flashed before; another has a method for starting Ford cars in winter without discomfort.

We have learned to rely upon advertisements as an escape from ennui, if for no other reason; and we would not be representative Americans if we did not read and profit by proclamations of products as prosaic comparatively speaking-as new books!

EAR MR.

KATHARINE L. SEYMOUR.

Debeen about lately and had work to

do so I have had no opportunity to tell you how glad I was to see Mrs. Conrad's letter reprinted in THE BOOKMAN. I had heard of it but had not seen it, so I was hampered and bothered by a lack of first hand knowledge. Because I had read F. M. Ford's book and thought, and still think, that it is a most fascinating and remarkable study. There has been much comment upon the flare up on the part of the Conradistas led by Mrs. Conrad, but the comment has been singularly lacking in imagination. The theory that a writer's wife is necessarily an infallible guide in matters concerning her husband's literary activities and friendships is novel and amazing. Mrs. Conrad's letter and her previous excursions into print lead one to suspect that had she not happened to be Conrad's wife, she would never have read Conrad's books. Her dislike of Mr. Ford has nothing to do with the case. Mr. Ford has written a brilliant study of Conrad. He premises at the outset that he is going to write a novel about Conrad. In doing this he has presented Conrad to us in an entirely satisfying and legitimate light. Because Ford has not had the luck or the cunning to secure an American public it is assumed that he is therefore small beer and of no importance. There are many writers in England who are just as legitimately the objects of our interest as Arnold Bennett, Walpole, Arlen, and others, and these fortunate writers would be the first to tell you so.

When Mrs. Conrad says that Ford's book is detestable she is expressing her own opinion, but it has no value beyond that of any other lady. Those devoted adherents of the Conrad cult are doing their hero a serious disservice in decrying Ford's book. It is a greater tribute to the dead master than most of the stuff ground out now by people

who allowed Conrad's books to be pirated all over the place and were not even aware of his existence when he was not yet the vogue.

I am surprised no one has seen the amusing side of Mrs. Conrad's letter. I have personally known of married men who had affiliations and friendships unknown to their wives. I have known wives who were so prejudiced against men friends of their husbands that the husbands have soft pedaled those friendships.

But I am more interested in the reaction of the public lately to the Ford-Conrad squabble because I think most people underestimate "Romance", the book Ford and Conrad struggled with for so long. To me it is one of the best of the lot. It is not Conradian in the sense that "Nostromo❞ and "Youth" are Conradian, but it is one of the best stories of the lot. It is so magnificently built, it seems to stand the strain of years and constant rereading. It owes much to Ford, and I for one wish some of the other books had had some Ford in them "The Rescue" and "The Arrow of Gold”, for instance. Mrs. Conrad said a plot was of no use to her husband, which is true in one sense. But it is a sense that can be easily carried beyond reason. To say that Conrad was independent of plots is to misunderstand the whole business of writing. In Conrad's first book, written before he met Ford, "Almayer's Folly", there is a very skilful and intricate plot structure. To say that Conrad could not use another man's plot means nothing. No writer can use the other man's plot as the other man hands it to him. But he can make it his own. As an example, I had a plot given me by another man. Indeed, he had made a story of it but it did not function. I took it. I agreed to use it. I stripped it to the bare bones. I even took the bones apart and reconstructed the skeleton. I provided new scenes, new characters, a fresh climax, and added several other improvements. But the idea came from the other man, and without his preliminary plot my story would never have been written.

This is explaining great things by small, but we are all human, I suppose. What I want to protest against is the embalming of Conrad in a grand tomb. Ford shows us the living man. Let us keep him living. Already publishers are beginning to advertise new books by authors who (strange to say!) resemble Conrad. Let us keep him human. He was a great man, but — correct me if I am wrong only a mortal man.

WILLIAM MCFEE.

CCASIONALLY the quibbles and the quiddities of literary folk became boring. I was amazed recently at the attitude taken by Thomas Hardy's English publishers toward Ernest Brennecke's biography. Here is a young American student and journalist, a kindly, forthright person who has spent the best years of his life studying Hardy, whom he greatly admires. Perhaps his American publishers made undue claims for the book

I don't know. On the whole it is an excellent piece of work, and it seems to me that all those connected with Mr. Hardy should feel grateful for the undertaking and its accomplishment. I suppose in banking or in the canning business such unpleasant episodes constantly occur; but one is always hoping that publishers and authors still have some ethics, some sense of art and taste. However, it does not seem to be so; and there will be quarrels forever and anon. Speaking of quarrels, have you ever talked with a lecturer on poetry concerning the attitude he is expected to take on the subject of Edgar A. Guest? Mr. Guest, by the way, the last time I met him, had had an excellent Ford presented to him by the manufacturer; now, however, he has apparently decided to drive in other makes. A nice and shy poet of national reputation was talking in Detroit recently. Someone demanded an opinion of Mr. Guest. Somewhat fearing, but nevertheless courageous, he answered that in his humble opinion Mr. Guest was no poet at all. After the talk a lady swathed in furs approached him. "Do you drive a car?" she asked. He shook his head sadly.

