Garfield's novels appeal to young readers for reasons which should become clear in looking at them individually. All his work has a strong narrative line and his books are worlds of violent adventure. Theatricality and melodrama are part of their fabric. The hero's search is not only for his identity but also for moral certainties in the shifting sands of good and evil. The hero is usually an adolescent boy, bewildered by the duplicity of the adult world. He is a valuable point of identification for the young reader. The moral choices he has to make are presented not in terms of psychological analysis (until we come to The Pleasure Garden) but in terms of action and discussion which offer a high level of vicarious experience. Garfield's style also has a wide appeal; its level of complexity varies, and while it is never easy for any other than the literate child the vocabulary is not particularly unusual or difficult. The imagery is strongly visual and colourful and he appreciates children's curiosity for detail. He will thread an idea or an image through a story so that it becomes a signpost of the plot, providing a thrill of recognition or anticipation. Such detail contributes to the vividness of his writing and often to its humour, for even in the grimmest situation—and "the stench of Newgate gaol" pervades almost all the novels—an ironic humour breaks through.

Most of Garfield's fiction is set in the eighteenth century, the better to observe the moral issues he wishes to examine…. He homes in on a small area—mostly London and the South of England—and, within this area, certain institutions—the prisons, the courts, the inns, the households—and in a controllable and documented time and space he is able to examine more clearly the motives and actions of his characters…. Period and setting are certainly central to the unities he wishes to observe.

The grip that Garfield now has on his plots is something that has come with time. In his first two novels, he told the stories as first person narrations and therefore placed on himself constraints which do not suit his style. In both, the hero is seeking his identity—Jack Holborn, the foundling, completely on his own, and George Treet from a position of unexpected elevation as heir to Sir John Dexter. For both, the theme of identity goes beyond the simple discovery of origin. There is a confusion in Jack Holborn between two brothers, one a judge, the other a pirate captain—but which is good and which is evil? Likewise, in Devil-in-the-Fog, Sir John's brother lurks in the shadows, possibly seeking revenge. Which of the brothers is telling the truth? Exciting though these stories are, the devices are crude compared with later novels. Identical twins and coincidences are cornerstones of the plots. In Jack Holborn particularly, Garfield nudges us along relentlessly; three times Jack must save the Captain's life. There are similar nudgings in Devil-in-the-Fog—the picture missing from the frame for example. They are clumsy devices, and neither of the two novels is fully satisfying. In Jack Holborn the interest level of the story diminishes towards the end apart from the two set pieces—the slave auction and the courtroom climax. The narrator is dull and too vaguely drawn to maintain our interest. And although George Treet in Devil-in-the-Fog is more lively, his theatrical ways fitting uneasily into the home of the reserved Dexters, the story is too crowded with incident and false trails, all rushed to an end in an ungainly final chapter of explanation upon explanation. The book has power …, but seen in the perspective of later Garfield achievements, it is unpolished and unsure.

The next two novels show a considerable advance. Smith is more firmly plotted and unified around the hero's search for understanding of the document he steals from a man he sees murdered shortly afterwards. There is a tension and suspense in the book created at the outset in the dimly lit streets where Smith carries errands for the prisoners of Newgate. From early in the story Smith is watched and followed—as are so many of Garfield's characters—but now those awkward plot warning signals turn into anticipatory chapter ends which are used so well in later novels. The search for identity is still present in a minor way—who is the mysterious Mr Black, the one-legged prime-mover of villainy? More important now, though, is the confusion between good and evil, the difficulty of the blind magistrate to whom "devils and angels are all one." This is a key issue in the Garfield world…. The environment's shaping of our nature is explored in some depth in Smith. Billing tells Smith "Life's a race for rats…. We're all rats, Smith—and it's eat or be eaten." But through Lord Tom's death Smith learns of the redeeming power of love, a theme of increasing importance for Garfield. There is a great deal of emotional knowledge to be learned in the book…. Smith's literal journey through the snow with the blind magistrate is one of the most vivid scenes in the book and more closely integrated with theme and subject than are the set pieces of the earlier novels. There is also the humour—varied from the pantomime undressing of Smith … and the slapstick quality of Miss Mansfield trying to get Smith out of bed …, to the more subtle use of irony in description. Smith is the first of the important novels.

