NOVELS.

THE SOUNDLESS TIDE.t

Alas. CRICHTON, who has already made her mark as a writer of excellent stories for children, now appeals for the first time in The Soundless Tide to the grown-up reader. Irish, or, to be more precise, Anglo-Irish, fiction had at the outset a vigorous representative of Ulster in William Carleton, but a long period intervened during which it was practically monopolised by the South and West. In the last twenty or thirty years, however, there has been a considerable revival of romance in the north of Ireland both in prose and poetry. "Moira O'Neill" has taught us that there are glens as well as flax-mills in Antrim, and we welcome in Mrs. Crichton a pro- mising recruit to the ranks of the interpreters of Ulster on its non-commercial side.

Novelists of to-day generally make their election between high and low life, and, though the advance of democracy in politice is formidable and aggressive, the former remains an extremely popular theme. In one enormously successful novel of recent times there is no one of lower rank than an exceptionally elegant lady's-maid,. In another, at a garden • The Customs of Old England. By F. B. Snell. London : Methuen and . [6s.] t Th. Soundleas Tido. By F. F., Crichton., T.Joudon ; Edward Arnold. [Se.]

party given et one of the stately homes of England, itie alleged that•one of the guests is said to have "wiped the Duchess's cream from his moustache." Mrs. Crichton in this regard shows an absolutely rigorous impartiality. Her book deals in equal detail, and with equal sympathy, with gentle and simple. There is no desire to exalt the one at the expense of the other. But

the best intentions in the world are powerless to affect the result, so far as the impressiveness of the portraiture is concerned, and we have found the servants and gardeners, the small shopkeepers and their wives and daughters, in The Soundless Tide far more interesting than the recital of the doings of their better-born masters and patrons. The main plot is concerned with the painful awakening of a middle-aged married woman to the fact that, having married without love, she has fallen in love with her husband's cousin and agent, a man young enough to be

her son, who lives in the same house and is himself in love with her own niece. The death of her husband, a chivalrous, unselfish soldier, fills her for awhile with remorse; but when young Randal Ward announces that he must leave Connswater and start afresh in a house of his own, she reveals the state of her

feelings and exposes herself to a humiliating rejection. By a somewhat artificially-contrived coincidence, Patty Maxwell, the niece, sees her aunt and Randal Ward together, entirely misinterprets the young man's attitude, and a period of mutual misunderstanding is prolonged by the reticence of the prin- cipals, honourable on the part of the young people, but

discreditable on that of Mrs. Ward.

The situation, apart from a certain clumsiness in the con- triving of incidents, is handled with delicacy and tact, and the author succeeds up to a certain point in enlisting our sympathies for the fastidious, witty, and unhappy Mrs. Ward, who always does the right thing in the long run, but is too often the victim of impulse and a nimble tongue. Her husband,

a slow-witted man but the soul of honour and unselfishness ; Patty, a gracious ingenue ; and Randal Ward, a genial and

straightforward young country gentleman, are all well drawn, but there is nothing out of the common in their portraiture. The strength of the book lies in the vivid pictures of cottage interiors and the racy talk of their occupants. Mrs. Crichton's mastery of the County Down dialect is truly admirable. The "screech of the dawn" for daybreak is familiar in the south of Ireland, but "cock-shout" has the added merit of brevity. For shrewd mother-wit Mrs. McKillop, the wife of a small tradesman, bears the palm. Here are some of her sayings:— Of doctor and patients : "For me own part, A don't like a docthor till be too positive. McKillop says A still select me own complaint, an' then impose it on the docthor ; but whether or no, we've always managed to conthrive a cure between us I " Of deserts: "There's very few doesn't think in their heart

they deserve all the good they get. Did ye niver notice how the most o' people thinks they've some way earned the good that comes till them, an' yet says that all the bad's sent." Of a genial but explosive officer ; "A mind him well, a fine, big, tall gentleman and a lovely swearer. The grooms in the yard used to say it done them good only to hear him

cursin'."

Lastly we may quote from the conversation, so eloquent of

the luxury of woe, between Mrs. Logan and her friends on the evening of the day of Colonel Ward's funeral:—.

'"To think o' the Colonel beire tuk ! An' him that always seemed that young an' lusty for his years ! He come welkin' in here on the top o' health no later than last week. Ochanee-oh ! ' There was a long responsive growl from William Dugan, and Mrs. Logan waxed more melancholy still. Him an' Robert Dunwoody's a'nt out o' Tullyroe—both swep' away in the wan week ! A wonder which o' us'll get our call next ! ' William Dugan groaned again, and there was a hysterical whimper from Davy Logan's wife. What ailed thon woman out o' Tully-roe 2' demanded Mrs. McComb. It come on her very sudden, whativer it was. A heard it was information o' the brain." Dear oh ! ' said Mrs. McComb's awed tones, while strangled sobs sounded from the shadow by the wall. Quit now, Lizzie !' cried Mrs. Logan sharply to her

daughter-in-law. Whatever else ye die of, it'll not be thou!' It was a very satisfactory death, by what A hear,' broke in Mrs. McKillop, 'she always had the name o' bein' very close, but all the same it 'ud surprise ye the sum she left. The husband come very well out of it. Yell mind him, William,—a wee blsck-avised fella. wr a soort o tuck in the back ? " Aye, A mind. him well,' responded William Dugan. He was a widda-man when she got him. A still wondered what she seen in him." She seen a man in him,' replied Mrs. McKillop grimly. Yon's the only reason many. a man gets his wife. Women's loth to be left sittn'.'

William Dugan thoughtfully nodded his head. 'Aye, but he wee- a poor match for the like o' her. WP all thou money she might ha' fell in someone betther. He was just what A wud oall s. eritthee Well, there's always eritthere for critthers,' observed. Mrs. MoKillop profoundly, 'ye'd wondher how few o' them comes short."

But it would be a great mistake to suppose that the picture of the Ulster folk given in these pages is unsympathetic. Hard lives do not always make hard hearts, and the tragic love idyll of Mary Ellen Logan furnishes Mrs. Crichton with many opportunities for illustrating the devotion, the tender- ness, and the nobility of heart that lurk beneath rough manners. and homely exteriors.