Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 159, October 27, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 159, October 27, 1920
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[Illustration: _The King._ "LOOK HERE--THIS THRONE WON'T DO; IT IS
IMPOSSIBLE FOR US TO LOOK DIGNIFIED IN IT."
_The Artificer._ "I'M SORRY, YOUR MAJESTY. THERE MUST BE SOME MISTAKE. I
GOT IT IN MY 'EAD THAT YOUR MAJESTY ORDERED A _LOUNGE_ THRONE."]
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Are you a victim to the _Tarzan_ habit? Perhaps your eye may have been
caught by the word on bookstalls as the generic title of an increasing
pile of volumes; but knowing, like myself, that all things explain
themselves in time, you may have been content to leave it at that.
Meanwhile, however, the thing has continued to spread, till on the
wrapper of _Tarzan the Untamed_ (METHUEN), which now at last finds me
out, its publishers are able to number its devotees in millions. Well,
of course the outstanding fact about such popularity is that in face of
it any affectation of superiority becomes simply silly. One has got to
accept this creation of Mr. EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS as among the definite
literary phenomena of our time. In the immediate spasm before me
_Tarzan_ (who is, if you need telling, a kind of horribly exaggerated
_Mowgli_ after a diet of the Food of the Gods) is represented as placing
himself at the disposal of the British forces in East Africa, and
attacking the Germans with man-eating lions. The rather chastening
feature of which was my own unexpected enjoyment of the idea. Even, for
one disconcerting moment, like the persons in the admonitory anecdotes
who taste opium "just for fun," I began to feel that perhaps.... However
it passed, and the temptation has not returned. Meanwhile the real
nature of Tarzanism, whether some sinister possession or simply the
age-long appetite for the monstrous, just now a little out of hand,
remains as far from solution as ever.
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Mr. HORACE BLEACKLEY, whose last excursion into political fiction was a
description of an opera-bouffe Labour Government in action, addresses
himself, in _The Monster_ (HEINEMANN), to a more serious theme. His
monster is the factory system, and if I say that this witty novel will
provide the ignorant and comfortable with instruction as well as
entertainment I hope I shan't have done him any harm. The author, while
making his points against the system, notes truly enough that the risen
ranker, the one who had been through the dreadful mill, with its
ninety-hour working week for children, became the hardest master during
that wonderful period of the Manchesterising of England which laid the
train for the explosions of our present discontents. He reminds us also
of that admirable speech, made about every ten years for the last
hundred or so in the House with the same fervour and conviction, to the
effect that any change in conditions or wages would surely mean the
complete ruin of the country. A comforting speech, that! Perhaps Mr.
BLEACKLEY, presenting three generations from Peterloo to the Jubilee of
QUEEN VICTORIA, covers too much ground for full effect, but he has
pleasantly gilded a wholesome pill for pleasant people. Good luck to
him.
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I did not take the publishers' statement that _Pengard Awake_ (METHUEN)
was "entirely unlike Mr. STRAUS'S previous stories" as a recommendation,
however alluring it was intended to be, for he has good and enjoyable
work to his credit. I doubt, indeed, if he has yet written a book more
acceptable to the novel-reading public than this tale of "action,
mystery and wonderful adventures" (again I quote from the paper
wrapper). Possibly in a so-called mystery book the author ought to have
his readers guessing all the time, but if I was not perpetually engaged
in this rather exhausting pursuit I was, at any rate, intrigued.
_Pengard_, who is also _Sylvester_, and yet is neither the one nor the
other, may be too much for your saner moments of credulity. But Mr.
STRAUS tells his queer story so plausibly and with so light a touch that
even though you may affect to scoff at his dashing improbabilities you
cannot escape their attraction. Indeed Mr. STRAUS'S adventure into
fields hitherto strange to him has been so successful that I am inclined
to ask him to continue cultivating them.
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Life's Little Contradictions.
"Now mind, you know, if I kill you it's nothing, but if you kill me, by
Jingo, it's murder." This remark was put by JOHN LEECH into the lips of
a small Special Constable, represented as menacing a gigantic ruffian,
and was not, as you might think, addressed by a Sinn Feiner to a member
of the Royal Irish Constabulary.
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Messrs. W. H. Smith & Son.
Mr. Punch wishes to offer the most sincere congratulations to his old
friends on the occasion of the centenary of their firm.