The sun. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1916-1920, 1919-08-31
"Percolator Papers"

ing. In every decade since the demise Of
The Spectator there have arisen pundits
to proclaim that the essay, as form Of
literary expression, IS extinct. And Ike
wise in every decade new essayists have
caught the popular fancy and prove once
more that it is not the form but the con-
tent that makes worth while literature.
To attribute the recent growth in the
popularity of the essay to the influence
of the war upon the mass mind or to
any other external social influence seems
rather far fetched beside the simple
explanation that there happen to be at
this particular time, as at many perio;s
in the past, a number of men possessing
original thoughts and the desire to ex-
press them, coupled with the ability to do
so in pleasing fashion, who prefer this
form of expression to the drama, fiction
or verse. The same thoughts, expressed
with equal skill in any other literary form,
would appeal as strongly to as large a
group of readers as they do when cOuchci
in the essay form.
The group that would read essays N
other forms might not, however, be the
same group that delights in them as es-
says. There is a certain intimacy about
the essay that one does not feel in read
ing the identical thoughts expressed in
other forms. The essayist becomes llv-
ing personality to the reader. The fiction
writer, the dramatist and to lesser de-
gree the poet never get that intimate
touch with their readers which your gen.
uine essayist achieves. How seldom one
feels he would like to meet and to know
the author of particular novel or play
or poem; one may feel personal rapport
with the characters Of the drama or the
story, but the author seems something
apart, like the man who pulls the strings
for Tony Sarg's puppet show. But one
lays down one Of Stephen Leacock's vol
umes with the wish that he could spend
an evening with the intriguing personality
its author must be; he reads Walking
Stick Papers and resolves to take the first
opportunity to become better acquainted
with Mr.. Holiday. The writer of essays
who is not sure Of himself had better not
write them; infallibly and unerringly he
gives his readers the measure of himself.
1t was Of essays, undoubtedly, that Solo
mon was thinking when he said: "Oh, that
mine enemy would write book
Here, for instance, is PercOlatOr Papers,
by Ellwood Hendrick. We defy any one to
read it and not wish he knew the author
II does not need Mr.. Hendricks personal
explanation to reveal him as a chemist,
business man., traveller, scholar and
an erstwhile teacher. All Of these expe-
riences have left their impress upon him
and those impressions he conveys in the
twenty-four papers that make up the
volume with precision as unerring and
at the same time us unconscious as any
reaction in his own test tubes. But one
might be all Of these things and still not
be a person one would go out of ones
way to meet. He could not write The
Sense of Smell, however, or Sad Of Tar
sas unless he were just the sort of person
one would like to know.
For originality of thought it is diff
cult to choose between the two essays just
named. No two subjects could be more
different, but one reads either with the
same keen appreciation of the whole
souled kindness, the immense tolerance,
the same viewpoint and the soaring mag
nation Of the writer. Whether he is max
ing a fantastic yet scientifically sound
forecast of a golden age in which man
kind shall read each others characters,
as dogs do now, by the unerring juis-
ments of the olfactory nerves, or pointing
out with biting clarity the fundamental
difference between the christian Church
ond tho Christian religion, he carries the