THE TALK OF THE TOWN.* Tins novel gives no token

of its authorship. Its title is commonplace and unattractive, and, as far as we can see, wholly inappropriate. Generally it wants that appearance of expecting a success which of course many bad novels have, but which a good novel is seldom without. That this is a good novel we hesitate to say, but it is certainly a remarkable one. We took it up expecting little but weariness, thought at the end of the first volume that we had made a great discovery, in the middle of the second felt inclined to throw the treasure into the fire, and finally arrived at a judgment which was a compromise between these two feelings.

The story opens with a scene of boy-life in a country house, which is given in a very vigorous and natural way, and which introduces as to the three lads whose adventures are to be the subject of the story,—Bertie, George, and Stephen, sons of Mr. Brian and Lady Adelaide Newinareb. Brian Newmaroh is a clever, bitter-tongued old man, unanimously disliked by his neighbours, but not without a heart; Lady Adelaide a weak, sentimental woman, half-loving, half-selfish. Here is a little bit about them, reminding us, as our author often does, of Thackeray. It will serve to introduce the heroine as well:— " ',I suppose she is quite ignorant, poor orphan! she never knew a mother's care. Poor Edmund was hor only friend, and who can say that he will ever see her again ?'—' And a pretty fair friend to have, too,' the husband remarked. [Ile was a bachelor lord, enormously rich.]—' Scripture,' Lady Adelaide continued, tells as that the wind is ever tempered to the shorn lamb, Brian.'—' Mighty bad farming they

must have had there,' he growled, clasping his knees, and rocking to and fro in his chair before the fire. Now, who ever heard of shearing a lamb, I'd like to know 2'—' Oh! Brian, Brian, remember whose words those are that you mock at.'—' Well! I an't laughing at your holy things. 'Twas Sterne that wrote it, they tell me ; but I don't know."

The " shorn lamb " is little Helen Mallorie, whose character from childhood till we part with her in middle age is drawn with an art and a truth that seem to us quite uncommon, especially in the genuine consistency, which is anything but the consistency of sameness, with which the character is maintained. The truth is that the little Helen,—and there is much skill in the way in which we are made to discern it,—blameless and harmless little creature as she seems, has no heart, only a very dangerous imitation of one. It is the second son, George, whose fate is to be entangled with hers. He comes back from College to find the pale, demure, little girl grown up into a beautiful young woman.

A sort of silent love-making, to which the lad is too shy to give expression, goes on ; her self-conscious composure, his timidity, are capitally given. The scene on the island where she pretends to be asleep, and he debates with himself whether he shall kiss her, is particularly good. Finally, " he drew away, consoled to think that it was his mighty self-denial kept his lips away. I was afraid,' he should have said." And afterwards "he formulated for his vanity's sake that ' Women are a bore,' but, ' I might have had one little kiss,' he added, to his very inmost self." The elders, however, take alarm, and Helen goes off to an aunt. George is in despair. " lie came to think "—he was destined for the family living—" that it would not be so bard to walk with those who had adopted the Roman Obedience,—in the matter of priestly celibacy, at any rate." He will ask the advice of Mr. Curry, the rector, who is a widower with nine children. This is the advice that he gets :—

"' Well, about marriage ' • it's a serious thing.' He mused for a while, and added innocently, Well, boy, if you ask me—what with journeys to the sea-side, and the doctor's bill, and that grasping female, the monthly nurse I mean, boy, she was an intemperate woman, from Fettergay. Ah ! you didn't know her. Yes, each of those emergencies must have cost forty pounds, George. And then there was poor dear Eliza's eldest sister. Of course, I couldn't refuse to have her here— always glad to have her here, for poor Eliza's sake—and what with her flys from the station, and flys back, and the flymon's beer! Ah! myboy, I don't know—don't you think that you ought to consider a while, eh?"'

George gave a pitying smile of acquiescence :

