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THE GOSSIP SHOP

LEMENT SHORTER has re

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cently made some ridiculous assertions in the English press about Amy Lowell's death. With the instinct of a true journalist, he has found it probable that Edmund Gosse, J. C. Squire, and a few other English reviewers who did not feel, as most of us in this country do, that Miss Lowell's "John Keats" is a great biography, were active agents in bringing about the death of this heroic woman. Fortunately, editorial writers have come to Miss Lowell's defense. No more absurd conjecture has ever been made. Mr. Shorter claims to have had a letter from Miss Lowell which showed great bitterness concerning her English reviewers. The letter, a copy of which I have seen, shows only amusement, to my way of thinking! I talked to her about these same reviewers, and I can assure Mr. Shorter that had she lived to make the English excursion, he and the other gentlemen concerned would have found out how very little indeed any critic could affect Miss Lowell's health, or her poise, or her courage to accomplish the work she had apportioned to herself. Surely J. C. Squire could tell Mr. Gosse how wrong he was, for his own encounter with her must have convinced him that she was not a person to mope over her reviewers. If her friends have leaped to her defense and given Mr. Shorter the publicity which he must have known would result, it is only because they feared that someone who did not know her might have misunderstood a personality that was always triumphant, and a genius that was constant and entirely

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Sinclair Lewis has returned again to America. He is about to undertake a book which gives him a better chance than anything since "Main Street". I have not seen the subject announced, and I don't want to betray a confidence, so I shall let you guess as to the particular section of American buncombe he is about to attack. At any rate, under the circumstances I judge that he himself will be a character; if not the hero, certainly a close relative. Edna Ferber vanished suddenly from town. One day I heard she was going to Vermont, the next, her mother told me she had sailed for Europe. She writes from St. Jean-de-Luz, "I'm in Europe for some obscure reason. I'm more surprised than anyone to find myself on the other side of the ocean. I didn't in the least mean to go... The ocean is just below my window (don't you loathe letters that say that!), and the Pyrenees are purpling the horizon!" People are most kind to remember me in the heat. I hope Miss Ferber is working on the new novel now, or swimming on the delightful beach pictured at the top of her letter, or sailing in one of those silly little sailboats of the varicolors. Thomas Boyd writes from Woodstock, Vermont, that he has finished his new book, and that the scenery takes his breath away constantly. How could he help liking the scenery? You should have gone to Vermont, Miss Ferber. I remember the first time I ever saw the Pyrenees. True, they are lovely; but a trifle austere, don't you think? They cannot touch Escutney under a purple haze, or the Twin Peaks swirled around with early morning cloud. There are

those, too, who favor Connecticut: Genevieve Taggard, for example, who comes to town only once in a dog's age (she has just written a charming piece about cats). She arrived this morning with two manuscripts under her arm, one the "Masses and Liberator" anthology of poetry, over which she has been working for three years; the other, her own new volume of poetry, "Time Out". Taking care of her young child up in Connecticut has not changed her greatly. She is still one of the six beautiful American poetesses. Fast on her heels arrived Joseph Auslander and Leslie Nelson Jennings. Mr. Jennings, one of the members of the staff of the defunct "Current Opinion", has turned again to writing verses. Joseph Auslander has completed a play, and a volume of verses dealing with industrial subjects. He says that he is perfectly willing to be persuaded to lecture, if the occasion arises. Surely a poet with a mustache should be popular.

The Players Club revival of "Trelawney of the Wells" was marked by much gaiety as well as pomp, and John Drew's masterly performance was cheered to the echo! The success of this venture in the warmest week of the summer proves not only that the New York public is interested in revivals, but also that the Players Club has established its annual affair in a most creditable and profitable manner. Laurette Taylor made a beautiful Trelawney, and the cast was a jolly and a vigorous one in spite of the temperature. The lady behind me spent the entire evening saying, "It is much too hot to go to the theatre." Well, it was much too hot to stay at home! Talking about the heat seems to me to involve a certain principle of physics. You say "Isn't it hot?" and you relieve your

mind of a heat thought, which must necessarily be absorbed by the person who hears your remark. It isn't fair! This caricature of the president of the Players was made by Roland Young,

John Drew

and published in his book of caricatures, "Actors and Others". Young, I haven't seen in some time. His performance in "Beggar on Horseback" will long be remembered as one of grace and effectiveness. His caricatures are good, though of course they cannot touch those of Ralph Barton. Barton, by the way, has just returned from Paris, where he says that he can find more American celebrities to limn than is possible in New York City. I saw Joseph Hergesheimer give the artist, who was making pictures between acts at "Artists and Models", a crisp bill, and I couldn't make out what he did it for. Was he paying for the suppression of a caricature, had he bought a sketch of the lady he was with, or what? Perhaps it does not matter. It was a noble gesture. Hergesheimer gains in distinction as the years go by. He was one of the most impressive figures at the Winter Garden last night, not counting, of course, the Gertrude Hoffman girls. His book about his house in West Chester is going to ap

pear this autumn, and the old house won't know itself.

