NO

TIM LADY PARAMOUNT.*

Mn. HARLAND would certainly have been more than human if, after the resounding success achieved in The Cardinal's Snuff-Box, he had refrained from attempting to repeat it by another work in the same genre. For many reasons we

welcome the attempt, and hold it to have been justified by results. For such books represent in a very agreeable form the inevitable reaction against the tyranny of unnecessary realism under which we have groaned for a good many years.

Here at least is a world from which violence and squalor are conspicuously absent, where all the men are well-bred and all the women beautifully dressed, where the cooking is exquisite, where there are no villains and the suavity of the dialogue is undisturbed by a single objurgation. The nearest approach to a "regrettable incident" in the whole story is the threatened assault on a singing-bird by a eat, and even that is staved off by the timely intervention of the hero. Now in view of the fact that so few novels of the day, even those animated (according to their authors or publishers) by the most noble intentions, ale void of disquieting scenes or incidents, it is undoubtedly a great advantage to be certain of enjoying a complete immunity from the disa,,o-reeables of life. In Mr.

Harland's books one Is transported into a region like that of the island valley of Avilion. There is not so much as a hint of influenza from beginning to end of the story, and though the scene is chiefly laid in England, the weather—well, with "C. S. C." we can "simply repeat it was glorious weather."

In short, here you have roseate romance without a crumpled rose-leaf : draughts of delight from the mid-fount of sweetness without a suspicion of the amari aliquid, and all set forth in the most undeviatingly urbane manner. We cannot conscientiously say that we should like this sort of diet always. Persons in whom there is any leaven of

Philistinism would find it too sumptuous, too opulent, too meticulous,—to borrow three characteristic epithets of Mr.

Haxland's. Even within the compass of the present volume they may weary of the rhapsodies of the plump and pink- cheeked musician who addressed his friends as "0 you dearie dears," and of the reiterated reflections of the hero on the personal charms of the heroine. They may not be able to rid their minds of a certain prejudice against an author who

knows so much about chiffons, and who spells the abbreviated form of midshipman "middle." But one would need to be

very Philistinish indeed to refuse to admit the charm of such a scene as that which describes the exploits of the heroine— half Italian, half Englishwoman—as a bird-tamer :— "A moment ago there had not been a bird in sight (though, of course, the day was thridd.ed through and through with the notes of those who were out of sight). But now, in the path before the arbour, all facing towards it, there must have been a score of birds—three or four sparrows, a pair of chaffinches, and then greenfinches, greenfinches, greenfinches. They were all facing expectantly towards the arbour, hopping towards it, hesitating, hopping on again, coining nearer, nearer. Susanna, moving softly, lifted the dragon-handled cover from the Chinese vase. It was full of birdseed. 'Ah, I see,' said Anthony. Pensioners. But I suppose you have reflected that to give alms to the able-bodied is to pauperise them.' Hush; she whispered, scorning his econo- mics. 'Please make yourself invisible, and be quiet.' Then, taking a handful of seed, and leaning forward, softly, softly she began to intone-

Tu-ite, tn-ite, fringuelli, Passeri, verdonelli, Venite, venite ! '

And so, da capo, over and over again. And the birds, hesitating, gaining confidence, holding back, hopping on, came nearer, nearer. A few, the boldest, entered the arbour . . . they all entered. . . they hesitated, hung back, hopped on. Now they were at her feet ; now three were in her lap ; others were on the table. On the table, on her lap, at her feet, she scattered seed. Then she took a second handful, and softly, softly to a sort of lullaby tune-

• Perlino, Perlin°, Perlin° Piumino, Where is Perlin° ? Come Perlino.'

she sang, her open hand extended. A greenfinch flew up to the table, flew down to her knee, flew down to her hand, and, perching on her thumb, began to feed. And she went on with her soft, soft intoning— Ths Lady Paramount. By Henry Harland. London : John Lane. [GS.] This is Perlin°,

So green, oh, so green, oh. He is the bravest heart, The sweetest singer, of them all.

I'm obliged to impart my information In the form of a chant ; For if I were to speak it out, prose-wise, They would be frightened, they would fly away.

But I hope you admire My floe contempt for rhyme and rhythm. Is this not the ninth wonder of the world ?

Would you or could you have believed, If you hadn't seen it ?

That these wild birds, Not the sparrows only, But the shy, shy finches, Could become so tame, so fearless ?

Oh, it took time—and potence.

And Perlin° Piumino Is the bravest of them all, And now that he has made an end Of his handful of seed, I hope he will be so good

As to favour us with a little music.

Sometimes he will, And sometimes he just obstinately won't

Tudte, tu-ite, Andiamo, Perlin°, tu-ite I Canto, di grazia, canto. I '

And after some further persuasion,—you will suspect me of romancing, but upon my word,—Perlino Piumino consented. Clinging to Susanna's thumb, he threw back his head, opened his bill, and poured forth his crystal song,—a thin, bright, crystal rill, swift-flowing, winding in delicate volutions. And mercy, how his green little bosom throbbed. Isn't it incredible ? ' Susanna whispered. It is wonderful to feel him. His whole body is beating like a heart.' And when his, song was finished, she bent towards him, and—never, never so softly—touched the top of his green head with her lips. And now—fly away, birdlings—back to your affairs,' she said. 'Good-bye, until to-morrow.' She rose, and there was an instant whirr of fluttering wings."

When we spoke of Mr. Ilarland's romance as being roseate, we did not mean to imply that it had any affinity with the rose-coloured romance of the mid-Victorian epoch. There is

no mahogany, there are no antimacassars, in The Lady Paramount. The characters are cultured and cosmopolitan, the plot is of the mock-Royal type, and, as in Mr. Anthony Hope's Phroso, is concerned with the sovereignty of a tiny island in the sunny South. The Countess Susanna, the "lady para- mount" of the island of Sampaolo, on reaching her majority determines to spend a Wanderjahr in England, where under an alias she makes the acquaintance, and enslaves the affec- tions, of her English cousin, Anthony Craford, the descendant of the exiled Count, and rightful heir to the estate. When Anthony declares his love, Susanna, whose incognito is still

unrevealed, resolves to tempt and test him. She accordingly orders him off to Sampaolo to revisit his dominions, and leaves him free to offer marriage to the usurper—herself—as a means

of securing his restoration. Tho ectaircissentent is not long delayed, and Anthony is duly rewarded for his obstinacy. Tried by the canons of probability, the story suffers from the incredible

blindness of the hero in failing to penetrate Susarma's trans- parent disguise. But really the plot is quite immaterial in a story of this sort, the charm of which lies in episode, atmo- sphere, and general picturesqueness.