. MUCH ADO ABOUT LITTLE
Naphtali. By C. Lewis Hind. (The Bodley Head. 15s.)
Ma. Lewis HIND, iu addition to a pyramid of journalism, has no fewer than twenty-nine books to his credit ; it may be assumed therefore that (in the words of his sub-title) adventures innumerable must have come his way " while earning a living by writing." It may further be assumed, without lack of charity, that not all of these adventures have been worth recalling for the benefit of a wider public. Naphtali is: a book that may be dipped into with profit
here and there, chapter by chapter as the spirit moves one. And the reader who would have genial gossip of the literary lions of the late 'nineties, particularly of those who came under Mr. Hind's editorial sway at the " Academy," wilt find much to interest him in these pages. There is a good story—dare I say the inevitably good story that crops up in all such books ?—about Mark Twain. Driven, against his better judgment, by a certain persuasive hostess for whom he did not greatly care, to make an after-luncheon oration, he scored off her neatly with these words :- "Ladies and Gentlemen,—Homer is dead • Dante is dead— Shakespeare is dead—and I don't feel very well myself."
The book is richly provided with photographs of past literary celebrities which have a kind of wistful charm and interest about them. At the same time, I ought to warn the fastidious reader that he will find a good deal in this inconsequent volume to drive him into a frenzy of exaspera- tion ; not only in Mr. Hind's style, which is, to be frank, mediocre, but also in a certain irritatingly false ingenuousness which is simply asking for trouble from the parodist. I take two passages at random. Mr. Hind attended a dinner at his old school.
" At this point my neighbour on my left, an eminent surgeon, proffered me his gold cigarette case which contained, I observed, a delectable Egyptian brand ; but he, for his own consumption, took from his pocket a packet of fags. Men are like that."
The italics are mine. Now this, I submit, is nonsense. Men are not in the least like that.
Or, again. Mr. Hind, as a child, was taken by his mother to Westminster Abbey ; he was (very properly) puzzled by the laborious descriptions on the monuments of the Eminent Personages. Nothing much in that, you say, except a charming modesty. No, but : " Then we came to Poets Corner and there on the floor to the right was a grey marble slab with nothing on it but the words : Charles Dickens, Born 7th February, 1812, Died 9th June, 1870.
" And I said : ' They didn't have to tell who he was and what he had done ! ' My mother kissed me and whispered You have learnt your lesson, my boy ! ' " - A cute little boy, you see—and if you like this sort of thing you'll-like this book. For enlightenment as to its title we arc referred to Genesis xlix. 21 :— " Naphtali is a hind let loose s he giveth goodly words."
Well, who would have thought it ? E. S. A.
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