This review is meant as a tribute to Edith Wharton's writing skill, because she can take a topic about which this reader has little knowledge and less interest and weave it into a page-turner. An inspiring story with a happy ending it is not, but The House of Mirth has many qualities to recommend it. Its heroine, Lily Bart, is not noble. She is snobbish and indecisive, qualities only somewhat mitigated by her intelligence, generosity and integrity (at least in comparison with the other characters caught up in the social whirl of New York's Fifth Avenue at the dawn of the Twentieth Century.)

Lily Bart is a beautiful, sought-after socialite who turns down more marriage proposals than Scarlett O'Hara accepts. Pushing 30, she is still hedging on commitment, possibly because her heart belongs to Lawrence Selden. Lily has made it clear to Lawrence that they can only be friends because she must marry a rich man, as both of her parents died and left her in a upper crust social milieu with no inheritance of her own. Lily lives with her aunt who is kind to her and pays most of her expenses except the debts Lily has incurred playing cards for money. The aunt's attitude might have been reasonable had Lily not incurred the debt fulfilling a social obligation to join her aunt's bridge parties. Thus Lily's life goes on, her obligations leave her damned if she does, damned if she doesn't, and she lacks the wherewithal to ignore social obligations and strike out on a path of her own. The issue of her debt drives the downward trajectory of Lily's social status, since Lily possesses neither the money sense nor the professional skill to manage her finances or shore up her dwindling bank balance.

In spite of the fact that The House of Mirth was published in 1905, the truths that Wharton illustrates with Lily's story feel strangely contemporary. Wharton pictures a new class of self-made millionaires created by Wall Street, casts a shadow over the tenuous position of those in the "leisure class" and offers a peek at the ascendancy of the self-supporting career woman. What a working woman can take away from this story is a gladness that she can marry or not; that she can keep her friends or not; that she can join the social whirl or thumb her nose at it because she possesses an independence that Lily Bart was denied.

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The first novel by Fanny Fern, otherwise known as Sara Payson Willis, is a semi-autobiographical tale of a talented writer who loses her husband and is forced to support herself and two young children in the mid-1800s. Fern writes with biting social commentary on the subject of traditional assumptions of a woman's place in society.

The chapters are short and character details are sparse. With a journalist's style, Fern builds her story through snippets of information and dialog. In these snippets, she fearlessly depicts real-life events and people, draping them in a fictional guise. Most of Fern's family is here--her father and brother and in-laws--in all their vicious detail. We follow the "story" of Ruth Hall from her happy married life to groveling for work while her relations turn a blind eye to her poverty and suffering. Upon her first successes as a paid writer, she takes the same approach in exposing the underhanded tactics of publishers, especially when dealing with women.

Fern states in her preface that Ruth Hall is not a novel, preferring the term "continuous story". She wrote at variance with the traditional themes and styles of the time and therefore received her share of criticism for it. However she also had supporters. Notably, Nathaniel Hawthorne hoped that Fern's writing would encourage her female contemporaries to follow her example and "throw off the constraints of decency...then their books are sure to possess character and value."

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To Have and To Hold by Mary Johnston was the bestselling book in the U.S. in 1900, and it’s not hard to see why — it’s awesome. It’s the same sort of book as Janice Meredith: adventure, American colonial history, etc. To Have and To Hold just has more pirates and, I don’t know, general craziness. I kind of love it.

The story is set in the early years of the Virginia colony and follows the fortunes of Captain Ralph Percy. He’s not wealthy and he’s not politically important and he’s not a real historical figure, but he’s friends with all of those who are. For example at the beginning of the book, Pocahontas has been dead for three years. Percy remembers her fondly, is best friends with her widower John Rolfe, and respects her brother Nantauquas more than any of the other members of the Powhatan tribe. Although — well, that’s not saying much. Percy has a high opinion of the Indians’ cunning, but a low opinion of their honor.

The story begins when Percy, mostly unwillingly, takes part in a sort of mail-order bride arrangement and ends up married to a young woman who is clearly more than she professes herself to be. How much more isn’t clear until the arrival by ship some weeks later of my Lord Carnal, the King’s favorite. He reveals that she is Lady Jocelyn Leigh, a ward of the King. The King wanted her to marry my Lord Carnal, but she hated him, and so she ran away. It’s hard to blame her because my Lord Carnal isn’t very nice and Captain Percy is. Clearly she will eventually fall in love with her husband. But first, adventures!

Many weeks of everyone pretending they don’t know very well that Ralph and Jocelyn are going to be sent back to England to have their marriage annulled culminate in the couple escaping in a tiny boat. They mean to go alone, but they end up with three additional passengers:

• Ralph’s servant Diccon, with whom he has an extremely prickly relationship owing to that one time when Diccon tried to kill him
• Jeremy Sparrow, minister, former Shakespearean actor, and good-natured hulking giant who has appointed himself Ralph’s new best friend
• Somewhat inconveniently, my Lord Carnal

Fortunately they manage to leave behind my Lord Carnal’s sidekick, an Italian doctor who is much given to a) lurking, and b) poisoning people. Then: shipwreck, pirates, a makeshift courtroom scene, jail, lots of Indians, and an assortment of atmospheric descriptions of scenery.

