The Golden age. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1906-1915, March 01, 1906, Page 13, Image 13

Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

‘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, 13