HUNT STEEPLECHASE.
Voice from the Crowd (to sportsman whose horse has refused the brook). "Now then, guvnor, what yer afraid of?—Spoiling the fishing?"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
Countless readers, fusionists and others, will be glad to have Mr. Harold Spender's sparkling abstract of the more romantic passages in the life of The Prime Minister (Hodder and Stoughton). The first half of the book describes the upbringing and early battles of this man of peace, Rose Cottage at Llanystumdwy with "Uncle Lloyd"—there is a touching picture of the courage, wisdom and unselfishness of this grand old man—the little attorney's office at Portmadoc, squire- and parson-baiting passim, capture of Carnarvon Boroughs, guerilla tactics in the House, suspension, recognition, pacifism, office, original budgeting, Limehousing (very reticently indicated), social reform. Then War and the supreme opportunity for the energy, persuasiveness, adroitness and determination which must extort even from opponents the tribute of admiration. Not a dull page; occasionally an obscure one. None of your cold and calculated criticism for Mr. Spender. Have idols clay feet? Well, not this one, thank you. And it is an attitude which enables him to convey to the reader something of the irresistible personal magnetism of his distinguished friend, and the courage which delights in riding the storm and is at its best in the tight corner (one might suspect the Premier of holding the view that if there were no tight corners it would be necessary to invent them). The summary of the War period is admirably done. The history of events leading to the formation of the second Coalition Government—and the third—is again tactfully presented. It would be unreasonable to suppose that all of Mr. Spender's verdicts and estimates will be unchallenged by historians. But it is unlikely that the Premier will find a more competent hagiographer.
A story that so far violates the conventions as to start with a mother whose moral instability is a worry to her children, and a hero who longs to be a practical builder despite a parental command to follow art—such a tale can at least claim the merit of originality. Mr. J. D. Beresford would be fully justified in claiming this and much more for An Imperfect Mother (Collins). Here is an interesting, fascinating and certainly unusual story, in which only two characters are of any real moment, Cecilia, the imperfect mother, embodiment of the artist temperament, egotistical almost to inhumanity, who abandons her dull husband and boring daughters to "live her own life"; and Stephen, the son, who alone can give her a half-sympathetic, half-resentful understanding. You see already the cleverness of Mr. Beresford's conception. Really, it is just this that works (at least for me) its undoing. His characters are fashioned with the nicest ingenuity; the positions into which he so dextrously manipulates them compel your interest and delighted wonder; but never once do they touch your emotions, and never once can you see them as anything but the creations of a highly talented brain. This is the more strange because Mr. Beresford's people are as a rule so convincingly real. Perhaps to some degree the effect of artifice is due to the author's exclusive preoccupation with his central character. Cecilia's husband, her daughters, the home of her early married life, are shown to us only by the light of her flashing personality; this withdrawn, they simply cease to exist. On the whole, therefore, I should call An Imperfect Mother a highly entertaining example of pure intellect, admirable but uninspired, which for my own part I enjoyed amazingly.