NOVELS OF THE WEEK.*

WE find Mr. Frank Mathew's historical romance of Queen Elizabeth's time a decided advance on his Defender of the Faith. in which he essayed to paint for us the Court of Henry VIII. In his narrative style he is, perhaps, still too fond of the short, crisp sentences familiar to readers of Fronde, while his dialogue occasionally takes the form of a succession of pistol-shots, so to say, reminding one of the mannerism affected by old-fashioned writers of melodrama. But after all brevity, even when it threatens to become artificial, is infinitely preferable to prolixity, and Mr. Mathew's style is singularly free from the vice of padding or the otiose epithet. In regard to the choice of his dramatis personce he is as ambitions as ever in assigning prominence to historical personages of first-rate importance, but his hardi- hood is in great measure justified by results, and his Eliza- beth and Walsingham, if not altogether free from conven- tional features, are striking, and even impressive, figures. Between the Queen and her illustrious captive—to whose personal magnetism he renders full justice—Mr. Mathew holds the balance with considerable skill. The period of the reign is that of the abortive plot for the rescue of Mary of Antony Babington, in whose intrigues the narrator and hero, a soldier of fortune and loyal servant of Elizabeth, is innocently implicated owing to the machinations of his brother, a man half knave, half madman. Altogether One Queen Triumphant is a very spirited and ingenious novel. Whether Mr. Mathew's estimate of his characters be historic- ally sound or not, the great point is that they are real to him, and his enthusiasm and interest in them can hardly fail to infect his readers.

Sunningwell is a book for the " mugwump," to use that term in its best sense. No party man, whether ecclesiastic or politician, will be satisfied with it. Philip More is a Broad Churchman, born somewhat before his time, for many opinions which pass muster fairly well in the "nineties" (a convenient phrase, by the way, which will soon be lost to us) were counted as dangerous heresies in the " sixties." phis book tells us what he thought and said, and very good reading it is, if one does not want incident, plot, surprises, and the other things which the novel-reader looks for in the novel. Besides the " humourist," as Philip More is called, we have other portraits,—the Archdeacon, a champion of orthodoxy ; the Steadhams, a family of solid, respectable business men, with an occasional " sport" of a very different look; the diplomatic Bishop; a pretty young woman who has one unprosperone and one prosperous love affair ; and other minor characters. Altogether we strongly recommend S'unningwell, with the limitations expressed above.

" Ralph Connor's" new story, The Sky Pilot, bears a strong family resemblance to his earlier venture. In that he gave a pic- turesque account of a crusade against drink in the mining dis- tricts of British Columbia. Here he tells of the efforts of a mis- sionary amongst the hard-drinking cattle ranchers of Alberta. " Ralph Connor," to judge from the very interesting sketch of him by Professor George Adam Smith, is a more interest- ing personage than any of his creations,—interesting though they undoubtedly are. The portrait of his hero, the fragile but enthusiastic young clergyman who plunges with Quixotic • (1.) One Queen Triumphant. By Frank Mathew. London : John Lane. [6s.]—(2.) Sunninguell By F. Warm Cornish. London : Constable and Co. [Cs. --(3.) The Shy Pilot: a Tale of the Foothills. By Ralph Connor. London : Hodder and Stoughton. [6a.]—(4.) Men's Tragedies, By R. V. Risley. London : Macmillan and Co. [6s.)—(6.) The White Queen. By Russell Gander. London : Harper and Brothers. (6s.]—(6.) Henry Worthington, Idealist. By Margaret Sherwood. London : Macmillan and Co. [66.]—(7.) Just Jannock. By Eyre Ilmtsey. London : John Macqueen. [es.1—(8.) A Broken Promise. By Violet Whyte. London : C. A. Pearson. M. 6d.]—(94 Ninety North. By Ernest Western. London : Thomas Burleigh. [65.]—(10.) a Crazy Mcrnent. By Sarah Tytler. London : Dlgby, Long, and Co. 6s.] 11.) In Chimney Corners: Irish Folk Tales. By Seuinas Macmanus. Illustrated by Pamela Corman Szu!zil. London: Harper and Brothers. [Cs.] zeal into the midst of a company of whisky-drinkers and poker-players, is marred by conventional touches and glaring improbabilities. We pass over the girlish exterior, the angelic face and luminous violet eyes. but is it likely that a graduate of Princeton, and a first-rate baseball player to boot, would have remained so utterly guileless and ignorant of

the ways of the world ? Of course, he dies young, but in an incredibly short space of time be has wrought wonders amongst his congregation. All this may be true, but it is not set forth in a way that carries conviction. The motley company of ranchers and hunters of all ranks and nations who form the society of Swan Creek are drawn with a great deal of picturesque local colour, and not a little humour, and the author's fervent belief in humanity cannot fail to inspire respect. Bat the impressiveness of the whole is

undoubtedly impaired by a certain theatricality of por- traiture.

With the publishers' announcement of the contents of the book which occasionally merges in the "puff" preliminary we are already quite familiar. We are also acquainted with the introduction in which a friend of the author acts as literary sponsor, chaperon, or even trumpeter. But Mr.

Risley, the author of Men's Tragedies, goes one step further, and practically reviews his book in his own preface :—

" These studies of strong emotions—they might well be called studies of intensity—are cast in a fictional form solely for the reason that life is but a realised fiction Each of these terrible tales has an intention The men of this book are all of them men of intensity ; most of them are strong men.

. . . . . . The Professor is a terrible soul. The 'Man who died' is the gallant, chivalrous, loving gentleman.

