THERE is nothing very new to be said of a new novel by Marion Crawford. It is a long period now that he has been sending out additional volumes at regular intervals; and with the exception of the local color due to change of scene, his style has so far crystallized that the reader can predicate in advance with fair accuracy most of what the new story will bring to him.

Crawford's novels, however, are never dull, and this is as true of The Three Fates as of his former books. It is not as strong, either in incident or character-drawing, as others of his works, but it is fresh and interesting, and fairly true to the rather shallow phase of life it represents. It is a love story with three heroines, the three fates who in succession beguile the hero. The latter is an alleged literary man, who under the stimulus of passion for the first of his charmers writes a successful book in an amazingly short period of time, and is cut off untimely in the production of his second by her refusal to remain longer his inspiration. He allows himself, however, to be consoled by the second fate, writes more successful books, and at the close of the story makes up his mind that he is not really in love with her, jilts her out of hand, and passes merrily on to the conquest of the third.

Perhaps the most amusing thing in the book is the description of the methods of the novel writer and the publisher. The former sits down without plan or outline, and as his characters "talk to him in his head" he sets down their utterances, working at fever heat, and not knowing in the one chapter what the next is going to bring forth.

The Three Fates. By F. Marion Crawford. don: Macmillan & Co.: 1892.

Lon

A lingering suspicion comes that somewhat of this method holds with Mr. Crawford's own writing. His stories go wandering along as in Paul Patoff for instance-much in the aimless fashion which is here described. But while with a man whose literary style and sureness of touch are certain enough to make it possible to carry off such looseness of plot successfully, the method is hardly one to be offered as a guide to the ordinary author.

It is in his depiction of women that Mr. Crawford is most happy. He is naturally feminine in his sensibilities, and has much insight into the feminine character. His portrayal of Mamie Trimm, the second fate, is a really good bit of character-drawing. It is full of delicate shades, well rounded and complete. Totty, too, is cleverly worked up, and presents an admirable picture of the society woman of the better class.

On the whole, the book is above the average of the "summer novel," but does not deal with a sufficiently serious side of life to entitle it to be called great. Like all of the author's' work it is excellent in artistic finish, and were it a first book, would undoubtedly serve to give him reputation.

George Meredith is an acquired taste. The first chapter of any of his later books, of which One of Our Conquerors is a good example, repels and puzzles those unfamiliar with the Meredith style. As the reader goes on, supposing him to be of a somewhat determined mind and not easily discouraged, he begins to find that there is a story back of these paradoxes and aphorisms, and that

2 One of Our Conquerors. By George Meredith. Boston: Roberts Brothers: 1892.

The Tragic Comedians. Ibid.

these riddles themselves, when properly solved, do contain much that is new, true, and valuable. Soon he begins to take a pleasure in trying to get the meaning on a first reading, and is encouraged by successes, until he has mastered the style and can follow it with ease and profit. This is no exaggeration of the process necessary to becoming an admirer of Meredith. That many go through the process, and that new readers are continually encouraged to begin it, is proof enough that there is genius in this author.

And yet when his admirers are asked why their prophet must veil his meaning from vulgar ears, and address the multitude in paradox and parable,- why he cannot speak in a language understanded of the people the truth he has to tell, their answer is rather vague. One must climb to get the view from the mountain top, and the power of insight into subtleties of thought caught from hints of words is a necessary training to attain to Meredith's wisdom.

He is a prose Browning. Like Browning he can be lucidly clear as few others can be, when he will; but when the thought grows complex, the meaning only to be given in delicate shadings of expression, he drops out the connective tissue of the story, and makes his readers fill in for themselves the easily imagined parts, while he busies himself only with the expression of his exact thought. Until the reader forms this habit and attains the strenuous tone of mind and fixity of attention necessary to this, Meredith has nothing to give him.

This peculiarity of style is more marked in the later than in the earlier of Meredith's books. Diana of the Crossways has far more of plot and story than One of Our Conquerors, and Diana's repartee, while sparkling and suggestive enough, lacks the paradoxical terseness of Colney Durance.

But it is not these things that contain Meredith's deepest thought and truest

The ultimate analysis

one

power. almost says the destructive analysis of the hearts of men and women is his strongest hold. As Diana and Richard Feveril and the others were made to exhibit their total content to the discerning reader, so Victor Radnor, the conqueror, his unmarried wife, their daughter Nesta, and the rest of the company in One of Our Conquerors, are laid bare before us till we can see the wheels of thought go round in their brains. This process is begun in the very first chapters, for it takes several chapters to get Radnor across London Bridge, showing us his mood and his temperament as he goes. And there is no relaxing of the keenness of the analysis until the bitterly tragic end of the story is reached.

