In a London Suburb. By W. Hartley. (F. V. White
and Co.)— An amusing novel, which, seeing how dull now-a-days most novels are, is high praise. But In a London Suburb is mere than' amusing. In many mopeds decidedly original, it is richly humorous, and brimful of cleverness. Most of the author's characters are vividly, albeit rather maliciously, drawn, for dr. HartAey's sense of the ridiculous is so keen, that he brings their-foibles into undnevromia- ewe, and says too little about their 'redeeming qualities. It is too much to ask us to 'believe that, with two or thee& exceptions, the men and' women who:formed the society of the suburb.he selects for scarification) were either foole-oramenres. His .canvas is, moreover, rather too crowded, especially at the beginning, and the reader is apt to become rather mixed, and forget who's who. But this difficulty yields readily to a little perseverance, and we soon get interested in the characters, if not in the story. Bax, the drunken coal-dealer and ex-actor, and his familiar yet detested friend and fellow-rascal, Tuscoll, the hair.dresser, are exquisite, and the encounters between them fall of fun and drollery. Mr. Hartley also knows how to make his personages live and move ; and the reader who once makes their acquaintance will not soon forget them. Nothing could be better than the descriptions. Witness the following of Mr. and Mrs. Stuttle :—`• Two more harmless creatures could not well be imagined ; they were dormice in a cage, love-birds upon a perch, two apples on one stem. Behold Stuttle as he fidgets about on a fluffy white hearth-rug, nervously dressing his finger-nails with a tooth-pick. A sleek, plump little ortolan of a man, with neat little limbs and neat little feet, with a fresh little face, a sharp little MAC, a beaming eye, a ferocious moustache, and a curly little doll's pate. All that seemed lacking to fit him to flock with cherubim was two little wings springing from his shoulder-blades, a handful of feathers. and a trombone. Stutale had no ideas of his own; he was what Sidney Smith has called a foolometer ; his wife could always tell where he had been by the opinions he expressed upon his return home." Mr. Hartley excels in low- comedy—nothing could well be more side- splitting than the wooing of Mr. Guy, the little curate, by Mrs. Cowdy, the corpulent widow—but when he attempts a higher flight his success is not conspicuous. His most elaborate character, whom he has evidently dune his best to make attractive, we do not like at all. We would ratter have Miss Deakin, otherwise Laura Bax, than a dozen of her. The plot is slight and not very savoury, and the incidents are few and far between. Jack Scarlett, an ex-lancer, keen sportsman, and straight rider to hounds, is in love with Mrs. Bracelin, and Laura Bax is in love with him. With the former he tries to play the part of Don Juan, with the latter he emulates the example of Joseph. He wants Mrs. Bracelin to elope with him to America, and refuses to elope with Laura. Mrs. Bracelin agrees ; but thinking better of it, goes to India instead—alone. Scarlett, disconsolate, crosses the Atlantic, betakes himself to cattle-ranching, makes money, and returns at the end of three years. Rambling one day in Hyde Park be meets Mrs. Bracelin, finds that her husband (who has deserted her) has been good enough to get himself shot in South America, renews the acquaintance, and in the end marries his widow. Laura also marries ; but whether happily or not we are left in ignorance. But we could very well dis- pense with the plot and the love-tnaking. The humour that pervades the book from beginning to end, the vigour of the style, and the vivid- nese of the character-drawing, are qeite sufficient to render it eminently readable and entertaining.
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