Tolly Dorking, the hero of Black Jack doesn't have the resilience of Smith, but goes through more alarming experiences before finding joy in love for himself and salvation for Belle Carter. The horrors of this story are terrific, as the characters are aware—"if you was to know a part of all the wickedness done in a single day, you'd not sleep of nights." Tolly, however, manages to influence for the good almost all those around him, including the ruffianly Black Jack…. Hatch, Dr Carmody's apprentice, who turns to blackmail and becomes a keeper at the madhouse is a really evil youth, Garfield's most vicious creation. The novel becomes really frightening towards the end as the Northern Lights "spread their sombre finery across the sky," an earthquake shakes London and the end of the world is prophesied—when Hatch releases the lunatics and arms one of them with a chopper to go after Tolly and Belle. Hatch is as evil as Dr Dormann in The Pleasure Garden, but the latter is not so vicious and more subtle. Both come to a murky end in the waters of the Thames. As Hatch dies Garfield writes of "the ending of Hatch's world" and this is important with young readers in mind. Garfield never destroys hope; he never suggests his heroes won't pull through. Tolly and Belle triumph over the corruption and wickedness that seem set to destroy them. They find each other and in doing so discover themselves.

Black Jack was followed in 1968 by Mr Corbett's Ghost, published with two other stories in 1969. In these stories, The Ghost Downstairs, and the latest series of Garfield's Apprentices, the writer explores in some depth the relationship of the young to the adult world. The master-apprentice relationship runs through the novels also—the youthful apprentice always potentially good, energetic and full of hope; the master figure ranging from the world-weary Mr Mansfield, through the cynical Black Jack, the jaded, harsh Mr Corbett, to the vicious Bartlemann in The Simpleton and the evil Dr Dormann. The young may influence the old for the good: in The Lamplighter's Funeral the bitter Pallcat is devastated when he thinks his young apprentice might leave him, even though he treats him with great suspicion…. Both [the ghost] stories can be read as supernatural tales. They can also be read as wish-fulfilment stories, in which case they seem more powerful. It all depends on the maturity of the reader.

The Drummer Boy is a deeper-probing novel. Charlie Samson, the hero, is an innocent who is used by spiritually bankrupt adults. The plot is more subtly built, and Charlie's search is not only the literal one for Maddox, the adult failure, but for his own adulthood, free from the corruptions around him…. The material world is seen as hollow and the glories of the battlefield are sham and destructive. In the end Charlie destroys his drum, the symbol of a false manhood and finds the real one in the genuine love of Charity, Sophia's maid, and returns with her to the home of his father, which he had earlier left in defiance. Once again the hero is redeemed by love.

Garfield's surer touch is seen in a more subtle use of humour, from the depiction of the grotesque "teeth-fitter," Gamaliel Voice … to the more subtle jokes about Charlie's father—"a forest lover, in every sense of the word" whose children had been conceived in various outdoor places of historical significance…. (pp. 159-64)

That Garfield was trying his hand at creating humour became apparent in The Strange Affair of Adelaide Harris, a novel with a farcical structure. The raison d'être is superb…. We are in a different world from other Garfield stories. Even the young are selfish and stupid, but once again love conquers all for Mr Brett (supposedly a self-portrait) and Tizzy Alexander. Garfield concentrates his energies on the intricate plotting, but ultimately, I think, it is disappointing. He is forced into absurdity to keep the plot going. The characters have no imagination at all; the inquiry agent, Selwyn Raven, is presented as peculiarly blind to the obvious. His extreme patience and obtuseness are an irritation. The point at which Adelaide is discovered at the poorhouse, about halfway through the book, is really a point of conclusion, but Garfield has created so many ramifications of the plot that it continues on and on. The investigation of Adelaide's disappearance and the duel are really nonevents. I think the novel shows that Garfield needs the suspense and tension of a mystery, the puzzle of identity as material for a plot. (pp. 164-65)

