(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
To review one of Mr. E.F. BENSON'S social satires always gives me somewhat
the sensations of the reporter at the special sermon--a relieved
consciousness that, being present on business, my own withers may be
supposed professionally unwrung. Otherwise, so exploratory a lash.... I
seldom recall the touch of it more shrewd than in _Queen Lucia_
(HUTCHINSON), an altogether delightful castigation of those persons whom a
false rusticity causes to change a good village into the sham-bucolic home
of crazes, fads and affectation. All this super-cultured life of the
Riseholme community has its centre in _Mrs. Lucas_, the acknowledged queen
of the place (_Lucia_ = wife of _Lucas_, which shows you the character of
her empire in a single touch); the matter of the tale is to tell how her
autocracy was threatened, tottered and recovered. I wish I had space to
quote the description of the _Lucas_ home, "converted" from two genuine
cottages, to which had been added a wing at right-angles, even more
Elizabethan than the original, and a yew-hedge, "brought entire from a
neighbouring farm and transplanted with solid lumps of earth and indignant
snails around its roots." Perhaps, apart from the joy of the setting, you
may find some of the incidents, the faith-healer, the medium and so on, a
trifle obvious for Mr. BENSON. More worthy of him is the central episode--
the arrival as a Riseholme resident of _Olga Bracely_, the operatic star of
international fame. Her talk, her attitude towards the place, and the
subtle contrast suggested by her between the genuine and the pretence, show
Mr. BENSON at his light-comedy best. In short, a charming entertainment, in
speaking of which you will observe I have not once so much as mentioned the
word "Cotswolds."
* * * * *
_Michael Forth_ (CONSTABLE) will doubtless convey a wonderful message to
those of us who are clever enough to grasp its meaning; but I fear that it
will be a disappointment to many admirers of Miss MARY JOHNSTON'S earlier
books. Frankly I confess myself bewildered and unable to follow this
excursion into the region of metaphysics; indeed I felt as if I had fallen
into the hands of a guide whose language I could only dimly and dully
understand. All of which may be almost entirely my fault, so I suggest that
you should sample _Michael_ for yourselves and see what you can make of
him. Miss JOHNSTON shouldered an unnecessarily heavy burden when she
decided to tell the story of her hero in the first person, but in relating
_Michael's_ childhood in his Virginian home she is at her simplest and
best. Afterwards, when _Michael_ became intent on going "deeper and deeper
within," he succeeded so well that he concealed himself from me.
* * * * *
Because I have a warm regard for good short stories and heartily approve
the growing fashion of publishing or republishing them in volume form, I am
the more jealous that the good repute of this practice should be preserved
from damage by association with unworthy material. I'm afraid this is a
somewhat ominous introduction to a notice of _The Eve of Pascua_
(HEINEMANN), in which, to be brutally frank, I found little justification
for even such longevity as modern paper conditions permit. "RICHARD DEHAN"
is admittedly a writer who has deserved well of the public, but none of the
tales in this collection will do anything to add to the debt. The best is
perhaps a very short and quite happily told little jest called "An
Impression," about the emotions of a peasant model on seeing herself as
interpreted by an Impressionist painter. There is also a sufficiently
picturesque piece of Wardour Street medievalism in "The Tribute of the
Kiss," and some original scenery in "The Mother of Turquoise." But beyond
this (though I searched diligently) nothing; indeed worse, since more than
one of the remaining tales, notably "Wanted, a King" and "The End of the
Cotillion," are so preposterous that their inclusion here can only be
attributed to the most cynical indifference.
* * * * *
It may be my Saxon prejudice, but, though most of the ingredients of _Irish
Stew_ (SKEFFINGTON) are in fact Irish, and though Mrs. DOROTHEA CONYERS is
best known as a novelist who delights in traditional Ireland and
traditional horses, I am bound to confess that I enjoyed the adventures of
_Mr. Jones_, trusted employé of _Mosenthals and Co._, better than Mrs.
CONYERS' stage Irishmen. "Our Mr. Jones" is neither a _Sherlock Holmes_ nor
an _Aristide Pujol_, neither a _Father Brown_ nor a _Bob Pretty_, but
nevertheless he is an engaging soul and we could do with more of him. Mrs.
