(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
Three numbers of _The South Polar Times_ were brought out at Cape
Evans, the winter quarters of Captain SCOTT, during 1911. Mr. APSLEY
CHERRY-GARRARD, the editor, has now presented them to a wider circle
under the auspices of SMITH, ELDER, hoping that they will prove "a
source of interest and pleasure to the friends of the expedition." He
need have no fears. Of course a paper produced under such conditions
is in its nature esoteric, and many of its jokes are lost if you
"don't know Jimson." But if you have previously read _Scott's Last
Expedition_ then you _will_ "know Jimson"; you will feel that every
man at Cape Evans in 1911 was a personal friend of yours, and you
will be delighted with this facsimile reproduction of the paper which
delighted them. Personally I cannot read or see too much of the men
who are my heroes; and in a world where an ordinary school-girl is
allowed twenty-seven photographs of Mr. LEWIS WALLER I shall not
consider myself surfeited with two caricatures and a humorous
character-sketch of Lieutenant BOWERS. But there are contributions to
_The South Polar Times_ which have an interest other than the merely
personal. Mr. GRIFFITH TAYLOR, a tower of strength on the literary
side, is really funny in _The Bipes_--a paper (on the wingless bipeds
of Cape Evans) supposed to have been read by OATES' escaped rabbit to
the Royal Society of Rabbits. Mr. TAYLOR, as a recorder of history in
_Scott's Last Expedition_, was, I thought, a little too familiar; in
these and other articles he is much more at home. But it is upon
Dr. WILSON's pictures (both serious and comic) that _The South Polar
Times_ can most justly pride itself. I envy Mr. CHERRY-GARRARD so
prolific and brilliant a contributor. Still more I envy him (and all
his colleagues at Cape Evans) the knowledge of such a man. The more I
get to know of "BILL" WILSON, the more I understand that he was of
the very salt of the earth--a man to love whom was indeed a liberal
education, and to be loved by whom was a passport to the little
company of the elect.
***
When _John Barleycorn_ (MILLS AND BOON) came my way, I noticed that
the publishers had shown a reticence, unusual in these days, on the
outside paper cover; they didn't say a word as to the quality or
character of the contents. They had three good reasons: first, given
the name of JACK LONDON, there was no need of further advertisement or
lure; second, if they had started describing the book they would have
been unable to say with strict truth that it was or was not a novel,
for it isn't and it is; third, and best, they couldn't, as honest men,
have avoided mentioning that it is in a way a sermon on alcoholism,
and that, being said, might have acted as a deterrent, unless they
had explained (as they wouldn't have had room to do) how and why, when
they said "sermon," they didn't really mean "sermon." So they lay low
and said nothing, and I almost wish I had done the same, for no one
who has the lightest interest, practical or theoretical, in John
Barleycorn ought to be put off these alcoholic memoirs. The diarist
purports to have been first drunk at the age of five, again at the
age of seven, almost perpetually for a spell of years from the age of
fifteen, and yet to have taken over a quarter of a century to acquire
a liking for alcohol. That sounds odd, but is not unique. Not only
in California and not only in the lower grades of society, is
Youth, vigorous and unspoilt, bound to acquire the taste if it would
foregather on lively and intimate terms with its fellows; and not only
in the saloons of the Oakland water-front are fine youngsters drinking
themselves permanently silly because it is their only way of being men
among men, jolly good fellows among jolly good fellows. A sound enough
text for any sermon; and, I may honestly add, a sound enough sermon
for any text, with a strong smell of the sea and of adventure about
it. But I ask myself for what purpose the photograph of Mr. and Mrs.
JACK LONDON is inserted as a frontispiece? As well, I think, have had
a portrait of Mr. MILLS, with Mr. BOON inset.
***
Isn't _The Youngest World_ (BELL) an engaging title for a book? It
caught my interest at once. I am not altogether sure that the story
itself is as good as its name, but that still leaves a margin of
quality, and I for one have enjoyed it greatly--in patches. Let Mr.
