The Golden age. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1906-1915, March 01, 1906, Page 13, Image 13
‘BOOK BE VIE WS
From an Unbiased Viewpoint.
By A . £. R A MSA UR.
It is the province of this department to review and
comment on the prominent publications of the day,
and to do this fairly and clearly, with judgment and
discretion and with no prejudiced nor warped point
of view. Believing that merit, like beauty, “needs
not the foreign aid of ornament” to enhance its
value with the public, it is designed to give, wher
ever possible, a brief synopsis of the book under
consideration, with some mention of its style, and
purpose, together with editorial comment, which
shall guide the reader to his own conclusions and
shall in no way attempt to unduly influence indi
vidual opinion.
The Golden Age may hold an essentially different
opinion from that usually expressed regarding cur
rent and contemporary literature, and although it
is not claimed that this opinion is infallible, it is
absolutely asserted that a high standard of morality,
a purity of ideals and a perfectly independent at
titude will be maintained in treating every work
deemed worthy of any consideration whatever.
The House of Mirth.
By EDITH WHARTON.
N significantly sarcastic title is given to this
novel, which, although it had been runing through
Scribner's Magazine for a year or more, has only
recently appeared in book form. Mrs. Wharton
surely has a “power to touch and move the heart”—•
a power most potent to hold and keep the attention
of the reader, and it is safe to assert that few read
ers have been able to really finish the “House of
Mirth” when the last page is turned. Almost un
consciously, in quiet hours the mind goes steadily
back over the chapters of the story, and again and
again it seems that a cold blast of despair falls on
the soul when contemplating the “mirthless” pic
ture.
It is easier, and happier, to read the book in serial
rather than completed form, for in the former the
gloom is less difficult to disperse, and one is better
able, after the lapse of a month, to take it all up
again.
Very briefly, the story is that of a beautiful
American girl,, Lilly Bart, who, by birth, breeding
and inherited tendencies, belongs to the highest (?)
American society, but who, alas! is debarred from
comfortable residence therein by a lack of the one
essential element—the Open Sesame to the golden
doors, tbe great touch-stone, financial prominence!
However, through a dreary childhood and girlhood,
where the battle of keeping up appearances is fought
to the death—literally—for it killed both her father
and mother—Lilly takes up her residence with an
aunt who has enough and to spare of this world’s
goods. The aunt gives her a small allowance, which
is far too small for the life in which the girl finds
herself. Every expedient, therefore, is resorted to
to attain ready money—but nothing that is not tol
erated in “good society”—card playing for large
sume, judicious presents by women friends, •whose
house parties Miss Bart graces and ornaments, and
even successful speculations conducted by men -who,
sooner or later, demand “the pound of flesh,” with
which demand, however, she never did comply, hold
ing herself aloof from the sordidness of her sur
roundings.
By some unexplained circumstance, however, the
soul of the girl shrank from all this, and yet is car
ried on and on as though in a vortex of conditions
from which she cannot extricate herself. Time after
time she is able to make a brilliant marriage de con
venance and each time she shrinks back unwilling
to take the final step. In the course of the story
she really learns to love Lawrence Seldon, a young
lawyer who has been clever enough, as Miss Bart
says, “to step within the gilded cage, but to leave
the way open for an exit.” Seldon returns the af
fection and just on the verge of an expression of
his love, a series of circumstances arouse within
him suspicions of the girl who is, however, absolutely
The Golden Age for March 1, 1906.
pure, and they are separated. Then the story pro
ceeds with deeper and deeper gloom; complications
multiply, the clouds of want and darkness gather
until well nigh in despair, and suffering frightfully
from insomnia Miss Bart ends her beautiful but
miserable life by an overdose of chloral—not an
intentional suicide, but just a wild fear of further
sleeplessness—when “the furies descend upon her,”
and even while remembering the druggist’s caution,
the few extra drops are poured and swallowed, and
the curtain falls. Lawrence Seldon, of course, dis
covers that he still loves the unfortunate girl, but it
is then too late, and on seeking to make a full con
fession of his love, he finds that death has inter
vened.
A tragedy, of course—worse than many tragedies
dignified by heroism and struggle, and even ended
in defeat—a tragedy whose elements are small and
unworthy—whose pettiness mar even the sanctity
of death, and whose sordidness leaves one feeling
depresed and desperate at the emptiness, the use
lessness of it all.
But with this feeling comes another and a stronger
element—the thought of how simple the solution
might have been, after all! Why does Mrs. Whar
ton, with her wonderfully graphic pen, her evi
dently broad knowledge of human nature, her subtle
understanding of the craving of the human heart,
its needs and its longings; why does she never, in
all the story’s length, once sound a single note of the
soul ? Why does she never even once life the dark
curtain of worldliness and earthly struggle, to let
in even a single rift of the light which flows from
things eternal, and which is so surely within reach
of all who seeks it? Is it possible that in the pitiful
contest for material attainments, for luxury of the
body and for earthly advancement, the things of
the spirit and the promise, the hope and the beau
tiful certainty of the future life, never once entered
as an element to be considered?