"Mr. Guest", said the lady with hauteur as she swished away, "owns a Packard!" And that, after all, is the answer in America! Sometimes we are driven to a Menckenish state of mind. (I use "we" to mean those poor folk who try to steer a liberal course in the hurlyburly of American opinion.) Speaking of Mencken, the reports of Mr. Nathan's marriage are still at large, although that gentleman denies them. However, so many people deny so many things that turn out to be true. I can think of nothing more delightful than that Mr. Nathan should marry, unless it should be that he and his fellow editor should have a double wedding! Now that would be a wedding!

It never pays to write about parties to which you didn't go, even if you were invited. It seems that Constance Linsay Skinner's tea for Stefansson and Zuloaga was entertained by the music of Cecil Arden of the Metropolitan, who sang Spanish-American folk songs and also Miss Skinner's "Wild Woman's Lullaby" set to music for her by Buzzi-Peccia. Alas, that the chance to hear a wild woman's lullaby was missed. Could anything be more soothing? Miss Skinner is the lady who writes Indian poetry, or adapts it or translates it or whatever it is one does to Indian poetry. The other day a gentleman who once sat about council fires and heard the folk tales of various tribes, came into the office, and brought with him a book that recalled childhood memories. Have you ever looked at a little book called "Algonquin Indian Legends", by Leland? It

contains some of the most engaging stories of mysticism and madness that ever sprang from the human brain. I can remember living with this book under my pillow at the age of fifteen or so, and trying to figure out whether or not it was really possible for Glooskap the hero to lash the stars with his spear point, and to make a canoe out of a skipping stone. The Indians had remarkably childlike minds filled with beauty and imagery. What odd things children think of to do! I happened in on Anthony Dell the other evening after he had gone safely to bed, and found him urging a nest of rabbits to lay chocolates for him. He seemed to figure out that if the rabbits did lay a chocolate it would be quite all right for him to eat it, even though just ordinary human chocolates had been strictly forbidden by his author father. Henry James, my own revered small cousin, is not so poetical; he has coined a large vocabulary of cuss words from the pages of "Rootabaga Stories" and is making them fit the sublime uses of "The American Language". Well, if you like fairy stories, I recommend the Algonquin myths.

Why is it that all the great popular novelists are so interested in the poor Indian? Meeting Harold Bell Wright for the first time the other day, I found him a tall, rangy, quiet mannered gentleman who might pose for either a preacher or a prosperous farmer. I shook his hand, then listened to his conversation, and found that it was concerned for the most part with problems of Indian reservations and the rights of the much-put-upon aborigines. It is true that Mr. Wright makes his home in Tucson, Arizona, where I presume this problem is more evident than it is on Forty Second Street and Broadway. I did not want to talk with Mr. Wright

about his novels, lest he think that I was patronizing him. He has always written honestly, and he has had a message. That he chooses to preach his sermons in fiction, is his own affair. Surely more folk have read Harold Bell Wright's books than have ever heard Billy Sunday preach. A new book of his, now appearing serially, will shortly be published, the first in some time. To town also recently came Dean Inge of St. Paul's, London. He astonished the reporters, who had heard he never allowed himself to be interviewed, by giving them pertinent sayings on a variety of subjects. A contrast to Michael Arlen and James Stephens, this latest English visitor showed in his pictures, over a clerical collar, the bravest smile of all, in spite of the fact that he has been known — has he not? as the "gloomy dean". For clarity of writing and inspirational value, Dean Inge, among modern religious philosophers, cannot be equaled. For a visit from England came also Alice Williamson, with several manuscripts, I imagine, tucked safely in her trunk. Since her husband's death, she has not flagged in her pursuit of the golden story, and her fiction bubbles along gaily. There came also the Messrs. Pinker, stalwart young gentlemen, worthy sons of an honored father who was one of the very great literary agents. They, too, are apparently finding our shores hospitable, and are carrying on ably the tradition of their father. Ships, both going and coming, are crowded; all of Europe is determined to spend the summer in America, and vice versa. I shall become exceedingly lonely for Americans as I ply my typewriter during the dog days high up on Murray Hill, with only Irish and Italian riveters to keep me company as they noisily build a skyscraper alongside.

