A Child and Her Note-Book

The Young Visiters or Mr. Salteena's Plan — By Daisy Ashford

This is the story of Mr. Salteena's plan to become a real gentleman (‘I am quite alright as they say but I would like to be the real thing can it be done he added slapping his knees…’), of his unrequited love for fair and flighty Ethel Monticue, of Bernard Clark's dashing and successful wooing of Ethel, together with some very rich, costly pictures of High Socierty, a levie at Buckingham Palace, a description of the Compartments at the Chrystal Palace occupied by Earls and Dukes, and a very surprising account of the goings on at the Gaierty Hotel. It is one of the most breathless novels we have ever read, for the entirely unmerciful and triumphant author seems to realize from the very first moment that she can do what she likes with us, and so we are flung into the dazzling air with Bernard and Ethel, and dashed to earth with poor Mr. Salteena, without the relief of one dull moment. Happily, there are only twelve chapters; for human flesh and blood could stand no more—at any rate grown-up human flesh and blood. For, as far as we can judge from the portrait of the nine-year-old author, this rate of living did not upset her in the least; she positively throve on it and could have sustained it for ever.

At first glance Daisy Ashford may appear very sophisticated. There is evidence that she thoroughly enjoyed the run of her parents' library, and, unseen and unheard, revelled in the conversation of her elders. Signs are not wanting that she enjoyed exceptional opportunities for page 28 looking through keyholes, peeping through half-open doors, gazing over the banisters at the group in the hall below, and sitting, squeezed and silent, between the grown-ups when they took the air in the ‘baroushe.’

But for all her dressing up in Ouida's plumy hat and long skirt with a train, she remains a little child with a little child's vision of her particular world. That she managed to write it down and make a whole round novel of it is a marvel almost too good to be true. But there it is, and even while the grown-up part of us is helpless with laughter we leap back with her into our nine-year-old self where the vision is completely real and satisfying.

Who among us à cet âge-là has not smiled through his fingers at Ethel Monticue, overheard at a party:

What plesand compartments you have cried Ethel in rarther a socierty tone.

Fairly so so responded the Earl do you live in London he added in a loud tone as someone was playing a very difficult peice on the piano.

Well no I dont said Ethel my home is really in Northumberland but I am at present stopping with Mr. Clark at the Gaierty Hotel she continued in a somewhat showing off tone.

Oh I see said the earl well shall I introduce you to a few of my friends.

Oh please do said Ethel with a dainty blow at her nose.

It has been questioned whether the book is not an elaborate hoax; but if one remembers the elaborate games one played at that age, the characters that were invented, the situations and scenes—games that continued for days and days, and were actually unwritten novels in their way—one finds no difficulty in believing in the amazing child. One only rushes to rejoice in her and to advise our old young men when they approach the more solemn parts of their serious adventures to take a dip into her ‘plan’ and see how it should be done.