For the man who told" A Friend's Story of Edna Ferber" in the February English Journal I have only admiration and fellow-feel-ing; his was an eloquent and, in part, a deserved tribute to the novelist who once dedicated a book to her friend William Allen White. But for the well-known American critic who, in his" Story of Edna Ferber," made certain generalizations about that writer's place in the literature of her time, I have a word of protest. My rather futile gesture is inspired by no prejudice against the novelist in question; as a matter of fact, in disputes with my colleagues I have often had occasion to champion her against that damnable dogmatism which damns all things new. It is my conviction, how-ever, that Mr. White either should have taken a more judicious and critical attitude-which I suspect he was justifiably unwilling to do-or should have carefully excluded all attempts to appraise Edna Ferber's work. What he succeeded in doing, of course, was to tell a very readable story of Miss Ferber's rise to reputation, with apposite comments upon the material and the motive of her work, but in such a tone and with such glowing representations of her achievement that the reader was either provoked at the dis-tortion or made to feel that he had long been blind to a brilliant artist. Now this is unfortunate, to speak mildly; and it seems particularly so to me because I feel the mistake to be symptomatic. I would almost say that our Edna Ferbers will not become George Eliots chiefly because too much of our modern" criticism" consists of" friends' stories"-usually, let me hasten to add, without that honest title.

I fervently wish that Edna Ferber could become a George Eliot; she has much that I admire and vainly seek in some of her contem-poraries-a sense of proportion, for instance. I believe that" her writing reflects her personal conviction that life is not all ugliness"; more important, I believe that her cheerfulness is not forced, her reading of life not" vulgarly optimistic." Her Cowans do not