Rosscommon

A BOOK like Rosscommon probably has to happen, and here it is. It is the logical last step in the return-to-the-farm type of literature with which we have been inundated in the past few years. The author’s own R. F. D. was one of the best of the lot. He has now produced, through the mouth of a character he designates as one of the last American aristocrats, a sort of anæmic pseudophilosophic discourse which is enough to make the inhabitants of Brook Farm turn in their graves. There may be a great many people who will enjoy this curious dim blend of Our Town, Erewhon, and just a dash of Otis Skinner in The Honor of the Family. If so, they are people whom, in turn, this reader would in no way enjoy.