erious reaches
of the far northern seas, the slow twilights over the heaving ocean, the
swift dawns, the storms and the lightnings, and the glad blue skies.
Even the music of the bagpipes inspired lamentations only less sweet
than notes of joy. Mr. Black still has lovely girls; his yachts still
pitch and roll and scud over the tossed and misty Hebridean seas; there
are the same magical splendors of air and sky and water and shores; the
wail of the pibroch is heard as of yore--

Dunvegan! oh, Dunvegan!

Why, then, is it that his last book fails to do more than arouse dim
memories of some previous enjoyment? Why are his violets without
perfume? Why is his music vacant of the old melodies?

In _Roy and Viola_, on the contrary, Mrs. Forrester is seen at her best,
and has given us a book of lively interest. The situation in some
respects suggests that of _Daniel Deronda:_ D'Arcy is a sort of
Grandcourt cheapened and made popular, acting out his instincts of
tyranny and brutality with more ostentation and less good taste. What is
subtly indicated by George Eliot is given with profuse effect by the
present writer. Viola, if not a Gwendolen, is yet an unloving wife. Sir
Douglas Roy plays a somewhat difficult role--that of friend to the
husband and undeclared lover to the wife--without losing our respect. He
is in many ways a successful hero, and acts his part without either
insipidity or priggishness. A genial optimist like Mrs. Forrester, as
her old readers may well believe, sacrifices to a hopelessly unhappy
marriage no lot which interests us. Disagreeable husbands die at an
auspicious moment, and everybody is finally made happy in his or her own
way, which includes the possession of plenty of money. The conversations
are piquant, and the interest of the story is well kept up.

_The Wellfields_ is a falling off from _Probation_, which in its turn
was a distinct falling-off from Miss Fothergill's initial story, _The
First Violin_. The characters are dim, intangible, remote, possessing no
reality even at the outset, and as they progress becoming even more
estranged from our belief and sympathy. Jerome is too feeble to arouse
even our resentment, which we mildly expend on Sara instead for
displaying grief for so poor a creature. When an author publishes one
successful book, it should be a matter of serious thought whether it is
not worth while to make such a triumph the crowning event of his or her
destiny, lest Fate sho