FICTION.

THE OLD MAN'S YOUTH.*

THE present writer is obliged to make the shameful oonfeesion

that, not being an habitual novel reader, he was new to Mr. de Morgan's work. It is, therefore, not for him to say whether this book, unfortunately left unfinished by the author, but excel- lently patched together by his wife, is more or less vigorous, more or less patiently contrived than Mr. de Morgan's five or six other works. It is, at any rate, obviously and entirely delightful, possessing in especially one quality very dear to the present

writer—it is long. In The Old Man's Youth we have to get back into an atmosphere of gentlemen who, like Mr. Mantalini,

went about in side-whiskers and flowered dressing-gowns, and ladies two of whom with their crinolines completely filled a brougham. It is only in a novel of some length that we can sufficiently adjust ourselves to such conditions, to see these people, not as puppets sporting fashions as attractive as im- probable, but as men and women possessing human thoughts and aspirations. Not that character-drawing is exactly the book's chief merit. We never somehow get very close to any of the characters. Even at the end of the book they are for

the most part old family friends rather than passionate inti- mates ; but, on the other hand, with the exception, perhaps, of a delightful old nurse called Varnish, there is not a single stock character in the book. This gives the reader an extra- ordinary sense of the author's resource and ease. Another excellent feature of the book is the abundance of verbal felicities —the kind with which Alice in Wonderland, for instance, is filled.

The narrator, Eustace John, and his father are discussing his step-mother's dislike of consulting a certain doctor who she feels sure knew a long-buried secret of hers :-

" 'I wish to heaven she would see some one. Not Scammony, as she has some fancy against him, but some proper man for a case of this sort.'

Has he any ideas about the cause of it ? '

Dr. Hammond ? He may have, but he won't say anything. He's a cautious bird, for all he looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. However I' This was a way my father had of dismissing a subject, and he further showed that he had done so by embarking on an abstract speculation as to whether an incautious bird would look as if butter would so melt, and how it would show itself."

Mrs. Pasco does consent to see the doctor in the end :-

" She was rather stiff and short with him, I thought, seeing that it was no fault of his that Papa sent for him. . . . Well, I can't recollect exactly what she said, but it was what I should call miffy.'

What sort of miffy 1 ' I asked. For I was curious to know.

Much-enduring miffy,' said Grace. Acquiescence-under- compulsion miffy. I've-got-to-answer-and-I-suppose-I-must mity, . That sort of miffy I ' ' I see.' I really did, being accustomed to complex adjectives of this sort. And. what did little Scammony say ? "

As for the story, it is ambling and charming, but is blemished by one piece of melodrama—a murder ! However, so benign is the tone of the book that even a murder seems a lady-like affair. Perhaps if Mr. de Morgan had lived he would have out it out. Such a book will give the modem reader, and we • The Old Man's Youth. By WWI= do Horgan. London: Heinemann. hope the modern novelist, a great respect for the technique and ability of a past generation.

RBADABLIB Novara.—The House that Jane Built. By E. Maria Albaneel. (Wald, Lock. 7s. net.)—The title is rather misleading, inasmuch as Jane is quite unable to make a career for herself and has to return to her father's house and to the care of a sympathetic stepmother. The story is concerned with the fall of an ancient family and the rise of a member of the " new rich," Jane being the daughter of the latter gentleman. The book is easily and amusingly written, but it must be owned that the French spoken by Mme. Caret, the keeper of a curiosity shop, is of a singular and quite original variety.—The Haunted Vintage. By Marjorie Bowen. (Odhams Press. 9s. net.)— In the eighteenth century the ancient gods of the harvest apparently made a yearly visitation to the vineyards of the prison and lunatic asylum of Eberbaoh belonging to the Duke of Nassau. Miss Bowen gives an account of their effect on the fortunes of the courtly commandant, the reigning Duke, and the lady over whom the two men quarrel. The novel contains much charming description of the forest which forms the background.—The Root of All Evil. By J. S. Fletcher. (Hodder and Stoughton. 8s. 6d. net.)—The story of a Yorkshire girl whose genius for making money is only equalled by the hardness and unforgiving nature of her disposition. The account of her acquisition of riches and her establishment of a Village shop is more interesting than that of her downfall, which partakes a little too much of the nature of Mrs. Turner's Cautionary Stories.