Deep Sea. By Francis Brett Young. (Martin Secicer. 63.) —Mr.
Young plays the game, if we may be allowed tbe phrase, in his profession as a novelist he meves in a world of his own. In direct opposition, it would eeetn, to those realiste who are wont to catalogue exactly nit features of a certain house (the uglier the better), in a certain (street, in a-certain town, and to disguise it under a too transparent pseudonym; he leaves us to search in vain for the name, or even for any accurate description, of hit little fishing-village, which wo covet, since "where the eontiiiOn sloped to the cove there Were bushes of gorse aflame like those of the hillside road, and the Morning skies were tender as words of love." _The inhabitants of this earthly paradise are less idyllic than their surrohnd. ings ; and we are plunged at once into the domestic affairs. Of a untitled and Childless couple, who loathe eaels other With a stinging hatred. M. Young is amazingly fond of all thatle grimand unlovahle His men and women; though trtlt
. . . .
enough, are chosen from among the harshest of humanity. He is, with all his brilliancy and freedom from convention, the apostle of those who make unhappy marriages, of those for whom " youth is a blunder, manhood is a struggle, old age a regret."
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