tercourse of mortals. You know the kind of speech I mean. It is
vastly pleasant and easy to read; but I must decline to believe that any
young man could have the amazing fortune to meet fifteen pretty girls
who all had the trick of it. Still, that by no means lessened my
enjoyment of an entertaining volume, notice of which would be incomplete
without a word of praise for the illustrations of Mr. C. W. WILMSHURST,
a favourite black-and-white artist of mine, whose name is unaccountably
omitted from the title-page.

* * * * *

If DOROTHEA CONYERS knew as much about English syntax as she does about
Irish, and were as certain in the handling of a story as she is in the
conduct of a horse, _Old Andy_ (METHUEN) might be taken at a single
refreshing gallop. As it is, I advise the reader to tackle it piecemeal,
a brisk run here and there, followed by a considerable breather. For the
novel is put together in a scrambling fashion, being full of repetitions
of almost identical scenes and making very little definite way in a
forward direction. There are the usual Irish peasantry and farmers who
worship the horse for pecuniary and sentimental reasons, as the
Israelites worshipped the golden calf; the usual hunting people, who
either ride straight and are grimly sarcastic or talk very big and go
for the gates; and the usual English visitors, who astound by their
guilelessness and simplicity when confronted by aboriginal horse-copers
and native bogs and stone-walls. If cubbing be included, I should be
afraid to say how many meets are described in this book, or how many
hunt-breakfasts and heavy teas in Irish interiors--interiors of
cottages, of course, I mean--resulting in how many tricky deals and
harmless tosses in the heather and the mud. But if you follow my lead
there is plenty of pure joy in _Old Andy_, and the most and the best of
it perhaps is to be found in the remarks of grooms, servant-girls and
casual country folk, who as often as not have no kind of connection with
the thread of the tale. "'If meself an' the Masther wasn't rowlin' rocks
all the day yestherday, he would be within long ago,' replied the
covert keeper." "If there is one rabbit with a skinned nose there's a
hundther, an' they runnin' by mistake to the door they're used to be
at." Such scattered flowers of speech abound in a book whose very want
of construction is perhaps symbolical and a reflection of the charming
incoherence of