(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)
In the list of heroic young soldier-authors whose gifts the War has
revealed to us only to snatch them away, the name of DONALD HANKEY
already holds an honoured place. It will, therefore, be good news to
the many admirers of _A Student in Arms_ that a further selection of
these heartening and fine-spirited papers has been prepared under the
title of _A Student in Arms--Second Series_ (MELROSE). The thousands
who already know and admire Lieut. HANKEY'S work will need no
introduction to this, which exhibits all the qualities of courage
and sympathy that have given the former book a world-wide popularity.
They, and others, will however welcome the occasion afforded here of
learning something about the life and personality of the writer, which
they will do both from the short preface contributed by one whose
identity is hardly disguised under the initials "H.M.A.H.," and from
a couple of papers, autobiographical, that end the volume. Rugbieans
especially will be interested to read DONALD HANKEY'S recollections of
his school-days, with their tribute to the house-master affectionately
known to so many generations as "Jackey." A book, in short, that will
add to the admiration and regret with which its author is spoken of in
three continents.
* * * * *
_He Looked in My Window_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS), by ROBERT HALIFAX, gives
the adventures of _Ruth Shadd_, decentest of dwellers in a meanish
street, during her determined hunt for a husband. It would have been
easy to make all this unlovely in its frankness, but the author very
skilfully (and, I think, very sincerely) avoids this. _Ruth_ is a fine
girl, with character and candour, those too rare assets, and having
pursued, and found wanting, _Bert_, the swanker, who hasn't the
courage for matrimony; the polite and fatuously prudent _Archie_, and
_Joe_, the vegetarian, who had such exalted faith in malt, she wins
a deserved happiness with someone that she had never even thought of
pursuing. Mr. HALIFAX gives me an impression of almost cinematographic
and gramophonic exactness in his portraiture. _George Shadd_, _Ruth's_
father, who worked in the gasworks and was one of the very best,
delighted me particularly, with his pathetic little garden, his battle
with the slugs and black-fly, and his fine patience with _Mrs. Shadd_,
who put her washing before his fire and her props among his choicest
seedlings--a difficult woman indeed. The author writes with humour and
sympathy; and that is the way to write of this brave if narrow life.
It is the first time I have looked in Mr. HALIFAX'S window. I shall
take steps to do so again. 'Tis a nice clean window.
* * * * *
Not even the most confirmed Gallio can avoid caring for _Arthur
Stanton--A Memoir_, by the Rt. Hon. G.W.E. RUSSELL (LONGMANS), when
he has once dipped his mind into the book. It is the record of a
singularly beautiful and beneficent life, lived to the very utmost in
the service of God and man, and ruled by a simple and direct religion
which constantly forced practice up to the exalted level of precept.
Judged by merely worldly standards of achievement, ARTHUR STANTON'S
life could not be considered a success. He began as curate of St.
Alban's, Holborn, and as curate of St. Alban's he ended after many
years of enthusiastic devotion to humanity. He was foiled and thwarted
by the great ones of the Church, inhibited in one place, suspended in
another, and frequently doomed to find a Bishop or a Chaplain-General
set, like a lion, across his path. But nothing could avail to stop
him where he found a soul that could be saved or misery that could
be relieved. His congregation, drawn from the slums of Holborn, would
have died for him to a man, for they realised with how great an ardour
his life was spent in order that he might help them. His faith was
not a mystery kept apart for special occasions, but a daily and hourly
influence vivifying his words and directing his actions. And no man
could have enjoyed himself more than this true saint and interpreter
of God to man. His religion was not one of gloom and foreboding, but a
cheerful and delightful habit of mind and soul. _Tantum religio potuit
suadere bonorum._ Mr. RUSSELL has done his work with great skill and
perfect sympathy, and has produced a book that does honour to himself
and to the beloved friend whom it is his privilege to commemorate.
