and the "chuck-and-chance-it" angler will have a sorry time. If
the Test angler makes use of skilled knowledge, the Irish angler makes use of skilled conjecture. This is well brought out in the story of the day on the river whose name in Irish means Laborious with Dan the salmon-poacher, who, knowing the waters intimately, could point to places apparently unlikely as the proper spot for a cast, and was always right in his advice. The stream was in flood, and Mr. Gwynn, with a twelveloot roct, killed ten sea-trout, which on an open water is a satisfactory performance. We are glad to see that he is properly appreciative of loch-fishing from a boat, not only for the idyllic charm of weather and scenery which go with it, but for the continuous demand which it makes on the small dexterities of the angler. But "the worst of salmon is that they spoil one's peaceable enjoyment of brown trout " ; and one of the best of the chapters tells of the longing for salmon which came across the anther while fishing in an inland valley, and of a wild rush on a bicycle to the sea- coast which resulted in two good fish caught under the most difficult conditions. Mr. Gwynn has no heresies, and he shows a wide toleration for all branches of the art. One would protest, however, against his condemnation of the rainbow trout as a brute that " should be fished only with a net." The present writer has been fortunate enough to have a happier experience.
Scenery and fishing stories are not all the entertainment which Mr. Gwynn has to offer us. "The Young Fisher," while inferior, as it might well be, to Sir Edward Grey's exquisite chapter on his childish experiences, is yet a very pleasant chapter of reminiscences, and an example which may be recommended to all fishermen who would bring up their children to do them credit. Politics have no place in an angling book, but Mr. Gwynn has an interesting picture of a countryside whose population annually departs for some months to work in England and Scotland, and a con- vincing defence of migratory labour. " When Ireland becomes a prosperous country of manufactures the case may be changed ; but for the present migratory labour is the alternative to emigration, and to my thinking an excellent alternative Here the family, not the individual, is the unit; sons and daughters, till they marry, work for the family, and every penny that they earn across the water,' beyond what is needful to pay their current expenses, comes back to the head of the house." In one parish the incomings from this source have been calculated at £8,000 each May and November. Sport in Ireland easily glides into politics, but this is the sole point on which Mr. Gwynn draws a moral from the social circumstances of his riverside companions. It is a book which all lovers of angling and good literature will be glad to possess, for, being written out of a full heart, it is as infectious to fellow-niadmen as the sight of a creel or a well- worn fly-book.
NOVELS.
THE CELEBRITY AT HOME..
.SOME years have elapsed since the appearance of Miss Violet Hunt's last novel, and we regret to find that her outlook on humanity, never very sympathetic, has not mellowed in the intervaL Entertainment and amusement—of a sort—she is unquestionably capable of providing. Her equipment, in point of observation and vivacity, is too remarkable to be overlooked. But the use to which she has turned her gifts in the present instance can best be gathered from an outline of the plot and a few extracts from the narrative. The " celebrity " whose home life is here depicted is a fashionable society novelist, journalist, and lecturer, who for eighteen years has contrived to keep the existence of his wife and children from the knowledge of his smart and aristocratic friends. He pays them occasional flying visits at their home in the suburbs, while he poses as a bachelor in central London, visits the country houses of his aristocratic and plutocratic patrons, philanders with every attractive woman he meets, and in par- ticular with a society siren named Lady Scilly, whose novels he writes in consideration for the social advantages attached to the post of tame cat. His wife, still young and pretty, contentedly acquiesces in the role of domestic drudge—wife, mother, upper housemaid, seamstress—the son is denied his schooling to sot tut bootblack and handy-boy at home ; the two girls, aged eighteen and fourteen (or less, 'to judge from her picture on the cover) respectively, • have no friends but the house-agent's daughter ; and no one crosses the threshold but a realistic novelist and an actress aunt. From this exile they are emancipated by the narrator—the younger daughter and enfant terrible of the house—who is taken for a drive in her motor-car by Lady Scilly, attends one of her father's lectures, and reveals to the audience the unexpected existence of his suburban belongings. The novelist aceoid- ingly has to make the best of a bad job, acknowledge his family, and bring them to live in a new house in London. But his dual life goes on just the same. Lady Scilly "runs the show" and arranges his entertainments, while his wife is immersed in her domestic duties. But in the long ran the worm turns. The downtrodden matron develops a wonderful histrionic capacity, scores a great success in a new play written by the realistic novelist, her husband recognises that she is a person to be reckoned with, and Lady Scilly elopes with her chauffeur. The list of dranuctis personae also includes the novelist's golden-haired typewriter, a lady with a singularly diversified past; Lord Scilly, a marl complaisant; interviewers, " logrollers," a parvenu millionaire, harridans, "wasters," and a society journalist, elegantly named Mrs. Ptomaine, who lives up to her name. By way of a crowning achievement, the entire story is told by a child, whose precocity and refinement may be judged by a few specimens culled almost at random from the narrative and dialogue know that I am not ugly. I know it by the art of deduction. We none of us are, or we should not have been allowed to survive. George [her father, whom his children always call by his Christian name] would never have condescended to own ugly children."
"Not only dead cats come there [to a corner in their garden], but brickbats and tin kettles with just one little hole in them, and brown-paper parcels that we open with a poker. I hope there will be a dead baby in one some day, to reward us."
"Mother hardly ever touches spirits We looked over heaps of little earwiggeries trimmed with clematises and pots of geraniums hanging from the balconies, with their poor roots higher than their heads, and manicured lawns right down to the water's edge."
"'He [the " celebrity "] lent them [nice girls] his books, and gnawed their minds thoroughly, but he always sheered off when they showed signs of taking him seriously.'" "George and Mr. Aix have different publishers, but the same literary agent. A publisher once took them both to the top of a high bill in Surrey and tempted them to sell him the rights of every novel they did for ten years, and be kept in luxury by him. But they both shook their heads and said,' You must go to Middle- man!' Then he took them to a London restaurant and made them drunk, and still they shook their heads and sent him to Middleman, who makes all their bargains for them, but he can't control all the reviews."
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