Herbert Vanlennert. By C. F. Keary. (W. Heinemann.)—Mr. Keary, whose
name suggests recollections not at all in keeping with the book now before us, has written an undoubtedly clever tale. There is, we think, far too much of it. The sight of these five hundred odd closely printed pages exercises a depressing influence. One ought to be shut up with nothing else on a rainy day to enjoy it. There are many characters and much talking which, while showing literary skill, seem to have no particular object except to fill space. And there are some curious things in it. You can speak of a "deep-seated well of natural purity," if " deep-seated" can be an epithet of " well," but hardly of a well as " shrinking from the opposite sex." But our quarrel is with the general conception of the book. On this point it is clearly useless to argue with the author. He has, we gather, M. Zola's view of fiction. Whatever is ought to be told. A young man, when jilted by the girl whom he loves, might easily, we allow, fall as Hebert Vanlennert fell. We are bound, therefore, to have the details. It is our conviction that such writing may be utterly mischievous. But that, of course, does not affect Mr. Keary and writers of his school.
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