FOUR NOVELS.* THE American lady who writes under the pseudonym
of "Julien Gordon," betrays her nationality by the occasional use of words and phrases unfamiliar to English readers. Thus she uses " placate " and "prosternate " where we should say " appease " and " prostrate ; " and one of her characters remarks, "Don't repeat my words, it gives me crispations," which is presumably an American neologism. But apart from these peculiarities, there is very little that is distinctively American in this book. It is yet another addition to that ever-growing library of cosmopolitan fiction of which the Americans are such industrious producers. The heroine, though American-born, married to a French noble and left early a widow, has lived so long with her husband's people that she has become more French than American. The principal male character, again, who bears a German name, is utterly unrepresentative of the active factors in American life. He discards polities at the first rebuff, and devotes himself to culture and flirtation. He is aristocratic in bearing, fastidious in temperament, and never in a hurry. There is an aristocratic tone about the nomenclature of the dramatis personae—Mount-Cuthbert, St. Clair, Ste.—while the brief passing allusions to American politics or their repre- sentatives at foreign Courts are by no means animated by a spirit of patriotic devotion to the great Republic. In so far as the story can be said to be a picture of life in America, the native, as opposed to the cosmopolitan personages, fare ill at the hands of "Julien Gordon." The heroine's father and brother are described as enveloped in a sluggish pall of apathy. The American women to whom we are introduced are nearly all of them intolerably vulgar and unlovely; the men are either sodden or chuckle-pated. Discontent that is anything but divine is the leading characteristic of all the principal characters. All things considered, then, we ought to be grateful that the denouement, instead of taking-the form of a portentous disaster, is of so humdrum a character. After skating about for a considerable time on thin ice, "Julien Gordon" surprises her readers by a wholesale concession to propriety. The heroine displays a Quixotic loyalty towards her woman-friend, and everything ends in the most approved and unhappy fashion imaginable. The book is very cleverly written, and though by no means cheerful reading, is not entirely pessimistic in character. There is, for example, something almost pathetic in the efforts made by the father and brother of the heroine to straighten themselves up, morally speaking, in her gracious presence. For Bertha Le Moyne is a personage of such distinction and charm, that we quite resent her falling in love with the handsome dilettante, Odenried. The chapter in which the mutual avowal is made, :s the weakest in the book ; indeed, some of Odenried's pro- testations are worthy of Claude Melnotte himself. But with this exception, the style is forcible and natural enough. The least agreeable featpre in "Julien Gordon's" method is her cruelty; in that she occasionally falls not far short of those whom one of her characters describes as "the French cads who write the brilliant novels of to-day." There is a passage * (1.) Marionettes. By " Julien Gordon." London: Gay and Bird.--1.2 Aladdin in London. By Fergus Hume, London : A. and 0. Black.—(3.) The O'Connor. of Ballinahinch. By Mrs. Hungerford. London: Heinemann,— (4.) Avenged on Society. By H. F. Wood. London; Heinemann. describing some old maids eating sweetmeats in the train, which is really calculated to make one's gorge rise. Indeed, throughout the entire book the authoress is merciless towards her own sex. Shrewd and observant she undoubtedly is, but as a writer, sadly lacking in the element of geniality.
Mr. Fergus Hume is still known to most readers as the author of The Mystery of a Hansom Cab, but he is doing his best to efface the association of his name with that crudely sensational work by efforts of a more ambitious nature. Aladdin in London hardly exhibits his powers in so favourable a light as some of his recent novels; but it is written with abundant vivacity, and a truly admirable disregard for the fashionable cult of whatsoever things are hideous, uncom- fortable, and depressing. His sole aim is to amuse and please his readers, his means are void of offence, and his success is considerable, though not complete. Mr. Fergus Hume has made it his aim to illustrate, through the medium of a fantastic romance, some of the possibilities for making history which reside in the control of a fortune not greater than that of half- a-dozen modern millionaires. The hero is a young Englishman whom the caprice of fortune has endowed with a magic talis- man, and through it the command of twenty millions of money. Wearying of a life of inaction, he plunges into political intrigues, and devotes his wealth to the restoration of an exiled princess to the throne-of an imaginary kingdom on the borders of the Black Sea. It is with the execution of this plot, and the treachery of the hero's false friend, that the story is principally concerned, the love-interest being of an entirely subsidiary character. Now, it seems to us that Mr. Fergus Hume has made a great mistake in representing this fortune to be of magical origin. The supernatural element is not needed at all, and in any case it requires a more subtle handling than that of Mr. Hume. Indeed, the story would have been all the more effective had it been more circumstan- tial. It is a spirited tour de force ; but the romance of a millionaire, or set of millionaires, who, from the sporting instinct, lend their support to a warlike movement in Europe, has yet to be written. Let us hope that it never may be translated into action.