* * * * *
The many readers of _Punch_ who took a close interest in ALEC
JOHNSTON'S letters written "At the Back of the Front" and "At the
Front" will be glad to have them in collected form. The memory of his
gallant end--he was killed in action after the brilliant capture of
a salient near Ypres, at the head of his company of Shropshires--is
fresh in all our hearts. A preface to _At the Front_ (CONSTABLE)
contains an appreciation of his high character and soldierly qualities
by his friend and fellow-officer, Captain INGRAM, R.A.M.C., D.S.O.,
M.C., who a few weeks later was himself killed. It is a fine tribute
paid by one true soldier to another. These letters of ALEC JOHNSTON,
as their editor reminds us, "were composed in the brief interludes
snatched from hard fighting and hard fatigues. They never pretended
to be more than the gay and cynical banter of one who brought to the
perils of life at the Front an incurable habit of humour. They are
typical of that brave spirit, essentially English, that makes light of
the worst that fate can send."
* * * * *
It must, I should think, be exceedingly difficult to find a new title
in these days for a volume of reminiscences. Mr. RAYMOND BLATHWAYT
seems to have solved the problem happily enough by calling his
contribution to the rapidly-increasing library of recollections,
_Through Life and Round the World_ (ALLEN). One way and another,
first as a curate (rightly termed by the publishers "rather
unconventional"), later as journalist, Mr. BLATHWAYT has contrived to
use a pair of remarkably open eyes with excellent effect. The result
is this fat volume, whose contents, if honesty constrains me to call
the most of them gossip, are at least generally entertaining and never
ill-natured. Needless to say, Mr. BLATHWAYT, like the elder _Capulet_,
can "tell a tale such as will please." For myself, out of a goodly
store, I should select for first honours a repartee, new to me, of
Sir HERBERT TREE (forgive this dropping into rhyme!). It tells of a
boastful old-time actor, vaunting his triumphs as _Hamlet_, when "the
audience took fifteen minutes leaving the theatre." "_Was ha lame?_"
If our only HERBERT did not in fact make this reply, I can only hope
that he will at once hasten home and do so. But while we are upon Mr.
BLATHWAYT'S dramatic recollections, I must respectfully traverse his
dictum that some of the acting at the local pageants of a few years
back "surpassed the very best I have seen upon the stage." As one who
took a personal part in many of those well-meant revivals, and dates
a relaxed throat from the effort of vociferating history, up-wind,
towards a stand full of ear-straining auditors, I bow but remain
unconvinced.
* * * * *
Although the literary style of Mr. JULIUS M. PRICE, of _The
Illustrated London News_, is too breezy for my taste, I am glad to
have read his _Six Months on the Italian Front_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL).
Possibly he under-estimates our appreciation of Italy's share in the
War's burden, but his account of the conditions prevailing upon the
Italian front, and of the courage and skill with which they have been
overcome, deserves our undiluted approval. It is difficult to believe
that anyone who is not at least a member of the Alpine Club can
dimly realise the engineering feats which the Italian soldiers have
performed. Mr. PRICE has been given many opportunities of observation,
and where none was given to him he has contrived to make them for
himself. And the result is a book full of incident and excitement.
I hope that he will pardon me when I add that my sense of gratitude
would have been greater if, in addition to the photograph of
himself--or even instead of it--he had given us a map. For the rest
his illustrations are excellent.
* * * * *
To MARTIN SWAYNE, officer in the R.A.M.C., on his lawful occasions
or in the intervals of swatting flies _In Mesopotamia_ (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON), there came some thoughts pleasant and bitter, and you can
see that he has selected the pleasant and cut out the others, partly
because of his loyalty and humour, and partly, no doubt, in deference
to the prejudices of censorship. And he writes his selection of
printable remarks in a very agreeable and not undistinguished idiom,
pointing the narrative with reflections sane and sage enough. He
has also made some water-colour notes (here reproduced in colour) of
things seen; not remarkable, but adequate to convey an impression. We
have all lamented the confusions (shall we call them?) of the medical
service, and the trials of our troops in that blessed region entered
through Kurna, the Gate of the Garden of Eden, in the early days of
the Mesopotamian adventure. The author reports a radical improvement,
and if Eden isn't exactly the name you'd give to this pest-ridden
country at least the fighting men are now backed by the devotion and
competence of the healing men, and all goes well for both. To the
bulldog might well be added the retriever as our national emblem. We
are some retrievers.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR MIXED ARMY.
_Refined Ex-Journalist_. "DON'T YOU THINK THAT COOK HAS STRESSED THE
ONIONS A LITTLE IN THE STEW TO-DAY?"]
* * * * *