Though any adjective would suit it better than "delightful," the strongest novel of the past twelve months is Edgar Saltus's The Truth about Tristrem Varick. It is a book for our atrabiliar moods, when life seems to be all cant and hypocrisy, fair at the surface, rotten at the core, and we long for some one with strength and sincerity enough to reveal the hideous, latent truth. These moods pass away, and our liking for Tristram Varick may pass with them, but not our admiration for the perfection of its style, the brilliancy of its epigrams, and the exquisite art with which a most repulsive and unpleasant story has been handled. -Lippincott's Monthly Magazine