Books in Brief: The Mahogany Tree

The Mahogany Tree: An Informal History of Punch, by Arthur Prager (Hawthorn, 306 pp., SI2.95).

Punch, Arthur Prager assures us insistently and at length, is a National Institution. As such, it is rich in history and in characters of all sorts. Be certain, if it happened at Punch, at any time in the 138 years of the British humor magazine’s existence, it is in this book. Prager plainly worships the magazine; one of his happiest days, no doubt, was when he began the research for this chronicle and was invited by the editors to sit at the Mahogany Tree, a table which bears the initials of various Punch editors and friends, and which is a journalistic relic of some repute. Artists, editors, writers, office politics are all described in detail. This may, in fact, be part of the problem: the book, especially in the second half, degenerates into mere lists and names, names, names. Prager is an accurate enough reporter but is muzzy on criticism, so he ends up either huffing with disapproval or hyperventilating with enthusiasm. He covers everything, but no one thing particularly well. He takes it all just a little too seriously. And he is a little too hard on Malcolm Muggeridge. Oh these Yanks!

JM

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Joe Mysak

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The Mahogany Tree: An Informal History of Punch, by Arthur Prager (Hawthorn, 306 pp., SI2.95).

Punch, Arthur Prager assures us insistently and at length, is a National Institution. As such, it is rich in history and in characters of all sorts. Be certain, if it happened at Punch, at any time in the 138 years of the British humor magazine’s existence, it is in this book. Prager plainly worships the magazine; one of his happiest days, no doubt, was when he began the research for this chronicle and was invited by the editors to sit at the Mahogany Tree, a table which bears the initials of various Punch editors and friends, and which is a journalistic relic of some repute. Artists, editors, writers, office politics are all described in detail. This may, in fact, be part of the problem: the book, especially in the second half, degenerates into mere lists and names, names, names. Prager is an accurate enough reporter but is muzzy on criticism, so he ends up either huffing with disapproval or hyperventilating with enthusiasm. He covers everything, but no one thing particularly well. He takes it all just a little too seriously. And he is a little too hard on Malcolm Muggeridge. Oh these Yanks!