have been
reprinted from the pages of _Punch_. There are brief records of
those members of the Regiment who won the V.C., many portraits
of "Representative Artillerymen," and a Roll of Honour of fallen
officers, numbering 3,507. Lack of space alone prevented the inclusion
of the names of the 45,442 Other Ranks who gave their lives for their
country. Every Gunner who does not possess this splendid memorial work
should have it given to him this Christmas by some proud relative or
friend. Like the Regiment, it should go _Ubique_.
* * * * *
When Mr. ROBERT CHAMBERS decides to give his neurotic New York society
women a miss, and exploit his more imaginative and adventurous vein, I
always know that I am in for a late night and an extra large gas
bill. Like the British soldier Mr. CHAMBERS does not carry the word
"impossible" in his vocabulary. Why should he, since he can give the
semblance of reality to the utterly unbelievable? Then one mutters,
"What utter rubbish!" and sends round to the bookseller to enquire if
by any chance there is a sequel coming out. In _The Slayer of
Souls_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) Mr. CHAMBERS is at his best and most
impossible. A race of dreadful magicians, the descendants of the
Old Man of the Mountain, who have been multiplying and acquiring
extraordinary psychic powers in the interior of China for centuries,
come forth to do battle with the United Secret Service for the souls
of men. They have inspired the Hun, and the Bolshevik has been their
tool. Fortunately a beautiful young American girl, who was brought up
in their midst and has learned all their grizzly powers and (as it
seems) a bit more, is on the side of the "forces of law and order."
The struggle is titanic, for these magicians can slay and be slain
corporeally and incorporeally with equal ease. I do not need to tell
you who wins out, but neither will I intimate how it is done. I can
only say that I envy anybody who is fortunate enough to have a long
evening before him and _The Slayer of Souls_ at his elbow, still
unread.
* * * * *
In _Uncle Pierce's Legacy_ (METHUEN) Mrs. DOROTHEA CONYERS gives
us once more all that we have learned to expect of her novels: the
friendly, witty, blundering servants; the hunting society in which
wealth and poverty, breeding and vulgarity, cheerfully rub shoulders;
the descriptions of the wistful beautiful West of Ireland in autumn
and winter; and above all the horses. Added to all this there are Sinn
Fein raids, real and imaginary, to bring things up to date. A rather
unconvincing plot, with a dash of _Great Expectations_ in it, yet
offers a situation which has plenty of amusing possibilities. _Honor_
and _Evie Nutting_, two middle-aged spinsters, find themselves the
possessors of eight thousand a year, on condition that they spend it
all. That sounds, of course, a very pleasant arrangement; but they
have been struggling for years to make ends meet and economy has
become a habit. The end of the first quarter finds them sending
_Harris_, the English manservant, in haste to buy a frying-pan with
the last unspent three shillings and sixpence. That the _Uncle Pierce_
of the title should be really a brother, that characters should change
their names without rhyme or reason from paragraph to paragraph, and
that inverted commas should make their appearance just anywhere--all
this, I think, is the author's clever way of suggesting an atmosphere
of Irish irresponsibility, and it is quite successful. _Uncle Pierce's
Legacy_ is a pleasant tale most pleasantly told, and it is not Mrs.
CONYERS' fault, but her misfortune (and ours), that novels which
describe the lighter side of Irish life, even with the tenderest
humour, are more likely just now to make one sigh than smile.
* * * * *
I do not know whether _The Scar_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) first saw
publication in any of our popular dailies, but from internal evidence
I should be strongly inclined to suspect it. At least Miss RUBY M.
AYRES has written an admirable example of the class of tale, beloved
of our serial public, in which new every morning are the tribulations
of the elect, only to vanish with startling suddenness in the last
days of June or December. For example, _Mark_, the hero, begins as the
misunderstood son of one of those widower-fathers who in such stories
dwell for ever behind the locked doors of studies, leaving in this
instance _Mark_ to be the victim of an aunt whose lack of sympathy
approaches the pantomimic. All the usual results follow, even to the
acquisition by _Mark_ of a faithful hound, which the least experience
of sentimental fiction would have caused any insurance company to
refuse on sight. When therefore _Aunt Midian_, following her appointed
course, effaced this friend-of-man, I confess that my grief was to
some extent tempered by a recognition of the inevitable. Of course,
however, _Mark_ does not remain for long in what I might call these
dog-days of his young affection; love, strong, passionate and not too
slavishly restricted to a single object, soon has his world going
round as fast as the most exacting reader could desire. For the
decorous details of this delirium I need only add that, if you want
them, you know where to go to find them.
* * * * *
Had I been asked to godfather _Smith and the Pharaohs_ (ARROWSMITH) I
should have refused to stand, unless its name was changed to "Barbara
who Came Back," for the tale of _Barbara_ is by far the best in this
book of short stories. It would be boastful--as well as untrue--to say
that I have read all of Sir H. RIDER HAGGARD'S many books, but as far
as my experience of them goes I find a delightfully fresh quality in
this tale. It may be old-fashioned and over-sentimental, but in spite
of these defects it has a very definite charm, and its conclusion
makes a curious and legitimate appeal to the emotions. All the other
stories are well up to standard, and it is amazing that an author who
has written so much still shows no symptoms either of weariness or
vain repetition.
* * * * *
Those who appreciate Miss C. FOX SMITH'S familiarity with the ways and
moods of sailormen and her flair for the true sea-tang will welcome
the new collection of poems which she has brought out under the title,
_Ships and Folks_ (ELKIN MATHEWS). Most of these verses have appeared
in _Punch_, and no further commendation is here needed.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Christmas Card Artist (of the Old School)._ "GOOD
HEAVENS! CAN IT BE POSSIBLE THAT SUCH THINGS _ARE_?"]
* * * * *
Transcriber's notes:
Page 465: Tristan d'Acunha--this spelling also appears in the
next issue of 'Punch'.
Page 478: choregraphic is a valid spelling of choreographic.
(Oxford Dictionary: Cho'regraph etc. See CHOREOGRAPH etc.)