NOVELS OF THE WEEK.*
MR. WEYA1A.N'S new novel—dedicated with laconic eloquence "to the gracious memory of James Payn "—proves that a sound instinct has led him to the England of the eighteenth century as the true field for the exercise of his talents as a narrator and interpreter. It may be that these later efforts of his will not achieve the same popularity as his gallant in- vasions of the dominion of Dumas, but in regard to atmo- sphere, lifelikeness, and characterisation they seem to us to mark a great advance on his earlier ventures. To take one point, his heroines have hitherto generally bad a taint of the termagant, which has militated not a little against their attractiveness. But in Sophia, though the seconder donna is a regular hoyden, the central figure, while not lacking in spirit, charms us by her essential womanliness. Sophia Maitland is a young heiress who at eighteen has lost her heart to a .plausible. Irish adventurer. Her brother•-in-law and sister have planned for her a marriage of convenience with a wealthy man • (1.) Sophia. By Stanley J. Weyman. London : Longmaus and Co. [Gs.] —(2.) The Rebel. By H. B. Marriott Watson. London : W. Heinemann. [6s.]—(3.) The Farringdons. By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler. London : Hutchinson and Co. (6s.]—(4.) Becky. By Helen ➢fathers. London : C. A. Pearson. [6.9.7—(5.) Ordered South. By Mrs. C. N. Williamson. London : -Ward, Lock, and Co.—(6.) Wiles of the Wicked. By William Le Queux. London : F. V. White and Co. (6s.]—(7.) In the Wake of the War. By A. St. John Adcock. London: Hodder and Stoughton. [2s. Gd.]—(S.) The Princess Sophia. By E. F. Beason. London : W. Heinemann. [Go] . of fashion, Sir Hervey Coke, old enough to be her father, and by their harsh treatment goad her into an elopement with the Irishman. But on the verge of the fatal step she obtains overwhelming proof of her lover's perfidy, and is rescued from a compromising position by the chivalrous intervention of Sir Hervey Coke, returning to her sister's house as his wife. The sequel is conoerned with the conversion of her gratitude into love, after the baffled suitor has made a desperate effort to abduct her while on a journey to her husband's country seat. Interwoven with Sophia's romance we have the story of her twin-brother's infatuation for a dangerous adventuress, and the comedy of his subsequent courtship for the hoydenish Lady Betty, disguised as his sister's maid. Sir Hervey, we must confess, somewhat belies his antecedents by the almost Quixotic delicacy of his conduct, but Sophia's helplessness was certainly calculated to call forth all that was generous in his nature. We must note, in ending, the skill Mr. Weyman has shown in portraying the freedom of speech and manners of the mid-eighteenth century, without any needless lapses into realism. It is perhaps a little unfortunate that in a novel appearing at this particular moment, Mr. Weyman should have assigned the role of villain to an Irishman. At any rate, it is quite unpardonable to talk as the author does of the "Bog of Arran" [sic]. With these reservations, we have little fault to find with the matter or manner of Mr. Weyman's excellent romance.
The Rebel, Mr. Marriott Watson's new and exceedingly clever story, bears in its main motive a strong resemblance to Mr. Weyman's Sophia. For here again we have a man of fashion moved to unexpected Quixotry by the spectacle of distressed innocence. Anthony Earl of Cherwell, the hero of this story, by his recklessness, waywardness, and political inconsistency reminds one not a little of that English Alcibiades, Lord Goring. Lord Cherwell is mixed up in all the political intrigues against the Stew arts while retaining a personal attachment to Charles. His real enemy is the Duke of York, whose undying hatred be earns by rescuing from his clutches the helpless stepdaughter of a Court favourite, destined by her wanton stepmother to become the Duke's mis- tress. The course of this feud, with its interludes of feigned friendship, but with the figure of t‘he midnight assassin always lurking in the background, is traced by Mr. Marriott Watson with great literary skill and testhetic appreciation of the romantic possibilities inherent in the moral rotten- ness of the Restoration Court. While, however, illustrating the " fascination of corruption "—to borrow Mr. Pater's notorious phrase—The Rebel really does good service in dis- pelling some of the glamour of the Stewart legend.