There’s enough plot for three different adventure novels here, but none of it feels gratuitous or hastily tacked-on (except perhaps the end). I like the characters, too.  Jocelyn should be profoundly irritating, and sometimes she is, but in a human kind of way rather than a tying herself into knots in order to obey the constraints of the story kind of way. Ralph Percy is lovely and self-deprecating and heroic, and while Jeremy Sparrow comes out of nowhere and all of a sudden everyone is like, “Oh yeah, I remember seeing you in Twelfth Night,” I don’t mind because being a pious minister and a big, burly adventurer at the same time is tough. He makes it work. I’m less enthused about the villains. My Lord Carnal is disappointingly one-sided, and I can’t really see the point of his creepy Italian poisoner sidekick. But I loved how they all — minus the creepy Italian poisoner — went off on piratey adventures together.

I started this book thinking it was going to be a miserable slog, but once I got a few chapters in, I couldn’t put it down. It’s nice to be able to agree with all of those book-buyers of 1900.

Visit Melody’s blog, Redeeming Qualities, for more vintage reviews and commentary!

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Helen Keller probably needs no introduction, but if perchance you have not heard of her, here is a brief introduction.

Helen was born in June of 1880 in a tiny town in northern Alabama. She was nineteen months old and had just begun to talk when she contracted an unnamed disease, described by her doctor only as "acute congestion of the stomach and brain." The doctor's prognosis was that Helen would not live. She pulled through, but not before the disease had robbed her of her sight and hearing.

Helen was fortunate to have been born to loving and patient (and apparently well-to-do) parents who made every effort to stimulate the senses left to Helen and to seek help when it was time to educate her. At the suggestion of a family friend, Alexander Graham Bell, the family contacted Boston's Perkins Institute for the Blind, which sent Anne Sullivan to tutor Helen. Anne Sullivan would later be called "The Miracle Worker," and a movie by the same name would reflect the story in this book (and win an Oscar for a very young Patty Duke.)

Blossoming under Anne's insightful instruction, Helen went on not only to pass the entrance exams for Radcliffe college but to graduate from this prestigious educational institution in 1904. Finishing Radcliffe alone was quite an accomplishment for a woman of that time, but for a deaf and blind woman, the accomplishment was nothing less than super human. Modestly, in her life story, she gives all the credit to her family, Alexander Graham Bell and Anne Sullivan.

The most surprising thing about Helen Keller's autobiography is how literate she is. The most enjoyable aspect of The Story of My Life is her passion for books. She discusses her favorite classics which she read in English, Greek, Latin, French and German. She mentioned that it was difficult to get books in Braille, and when she was required by a course to read a certain work that was not yet published in Braille, Anne Sullivan would have to spell out the book in the palm of Helen's hand so that she could keep up with her class. When Helen did get hold of a Braille book, she devoured it. What a joy it must have been to read to herself, possibly 50 times faster than Anne could communicate the words to her through finger signing. Helen also mentions her other "best friend," the typewriter, which allowed her to write her school papers and later her book.

Another enjoyable aspect of The Story of My Life is that if you ever feel sorry for yourself for what you don't have or what you are currently struggling with, your deficiencies and struggles may suddenly seem minor in comparison to Helen's.

The version of The Story of My Life offered by Girlebooks includes selected letters and reports that demonstrate Helen's gradual mastery of the English language, including punctuation. If you do not have time to read all of them, I recommend that you scan them to see her journey from minimally literate to accomplished writer. A third section includes the reports given by Anne Sullivan, which will give further insight into Helen's progress as a student.

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This is a unique story about Elnora Comstock who lives a reclusive life with her mother in the woody swamps of Indiana called the Limberlost. Elnora longs to go to school like the city children, but hasn't enough money. One day she discovers that a hobby she has cultivated all her life, collecting moth and other insect specimens from the swamps near her home, can actually finance the education she longs for. Helped by the Bird Woman and various other colorful characters that pop into the swamp from time to time, Elnora starts toward her goal.

The first part is a family tale, where Elnora grapples with her mother's moody ways. The second part is a romance. There is much to admire about Elnora. She shows spirit, is resourceful, is honest and sympathetic. Most importantly, she values the surroundings in which she was brought up and makes the most of them.

On a personal note, my one complaint of the novel is a tendency to overestimate appearances. In one episode Elnora is faced with the prospect of not wearing new dresses to graduation, as is the custom of the occasion, but her dresses from the last year that have been cleaned and ironed. This is terribly problematic for her, and everyone agrees that the better option is not to attend rather than wear old dresses. Maybe I don't understand the cultural significance of the new dresses, and of course the episode was written to show us how selfish and clueless her mother was. But I would have loved to see Elnora put on those old dresses and march down to graduation with her head held high.

Apparently there is prequel to this book called Freckles, and it might do one well to check that out first. I was confused in many parts when the narrator mentions Elnora's past interactions with Freckles as if I was supposed to know what she was talking about--however having read Freckles is certainly not necessary to the enjoyment of the novel.

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First published in 1915, Dear Enemy is a sequel to Daddy Long Legs. Judy Abbott, whose letters to her anonymous benefactor made up the first novel, hardly makes an appearance in this one. The main character is Judy's pal from college, Sallie McBride, who Judy recruits from her frivolous life to run the John Grier orphan asylum. Sallie accepts the challenge, mainly to anger her politician suitor who doesn't think she's up to the task. And so the adventure begins. This time the letters are from Sallie mostly to Judy, but letters to others including to the home's moody Scottish doctor--her "enemy"--add some variation.

