Irish Pride. By E. Noble. 1 vol. (Bevington and Co.)—This
book—written in very bad English, and by no means correct even in its grammar—is a volume of the most unmitigated trash it is possible to conceive, unredeemed by a single tolerable sketch of character, a line of vivid or even pleasing description of scenery, an incident of any interest, save the temporary disappearance of a young man— quite a stranger to the reader—in Australia, which we are twice assured is eighteen thousand miles away, or a touch of humour or pathos. Save a rude old man and the hero and heroine, who are little more than lay figures, every character is unprincipled, shallow, and frivolous to the last degree. As far as is compatible with such characteristics, the story is harmless enough ; but it is a stroke of genius to write a book about Ireland, at each a time as this, that is totally devoid of interest, and pictures only a fashionable life too shallow to have any faithfulness to nature.
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