New-York tribune., 1922-11-19

mold. But there is no touch Of poetry
nor passion in any of the material
here collected; nothing but eye and
ear Impressions, set down very COM
petently for beginner.
That every one writes the best he
can has long been theory Of mine;
but sometimes it seems little harsh
and depressing. It should be modified:
we all write the best we can on any
given subject. And there are talents
fitted only for the lighter subjects.
Arthur Somers Roche writes admirably
ingenious stories of mystery and crime
that make your hair stand on end.
Perhaps some loving and injudicious
friend, entranced by these delectable
tales, told him he ought not to waste
his ability on mere thrillers; that he
could write big novel IL he would.
Or, perhaps, Mr.. Roche merely thought
on his own account that it could do no
harm to try And so he wrote "a More
Honorable Man." And it's pretty gosh
awful. Reads as if it had been written
by visitor from Mars who learned
all that he knew Of both our life and
our language from the yellower kind
OF Sunday papers. Thereais no definite
plot to the tale; singular thing from
the master Of plots. It is about two
supposedly contrasted types Of men,
one highly successful financier, who
sttsins all that material success can
give, the other mild and noble sort
Of being who, in the worlds eye, is an
utter failure. He, Of course, is the
more honorable man-see Luke: xiv, 8.
It is proposition too obvious to be
exciting.
Even more gorgeously preposterous
is Cleveland Moffett's "Glint Of Wings"
The epigram on the fyleaf explains
what it is about. "The CLINT Of wings
in a far off sky, the CLINT Of something
yond." Is that not clear? Then I re.
gret I cannot help you. The story
begins, however, with prudent ia
ther, who, on finding that his daughter,
Patricia, has been to a cabaret in New
York, promptly removed her out Of
danger-to Los Angeles. Indignant at
such treatment, Patricia married q
movie actor. She naturally supposed
that by SO doing she had escaped from
the hamrering bonds Of domesticity.
On the contrary, her husband became
annoyed at her for not darning hts
socks. The climax should not be spoiled
Wy euuluAdKAGiuS. HS SLylS IS cULlLely
equal to the subject matter.
After every popular novel springs UP
a mushroom crop of limitations. "Tha
Sheik" has been peculiarly prolific in
that respect; one would say that Eng
lish women novelists must have in
| vaded the Sahara by caravans, in long
procession, during the last two years.
"A Daughter Of the Sands" is simply
the Sheik in reverse; the heroine is q
supposed Arab girl, who turns out to
be Of English blood. She had been
adopted by an Arab chief In infancy
and did not discover her true parentage
until her suppositious one had wrecked
her first marriage with weak-wi.ied
Englishman. It's not such bad story.
But one wonders where the author ac-
quired the impression that the pure
| blood Arab is Hamitic? Or that the
same Arab is "inmoral"--sspec by
comparison with the Chinese and Japan
esa? Doughty, who lived among the
tribes for years, got very different
impression. And why do English au-
thors believe that the word "native" Is
equivalent to "colored"? Arn't they
natives OF any place?