What makes the novel work is Sallie's open temperament as well as tendency to put her foot in her mouth. I was again reminded of that other book about orphans and red-heads with a tendency for pitfalls, Anne of Green Gables. Some hilarious episodes occur, as do some tearful ones. The love story is one of the better and more believable ones I've come across, with the two characters well-matched, likable, and deserving of their eventual happiness.

I liked this one even better than its prequel. Yes, there are some problematic mentions of eugenics and "idiocy", so be forewarned! But at heart it is a lovely, endearing story.

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We don’t have an American equivalent of Mrs. Tim of the Regiment, D. E. Stevenson’s classic humorous novel about an army wife whose diary regales us with her adventures as a versatile housewife, ebullient mother of two precocious children, and charming friend who helps other army wives adapt to their gypsy life. This novel is a darling of the D. E. Stevenson Yahoo group, an online group devoted to discussion of her novels. And because the book is so popular, I’ve been racking my brains for an American equivalent. In vain.

For some peculiar reason, however, the tone of Edna Ferber’s delightful collection of short stories, Roast Beef, Medium: The Business Adventures of Emma McChesney (1913), puts me in mind of Mrs. Tim. It’s not that the heroine has much in common with Mrs. Tim - Emma McChesney is perhaps the only a successful traveling saleswoman in literary history, a stellar employee of T. A. Buck’s Featherloom Petticoats. Her domestic situation is utterly different from Mrs. Tim's, too, as she is the divorced mother of a 17-year-old son. But her sense of humor, friendliness, and resilience are an American rendition of Mrs. Tim.

“Roast Beef, Medium is not only a food. It is a philosophy,” Edna Ferber writes in the preface to the collection.

The title refers to the only consistently good road food, in Emma's opinion: roast beef. On the road, Emma daydreams about the Sunday dinners she could cook if she were an ordinary housewife. Roast beef becomes a metaphor for the family life she feels she is missing, though none of the women she knows lead that life. After five months on the road in small towns she wants nothing more than to eat a good dinner in Chicago and see a show. But, tired from a long day of the business she simultaneously adores and is cynical about, she watches other housewives in the small towns.

“As Emma McChesney loitered, looking in at the shop windows and watching the women hurrying by, intent on the purchase of their Sunday dinners, that vaguely restless feeling seized her again. There were rows of plump fowls in the butcher-shop windows, and juicy roasts. The cunning hand of the butcher had enhanced the redness of the meat by trimmings of curly parsley....There came over the businesslike soul of Emma McChesney a wild longing to go in and select a ten-pound roast, taking care that there should be just the right proportion of creamy fat and red meat.... She ached to turn back her sleeves and don a blue-and-white checked apron and roll out noodles.”

Emma doesn't have a boyfriend, though men try to pick her up. She has a competitive relationship with a salesman for a rival petticoat company, a fat, talented pianist who likes to play the piano in hotel lounges. Her women friends work in department stores - and she makes friends on a train with an actress. Her son takes her money for granted until she takes him on the road and he finds out how difficult the life is.

Edna Ferber is known for big old-fashioned novels like So Big (for which she won the Pulitzer) and Giant (which was made into an incredibly good movie with Elizabeth Taylor and James Dean). I always thought they were supposed to be bad novels - not read anymore, anyway - but these stories are superb. There are two sequels, Personality Plus: Some Experiences of Emily McChesney and her Son, Jock (1914), and Emma McChesney & Co. (1915).

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My first emotion upon finishing Rose in Bloom was tremendous surprise. Whereas, its antecedent, Eight Cousins was uncomplicated to the point of being almost saccharine, Rose in Bloom featured quite a bit of conflict, along with some very adult emotions.

The novel begins when Rose returns from two years in Europe with her uncle Alex and her handmaid, Phoebe, whom Rose has released from service and come to regard as her sister. Rose’s seven male cousins have grown up, and the family and community now look upon some of them as possible mates for Rose. The winner of this lottery would be very fortunate, since Rose is a very rich orphan and is now at the age where she can spend of her fortune. Even Uncle Alex, Rose’s chosen guardian, has not escaped speculation as a prospective husband.

Rose is in no hurry, opting to socialize a bit before making a commitment. After several rounds of parties, of which Uncle Alex disapproves but does not forbid, Rose decides that the social life is not for her, and begins to turn a more discerning eye toward her cousins.

The suitor apparent is “Bonnie Prince” Charlie, the suave and charming one, who also has become rather spoiled. Charlie has many fine points, but his faults prove rather serious—one being an excessive fondness for alcohol.

The cousin with which Rose has the most in common is her bookish cousin, Mac, although neither seriously believes that their relationship will turn into something permanent. Mac is dedicated to his career, and Rose is still shy about commitment. Meanwhile, the eldest cousin, Archie, who is considered the best catch, has fallen in love with Phoebe and is struggling for approval from the family to marry her.

The events that ensue to determine the winning suitor are both interesting and heartbreaking. This story has all the conflict and reversals that never happened in Eight Cousins. As such, Rose in Bloom is a much more adult novel than its predecessor. However, it is vintage Alcott, echoing some of the sentiments one remembers from Little Women.

