Chapter 4

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.

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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.

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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.

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If it be true art, as I rather think someone has said it is, to state what is obvious in regard to a subject while creating by the manner of the statement an impression of its subtler features, then Mr. PERCY BROWN, in writing _Germany in Dissolution_ (MELROSE), has proved himself a true artist. For in Germany about the time of the Armistice and during the Spartacist rising certain things happened which got themselves safely into the newspapers, and these he sets forth, mostly in headline form. Beyond this Germany was a seething muddle of contradictions and cross-purposes, which, it is hardly unfair to say, are capably reflected in his pages. Mr. BROWN is a journalist of the school that does not stick at a trifle, a German prison, for instance, when his dear public wants news. His crowning achievement was to persuade Dr. SOLF, when Foreign Minister, to send through the official wireless an account of an interview with himself, which would, as he (SOLF) fondly hoped, help to bamboozle British public opinion. When the article appeared, so well had the author's editor read between the lines of the message that the journalist had to run for his life. He was particularly fortunate too, or clever, in getting in touch with the Kiel sailors who set the revolution going, but in spite of much excellent material, mostly of the "scoop" interview variety, nothing much ever seems to come of it all, and we are left at the end about as wise as we started. All the same, much of the book's detail is interesting, however little satisfaction it offers as a whole.

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_Ann's First Flutter_ (ALLEN AND UNWIN) will not arouse any commotion in the dovecotes of the intellectually elect, but it provides an amusing entertainment for those who can appreciate broad and emphatic humour. Mr. R.A. HAMBLIN has succeeded in what he set out to do, and my only quarrel with him is that I believe him to have a subtler sense of humour than he reveals here. _Ann_ was a grocer's daughter, and after her attempt to flutter for herself had failed she married _Tom Bampfield_, a grocer's son. _Tom_ had literary ambitions, and was the author of a novel which his father thought pernicious enough to destroy his custom. Strange however to relate, the novel failed to destroy anything except the author's future as a novelist, and when _Tom_ did succeed in making some pen-money it was by means of a series of funny articles in _The Dry Goods Gazette_--articles so violently humorous that the author's father thoroughly appreciated them. Mr. HAMBLIN'S fun, let me add, is never ill-natured. Even bilious grocers will not resent his jovial invasion of their kingdom.

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"City gunsmiths have been busy these days furbishing up sportsmen's rifles for the '12th.'"--_Scotch Paper._

Personally we use a machine-gun.