(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
If memory serves me, the publishers of _World's End_ (HURST AND
BLACKETT) described its theme as one of unusual delicacy, or words to
that effect. I should like to reassure them. The particular kind of
marriage of convenience which it concerns (marriage for the convenience
of the wronged heroine, by which the virtuous hero gives his name to the
child of the villain) may be, indeed is, a delicate matter, but--in
fiction at least--by no manner of means unusual. Nor can I see that its
present treatment by AMÉLIE RIVES (Princess TROUBETZKOY) lends it any
degree of novelty. No, let me be just; perhaps _Richard Bryce_, the
wicked betrayer, does strike a somewhat new note, at least in his
beginnings. _Richard_ was the product of art superimposed upon dollars.
He was so cultured that the humanity in him had dwindled to a negligible
quantity; and thus, when poor _Phoebe_ wanted him to "do the right thing
by her," he sent her instead some charmingly modern French verse--which
she could not understand--and finally took ship for Europe in mingled
alarm and boredom. You will have gathered that the scene is laid in
America. Perhaps this explains the hero. _Owen Randolph_ was one of the
strong and silent. He was so silent that, though he knew perfectly well
all that had happened, he married _Phoebe_, and allowed that unhappy
lady to suffer chapters of agonized apprehension as to his attitude,
when half-a-dozen words would have set her at ease on the subject. He
was, moreover, so strong that, when eventually the theme of their
relations with _Phoebe_ did crop up between himself and _Richard_, the
latter spent some months in hospital as a consequence. However, he
recovered, and things were thus able to reach the kind of ending which
was expected of them. There are parts of _World's End_ that are worthy
of a better whole, but that is the best I can say for it.
* * * * *
I believe that _Paul Moorhouse_ (LONG) was never really predestined to
end unhappily and that his suicide was a conclusion as little
premeditated by the author as it was apparently by the hero. If such
ends must be, they should be a climax demanded by relentless logic: some
sort of culminating event should occur which, added to what has gone
before, leaves no alternative. _Paul_, however, had survived for years
under the stress of all the circumstances which finally constrained him
to make an end of himself; and, had he stayed the course--only another
hour or so--he would have found that all had turned out for the best and
that adequate arrangements had been made for his permanent happiness. No
doubt these things happen in real life and I cannot accuse Mr. GEORGE
WOUIL (a most discerning author) of any inhuman treatment of his puppet;
yet I wish that he had been more kindly disposed and had spared me a
bitter disappointment. Having known _Paul_, man and boy, for upwards of
ten years, I had become sincerely attached to him; as assistant
time-keeper, foreman and works-manager he showed a spirit true to the
real Black Country type. He had his moments of weakness when he went
astray after the manner of his kind; but he always became master of
himself again and, when he had to, paid like a man the price of his
misdeeds, never pausing to discover the overcharge. As for _Joan Ware_,
his intended and his due, she was a dear; poor dear!
* * * * *
I do not think that you will believe _The Story of Fifine_ (CONSTABLE),
although Mr. BERNARD CAPES takes some pains to give it an air of
actuality; but if you are like me you will not be greatly concerned
about that. Purporting to be the ill-used daughter of a mad French
marquis, _Fifine_, in that _naïve_ and charming way which has always
been so dear to the hearts of novelists, came to live at the bachelor
abode in Paris of the sculptor _Felix Dane_ (his half-sister, who was
keeping house for the marquis, provided the introduction), and, calling
each other "cousin" and "gossip," these two shared rooms together in
perfect simplicity of soul and held several conversations which reflect,
I suppose, Mr. BERNARD CAPES' views on the plastic arts and life in
general. And why, in passing, he should continue to heap ridicule on
staid Victorian respectability I cannot for the life of me imagine. The
plucky and unorthodox thing nowadays surely is to make game of
Bohemianism. But, anyhow, the happy moment for me arrived when _Felix
Dane_ suggested (on the grounds that the marquis would soon discover his
daughter's hiding-place) a holiday tour through Provence. Mr. BERNARD
CAPES in Provence is Mr. BERNARD CAPES at his best. How the lovers (for
that--perhaps you roguishly guessed it?--they gradually became) paid
visits to Nîmes, to Aigues-Mortes, to Arles and to Paradou les Baux, and
met _M. Carabas Cabarus_, the native minstrel, you must read for
yourself, for I cannot give a faint idea of the eloquence with which
their fairyland is portrayed. And if the plot ends as artificially as it
began, and with an unnecessary tragedy thrown in, I suppose for the sake
of that idyll in the very nesting-place of idylls I must shrug my
shoulders and forgive. After all, it does not matter much who _Fifine_
really was, nor what happened to her. Suffice it that Mr. BERNARD CAPES
has conducted her to Arles.
