412
The Green Bag
such words in the still poor, meager human language. That small, cynical, and evil feeling which had called forth in him a con tempt for mankind, and at times even an aversion for the sight of a human face, had disappeared completely. Thus, for a man who goes up in an airship, the filth and litter of the narrow streets disappear and that which was ugly becomes beautiful. Unconsciously Werner stepped over to the table and leaned his right hand on it. Proud and commanding by nature, he had never before assumed such a proud, free, commanding pose, had never turned his head and never looked as he did now,—for he had never yet been as free and dominant as he was here in the prison, with but a few hours from execution and death. Now men seemed new to him,—they ap peared amiable and charming to his clarified vision. Soaring over time, he saw clearly how young mankind was, that but yesterday it had been howling like a beast in the forests; and that which had seemed to him terrible in human beings, unpardonable and repulsive, suddenly became very dear to him,—like the inability of a child to walk as grown people do, like a child's unconnected lisping, flashing with sparks of genius; like a child s comical blunders, errors and painful bruises. "My dear people!" Werner suddenly smiled and at once lost all that was imposing in his pose; he again became a prisoner who finds his cell narrow and uncomfortable under lock, and he was tired of the annoying, searching eye staring at him through the peephole in the door. . . . "My dear comrades! My dear, dear comrades! In this man, who was bitterly weeping and smiling through tears, no one could have recognized the cold and haughty, weary, yet daring Werner—neither the judges, nor the comrades, nor even himself. "LOADED DICE" Loaded Dice. By Ellery H. Clark. BobbsMerrill Co., Indianapolis. REALISM is but another name for that which is possible, and if the story of the hero of "Loaded Dice" were possible, a novel which traces the career of a man who has committed several murders without being found out and occupies a prominent position in the public esteem, becoming Governor of his state, might rank as sound fiction. As it is, however, Richard Gordon is without a single redeeming grace or virtue. The tale in no way caters to a legitimate demand for truth and reality, and a novel that might under other circumstances, because of some real merits of technique, be classed other
wise and is tolerably readable, must be de scribed as in honesty and candor nothing more than trash. ONE OF THE WORST BOOKS. I have a book which for forty years has adorned the centre-table of a New England parlor. I feel sure that Dr. Crothers would ac cord it a prominent place among his "hundred worst books." His test that a book should not be readable is met by the fact that it still retains its ornamental, centre-table appear ance, and though published in 1854 shows no signs of having been read. In the preface the author avows his purpose to give comfort to the mourner. The first five chapters are devoted to these subjects:— "Death of a Brother." "Death of a Sister." "Death of a Mother." "Death of a Father." "Death of a Child." Here is a sentence from one of these com forting (?) discourses. "When you see the hearse rolling along to the sepulchre, to de posit its burden there—when you see whole communities stricken with grief, you can say, 'O sin, thou hast done this.' " A few sen tences like this are enough to make one doubt the author's hearing. One ought to have unusually acute ears who essays to give us "Angel Whispers, or The Echo of Spirit Voices." But the gem of this series of comforting addresses is the one on "The Advantages of Consumption." Such a timely topic ought to be interesting and possibly surprising. Few have seen its advantages. To such we submit the four points of this discourse which will no doubt be convincing. "First. Consumption gives time for re flection and thought." "Second. Consumption is seldom, to any great extent, accompanied with pain." "Third. Consumption seldom dethrones the reason." "Fourth [and what a delightful climax!]. Consumption ends in death." These points are amply argued, and even illustrated and proved by the story of a young girl who was so fortunate as to have con tracted this desirable disease, and through the benign dispensation was able in the "time given for reflection and thought," to prepare herself for the "fearful scenes of eternity." The last essay has the cheerful title, "The Six Deathbeds. We submit that this book is worthy of the "bad eminence" accorded to the "hundred worst books," and ask if it is not a comment on the sentiment of a day gone by to find inscribed with many a flourish on the fly leaf this appropriate sentiment:— "Philopena or viel liebchen, 1854. From Nettie."—Atlantic Monthly.
