What a familiar ring it has, 'the novel.' A comfort to the spinster and the secretary, and a temporary refuge for 'the reader' in an imagined world. A world in which effect follows cause, emotions are excited only to be soothed, adventure and surprise are muted in the pianissimo of a final chapter. The novel is now the armchair of our culture. I would hate to be considered a rabid experimentalist, but I often wish that contemporary English writing were something other than the fagend of the nineteenth century.

Gloomy reflections like these occurred to me after reading Swinnerton's Rosalind Passes. It is Mr Swinnerton's fortieth novel and his writing career must, as they say of another profession, have given pleasure to millions. I may be a juvenile carper, but I found nothing commendable in this novel. It has that unctuous and enveloping quality which I associate...