Zelma Brandt, another favorite literary agent, recently gave a dance, in a high vaulted studio somewhere on Madison Avenue, with a jazz band that sent even the stodgiest authors into dancing mood. Such a mixture of writers and publishers never was seen. Here was Alfred Stanford, tall, light haired, and in a grey suit. He is at work on a biography. Everyone is writing biography. Perhaps you will remember his "The Ground Swell", a sea story with good atmosphere. Elliot Holt, recently married, also in grey, was talking earnestly, when I saw him, to Rosemary Benét. Mrs. Alfred Knopf, beautiful and dexterous, found the floor and the music excellent, and made a few trenchant remarks about publishing, while Mrs. Horace Liveright, also beautiful and dexterous, preferred to talk wisely of Palm Beach and amateur theatricals. Here was Scudder Middleton, the poet, and Lucien Cary, the short story writer, and Mrs. Fletcher from the west. Mrs. Fletcher has aided James Stevens in his story of Paul Bunyan, and has herself made explorations; she declares she cannot excuse those who mix Tacoma with she'll never forgive me, but I can't remember with what anyway, it's one of those large western villages. Phyllis Duganne, too, has returned to town with her young child, and is trying to write and play nursemaid at the same time. She says it's much more fun to roll a baby carriage up Riverside Drive than it is to spin out novelettes for the magazines. She claims that she is no longer a member of the younger generation; but there is much to be said against that opinion. Will Irwin, her uncle-in-law, has just finished, by the way, a play from the Chinese, adapted in collaboration with Sidney Howard. They tell me that a recent trip to the Chinese theatre playing in lower New

York with success, proved somewhat puzzling. I should think a trip through New York's foreign language theatres would prove fascinating. I only recently awoke to the fact that it would be possible in the course of a week to see plays in practically every known language within the confines of Manhattan. Wells Root's column in the "World" has been publishing a list of these, and for anyone who enjoys the exotic and the remote, we recommend such a pilgrimage. You could start with Italian comic opera and end with Yiddish vaudeville, and what could be better than that?

The BOOKMAN contest for club papers has been remarkably successful. The essays have come in from all over the country, from both men and women, and they are of an exceptionally high quality. The committee and the magazine want to thank all those who took part in it in any way. Mary Roberts Rinehart, one of the judges, who has taken a deep personal interest in the contest, unfortunately did not return from Europe in time for a decision to be reached in this month's magazine. We shall therefore publish the announcement of prizes in July. We regret this delay, but it affords a chance for careful perusal of all the essays, and a considered decision from the judges.

Little news of Chicago has drifted this way recently. True, Marcella Burns Hahner came in to say how-doyou-do, with much news of Harry Hansen's success as a radio purveyor of books. In fact, she so assured us of the power of the radio that we have instituted from WEAF "The BOOKMAN Review". It is to be given once a month at first. Mr. Wells of "Harper's" told me the other day that the

amount of mail which Harry Hansen receives from his book section in "Harper's" is extraordinary. Keith Preston, of the Windy City, occasionally drops us a line here, and now and then I catch a glimpse of Llewellyn Jones flitting across Broadway; but Gene Markey, that æsthete of æsthetes, no longer darkens our doorway. Recently I heard of him through Arlen, whom he had lunched or dined or wined on his native heaths. What has become of Carl Sandburg? Anyone who reads. this note is hereby commanded to give me news of my favorite midwest poet. The Chicago Bookstore, which is new to my ear and eye, sends an announcement of lectures to be held in its "grotto "sounds rather special. The first one was on "The Philosophical Poetry of William Vaughn Moody" and was delivered by Ferdinand Schevill; the second by Alfred Kreymborg, the incurable" Troubadour". Incidentally, his book is racy and rare. It is one of the gayest of autobiographical narratives and can be recommended for almost any taste.

I'd like to be a wanderer,

A Kreymborg or a Burton,
To gambol on a dusty road,
With any kind of shirt on.

I'd like to own a dancing bear,
Or twang a mandalute,
For then I shouldn't have to buy
An Easter hat or suit!

"When Mr. Pickwick Went Fishing" is an exquisitely printed little volume by Dr. Samuel W. Lambert, New York's eminent physician. In it, Dr. Lambert explains simply and with utter conviction the Robert SeymourCharles Dickens controversy. Robert Seymour's brain, it seems, invented the character of Pickwick, who was to be president of a cockney sporting club. Dickens, when some of Seymour's illustrations were shown him and his

publishers told him the idea, was amused by it. He was not, however, a sportsman. Therefore Seymour's original idea was changed, and his interview with Dickens is supposed to have induced one of the fits of melancholy which caused him to take his own life forty eight hours afterward. This was after the publication of the first number, and the meeting in question was the only occasion on which "Boz" ever met his collaborator. Later in life Dickens forcibly denied that Seymour had originated Pickwick, although he had practically admitted it earlier. Dr. Lambert's book is one of much charm. It should be in the library of any bibliophile, and in many another. It proves Dickens to have been the vain man I have always. suspected - but how human! If you knew authors as well as I do — and probably you do you would know that they glean ideas from everywhere, and promptly think the ideas belong wholly to themselves. I once rewrote a play without the author's knowledge. When he saw a performance he was furious, but as time went on and people liked his play he honestly believed that my lines were his — and why not? We must get ideas from somewhere. We must make them our own before turning them out. Poor, sensitive Seymour. He had as little sense of humor in his way as Dickens had in his only his lack of humor cost him his life; Dickens, only some respect and both of them humorists, at that!

Someone has sent us the following illuminating note about Harry Hervey, the intrepid, whose room in Savannah was recently destroyed by fire, or, more properly perhaps, the hotel in which was the room, or both - how should it be put? Anyway, Mr. Hervey was