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While I was reading Jo’s Boys I happened upon a review of the recently-published Fruitlands by Richard Francis—an historical perspective on a Utopian community established by Louisa May Alcott's father, Bronson Alcott. The community was founded in 1843, and author Francis suggests that its failure in seven months came about in part by Alcott’s (and his partner, Charles Lane’s) “tendency to take moderation to excess.” The idealistic members of the community agreed to follow a vegan diet, use nothing that came from animals such as tallow candles or even manure, to consume no caffeine or alcohol, to use nothing produced by slave labor such as cotton or cane sugar, and to refrain from sex. Such an idealistic approach to living might be possible (if fairly miserable) today. Imagine trying to follow such rigid disciplines before there were electric lights, tractors and extensive knowledge of alternative fertilizers.

Louisa May Alcott's ideas were much less rigid than her father’s, but one can see in the reading a similar idealistic streak, especially when it comes to the empowerment of women, disdain for alcohol, and penance for sinners.

Jo’s Boys is a continuation of Little Men, following the main characters of the previous book into adulthood. Franz and Emil, Tommy Bangs, Dolly, Stuffy, Nat, Dan and Daisy appear, along with the almost-grown-up Bess, Josie, Rob and Teddy. Although Eight Cousins and Rose in Bloom appear to be Miss Alcott’s primary platform for her philosophical leanings, one can see in Jo’s Boys a reflection upon saints and sinners and their respective fates. In the perspective of Jo’s Boys, one need not wait until the next world to reap the harvest of the “crops” one has sewn. Each “little man” (or woman) reaps rewards almost in exact proportion to how good, or even heroic, he has been, how well he has handled his money and other resources, and, if he has fallen in grace, how well he has redeemed himself.

If Little Men was a wonderful fantasy of childhood, Jo’s Boys is a lesson in the cold, hard realities of adulthood. The contrast between the two stories brings to mind the lines from the sad, nostalgic song “Babes in Toyland”:  “Little Girl and Boy Land; Once you pass its borders, you can ne’er return again.”

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When I was five years old, my mother enrolled me in a day care center that offered a private kindergarten class. The school was small, about a dozen students, and I remember it as a cozy, caring environment with a lovely teacher and a captivating curriculum. In the front room of the school stood a little white playhouse with a red roof. Inside, the house contained shelves of books. When we students finished our work, we were allowed to go into the little house to sit and read. Sitting in that tiny library gave me such a feeling of peace and enchantment; I'm sure my book "addiction" started there. Since that day, schools and libraries have been magical places for me, and fifty-seven years later I still have a feeling of unsuppressed excitement whenever I enter either establishment.

In reading Little Men, I find myself agreeing with Louisa May Alcott in the philosophy that schools represent a place for students to learn new skills and test new ideas; to interact with knowledgeable adults eager to impart their knowledge; to find new and exciting games to play, and most enthralling of all, to have use of a library which literally opens up doors to new worlds. Up until now, my favorite fictional school has been Harry Potter's Hogwarts. I applaud J. K. Rowling's inventiveness in designing a fascinating haven for young people that does not shield them from the real world but rather allows them, with guidance, to explore it and to learn to deal with the hazards and challenges it represents. Now Hogwarts has a rival in Plumfield, the school established by Jo and Fritz Bhaer. Jo, of course is Jo March, the tomboy sister in Little Women. Fritz is Jo's professor husband as well as a kindly and astute school director. Jo is the catalyst moving the education process along, the glue holding the school together and the engineer studying and solving the human problems that surface when a multitude of students with widely divergent backgrounds come together. Jo is so inventive, I longed to be one of her students, perhaps Daisy or Dan (yes, in spite of the book title, the school is co-ed.) Where else would a would-be homemaker get a completely functioning miniature kitchen and an aspiring naturalist get his own museum!

Even when Jo does not actually solve a problem, she knows when to stand back and let the students come up with their own solutions, no matter how wacky, especially if students work together for the greater good. Thus, if you were to enter Plumfield of a Sunday evening, you might get caught up in a pillow fight. In the days before Thanksgiving, you might happen upon impromptu meal cooked by the students in front of the fireplace (popcorn, roasted nuts and baked apples--yum!) You might also be held captive until you offered up a story to entertain your chefs.

If it appears that Plumfield is too good to be believed, Alcott rises to the occasion with plenty of drama and even some heartbreak. Like Little Women, Little Men presents adult emotions and adult topics. In Little Men, Alcott did not shy away from subjects such as death, desertion and abuse, but neither did she let the bad times control her story.

Little Men is such an enjoyable story that I suspect you will be happy to learn that it has a sequel. I also suspect that you will be back to get Jo's Boys perhaps even before you finish Little Men.

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First published in 1912, this novel is comprised mostly of letters from orphan Jerusha “Judy” Abbott to her anonymous benefactor whom she has never met. The letters are the only repayment this benefactor requests for paying to send Judy to college. All she has seen of him is his tall shadow against a wall as he leaves the orphanage one night. Because of this, Judy and her lively imagination come up with the nickname “Daddy Long Legs”. Judy's letters to Daddy Long Legs chronicle her departure from the orphanage through four years of college. She makes new friends, slowly gains knowledge and independence, but also struggles with her humble past and unfixed future.

Similar to Anne of Green Gables, Daddy Long Legs is a young adult novel that all ages can enjoy. Like Anne, Judy starts out as a rambunctious orphan. Her high spirits get her through many trials, and by the end she turns out a mature (yet energetic) young woman who gets her happy ending. It is a quick, entertaining read with some plot twists that the astute reader will pick up beforehand--but the enjoyment remains the same no matter what one guesses about the ending.

Apparently this novel was made into several films, including a musical staring Fred Astaire. I've also just learned that there is an sequel to Daddy Long Legs called Dear Enemy. We have faithfully reproduced 33 illustrations by the author in this ebook edition.