The women are as good as it was possible to let them be. The young Countess Dorothea Matilda is a dear person. Margery is true and sweet. And the woman-child in 'The Man Who Died' is sadly lovable. What could one do more?"

What more, we may echo, can the indolent reviewer do except observe that these nine stories are a strange mixture of mawkishness and morbidity ? Mr. Risley is not an artist in nomenclature. " The Island of Klix " and the " Count of Klonx" are grotesque, not romantic, names. " Serifina," as the Christian name of a German lady, savours of illiteracy. On the whole, we really prefer the " norrible tale" of our youth to the " terrible tales" of Mr. Risley. To him, as to so many unnecessary wallowers in the slough of despond, the

words of Stevenson should be wingless :—" In my view, one dark. dispirited word is harmful, a crime of lose-humanite, a piece of acquired evil ; every gay, every bright word or pic- ture, like every pleasant air of music, is a piece of pleasure set afloat ; the reader catches it, and, if he be healthy, goes on his way rejoicing; and it is the business of art so to send him, as often as possible."

We doubt whether it was altogether judicious of the pub- lishers of The White Queen, on the wrapper of the book, to challenge a comparison between Dumas's romance and that of Mr. Russell Gamier. Mr. Gamier's three brothers—well- born adventurers all—Tony, Ralph, and Roger Brandon—are not altogether efficient substitutes for our old friends Porthos, Athos, and Aramis,—even without counting on the reinforce. ment of D'Artagnan. Neither is Mary Tudor, the wife of Louis XII., so charming as Anne of Austria ; or Lettice Brandon. a cousin of the trio, a virtuous and unfortunate

young person, anything like so attractive as Miladi. Had not these comparisons been forced on the reader, a more favourable verdict might doubtless have been given. But even a novel reviewer knows his Musketeers.

Henry Worthington, Idealist, gives a most vivid sketch of life in an American University town. The part of the book in which the very charming heroine, Annice Gordon, takes a place as saleswoman in the huge, semi-fraudulent establish. ment owned by her father, and called "Smith's," is especially interesting. The reader cannot help thinking, however, that the hero, Henry Worthington, and Annice will have a severe struggle in the joint life which they begin by offending his employer, the University, and her wealthy father. If we may tender a word of advice to the author, it would be to be more careful to avoid tediousness in the beginning of her next novel. Here the separate threads are introduced singly, and as soon as an unfortunate reader gets interested in one he finds him- self " switched off" to an entirely new set of interests without

being able in the least to foresee the subsequent connection between it and the former one.

We feel inclined to apply a celebrated quotation to the creation of the heroine of Mr. Eyre Hussey's book, Just Jannock :— " Tapper and Tennyson, Daniel Defoe, Anthony Trollope, and M. Guizot,

Take of these elements all that is fusible,"—

add to them the concentrated essence of all the athletes you have ever heard of, and Mr. Eyre Hussey's heroine will un- doubtedly be " the residuum." This young lady rides a

"point-to-point" race (against other women, however), sings like an angel, wins (against men) the Junior Sculls in the local regatta, nurses the dying, and boxes with the living, all

in the moat superior and effective fashion. She also "plays" at Oxford the obbligato part, for the penny tin whistle, of her brother's concerto for full orchestra, in a way which draws tears from the eyes. The soldier's advice to the aspiring penny- whistler in The Wrong Box—"a little oilier on the rue— would have been quite unnecessary in her case. Altogether the absurdities in the book are neither few nor trivial, yet it

has the invaluable quality of vivacity which will mak the reader forgive a good deal.

Messrs. Pearson inform us that "it is an open secret" that "Violet Whyte," the author of A Broken Promise, is only another manifestation of our old friend "John Strange Winter." If this be really true we can but stand aghast at the miraculous productivity of this lady's pen. A Broken Promise is not a work of art ; the " flats " are rather superficially joined ; still, there it is, nearly three hundred and fifty solid pages, and we should be afraid to say how many of "John Strange Winter's" works have been mentioned in these columns during the last two years.

Mr. Western's title—Ninety North—refers to the latitude in which the events of his story are enacted. Only last week we noticed that the novel of discovery was changing its where- abouts from Africa to the Arctic regions, and here is another example to confirm our statement. By far the moat attractive person in Ninety North is the Mammoth Mots, a charming beast who would make the fortune of a " Wild North" Show at Olympia. For the rest, the book is an adequate specimen of its kind.

In A Crazy Moment Miss Tytler treats a painful theme with tact and delicacy. A well-born but childless and hysterical young married woman kidnaps the baby of a workman's wife and palms it off on her husband—absent at the time on foreign service—as her own. The chief sufferer is the husband, who silently shares her guilty secret, and out of chivalry consents to be an accomplice in her imposture. The story reaches a climax when the child, now grown up, discovers the secret of her parentage, and rejoins her real mother. We cannot consider that Miss Tytler has been happily inspired in her choice of subject, though her handling of it is above reproach.

We can cordially recommend Mr. Seumas Maomanus's

delightful collection of Irish folk-tales, In Chimney Corners. To the student of folk-lore they have not the same value as Mr. Larminie's West Irish Folk Stories, taken down verbatim from the lips of the Donegal peasants, but they are much more entertaining and artistically presented. Mr. Macmanus, while retaining many of the characteristic features of the

folk-narrative—its refrains and roulades, so to speak— has a pleasant humour of his own, which should win him friends amongst readers of all ages. The illustrations show talent, but are most unequal. The design on the cover is admirable, bat the faces are of a decadent type and utterly un-Celtic.