ches; _Carnival_, a romance of the meaner parts of London
and of Charing Cross Road, and lastly _Sinister Street_, where he links
up with those who exploit only their experiences. Evidently Mr Mackenzie
believes that a good terrier never shakes a rat twice. Had _Sinister
Street_ been his first contribution to literature, Mr Mackenzie would
have found his place indicated in the first group, but as he began by
standing outside himself it must be assumed that he thought it a pity to
let so much good copy go begging. He is a man difficult of assessment
because of his diversity. He has many graces of style, and a capacity
which may be dangerous of infusing charm into that which has no charm.
He almost makes us forget that the heroine of _Carnival_ is a vulgar
little Cockney, by tempting us to believe that it might have been
otherwise with her. There is a cheapness of sentiment about this Jenny,
this Islington columbine, but we must not reproach Mr Mackenzie for
loving his heroine over-much: too many of his rivals are not loving
theirs enough. Indeed, his chief merit is that he finds the beautiful
and the lovable more readily than the hideous. His figures can serve as
reagents against the ugly heroine and the scamp hero who grew
fashionable twenty years ago. His success, if it comes at all, will be
due to his executive rather than to his artistic quality, for he often
fails to sift his details. In _Sinister Street_, we endure a great
congestion of word and interminable catalogues of facts and things. If
he has a temperament at all, which I believe, it is stifled by the
mantle in which he clothes it. It is not that Mr Mackenzie knows too
much about his characters, for that is not possible, but he tells us too
much. He does not give our imagination a chance to work. His romantic
earnestness, as shown in _Guy and Pauline_, is unrelieved by humour and
makes those details wearisome. Yet, his hat is in the ring. If he can
prune his efflorescent periods and select among his details he may, by
force of charm, attain much further than his fellows. He will have to
include just those things and no others which can give us an illusion of
the world.

V

In direct opposition to Mr Mackenzie, we find Mr Onions. While Mr
Mackenzie gives us too much and allows us to give nothing, Mr Onions
gives us hardly anything and expects us to write his novel for him as we
read it. There are two strands in his work, one of them fantastic and
critical