Cover art by Janice Tarver, for sale at Etsy.

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"Oh!" said Mrs. Temple, "I would if possible fly to her, support and cheer the dear sufferer in the approaching hour of distress, and tell her how nearly penitence is allied to virtue. Cannot we go and conduct her home, my love?"
--Lucy Temple (Charlotte’s mother) in Charlotte Temple

"What on earth have I done?" Certainly you have had that feeling at least once in your life. The choice you made may have seemed right at the time; perhaps even the only choice. But later, the consequences of your actions spread out before you like a spider web with a frightening array of repercussions. Worse, you may have had very few options for making amends. Youth, impetuousness and inexperience, along with a fierce amount of peer pressure could all conspire to bring about such a predicament. It wasn’t until I read Charlotte Temple that I realized how great the consequences could be for a naive young woman during the years surrounding the American Revolution.

Charlotte Temple’s story starts out in England, where the fifteen-year-old Charlotte is attending boarding school. Charlotte is an exuberant, well-behaved girl, a devoted daughter, and a dedicated student. Her parents and grandparents have suffered many deprivations but have risen above their circumstances to give Charlotte a loving home and a life full of promise. Charlotte is a model student, and is proving to be everything her family had hoped for.

Charlotte’s innocence made her an easy target for her more worldly suitor, Montraville, and her scheming teacher, Mademoiselle La Rue, the latter of whom convinces her to sneak off campus several times to meet with the young man. Montraville cuts a dashing figure in his British lieutenant’s uniform and Charlotte is not immune to his charms, but she makes an effort to do the right thing and vows not to meet with him again. La Rue, however, convinces her to see him “one last time.” At this “last meeting” Montraville convinces Charlotte to go with him when he ships out for the American front. Thus he, Charlotte, La Rue and Montraville’s friend, Belcour, board a ship and sail to the colonies.

It is only when she arrives in America that Charlotte sees the full impact of her predicament. She realizes that her companions are not as ingenuous as she, and that Montraville has no intention of marrying her. Although he is carrying his child, he abandons her telling Belcour to look after her, a trust Belcour is unable to fulfill due to his incessant drinking. Charlotte’s struggle to survive and the roles played by her three companions in furthering her misery comprise a morality tale with frightening consequences, both for Charlotte and the engineers of her downfall.

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“But being an unmarried woman, with the handicap of my sex, my first acquaintance with crime will probably be my last. Indeed, it came near enough to being my last acquaintance with anything.”—Rachael Innes in The Circular Staircase

Perhaps Rachael Innes would not have taken a summer rental on a sprawling mansion by the sea if she had known it was haunted. By the time she had spent the second--mostly sleepless--night in “Sunnyside”, the house proved not only haunted but the site of a murder. To make matters worse, that very night she received news of a spectacular bank failure whose engineer might be under her roof.

Disembodied souls manage to fling golf clubs, cuff links, a revolver, and iron bars into the night; more bodies drop; and Rachael’s hope for a peaceful summer at the shore turned to chaos. Whether Rachael has nerves of steel or is just plain stubborn could be the subject of a dissertation. Most likely both premises are true, although her ostensible reason for staying was that her home in town was under renovation.

A welcome turn of events led me to read Mary Roberts Rinehart’s The Circular Staircase immediately after I reviewed Anna Katharine Green’s That Affair Next Door and bought Dorothy Sayers’ The Complete Stories at a library sale. Mary Rinehart is often called “The American Agatha Christie,” but she has much in common with both Anna Katharine Green and Dorothy Sayers, both of whom compare favorably with Ms. Christie.

Like Sayers, Rinehart exhibits a wry sense of humor, enhanced by a clever turn of phrase. Like Green, Rinehart offers an elaborate array of seemingly unrelated clues that eventually come together like a jigsaw puzzle, each piece with a reasonable and sometimes detailed explanation.

The narrator and protagonist of The Circular Staircase, Rachael Innes, could have become great friends with Amelia Butterworth from That Affair Next Door. Both protagonists are unmarried women in their fifties who find themselves bystanders to a murder investigation. Both surreptitiously start their own investigations. Both find crucial pieces of evidence that aid detectives Jamieson and Gryce in solving the crimes. Both use their own resources to provide humanitarian aid to the innocents unwittingly involved with or victimized by the perpetrators. And neither flinches in the presence of a suspect.

Mary Rinehart went on to write many well-received novels, and by 1940 earned as much as $65,000 for a serialized novel. After reading The Circular Staircase I am not surprised.

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Returning from a trip abroad, the Van Burnam family enters their New York mansion to find a dead woman on the dining room floor. A curio cabinet has fallen on top of her, crushing her face, and law officers suspect that the victim is the wife of one of the Van Burnam sons. However, the son insists that he does not recognize the victim. How did this woman get into this locked house? Whose are those strange garments she is wearing? What is her hat doing in the closet and a strange, gaudy hat crushed underneath her? Why did the coroner insist that the woman was dead when the curio fell?

The story itself was another fascinating study in human motivations intertwined with bits and pieces of circumstantial evidence that at first make very little sense. True to Green’s style, she calls up and explains each motivation, each piece of evidence with mathematical precision until the mystery unravels, and the perpetrator is punished in a most fitting fashion.

