In its technique this short novel, with the swift, straight flight of its narrative, and its inimitable economy of detail, is at the opposite pole from its predecessor, The Professor's House. In its theme there is a likeness, but only a superficial one. The earlier novel shows a phase, a temporary dearth and disillusionment, in the life of a gentle and essentially reasonable nature capable of endurance and adjustment; My Mortal Enemy depicts, in its so small compass, the furious lifelong fight against disappointment of a fiery nature, gallant but not fine, clearsighted but not just, and scorning acceptance as low surrender.

The story tells how Myra Henshawe, an ardent spirit greedy for romance and beauty, wrecks her life by an inauspicious love; for she is a woman who cannot be happy in poverty, or just in unhappiness. Her passion for her young lover passes into a distaste for her gentle, unsuccessful, incorrigibly loyal husband, and later into a deep rancor. Her thwarted but indestructible romanticism finds its outlet in her attempt to wring from friendship and from art something nobler than the humdrum of every day as in her faithful worship of the great Modjeska; and again in the impulse that makes her, in straits of poverty, keep hidden away a sum of money 'for unearthly purposes.' But one follows her story, though with an intensity of interest, yet with a qualified sympathy; for if she has an indomitable spirit, a pungent wit, and a rather capricious generosity, she has also coarseness, littleness, and malice.

Myra Henshawe will stand among the most powerful of Miss Cather's creations. It is with great art that so few scenes are made to build up an effect of an entire life revealed, and again with great art that both the noble and the ugly elements of Mrs. Henshawe's nature are represented as intensified by the sharper stress of her miserable last days; the purer flaming of her sense of beauty and the strong upwelling of her almost forgotten faith are shown, and no less clearly the implacable injustice and unforgiveness that are less the derangement of mortal illness than the natural result of her years of rancor. Subtlest of all is the tracing of the process by which this spirit at war with itself externalizes the battle and simplifies conflict into hatred.

My Mortal Enemy shows Miss Cather's power at its most concentrated, and has passages of a clear, etched beauty. It is a fine piece of art, 'bitter as gall, and passionate and wise.'

ETHEL WALLACE HAWKINS

The Romantic Comedians, by Ellen Glasgow. New York: Doubleday, Page & Co. 12mo. vi+346 pp. $2.50.

IN The Romantic Comedians Miss Ellen Glasgow has written a very clever book whose title inevitably challenges a fleeting mental comparison with George Meredith's older work. The

Tragic Comedians. But in substance and treatment, in feeling for life, the two books are wholly unlike. In Meredith's rich novel the heroine feared to grasp life's thistle boldly enough, while the hero was too punctilious to snatch - hence timidity and pride made of them frustrate lovers. In Miss Glasgow's novel the chief character mistakes life's thistle for love's rose, and pays the usual penalty for mistakes.

To those that take their fiction with all seriousness like Henry James, for instance fiction may be divided into two classes the fiction of power, that of the heart; the fiction of knowledge, that of the head. Miss Glasgow's present book, like Mrs. Wharton's work in general, belongs to the latter category: its appeal is rather to the intellect. And if humor be 'the smile in the eyes of wisdom,' then Miss Glasgow's wisdom lacks the smile. There is an edge to her wit; she does not wear it as Joan of Arc did her sword-sheathed. Her characters, admirably drawn and highly individual, are not 'typical' of any part of the country, though the scene of the story is laid in Queensborough, presumably Richmond. Her people are gentlefolk with the limitations and advantages of Anglo-Saxon traditions, social position, customs, and conventions, together with certain church affiliations, at several of which the author aims the shafts of her wit, leaving others exempt. The women are particularly interesting, especially Mrs. Upchurch, 'too wise ever to be original, too tactful ever to argue,' a flatterer of men by instinct and habit; and the amusing old emotional swashbuckler Edmonia, who declares that America is an anæmic nation, and the danger with national anamia is that it runs to fanaticism in the brain,' and who further avers that the 'honey' of her attractions is due, not to her 'actual virtues,' but to her 'legendary vices.'

After the somewhat staccato wit and much worldly-wiseness-for there is an exquisite subtilty, and the same is not wisdom of this book, one can only ask the favor of Miss Glasgow that she will follow it with a sequel giving the fortunes of Annabel and Birdsong in their pursuit of the will-o'-the-wisp, happiness. For Annabel, belonging to no particular section of the country, typical of a certain kind of present-day young person alike devoid of any sense of responsibility toward God or man- Annabel is quite memorable picture. She is, however, represented as 'honest,' with 'an inchoate sense of justice.' But in the outcome of her destiny she fails to live up to this presentation.

'I won't take a man from any woman,' she declares, before paying her significant visit to Amanda. But would n't it have been equally fair not to allow a woman to be taken from any man? Is n't it a poor rule that won't work both ways?

