Some Books I Dislike
I
 MUST confess, at the commencement, that I once used to have a weakness for the very kind of book which I now intend criticising.  Because of this, I used to pursue rather an extensive study of such literature, and I have more than a slight suspicion that this extreme devotion is the cause of my now heartily despising these books.
First among these are books dealing with school-life.  These are rather boring on account of the sameness of the characters found in them.  One such stock character is the energetic young sportsmaster, who is “as broad as a barn door,” and stands six feet in his socks (he is always measured in his socks).  He is also either an Oxford Blue, or has played cricket for his county.  If he is of the latter class he is never found walking about the school without a cricket‑stump clasped firmly in his “lean, bronzed, and sinewy hand,”—not even in the winter, when he might at least show his respect to the football season by carrying a linesman's flag instead.
No school book is complete without a master of the opposite type.  He is a heavily‑built man, with a brutal, scowling face, who revels in “prowling” around the school, looking for boys whom he may punish severely for petty offences.  Queerly enough, his main punishment is detentioning boys so that they are unable to take part in sports organised by our “energetic young sportsmaster.”
The boys who adore the first kind of master, and abhor the second, also fall into two groups.  The first of these is the quiet, reserved fellow, who generally turns out to be a wonderful swimmer, or else saves his school from defeat in the year's most important football match.  Another variation from this is that he rescues someone from drowning, and is seriously ill for several weeks afterwards.  This, of course, brings us to the never‑changing conclusion of his being made the hero of the school.
The bully is the second type of boy, and, more often than not, lie is soundly thrashed by the boy just mentioned.  He takes some fiendish delight in hiring boys smaller than himself into some unfrequented part of the school, and there mercilessly twisting their arms, or otherwise torturing them.  But he always behaves in a cowardly manner when it comes to doing something of a dangerous nature, such as descending a sheer cliff‑face to bring up some unfortunate boy who has fallen over on some convenient ledge, and injured himself seriously.
Most murder stories also contain this element of sameness, and are of two main divisions, which are opposite in nature to each other.  There is, first of all, the bloodthirsty kind of book, which concerns itself with horrible crimes, and with relating gruesome details in connection with them.  In this sort of book you find such phrases and sentences as “Head smashed to a pulp,” and “The corpse was terribly mutilated, and rendered thoroughly unrecognizable by deep wounds caused by some sharp instrument.”  Yet, in the latter case, the dead person is generally identified by the butler, or by some long‑lost brother who has just returned home after having made his fortune in Australia.
In contrast to this style of book there is the one in which the murder is carried out in the most intricate manner imaginable.  The murderer in this kind of book would do well to turn his abilities towards the benefit of mankind, for the devices lie invents are truly ingenious.  To carry out his crime he will arrange some mechanism by which the opening of a door, and the subsequent inrush of cold air, will result in the contraction of a delicate wire, which will then release some smoothly‑fitting plug in a tiny vessel containing poisonous gas which will quickly kill the victim.  Such are some of the books I dislike.
T. Owen (VA).