A FOOL OF NATURE.* IN A Fool of Nature Mr.

Julian Hawthorne embodies the perenially fascinating conception of the boor transformed into the man by a touch of human affection. And to this primary motive he attaches a secondary intention of hardly less uni- versal interest,—that of rebuking the wisdom of the world by the spectacle of a simple heart answering true to the instinctive promptings of honour, humility, and tenderness. Murgatroyd Whiterduce is the lubberly heir of a family notorious for its superfine and freezing refinement. He is incapable of educa- tion; he is ill at ease in a dress-coat ; he is expected to marry a clever and pretty girl called Isabella Sharingbourne, but he has not an idea of how to comport himself as a lover ; he feels that neither his father nor his mother care for him— but, being as completely without bitterness as he is com- pletely without guile, he never doubts that everything is his own fault. One of the wits of the St. Quentin Club hits the right nail on the head when he says :—" Do you know,

Murgatroyd never impressed me as being a genuine Whiterduce ? I've always felt there was something—

I don't know — human about him !'" Murgatroyd, in fact, is not a Whiterduce ; and a strange story—which we are not going to tell—lies behind the secret of his identity. The boy's understanding of his wretched isola- tion comes to a climax at the dinner given in honour of his coming of age. His health has been drunk—indeed, in a fit of gaucherie he has drunk it himself—and it is his duty to return thanks. Looking round for sympathy and encourage- ment he meets the glance of his fiancee, which completes in a flash the revelation that has slowly been coming upon him :—

" In the midst of the lights, the luxury, the compliments, the cries of encouragement, he saw with a flash of relentless insight that he stood alone, the object of thinly veiled contempt and aversion. There was no one to whom he could look for counten- • A Fool of Nature. By Julian Hanthorne. London: Downey and 00. aline; to the girl who was to be his wife, the moat intimate guest of his heart and soul—to Isabella—least of all. All this, welded together and pointed by that glance from Isabella, pierced him like a sword. The pain took away his bashfulness. It was too poignant even for tears. He stood up, slowly and heavily, and faced them all. guess I oughtn't to be here,' he said, I'm no use to you except to laugh at. I don't feel as if I belonged here. It seems queer I should have been born the way I am. I'm not like any of you I've tried to be, but I don't think I really want to be. I know you're better than me, but still I—well, I guess you don't care to hear- this—I guess I'd better—Excuse me, please ; good-night ! ' Such was Murgatroyd's birthday-speech to the guests who bad come to celebrate his majority. There was not the faintest trace of animosity in his tone, or even of grievance. It was simply a. painfully guileless blurting out of what he believed were facts. It was unpardonable, it was atrocious ; but it is safe to say that Murgatroyd's speech produced a stronger effect than he had any idea of or than any one present anticipated. As he spoke the last words he pushed back his chair and went awkwardly towards the door. No one spoke or stirred except Mr. Whiterduce, who got up and opened the door for the young man, and laid his hand on his shoulder as he went out, and said kindly, Good-night, my boy!," (pp. 48-9.)

From the uncongenial birthday-banquet Murgatroyd goes out to a drinking-saloon in a back street, where a group of Bohemian companions are expecting him. The greeting he gets from them is so warm and genial, so unmistakably hearty and heartfelt, that he breaks down and cries like a child :—

" Murgatroyd sat for a few minutes, staring straight before him, the corners of his mouth twitching. Was it the difference between this greeting and that which he had lately experienced at his own table that affected him ? Nothing so melts the heart as the glow of loving kindness following close upon the frigid. phosphorescence of selfish convention. It was too much for Murgatroyd, whose soul had been searched as never before that evening. He suddenly dropped his head upon his arms on the table and burst out crying." (p. 76.)

But the influence of friendly company revives him, and he is described as "blossoming forth luxuriantly and revealing a. host of companionable and frolicsome qualities." For,-

" His social instincts were as thorough as those of a pet New- foundland dog—he responded with every fibre to a human touch. He understood and reacted to whatever was natural ; it was only the artificial that embarrassed and silenced him."

