Punch (review date 25 April 1928)
SOURCE: A review of Marching On, in Punch, Vol. 174, April 25, 1928, pp. 475-76.
[In the following review, the critic praises Boyd's rendering of the American Civil War in Marching On despite the book's familiar and romanticized material.]
I had thought that the species was extinct. Here we have once again a story of the American Civil War, told from the Southern point of view. Its simple name is Marching On (Heinemann), and its author, against whom I hold no previous convictions, is James Boyd. I hasten to add that he has produced an eminently readable piece of work, ancient as his material is. Indeed I felt sometimes that I must surely be reading some old favourite over again. He employs all the best traditional romantic stuff. Here we have again the aristocratic Southern planter, Colonel Prevost, his charming daughter Stewart, and his only son; the neighbouring family of Fraser, the struggling farmer whose young son James falls in love with Stewart as with some being from a higher sphere. Then comes their separation through the customary pride and misunderstanding, the boy's exile in Wilmington, working in the railway-shop, and then the sudden outbreak of war and his return home to enlist in the Cape Fear Rifles. It is curious how we welcome all the old incidents, even down to the killing of Prevost's only son, Stewart's brother, in the lover's presence, the sinking of the old Colonel under the blow, and the ultimate reunion. But Mr. Boyd has some scenes for which we can give him due credit. There may be a touch of Stephen Crane about his battle-pieces, but he has given us “Clubby” Jordan, that lovable commander. And the old life in North Carolina before secession bears the stamp of truth. As to James Fraser, he has all the virtues we expected to find in the clumsy rustic lovers of our youth. He carries us back twenty or thirty years—and what more can we ask than that?
Bernard DeVoto (review date 27 April 1935)
SOURCE: “A Novel Hammered Out of Experience,” in Saturday Review of Literature, Vol. XI, No. 41, April 27, 1935, pp. 645, 649.
[In the following review, DeVoto praises Roll River as a first-rate example of American realism but admits that the book will not likely find a wide audience.]
There are a number of ways to write that undefined entity, the American novel. Mr. Wolfe has recently exhibited one way: to print the word “America” ten thousand times, to depict young Faustus as a victim of manic-depressive insanity, to fill the stage with Mardi Gras grotesques who suffer from compulsion neuroses and walk on stilts and always speak as if firing by battery, to look at everything through the lens of an infantile regression which makes a Dutchess County kitchen or a glimpse of a way station on the main line equally important with the death of one's father and the first meeting with one's mistress and all of them frenetic, and to fluff up the material of fiction, one part, with ten parts of bastard blank verse ecstasy. I wonder if only an accident of the calendar led Scribners to hold Roll River till Of Time and the River was well launched, or whether capital investment may not have had something to do with the schedule. For Mr. Boyd now exhibits another way to write an American novel, and he wins by a number of Mormon blocks. (For the untraveled: they are 220 yards each.) His book is only 600 pages long, it contains not a single goat-cry, and no one beats his head or knuckles to a bloody pulp on any wall within its covers. But those pages are filled with characters who are hammered out of American experience, whose emotions are the bitter bread of us all, and who are directed and controlled by a superb technician.
The fact that Mr. Boyd has hitherto chiefly concerned himself with the American past has sometimes obscured his great merits as a realist behind the popular conception of historical fiction as romantic. He begins this essay in that hardest of all decades for contemporary novelists, the eighties, but after triumphantly integrating that period, he comes on down to the...
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