Miss Glasgow never fails to be interesting and suggestive, as she is here; but her earlier novels showed a kindlier feeling toward our common humanity.

ELLEN DUVALL

England, by the Very Reverend W. R. Inge. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons. 1926. 8vo. xiii+302 pp. $3.00.

THIS Volume is one of a series of thirteen, each of which deals with the condition of a nation to-day rather than with either its immediate or its remote past. Seven of these volumes, including those on Germany, Ireland, and India, have already been published. Dean Inge believes that the present can be understood only in the light of the past, the living past,' and a very considerable part of his book is devoted to centuries long anteceding the present. In fact, he starts with the Pleistocene.

In the five chapters which form his main divisions he discusses "The Land and Its Inhabitants,' 'The Soul of England,' 'Empire,' 'Industrialism,' and 'Democracy.' He touches, with Episcopalian caution and deep depression, upon a vast number of social and economic topics. The reviewer agrees with the author that his 'knowledge of some of them— perhaps all of them is very amateurish.' After admitting the failure of the book as a work of research, the Dean adds that 'it contains the only thing which I could contribute to it as my own - the expression of my personal point of view, with my reasons for holding it.' The volume, therefore, scarcely fits in with the object of the series. It is not a competent study of the life of a nation, but of the mind of a dean. That is quite a different

matter.

It is from this standpoint that the book should be approached. As Dean of St. Paul's the author occupies a high ecclesiastical position. Add to this an excellent style in writing and we explain his frequent appearance in print. Add again a flair for spectacular pessimism and we can understand the vogue of his writings among a certain class of readers. But this does not mean that the Dean possesses a great mind or that he expresses the outlook upon his nation and its life that is held by the more sane, intelligent, and courageous minds among his countrymen.

Known as 'the gloomy Dean,' one does not have to read his latest book to learn that he believes England has seen her best days, that the Empire may break up, that the labor struggle is 'civil war,' that the working classes have insufferably bad taste, and that everything is going to the dogs. From his tower of ivory he surveys the world of struggling men and finds it very evil. It is. But it always has been and it is not so bad as the Dean believes, though only a shallow mind can be very optimistic in these years. The book is personal, illogical, emotional. One feels that the author's universe is oriented around his digestion. In preaching defeatism he has rendered a great disservice to England. In insulting the United States, on whose friendship he thinks England depends, he has rendered a greater disservice to the world. But, as we have said, the book should be considered as a revelation of a soul, not as a study of conditions or an authori

tative expression of national opinion. It is the story of a fastidious, intellectual, Tory ecclesiastic suffering in the Purgatory of post-war Democracy. But God is kinder than the Church, and even the Dean may get to Heaven some day. JAMES TRUSLOW ADAMS

Crewe Train, by Rose Macaulay. New York: Boni and Liveright. 1926. 12mo. x+309 pp. $2.00.

POOR Denham, dazed and bewildered, not allowed to stop at Birmingham, but hustled along to Crewe! Relentless train of destiny, which sweeps everyone on, even the most obstinate and reluctant child of nature, into our sophisticated modern hurly-burly of talk, talk, talk! Miss Macaulay never wrote a cleverer book than this. She has abandoned the Victorians to their fate. She has done well; poor things, they are all dead anyway! The poniard of her gay satire pierces this time the life of contemporary London London, where people are so clever and so kindly, interested in so many things, so keen on discussing one another, and alas! sometimes so mischievous when with the best intentions in the world they touch one another's lives.

Or is it really London that is satirized? Or rather the Reverend Mr. Dobie and his daughter Denham, who are in revolt against this energetic and taxing world? One can hardly tell whether Miss Macaulay's sympathies are with the girl, 'naked, savage, skeptical, and untutored,' running away from intellectual diversions to make a whistle, or with her unlucky husband, who catches cold when expected to camp out among dirty dishes in a damp, deserted Cornish cottage and find it fun. After all, it does n't matter; amusement, not sympathy, is the keynote of the book.

Of course, the contrasts are too forced. Denham is quite incredible. No one ever carried out so literally her devastating ideal of an existence in which one never interfered with other people and practically took no trouble at all. No girl who could win the affections of the civilized Arnold was ever quite so lazy, so obtuse toward all that 'higher life' to which she piteously tries for a while to adapt herself, so comfortably at home in dirt and mess. The author's own affiliations are clear, in that her Greshams are possible — all too possible and her Denham is not. But the impartiality of her mind is clear too, in that she makes us look at the situation after all a good deal as Denham does, and find contagious her childish delight in sitting in a chilly cave down a secret passage.

'What's the good of a hiding place?' Arnold asked.

'Well, you never know when you may n't want one. . . . People might want you to go out to tea. Or they might come to call and when we saw them in the distance we could get down into the cave and lie hid till they're gone.' Arnold grunted.