VOL. XVI.

No. 9.

from the House of Commons with nothing to console him for the collapse of his public career. In writing such a chapter in such a biography some ticklish ground has to be crossed. Mr. Mallock does not shrink from crossing it; nor is that the only respect in which "The Heart of Life" may be considered a bold experiment. We should class it as a novel without a hero, but the author dwells so lovingly on the good qualities of his central figure and handles his weaknesses with so much sympathy (ironical sympathy, unless we are much mistaken), that the hasty reader may well be betrayed into supposing that he is offered not only a hero, but a hero he must conscientiously decline to accept as such. A good deal of honest indignation will, we fear, be excited by Master Reginald Pole and his love affairs.

We have said that "The lleart of Life" is subtle This subtlety, in itself neither a fault nor a merit, for there are readers

those who ask for moral problems, and moral problems only, must forgive Mr. Mallock for having introduced some charming descriptive passages, of which the insight and exquisite faithfulness will be recognized by any one who knows the coast scenery of the Bristol Channel. Equally good is the picture of the tranquil dignity

of all sorts, is inevitable considering the nature of some of the problems round which the story plays. The mixture of good and bad in human nature may be more thorough than the conventional Pharisee cares to admit, and real life is not less perplexing than the life Mr. Mallock depicts. Most readers will, however, complain, and in our opinion complain with good reason, that Mr. Mallock does not make things as plain as he right, that some of the characters he draws. especially his minor characters, are needlessly eccentric and mysterious.

To sum up our opinion of "The Heart of Life," we must resort to a colloquialism. From first to last the book is "too jolly clever by half," and the biting and incisive epigrams that stud its pages would have gained in effect immensely had they been relieved by a little more genial and homely fun. We have already said quite enough to warn anybody who dislikes peeps at the seamy side of human nature that "The Heart of Life" will in parts not be altogether to his taste. On the other hand,

of the life led at a country house belonging to the Poles, where Countess Shimna for the first time, she declares, sees what she knew a home would be. (Putnam.

$1.25.)

London Literary World.

The Little Huguenot. UNTIL this time, he had been unable from

his place of observation to see anything of the company in the chapel. But now, when the priest had ended the mournful chanting, little acolytes in scarlet cassocks and white cottas kindled the tapers upon the high altar and also those in a chandelier beneath the rood-screen.

The new light fell upon a reredos of marble and gold, almost hidden by vases of white flowers. It fell, too, upon the face of an old priest gorgeously robed in a jewelled cope. While taper-bearers and thurifers prostrated themselves before the Host in the monstrance, and a hidden choir began to sing very sweetly the Latin hymn, "O Salutaris Hostia," de Guyon had eyes for none of these, but only for the little group of worshippers who knelt by the chancel gates. Here were some twelve men and women, all seemingly absorbed in their devotions, all dressed very soberly, and for the most part in plain black. There was not a man amongst them that hid his hair in a wig; not a woman of the company that seemed to know of the coiffure à boucles badines, au berceau d'amour or au mirlison. Simplicity was the note of it all, and de Guyon, when he had shaken off his surprise, admitted that this simplicity was in pretty harmony with the sombre note of the chapel. He might have been watching so many monks and nuns who

had clothed themselves in lay dress-but timidly.

In the centre of the little company there knelt a girl whose face was hidden from him, but whose figure and pose were infinitely graceful. He was led to believe by the position she occupied that she must be the countess, and that the men at her side were the poets and philosophers who had come to the château to air their graces and to fill their stomachs. For the time being she was occupied entirely with her devotions, and when she raised the smallest of white hands, it was to bury her face in them while she prostrated herself before the upraised Host. Anon, however, the music died away suddenly; the last cloud of incense floated to the vaulted roof; the acolytes extinguished the candles before the altar, and the girl rose and passed down the chapel. De Guyon said to himself that the gossips were right. If a Madonna had come out of one of the pictures above the shrines, and had stood before him, lending flesh and blood to the painter's vision, he could scarce have been more surprised. Such a delicacy of form and feature he had hardly seen in all the six years he had been at Versailles; had never known eyes in which so much tenderness and emotion seemed to lie. He declared that her mouth was like a rosebud upon which the dew

had just fallen. She

held herself with the grace of a woman grown gray in practising the courtesies; yet her limbs had the roundness and suppleness of maturing youth. The black robe, falling from her shoulders prettily yet with

out panier, and set off only with lace at her

44

Our Friends, the Books. HAZLITT'S words ring consolingly in these different days, when we have not only ceased reading what is old, but when-a far greater misfortune-we have forgotten how to read "with all the satisfaction in our power," and with a simple surrendering of ourselves to the pleasure which has no peer. There are so many things to be considered now besides pleasure, that we have well-nigh abandoned the effort to be pleased. In the first place, it is necessary to keep up" with a decent proportion of current literature, and this means perpetual labor and speed, whereas idleness and leisure are requisite for the true enjoyment of books. In the second place, few of us are brave enough to withstand the pressure which friends, mentors and critics bring to bear upon us, and which effectually crushes anything like the weak indulgence of our own tastes. The reading they recommend being generally in the nature of a corrective, it is urged upon us with little regard to personal inclination; in fact, the less we like

her best adornment. She wore no jewels; not so much as a band

of gold upon her arm. Her brown hair was simply coiled upon her head. De Guyon said to himself that Legros, with all his art, could not have added to the effect of it. And with this thought he left the chapel to await her in the courtyard. (Dodd, Mead & Co. 75 c )From Max Pemberton's "The Little Huguenot."

it, the greater our apparent need. There are people in this world who always insist upon others remodelling their diet on a purely hygienic basis; who entreat us to avoid sweets or acids, or tea or coffee, or whatever we chance to particularly like; who tell us persuasively that cress and dandelions will purify our blood, that celery is an excellent febrifuge; that shaddocks should be eaten for the sake of their quinine, and fish for its phosphorus; that stewed fruit is more wholesome than raw; that rice is more nutritious than potatoes - who deprive us, in a word, of that hearty human

happiness which should be ours when dining. Like Mr. Woodhouse, they are capa ble of having the sweetbreads and asparagus carried off before our longing eyes, and baked apples provided as a substitute.

It is in the same benevolent spirit that kindhearted critics are good enough to warn us against the books we love, and to prescribe for us the books we ought to read. With robust