In That Affair Next Door, Mr. Gryce owes much of his success to the main witness, a woman named Miss Amelia Butterworth, who lives next door to the crime scene. Having read about Green’s life and political views at the University of Texas Tarlton Law Library’s “Law in Popular Culture” site, I suspect that Miss Butterworth may have been Green’s alter ego. The story itself is written in first person with Miss Butterworth narrating.

The first thing that struck me regarding the protagonist, Miss Butterworth, was the remarkable contrast between her and the victimized main witness in The Mystery of the Hasty Arrow. Miss Butterworth, a fifty-ish spinster, is well able to take care of herself and has no qualms about helping Mr. Gryce and even conducting some investigation on her own. Any attempt to victimize or take advantage of this woman would have been discovered in a trice and rebuffed with a flourish.

Notwithstanding Miss Butterworth’s self-reliance, Green’s prose offers a window into class and gender roles as they stood in the late nineteenth century. Her vivid descriptions of socially acceptable and unacceptable behavior picture clearly how much society has changed over the past century. One can only speculate regarding what attitudes the author intended to express. Looking into her own life, we see a woman who was successful professionally (she always earned more than her husband), but not inclined to support women’s causes, such as suffrage. The fact that she was able to overcome any barriers to her professional success may have been part of her reason for finding women’s causes unnecessary. As a woman who advised Conan Doyle in his early career and partnered with her husband in designing award-winning furniture she certainly served as the epitome of female success, well able to overcome any obstacles society may have established.

Cover art by Janice Tarver, for sale at Etsy.

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It is the noon hour at a museum in New York City. The date: May 23, 1913. The weekday, attendance is light; the attendees are scattered between two floors. Suddenly a cry rings out from the second floor. Scrambling to Section II, the museum director discovers a teenage girl dead with an arrow through her heart. An older woman hovers over her whispering incoherent phrases in the girl's ear and offering incomprehensible answers to the director's questions. She is the only witness to the crime, or accident, as the case may be. How will the feeble, 83 year-old Mr. Gryce unravel this mystery when this witness is apparently insane?

Anna Katharine Green was noted for her scientific approach to the murder mystery. In The Mystery of the Hasty Arrow she breaks more ground with her in-depth study of the psychological interplay between the murderer, the victim and the witnesses. Although more quietly paced, this mystery presents many elements of a current psychological thriller: blind ambition, narcissism, obsession and betrayal. Green adds a peculiar twist with the fact that two heartbroken relatives of the victim sacrifice virtually everything to protect the murderer.

The story leans heavily on the "woman as victim" theme, a concept that may have fallen from favor as the years have passed and women have become more their own persons rather than someone's wife. Here, Green plumbed the depths of women's motivations, leading the reader through a realm more fascinating than the motivations of the actual perpetrator. In doing so, she paints a horrific vision of Gryce's pursuit one somewhat peripheral character for questioning. The chapter is aptly called "Terror" and would make a marvelous movie scene involving a yawning ravine, a narrow and unreliable bridge and a dark, stormy night. More unfathomable than the ravine itself is the reason that the woman, who was in no way suspected of the crime, would make such a desperate attempt to avoid being found and questioned.

A murder mystery by nature actively engages the reader more than a romance or adventure because the reader becomes involved in picking up clues and ultimately predicting the resolution of the story. Green realized this fact and invited the reader to become part of the investigative team, offering a set of diagrams that picture in three dimensions where the victim and each attendee was located at the time that the cry of murder rang out. (These diagrams are included in the ebook and also available as a printable PDF document so that the reader can follow along as locations are mentioned.) The diagrams are interesting to follow, but not all that necessary for the enjoyment of the story.

Hasty Arrow is a satisfying mystery because Green carefully ties up every small clue and explains every motivation in this strange story. When I finished reading the book, the only mystery left in my mind was why Agatha Christie is a household word and Anna Katharine Green is not.

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"Remember Glencoe...Remember Glencoe...Remember Glencoe" kept rolling around in my mind when I began to read Eight Cousins and realized that it chronicled the lives of a group of Campbells. Why "Glencoe?" Many centuries ago, locked in a bitter feud, the McDonalds and the Campbells had been warring for decades--maybe even centuries. In an apparent attempt at reconciliation, the Campbells extended a friendly invitation to the McDonalds: "Come join us at Glencoe for a barbeque." The McDonalds, whether battle-weary, curious, or just eager for a free meal, accepted. Unfortunately, at this "barbeque," the only creatures butchered and burned were the McDonalds.

In the intervening centuries, the Campbells appear to have become much better hosts. The Campbells of Eight Cousins read Sir Walter Scott, sport highland dress, and welcome new arrivals with skirl of bagpipes. One clan member, Bonnie Charlie, nicknamed "Prince" by his cousins, relates to newly-arrived and newly-orphaned cousin Rose, "So we hunted up the old stories, got a bagpipe, put on our plaids, and went in, heart and soul, for the glory of the Clan."

Eight Cousins is a series of vignettes that illustrate the affection of the cousins and their parents, aunts, and uncles for each other. The tales demonstrate that family members can disagree with, and even disappoint, each other yet still hold each other in the highest regard. Rather than a series of conflicts or problems to solve, the novel tells about the ways in which the family works things out before they become conflicts. In spite of its dearth of conflict or challenge, however, the novel does come through with many amusing and satisfying stories.

