Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1931-01-06
NEW BOOKS
AT RANDOM
I. G. M.

1. u Ne
LETTERS OF JAMES wHITCoNGB
RILEY. Edited by william Lyon
Phelps Illustrated. indianapolis:
The Bobbs-Merril Co.
Let us stop a minute here beside
this desk where sits one so deeply en-
crossed with a huge bulk of letters
loose letters, grouped and banded
letters, seeming almost to crowd one
another in common reach for par
ticular and individual attention. This
rather daunting body of correspond
ence turns out to be the letters of one
man, one around whom general in
terest has grown in the course of not
so many years, one in whom wide and
deep friendship has conferred. Letters,
these, sent the world around out of
every sort of circumstance. and mood.
they lie waiting, solcitous even, to the
hand of the worker seated before them.
And what, pray is this mans Job with
these old letters? Nothing less than to
re-create their writer, James Whit
comb Riley, by way of them. Nothing
save to re-embody the man in person.
atty, character, work, and the effect
of these upon that day when he passed
through, upon the days that have
followed after.
Named editor, a worker in such ma
terial and under such purpose becomes
more than that. You will realize this
in reading the book. Here, in effect, is
an actual frightening of life by way
of these letters. Here are fresh con-
facts with thousands following upon
the literal period projected by them.
Here is a positive continuation of ex-
iStence through this organized and CO.
IN
see how it came about, to see how
William Lyon Phelps achieved this vivid
re-embodiment, one finds that selection
played the primary role-the basic art
of selection in every enterprise, ma
terial or esthetic. Selection and order
have here brought to life the early days
OF young Riley, the questioning and
somewhat indeterminate youth, the
growing powers of manhood, the ripe
fruits of maturity. Not that these
letters, either in substance or spirit,
give out such formality Of effect. Any
thing but that. Yet, under the easy
flow of their humor and good humor,
DIR. Phelps has held them to their
proper order in time and fact, so that
the development Of the man becomes
patent by way Of such good holding
and restraint.
An uncommonly rich book from more
is man made for friendship. He liked
people. People liked him. Not so COM
mon as you may assume, that gift of
making friends, of being a friend.
Therefore, as Riley, author and lecturer,
became better known, friends of every
stripe gathered about him. Here are
letters, most interesting, from authors,
artists and just folk. Naturally, no one
is going to read the book in the wise
way of its making. Time and mood
take that in hand. So, one looks over
the long list, not at random-not by
any means. Rather by special personal
leaning, or by the mood of the moment.
Rudyard Kipling, "Nye," Rileys best
beloved friend, Joel Chandler Harris;
Weir Mitchell, Mark Twain, William
Dean Howells, Sir Henry Irving-and
hosts besides, many of them known by
everybody, many not so well known.
But, in either case, the writer himself Is
ever and unalterably James WhitcomD
Riley. In these letters much Is SAID
about writing-about American htera-
t,lre and about the overlong time that
this country has been willing to follow
the tracks of England, putting out, IN
effect, lust some more English htera-
tllre. The element of dialect in Amer1-
can writing Is, in part, contributor
to the new realism, in other part
protest against the indolent persistence
of America in following the English
pattern. Some very interesting, and
informing, discussions of dialect come
out of these letters to indicate that its
purpose Is sound for the new situation,
and not a mere gesture, not an oddity
to attract attention. 1t is American
life that the writer's of this country
must seek to portray. BY the way-and
this is wide wandering-is not the
incident of Sinclair Lewis with the
Nobel award due, in certain part, TO the
fact that Lewis dealing with the
Minnesota Wisconsin Iowa region
worked honestly and realistically with
the Morse element that is so largely
settled in that locality, thereby address
ing the Nordics oversee in characters
and personalities that were clear to
them under the thin scale Of a new
home site, a new surface behavior?
mart. this Lewis spirit, of the one that
through Riley, Harris, Twain, Hamlln.
Sandberg and others is putting up an
honest and capable and laudable hght
for American literature? No, I'm not
running away from the book in hand.
For. within it, beside body Of enjoy
able acquaintance and bulk OF de-
lightful reading. you will find q sturdy
stand for America as a bountlfuI ana
worthy opportunity for the hopes and
purposes Of any American writer. How
ever. the book is not so much to in
struct the reader as it is to open him
to the warming influence OF James
Whitcomb Riley and his host OF friends.
POEMS OF NATURE AND WILD
LIFE. BY Edmund j. Sawyer, Park
Naturalist of Yellowstone National
Park. 1924-1928. Illustrated. Book
Number, 208.
A charming book, produced under con-
ditions clearly surprising. I'm pretty
certain that there will be no dissent
from any reader of the poems in hand.
Imagine, If you can, being left In yell
lowstone Park with the wild life OF the
place and the superb natural pageantry
that. the year round, moves from monJn
to month, unheralded. There, II any
where, or so it seems to me, one could
sing things in his heart. Tnere: II any
where, one could be a poet. Edmund
SAWYER is a case in point The proof,
if you be of that stripe, is this book OF
verse. One guesseS that months Went
by before the man began to sing. Months
of Intimacy with the animal tribes living
in such sanctuary Birds innumerable.
Birds unafraid and sociable, carrying on
their own domestic economy, free ana
unabashed. Amazing-to one with much
less of opportunity than this lucky Ed
mund Sawyer had--to realize how much
these "lower" things know. AS much,
indeed, within the circle Of their needs,
as the self-exalted human knows, or so
it seems to me But, getting back into
the Park. There was the perfect free
dom of animal companionship, of the
long and blessed silences; there was the
thrill of the many weathers. OF course
a man, shut in there, would be poet.
No help for it if help were needed. And
the poetry as it comes out in this little