“Bulldog,” like the prize winner, makes of an alleged criminal a hero. The black giant, of square and protruding jaw, square and receding forehead, was a fighter, one intent upon vengeance, willing to take punishment. The brute strength that served him falsely in his personal fracases served him and the judge truly in the fifteen-mile odyssey to Ossabaw. Mr. Daniels’s use of revealing incident and character prepares acceptance for Bulldog’s herculean feat, climax to an escape at once logical and stirring. Call to mind all the thrills you have enjoyed--say, from the many chases in _Les Misérables_ on--and compare with them the action from “Stan’s yo’ back!” to the “cry through the stillness of the night”; you will find that it survives in form, in style, in substance. With right logic and humorous turn the author brings Bulldog back to the opening scene and to the sentence of six months on the farm. “Done Got Over” dramatizes the struggle between superstition harnessed with petty vengeance against enlightenment aided by generosity. Whoever has lived in the cotton belt knows with what excitation of horror, with what sense of the occult and foreboding of the mysteriously awful the old-time Negroes await the funeral sermon over the manifest ungodly. Intimation of a “preaching-to-hell” draws--or not many years ago drew--an audience keyed to highest expectancy, all sympathy lost in shuddering anticipation of the sinner’s doom. The idea seldom occurs that the verdict of the preacher is not irremediable. Perhaps “Done Got Over” falters at the moment of climax, perhaps one may wish that Miss Jinny Pickens had spoken. Her simple act, however, was sufficient--one who knows the Pickenses testifies to this point. The local colour witnesses the authors’ careful observation; the atmosphere declares their participation in the drama. They must have seen Draper’s yard of prince’s feather and dog-fennel; must have smelled the fig leaves in Miss Jinny’s back yard, the cape jasmines on Tampa’s coffin; surely they felt the agony of Tampa’s son. “Monkey Motions,” from a seemingly casual recountal of Sam’l, rises to the perfect description of his dancing. That climax becomes a flashlight to illumine the backward way, to outline clearly details unguessed as salient. Pictures of the dance have always tempted the pen, not infrequently to failure; this instance is successful. “What are you weeping about?” asked Tom. If you have followed with the dancer his exposition of the “origins, methods, and significations” of the Charleston, if through it you have followed his race’s history, you may still have no more reason than Aunt Lady, but you will be dropping a tear with her. And your reason may be that so poignant a summary of race history in so short space presents the motive.