* * * * *
_The Caddis-Worm_ (HURST AND BLACKETT) is an appropriate enough title
for Mrs. DAWSON SCOTT'S novel, but I confess to having grown a little
restive at its appearance on the top of each of 352 pages. "Episodes in
the Life of Richard and Catharine Blake" is the alternative title, and
to the average human reader possibly a more significant one. _The
Caddis-Worm_ is quite in the modern manner, having no plot--or what has
been contemptuously called "anecdote." I have, however, a more genuine
grievance against Mrs. DAWSON SCOTT, and it is that she seems inclined
to be a propagandist without the requisite robustness. A little more
vigour in her protests against the iniquity of British laws, and her
theme might have allured me. As it is, the troubles of _Catharine_ with
her peremptory _Richard_ only made me want, but not very keenly, to take
and give her a good shaking. Whereas, with a little more encouragement,
I believe I should have been quite anxious to kick her husband from the
top to the bottom of several flights of stairs. Drastic methods were
taken by the author to bring _Richard_ to his senses; in fact, at one
time he made a sort of corner in disasters. But unless a sanatorium
exists where patients are treated kindly and firmly for swollen-head I
do not think that _Richard's_ cure is likely to be permanent. That,
however, does not affect my view that Mrs. DAWSON SCOTT has given us a
book which is full of clever writing and fairly shrewd observation.
* * * * *
"It was a wild wet night, though the month of May was well begun."
Without caring very much about the month of May, I felt on reading these
introductory words that the story called _My Lady Rosia_ had excellently
well begun. I am sorry to add, though, that it does not carry on quite
so bravely as you might expect from such a start. My own suspicion is
that _Lady Rosia_ is one of many novels that owe their existence to a
summer holiday. I haven't the slightest knowledge of the facts, and
still less wish to incur a libel action, but, by my way of imagining it,
Miss FREDA MARY GROVES found herself one day in the Winchelsea country,
fell very naturally in love with its jolly old houses, and determined
there and then to write a story about them. So here it is, with a mildly
romantic hero, _Bernard_, a heroine in the title _rôle_ who is as pretty
and persecuted as heroines should be, a villain (_Lord Segrave_ by
name--even, you see, in those Black-Princely days peers were a bad lot),
some conflicts not quite so exciting as they might have been, and the
rest of the mixture as before. You perhaps catch already my chief ground
of complaint. Frankly I do not think that Miss GROVES' pen is quite
sufficiently dashing for this sort of thing. Historical and adventurous
romance, if it is to earn my vote, must keep me out of breath the whole
time. It should never be allowed to slacken pace; and (to be entirely
candid) _My Lady Rosia_ sometimes ambles rather heavily. I forgot to add
that it is published by WASHBOURNE, printed on detestable paper, and
contains some pleasant illustrations of the places mentioned in the
story. In few, the best I can say of it is that it would make a charming
gift for the young Person (if she still survives) on the occasion, say,
of a family holiday to Hastings.
* * * * *
Illustration: _The Optimist (who has just been struck by a passing
motor-car)._ "GLORY BE! IF THIS ISN'T A PIECE O' LUCK! SURE, 'TIS THE
DOCTHOR HIMSELF THAT'S IN UT."
* * * * *
The John Bull Breed.
_The South African Farmers' Guide_ pays a pretty compliment to a
well-known family in describing a typical South Devon bull as the
"property of Major APTHORP, a magnificent example of this breed."
* * * * *
WANTED.--A Tame Tory who will undertake to write scathing criticisms on
the policy of his own party. Meals supplied on premises. Sleep in.
Address, Offices of _Westminster Gazette_.
* * * * *