Before I began to unweave The Web of Fräulein (Hodder and Stoughton) a dreadful and, as it turned out, an unnecessary fear seized me that Miss Katharine Tynan had written a spy-novel of the present day. Imagine then my relief when I found that the story dates back some thirty or forty years, and that, although Fräulein was really as pestilential a woman as ever became governess to a respectable British family, espionage was not part of her game. With uncanny skill Miss Tynan relates the influence that this flat-footed German woman gained in the Allanson household; but I must protest, in justice to our race, that we have not many families so lacking in enterprise as to allow themselves to be enmeshed in such a web as this. In short I can dislike this German product very cordially but without for a moment understanding the source of the devastating power she had over others. You must not, however, imagine that the web casts a gloom over the whole book, for when Fräulein is not on the scene—and we do have some holidays from her—those Allansons whom she had not marked down could be attractively natural and gay; and the younger Allanson girl is as delightful a portrait as any in Miss Tynan's generous gallery.
I think I never met a writer who splashed language about with a greater recklessness than Miss Marion Hill. I see that one of the reviews of that previous best seller of hers, The Lure of Crooning Water, speaks of its literary charm. Well, there are, of course, many varieties of charm, but "literary" is hardly the epithet that I should myself apply to the undoubted attractions of A Slack Wire (Long). This very bustling story of the marriage between a variety artist and a quiet, not to say somewhat prigsome, young engineer is told for the most part in the purest American, an engaging and vivid medium with which I am but imperfectly acquainted. Further, Miss Hill's command of words seems to be gloriously unhampered by tradition. "It was with a supercargo of relief even heavier than usual that he found it" is a sample that I select at random. No, I certainly do not think that "literary" would be the epithet. But I am far from saying that there is no charm in the tale, of a sort. Not specially original perhaps the situation of the Bohemian wife brought to an ultra-Philistine home; but Miss Hill manages to keep it going briskly enough. And, as I have hinted, you never know what she will say next, or how. The whole thing would make such an admirable film-play that I can hardly believe this idea to have been absent from the intention of its author. The final sensation-scene, in which Violet uses her old wire-walking agility to prevent a catastrophe (never ask me how!), would make a fortune on the screen. Poor Violet, I may tell you, had been born in England, and, on the death of her rightful guardians, was "farmed off to peasants, who boarded her because it would cancel their poor-tax." I feel somehow that if I could grasp this reference it would make much in Violet clear. But so far it eludes me.
If powers of absorption are still left to you for any battles save those of to-day, you will find a vivid account of Flodden in The Crimson Field (Ward, Lock). I won't believe it is Mr. Halliwell Sutcliffe's fault that the fighting scenes of his story left me cold; the blame lies rather with the Hunnish times in which we live. While describing the beauty of the Yorkshire dales and the lives of their inhabitants, Mr. Sutcliffe held me in the hollow of his hand. But when he started to tell of the valiant deeds of the yeoman-hero, Sylvester Demain, who was knighted on the field of battle and won the maiden of high degree, I was released from that bondage. Indeed, I think Mr. Sutcliffe was no more anxious to leave the dales than I was, for, when the march to Flodden begins, his style becomes almost bewilderingly jumpy, so often does he look over his shoulder to see—and let us know—what is happening to those who were left behind. The fight, however, when it does come, is strenuous enough, and in the midst of it King James—German papers please copy—stands out as a pattern of chivalry.
A Dickens Revival.