With The Sound of Coaches Garfield returned to the subject matter and manner of approach which he handles so well and this novel is outstanding. Sam Chichester's life is traced from birth to manhood. One of the main themes of the book is the happiness we are able to bring to each other, and part of its richness lies in the fact that this is seen as a two-way process. Garfield builds up suspense and anticipation through a plot developed at considerable length (it is longer than Adelaide Harris) which never flags for a moment. In the early pages he weaves the motifs of the ring and the pistol through climactic chapter ends … until the pistol leads to the discovery of Sam's father, the old ham, Daniel Coventry. Suspense is created in little matters as well as large ones and the plot is built on revelations. (p. 165)

Among the many themes we can recognise in this novel—the search after truth, appearance and reality, fate and destiny, there are two that are of major interest. One is the passage of time, made concrete in the ever turning wheels of the coach that Sam's adoptive father drives. Time brings change, but change and knowledge do not necessarily bring happiness, and Sam must make his own decisions about the life he wishes to lead. The young must supplant the old and Daniel Coventry is a vain and ridiculous figure as he tries to prevent his natural son's talents from outshining his own. The weakness of character and moral turpitude of Coventry is finely presented for a young reader's understanding. And this indicates the second major theme—the relationship between environment and heredity. Until this novel all Garfield's heroes have got from their parents has been a name. Sam, however, is a fuller character with an inheritance in his nature. (pp. 165-66)

Given the strength of the plot and characterisation and the opportunity to explore a range of themes, Garfield constructs a splendid novel and his humour finds its element within the larger framework. The book is less sombre than many of its predecessors, for the characters are seen less as victims of environment and more capable of hammering out their own lives, even if fate does occasionally take a cruel hand. (p. 166)

In the two novels published since The Sound of Coaches Garfield has shown a widening of interest and range. He has begun to explore territory perhaps outside the appreciation of the younger reader but not of the older adolescent, and he still offers a strong narrative. Both The Prisoners of September and The Pleasure Garden are exciting novels and the latter is compulsive reading. The central characters are no longer innocents but young adults who know the world is no Garden of Eden, but who are unprepared for the depravity of their fellow creatures. (p. 167)

[The Pleasure Garden] is almost an allegory of the evil man has wrought in the world. The Pleasure Garden is at once the world where man takes his pleasures, but where no man is safe, and a Garden of Eden whose serpent hides in the trees in the form of the urchins who spy upon the couples and report back to the devilish Dr Dormann. The evil that Garfield conjures up in this novel is far more terrifying than the petty wickednesses he has chronicled in others. Although the book has the framework of a murder mystery, this is not the aspect that Garfield is interested in. The identity of the murderer is not significant. He uses the elements of the plot as a catalyst for his story of the struggle between good and evil, to enable him to study, more than ever before, the mind of his central character, who, with his "great gift" of gentleness and compassion, tries to lead people to goodness. Garfield is particularly good in this novel at letting the reader see the difference between a character as perceived and a character in reality…. As in The Prisoners of September the tone at the end is optimistic, but the struggle to come through is harder for an adult than for a child.

