Evening Star Newspaper, February 22, 1931, Page 89

THE SHARPLES: Their Portraits of George Washington and His Contemporaries; & Diary and an Account of the Life and Work of James Sharples and His Family in England and America. By Katherine Mc- Cook Knox. New Haven: Yale University Press. ITHIN the last decade of the eighteenth century two men left England, less than a year apart, » for America. Skilled in por- traiture, the art content most acceptable to a sclf-engrossed and somewhat artificial period, both were sceking, over om this side, subjects among those made famous by the immediate effects of a successful revolu- tion in the New World. Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, Adams, their first cbjectives no doubt. Each knew nothing of the project of the other. For Gilbert Stuart was then the fashionable portrait painter of London. Born in Rhode Island, bred to a career in European art centers, ripened in the sun of London patronage, Stuart was a far cry away from Sharples. Clearly an artist, James Sharples lacked the ingratiating gift of flattery that wins in bigh places. Sharples was a gambler with fortune, a playiellow with chance. Let us leave the successful Stuart to go along with this author in her quest of the Sharples tribe—James and his wife and three children. A point to remember, since, in the long run, .4t is the whole gifted family that stands behind the astonishingly rich Sharples output. Mrs, McCook Knox makes a most engaging business of this adventure. It suggests something of the show troupe traveling from place to place. A point reached, kits are unslung, rude easels set up, and the entire clan falls to transferring faces to paper, faces so lifelike as to sfir ex- cited interest. No quite so casual as this, these performances, since James Sharples had had enough of foresight to fortify himself with letters for a better foothold than that of the street corner. It was by these swift and strik- ing portraits, however, that the art of the fame- ily became established. And, finally, the ob- Jective was gained. Portraits of Washington, 40 or 50 of them, and portaits of other celebri- ties of the day testify to the skill of the Sharples family. ‘The odd turns of individual interest become, now and then, sources of interest and delight to many. Here is a case in point. It is not clear how Mrs. McCook Knox found James Sharples worth time and pains. No matter. Luckily for the rest, however, she did find him just that. And the pursuif was on. No better place than this to say that here s a clearly distinguished pattern of true re- search. Work and more work, indefatigable and patient; pertaining facts, full and au- thenticated, the sole acceptance. Then, the full body of tested material in hand, there is the heavy task of creating order within it, of stressing here and easing up there, of ani- mating words with motion and color and coherence, of rounding thes whole to estab- lished and convincing actuality. Homage goes to the author for exactly this quality of sine cere scholarship applied to an incident in the art record of a century and a half ago. A diary comes to light under the per- sistence of the author. The bulk of portraits peinted by the Sharples family is subjected to rigid scrutiny. And from these two sources of information Mrs. McCook Knox re-creates, not only the strange family itself, but re- embodies, as well, significant facts of that past as these picture both American and Eng- ‘lish life. James Sharples stands in rather severe disclosure. For, under a rigid test, it turns out that of the many portraits of Wash- ington claimed by this comp:tent painter, only a couple or so, were really the work of his own hand. The wife, the children, were skilled and competent, too, Theirs the bulk of the labor. Nothing new about such an attitude, is there? Certainly nothing to damn a man with, else—— Here, in the altogether, is a true chapter of special history. Here, also, is a charming story, projected, in part, by an intimate study of character and per- sonality. Here, in picture, are all the Washe ingtons of this single source. Quite as inter= esting are pictures of the Sharples family be- sides—a fascinating group. . The father hime self painted by one of the sons, the mother, James, jr., Pelix and Bolinda—most alert and intelligent folks, looking straight across at you. As a book, as housing for this finely compe- tent production, there is nothing to give but commendation for the fitness in every respect with which it serves its good purpose. Gath- ered up, the whole becomes a unique feature in celebration of our most honored national birthday. MRS. FISCHER'S WAR. By Henrietta Leslie, Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co. ‘A BOUT 1914. Husband and wife and son. A fine family. Prosperous, happy in their work, interested in music, art, reading, i friends and in life itself. The mother English. The father German in blood, but English in choice and long