THE CHANTRY.
Grey dust lies on his battered face;
The glories of his shield are dim;
Half vanished are the words of grace
Beseeching pity and peace for him
Along the Purbeck rim.
His hands are folded palm to palm
(Some fingers lacking on the right),
And at his peakéd feet the calm
Old lion shows he fell in fight,
As best became a knight.
The ivy shakes its tattered leaves
Where once he saw the painted pane;
The brooding, scurrying spider weaves
Where cloth of damask dyed in grain
Will never hang again.
With missal propped upon his helm
For him no drowsy chantor pleads;
But blackbirds in the darkening elm
Sing plain-song, and the Abbey meads
Retell their daisy-beads.
D. M. S.
Lady. "And why did you leave your last situation?"
Prospective Maid. "Well, that's a bit inquisitive, ain't it, Mum? I didn't ask you why your last girl left you.">[
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
I am as a rule very strongly against the form of pedantry that hastens to cry "imitation" whenever a new writer finds himself impelled to a theme of the same character as that already associated with an old-established practitioner. But in the case of The Lost Horizon (Methuen) I find myself overwhelmed. Consciously or unconsciously Mr. G. Colby Borley has produced a story that in matter and treatment is so palpably a reflection of Joseph Conrad that the likeness simply refuses to be ignored. It is in its way a good story enough—an affair of adventure in South America and on the high seas, with a generous sufficiency of oaths and blood-letting; a tale moreover that gives evidence (in spite of that distressing echo) of being written by one who takes his craft with a becoming dignity of purpose. One peculiarity of the Master has not only been borrowed by Mr. Borley, but exaggerated to his own undoing: I mean the trick of introducing a character or group of characters so clogged and obscured by the adhesions of the uncommunicated past that not till this has been gradually flaked from them do they emerge as figures in whom it is possible to take an intelligent interest. In the present instance this process is delayed for more than half the book. As for the intrigue, that concerns a group of cut-throat Europeans, who, having been ruinously involved in a South American revolution, are now further plunged into the plots of a scoundrelly African magnate and his conspiratorial gang. For myself, I parted from them all with a feeling of regret that they had not explained themselves earlier as the entertaining villains that they turned out to be.
Manhood End (Hurst and Blackett) is the title, not very cheery, that Mrs. Henry Dudeney has given to her latest novel, a simple and quite human story of country vicarage life, told sympathetically, but in too many words for so slight a theme. The publishers are at the wholly superfluous pains of urging you as a preliminary to read the "turn-over of cover." Don't! All you will find there is a synopsis of the plot, just sufficient to destroy the slender thread of your interest in its development. And I must record a protest against the entirely unneeded Prologue, in which total strangers sit round at a churchyard picnic on the graves of the real protagonists, and speculate as to their history. The tale itself is placed in Sussex (why this invidious partiality of our novelists?), the actors being for the most part clerical. The main interest is centred in the matrimonial trials of the Rev. Frederick Rainbird, whose bride, having married him in haste, repented at leisure, eloped with the promising brother of a neighbouring parson, repented more, returned to domesticity, ran away again, and so on, da capo. Perhaps really these simple but not short annals have a flavour that I have failed to convey. Mrs. Dudeney writes easily, but should avoid the snares of originality. To say of her heroine's morning appearance at the breakfast table, that she "stood in the tangle of a delicious coffee smell," may convey an impression, but at a ruinous expense of style.