ROBERT DUNN not too hastily condemn me if I say that he has written
a fatiguing tale. Partly I mean this as a high compliment. The
descriptions of hardships borne and physical difficulties overcome by
his hero are so vivid that they convey a sensation of actual bodily
strain in a manner that only one other living writer can equal. There
are chapters in the book that leave one aching all over. So long,
in fact, as Mr. DUNN's characters are content to do things, to climb
mountains, to ford rivers, to endure hunger and cold and weariness, I
am in close bodily sympathy with them; it is when they begin to talk
and to explain their mental states that my keenness is threatened by
another and less pleasing fatigue. It is not that the scope of the
story--a man's regeneration by love and hardship--isn't a good one:
quite the contrary. It is that I simply do not believe that human
beings, especially those that figure in this book, would ever talk
about themselves in this particular way. "In the name of our own
blood," she uttered softly, "of Love, the Future, and Victory...."
That is a random sentence from the last page, and very typical of Mr.
DUNN's dialogue. It is full of gracious qualities, thoughtful, and
throughout on a high literary level, but as a realistic transcription
of frontier talk it leaves me incredulous. Still the setting, I
repeat, is quite wonderful. You shall read the chapters that tell
of _Gail's_ ascent of Mount Lincoln, and see if they don't stir your
blood, especially where he reaches the top, alone (and therefore
unable to talk), and sees the world at his feet. You will exult in
this.
***
Mr. VICTOR BRIDGES has a very versatile pen and in most of the
twenty-one pieces of _Jetsam_ (MILLS AND BOON) which he has recovered
from the waves of monthly magazines and elsewhere there is a certain
amount of material for mirth. I do not however find him a startlingly
original humorist, whether on the river Thames, where he seems to
follow in the wake of Mr. JEROME K. JEROME, or in a Chelsea "pub,"
where his manners are reminiscent of the characters of Messrs. W.
W. JACOBS and MORTON HOWARD. Again, in the story called "The First
Marathon" (where, by the way, he states that "It is true that the word
'Marathon' was first used in connection with the old Olympian games,"
which seems a little unfair to MILTIADES), the fun mainly depends
on the use of such phrases as "Spoo-fer," "King Kod," and the
"Can't-stik-you-shun-all Club." Other stories are of the adventurous
or romantic type sacred to serial fiction, no fewer than three dealing
with escaped convicts on Dartmoor, and one (the first in the book)
describing the chance meeting of a man and a pretty girl on an
uninhabited island off the West Coast of Scotland. Here, for some
reason or other, the man insisted on calling his charming and unknown
companion _Astarte_, a name which, if I had been in her place, I
should have been inclined to resent. But Mr. BRIDGES' dialogue
is nearly always bright, and his knowledge of the machinery of
yarn-spinning excellent. There is just one other point however which
I should like to mention. The book includes a brand-new Russian
wolf-story, in which the heroes protect themselves from the bites of
these ferocious quadrupeds by putting on armour, which they find in
a deserted house. I don't object to that; but, when they leave the
railway line along which they have been travelling and plunge into a
forest-path they come to a place where the route forks and cannot make
out which of the two roads will be more likely to lead them back to
the railway. I do not feel that these men were the sort of people to
be trusted to wander by themselves in a desolate Siberian anecdote.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE CADDIE WHO SAW THE FAIRIES.]
* * * * *
Our New Masters.
_The KING can do no wrong._ Of late
So ran the law; but, when to-day
Kinglike he seeks to serve the State,
Our super-monarchs frown and say:
_The KING can do no right--unless
By leave of half the Liberal Press._
* * * * *
The Light-weight Angler.
"Weighing 6 lbs. 7 oz., Mr. T. Snelgrove caught a golden
carp whilst fishing in the mill pond at Addlestone,
Surrey."--_People._
* * * * *
"He has slept ... nearly 365 days on board the Admiralty
yacht."
This, from a _Daily Mail_ article in praise of WINSTON, is no doubt
meant kindly.
* * * * *
"C. E. Cox begs to announce that he is now prepared to drill
wells, for water, gas, oil, cash or old clothes."_Red Deer
Advocate._
For cash is our choice.
* * * * *