"' Yes,' Mr. Curry added, scratching the back of his neck thoughtfully with a corner of Jeremy Taylor, poor dear Eliza's sister was a trial in many ways. I can't say I asked her, and yet she ended her days in that front room where you saw the window open, George. Four different complaints, boy, and the doctor's bill ! Ah ins !—yes ; she bore it with a little show of temper at times.' " Soon afterwards Helen is very well married, as all her friends think, to a husband twenty years older than herself, and a thought too much devoted to books ; but of a fine, manly character, and wealthy withal. After a year or so, in the course of which a daughter is born, George is invited to visit 'the house ; and then comes in the interest in which our novelists find a cheap and easy excitement for their readers, the interest of an unlawful love. That, indeed, is an element of which the use,—a sparing use it will always be in good hands,—must be conceded to the novelwriter. But he must keep the highest purpose steadfastly before him, and he must manage it with supreme skill. We must frankly say that the writer before us does not satisfy these conditions. Ile keeps, indeed, the interest at a very high pitch ; this we have seldom seen more efficiently done ; but we consider that it is distinctly an unwholesome, though we would not say an immoral interest. It is not a good thing for any reader to be kept in suspense throughout a volume or so as to whether two persons will or will not commit adultery. We think it right to qualify the recommendation which this detailed notice of the book might seem to imply, by a very distinct warning that a great deal of it is anything but profitable reading. At the same time, it is due to the writer to say that he does approve the better cause, that he means virtue to have the best of it, and that virtue does get the best of it in the end. Nothing in the book is more skilfully managed than this. Helen actually elopes, and then a strange combination of feelings—her heartlessness, her fear of consequences, a sort of feeble conscience that she keeps, aud her instincts of affection for her child—comes in to save her. She turns with disgust from her lover, flies from him, and throws herself upon the mercy of her husband. The picture of George, penniless and loveless, with a fierce conscience which he has never been able to silence upbraiding him, is conceived in a very fine spirit. He ends his days as a missionary priest, haunted in his last hours by the vision of the doubly faithless Helen. Her we

leave quietly contented, after ruining two lives, with an existence of which half is devoted to religion and half to the care of digestion. Meanwhile, Bertie, who has entered a regiment of Hussars, pur sues his own career. His fortunes are the subject of a story that is practically distinct, less ambitiously conceived than that which we have described, but told with equal skill and far less open to objection. Handsome, good-natured, the spoiled darling of men and women, not so much wanting in brains as wholly incapable of reflection, he goes the downward . road with a speed far oute-eipping the pace of more vicious men. The thoughtless breathless hurry of his life as he passes from one excitement to another is very well rendered ; the rapidly changing scenes, ball-room and hunting field and steeplechase, being full of truth and colour. In sporting descriptions indeed the writer seems quite at home; the military steeplechase and Sir Thomas Plungiuton's visit to his trainer are especially good. Bertie loves,

or rather is loved. Nelly Vaue, a beautiful dunseuse, adores him, sells everything she has to get him out of prison, and finally

marries him. In her fidelity and devotion she contrasts with Helen, but Bertie's love—and perhaps there is melancholy truth about this ordering of the story—ends as disastrously as his brother's.

Most readers will probably be surprised when they come to the

story of the third brother, Stephen. He, too, is a soldier, and can ride the winning horse iu a steeplechase ; but he is " converted," and, having returned safe from the Crimea, gives himself up to such good works as home missions, training schools, and the like. It shows a genuine versatility of power that so different a life is told perfectly naturally and without a suspicion of bad

taste.

On part of the plot of this novel we have already passed a serious censure. It has also some minor faults ; the convection of the three stories is not skilfully managed ; the scenes are overcrowded with characters, episode occur that lead to nothing. The great merit of the work lies in the execution of its details, which is sustained at a very high level of excellence. In pathos it is not very strong, but of humour, wit, keen observation of men and things, and a peculiarly fine irony there is plenty. We marked as we read a number of good things of which we will give a few specimens.

Here is a peep at the mess-house of Berty's regiment :—

" To-day there was nothing to be done, and nobody was astir as yet, except an officer, apparently on duty, for one saw him through the open window of the ante-room, fast asleep on the sofa."

In the garden of Mr. Felton, a travelled connoisseur of indifferent taste,

"There was a temple to fraternal piety, too, at one end of the garden, but it was generally locked, and held nothing but potatoes in those days."

Mrs. St. Cyprian reproaches Berty for neglecting her : "' Now, what on earth is a good thing to say to her,' thought Berty. 'I can't remember her Christian name, for the life of me. What was it that woman at Shawick said ? Ah ! yes.'—' You offer me the friendship of a true woman, I believe,' he lisped. ' Will you choose me in the cotillon every time—what is her Christian name ?—and wo will be friends again, won't we ?'—' I will this once, child. Lot we see, what flower will you be 2—I shall be a gardenia.'—' I think I'll be a cauliflower,' warbled the young reprobate, opening his perfect and silly mouth to laugh."

The following is very true, contrasting the two brothers in trouble :

"He [George] had a greater number of cunning ways of torturing himself than Belly had. For so poor had George hitherto been, that settling the greater questions in his brain was the only pastime he could afford all these years. Hence he was a wonderfully subtle thinker in his way ; but for many reasons it didn't take Berty long to run through his stock of thoughts ; he never had gone to the root of things."

There is nothing here superlatively good, but any one who reads many novels will acknowledge that writing which keeps up fairly well to about the level which these extracts indicate is not often to be met with. In conclusion, we would give our author a word or two of advice. Let him write another novel, let him put into it as good work as ho has into this, let him contrive to show his undoubted knowledge of men and power in describing passion without traversing dangerous ground, and we will promise him a praise and a recommendation which shall be without reserve. Mrs. St. Cyprian reproaches Berty for neglecting her :