The Raft. By Coningsby Dawson. (Constable and Co. 6a.) —There
are two good things in The Raft. One is the character of poor Ocky Waffles, who "was like the jerry-built houses in which most of his life was spent : the angels who made him had had good intentions, but they had ecamped their work." It is not easy to make the portrait of a man of so weak kindliness either convincing or interesting, and Mr. Dawson has done it well. The other good thing is the account of Peter's adolescence, of his night of romance on the river, of the boy's bewilderment at himself. These are admirable; but, to tell the truth, they are smothered in a heap of rubbish. In the press of modern fiction there is no room for children who hear angels' voices, for parents of irritating sentimentality, or for nursemaids and policemen of weary humour. The writer wastes his skill among such stage supers, and loses sight of the original intention of his book; for "the raft," we are told, is that stage of uncertainty in which a girl finds herself between the shipwreck of spinsterhood and the shores of matrimony. If Mr. Dawson, however, will set himself to write a serious novel with the smallest possible allowance of sentiment, he will do well.
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