If a wicked male novelist had dared to write _Jacynth_ (CONSTABLE) I tremble to imagine the things that certain fair critics would have said about him. But since a woman is the creator, and one, moreover, with the well-won reputation of Miss STELLA CALLAGHAN, what is there to say? After all she must know. As a portrait of futility, _Jacynth_ is the most mercilessly realistic thing that I have met for some time. Pretty, brainless, egotistical, utterly unable ever to understand even the least of the men who loved her--this was _Jacynth_. The picture is so unsparing that (though I am not calling the book a masterpiece or free from dull moments) the very completeness of the dreadful thing fascinates you unwillingly. _Jacynth_ was the typical product of a seaside town, where she was adored by two men--a young squire and a famous novelist. I was just a little bored by her beginnings, especially when she sprained her ankle--a gambit I had imagined _demode_ even with the most provincial of heroines. However, _Jacynth_ married the novelist, and after the honeymoon settled down to a steady course of fatuousness and general interference with his work which presently reduced the poor man to exasperation, and finally constrained him to pack her off on a prolonged visit to the seaside home of her maidenhood. After that _Jacynth_ went from worse to worst; too preposterous a fool even to be greatly moved when she brought tragedy into the lives of those who came under her malign influence. I will not follow her vicissitudes in detail. Throughout the book the most sinister thing in her story was to me the fact that a woman had written it. Moreover I have a lurking suspicion that the portrait is no imaginary one. Perhaps this is a high tribute to Miss CALLAGHAN'S skill; it certainly is meant to be a compliment to her courage. * * * I've often longed to come upon Some giant spoor and dog the track till I ran to earth a mastodon, A dinosaur, a pterodactyl; But I supposed my natal date-- However distantly I view it-- Was several thousand years too late To give me any chance to do it. And yet Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE Has found a man who's penetrated Through bush and swamp on virgin soil And seen the things I've indicated, Creatures with names that clog your pen-- Dimorphodon and plesiosaurus-- And carried home a specimen To silence any doubting chorus. In _The Lost World_[A] the tale is told (SMITH, ELDER do it cheap) in diction So circumstantial that its hold Is more than that of common fiction; If you can run the story through, By aid of portraits when you need it, And not be half convinced it's true, You simply don't deserve to read it. [Footnote A: New Edition, with illustrations.] * * *