The scene that follows is like an admirable painting by a Dutch

master. The company consists of the German host and hostess, Heinrich and Frau Pilsen, who keep their guests and customers in very good order in the main ; Horace Maydwell, a big, humorous, self-reliant, and very human person, who was a fashionable doctor until he cast himself out of fashion by pulling Mr. Whiterduce's nose at the St. Quentin Club ; hfaydwell's friend and ally, the astrologer Gabriel Negus; Polydore Scamell, a teacher of singing who might "have served as an ideal model of Don Quixote ; " and last but not least, Letitia Valentine, the vivacious prima donna of the Opera House, who was " neither reckless nor vicious," but took "a liberal view of human nature and the proprieties."

Each one of these is introduced by a graphic fall-length description, which sets a strong and vital personality very vividly before us, and being drawn with abundant verve and humour, does not obstruct the movement of the scene, which. is full of rollicking life—and coarse and vulgar enough in some of its features, but neither vulgar nor coarse in its sugges- tion as a whole. For AI argatroyd's simple and wholesome character is the centre of the group, and his ingenuous self-.

revelations call oat the sympathy and respect of his corn.- panions, each one of whom regards him with honest affection.

While Murgatroyd is enjoying himself at the ' Hobby- Horse' an explanation is taking place at home between Mr.

and Mrs. Whiterdnce. Murgatroyd's enfant terrible speech,. and an unguarded remark that escaped in the coarse of dinner from Mrs. Whiterduce (whose self-control had never been known to fail before), have brought the husband and wife to.

the point of clearing up a misunderstanding that goes back to. the days of their honeymoon. The truth about Murgatroyd (known always to the husband, but only suspected by the-

wife) is confessed between them at last, but the tale is full a surprises for both. Mr. Whiterduce, who had always thought. he had good reason to doubt his wife's fidelity, learns that he has wronged her completely by his suspicions ; and Mrs._ Whiterduce, understanding at last the reason of her husband's• coldness through all the years of her married life, believes that a new spring of love and joy is before her. Murgatroyd,

is not her son ; but now that she knows that her own child died. and that her husband only foisted another upon her because be believed her to be too bad to deserve loyal dealing from him, she feels able to forgive everybody and love the poor boy, who has been even more cruelly wronged than herself.

Waking late next morning Mnrgatroyd is going out to keep an appointment with his reputed father, as Mrs. Whiterduce comes downstairs, and this little scene takes place between the lady and the lout :—

" ' Oh, good morning, ma'am. I got late. I've got to meet father. Good-bye.'—' Wait a moment, dear.' Murgatroyd stopped short ; she had not spoken to him in that tone nor called him dear,' since he could remember. He stared at her. She did not look the same as usual ; there was an expression in her eyes, and about her mouth—a tender, soft expression—that gave him a sudden ache in the back of his throat. It was a very different feeling from the one he had had the night before, when he glanced round the table for some sympathetic face, and had seen hers, still and cold and remote—a mother without love or motherliness.

• Why, mother ! ' he said, in a husky voice.—' Yes, dear, call me mother. You shall feel you have a mother while I live—a real, true, loving mother ! ' She came gently up to Irim, put her delicate hands on his shoulders, drew down his head, and kissed him. Why, mother! ' he said again, with a gulp and a whimper this time, 'Why do you—what is it ? ' She