Garfield's style is his unique characteristic. His highly coloured imagery and extravagant descriptions appeal to children even though not everything may be immediately accessible. His books are worth rereading to explore further the pictures he paints, or the thematic use of imagery such as that of the sea in Black Jack. (p. 168)

Very occasionally the imagery is merely decorative but usually it is an organic part of the writing. I think, to use Eliot's idea, Garfield possesses "a mechanism of sensibility" which can devour experience and turn it into effortless imaginative expression. I have heard him say that his style is not the result of endless reworkings, but the natural mode of expression of his subject matter. His war service, his seafaring experiences, his scientific training, his medical knowledge are all part of his imaginative reservoir. Of his character Bostock in Adelaide Harris he writes: "He did not have the creative imagination that seizes on matters, apparently of little use and far apart, and instantly divines the link between them." Garfield does have this quality and his creative imagination is fertile. (p. 169)

[Garfield] is a master of mystery and a master of style. The latter is probably seen to best effect in the short stories, where he polishes words like diamonds. (p. 170)

Different writers have different aims, but Garfield's attempt to produce books for the family is a notable one. It is commonplace to find him compared in reviews to Dickens. His literary antecedents include Stevenson and Fielding, but certainly he brings Dickens to mind. He creates a similar sort of London, he enjoys the theatrical and melodramatic nature of events, he constructs a stong narrative, he attacks materialism, he hates the law—"red in tooth and clause" he writes in one story—he loves eccentric characters. In The Prisoners of September he has given us his Tale of Two Cities and in Mr Corbett's Ghost a story that stands comparison with A Christmas Carol. As Dickens did, he seems to be moving from reliance on narrative strength to a compassionate observation of the meaning of life for an individual. Like Dickens, I think he is capable of creating his own audience, for a taste for the early novels can lead any reader to explore the latest works. We already have a rich set of novels and stories and his work with Edward Blishen on the retelling of the Greek myths as continuous narrative or his "fictional history" in Child O' War suggests that he is a writer of whom we can entertain great expectations. (pp. 170-71)

Philip Holland, "Shades of the Prison House: The Fiction of Leon Garfield," in Children's literature in education (© 1978, Agathon Press, Inc.; reprinted by permission of the publisher), Vol. 9, No. 4, 1978, pp. 159-72.

No writer can convey the spirit and sheer liveliness of the eighteenth century as can Leon Garfield…. [The Fool is a] lively account of the rough and tumble of city life before the days of social services and modern sanitation. Garfield has traced back his apprentices in eighteenth century books and manuscripts and no detail is omitted, no subtlety of plot missed. A rare masterpiece…. (pp. 25-6)

The Junior Bookshelf, February, 1978.

Trust Leon Garfield, always literate in 18th-century London, to transform off-beat material into an engrossing read. Here [in The Apprentices] he introduces a string of apprentices in separate chapters, assigns them authentic occupations and identities, and just perceptibly interlocks their stories through several months of fictional time. Thus Possul, the lamplighter's linkboy, walks by most of the characters after his opening chapter; the midwife and the mirror-frame carver both stop in the mirror-maker's house; and virtually all have some contact, passing or more lasting, with the Noades funeral. And the stories themselves have integrity…. Subtle class distinctions and the daily grime emerge as well as religious and political items: as the Jewish clockmaker's family celebrates Passover, an uninvited guest appears at the door opened for Elijah, and the printer's apprentice has the wrong stock burned to please an author's appealing daughter. Clever—an assemblage of Dickensian names … and distinct faces. (p. 252)

Kirkus Reviews (copyright © 1978 The Kirkus Service, Inc.), March 1, 1978.

The kind of story currently being given a place in publisher's lists of books for young people differs very much from those deemed suitable for [the teenage] group even a very few years ago. Now there is virtually no subject considered unsuitable, and characters are permitted to use any sort of language. One wonders indeed for what readership the authors and the publishers intend such stories, and whether it would not be better to publish them on an adult list.

These two latest additions to the "Garfield's Apprentices" series [Tom Titmarsh's Devil and The Dumb Cake] concern scenes from life behind the counter in an eighteenth century bookshop, and the superstitions and customs associated with Midsummer's Eve some two hundred years ago.

Few authors have painted the seamier side of eighteenth century life with such minute attention to detail as Leon Garfield has and the result is a certain compelling style of writing, but whether these two books are entirely suitable for teenage readers remains highly questionable. (p. 153)

The Junior Bookshelf, June, 1978.