OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
The author of Pantomime (Hutchinson) has placed me in something of a quandary. In an ordinary way, finding a story with this title, in which moreover the chief characters are spoken of as Princess and Principal Boy, and the narrative is broken every now and then by fantastical little dialogues with Fairies, I should have said at once that here was a clever young writer whom a natural admiration for the work of Mr. Dion Clayon Calthrop had betrayed into the sincerest form of flattery. But Mr. (or perhaps Miss) G. B. Stern has disarmed me by an open avowal of discipleship and a dedication of the tale to Mr. Calthrop himself. It is a quite pleasant tale. Personally I may confess to a preference, which I suspect most readers will share, for getting this precise form of whimsical romance from the original firm; but there is more than enough spirit in G. B. Stern's work to persuade me that he or she will one day be worth reading in an individual and unborrowed style. Two things in this story of Nan pleased me especially. One was the chapter relating her experiences at the Dramatic Academy, which is full of life and actuality, and should be read by all middle-aged supporters of that institution who wish to obtain a glimpse of its hard-working and high-spirited heart. The other is the episode of the muddled elopement, in which Nan and Tony, having got as far as Dover on their way to the Higher Liberty, severally——But I don't think I will spoil for you the delightful comedy of what happens at Dover by repeating it. This at least shows G. B. Stern as the owner of a happy gift of humour. Let us have some more of it soon, please, but if possible in a more original setting.
Mrs. Leverson is one of those authors who baffle criticism by sheer high spirits. She gives me first and last a prevailing impression that novel-writing must be tremendous fun; and this is so cheering that it is really impossible to be angry with her. Otherwise I might have some very sharp things to say about her light-hearted disregard of syntax and punctuation. Her pronouns, for example, are so elusive that not only am I frequently in doubt as to whom the heroine will marry in the end but as to which of the characters is speaking at any given moment. And not infrequently what can only be careless proofreading leaves sentences that contradict each other into an effect of nonsense. But just when I should be noting all these subjects for legitimate censure I am probably devouring page after page with giggles of delight for the wit and jollity of them. Bird of Paradise (Grant Richards) is in every respect a worthy companion to its predecessors. There are no very severe problems in this story of a group of Londoners, but plenty of the lightest, most airy dialogue, and some genuine character-drawing, conveyed so deftly that you only detect it afterwards by the way in which the persons remain in your memory. The whole thing, of course, is modern to the last moment; tango-teas and Russian ballets and picture-balls besprinkle the conversation. There is even a passage about a certain famous shop that made me wonder whether the New Advertising, familiar to readers of the afternoon journals had also invaded the realm of fiction. You will observe that I have made no effort to repeat the story; as it contains at least three heroines and five heroes the task would be too complicated. But you can take it on trust as a comedy of want of manners, brilliantly alive, exasperatingly careless, and altogether the greatest fun in the world.
Once upon a time there were two highwaymen, Charlie and Crabb Spring; two men, not highway, Saul Coplestone and John Cole; two marriageable sisters, Sarah and Christina Rowland. The highwaymen, being pestilential and murderous, badly wanted catching; of the two potential heroes, Saul was a stout enough fellow on the surface but a poltroon at bottom, while John, though less terrific in physique, was modest and courageous to a degree. Of the sisters, Sarah had most of the looks and Christina all the merits, so that at the beginning of things both Saul and John were concentrated upon the former, who, being a little fool, preferred Saul, but, being also a little vixen, encouraged both. The brothers Spring appearing Dartmoor way, Sarah promised, in an expansive moment, to marry whichever of her suitors caught them single-handed. This was apparently impossible, but nevertheless one of them did it. Need it be said which? Need it be said which of the two sisters the proved hero ultimately took to wife? No, this is one of those cases in which it is impossible for the reader, with the best intentions in the world, not to prophesy and prophesy accurately. None the less it is worth while to spend time and money on The Master of Merripit (Ward, Lock) for the following adequate reasons. It is from the pen of Mr. Eden Phillpotts; if the conclusions are foregone, the excitement throughout is intense; the local colour and the supernumerary characters are charming as usual, and the scheme by which the villains were entrapped is admirable in design and execution. This learned clerk, for all his expert knowledge of the art of catching highwaymen, neither anticipated it nor, upon the most critical reflection, is able to find a flaw in it.
I was discussing Mr. Gilbert Cannan with a friend, and he said, "I have read many reviews of his books, nearly all of them good reviews, but not one that made me want to read the book itself." Well, I am afraid this one won't make him want to read Old Mole (Martin Secker). The hero, Old Mole, otherwise H. J. Beenham, M.A., had himself written a book, and this is what Mr. Cannan says of it: "The essay was cool and deliberate, broken in its monotony by comical little stabs of malice. The writing was fastidious and competent. Panoukian thought the essay a masterpiece, and there crept a sort of reverence into his attitude towards its author.... Then, to complete his infatuation, he contrasted Old Mole with Harbottle." I am no Panoukian. Mr. Cannan's opinion of Old Mole's book may stand as mine of Mr. Cannan's book. But I can understand the Panoukian attitude; and when I read the Panoukian reviews—referring inevitably to the "damnable cleverness" of Mr. Cannan—then I suspect that they have been contrasting him with the Harbottles of the literary world, the gushers and the pushers and the slushers. After a month of these a fastidious writer may well infatuate a reviewer. For myself, who have not had to wade through Harbottles, I remain unstirred by Old Mole. Not a single character, male or female, moved me to the least interest; they were all cold, dead people, and Mr. Cannan talked over their bodies. Clever talk, certainly—he shall have that adjective again—but when it was over I had a wild mad longing to take to the Harbottle. Even Mr. Hall Caine ... but this is morbid talk.