The Tragic Comedians shows Meredith in another light. The story, with change of names only, follows the well known life history of Ferdinand Lasalle, the Socialist, and his fatal love affair with Helene von Dönniges. As a prefix there is a brief life of Lasalle by Clement Shorter, which puts every reader in a position to see how closely Meredith sticks to facts. Thus with the plot all given him, we have the author's effort to clothe these facts with feeling and make them throb with life. There is the consciousness in reading it that Meredith misses his freedom, that the bondage to fact is irksome to him, and yet he has made a powerful book of it. There is far less of the witty paradox, and more of real feeling; for these people actually lived, and loved, and made mistakes, and suffered, and went unresisting to the fatal ending. The brilliant, useful, beloved friend of the people actually did fall by the bullet of a consumptive boy, fired in a duel about a girl not out of her teens. The reality of it makes The Tragic Comedians a sadder book, yes, in some ways a stronger book, - than any pure fiction. of Meredith's.

Alfrieda, a novel by Emma E. H. Sprecht, attempts to deal with the mysteries of occultism and Christian science. The author states in her preface that the judgment passed, upon her book will depend upon the mental status of the reader, who will appreciate or depreciate it according to his own standpoint of knowledge, experience, and mental development, according to his own capacity for apprehending its lessons. She thus disarms criticism. If Alfrieda's message has little meaning for the general reader, he must reflect that it is doubtless due to that lack of fine perception which the author considers a characteristic of the uninitiated.

She also states that no book of any value should be judged on a single reading, when only its outlines and general features can be appropriated; its deeper meanings and partially veiled truths requiring repeated reading and weighing. This statement is calculated to discourage finally the few who are sufficiently interested in the mysteries of the esoteric philosophy to follow one of its devotees through six hundred pages of soul-history. Life is short, and the "subtile shadings" of Alfrieda's philosophy are too vague and uncertain to repay the effort required to master them.

Far From Today," a collection of short stories by Gertrude Hall, is one of the most entertaining books issued this year. In them the conditions of life in olden days, when kings had absolute power in truth, are reproduced. Life is infinitely more comfortable today; but it lacks the picturesqueness, the vivid contrasts, the fierce joys and terrors, that lend themselves so well to the story teller's purpose.

In Tristiane, the initial story of this volume, the dramatic situations are intense. The noble strength of the heroine is painted in few and simple words. There is no straining for effect; no long drawn analyses of motives delay the movement of the story. The action is rapid, leading directly to a natural but unforeseen conclusion. All is symmet rical, perfectly planned, yet the ending might easily have been so different that the reader's strained interest does not relax until the very last word is grasped. In these days of painful introspection and motive weighing, it is a relief to come under the spell of a book whose characters simply do something. The effect of such a volume is to make one look eagerly for more from the same pen.

Keen insight, close power of observation, and considerable felicity of expression characterize the little book of Calabrian stories published by Elizabeth Cavazza, under the title of Don Finimondone.

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They are sketches rather than stories, and depict with a simplicity that is almost baldness the colorless Italian peasant life. All of the tales are intensely realistic. They hug so closely the littleness of life that one lays down the book with a feeling of pessimistic discouragement. They seem more like animals than men,-these peasants; and even the grim sense of humor that runs like an undertone through the stories fails to materially overcome the sense of depression. Any one who has been in Italy will recognize the striking fidelity to the fact of the descriptive work, and that the author has caught admirably the Italian point of view.

The best sketch is probably Don Finimondone, the one which gives its name to the book. This title was a nickname

8 Don Finimondone. By Elizabeth Cavazza. Fiction,

account of his habit of foretelling the ruin of everything that came to pass.

Everything, according to him, was going to the bad. Did it rain, there would be another flood for the sins of the world, and that without the ark to put two beasts in. Did the sun shine, the grass was burning up, and the geese would die with their mouths open for thirst. If the olives were scarce, there would not be enough oil to fry the good things of heaven; and if it were a good year, he said it was a pity to see the branches loaded till they broke, and olives so cheap that it was indeed ruin, it was.

This interesting old fellow takes upon himself to play the part of the reformer, and disguising himself as the devil joins the carnival procession unbidden, and accomplishes his purpose by stigmatizing his neighbors, as he passes, with their follies and weaknesses, coupled with warnings as to what will become

of them if these sins are not overcome. He comes to grief, however, through attempting to reprove his own daughter,

who recognizes him by the leather patches below his devil's gown, which she herself had sewed upon the knees of his breeches. In this, as in the other sketches, however, the main interest lies not in the plot but in the character drawing. There is an occasional touch but the main lesson, if one were to be of the pathetic, as in the story of Cirillo; drawn from the book, would be the value of patience in meeting the trials which inevitably come in this world.

Another of the Fiction, Fact, and Fancy Series is The Master of Silence, by Irving Bacheller. This story is all plot, and that of the most fanciful description. It is one of the psychological the introspective side will be found romances, so-called; but not being on readable by those who expect from a novel merely a sensation.

1 The Master of Silence. By Irving Bacheller. New York: Charles L. Webster & Co. 1892.