The times., 1899-06-18

The Lady of the Flag Flowers is
book by a new author, Florence Wilkn-
son. and has already won for itself con-
siderable reputation. 1t is not great
work, by any means, but it is of some
what novel type and it contains fascinat-
ing suggestions and pictures. 1t lacks a
plot, it lacks consistent development of
character it is, on the whole, elusive and
unsatisfactory; but for all that il has a
charm OF its own, due to the authors un-
doubted knowledge OF her subject and the
skill with which she handles scenes and
characters familiar to her.
French Canada, with its Indians and
half-breeds. its juxtaposition of savagery
and civilization, is plainly valuable hunt
ing ground for the novelist, but thus far
few novelists have had the patience or the
skill TO investigate its depths. Mary Hart
well CatherWood has written two or three
valuable historical romances dealing with
old Canada, and C. G. D. Roberts has also
done some work along this line; Howells'
Chance Acquaintance also touches the
ground, but only casually. Miss Wilkin-
son is the first TO make any ambitious at
tempt at depicting a French-Canadian
heroine Of the present day.
Her present work is based partly on an
old Algonquin legend of a spirit of death,
called The Lady OF the Flag Flowers"
in an English translation of a French
name. The heroine. Yvonne Brusseau, is
little wood maiden of mixed French and
Indian blood, full OF caprice. faithfuness,
Imagination, poetry, and self-control, and
so nearly as one can sum up her contra
dictory character, il is done in sentence
describing her in some crisis of her child
hood:
She was too much Indian TO cry, but she was
French enough to be excited.
This kittenish wild creature is trans
planted from the Canadian forest TO a
quiet village of the Hudson Valley, and
thence to the incongruous atmosphere of a
London music hall. These transitions are
false in their conception and clumsily
managed. They might have appeared ar
tistic had they been better done but un-
der the unskillful treatment OF the author
the plot becomes broken-j jointed and awk-
ward. The rest of the action depand upon
/ Yvonne's relations with her three lovers.
her Indian cousin. 'Poleon Gros- s-Louys; an
/ American journalist named Pierce VIII
/ loughby; and a roue Of good family, who
/ finally, in a fit of drunken frenzy, shoots
Yvonne at the moment of her histrionic
| triumph. The whole plot is theatrical and
tawdry, and made up of mixture of in
/ cidents more OF less hackney5d Miss Will
( kinson needs to learn a great deal about
the making of novels before she will really
/ do justice to the wealth of material which
] lies before her Above all, she should
aim at simplicity, even if she has to cut
/ her novel down TO the dimensions of the
/ short story.
] The thing that saves the book and will
I give it a certain popularity is the exquisite
poetry and Imagination shown in the pic
turing of Yvonne when she is on Canadian
! ground. Here she is invariably charming
I and quite comprehensive. as a poetic crea-
/ tion. If not as an actual girl. In Spuyten
! Kill she becomes a puzzle, in London a
/ hybrid; but in the Canadian forest she is
alive. human. and lovable.
Like some other authors, Miss Wilkinson
is at her best in depicting the childhood OF
her hero and heroine. The first chapter
In which the childish chatter of Poleon
and Yvonne is recorded, is wholly caph-
/ vating and one cannot resist quoting a
paragraph here and there.
The great pine tree. with its plume-tippe,
| branches, it, trunk that two could not hol,
between uutsireIched arms, and its many mys
terious voicts
| repeated. Il have heard GFand'mere say SOM
words, and they are all soft and gurgling, viii
! little sighs in them-like that"
She listened awhile with a rapt expression Of
her face, while the wind played delicately in tn
I branches.
And here is bit of delicious foolery:
A little figure sat on the grou-- a short dis
,ance away turned sideways from Father ST
Clair lie saw il as he sat there with his Rnge
in his book 1t was little Yyonne. She wa
swaving TO and fro as she swung basket tia
depended from a heInlock bough. She croone
I lullaby. 1t was French, but the refrain wa
eua-oua, oua-oui,
Sleep. little daughter, sleep.
IT'S your mother watching by.
Swinging, swinging, she will keep
Little daughter, lullaby,
0ua-oua, oua-oui,
Qua. oua-oui.
Yyonne was grooming seduetively. but "littl
daughter seemed uneasy IL her cradle 1t wal