About once a year, from his farm in Fayetteville, Arkansas, comes to the great city Charles J. Finger, short story writer, children's story writer, romantic biographer, editor of "All's Well". His sturdy appearance and his homespun suits give the office a new tone. His laugh and his ability to tell the unusual anecdote are a blessing. He told me of a recent visit Carl Sandburg paid him in the wilds of Arkansas. Carl never comes to see me any more, when he arrives in New York. Occasionally he used to spare me a breakfast, which is his favorite meal; but I'll forgive him, for he's been exceedingly busy on his Life of Lincoln. Mr. Finger has a new book coming along for autumn publication. It's to be another series of portraits and he's calling it something pleasantly vicious like "Romantic Rascals", "Ribald Rogues", or "Raucous Rakes", I forget which. He told me about Carl's visit, then I found it all written out in his magazine, so I'll let him tell it in his own words:

We had been sitting on a hillside overlooking a great stretch of country, and our talk was mainly of the songs of hoboes and of waterside men. I hummed a tune or two and he pricked it down in some queer notation of his own which was quite incomprehensible to me. Presently, as he talked, I fell to watching the ants on an ant trail at my feet, while listening. In the middle of a sentence Sandburg stopped abruptly, but I did not look up, supposing him to be pondering. There are often chasms in his talk which you must bridge as best you can if you are unable to fly with him. Sometimes he too is elliptic. So I waited. And soon with a note of deep awe in his voice, half-whispering as if some tremendous thing had burst into view, almost indeed in the manner of a man who expressed deep emotion at sight of some sudden calamity or disaster, he said: "My God! Look at that!" Then silence fell.

The shadow of a fear was on me. I looked up, startled; glanced at him and his far-seeing eyes; looked away at the hill;

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became more brilliantly beautiful. So near it was, so clear was the light, we saw its sparkling eye, its jetty edged bill, its princely crest. As if all that loveliness was not enough, it burst into triumphant music for us until an answer in song came like an echo. For a full minute it perched in our sight, balancing delicately on the swaying branch, then took to flight, a flash of living fire, darting into the green glade where were fern-fringed boulders, bent upon some high and splendid business.

But there had been an answering rapture. In Sandburg was appreciation of the thing exquisite and fine. But who, except a true poet, can be amazed and astonished day by day?

A most interesting development of recent years is the increasing importance of the south as a book market. As a fiction market, that is; for the classics and religious books have always been in demand. But it seems to

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have taken considerable enthusiasm on the part of litterateurs to establish their point that modern fiction is worthwhile reading. A column always interesting both for its quality and its vigorous "booming" of this sort is "The Literary Lantern", run by C. A. Hibbard of Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and syndicated to a number of the most influential southern papers. was especially attracted recently by a copy he sent me, signed "Telfair, Jr.", which he had devoted entirely to discussion of this matter under the title, "Thar's Gold in Them Hills". listed many novels now on the stands by southern writers, more than I had thought there were. McDavid Horton, managing editor of "The State", writes me occasionally from Columbia, South Carolina, where he is the centre of a group influential in southern letters. Other promoters of the cause of the modern novel are John McClure in New Orleans and Mrs. J. K. W. Baker at Shreveport. These editors have all a profound background by which to measure and to judge, and their influence is measurably great. Who knows whether Brentano's and Womrath's are not planning to invade the south?