Author Louisa May Alcott's father, Amos Bronson Alcott, was a noted Transcendentalist, and in Eight Cousins one can clearly perceive reformist thought and the dichotomy between intuition and conventional wisdom. Rose's new guardian, her uncle Alec Campbell, frequently squares off against a horde of aunts who would prefer that Rose confine herself to women's pursuits and dress accordingly. Alcott wages a virtual campaign against corsets and high-heeled shoes. With the former, she may have been successful. Alas, the current ascendance of Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik and Christian Louboutin demonstrate that she probably failed with the latter.

A more noble campaign of Alcott's was to raise awareness of the need for young women to train for a career. Uncle Alec encourages Rose to select a line of work and begin training for it, although he would be just as pleased with her selection of housekeeping as he would be with her selection of chemistry or medicine. Rose spends time dabbling in all three and even interesting her near-sighted cousin, Mac, in the scientific endeavors.

While Rose is enjoying the solicitous attentions of her new guardian, her seven male cousins contend with their mothers' insistence that reading novels (Sir Walter Scott included) is just as bad for young boys as smoking cigars, and both should be stopped post haste. Their mothers, well-meaning but perhaps deluded, want only the best for their sons but unfortunately do not quite know how to achieve it. Their delusion is complicated by the fact that Mac has severe problems with this vision; a condition that his mother is convinced was brought on by reading too much.

Uncle Alec's forward-thinking was not limited to career and fashion. He was also aware of the Placebo Effect. Realizing that Rose's aunts were not going to be satisfied with dropping the "tonics" that they were regularly feeding Rose, he took bread, balled it up into pills, and told the aunts that, in lieu of tonics, they could feed to Rose as many of these pills as they thought were necessary. Of course, the Placebo Effect was for the aunts' benefit as well as Rose's, for Uncle Alec had already let Rose in on the ruse. Thus, Rose and Alec embark upon a mission to transform the Aunts' thinking, mostly through good example. But, failing that, through whatever (harmless) means is necessary.

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First published in two parts between 1869 and 1870, An Old Fashioned Girl follows Polly, a simple country girl, during two visits to the big city of Boston. Polly's stay with the rich and sophisticated Shaw family shows her that flashy clothes and loud personalities are the characteristics by which many frivolous city folk are judged. Polly in turn teaches her city friends that simplicity and honesty are the things that really matter.

Alcott explains in her Preface that there was such an outpouring of requests for a sequel upon writing the first book, that she relented and has provided us with what we've asked for. Both books, the original and the sequel, are included in our ebook version. The first book is Polly's visit to the Shaw's at the age of 14. Like Johanna Spyri's Heidi, Polly is pure of heart often used as a foil to teach each member of the Shaw family how to better themselves. There the daughter Fanny, extremely concerned about fashion and popularity, who learns to be humble and her true friends will love her for who she is. There is the son Tom, rambunctious and a nuisance to his siblings, who learns to be civil and helpful. Young sister Maude, one of my favorites of the novel, is too young to have any fatal flaws and follows faithfully in Polly's footsteps. Even Mom and Dad learn from Polly--Mom learns that a bit of affection can go a long way and Dad learns that paying more attention to his children will solve problems in the long run.

Book two picks up six years later when Polly is a young adult and back in town to earn a living. Being a working girl puts her at a distinct disadvantage next to the upper class social set of the Shaws. But Polly makes her own friends, and the Shaws learn again that money and fine clothes don't buy everything. Now that the kids are older, a bit of romance comes into the story, which makes the plot hop along at a nice pace.

Alcott's tone is quite distinct between the first and second books. Her first book is truly a children's story, teaching a moral through simple and somewhat stereotyped characters. Alcott is much less moralistic in the second book, which takes on adult themes such as jealousy, the bonds of true friendship, and unrequited love. The novel is a joy throughout, but I'm especially glad there was an outpouring of support for Alcott to continue the story and give it a more adult denouement.

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The "Strange Disappearance" involves a sewing woman who disappears from the household of Holman Blake, much to the dismay of housekeeper Mrs. Daniels, who calls the police even while Mr. Blake remains indifferent to the issue. Ebenezer Gryce and his investigator, known only as "Q," arrive on the scene to a near-hysterical Mrs. Daniels and an annoyed and uncooperative Mr. Blake. Thus begins a series of questions regarding the stated and real objectives of Ms. Daniels and Mr. Blake, and another series of questions as to the reasons for their respective states of hysteria or indifference regarding the disappearance.

In this, the second novel in the "Mr. Gryce" series, Anna Katharine Green lays out two apparently unrelated mysteries, to which Mr. Gryce assigns Q to investigate. Green introduced Q in The Leavenworth Case as rather a shadowy character who gets the job done in spite of, or more likely because of, his strangeness. He was arguably the most enthralling character in the novel. Q's ability to follow leads and ferret out clues, along with his mastery of disguise render him the perfect leg man for the brilliant but reclusive Ebenezer Gryce.

Like The Leavenworth Case, Anna Katharine Green presents the story of A Strange Disappearance from a first-person viewpoint. However, in the former, the narrator was Everett Raymond, a member of the law firm that handled the Leavenworth's legal matters. In the latter, to my delight, the narrator is Q. When he comes to some rash and controversial conclusions, Q finds as much challenge in convincing Mr. Gryce of his own competence as he does in solving the two cases and uncovering the relationship, if any, between the two.

The Leavenworth Case has been Anna Katharine Green's best-known and best-selling novel. However, owing to the storytelling prowess of Q and a compelling story-within-a-story told by Holman Blake, A Strange Disappearance was for this reader even more enjoyable than the first.

