We had hoped that fin-de-sicele fiction would come to a natural end when the old century died and the new one was born; or that, if the vein of decadent artificiality was not quite run out, its remaining drops would trickle away through obscure channels not worth a reviewers looking into. But, alas l here is a new novel by John Oliver Hobbes -- clever and arresting, like everything she writes -- and it is all about a set of frivolous and artificial people, and one poor girl with a heart, whom they force into a revolting marriage, of which the sequel is a course of admirers, two real lovers, and an elopement with most original complications. The milieu Mrs. Craigie chooses to illuminate by her very trenchant remarks recalls the satire of Byron: --
The great world, which being interpreted
Meaneth the west or worst end of a city,
And about twice two thousand people bred
By no means to be very wise or witty,
But to sit up while others he in bed
And look down on the universe with pity.
And though she shows up the folly and the wickedness of this world very uncompromisingly, yet she cannot be absolved from the responsibility of having described its most unworthy ways in a manner calculated to enlist -- on the wrong side -- the sympathy that takes the form of snobbish imitation of vile examples. All the people in the Ragot set are smart, and use the society jargon. The men wear stays. The women have diamond tiaras, sable cloaks, and heads done by hairdressers who are artists. They are also quick-witted and nimble in conversation, and they all talk as if their world -- in spite of its scandals and divorces, as to which they are brutally candid -- were the only world anybody can care to belong to, or to hear about. And, indeed, the only other world the author recognises is that of Socialists and such like cranky people, who hold subversive opinions, have no manners, and dress excruciatingly. Certainly Lord Wroxall is a good fellow, with every intention of playing a loyal friends part by Rosabel. But he is tricked by her sister, and drawn blindly by his vanity into the ghastly conspiracy that wrecks the poor girls last chance of a happy and respectable settlement. Jocelyn Luttrell, the serious lover and real Socialist, belongs to the outer world of frumps. But he is a gentleman by birth, and has in the beginning an ample fortune. Even the superfine gentlemen of the Ragot circle recognise his breeding, while condemning his opinions. Rosabel herself is a beautiful and pathetic figure, not without a touch of the heroic in her simple devotion to the best she knows. Granted her surroundings, it is impossible not to condone her final step. But then, why choose such surroundings? Are there not many more than twice two thousand people in England who have not bowed the knee to the Baal of fashionable corruption? And are not some of these worth writing of, and writing for? For after all Mrs. Craigie is not one of the novel writers who are reduced by poverty of thought or language to make her chapters sparkle by sprinkling them with titles and diamonds. Her wit and humour, her two-edged phrases and bright epigrams flash and sparkle quite brilliantly enough on every page, and her true insight gives a value to her character-drawing which is absolutely independent of any adventitious distinction in her personages.