New-York tribune., 1918-10-26

seemed fortunate career OF fame is
proving an unlucky and disastrous
start on that long and treacherous
journey down the years.
This memoir by close friend will
not delay the reaction. 1t is readable
boisterous humor in Brooke that
showed to good advantage in his let
ters. And Mr.. Marsh has shown tact
and taste in constructing his volume
almost wholly Of Brooke's own words.
The letters home to friends in England
from Italy, from Canada, from this
country, and, in particular, from the
South Seas, are full Of wit and avid OBJ
servation. ~ suppose my occupation is
being in love with the universc."' he
wrote to a friend at Rugby And, as
much as an essential Englishman could
love the entire universe, this was a
true cry Of Brooke's and gives the key
to much Of his charm and rare faculty
for friendship and delightfully."- enter
tanning correspondence. Let US quote:
81 roam about places-yesterday |
did it even in Birmingham.-an sit in
trains and see the essential glory
and beauty Of all the people I meet.
| can watch a dirty, middle-aged trades
and love every dirty, greasy, sulky
y
button on his spotted, unclean waist
coat. I know their states of mind are
bad. But Pm so much occupied with
them being there at all chat ! don't
have time to think Of that. | tell you
that Birmingham gouty, tariff reform.
fifth-rate business man is splendid and
immortal and desirable"
Or. when he set sail for the West, to
an America that bored and disgusted,
and Pacific that enchanted and en-
raptured. he began thus OH board his
ship with England sinking below the
horizon:
"To-day ate clam chowder. That's
romance. isn't it? ordered it quite
recklessly. I didn't know what it was.
only knew that anything called clam
chowder must be strange beyond words.
If yo, we're like clam chowder
And were liiee the spoon.
And tho band wero playing louder
And little more in tune.
Or 4 hiss slls you you III III sIes spll.dd yy yHu
II YOU we're like clam chowder
And were like the spoon.
(But you don't know Swinburne.)
Clam chowder. My God. What am 1
coming to?
There is no direct light on Brooke
the poet in the voume-the unpublished
verse is of small Importance. Per-
haps it will be wiser, it will certainly
be kinder, to let time work out her
own slow formula. When the ablest
critics have lost their heads over a
writer, it is fairer to him to attempt
no accurate revaluation in the period
OF reaction. The halo OF immortality
was thrust upon Rupert Brooke
through no fault Of his. He certainly
deserves no harm from it.
But of Brooke the man. or the god,
as his friends saw him, something may
be said Sparkling as his letters are,
there is faint, very faint, self-con-
sciousness throughout them that seems
accidental at first, but becomes, by in
sistent recurrence, Significant One is
puzzled by the note and presently
other small items obtrude. lie wore
his hair long-but not too long. He
wore puff ties (at chooD--diffcrent
but still in the Rugby picture. And
after delirious months of delightful
Paganism at Tahiti his soul not only
grew aweary but revolted utterly and he
could not return to his England too
swiftly. He was candid and sclf-crit-
cal through it all. He was not spoiled.
which speaks volumes for his mod
esty and human decency, for he
was blessed Cor cursed) throughout his
life with idolatrous friends.
This evidence is small. Any explana-
ton is guess. But there is clearly
welded the impression that Brooke was
not a clear, intense soul living out
his life to natural expression. Al