No Enemy (but Himself). By Elbert Hubbard. (G. P. Put-
nam's Sons.)—" The civilisation in our cities breeds disease,
and it breeds cowards We wear our nerves outside of cur clothes, and we tremble at the rustle of a mortgage. In our dreams we are haunted by a gigantic summons and complaint ; and when we awaken, about the only thing tbat will give relief is the hypodermic apparatus in the beautiful little red plush-box. Our forefathers went to battle with stouter_ hearts than we take to the dentist's." This peculiar and fantastic book would have
been all the better without smartnesses of this kind that are, however, peculiarly American,—for it should not be forgotten that, if England has its "John Oliver Hobbes," the Union has its "Julien Gordon," of whom the author of No Enemy (but Him- self) is, to some extent, a disciple. We have seldom, if ever, come across a more elaborately fantastical Work ; it might almost be placed on the same shelf with the prod° extravagances of Mr. John Davidson. Even the creator of Earl Lavender and Ninian Jamieson has not invented such a literary "crank" as John Hillard, the New York man about town, who takes so readily to the life of a tramp that he falls morally to the level he has so capriciously selected for himself. His adventures in this r6le are certainly of the most amusing and (of course) incredible character; and they would be as enjoyable as any- thing Mark Twain himself has written, if it were not for the tragedy with which they close. It is really quite impossible to forgive Mr. Hubbard for allowing John Hillard to drown the in- nocent and (ultimately) blind girl, who, disguised as a boy, has been so long his companion and guardian angel. Quite worthy of this extraordinary book are the illustrations, mostly por- traits, which adorn it. They have all the startling reality of photographs.
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