The New York herald., 1922-07-30

conSlOerdOle reSlQue, more, perhaps,
in actual bulk than in any preceding
\ period of human history. Let us
grant at the outset that there are
no very, magniicently tall giants in
sight. We have no Thackeray, and
De Morgan, who, I believe, comes
nearest to him, is also dead. Steven
son has no successor. There is no
Emerson among our poet-philoso-
pliers. But, though-it may shock
the academic, traditional mind, 1
should not at all hesitate to place
Mrs. Deland and Mrs. Watts and
possibly-Mrs. Beatrice Kean Sey-
mour (the author Of "Intrusion')
on a pedestal beside George Eliot,
and, without any doubt about 1t at
all, certainly equal to the Brontes.
In another field Hilaire Belloc is,
think, entitled to be hailed as a
modern equivalent of Dean Swift,
with some of the advantages of the
comparison On Belloc's side. There
never has been but one Mark Twain.
but-entirely in his own way, which
is his own and no one else's-Don
Marquis is rapidly growing toward
something of like stature. Assuredly
| he is producing Literature, with an
entirely visible capital l.. And one
might go on with maybe a dozen or
| more names about which there is
sound reason to be sure that they
are not among the deciduous goats
of the mixed flock. (Yes, 1 have
nerve" enough to let that stand
it conveys my meaning, indefensible
as it is-except from an admirer of
Dreiser.)
: AS I told my youngster at the
! beginning Of this, I'd hate to have
to make a list of all the books 1
have had to read during the last
year. 1t would run to over three
hundred. (True-gentle reader, un-
gentle author, and cynically indiffer-
ent publisher do not mean that l
have read minutely every page of
that bulky library; it is not neces-
| sary to read an ordinary detective
| story or wild west or sex yarn from
cover to>cover to find out that it is
ordinarily Out of that list, without
attempting any actual count, or even
going over it except from memory,
1 think / could pick out at least
| thirty novels that L should not hesi-
tate to call literature of some last
| ing value. Besides those already
cited there is, for example, Mr..
Shands's story white and Black"
dealing with the negro problem in
Texas. If that is not Literature I
don't know what to call it. 1t is very
much of its time and place, but it
is also steadily, profoundly truthful
to the deeper verities .of existence,
and it's styles more than passably
good. BY contrast Mr.. Stribling's
similar book, though it is near the
borderline, / think fails by reason of
defective construction, and because
one is, after all, not quite sure of its
psychology at all points, of being q
permanence, though it has received
much more attention than the other
and better book. 1t is, however, so
near the line that one may well
hesitate.
That suggests a depression: the
immediate acceptance of book is
rarely safe test of it's quality as
Literature. 1t seems to be largely a
matter of chance, blind fate. Two
books of practically equal values are
put out simultaneously; one happens
to hit the public attention and is
acclaimed; the other is hardly no.
ticed. And there is no inherent
reason for the choice. Nor is it al
ways true that the real masterpiece
is sure to emerge, some day, to full
recognition. / believe that by care
full delving among the financial fail
ures of the past forty years one
could dredge up not little that does
not deserve oblivion. Maybe it will
come to the top, eventually, but the
chance seems slim. For example,
how many current readers are aware
of the quality of Harold Frederic's
work? He had no small vogue in
his day, and Is to be found on all