THE CRIMSON BOOKSEHLF REVEIEWS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Undergraduate life in the University, when treated in novels, rarely bears any resemblance to the real thing. Authors either make Cambridge existence seem very "collegiate" or else unbearably intellectual. Rarely does one reach a satisfactory medium. Holworthy Hall has done it; perhaps one or two other, but few achieve a really true picture of Harvard. "Ben Thorpe" by Arthur Crabb (The Century Company), is not primarily a story of Harvard, for the University is brought in only as a phase in the life of the chief character. The college, however, suffers in no way from Mr. Crabb's story. He mentions a few highlights, a few incidents, and with them develops a pretty fair description of the University its general aspects.

Those who have followed Mr. Crabb's career as a writer, know that up to the present time his work has consisted almost entirely of detective stories of a high order. Although interested primarily in criminology, he apparently has come to see that, from the point of view of fiction, such a field has very distinct limitations. For the first time he has applied his keen analytical powers to a story not intimately connected with crime, and he has produced a book which gives promise of future development.

Ben Thorpe is the illegitimate son of a woman of the streets. Chance brings him in the way of an officer of one of the railroads near New York, who adopts him and educates him. From early boyhood Thorpe has disliked women; fortune has thrown him into the hands of the lowest of them. The book is the story of Thorpe's mental and intellectual growth and the gradual weakening of his hate for all women.

Mr. Crabb's style is interesting, his plots is well thought out, but his analytical propensities, mentioned above, have too free rein in "Ben Thorpe". Pschycological discussion detracts from the effectiveness of the novel; it is introduced too clumsily, and, therefore, is a confession of weakness. The author is not quite sure that he has brought about the desired effect through the relation of incident and by dialogue. He feels explanation is necessary. In the novel this is of course permissible, but often ill-advised. Subtler methods are generally more successful.

Newport, interiors, Florence, music, horseflesh, Paris are some of the things and places which make the background of Miss Barrett's latest novel, "Gibbeted Gods" (The Century Company). And they are things about which it is enjoyable to read and learn. The story concerns one Charlotte Baird and her fight against her environment not so much to improve the environment as to keep it from touching her. The fight is a great one, an epic struggle in fact, and could be read with considerable awe if Miss Barrett only could prevent her heroine so continually suffering such attacks as a "surge of tears around the heart."

The book reaches down and stirs up the very dregs of reality. Life may not be like Pollyanna but we can only hope that it is not like Gibbeted Gods. At least a dabbling is made into every well known form of vicious indulgence, of which drinking and drug-using are not the least. There is one touch of sordidness after another, and misery and tragedy to the nth degree.

In the end Charlotte loses her fight and is forced to make a rotten compromise with life. Her love, an ill-fated affair, is uninvolved in the crash, however, and in a final burst of righteousness she sends her man away and decides that "life is not love, life is law."