Nonsense

Bats in the Belfry. L. de Giberne Sieveking. (Routledge. 10s. 6d. net.)

Further Nonsense. Lewis Carroll. Edited by Langford Reed. (T. Fisher Unwin. 7s. 6d.) Smoke Rings. William Caine. (Stanley Paul. 3s. 6d.)

SOME little time ago a distinguished Belgian writer congratu- lated the English on their supremacy in nonsense, and intended the observation to be regarded as a compliment. Well ! there are worse things than playing the fool on purpose, as, for example, being a fool without knowing it. And therefore, as long as the nonsense has a genuine background of sense, and is wit on a holiday, it deserves a warm welcome.

In the case of Mr. Sieveking we are admitted to just such a holiday, and there is in consequence nothing but happy laughter induced equally by the verse and the drawing, not the guffaw of the smoking-room, not the giggle of the half-wit, but the gentle easy ripple that crowns the essential nonsense. Obviously, Without reproducing them, and in my complete ignorance of draughtsmanship, I cannot tell you why Mr. John Nash seems to me so essentially funnier, say, than Mr. Bateman. I expect that the real explanation is that Mr. Nash has style, while Mr. Bateman works with a stylograph. I don't know, but I do get the impression from the first that here is an artist for whom shape and form can laugh and with Mr. Bateman that there is a painstaking performer, who is laughing at them without inducing them to share the joke.

And I am in almost the same difficulty with Mr. Sieveking. The only satisfactory way in which to convey his merit is to quote him at length. He has the supreme trick of conveying his joke slowly, and often in the last line, with just the tilt of an eyebrow. But his claim to real distinction is that, though he often is utterly irresponsible, there is (as there used to be with Mr. Belloc) a sense at the back of it all of acute observa- tion, criticism, and even of moral judgment. There is, in addition, at times real skill in handling his verse and a pleasant aroma of poetry chuckling to itself.

Let me quote one or two examples of delicious nonsense. " It looked like," says Mr. Sieveking,

" It looked like a rug, or a bunch of flowers, or a pie, or a garden- gate ;

Or " Them. was a train in Surrey That came along the line In somewhat of a hurry For it had to mako up time,"

and what did the train do—this Southern train remember !— when it found the signal down :-

" Its boiler wrinkled in a frown,

Its funnel turned a mottled brown,"

and forthwith and (as it seems to me) perfectly justifiably it cried :

" You conceited wooden duffer Why should I this treatment suffer I Then knocked it flying with its buffer— And leapt into the air."

And for nonsense with an object, what could be better than the verse in " Choosing a Career," than

" Or start a -Society for Utter Prevention, Or invent a new evening dress, Or collect a largo fund for presenting a pension To burclars in distrestt."

while " The Secret of Superiority " is so direct that it almost quits nonsense for satire.

Of the other two books, the less said the better. The " Lewis Carroll " is a bad example of the growing practice of making indifferent books at the expense of great writers no longer able to defend themselves. There was a peculiarly silly case in Mr. Lewis Hind's collection of Aubrey Beardsley's unpublished drawings, and here is another in Mr. Langford Reed's collection from Lewis Carroll. He adds nothing to our knowledge or appreciation of the immortal author of Alice by quoting childish verse from The Rectory Umbrella and silly little stories from The Whitby Gazelle. As private curiosities, and as an amusement for collectors no doubt these pieces have interest. But to the world at large they can have no meaning and there seems no reason why a large book on thick paper should be devoted to their exploit*. tion. Nor does there seem to be any reason why Mr. Bateman should be invited to compete with Tenniel.

Finally there is Mr. William Caine on Smoke Rings, who, I learn from previous Press notices " has a wildly fantastic humour that is all his own." And I cannot help wishing that he had kept it to himself. But I modify my own feeling of asperity by adding that one man's wit is another man's poison. There may be others to whom Mr. Caine appeals. I should hate to stand between them and him.

HUMBEBT WOLFE.