(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
A reflection that I could not resist after reading _Love the Harper_
(SMITH, ELDER) was that the Boy appears in this volume as a very
indifferent performer upon his instrument. For the muddle into which he
plunged the amatory affairs of the inhabitants of Downside was terrible.
Downside was a quiet delightful village, as lovingly described by Miss
ELEANOR G. HAYDEN, but the number of misplaced attachments it contained
seemed, as _Lady Bracknell_ once observed, "in excess of that which
statisticians have laid down for our guidance." There was _John
Harding_, the hero, who began by courting _Phyllis_, and subsequently
transferred his suit to _Ruth_. There was _Will_, his brother, an even
more inconstant lover, whom _Phyllis_ (still nominally betrothed to
_John_) adored at first sight, and who divided his own heart between
_Ruth_, _Phyllis_ and the crippled _Miss Mayling_. There was also _Ruth_
herself, who thought she had a Past (she hadn't, at least it was all
right really; but just in what sense it would be unfair to explain here)
and therefore imagined herself for no man. The story begins with a
wedding on the first page; and what with one thing and another I began
to fear that this was the last consummation we were likely to get. But,
of course, in the end---- But I shall not tell you how the couples
finally re-sort themselves, because this is the author's secret, and one
that she very craftily preserves till the last moment. It is
arithmetically inevitable that there must be an odd woman left over in
the end; but as to her identity I was entirely wrong, and so probably
will you be. This ending is perhaps the best thing--I don't mean the
words in an unkind sense--about a pleasant if not very thrilling story
of a country that Miss HAYDEN evidently knows with the knowledge of
affection.
* * * * *
Perhaps some of those who remember J. BURGON BICKERSTETH captaining the
Oxford soccer team four years ago may be surprised to find him serving
his apprenticeship at sky-piloting in Alberta. And very manfully and
sincerely and tactfully he does it, to judge by the account which he
modestly renders in _The Land of Open Doors_ (WELLS, GARDNER). With
headquarters at Edmonton he rides and drives or swims (when the floods
are out or the bridges down) across this untidy country from shack to
shack, holding odd little services in dormitories and kitchens, and
evidently making friends with the rough pioneer folk, railway men and
small farmers, of his assorted acquaintance. The discouragements of such
a task must be immense; indeed, they peep through the narrative,
reticently enough, for grousing habits are not in the equipment of this
staunch and cheery young parson. His notes of this land of promise and
swift achievement are admirably observed. He has the gift of
characterisation with humour, is clever at reproducing evidently
authentic and entertaining dialogues, and has caught the Western idiom,
not only in these set reproductions, but unconsciously in his own
writing, which is singularly straightforward and attractive, nor
burdened with the sort of cleverness which the young graduate is apt to
air. Neither is there anything of the prig in his composition--his book
abounds in reported words which an earlier generation of clerics would
certainly have censored--but when he is saddened by the indifference,
the unplumbed materialism and what he sees as the wickedness of his
scattered flock he might remember for his comfort that valid and sane
distinction of the casuists between formal and material sin. Anyway,
good luck to him for a sportsman!
* * * * *
I have often wondered why so few novelists select the English Lake
District as a fictional setting. I wonder still more after reading
_Barbara Lynn_ (ARNOLD), in which it is used with fine and telling
effect. Miss EMILY JENKINSON'S previous story showed that she had a rare
sympathy with nature, and a still rarer gift of expressing it. _Barbara
Lynn_ does much to strengthen that impression. It is a mountain tale,
the scene of which is laid in an upland farm, girt about by the mighty
hills and the solitude of the fells. Here, in the dour old house of
Graystones, is played the drama of _Barbara_ and her sister _Lucy_; of
_Peter_, who loved one and married the other; of the feckless _Joel_,
and the old bed-ridden great-grandmother, who is a kind of chorus to it
all. Practically these five are the only characters. Of them it is, of
course, _Barbara_ herself who stands out most prominently, a figure of
an austere yet wistful dignity, of whom any novelist might be proud. I
should hazard a guess that Miss JENKINSON writes slowly; one feels this
in her choice of words and her avoidance (even in the final tragic
catastrophe) of anything approaching sensationalism or melodrama. When
all, is said, however, it is for its descriptions that I shall remember
the book. The hot summer, with the flocks calling in the night for
water; the storm on the slopes of Thundergray; and the end of all things
(which, pardon me, I do not mean to tell)--these are what live in the
reader's mind. _Barbara Lynn_, in short, is an unusually imaginative
novel, which has confirmed me in two previous impressions--first, that
Miss EMILY JENKINSON is a writer upon whom to keep the appreciative eye;
secondly, that Westmorland must be a perfectly beastly country to live
in all the year round. Both of which conclusions are sincere tributes.