From Ireland and England, for a visit of ten days which he spent in golfing, riding, rushing about, came Mr. Brian Oswald Donn-Byrne, familiarly known to America as Donn Byrne. He has changed little since he left these shores two years ago. He seems larger, although one would never think of calling anyone in such good condition as Mr. Byrne, fat. He has changed little in his manner of conversation, and he has not lost his brogue, which stands him in such good stead in his books. Everyone who reads these pages must have perused by now his "Messer Marco Polo", and the later

short novels are almost as good. Of these, I like best "Blind Raftery". For this opinion, he frowned on me, since it seems he considers it a trifle too full of sentiment; but I explained to him that here is one sentimental book reviewer that he will have to reckon with when he writes a sentimental book, he will have to expect it to be liked. From his conversation I judge that he is still more interested in bookmakers than he is in authors. His knowledge of the English turf strikes me as little short of marvelous. I like horse races, myself; but one must be a very successful author in order to like them too well. Donn Byrne is now at work on a long novel dealing with the life of St. Paul. It's a great theme, and he seems much excited over it. One other short book will be published before the longer one. He says that his publishers were not more astonished by the shortness of "Messer Marco Polo" than they will be by the length of this new book. Incidentally, one of his publishers has written a new book. Barry Benefield, of the Century Company, is a small, keen gentleman who writes excellent short stories, and should write many more than he does. He has now completed a long novel which, I hear, has already been sold to the movies. It is called "The ChickenWagon Family"; I shall leave the book itself to explain the quixotic title. Publishers will play occasionally. Take the English Putnam's, for example. I don't know whether or not George Grubb is the responsible party; but their publicity sheet always, or often, bears a little bookish joke. I repeat two of them here so that you may judge of their quality:

MOTHER: "William, did you put father's new book in the bath this morning?" SMALL BOY: "Yes, mother, I did. I heard father say last night that it was too dry for him."

"Yes, my wife gets more out of a novel than anybody."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, she always starts in the middle, so she's not only wondering how it will all end, but how it began."

Dr. Richard Burton stopped in town on his way south for annual lectures. He regaled me with stories of how he was always being taken for Sir Richard Burton, and how he had finally been forced to tell one of our most intelligent publishing firms please not to forward to him any more mail addressed to that long deceased author. Mr. Burton is a gay gentleman. Years of teaching and lecturing have only served to develop his sense of humor. He has resigned from his post at the University of Minnesota. Someone sent me from Minneapolis an editorial published by the "Tribune" on his resignation. If I had the space, I should like to print the entire article, for Dr. Burton is one of my sincerest admirations. He, with William Lyon Phelps and one or two others, has made the reading of good literature more countenanced than formerly in these lands. The "Tribune" says, in part:

Not only throughout the city and state, but throughout the entire northwest, regret at the news of Dr. Richard Burton's resignation from the university will be widespread. Much as was the case with the late Dr. Northrop, the personality of Dr. Burton has become identified with that of the institution. For a whole generation "Dickie" Burton, as the students always called him, has been one of the rallying points of the university. Old graduates will find it difficult to think the university quite the same when forced to discard the picture of the familiar stampede to the hugely popular lecture room where" Dickie" held forth "Dickie", the boyish, the charming, and the irrepressible, who possessed the secret of turning education into a gay and joyous adventure and who knew how to make the classroom more delightful than the theatre.

It is impossible not to sympathize with Dr. Burton's reason for resigning. As he himself says, after a lifetime of service at a

given institution, a man ought to be entitled to a little leisure. And harassed, as he is, by multitudinous demands for books, articles, essays, and what not, he needs the leisure badly. Certainly he has richly earned his leisure, though that leisure will be diverted merely from teaching activity to literary activity. But those of us who have the best interests of the university at heart, cannot help regretting that he has not two or three lives to live, so that the students might have the privilege of coming in contact with that inimitable personality for at least another generation. Without "Dickie" the university can never be quite the university. Something of its individuality passes out.

Sixty two years old, Vance Thompson, author of "Eat and Grow Thin" and many mystery stories, died suddenly at Nice. He was both author and diplomat, and after his graduation from Princeton spent most of his time in Europe. One of our few literary diplomats, he occupied a unique place in the affections of France. During the war he served as directeur de foyer with their army. The death of Arthur Christopher Benson takes from us a gentle and a much loved figure. A. C. Benson was a great teacher, a fine essayist, a literary man of wide attainments. His father was the late Archbishop of Canterbury. His brother E. F. Benson is well known as a novelist. The late Hugh Benson was another brother. At his death, A. C. Benson was master of Magdalene College. He had been at one time master of Eton. Under his urbane influence came many of the brilliant young literary Englishmen. His two most loved books are "From a College Window" and "Memories and Friends".

Rockwell Kent, from his mountain fastnesses yes, in Vermont! — has done for the National Association of Book Publishers a poster of much beauty and dignity, which I reproduce here for your delight. It is austere; but

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