THE study of our great neighbor's rats and ferrets; in other words, of her criminals and police, has long been a favorite one with English writers. Not, as Mr. Irving justly observes, because French crimes are more atrocious than those of other nations, but because their criminal procedure gives to a great trial a dramatic and fascinating interest which our methods in England do not allow. But while the author has traversed a somewhat well-worn road and tells of trials, some of which have been described in a recent work, his narrative is so well written as to justify the book. We feel in reading his account of a series of great crimes and their unraveling that Mr. Irving is telling us just what we wanted to learn. At the same time it may be well to say that this sort of book, while interesting and sometimes fascinating reading, does no more to advance the scientific study of crime than well-written reports of remarkable trials. They are evidence, and are so far valuable, but for a summing-up of such cases, and for deductions which may lead to reform in crude criminal methods and the ultimate elimination of crime, as distinct from disease, we shall have to look elsewhere. Mr. Irving remarks that the study of criminal anthropology has attained considerable dimensions on the Continent but he considers the results to have been disappointing, the attempt to connect criminals with savages having broken down, and he quotes the observation of Mr. Goldwin Smith that the persistent criminal has his status in nature and society as an organism to whom altruistic pleasure simply does not appeal. We cannot admit that the scientific study of the criminal has failed, rather it has only just begun. As to the imaginary status of the evil-doer in nature and society, nature and society are more strongly differentiated than Mr. Irving seems to imagine. The tiger must be indifferent to suffering, to live; the pike must be voracious to exist; the parasite will prey, by very instinct, upon the creature in which it has its habitation; but man is a family, living by ideals as well as instincts. To apply to him the laws that govern the lower animals and the unconscious world, is unsound, because they have largely ceased to operate on him. The nature of the human race is to be unnatural, if one may venture to employ that misused term; the whole of civilization is of course artificial, and neither the laws nor the instincts which fashion and guide the animal kingdoms have unrestricted application in the world of men. The question to be considered is what are the ways of human nature; how far are men and women prone to evil, and how much of it is forced unwillingly upon them either by twists of temperament or by bad social conditions? We agree that the root of all real crime is selfishness, indifference to the sufferings of others; insensibility to the feelings of surrounding life. And Mr. Irving gives us a glimpse of an ideally bad sample of humanity in his opening chapter. This interesting specimen was Lacenaire; a man of considerable capacity although apparently wanting in balance and application, for he tried his hand at several sorts of employment but stuck to none of them. And going through the other cases in the book we find much evidence of that subtle "something wrong" which might explain and may excuse so much. Campi, the double murderer, hides his head like an ostrich in the bedclothes to avoid arrest; Troppmann writes to the wife of one of his victims that he had given her husband the great sum of £20,000, which from a young man of his class was surely not a probable event. Euphrasie Mercier lived with two mad sisters and an insane brother-a truly ghastly household-for these she worked and strove and ultimately committed murder; who knows her responsibility? -Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science and Art, Vol. 92