looked at him, softly and tenderly. You're so beautiful .and lovely,' quavered he. I never knew it before. You make me feel so good—.'—' God bless you, my dear, and help me to make you always good and happy. Now I'll give you a message. Tell papa, with my dearest love, mind ! tell him not to stay away longer than he can help ; I want him, and tell him not to forget what I told him before he went away. Don't forget about my love; and tell him I'm very happy—happier than I ever was—and that I'm sure we shall be always happier and happier. Can you remember all that ? It seems a good deal to remember, doesn't it? and yet it is a simple thing in itself?— ' I'll remember it; I'll never forget it, no fear of that ! I couldn't if I tried. It's the best thing I ever heard, and I guess father'll think so too. Is this you, really ? You dear mother. Well, I—well, good-by!' " (p. 117.) Mnrgatroyd does not forget the message. But neither does he ever deliver it. When he gets to Whiterdnee's office, he finds the man he believes to be his father dead in his chair,— murdered, and fallen forward, as though asleep, over the table. When he goes home to tell the tale to the woman he believes to be his mother, he finds her dead also, of heart- complaint, accelerated by great emotions too suddenly let loose. We do not wish to tell the plot of the novel, only to indicate the motive. As bit by bit the truth of his own relation to this man and woman ho has called father and mother, and something of the truth of their relation to one another, is revealed to Murgatroyd,—as he learns the facts which, in his own words, make all his life heretofore that of an actor in a play, so that all he has thought and done has been " a big sell," and he has now nothing " to remember or to think of that he has any business with,"—in short, that he is " nothing :" then the recollection of that little scene with Mrs. Whiterduce on the morning of the fatal day, stands out for him as the one true moment and experience of his life, for the value of which he can still live and be a man. He will not entertain the idea of paying hush-money to keep his story dark. If it is true, let it stand. But this also is true, —the woman who said she would be a mother to him, loved him, and that shall stand also :— " 'When she said she loved me, she must have meant it. There couldn't have been any humbug in that. It's no matter if I call 'her " mother " before you fellows; and she said, " I'll be a true loving mother to you." She said that the last time she spoke to me. She kissed me without my ever expecting such a thing. She must have meant it, and if I wasn't really her own son she must have meant it all the more, for, of course, if I bad been her own son she would have cared for me, as a matter of course, without thinking anything particular about it. Isn't that so ? Tell me if it isn't, you fellows, because Her loving me was the only thing I care about ! ' be cried passionately, tears breaking through his voice. She did love me ! She did ! It was what made a man of me ! That's why I've been working and studying so as to deserve it. If that was a lie, everything's a lie ! You're liars ! And I won't live ! Tell me ! Tell me ! Tell me the truth.' His voice, with its savage eagerness, rang in the room, where the others sat so silent. His face looked dark and red, and his head was thrust forward. His fists were doubled, and his half-bent arms vibrated spasmodically as the words went from him. But it was not for nothing that he had governed and disciplined himself these later months. Even at this headlong moment he made an effort over himself like that of an athlete struggling to be free from the constriction of a serpent. With a downward drive of the arms he seemed to thrust the savage to his feet. He stood panting for a moment, then turned, walked to his chair, and sat down in it.

beg your pardon, fellows,' said he,' I'm not her son. Remember ! I'm a beast, trying to make myself a man. If you only knew how hard it was But I mean to be a man for her sake, though I'm not her son.'—' By God, old fellow, you are a man ! You've got the stuff!' said Polydore, with emphasis. Why I'd no notion of this ! ' " (p. 191-2-3.)

In all that relates to Murgatroyd and his friends who fre- quent the Hobby-Horse,' the temper and texture of this novel has more in common with the genius of the German literature of the earlier part of the century than with the rather chilly American literature of the present time. In its humour and its pathos, as well as in its scenes and its in- cidents, there is certainly a kind of coarseness ; but the point

of interest is that the coarseness of it is the elementary coarseness of nature, out of which the two great refiners—the love that is not lust and the art that is not artifice—can evolve all good and sweet and wholesome things. There is a whole volume of significance merely in the quaint and, to

English ears, improbable term of endearment, " Old Sweet- ness," by which Horace Maydwell generally addresses Murga- troyd. But other parts of the novel are modern American enough in the smartness of their tone and complexion ; so much so that the mixing of the two veins produces at times an efftct of incongruity which detracts from the artistic merit of what in essentials we do not hesitate to call an extremely fine book.