The .Toy of Youth. By Eden Phillpotts. (Chapman and Hall.
65.)—A great many modern novels and plays, including Mr. Phillpotts'e last book, are taken up with telling us of high, unfettered souls, misunderstood and despised by the callous Philistines of this world, who bunt and vote Conservative and scorn "Art" with a large "A." In The Joy of Youth there is much to be said for the Philistine; he is a kindly man whose charity begins at home, though it may also end there; he is faithful to his wife and, on the whole, to his God, and we confess that he has more of our sympathy than has the didactic, intolerable young painter who says of himself " They think I'm a bounder. But I'm not; I'm merely Greek." We hasten to assure him that, whether Greek or no, he is undeniably and obviously a bounder. Mr. Phillpotte's book consists chiefly of discourses on art and religion and various "isms." Here his admirable gift of oratory atones for the transparent shallowness of much of the discussion; it lends brilliancy also to the descriptions of Florence. But the portraits of his story would fill a gallery of caricature; one and all are so exaggerated as to be quite untrue to the world as we know it, and to do away with any idea of satire; for if satire wander too far from the paths of truth, it will swiftly degenerate into farce. The fact of the matter is that for a long time-we have wished that Mr. Phillpotts would turn his back on the Dartmoor of which, in our ingratitude, we grew a little weary, and, now that he has gratified our desire, we can only pray him to return there, where his powers at least find congenial scope, and his portraiture is founded on intimate observation.
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