CONYERS' hunting _clientèle_ may much prefer to read about the dishonesties
of _Con Cassidy_ and his fellow-horse-copers and the simple but heroic
_O'Toole_ and his supernatural friends. But, as the average Irish hunting
man cares little more for books than he does for bill-collectors, his
preference may not be of paramount importance. In any case the Irish
ingredients of _Irish Stew_ would be easier to assimilate if Mrs. CONYERS
would refrain from trying to spell English as the Irish speak it. If the
reader knows Ireland it is unnecessary and merely makes reading a task. If
the reader does not know Ireland no amount of phonetic spelling will
reproduce a single one of the multitudinous brogues that fill Erin with
sound and empty it of sense. On the whole Mrs. CONYERS' public will not be
disappointed with her latest sheaf of tales. But it is _Mr. Jones_ who will
give them their money's worth.
* * * * *
I was, I confess, a little sceptical--you know how it is--when I read what
Messrs. HODDER AND STOUGHTON'S official reviewer said of Mr. HAL. G.
EVARTS' _The Cross-Pull_: "The best dog story since The Call of the Wild,"
etc., etc. Well, I certainly haven't seen a better. Mr. EVARTS' hero,
_Flash_, is a noble beast of mixed strain--grey wolf, coyote, dog. The
Cross-Pull is the conflict between the dog and the wolf, between loyalty to
his master and mistress whom he brings together and serves, and the wolf
whose proper business is to be biting elks in the neck. Happier than most
tamed brutes he is involved as chief actor in a round up of some desperate
outlaws, among whom is his chief enemy, and he is fortunate enough to serve
the state while pursuing to a successful end his bitter private quarrel.
Brute _Brent_ gets and deserves the kind of bite which was planned by a
far-seeing providence for the elk.... You can tell when an author really
loves and knows animals or is merely "putting it on." Mr. EVARTS
understands, sentimentalises less than most interpreters; seems to know a
good deal. The story loses no interest from being set in the American
hinterland of a few decades ago. All real animal lovers should get this
book--they should really.
* * * * *
If it be true art, as I rather think someone has said it is, to state what
is obvious in regard to a subject while creating by the manner of the
statement an impression of its subtler features, then Mr. PERCY BROWN, in
writing _Germany in Dissolution_ (MELROSE), has proved himself a true
artist. For in Germany about the time of the Armistice and during the
Spartacist rising certain things happened which got themselves safely into
the newspapers, and these he sets forth, mostly in headline form. Beyond
this Germany was a seething muddle of contradictions and cross-purposes,
which, it is hardly unfair to say, are capably reflected in his pages. Mr.
BROWN is a journalist of the school that does not stick at a trifle, a
German prison, for instance, when his dear public wants news. His crowning
achievement was to persuade Dr. SOLF, when Foreign Minister, to send
through the official wireless an account of an interview with himself,
which would, as he (SOLF) fondly hoped, help to bamboozle British public
opinion. When the article appeared, so well had the author's editor read
between the lines of the message that the journalist had to run for his
life. He was particularly fortunate too, or clever, in getting in touch
with the Kiel sailors who set the revolution going, but in spite of much
excellent material, mostly of the "scoop" interview variety, nothing much
ever seems to come of it all, and we are left at the end about as wise as
we started. All the same, much of the book's detail is interesting, however
little satisfaction it offers as a whole.
* * * * *
_Ann's First Flutter_ (ALLEN AND UNWIN) will not arouse any commotion in
the dovecotes of the intellectually elect, but it provides an amusing
entertainment for those who can appreciate broad and emphatic humour. Mr.
R.A. HAMBLIN has succeeded in what he set out to do, and my only quarrel
with him is that I believe him to have a subtler sense of humour than he
reveals here. _Ann_ was a grocer's daughter, and after her attempt to
flutter for herself had failed she married _Tom Bampfield_, a grocer's son.
_Tom_ had literary ambitions, and was the author of a novel which his
father thought pernicious enough to destroy his custom. Strange however to
relate, the novel failed to destroy anything except the author's future as
a novelist, and when _Tom_ did succeed in making some pen-money it was by
means of a series of funny articles in _The Dry Goods Gazette_--articles so
violently humorous that the author's father thoroughly appreciated them.
Mr. HAMBLIN'S fun, let me add, is never ill-natured. Even bilious grocers
will not resent his jovial invasion of their kingdom.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE PRUDENT LOVER.]
* * * * *
"City gunsmiths have been busy these days furbishing up sportsmen's
rifles for the '12th.'"--_Scotch Paper._
Personally we use a machine-gun.