THE CRIMSON BOOKSHELF

HERE is an excellent example of humanized scholarship. Though the first three or four chapters are not easily digested, the whole book assumes an intimacy like an acquired taste. Mr. Colby, a Harvard man, is to be congratulated on the discernment with which he has selected his material as well as on the easy style of his narrative.

The love story of John Bray and Clarissa is no more than the thread which goes into the weaving of an American tapestry, a tapestry based on a firm mat of fact gleaned and connected by profound scholarly effort. The entire book would prove of valuable assistance to students of American history and expansion. In fact, it may well be taken as a jovial and sympathetic lecture on the social and intellectual history of the United States during the pre-War of 1812 period. At first the frequent use of obsolete words in conversation leads to a measure of resentment, for one fears that the writer is setting out to display a large and scholarly knowledge of the period under his pen. But none can condemn him for not at once setting his readers at ease. Nothing is more difficult than disentangling a reader from his own era and transporting him back to times gone before. One is compelled to praise the crescendo of appeal developed by Mr. Colby as he travels westward, eastward, southward, and finally Westward. Only by a genial perusal of dark pages and the vagaries of his own adventure in America could the author have found the American soul beneath the sectional variations which he defines so accurately. The American heart that is not contented asks, "How?", not "Why?". The why of Fredonia, the generic term for the land of the United States, is lost beyond the last long hills over which the soul of Trist Loner ran its ghostly last. In a hurry to tell the news. That is American, Trist's hurry to tell the news, old news that is new in a young land.

The characters are vital. The descriptions last behind closed eyes. And the narrative at times mounts to heights of power. In spots the author's craft becomes stagey and he permits here and there an anachronism of expression in the mouth of a character. Perhaps the greatest tribute payable to books of the sort can be paid to All Ye People. Though living in the time of the fulfillment, the reader feels not triteness in the prophecy he has seen realized. He finishes the book with a sense of anticipation and exultation, exultation skin to that of John Bray as he rides hard to join Clarissa on the final Westward road. And 'all ye people' clap their hands.