New-York tribune., 1922-12-03


passing Of the giants Of the pen. A
ew seeming exceptions to the contrary not
outstanding. masterpieces cannot be ihumPed
,ut Of typewriters. Some OF our sincere
sorkers realize this
Arthur Machen did not tap out Far on
Things" on typewriter, any more than De
Quincy produced his Confessions" in that
way. One does not write a book Of the
ieari TO the elatier Of keys and the shifting
4 gears: Il is written somewhere in private
sith a pen, In the midst Of terrible still
rcss. The result. in the present instance,
an only say with a simplicity | would gladly
dorm Is a credit to the heart OF Arthur
Haehen and 10 English literature.
This finest and most delicate Of living
artists (as firmly believe) has written his
Confessions" The book il a. unlike any
1iher work Of o similar nature as can be
imagined. Il is unlike the "Coafesaioss' one
night very we'll have imagined Arthur Ma
hen as writing. But in one respect u IS
Ike most II not all. Of the other great human
documents Of English letters; in one respect
{ is quite in the old tradition. Il is ehron-
cle OF happiness and horror, Of transport
md torment. in the midst OF neglected, un-
deserved poverty.
In his vivid and beautiful recital Mr. Ma
chen has stressed the happiness and the
transports (which were not too many in
those early days Of the 'sOD; but the horrors
are there. too. subordinated and clothed in
that curious glamour which (for readers in
after years. seems to surround the early
rsforiunes Of literary Character. In this
eview ! must fight an inclination 70 stress
he horrors. for having some knowledge Of
dr. Maehens life OF spiritual torment and
nndeseHed obscurity. am enabled in some
degree to read between the lines OF his book.
But does not thi1 suggest The great ones
gone before 7-"I am sorry to say that bad
not garret. since the houses Of that quar-
er. being comparatively modern, do not
,ossess the sloping roofs which have seen
ne miserics Of 80 many lsttcred men Still,
ny room had Us merits Il was. Of course.
lt the top Of the house. and it was much
mailer than any monastic 'ccl' that lave
.yer seen. From recollection I should Csti-
nate It's dimensions az ten feet hy five.
There was no fireplace in my room,
md, was often very cold I would sit in
ny shabby old great coast. reading or writ
ng and II were writing would every now
md then stand up and warm my hands over
me gas jet, 20 prevent my fingers gcttins
numb" And later: Il have dealt gently
Fith the day in Clarendon Road.
have said little Of the black day. and the
waste nights. Of the dcsolaiion that would
sometimes engulf me as il were with deep
food. For many weeks at iimc never
spoke % any human being . Indeed,
when I was released from this life.
came out, as it were, prisoner from the
black PIT Of bis dungeon. an confused.
trembling and afraid, scarce able 10 bear
thc light of genial affection. For long
white spoke but little. and then with dif-
aculty; was fast losing the habit OF
speech
But fcar ] may give an impression 'hat
this IS q melancholy book; q book Of Eriev-
anecs It IS nothing of the kind; the Rriev-
Enccs are largely mine. as they shorid be
yours. the readers Of Arthur Machon. The
book Is charged from end 10 end With
quaint, shrcwd humor and brave thankful
ness. FOR "God knows what as / cynically
observed as / read it Il begins with din
ner late in the author life. swings with
easy magic back to his carly day IN Gwent,
then proceeds By devious ways with many
leisurcly turnings and twistings and loiter-
ings, TO the point Of beginning, closing upon
It's opening note glowing. memorable pan
toum in prose; as lovely piece Of writing az