quite perfect, and it is difficult to select any one as soliciting an emphasis of attention. Mrs. Edwards sustains herself throughout the book; the interest is always kept up; and, whether she gives you a study of character, a sketch of manners, or lays bare the workings of hidden motives, she is, in each case, equal to her work. Her greatest deficiency is, comparatively speaking, want of passion, without which there can be no lyrical movement to the style, no large sweep of thought I should say Mrs. Edwards's books are rich with experience—an experience full of distinction—that she has made a skilful use of her material, and always keeps close to fact. She has such quick and clear perception that what she has not felt she can know at once by observation; it is this rare power of perception which enabled her to render with so much precision and force the infamous Waters and the brutal Dennison. to the rank of great writers.
If you will permit me, I will fix your attention upon some delicate and excellent remarks in Mrs. Edwards's work which to me do more than anything else in her book to distinguish it from the clever novels of her contemporaries. For example, in describing Archie's face, she writes this sentence: "A mouth too large for a heroine, but excellent for a woman—having white, short teeth, the perfection of coloring, and that square cut about the corners of the lips that renders any mouth at once passionate and intellectual—the mouth of a poet." The italics are my own. The observation and expression familiar to artists are quite novel in literature, and should lift any page out of the commonplace at once. But the whole chapter, called "Archie," is inimitable, fresh, exquisite, a perfect piece of literary art. And how much force and insight into masculine brutality does the following reveal:
Then Robert Dennison scrutinized his wife's face and way of speaking more closely, and a new suspicion overcame him — a horrible, a gross suspicion; but remember, his mind was gross, unimaginative, unsympathetic, ever putting the coarsest, the most commonplace interpretation on the action of every man or woman with whom he had to deal. That sallow skin, this thick utterance, those lustreless eyes, these trembling hands? How could he have been so blind as not to see the true state of the case at once? It was not a matter for argument or gentle treatment at all. This miserable girl had sought the usual refuge women of her birth do seek under their vulgar troubles; this girl, whom he had been madly in love with; his wife, whom in another five minutes three or four of his friends would find in such a state as this in his chambers. —(p. 73).
The whole chapter from which the foregoing is taken is an example of forcible and intense writing. And as for the following, I think it inimitable. You will remark the subtle discrimination and the clear expression. These paragraphs hold three personalities, and they have words that unmask what they first signal with such striking effect:
She held her face beseechingly to his; her voice came trembling, as it always did when she was moved; and with some faint accent, some intonation rather, of Italian, clinging to its sound. And this change of mind was, by her Machiavellian instinctive art, rendered in itself so gracious, so sweet, to Gerald's vanity! He felt he could not but concede to her all she wished; nay, he could not but acknowledge that she was too generous, too true to be led into further folly. Corrupt Gerald Durant was not, nor cynical—although his easy nature led him into actions savoring of corruption, and of cynicism on occasions. What he most admired—consequently, what he was himself good enough to recognize—in Archie, was her exceeding honesty, her untaught, loyal frankness. And, call it epicureanism or virtue, he did at this moment feel that it was well she should leave him thus; well that he should be able to hang one unsullied portrait in the gallery of the women he had loved!
On the brink of every action—high or low, base or noble—Gerald Durant could be ever swerved aside by some sudden turn of sentiment like this. Sentimental, in reality, rather than passionate in love, it was in love affairs, above all, that he was most prone to waver. A coarse, selfish nature, like Robert Dennison's, walks straight to its immediate gratification; a refined, selfish nature, like Gerald's, hesitates, stops short; speculates whether occasionally a higher pleasure may not be found in abnegation! And though such men have not the materials in them for great heroes or for good lovers, their very weakness, somehow, makes them intensely lovable to people stronger than themselves; and when, now and then, they do come to grief (and bring you to grief with