the Irish mind.

* * * * *

It is my painful experience that, when a novelist sets out to write a
tale of English country life, the better he is at the job the more
sombre is the finished product. Mr. GEORGE STEVENSON is very good indeed
at his job; he has sincerity and power, and a certain austere aloofness
that will take him far; and the result is that _Jenny Cartwright_ (LANE)
is about as gloomy a story as ever I read. Above everything else, what I
noticed about this book was its freedom from all straining after effect.
Whatever takes place, I fancy Mr. STEVENSON saying, do not let us be
sentimental about it. Half the characters in the book seem to come by
violent ends; of the two chief women, one commits suicide and the other
is hanged. Mr. STEVENSON, one can only suppose, speaks of life as he
finds it. There are really two stories, that of _Beatrice Barrington_,
the faithless wife of _Sir Philip_, and the dreary mockery of life up at
The Court, with its hatreds and subterfuges, its crippled master,
frightened children and spying servants. This is the county as the
author sees it. Linked with this is the life of the farm, where _Jenny_
is brought up by an uncle who hates her; where she tends his bedridden
wife; where her cousin _Beatrice_ goes wrong; where _Beatrice's_
betrayer is killed in an accident, and her baby falls into the fire; and
where finally the dour uncle himself, after shooting the young squire
who has offered dishonourable addresses to _Jenny_, allows her to pay
the penalty of his crime. There is undeniable strength about the book
and it holds the attention; but I dispute the right of anyone to call it
cheerful.

* * * * *

CYNTHIA STOCKLEY has the writing quality in her; she can both see and
feel; she can do man-talk with a plausibility beyond the reach of most
of her sex; and she works with a refreshing dash and freedom. With a
certain carelessness also sometimes; as thus: "The other, turning to
run, got a shot in his leg that put him out of business, but in spite of
which he managed to crawl away." And there are little kakophonies, such
as: "He was loved, openly and gladly, back." The work is good enough to
make worth while the cleansing of these defects. The author certainly
puts into a short story more thought and characterisation than is common
in these days of half-hours with even the best authors through the
medium of magazine