Christmas Roses, and Other Stories, by Anne Douglas Sedgwick (Houghton Mifflin Company). This admirable series of nine studies dealing with the finer shades of character are subdued in manner. Mrs. de Sélincourt has voluntarily restricted her range, but she has simply "curtailed her circumference to enlarge her liberty," and I believe this volume is likely to outlast many books which are more widely talked about.
Cape Breton Tales, by Harry James Smith (The Atlantic Monthly Press). This little volume of short stories and studies deals with the Arcadian life of Cape Breton and the Gaspé coast. I am speaking from personal knowledge when I state that, this is the first time the Acadian has been understood by an English speaking writer, and if Mr. Smith's art works within narrow limits, it is quite faultless in its rendering. This volume suggests what a loss American letters has sustained in the author's death.
II. English and Irish Authors
The Golden Windmill, and Other Stories, by Stacy Aumonier (The Macmillan Company). For some years Mr. Aumonier has been quietly winning an important place for himself in English letters by his admirable short stories, and this place has been fittingly recognized by Mr. Galsworthy, among others, during the past year. Eight of the nine stories in the present volume seem to me as good as stories written in the traditional technique can be, and I regard this book as only second in excellence to the volumes of A.E. Coppard and Katherine Mansfield of which I shall speak presently.
More Limehouse Nights, by Thomas Burke (George H. Doran Company). It is a wise counsel of perfection which says that sequels are barred, and I do not believe that Mr. Burke has chosen wisely in endeavoring to repeat the artistic success of "Limehouse Nights." Apart from "The Scarlet Shoes" and "Miss Plum-Blossom," this volume seems to me to be second-rate, and I feel that Mr. Burke has already exhausted his Limehouse field.
Adam and Eve and Pinch Me, by A.E. Coppard (Alfred A. Knopf). I have endeavored elsewhere to express my opinion of "Adam and Eve and Pinch Me" by dedicating this year's annual volume to Mr. Coppard. I believe that he ranks as an artist among the best continental writers. He sees life as a pattern which he simplifies, and weaves a closely wrought fabric which is a symbol of human life as seen by a disinterested but happy observer. His range is wide, and if he presents the uncommon instance of a man who has absorbed all that two men as different as Chekhov and Henry James have to teach, he brings to this fusion a personal view which transmutes the values of his masters into a new set of values. To do this successfully is the sign of a fine artist.
Dead Man's Plack, and an Old Thorn, by W.H. Hudson (E.P. Dutton & Company). Mr. Hudson's devoted readers have long known of the existence of these two stories, and have regretted that the author did not see fit to issue them in book form. The first story is a short study in historical reconstruction equal to the best of Jacobsen's work, while "The Old Thorn" ranks with "El Ombu" as one of Mr. Hudson's best two short stories. The volume is, of course, a permanent addition to English literature.
Top O' the Mornin', by Seumas MacManus (Frederick A. Stokes Company). Mr. MacManus's new collection of Irish tales has ups and downs like a Galway road, but his ups are very good indeed and show that he has by no means lost the folk imagination which made his early books rank among the very best of their kind. I can specially commend to the reader "The Widow Meehan's Cassimeer Shawl," "The Bellman of Carrick," and "The Heart-Break of Norah O'Hara."
Bliss and Other Stories, by Katherine Mansfield (Alfred A. Knopf). I have no hesitation in stating after careful thought that Miss Mansfield's first book of short stories at once places her in the great European tradition on a par with Chekhov and De Maupassant. This is certainly the most important book of short stories which has come to my notice since I began to edit this series of books. I say this with the more emphasis because, although her technique is the same as that of Chekhov, she is one of the few writers to whom a close study of Chekhov has done no harm. Most American short story writers are bad because they copy "O. Henry," and most English short story writers are bad because they copy Chekhov. Chekhov and "O. Henry" were both great writers because they copied nobody. I hope that the success of Miss Mansfield's book will not have the effect of substituting a new model instead of these two. Mr. Knopf is to be complimented for his taste in publishing the best two volumes of short stories of the year. It is a disinterested service to literature.
A Chair on the Boulevard, by Leonard Merrick (E.P. Dutton & Company). It is unnecessary at this date to point out the special excellences of Leonard Merrick. They are such as to ensure him a tolerably secure position in the history of the English short story. But it may be well to point out that the vice of his excellence is his proneness to sentimentality. This is more evident in Mr. Merrick's other volumes than in the present collection, which is really a reissue of his best stories, including that masterpiece, "The Tragedy of a Comic Song." If one were to compile an anthology of the world's best twenty stories, this story would be among them.