It is this fact that most impresses the thinking
reader wflien closing the pages of the “House of
Mirth,” what rest might have descended on the
scarred and troubled soul of Lilly Bart had she but
learned where to seek “the peace that passeth un
derstanding”? In the complex earthly life the girl
had led there seemed no place for ought but ma
terial considerations; no place for the seeking of
that love which God has so freely offered to all the
world, merely requesting that it be sought for and
truly desired. And the real tragedy lay there, in
the spiritual darkness, the pathetic clinging to
earthly hopes the frantic seeking for luxury of the
body, while the poor blighted soul knew not the
joy it might have had, the rest within its very reach
just for the taking; not in the death of the ex
quisite body, not in the annihilation of the all earth
ly hopes, but in the starved spirit, and the wounded
soul. The depression following the reading of this
book is not useless—it may yet bring with it an
awakening sense to other souls groping in the outer
darknes of ignorance and of sin. At the end of the
story we are told that between Lilly Bart and her
lover, “there passed the word that made all things
clear.” We ask, what of the “word” that passed
between her and her God?
Gulick says there is no spoken language on earth
to-day that is used by so many and such widely
scattered people as the English, not even the Chi
nese. It is to-day the language of diplomacy, and
millions of Hindus and Africans, and thousands of
Chinese, Japanese and Siamese speak it with ease.
The intellectual preparation is all that could be
asked for. In no age of the world’s history have
there been so many educated believers in and stu
dents of Christianity. Tradition and superstition
have been banished from Christian thinking, and
we have at last gotten down to bed-rock truth. That
rock is Christ. Upon him we firmly stand, and all
the -winds of opposition and wiles of the devil can
not dislodge us,
The Age of the World.
MARGARET A. RICHARD.
Tell me not, as some have told,
That the world is growing old;
That its youth has passed away,
And old age, so grim and gray,
Cometh now to hold sad sway.
For the earth renews each year
Former seasons’ wear and tear;
What seems wasted is not so,
And whatever lieth low
Will, in future, bud and blow.
Though the lily proudly rears
High the cluster that she bears,
.She, with veriest truth I say,
Were less fair for us to-day
But for flowers passed away.
She, in turn, must hide her face
In some dark and lowly place,
To, some time, once more arise
In some pure and lovely guise,
Towering gladly toward the skies.
So earth maketh all things good,
And forever is renewed;
So the flower-bells have rung,
And will ring on, with glad tongue:
“Beautiful the world, and young!”
Columbia, S. C.
All this has resulted in a revival of moral living.
That was the strength of the early Christians, and
it will prove our strength in the twentieth century.
There is to-day a more -widespread regard for the
chastity of woman, a higher regard for human life,
and a purer conception of marriage than ever be
fore. We are succeeding in driving intemperance
and impurity into the darkness.
Moods —Past and Present.
(Continued from page 10.)
1 was a “crank.” I think that’s a big improve-
meat—changing in fifteen years from a crang to
being merely eccentric.
I had fits while teaching. But I controlled my
self. If, as I wended my way to school, I realized
1 had ’em, and had ’em bad, I would say in my
heart, “I am not well to-day; I am not at myself,
and I must today in school watch my every action
and my movements and hold my tongue.” And I
kept my word. That training has been worth much
to me. I taught myself while I was teaching others.
How often we hear a fellow remark, “Oh, that’s
just my way, don’t notice it.” He has probably
insulted you and realizing the truth, he’ll offer
that as his apology—“lt’s just my way.” It’s the
mood he is in and he doesn’t try to control him
self. He offends you and apologizes by informing
you that he is accustomed to insulting folks.. And
he shouldn’t be noticed; he doesn’t deserve to be.
It’s a mistake not to control your feelings when
you are not well in mind and body. It’s cruel to be
cruel in your own home. If you are not a brute,
a day will come when you’ll give the world to recall
the harsh words, spoken when you were not feeling
very well. If you go home and abuse your family,
you will regret it; you’ll wish you hadn’t. Some
night the doctor will approach you and confide to
you that nothing more can be done, that it’s a ques
tion of only a few hours when the little one will
breathe its last. The next day you’ll see brought
in at the front door a little white coffin; and a few
minutes later you’ll be looking down on a little
snow-white face, as white as the linen on the in
side, and white as the velvet on the outside of
that small receptacle for the dead. You will press
your lips to the pretty cold cheeks in a last, tender,
loving kiss; you’ll look through tears into the face
of the mother of the dead and that look will itself
implore forgiveness, but it can not recall the harsh
words you spoke in years agone. No tears and no
love renewed, and no prayer can unspeak them.
You’ll be sorry; you will declare that you will
henceforth and forever be kind and loving and
agreeable, moods or no moods, yet the past is the
past, and there is no power that can change it. Re
member that!
Columbus, Ga,
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