I see that one of Mr. Jeffrey Farnol's tales is advertised by his publishers as the sweetest story ever told; no doubt, however, this criticism was penned before they had read his latest, The Chronicles of the Imp (Sampson Low), which must otherwise have made a bold bid for the superlative. Whether sweetest stories appeal to you or not is of course a matter of constitution. For myself I can only regretfully confess to a habit somewhat too gouty for their assimilation. The fact is that Mr. Farnol's world affects me as adulation did the Duke in Patience. Here, in the present book, you shall find it in full luxuriance. It is a world where it is always afternoon, and mostly midsummer; where never wind blows loudly; where attractive heroines wander through landscapes as comfortably picturesque as those that hang in pairs upon the walls of lodging-houses; where, above all, infant phenomena are constructed with engaging lisps and a passion for unconscious match-making that inevitably lands the heroine in the hero's arms at the last chapter. I find that without intending it I have told you all about The Chronicles of the Imp. I do not know that we need go much further into detail. Lisbeth was the heroine and Uncle Dick was the hero, and almost the last illustration (very pleasant these illustrations) depicts the heroine reassuring the hero, who with incredible simplicity had imagined that she was going to marry somebody else. As if there had been the remotest chance of such an ending! Well, well, Mr. Farnol counts his public by the tens of thousands. He has even achieved the high guerdon of "an appreciation of the author and his work by Clement K. Shorter," printed here as a preface, and read by me with the sympathetic interest that a tale of hardships overcome must always command. It made me glad that a book which I personally could not like was so certain of its success.
Miss Winifred Holt in an introduction to her life of Henry Fawcett, A Beacon for the Blind (Constable), is careful to tell us that her book has no pretensions; but, as in many ways—and those the most essential—she is an admirable biographer, no such disclaimer was needed. Without undue insistence upon the gallant spirit of the man who refused to accept blindness as a fatal impediment to his life's work, she leaves us with a picture of a very real hero. Uncompromising honesty of purpose, intense sympathy with the afflicted and oppressed, and a never-failing courage were the qualities that won for Fawcett not only the love of his personal friends, but also the respect and admiration of those political opponents to whom some of his advanced ideas were extremely distasteful. Miss Holt's work—a labour of love—appears at a moment when help and sympathy are sorely needed for those who have lost their sight while fighting for their country, and I can imagine no book that should bring to them a more heartening message of hope and comfort.
The Sword of Youth (Macmillan), the story of a young recruit in the Confederate Army of the war of North and South, is dedicated by James Lane Allen to "the Soldier-youth of England." Joseph Sumner goes to the war to follow a father and four brothers, all dead on those terrible fratricidal fields. He takes the call of duty in a great-hearted way; faces staunchly the ordeal of parting from his beloved and from the mother who refuses her consent and blessing to his enterprise, and sends him forth with bitter words. Then, coming near death in loneliness, she sends for him to ask his forgiveness. And on the eve of battle, tragically conscious of the shame of his desertion, he leaves his comrades only to arrive too late, makes his way back again to the army, and has his pardon from Lee himself on that fateful evening before the Appomattox surrender. It is Mr. Allen's method to take but a few incidents, to embroider them delicately, and to inspire the whole with that passionate love of his dear Kentucky which colours all his work. The Sword of Youth has these good qualities, along with a simple and romantic idealism particularly refreshing in this day of the ultra-realists.
A considerable chastening awaited me when I held a roll-call of "Katherine Tynan's" books and discovered that of the splendid muster standing to her credit some sixty-three were still unread. No excuse can cover such a colossal omission; but were I compelled to offer a timid explanation it would be that Mrs. Hinkson writes rather for women than for men, and as evidence of this I should bring forward The House of the Foxes (Smith, Elder). In a sense nothing could be more attractive than the tale of the curse hanging over the house of Turloughmore and of the way in which it is removed by the sweetest of delightful maidens. If you can enjoy a simple Irish story in which the course of true love is but little disturbed, here is your book; but if your pleasure is in problems and psychology I advise you to seek it elsewhere. Small beer, perhaps, but nevertheless so excellently wholesome that it possesses almost a tonic quality.
AN OMEN OF 1908.
Reproduced from "Christmas Cards for Celebrities" in Mr. Punch's Almanack of that year.
The records achieved by the Lusitania had recently cheated a jealousy which the Kaiser and his friend, Ballin, of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, have now appeased.
Vive L'Entente Cordiale.
The following Notice has been placed in the window of a Hairdresser's shop in Manchester:—
"MAISON FRANÇAISE late Watzlaffs. In order to avoid misconception the Proprietor who is an ENGLISHMAN has decided to alter the name of this Establishment to MAISON FRANÇAISE."
He (political). I see some of the papers are talking of a Coalition Ministry.
She (practical). A Coal-and-Ammunition Ministry would be more use to us.
"The German journalist finally condemned the sinking of the Lusitania in a sentence which deserves to pass into history. 'It is worse than a crime—it is a blunder.'"—Liverpool Daily Post.
History had already anticipated this brilliant mot.
Advice to certain highly-placed aliens:—
"Pull up your socks, now that you've lost your Garters."
