_(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_
_The Chartered Adventurer_ (SKEFFINGTON) is what AGNES and EGERTON
CASTLE rather pleasantly call their latest hero, _Terence O'Flaherty_,
impecunious gentleman of fortune, lover and general exponent of the
picturesque arts of romance. In a special sense indeed, since you have
him not only adventuring for fame and fortune, but, as a by-product,
turning his exploits into material for a worked-out early-Victorian
novelist, whose "ghost" he had, in a more than usually impecunious
moment, consented to become. I found this same unfortunate
author, gravelled for lack of sensational matter, at once the most
entertaining and original figure in the book, whose course is, to
tell the truth, marked otherwise by no very conspicuous freshness. The
particular adventure to which _O'Flaherty_ and his companion, _Lord
Marlowe_, are here devoted, is concerned with the intrigues of Madame
la duchesse DE BERRI on behalf of her son, as _de jure_ King of
France, under the title of Charles X. They provide an environment
singularly apt for such affairs; the "wild venture" and the abortive,
forgotten rising in which it culminated give colour to a multitude of
dashing exploits. In themselves, however, these follow what might be
called common form, showing the two young men exposed to a sufficiency
of danger and exhibiting that blend of folly and gallantry expected
of their situation. As to the former quality, when, I wonder, will
the heroes of romantic fiction learn that the "pretty youth," with
flashing eyes contradicted by a manner of singular modesty, is
really--well, what common folk could have known her for in the first
glance? To sum up, I should call _The Chartered Adventurer_ admirable
for almost anyone else's writing, but just a little below the best
Castilian standard.
* * * * *
_The Pagan_ (METHUEN) certainly deserves to be called one of the
uncommon stories. Whether it will be a popular success is of course a
different matter. At least it confirms my previous suspicion, that
Mr. CHARLES INGE is a novelist who takes his art seriously and is not
afraid of originality. The moral of his tale, which perhaps hardly
needs much enforcing to-day, is--don't be too much impressed with the
idea of the superman, and especially don't try to go one better. That
was the attempt that broke up the happy home where _John Witherson_
had lived with his wife, his infant son and his mother and
sister-in-law (too many; but that is beside the point). _John_ had
been a schoolmaster, old style, teaching in the ancient faiths,
muscular Christianity, play-the-game, sportsmanship and the rest. But
about half-way through the War the apparent invincibility of brutal
force began to rattle _John's_ nerves. It rattled them so much that
he eventually sold his school, moved his household, including the
in-laws, to Suburbia, and set up, in partnership with two others of
like mind, as instructor of youth, after the jungle law of ruthless
efficiency. Not content with this, he proposed also to turn the infant
_Witherson_ into a prospective superman by giving him toy-tigers and
brief lectures on the rewards of frightfulness. Whereat the mother,
finding her protests disregarded, dried her eyes and set herself to
fill the poor child's infrequent leisure with anti-toxin injections
of the higher morality as conveyed in the poetry of TENNYSON. You now
take my meaning when I speak of Mr. INGE as sufficiently single-minded
to brave some danger of unintentional humour. Really my sketch has
done less than justice to a story that will hold your interest, if
only for the sincerity with which it is handled; for myself I was
first impatient, then derisive, finally curious to know how it was
going to end. I rather think this sounds like a victory for Mr. INGE.
* * * * *
It will add a new terror to the Peace if everybody who has done _A
Year of Public Life_ (CONSTABLE) in or about Whitehall is to make a
book about it. Not that Mrs. C.S. PEEL does not deserve well of her
country. She is evidently a capable person and hustled about the
country for the Ministry of Food to some purpose before the days of
compulsory rationing. Her general idea seems to be that simple folk
are tremendously interested in the most trivial and indirect details
of important folk. So she will tell you how Sir HENRY REW and Mr.
ULICK WINTOUR were fond of tea (Sir HENRY liked a bun as well); how
Mr. KENNEDY JONES once lent her his car; how Lord DEVONPORT, asked if
biscuits were included in the voluntary cereal ration, said firmly,
"Yes, they are"; how the chauffeur suddenly put on the brake and she
bumped into "poor M. FAIDIDES"; how she "visited Bath twice and bought
a guide-book," information from which she retails; how secretaries
of Ministers came out to say that Ministers would see her in a few
moments; and how, beyond and above all, the QUEEN, when she inspected
Westminster Bridge kitchen, asked of a certain substance, "What's
that?" and Princess MARY at once replied, "Maize" (just like that).
This kind of anecdote, by the way, which our long-suffering Royal
Family has to endure in the Press might very well be made actionable
under a new _lèse-majesté_ law. There are better things than this in
the book, but on balance I don't really think it establishes a fair
case for existence. The most interesting thing in it is a detailed
account of the canteen systems at the Renault and Citroën works near
Paris.
* * * * *
There is a great falling off in quality as between _The Pointing
Man_ and the anonymous authoress's latest effort, _The Man Who Tried
Everything_ (HUTCHINSON), a fact which may be partly accounted for
by the brief time elapsing between its appearance and that of its
immediate forerunner, _The Man from Trinidad_. Her new book is a war
spy story--an exacting form of fiction in any event--and deals with
German revolutionary machinations in the Orient. It fails because
it moves too rapidly and covers far too much ground. The writer has
neither the gift nor the general information necessary for this class
of adventurous fiction. Her genius lies in her power of reproducing
the atmosphere of crime and intrigue; but her Orient and her Orientals
seem to have lost their hold on the reader's imagination. And I
venture to remind her that it is fatal in this kind of story to
replace known facts by unnecessary fiction; for example, to speak, as
she does, of a German warship in the Indian Ocean as the _Blücher_,
when all the world knows that that particular vessel was elsewhere.
It will be easily understood that she gives us a hero who wins his
heart's desire, and numerous plotters of various nationalities who are
all safely foiled, the entire romance being conducted with a ladylike
absence of the bloodshed that usually accompanies this class of
fiction. That is its best recommendation.
* * * * *
The fact that _The Pearl_ (BLACKWELL) is described in its sub-title as
"A Story of School and Oxford Life," may perhaps somewhat mislead you.
Let me therefore hasten to explain that the school is for girls, and
the Oxford life is that enjoyed by wearers of whatever may be the
modern substitute for skirts. Not too immediately modern indeed, as
the events fall within the period of the South African war, a fact
that will, of course, much increase their appeal for those whose
Oxford memories belong to the same epoch. But it is naturally a book
difficult for the male reviewer to appraise with exactitude. All I
can say, being unconversant with the domestic politics of a ladies'
college, is that I should imagine Miss WINIFRED TAYLOR to have given a
remarkably true picture of existence therein; its mixture of academic
ambition, sentiment, religious fervour and party spirit seems (as was
to be expected) pretty much as we knew it in the masculine camp. The
chief point of difference appears to be that Miss TAYLOR'S heroine,
_Janet_, and her friends (all pleasantly individual) are naturally
thrown a good deal more upon themselves than is the case with their
more fortunate brothers. I have no doubt of the book's success.
Girl-graduates, past, present and to come, will of course buy it;
while in that other Oxford, now so happily re-awakening, I can fancy
it being read with all the curiosity that naturally attaches to
revelations of the unknown land.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Urchin (contemptuously)_ "HUH! YER MOTHER TAKES IN
WASHIN'!"
_Neighbour_. "WELL, YER DIDN'T S'POSE SHE'D LEAVE IT HANGIN' AHT
OVERNIGHT UNLESS YOUR FARVER WAS IN PRISON, DID YER?"]
* * * * *