The idle mere of The Farringdons—that you may spend your best years in the search of the happiness that has been lying within your reach all the time—is by no means irrecon- cilable with the everyday experience of real life. Elizabeth Farringdon, the vivacious heroine of Mies Fowler's new story, has an ideal helpmeet ready to hand in the playfellow of her childhood. But Christopher's self-sacrificing reticence, due in part to the inequality of their positions—he is only the adopted son of the manager of the works whence she derives her fortune—keeps them apart until she is thirty, and Christopher is at death's door. Meantime she has fallen successively under the sway of an attractive agnostic and a selfish fortune - hunter, to say nothing of despatching Christopher to Australia in search of a missing cousin who turns out to be none other than Christopher him-
self. But the plot is always a subsidiary matter in Miss Fowler's novels. The strength of her work lies in smart dialogue and in her delineation of the humours of Nonconformity, and though the quality of the entertain- ment is somewhat unequal in her new story, at its best it affords ample food for mirth. Elizabeth is decidedly diverting in her childhood—note the apology for her desire to see a pig killed on the ground that " we might pretend it was the execution of Mary Queen of Scots "—and the conversations of Mrs. Bateeon and Mrs. Hankey, two re- spectable middle class Methodists, the former of a cheerful, and the latter of a cadaverous, imagination, bristle with quaint and grotesque images. Here, for example, is characteristic passage on the ways of husbands :- " They've no sense, men haven't,' replied Mrs. - Hankey that's what's the matter with them.'—' You never spoke a truer
word, Mrs. Hankey,' agreed her hostess; 'the very best of them don't properly know the difference between their souls and their stomachs; and they fancy that they are a-wrestling with their doubts when really it is their dinners that are a-wrestling with them. Now take Bateson hisself, and a kinder husband or a better Methodist never drew breath ; yet so sure as he touches a bit of pork, he begins to worry hisself about the doctrine of Election till there's no living with him. . . . . And then he'll sit in the front parlour and engage in prayer for hours at a time till I says to him, "Bateson," says 1, "I'd be ashamed to go troubling the Lord with a prayer, when a pinch o' carbonate o' soda would set things straight again." ' "
The story flags somewhat as it advances, but a writer who exhibits such a horror of dulness as Miss Fowler cannot be expected to achieve her aim without occasional symptoms of strain.
The picture of the pioneer and Empire-builder given in Miss Mathers's Becky is the reverse of pleasing. Indeed, the book is in great measure a glorification of robust and bibulous virility. " Thank God we have Rhodes,' said Billy.— 'Rhodes is South Africa, and South Africa is Rhodes,' said Walter, ' and we do thank God for him,' and he retired into the beer-jug to drink his health." The conversation on the subject of cannibalism seems more attuned to the sentiments of Congo Free State officials than English gentlemen ; while the author's familiarity with the novel whence the name of the heroine is avowedly drawn may be illustrated by her reference to "Dobbin and Lord Stair."
In spite of its title and its khaki cover, Mrs. Williamson's Ordered South does not transport us to South Africa. It deals with the romantic attachment of a poor orphan girl for "an almost unnecessarily handsome" young Baronet, to whom, after the reader has been well surfeited with sensational horrors, she is happily united in the last chapter.
Mr. Le Queux'a Wiles of the Wicked, in which a dis- guised Archduchess is entrusted with the rule of heroine, serves to show the unabated fascination exercised by the Austrian Royal family over the imagination of the adven- turous modern novelist. There is always something artificial about Mr. Le Queux's books, although they are undoubtedly clever. The villains conscientiously do their best to be villainous, but they give the impression of people playing a part rather than acting from deliberate conviction. The most striking incident in the book is the hero's six years' forgetfulness, which is undoubtedly well managed ; but it is a pity that Mr. Le Quenx did not think of something more original for the opening incident than the witnessing—if the word may be permitted—of a murder by a blind man, a device already successfully employed by the author of Called Back.
We have read with great interest and pleasure Mr. St. John Adcock's collection of aptly named stories, In the Wake of the War, in which the homely tragedies that mark the progress of a campaign like the present are unfolded with unfail- ing sympathy and skill. Mr. Adcock's stories are neither calculated to blunt the edge of the nation's resolve nor yet to encourage Jingoism. Although the prevailing note is pathetic, relief is not wanting, and there is in particular one admirably humorous sketch of the Boer-baiting—so to speak— of a poor little foreign barber by two truculent coalheavers. After insisting that he shall sing " Rule, Britannia," the bullies are discomfited by the discovery, forced from them by a "perfectly sober customer," that they themselves know neither the words nor the music. In fine, this little book is a very excellent piece of legitimate literary opportunism.
It is a far cry from Mr. Weyman's Sophia to her mock- Royal namesake in Mr. Benson's new romance, The Princess .Sophia. His heroine is the hereditary Princess of the imaginary principality of Rhodope ; she is also a hereditary gambler, and the matrimonial and political consequences of her indulgence in this instinct are traced by Mr. Benson in a spirit of irresponsible frivolity not devoid of diversion, though it may be objected that materials which would have sufficed for a short story are perforce beaten out somewhat thin to cover an area of three hundred and odd pages.
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