END OF ROAMING

By Alexander Laing.

'25 Farrar and Rinehart. 1930. 484 pages.

Alexander Laing in his story of Richard Melville has written a well-rounded and competent novel. The title is taken from "Last Poems" by A. E. Housman, a poet who has influenced the author considerably.

"So here's an end of roaming On eves when autumn nighs: The ear to fondly listens too For summer's parting sighs, And then the heart replies."

The title was to have been "All Our Yesterdays" but Mr. Tomlinson's book came out first. Either one seems satisfactory.

The novel is interesting from start to finish. I quote from The Phoenix Nest of the Saturday Review of Literature: "We are pretty nice, too, to mention all the things we like and leave out all the others considering that we feel rather awful this morning with a convalescent cold, and with sitting up till two A.M. reading Alexander Laing's End ofRoaming. Why, of course, its good, or we wouldn't have been such a darn fool as to go on reading that long, would we? It isn't any masterpiece, but its a good first novel. We are tired of novels of adolescence, and yet it held us. Mr. Laing has the gift of holding one's attention anyway." Mr. Benet is a critic of merit.

I intend no long analysis of the novel. I have recommended it to friends and I do the same here. I can vouch, I think, for the fact that all the readers below thirty will find themselves somewhere in the book. The others may have forgotten their younger days. The father of Richard Melville when he says to the young boy that, "Duty" he pronounced it dooty—"comes first, then play," and then proceeds to whip him, may be remembered by those who instead of raking up the leaves went swimming. Mr. Melville is a good provider but without being aware of it is slightly sadistic as self righteous bigots often are. I have a feeling that some of Mr. Laing's characters are at times pulled out of the literary bag and made to perform, but nevertheless, you will know most of them. Richard's Uncle Robert, a fine foil for the father, is the almost-too-perfect ne'er-do-well. He gains our sympathy but is indistinct even in passing. A pagan in his life and philosophy, he exerts an influence on the young man which, happily, he never gets away from. But even pagans must work or perish and Uncle Robert chooses the latter alternative.

The novel tells the story of Richard Melville, a sensitive youth, from childhood, through college days to early manhood. Cursed (or blessed, if you like) with an early attack of Wertherism, he suffers and exalts as such boys must. Sometimes it is over nature and often over girls. Who has not known Patricia Chappel? Richard knew her when he was in college, (Cavendish or where ever you happened to go) and stimulated by the beauty of the hills, as well as adolescent sexual longing so far sublimated in poetry and art, he takes up his stationery with the Cavendish seal, (or was it Scabbard and Blade), and writes as follows: (I omit parts of the letter) "Autumn blows like a flame over Cavendish—." "—the red heart of the eagle in the sky." "And ... 'A little hand is knocking in my heart.' "

Do you know that line, Patricia? It's from a sad poem, but to me it does not spell sadness. Richard is wiser than the poet was, for Richard has opened the door to the little hand that has been knocking, knocking, patiently, for years, trying to get in and clean out a glassy labyrinth of pipettes and Florence flasks and other junk cluttering up what should have been a resort for only beauty.

"You have done this. If I didn't love you as I do, love you with every tingling fibre of heart and brain, this would never have happened. . . " "The special train leaves New York at 11:00 next Friday, etc."

What could the poor girl do? She comes up to the party. It ends, I think, as many college parties used to end, with ashes in the adolescent heart. Good old Patricia? How right you were! But how sorry one can be for oneself when one is young. Richard recovered and if he didn't later write Pat a letter of thanks, he wasn't the gentleman I took him for.

The book has a beginning, middle and end, and for this reviewer, at least, the beginning and the end were better than the middle. Melville winds through the tortuous paths of youth finding himself in a world made chaotic by the international imbecilities enacted on the Western Front. I do not know how many generations are going to find excuses for their conduct, good or bad, wise, or unwise, in the reaction following the World War, but I fervently hope Richard's will be the last. At any rate he finally finds himself after playing hide and seek with life in various paths of endeavor and in various places. It's lucky he did. Not even your best friend—.

Mr. Laing writes extremely well and there are some very fine passages throughout the book. He shows, too, an astonishing maturity for so young an author. The wide knowledge shown is well digested, from the KraftEbbing to the theory of Einstein. Mr. Laing, moreover, is a poet and reacts sensitively to life and knows beauty when he sees it, and he has the ability to make the reader see and feel what has most impressed him with its significance.

One of the high spots in the book is a brief interlude describing the sinking of the S. S. Grontoft, a Norwegian freighter, as seen through the radio messages of its operator John Erantzen. (A true story and faithfully transcribed.) Through the air came ironic messages: "The old wagon has a list like a rundown heel. This is no weather to be out without an umbrella," and the last message, "We are sinking stern first. The decks are awash. The boats are smashed. Can't hold out much longer . . . The skipper dictated that. He ought to know. Where did I put my hat? Sorry we couldn't wait for you. Pressing business elsewhere. Skoal . . And Richard learned how men could die.

Richard passes through several amourous episodes which, like fraternity bids, "are afforded to few men." He learns about women from Pat, Ruth, Doris, Ellen, and several others. Afterwards he is glad to end up as a chemist in the office of the "Commissioner of Public Works."

As the novel stands, it is not as closely knit as it might have been. Cutting would have helped. I feel certain that Mr. Laing's next novel will be more compact and show a stride forward in technique. But this won't bother you when you read it, for you will be too engrossed. Buy it, read it, and then pass it on to a friend. It is that kind of a book.

"The Blacksmith of Vilno, a Tale of Poland in the Year 1832," by Erie P. Kelly '06, has been published by the Macmillan Co.

Professor Kelly conducts his own department of Journalism at Dartmouth. He is managing editor of the MAGAZINE. AS author of "The Trumpeter of Krakow" he has already won distinction in the field of literature. "The Blacksmith of Vilno," beautifully illustrated, promises to be a worthy successor to "The Trumpeter."

CAN ANYONE IDENTIFY THIS EMBLEM!