The New York herald., 1921-11-27


Company.
ROWING EAST AND ROWING WEST.
BY e. V. Lucas. George II. Doran
Company
~ 9TH Mr.. Holiday and Mr.. Lucas
have what the classical writer
called the running pen"-whal
MIR. Samuel Weller called "the gift O.
CAB very gallopin'." Both--at this
moment-have the same publisher for
their latest packages of what does not
seem to deserve a more respectful
name than the chopped feed of litera-
ture"
These short pieces, many of them
periods OF a readers attention, are by
no means suited for consecutive read
ing, for in these two books the reader
is made to stop and start again as
frequently as in a street car, or in the
subway; and sometimes the jolts are
disagreeable. There is a likeness be-
tween these two measures of comment
ground almost to meal, but their flavor
is not the same, and Mr.. Holidays
pieces seem to have less nourishment
in them, despite the personal. note
which he strikes so often.
For instance, in his remarks about
Writing in Rooms" he quotes Mr.
Lucas, and by name; and frequently
throughout his collection of obviously
carved obvious cherry stones he spat-
ters contemporary names about very
freely. His sprightly manner too
often slips into an unpleasant sort of
freshness Of spirit. Now, one can be
fresh as a rose or fresh as an egg of
this date of the breakfast newspaper,
or fresh as May morning; and
otherwise, one can be fresh as paint.
Several of these pieces sound as fresh
as the paint used lately by the house
and fence artists who deliberately alb
stain, from motives Of economy, from
mixing any dryer at all with their
coloring. This lack of dryer was
noticeable in some of Mr.. Holidays
earlier books; and since he seems to
hold fast to the courage of his
methods. his style is fixed presum-
ably. Here is little of it.:
Just off Longacre Square is a
medley of offices, chop houses and
bandbox hotels whose names doubtless
only a district messenger could recite
in any number. The particular one
for which we are headed is famous
enough. Here the Uncle Jack
Of the American stage, Mr. Drew, for
some time made his residence. 1t is
always the stopping place in New
York of perhaps the finest of our
novelists, Joseph Hergesheimer That
mystical Indian gentleman. Mr. Ra-
bindranath Tagore, has found il a not
unworthy tent on his Western pill
grimages. And so on. You cannot
be long in it's rich little lobby without
overhearing struck the high note of
its distinctive clientele. Where do
you open?' AT Stamford
When do you close?' In the subdued
light bare satin arms and enspiriting
lengths of colorful stockings flash
from the deep chairs. A
graceful hand opens a telephone booth
10 eXDel smoking Cigarette.
And so on, in Mr.. Holidays idiom
His talk about the late James Hume
ker is less tedious, but 1t is not often
that he seems to say. very much.
Mr.. Lucas's grist comes through
the grinder from a fuller hopper. He
gives you in this book scraps from
India Japan and the United States
Five pages about falconry with Sir
Umar Hayat Khan give in compressed
description a striking picture in the
open air. The chapter on Benaret
spills the fastidious travellers aver.
sion from dismal dirt and the wreck.
age of death. In Calcutta he coult
not find Rose Aylmer's tomb, but "ths
comely mausolcum of job Charnock'