NOVELS.
SALTED ALMONDS.*
ANSTEY'S new book furnishes very welcome evidence that after twenty-five years spent largely in providing the public with food for honest mirth—Vice Versa' appeared in 1882—his sense of fun is as keen, his touch as light, and his outlook as kindly as ever. Many of the sketches contained in this volume have already appeared in the pages of Punch, but there is hardly one of these which does not merely bear, but gain by, re-reading. Which is only another way of saying that Mr. Anstey is an artist as well as a humourist. In no way is this excellence of his more clearly shown than in his handling of dialogue, where he strikes the mean between the slipshod inarticulateness of spoken speech and the unnatural precision of book talk with unerring aim. He realises, in other words, that to appeal to the reader you must be neither
a phonograph nor a prig.
Salted Almonds—the title needed no justification, but it is happily vindicated in a graceful preface—shows Mr. Anstey in various moods, never playing on our heartstrings, it is true, but saying many a true thing in jest. Bret Harts quotes a Chinese proverb to the effect that " inattention is often the highest form of civility," and one could not wish for a better set of humorous variations on that theme than those given in the sketch entitled " Lunch among the Ruins." Three groups —a girls' school, a set of "smart," vulgar motorists, and a party of high-spirited Cockneys—are brought together at close quarters, and the self-revealing quality of their talk in each case is beyond praise, Mr. Anstey passing from one to another with the ease of a Cinquevalli. We cannot resist quoting the passage which follows immediately on the entrance of the motorists :-
" Miss M. (in an undertone to Mademoiselle). Nouveaux riches —tres-mauvais tong—un exemple detressant de in luxe modern ! (To the Pupils) In such surroundings, my dears, we should endeavour—without, Cecilia, allowing our attention to be dis- tracted by what is no concern of ours !—to call up a mental picture of this place as it was in the days of old. Try to fancy
• Salted Almonds. By F. Anstey. London: Smith, Elder, and Co. [6s.]
these ancient walls all hung with costly arras (or tapestry), those. gaping window-frames glowing with painted glass, this courtyard full of men-at-arms and pages in rich liveries—(The Pupils stop. munching, and allow their mouths to fall slightly apart under the mental strain ; the bell jangles once more)—while through the archway, returning, perhaps, from some raiding or hawking expedi- tion, there enters a gay and rollicking party. (Here a Tripper in gorgeous raiment snakes an impressive entrance, attended by his ' young lady,' also in festal attire, an elderly couple in more sombre garb, and a sheepish youth with a billycock on the back of his head). I am wholly at a loss to imagine, Emmeline Tittensor, what I can have said to provoke such immoderate and unladylike mirth !
TRIPPER (an inveterate farceur, to whom. medieval diction of the Wardour Street order seems to have suggested itself as the most appropriate medium for his facetiousness). A 'arty welcome, fair Uncle Josh, to thee and all thy kin ! Would that me ancesteral 'alls were worthier to receive ye! But the 'Ouse of 'Enery Urch 'as come down in the world, and so 'tis many a long year since we last 'ad the old place prop'ly done up ! (His party endeavour to repress this exuberance by exhorting him to ' beyave and not go acting the goat with comp'ny present;' Mr. HENRY URCH, however, observing an audience, is unable to resist playing up to it, and on the Custodian's appearance, strikes an attitude of melodramatic recognition.) But 'oom do I beyold ? Is it—kin it be the fythful retyner of me noble famuly—dear ole Dame Marj'ry, with 'oom, when I was but a che-ild and she still a sorcy centinarian, I used to ply at 'orses in the Harmry ? Dost thou reckonise thy young Master, Dame ? (The Custodian, with an expression of patient disgust, applies for the entrance fees.) 'Ast thou the nerve to demand a tester from the last of 'is rice when 'e cometh to drop a tear on the 'ome of 'is boy'ood? . . . Thou 'ast? Well, well—'ere is a broad 'alf bull ter pay thy charges. I bring dis- tinguished guests—(introducing his companions, whose resentment is only restrained by the fact that he is paying all expenses)—Herl and Countess Odlum, the Lady Loney Ekins—me intended bride —and 'er brother, the Lord 'Erb. We 'aye come from far and are a'nungered. 'Ast thou a cold boar's 'ed in cut, good Dame ?
COST. Don't you go a-good-damin' me. If it's refreshermints you want, you must put up with rock-cakes."
In "At a Moment's Notice" we have one of those ingenious studies of changed identities in which Mr. Anstey excels,— in this case the transformation is that of a vacuous young dandy into an organ-grinder's monkey. But the sketch is much more than a mere exercise of fantastic imagination, the grotesqueness of the situations being enhanced by delicate touches of social satire,—as, for example, the inimitable con- fession on the part of the narrator that he might have stuck to Volunteering " if they'd only let me take my poodle into camp with me." Social satire—none the less effective for its gentleness—is the motive of the duologue "As the Twig is Bent," in which a fond father ineffectually endeavours to persuade his athletic son that there are more serious things in life than county cricket. A more delicate reductio ad absurdum. of a half-hearted advocacy of "efficiency" could not be imagined. The incoherent, parrotlike volubility of the professional guide is hit off to perfection in "Going Round the Caves," while the blameless futility of certain social confraternities organised in regard to nomenclature and formalities on a quasi-Masonic basis is turned to genial ridicule in "A Business Meeting of the Society of Penguins." The trials of authorship—literary and dramatic—are ingeniously illustrated in the allegory of the novelist upon whom the characters of his novel come to billet themselves in the flesh, and in the sketch entitled " After Rehearsal." For sheer high-spirited absurdity nothing is better than "The Magic H's "; while "The Gull" and "The Snowing Globe" are both engaging examples of Mr. Anstey's skill in dealing with the comedy of the " super- normal." But we have said enough to indicate the variety and excellence of the entertainment provided by Mr. Anstey. It is not often that a reviewer finds himself in the agreeable position of being able to recommend a book with such a certainty of earning the gratitude of those who follow his advice. We have only to add the hint, based on actual experience, that these pages lend themselves excellently to reading aloud, another proof of the author's good workman-
ship and geniality.
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