Theodore Dreiser has had the good fortune to evoke a peculiar quality of pugnacious interest among the younger American intelligentsia such as has been the lot of almost nobody else writing to-day unless it be Miss Amy Lowell. We do not usually take literature seriously enough to quarrel over it. Or else we take it so seriously that we urbanely avoid squabbles. Certainly there are none of the vendettas that rage in a culture like that of France. But Mr. Dreiser seems to have made himself, particularly since the suppression of “The Genius,” a veritable issue. Interesting and surprising are the reactions to him. Edgar Lee Masters makes him a “soul-enrapt demi-urge, walking the earth, stalking life”; Harris Merton Lyon saw in him a “seer of inscrutable mien”; Arthur Davison Ficke sees him as master of a passing throng of figures, “labored with immortal illusion, the terrible and beautiful, cruel and wonder-laden illusion of life”; Mr. Powys makes him an epic philosopher of the “life-tide”; H. L. Mencken puts him ahead of Conrad, with “an agnosticism that has almost passed beyond curiosity.” On the other hand, an unhappy critic in _The Nation_ last year gave Mr. Dreiser his place for all time in a neat antithesis between the realism that was based on a theory of human conduct and the naturalism that reduced life to a mere animal behavior. For Dreiser this last special hell was reserved, and the jungle-like and simian activities of his characters were rather exhaustively outlined. At the time this antithesis looked silly. With the appearance of Mr. Dreiser’s latest book, “A Hoosier Holiday,” it becomes nonsensical. For that wise and delightful book reveals him as a very human critic of very common human life, romantically sensual and poetically realistic, with an artist’s vision and a thick, warm feeling for American life.