* * * * *
I was at school, some years ago, with two brilliant twins called DUFF,
who between them captured, amongst other trifles, the Porson, two
Trinity scholarships, a Fellowship, and first place in the examination
for the Indian Civil Service. I mention them here as an example of the
minute care with which ALISTAIR and HENRIETTA TAYLER have compiled _The
Book of the Duffs_ (CONSTABLE). For I find their names and achievements
duly recorded in the list of (I should think) every male Duff born of
the stock of ADAM OF CLUNYBEG, _temp_ 1590, from, whom the present
Duchess of FIFE is ninth or tenth in descent. And that is only one
branch of the clan, only one of the numerous family-trees that make
these two bulky volumes a perfect forest of Duffs. I know now exactly
how _Macbeth_ felt when he saw Birnam Wood descending on Dunsinane. No
wonder he exclaimed, "The cry is still, _They come_." When I looked at
all these genealogies and lifelike portraits I had an appalling vision
of this great army of Duffs of Clunybeg and Hatton and Fetteresso and
the rest advancing towards me solemnly waving their family-trees. In the
van, with his Dunsinane honours thick upon him, marched
MACDUFF--MACDUFF, you know, who was also "Thane of Fife, created first
Earl, 1057, _m._ Beatrice Banquo." Then followed a long train of other
warriors--General Sir ALEXANDER, who fought in Flanders; Captain GEORGE,
who was killed at Trafalgar; Admiral NORWICH and Admiral ROBERT, also
contemporaries of NELSON; General PATRICK, who slew a tiger in single
combat with a bayonet; General Commander-in-Chief Sir BEAUCHAMP of our
own day--and I was afraid. Not, you understand, of their swords, but of
their trees. And then suddenly the spirit of _Macbeth_ came upon me
again. With him I shouted, "Lay on, Macduff; and damn'd be he that first
cries, _Hold, enough_." But, luckier than he, I have lived to tell the
tale, or rather to tell about it, and to recommend it to all those who
have arborivorous tastes. I can promise them that they will heartily
enjoy a good browse in the Forest of Duff.
* * * * *
When a book is called _The Sea Captain_ (METHUEN) I do not think that
the hero ought to be the driest of dry-bobs for nearly a quarter of it.
If, however, Mr. H. C. BAILEY is a slow starter he knows how to make the
pace when he once gets going; indeed, he travels so fast and so far that
merely to follow him in fancy is a breathless business. When I have told
you that _Diccon_ belonged to the spacious times of ELIZABETH, I need
hardly add that his methods of winning fame and fortune on the sea were
as rough as they were ready. Mercifully he had a steady head and a very
strong back, or something must have given way under the strain that his
creator puts upon him. No hero in modern fiction has jumped so
frequently from the frying-pan into the fire with so little injury to
himself. But if I cannot altogether believe in _Diccon_ I admit an
affection for him. He was as loyal a lover and friend as could be found
in the Elizabethan or any other age, and although he treated troublesome
men without mercy his behaviour to women was marked by the extreme of
propriety; so, though you may insist that he was merely a pirate, I
shall still go on calling him a gentleman-adventurer, and leave him at
that.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR CURIO CRANKS.