In this light, it is interesting to read Mr. Hughes’ novel, which has as an obtrusive background the very vital and naughty New York of 1825-1875. With a slight hesitation for touches that obviously cater to our surprise, we would class the bulk of this background as authentic. It is the main theme of the book. A restless melodramatic movement of indifferently drawn characters across this setting gives the author his excuse for it. The action is too stereotyped in its thrill to be in itself worth while, and it is given the reader as substitute for an ability to define the characters into lasting silhouettes. Mr. Hughes’s forte is a running-fire, rat-tat-tat description of stirring events (as the great fire of 1837) which never fails to work one up, and is thus highly effective.
However, the author does hew to the line of his purpose, and gives us an interesting (however faithful) picture of the growing New York, and its groping fight for an adequate water supply. Daniel Webster enters in two places—once as toper, once as orator—with doubtful appropriateness.
One does not for the most part feel in sympathy with the book.
R. P. C., JR.
The Powder of Sympathy. By Christopher Morley.
The Powder of Sympathy is a collection of whimsical, verbal morsels, colyumistic in length, but not for the most part in character. Discourse upon the shortcomings of the Long Island Railroad, or upon the vicissitudes of mongrel dogs in pedigreed kennels no doubt is admirable colyum copy; but Mr. Morley has included in his latest book an equal quantity of semi-serious discussion about books and about authors. We can think of no one who can impart to the reader his own genuine enthusiasm for good books so well as Sir Kenelm Digby’s publicity agent. (Incidentally, we consider Mr. Morley’s observations on Sir Digby’s character, habits, and work as the most titillating particle of sympathetic powder to be found in the whole book.)
It is a book for every mood. If you feel the need of a laugh, pick up this salmon-colored work and choose at random from the forty odd titles that speak for themselves. If you are beginning to wonder whether you will ever again find prose that will thrill you with its bold and powerful use of the strong red roots of our English vocabulary, read “Santayana in the Subway”. If you still have a morbid interest in the higher side of the culinary art known as distillation, you will find enlightening Sir Kenelm’s directions for making “ale drink quick and stronger”. In any case once you open this book you will forget where the blues begin.
M. T.
Editor’s Table
One by one the Editors appeared, grim with the prospect of renewed and unremittent editing. It was hours before Cherrywold, the verbal Valentine, could sufficiently cast off the burden of his perpetually broken heart to enter the conversation, but the others gradually warmed to the task of post-vacation badinage.