THE CRIMSON BOOKSHELF-REVIEWS-JOTS AND TITLES

Anybody can write a three-volume novel. It merely requires a complete ignorance of both life and literature. The difficulty that I should fancy the reviewer feels is the difficulty of sustaining any standard. Where there is no style a standard must be impossible. The poor reviewers are apparently reduced to be reporters of the police-court of literature, the chroniclers of the habitual criminals of art. It is sometimes said of them that they do not read all through the works they are called upon to criticise. They do not. Or at least they should not. If they did they would become confirmed misanthropes. . . . Nor is it necessary. To know the vintage and quality of a wine one need not drink the whole cask. . . . I am aware that there are many honest workers in painting as well as in literature who object to criticism entirely. They are quite right. Their work stands in no intellectual relation to their age. It brings us no new element of pleasure. It suggests no fresh departure of thought, or passion, or beauty, it should not be spoken of. It should be left to the oblivion that it deserves. Intentions.

"Letters of William James" published recently by the Atlantic Monthly Press are followed now by the "Collected Essays and Roviews of William James," thirty-nine scattered articles and criticisms, previously unpublished, issued from the press of Longmans, Green.

Readers of the "Literary Review,"--they become more frequent every week,--are hebdominally favored with a "Guide" to a "balanced ration for weekedn reading." We approve of the scheme, in fact, adopted it ourself the day we recovered from an afternoon of Sarah Bernhardt by sitting under Billy Sunday in the evening, or vice versa, no matter. But why limit the choice to recent publications? Our own list for the weekend past, after the manner of the "Review," would look something like this:

CRIMSON'S THREE BEST

"Hudibras" by Samuel Butler.

An antidote for "Blue Sundays."

"Venus and Adonis" by William Shakspere.

"A delightful little bit of Renaissance nudity."--("Batty").

"Handley Cross" by Robert Smith Surtees.

Outchariesing. Dickens but half-forgotten now.

The quotation for the day from Oscar, printed at the head of this column, reminds us that in reviewing "Lady Windermere's Fan" at the Copley, a Boston critic styled Wilde a "master phrasemonger." The play-wright has little in the matter of phrasing over the Harvard professor who lectured on H. G. Wells as "the arch-rabbit of literature."

"Selected Writings of Abraham Lincoln," edited by Albert Bushnell Hart, is announced on the most recent list of the Gregg Publishing Company.

It's not often that a mere book-reviewer can put one over on the news desk. But the little Hoover waif just hollered at us as we went by and when the night edrefused her for page one we couldn't resist the temptation to print.

Of course, her presence has no justification in this column, but we thought it would be pefectly properganda to admit it. If a literary allusion is required to pass the occasion off, how would the famous breakfast-food motto do?

H--O

"I Want some more. . . ."   Oliver Twist.

It might by Hornby's Oats in the bowl, anyhow.

It is a long jump from the little Hoover waif to Tom Hood's ideas on the ballet, but possibly the impending presence in town of Fokine and Fokina may give point to the remarks. Excerpts from lengthy autograph letters as reprinted in Magge's latest catalogue make the founder of "Hood's Magazino" say to his editor:

"I do not hold that a female must necessarily be a modest one the tied up to the neck in a sack, especially if she jumps in it her modesty may be dubious, but she is decent. But there can be no doubt of the immodesty of one who goes half naked. . . . If I understand your gliding scale of Modesty, the most petticoats dance in the shortest petticoats, and the purest of all in fig-leaves. . .

And after all, who are to strip? The masses or only a select few--only the lovely and symmetrical and artistical--or who so conceit themselves? A or Anne, may be chaste but clumsy; B, or Betsy delicate-minded but dumpy and dowdy; C, active and fond of dancing but ugly; F, feminine in feeling but fat and fubsy. Must they therefore cover up? Must only Grace, Beauty and Agility go cool whilst Fat swelters and Fubsy faints? If so may there not be an exclusiveness in Polka as in Piety--and a monopoly of nakedness as of righteousness--a Socialism that is Selfishness at Bottom, Etc., etc.