The Valley of the Moon. By Jack London. (Mills and
Boon. 6s.)—Mr. London's book is a classic, if we may be forgiven the use of so dignified a word, in American slang. Here is language, at first incomprehensible, afterwards graphic) and convincing; only the accomplished scholar, who has worked hard at his sixty pages, will understand Billy's argument against excessive drinking : "Take that big stiff to-night that butted in on us. He ought to had my number. He'a a dog anyway, but besides be bad beer bloat. I sized that up the first rattle, an' that's the difference about who takes the other fellow's number. Condition, that's what it is." But the accomplished scholar will also know that the language of the book is admirably fitted to the story, which is concerned first of all with the marriage, difficulties, adventures, and ultimate happiness of Billy, New York teamster and late prize-fighter, and Saxon, the laundry band; behind is a tangle of thought about Labour and strike% and the "back to the land" theory, and not a little history. Let us admit at once that Mr. London has written a most excellent book, keen and discerning, both adventurous and quiet ; so shall we be free to wish that he had made it shorter by two hundred pages, and had avoided in the second part the danger of repetition and monotony. He is more at home in the town than in the country, and Billy and Saxon, once past the suburbs of Oaklands, lose a little of their truth and charm. We cannot believe either in the unfailing kindness of all whom they meet on their tramp, or that a factory girl, when first she beheld the sea, would cry: " Look ! Did you ever see such an unspeakable colour P "
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