Second ditto. "DUNNO; FANCY IT'S SOMEBODY'S RAG."
First ditto. "SHOULDN'T ONE SAY 'CHEERIO' TO THE BLIGHTER?"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
The Chartered Adventurer (SKEFFINGTON) is what AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE rather pleasantly call their latest hero, Terence O'Flaherty, impecunious gentleman of fortune, lover and general exponent of the picturesque arts of romance. In a special sense indeed, since you have him not only adventuring for fame and fortune, but, as a by-product, turning his exploits into material for a worked-out early-Victorian novelist, whose "ghost" he had, in a more than usually impecunious moment, consented to become. I found this same unfortunate author, gravelled for lack of sensational matter, at once the most entertaining and original figure in the book, whose course is, to tell the truth, marked otherwise by no very conspicuous freshness. The particular adventure to which O'Flaherty and his companion, Lord Marlowe, are here devoted, is concerned with the intrigues of Madame la duchesse DE BERRI on behalf of her son, as de jure King of France, under the title of Charles X. They provide an environment singularly apt for such affairs; the "wild venture" and the abortive, forgotten rising in which it culminated give colour to a multitude of dashing exploits. In themselves, however, these follow what might be called common form, showing the two young men exposed to a sufficiency of danger and exhibiting that blend of folly and gallantry expected of their situation. As to the former quality, when, I wonder, will the heroes of romantic fiction learn that the "pretty youth," with flashing eyes contradicted by a manner of singular modesty, is really—well, what common folk could have known her for in the first glance? To sum up, I should call The Chartered Adventurer admirable for almost anyone else's writing, but just a little below the best Castilian standard.
The Pagan (METHUEN) certainly deserves to be called one of the uncommon stories. Whether it will be a popular success is of course a different matter. At least it confirms my previous suspicion, that Mr. CHARLES INGE is a novelist who takes his art seriously and is not afraid of originality. The moral of his tale, which perhaps hardly needs much enforcing to-day, is—don't be too much impressed with the idea of the superman, and especially don't try to go one better. That was the attempt that broke up the happy home where John Witherson had lived with his wife, his infant son and his mother and sister-in-law (too many; but that is beside the point). John had been a schoolmaster, old style, teaching in the ancient faiths, muscular Christianity, play-the-game, sportsmanship and the rest. But about half-way through the War the apparent invincibility of brutal force began to rattle John's nerves. It rattled them so much that he eventually sold his school, moved his household, including the in-laws, to Suburbia, and set up, in partnership with two others of like mind, as instructor of youth, after the jungle law of ruthless efficiency. Not content with this, he proposed also to turn the infant Witherson into a prospective superman by giving him toy-tigers and brief lectures on the rewards of frightfulness. Whereat the mother, finding her protests disregarded, dried her eyes and set herself to fill the poor child's infrequent leisure with anti-toxin injections of the higher morality as conveyed in the poetry of TENNYSON. You now take my meaning when I speak of Mr. INGE as sufficiently single-minded to brave some danger of unintentional humour. Really my sketch has done less than justice to a story that will hold your interest, if only for the sincerity with which it is handled; for myself I was first impatient, then derisive, finally curious to know how it was going to end. I rather think this sounds like a victory for Mr. INGE.
It will add a new terror to the Peace if everybody who has done A Year of Public Life (CONSTABLE) in or about Whitehall is to make a book about it. Not that Mrs. C.S. PEEL does not deserve well of her country. She is evidently a capable person and hustled about the country for the Ministry of Food to some purpose before the days of compulsory rationing. Her general idea seems to be that simple folk are tremendously interested in the most trivial and indirect details of important folk. So she will tell you how Sir HENRY REW and Mr. ULICK WINTOUR were fond of tea (Sir HENRY liked a bun as well); how Mr. KENNEDY JONES once lent her his car; how Lord DEVONPORT, asked if biscuits were included in the voluntary cereal ration, said firmly, "Yes, they are"; how the chauffeur suddenly put on the brake and she bumped into "poor M. FAIDIDES"; how she "visited Bath twice and bought a guide-book," information from which she retails; how secretaries of Ministers came out to say that Ministers would see her in a few moments; and how, beyond and above all, the QUEEN, when she inspected Westminster Bridge kitchen, asked of a certain substance, "What's that?" and Princess MARY at once replied, "Maize" (just like that). This kind of anecdote, by the way, which our long-suffering Royal Family has to endure in the Press might very well be made actionable under a new lèse-majesté law. There are better things than this in the book, but on balance I don't really think it establishes a fair case for existence. The most interesting thing in it is a detailed account of the canteen systems at the Renault and Citroën works near Paris.