Michael Winter, hero of The Black Knight (Hutchinson), by Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick and Crosbie Garstin, had led a nice easy life till his father's nefarious schemes crashed, bringing down in a common ruin half the small investors in the country. Left penniless, he changes his disgraced name and goes out to Canada to make good. There, on the prairies, he puts in some hard honest work. But, in his haste to be rich, the Black Knight, as they do in chess, after moving straight, moved obliquely. In order to make a coup out of a Wall Street cinch he helped himself to the money of the bank of which he was cashier. Other people who shall be nameless have done this sort of thing before, and, after returning the "borrowed" cash, have enjoyed a stainless prosperity. But Michael, through a motor-car accident, just failed to put it back in time, and had to do two years. But he had made a fortune, and on emerging from prison returned to Europe to enjoy it. There he rescues an innocent English girl from a shady Parisian environment and marries her. By chance she learns the secret of the source of his wealth and leaves him. In order to appease her scruples and recover her he signs away his goods for the benefit of his father's creditors. What might have been a too sugary conclusion is saved by a pleasant touch of corrective irony in the very last line, where his wife expresses a very human satisfaction on finding that her best necklace was not included in the noble sacrifice. I hope I shall not be suspected of flattering Mr. Punch's "Patlander" if I admire the excellence of the Canadian section, obviously contributed by Mr. Crosbie Garstin, who has knocked about most of the world marked red on the maps. Here his humour and vitality are at their keenest. The rest of a well-told tale I attribute to Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick, with the exception of a pugilistic episode, for which I imagine that the male fist was called in to supplement her proper inexperience.
"My dear, I felt I ought never to have taken the holiday. Scarcely had I set foot in my apartments when I was handed a telegram from Sarah:—'Parrot laid an egg. Wire instructions.'"
I do believe that I have caught a detective napping; a real private detective, one of the great infallibles of fiction. Mr. J. S. Fletcher's Exterior to the Evidence (Hodder and Stoughton) is one of those thrills in which any of the characters might have committed the murder and there is every reason, at times, to suspect that they have all had a hand in it. Over the moorland there ran a path, and at a spot known as Black Scar it came perilously near the edge of a forty-foot drop, with rocks at the bottom. Over this precipice went Sir Cheville Stanbury at midnight, a very odd circumstance considering his life-long familiarity with the path. Weathershaw, the great detective called in to investigate the matter on behalf of one of the suspects, took a line of his own and eventually hit upon someone you and I would never have thought of. We have this excuse, that we had no idea of his existence until he was hit upon; but no more had Weathershaw. Now I am not going to give away the secret of this enticing affair, but I must dispute the detective's identification, on the last page but one, of the man responsible for Sir Cheville's death. If you compare the statement of fact on page 301, seven lines from the bottom, which corroborates that on page 279, also seven lines from the bottom, with Weathershaw's dramatic accusation, you will understand what I mean and you will be left in considerable doubt (as I was) of what the author means. Does he suggest that Sir Cheville was never murdered at all? After so much excitement that would be a sad pity.
The publishers of The Amorous Cheat (Chatto and Windus) generously label it "an enthralling story of domestic and stage life." To which my comment must be, that the domesticity supplied by the hero's family and their quite uninteresting hesitations between town and suburban residence are entirely nebulous and illusive, that the stage as background has no significance one way or other, but that the impropriety upon which (I must say frankly) the appeal of the book seems to depend is given without stint, in a measure that certainly may, for some readers, justify the publishers' epithet. You will understand therefore that I experience a little natural hesitation about suggesting the intrigue. It is certainly of the simplest—a mere question as to whether Edward and Vivian, casual acquaintances of a restaurant, shall or shall not spend a sequence of week-ends together. The lady is described as on the stage, but she might as well belong to a guild of art-needlework. Edward is the only question of importance, and the week-ends; if you ponder the significance of the title you can probably guess the rest. To be honest I ought to add that Mr. Basil Creighton wields an easy-flowing pen, and that at least one chapter certainly is wickedly entertaining, in the style of what we used to call "Continental" humour. To sum up, not a novel for family reading or for the fastidious. The others may even be enthralled.
The Diary of a Sportsman Naturalist in India (Lane) contains an excellent collection of sporting anecdotes, and dip where you may you will find none of them trivial or tiresome. Mr. E. P. Stebbing states that his purpose in selecting material from his note-books was "to emphasize the necessity which exists of affording protection to the game and other animals of India," and, shy as some of us are of purposeful books, there is no reason to be scared by this one. In the first place Mr. Stebbing's purpose is one which will generally be commended, and in the second he achieves it in an absolutely unobtrusive manner. To sportsmen, and especially to those who have enjoyed the good fortune of shooting in India, this volume will be extremely welcome. The only cumbrous thing about it is its title. Add that Mr. Stebbing is as profuse in his illustrations as he is happy in his choice of subjects.