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Question: What do cell phones, x-rays, vaccinations, automobiles and air conditioning have in common?

Answer: You will appreciate them a little more after reading What Katy Did.

Published around 1870, What Katy Did tells the story of a rambunctious, headstrong twelve-year old girl who is infinitely likeable in spite of (or perhaps because of) these unfeminine traits. Katy has a zillion plans for the future, and any efforts at gentility go out the window as she rushes headlong into her destiny.

Unfortunately, her destiny is not exactly what she had foreseen. The eldest of five motherless children, Katy knows in her heart that she should be more respecting and more affectionate toward her Aunt Izzie, who came to care for the children and keep the household when Katy's mother died. But Aunt Izzie is too cautious and persnickety for Katy's tastes, so Katy listens to her aunt's counsel with only half an ear.

A few days into summer vacation, Katy finds cause to regret her lack of attention. Aunt Izzie warned her not to use the new swing in the woodshed, but Katy was having a bad day. And after all, Aunt Izzie didn't give a reason why. Katy finds out the hard way, and nearly pays with her life. Swinging almost high enough to touch the rafters, Katy suddenly finds herself in free fall, as one of the bolts holding the swing turns loose.

With a badly injured back and no prognosis as whether she will ever walk again, Katy is confined to her upstairs room, which will be her only outlook on the world for many months to come. One reviewer of this book looked askance on this confinement, congratulating our modern outlook for abandoning this practice. Actually, it is not our outlook as much as our technology that allowed this practice to fall by the wayside. Katy was in constant pain, and any effort to move her proved excruciating. Since such conveniences as wheelchairs and elevators were rare or unavailable in that era, Katy was confined because no other choice existed.

Katy's loving a resourceful family found ways to make her confinement work. Cousin Helen, a paraplegic for many years, helped Katy to view her situation in a more optimistic light, and to create more pleasant surroundings. Katy's brothers and sisters considered it an honor to be invited into Katy's room. Once Katy overcame her initial despair and began to live her life as well as she could, her room became the hub of the household.

What Katy Did is a very mature children's book, presenting themes such as handicaps, disease, accidents and death. Surprisingly, it is presented in a light-hearted albeit reverent manner. The part of the story before Katy's accident is fast-paced and joyful. The part after her accident is slower and more thoughtful, although just as engaging.

What Katy Did makes me think that Katy is very much like Elizabeth Von Arnim described herself as a 12-year old in Elizabeth and Her German Garden. The writing is also the same light, amusing, irreverent style that is carefully constructed but looks effortless.

I won't go further into the technology issue. It might spoil the story. However, keep my question in mind as you read What Katy Did and see if the reading does not enhance your appreciation of such.

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Published in 1682 in Cambridge, Massachusetts,  A True History of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson was one of the first books published in the New World. It became a best seller in the New World and in England and went through fifteen editions by 1800. In the literary history and review, A Jury of Her Peers, Elaine Showalter calls it the first American literary form dominated by Women's experience.

The account describes how, during the Anglo-Indian war called King Philip's war, on 10 February, 1675, Mary Rowlandson's world was shattered when Narragansett Indians raided, pillaged and burned her village of Lancaster, Massachusetts. Her minister husband was away "in the bay" but the majority of the villagers died in the raid, including her sister, brother-in-law, and nephew. Her eldest son and daughter were taken and held captive in different wilderness areas. Mary and her badly injured six-year-old daughter were made to follow the tribe as they moved around searching for food and trying to elude the British army.

The first chapter is as off-putting as it is absorbing. Mary's words, just as the events they describe, tumble over each other in a kind of uncontrolled chaos that leads one to believe that she has only a minimal grasp of literary form. More likely, the chaos arose from her attempt to set this part of this account down and move quickly past the pain she felt in describing it. She tells the remainder of her story in "removes" which relate to her and the tribe's trek around the areas of Vermont, New Hampshire and the Connecticut River. Each of the removes--by contrast--is clearly, succinctly, and sometimes poetically written.

Mary used her experiences to describe what it means to be truly hungry, when raw horse liver and boiled hooves taste delectably, when broth made of maggots is thankfully accepted, when feeling faint is a natural part of daily life. Even in her desperate state, however, she makes it clear that her captors were hungry too, and cold. She remembers the warm cabin and comfortable bed of her past life and realizes that such comforts have never been part of her captors' past. She also alludes to the fact that not all her captors are cruel, as exhibited by her gladness to see her master, Quinnapin, after his three-week absence.

Since not all her captors were as kind as Quinnapin, she learned to barter her knitting and sewing skills for food and shelter during his absence. Later, she demonstrates her skills at bartering goods. When she received word from her husband, she remarked on the positive effects of her twelve weeks of captivity:

"Amongst other things which my husband sent me, there came a pound of tobacco, which I sold for nine shillings in money; for many of the Indians for want of tobacco, smoked hemlock, and ground ivy. It was a great mistake in any, who thought I sent for tobacco; for through the favor of God, that desire was overcome."

In addition to her bartering skills, another key to her survival was a Bible the tribe had plundered along with several scalps. The Indian who had taken possession of the Bible gave it to Mary and agreed that the tribe would allow her to read it. This Bible became "my guide by day and my pillow by night." She quotes many passages from her Bible, the most notable of which might be:

"Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return: the Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord."
The Bible, Job 1:21, quoted by Mary Rowlandson

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