(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
To review one of Mr. E.F. Benson's social satires always gives me somewhat the sensations of the reporter at the special sermon—a relieved consciousness that, being present on business, my own withers may be supposed professionally unwrung. Otherwise, so exploratory a lash.... I seldom recall the touch of it more shrewd than in Queen Lucia (Hutchinson), an altogether delightful castigation of those persons whom a false rusticity causes to change a good village into the sham-bucolic home of crazes, fads and affectation. All this super-cultured life of the Riseholme community has its centre in Mrs. Lucas, the acknowledged queen of the place (Lucia = wife of Lucas, which shows you the character of her empire in a single touch); the matter of the tale is to tell how her autocracy was threatened, tottered and recovered. I wish I had space to quote the description of the Lucas home, "converted" from two genuine cottages, to which had been added a wing at right-angles, even more Elizabethan than the original, and a yew-hedge, "brought entire from a neighbouring farm and transplanted with solid lumps of earth and indignant snails around its roots." Perhaps, apart from the joy of the setting, you may find some of the incidents, the faith-healer, the medium and so on, a trifle obvious for Mr. Benson. More worthy of him is the central episode—the arrival as a Riseholme resident of Olga Bracely, the operatic star of international fame. Her talk, her attitude towards the place, and the subtle contrast suggested by her between the genuine and the pretence, show Mr. Benson at his light-comedy best. In short, a charming entertainment, in speaking of which you will observe I have not once so much as mentioned the word "Cotswolds."
Michael Forth (Constable) will doubtless convey a wonderful message to those of us who are clever enough to grasp its meaning; but I fear that it will be a disappointment to many admirers of Miss Mary Johnston's earlier books. Frankly I confess myself bewildered and unable to follow this excursion into the region of metaphysics; indeed I felt as if I had fallen into the hands of a guide whose language I could only dimly and dully understand. All of which may be almost entirely my fault, so I suggest that you should sample Michael for yourselves and see what you can make of him. Miss Johnston shouldered an unnecessarily heavy burden when she decided to tell the story of her hero in the first person, but in relating Michael's childhood in his Virginian home she is at her simplest and best. Afterwards, when Michael became intent on going "deeper and deeper within," he succeeded so well that he concealed himself from me.
Because I have a warm regard for good short stories and heartily approve the growing fashion of publishing or republishing them in volume form, I am the more jealous that the good repute of this practice should be preserved from damage by association with unworthy material. I'm afraid this is a somewhat ominous introduction to a notice of The Eve of Pascua (Heinemann), in which, to be brutally frank, I found little justification for even such longevity as modern paper conditions permit. "Richard Dehan" is admittedly a writer who has deserved well of the public, but none of the tales in this collection will do anything to add to the debt. The best is perhaps a very short and quite happily told little jest called "An Impression," about the emotions of a peasant model on seeing herself as interpreted by an Impressionist painter. There is also a sufficiently picturesque piece of Wardour Street medievalism in "The Tribute of the Kiss," and some original scenery in "The Mother of Turquoise." But beyond this (though I searched diligently) nothing; indeed worse, since more than one of the remaining tales, notably "Wanted, a King" and "The End of the Cotillion," are so preposterous that their inclusion here can only be attributed to the most cynical indifference.
It may be my Saxon prejudice, but, though most of the ingredients of Irish Stew (Skeffington) are in fact Irish, and though Mrs. Dorothea Conyers is best known as a novelist who delights in traditional Ireland and traditional horses, I am bound to confess that I enjoyed the adventures of Mr. Jones, trusted employé of Mosenthals and Co., better than Mrs. Conyers' stage Irishmen. "Our Mr. Jones" is neither a Sherlock Holmes nor an Aristide Pujol, neither a Father Brown nor a Bob Pretty, but nevertheless he is an engaging soul and we could do with more of him. Mrs. Conyers' hunting clientèle may much prefer to read about the dishonesties of Con Cassidy and his fellow-horse-copers and the simple but heroic O'Toole and his supernatural friends. But, as the average Irish hunting man cares little more for books than he does for bill-collectors, his preference may not be of paramount importance. In any case the Irish ingredients of Irish Stew would be easier to assimilate if Mrs. Conyers would refrain from trying to spell English as the Irish speak it. If the reader knows Ireland it is unnecessary and merely makes reading a task. If the reader does not know Ireland no amount of phonetic spelling will reproduce a single one of the multitudinous brogues that fill Erin with sound and empty it of sense. On the whole Mrs. Conyers' public will not be disappointed with her latest sheaf of tales. But it is Mr. Jones who will give them their money's worth.
I was, I confess, a little sceptical—you know how it is—when I read what Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton's official reviewer said of Mr. Hal. G. Evarts' The Cross-Pull: "The best dog story since The Call of the Wild," etc., etc. Well, I certainly haven't seen a better. Mr. Evarts' hero, Flash, is a noble beast of mixed strain—grey wolf, coyote, dog. The Cross-Pull is the conflict between the dog and the wolf, between loyalty to his master and mistress whom he brings together and serves, and the wolf whose proper business is to be biting elks in the neck. Happier than most tamed brutes he is involved as chief actor in a round up of some desperate outlaws, among whom is his chief enemy, and he is fortunate enough to serve the state while pursuing to a successful end his bitter private quarrel. Brute Brent gets and deserves the kind of bite which was planned by a far-seeing providence for the elk.... You can tell when an author really loves and knows animals or is merely "putting it on." Mr. Evarts understands, sentimentalises less than most interpreters; seems to know a good deal. The story loses no interest from being set in the American hinterland of a few decades ago. All real animal lovers should get this book—they should really.