The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1902-11-27
THE FORTUNES OF OLIVER HORN.

Nothing more enjoyable than this book
of Mr.. F. Hopkinson Smith has appeared
in the food OF fiction that bids fair 70
make the year 1902 memorable in literary
history. The story seems to be the cul-
minatiOn OF the authors power, and here's
wishing that same power may never wane.
AS a delineator OF character, Mr.. Smith
need take a back seat in the presence OF
none OF the modern novelists, as witness
delightful Characterization of Richard
Horn. the courtly Southern gentleman and
inventor: his lovable, though truly aristo-
cratic wife: his son, Oliver, hero Of the
tale and a veritable nineteenth century
Chevalier Bayard: the three wonderful mu-
sicians, Nathan Gill, futist, Max Unger,
~'cellist. and Richard Horn, who was also a
master violinist. To read of the evenings
at the Horn mansion in Kennedy square,
when tempting viands and rare vintages
were served with ante-bellum negro deft-
ness by old Malachi, and enhancing music
was played by Horn, Gill and Unger, fair
ly makes one long to be in the midst Of
such a scene. There is not a dull line in
ali the five hundred and odd pages In the
book. The thread Of the story runs for a
brief interval through the strife and pain
and terror of the civil war. but the author
passes over this unpleasant business with
rare ease and consideration for the preju-
dices OF both sides.
Mr.. smith cannot, however, forbear
r'touching up the Southern people a trife
on some OF their cherished notions. For
Instance, note the clever retort TO Judge
Bowman, made by Amos Cobb, a shrewd
Vermont Yankee who had succeeded in
gaining a foothold among these aristocrats
below the Mason and Dixon line only
through his marriage with one Of their
daughters. You Northern men, remarked
Judge Bowman, IT know, don't believe in
blood. We do down here. This young
man referring to oliver Horn) comes Of a
line Of ancestors that have reflected great
credit on our State for more than a num-
cred years. and he Is bound to make his
mark. His grandfather on his mothers
side was our chief justice in 1910, and his
gre~at-grandfather was"
That's just what's the matter with most
OF you Southerners, judge" interrupted
Cobb. his black eyes swapping. You think
more OF blood than you do OF brains. We
rate a man on Northern soil by what he
does himself, not what a bundle Of bones
tn some family burying-ground did for him
before he was born"
The Joy that comes to a painter when
success crowns his efforts is thus beauti-
fully described In the book:
Yes, there may be triumphs that come
70 men digging away on the dull highway
OF life-triumphs in business, in politics, in
discovery, IN law, medicine and science.
TO each and every profession and pursuit
there must come. and does come, a time
when a rush OF uncomfortable feeling
surges through the victor's soul, browning
long hours OF work, but they are as dry
ashes TO a thirsty man compared to the
boundless ecstasy a painter feels when,
with a becaked palette, some half-dried
tubes OF color and a few WORKOUT, ragged
brushes, he compels a six-by-nine canvas
TO glow with life and truth"
Here IS another delicate bit OF pastel,
taken at random from many found in the
book:
"A four hours sketch handled as Watson
has handled this said Oliver, ~thoughtfully,
sis better than four years work on one of
your Hudson rivery things. The sun doesn't
stand still long enough for a man to get
more than an expression OF what he sees
that IS. IL he's after truth. The angle Of
shadow changes too quickly, and so do the
reflected lights"
What's the matter with the next day?'
burst out Waller. "Can't you take up your
sketch where you left off? You talk as II
every great picture had to be painted be-
fore luncheon"
But there is no next day." interrupted
Watson. "I entirely agree with Horn"
He had been listening to the discussion with
silent interest. "No next day like the one
on which you began your canvas. The sky
IS diferent-gray, blue or full OF fieecy,
sunny clouds. Your shadows are more pur-
pie. or blue or gray, depending on your sky
overhead. and so are your reflections. If
you go on aud try to piece out your sketch
you make an almanac out OF it-not a por-
trait of what you saw. I can pick out the
Mondays. Tuesdays and Wednesdays on
that kind OF a sketch as soon as I see 1t.
Nature is like a bird-if you want to sur
prise her you must let go both barrels
when she rises; II you miss her at your first
shot you viii never have another chance
not at that particular bird"
There is a plentiful sprinkling Of wit and
fun and youthful spirits through the story,
and one gets from 1t many fascinating
glfmpses OF New York's artistic Bohemia,
which, while perhaps not as lax as the one
described by Murger. is not a whit less in
teresting. 1t is in this Bohemia, innocent
almost as childhood and full as joyous.
with its McFudd's brass band, frolics in
Mrs. Teetum's attic and other spontaneous
gayeties. that Oliver Horn meets Margaret
<Grant, about whom so much of the interest
OF the book clusters. But care must be
taken in mentioning these things. lest more
than a hint Of the charming plot be al
lowa5 70 aGCana and rherahv mar The
readers enjoyment. 1t is safe to say that
Mr.. Smith has never done anything better
than "Oliver Horn" New York: Charles
Scribner's Sons.
THE MASTER OF APPLEBY.
There are novels without number dealing
with events of the revolution. but their