. Review of reviews and world's work. EDEN and inevitably, and the lover was swiftly slain in thebroil of Florentine factions. But it really matters littlewhat subject Mr. Hewlett chooses. His style, his vision,his passion,—these are always there. And yet one should not care, perhaps, to linger toolong amid the heated passions and brilliant pageants ofMr. Hewletts world, but turns gladly to The Secret NOTABLE FICTION OF SPRING AND 757 Woman (Macmillan), the latest, and assuredly the best,novel of Mr. Eden Phillpotts. Here we are far from anyardors of the South. A stern sk
. Review of reviews and world's work. EDEN and inevitably, and the lover was swiftly slain in thebroil of Florentine factions. But it really matters littlewhat subject Mr. Hewlett chooses. His style, his vision,his passion,—these are always there. And yet one should not care, perhaps, to linger toolong amid the heated passions and brilliant pageants ofMr. Hewletts world, but turns gladly to The Secret NOTABLE FICTION OF SPRING AND 757 Woman (Macmillan), the latest, and assuredly the best,novel of Mr. Eden Phillpotts. Here we are far from anyardors of the South. A stern sky bends over the Devoncountry, the swift winds blow over the solemn hills,and Nature has lent something of her own austerity tothe soul of man. This is no home of facile and repentance, strength and self con-trol, are native here. The sin of Anthony Red vers was. THE BARONESS VON HUTTEN. merely one of sense. For to him that silent womanwho was his wife was, for all her coldness, before andabove all other women. But Ann, though she faltereda moment, could not at last forgive. Yet she did notmean to slay her husband. From that event on, how-ever, the tragedy moves on unbrokenly and impres-sively. Ann Red vers and Salome Westaway,with whomAnthony had sinned, and Anns sons,—all ai*e in thegrip of fate. It is a Greek tragedy upon the Devon hills,beautiful and austere. One reconciling touch comes atthe end. For the silent woman has glimpses of a mercythat is beyond justice, and forgives, even as she wouldbe forgiven. The Silent Woman is not unfittinglyinscribed to Mr. Swinburne. three books,—the most noteworthy of the sea-sons output of British fiction,—belong distinctly to therealm of literature proper rather than to that of jour-nalistic story-telling. In regard to the majority ofbooks, such an assertion would be hazardous, thoughone
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