In The O'Connore of Ballinaltinch, the irrepressible Mrs. Hungerford has given us one of those wonderful mixtures of flirtation, floods of tears, and indifferent grammar which have endeared her to the readers of two hemispheres. The fathers of her heroines are not unfrequently of a most unprepossessing character, by way of throwing the charms of their daughters into bolder relief, but in the present case The O'Connor is a perfect paragon of virtue; "if ever there was a faultless, tender, upright, honest man in all this wide sad world, it is our Dad." The special act of heroism on which the story may be said to hinge, is the selling by this virtuous but impoverished Irish landlord of his favourite hunter. However, this noble sacrifice, over which buckets of tears are shed by his lovely daughters, is not without its reward. The hunter is bought by Sir Willoughby Heriot, a magnificently ugly young English baronet quartered in the neighbourhood, who is smitten with acute calf-love for the second, the most beautiful, and the most Niobean of the Misses O'Connor. Sir Wil- loughby Heriot, we may observe, is an altogether remark- able young man. The O'Connor is described as the biggest man in the County of Cork ; but the baronet is both taller and bigger. As for his looks, let the heroine speak :— "His hair is dull and dead, and one feels sure that if his barber had not all but shaved him, it would be rough as an Irish terrier's. His eyes are small, his mouth huge, his nose goes heavenward." But just as The O'Connor is surpassed in stature by Sir Willoughby, so is the latter outdone in ugli- ness by Mr. Paddy Burke, the cousin and lover of the youngest Miss O'Connor. "He is as ugly a young man as ever the sun shone on. His hair is red, his eyes are small, his mouth might have done justice to the biggest cod-fish in Christendom. Yet it cannot be denied that he has a few points in his favour. He is six foot one, if anything, and his figure is a splendid thing, and his expression—well, that would have redeemed even an uglier man than himself ; when I have said that, I have said everything." For exquisite fatuity, that touch "if anything" would be hard to match even in Mrs. Hungerford's own works. But, in truth, the whole book is a carnival of radiant inepti- tude. What could be more delicious than the following bit of description ? "Here, in merry June, the trees are at their best. Some pale in tint, some dark, some sombre to a fault, and some a glad light green,' as old Chaucer has it. That,
' glad' is so pretty I" Nineteen times out of twenty one laughs at, rather than with, the author of "Molly Bawn." But we gladly make exception in favour of an excellent piece of narrative on p. 31. The speaker is Mickey-the-Saint, a village celebrity, evidently drawn from the life :—
'May be, now,' says Mickey `ye didn't hear o' Dan Murphy an' his pig ? Well, ye know, miss, dear, he's not cat there, is ould Dan, an' fogs, when he foun' he had to go to Cork last week, he jist tied up the ould sow to his bed-post, an' locked the cabin, an' away wid him for a week's journey (he walked it, iviry stip—a matter of fifty mile), an' fiver remimbered that the poor crather would want her bit an' sup whilst he was away ! An', o' coorse, miss, whin he came home, the poor misfortunate divil of a pig was, to spake politely, no more ! An' thin, me dear, sich a screechin' an' a hilla-bulloo as he sit up ! Why, ye'd hear him in Clonbree, an' now he's goin' the round o' the counthry wid paper from Father John below gittin' a shillin' or two iverywhere to make up the price of another pig. I saw the maather give him halfa.-crown 'ere yesterday."
Visitors to the Killarney Lakes may remember a similar case of a man who for upwards of ten years religiously collected subscriptions from all who passed his cottage towards the rebuilding of a stable which had been blown down. Mrs. Hungerford's anecdote is not only typical, but it is well told,
and shows what she might do if she would condescend to write less about the " gintry " and more about the people. But then her immense American clientele would probably rebel.
Mr. H. F. Wood shows in his new book that the qualities which make for success in one department of fiction may entirely fail to lift their possessor out of the rut of mediocrity in others. The Passenger from. Scotland Yard was -a capital and exciting specimen of that class of " mystery " or
detective romance in which M. Gaboriau is the most accom- plished living worker. In Avenged on Society, we encounter
Mr. Wood in the character of a novelist with a purpose—of a rather vague character, it is true, but still a purpose—and the falling-off is remarkable. If we do not misinterpret the author, it is his intention to satirise the invertebrateness of modern society, as shown by its readiness to elevate on the
martyr's pedestal any criminal who has been lucky enough to escape the last penalty of the law. The flabby humanitarianism a the age is undoubtedly a good subject for a modern Juvenal, but Mr. Wood's method of wielding the lash is anything but effective. The atmosphere of mystery which envelops the
opening chapters is speedily dispelled, and the story, shorn of all movement and interest, dies away in a succession of tedious -episodes. The diary form, which is that adopted by the author, needs skilful handling; but Mr. Wood's style is in- sufferably prolix, and at times quite incoherent. Incidents Like that of a turbulent public meeting, or the engagement of a staff to run a newspsper, are treated at inordinate length. The dialogue is inflated, and the narrative at once diffuse and full of gape. And, lastly, from beginning to end there is hardly a single character calculated to inspire moderate liking.
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