residence. The boy half-and- half, or so at first, it seemed. Here is a new war story. Its approach is from a new side, the woman’s side. However, that comes later. Early in the Spring of 1914 Mr. and Mrs. Pischer set out on the holiday long promised to themselves. A tramping trip through Germany, a look-in upon the town where Carl, the husband, was born; a ‘brows- ing about the old town and then off to the mountains and woods again. You know what happened, because just this thing happened to thousands trying to crowd a way throygh to their homes when the storm broke over Burope. In’' some mysterious way Carl Fischer hecame separated from his wife, who succeeded In getting back to England. Well, that is the story. A styry filled with war years of suspense and fear ¢n the part of Mrs. Pischer, Pilled, too, with suspicion on #Hr SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. €, FEBRUARY 22, 1903f, — e ——} The Sharples Portraits of George IWashington and His Contemporaries— *“Mrs. Fischer’s War’—Several New Novels. the part of neighbors who suddenly remembered that the genial Carl was, at bottom, a “Hun” after all. Friends, cooling and cold toward the woman and her boy. Money falling away under a practical confiscation from the *sus- pect.” The agony of not knowing the fate of Carl, the dazed unhappiness of the boy. The next blow to Mrs. Fischer was the boy's enlist- ment with his home forces. There you have the substance of this new stripe of war story. A story of restraint where unrestraint makes constant and fierce demand. A story of family (Copyright by Bachrach.) Katherine McCook Knox, author of “The Sharples.” life, quite unusual in its portrayal of the com- panionship and understanding among these three, of the sheer devotion without parade; a quiet thing measuring deep love and trust and true companionship. Then the months of agony. These, too, grippe¢ by memories that but make the probe deeper and more poignant. And the outcome—well, a new kind of war story. A great story both in conception and projection. Heart-breaking, too, and dis- maying as well by virtue of the deep and un- explored things in man’s nature, such as come out only under cataclysm and distaster. The Book League of America names Mrs. Fischer’s War as its choice for March. Eng- land, through a similar medium, has already declared for this novel its March leader. VAGABOND DE LUXE. By John Marshall, THustrated with photographs. New York: The Century Co. ‘HIS book should be censored out of the += reach of young men. For what reason? It is as catching, certainly, as measles or any other youthful susceptibility to personal danger. I leave it to you. Here is John Marshall, not yet & man except in height and general bulk, who goes around the world literally on a smile. Just smiles his way around the globe. A dan- gerous thing to get out into the open. Simply because vanity, the very deepest of human in- stincts and possessions, will set hundreds of fellows off, secure in the faith that each pos- sesses the one and only winning grin needed to compass space and win adventure. A college graduate, without money and daring lfe. That is, in effect, the record. Disapproving, one has to admit, however, that the fellow has made a completely engaging matter of this business of seeing the world. Specially does he deliver a fine budget of fact and fancy, of glamour and bewitchment from his loafings in the South Beas, from his Joiterings in Java and around Singapore. Farther north he is, naturally, tamer, more literal, more like the rest of the world. Yet, all in all, John Marshall did an astonishing turn when with a smile, besides just his own two feet and hands, he moyed out into the wide things of daily existence. Oh, yes, you will wonder where the “de luxe” of the title gets its right of way. Chiefly by way of the dinner jacket and its fit accompaniments that went along as symbol of the kind of adventure that he meant to have—that, in large To be sure, while on ple’s cars, or as a plain stowaway, or got ahead in the pose of a war correspondent—in China that was—or once as a Bolshevik degortee. Just a snatched handful of the roles assumed this smiling actor in proof of the supreme - must have youth’s way., A good book in constant ¢melaimer against the immorality of the wholg (erform- I read it, from cover to !pner, and THE INDISCREET YEARS. By Larry Barretto, author of “A Conqueror Pass:s,” etc. New York: Farrar & Rinehart. [ AND that is all the story. I think there is no more.” Helena, herself telling the truth to a woman friend, back home on Long Island after a dozen years in Rouen, England, Paris, the Basque Coast, Florence, from 1918 forward. “Indiscreet years,” all of them. This dispassionate review, naturally, marks the end. Not at all, For Helena is about to step off, as it turns out, into a narrow sphere of complele rectitude of life, into such a strict convention of behavior as only here and there the small town yet maintains in an otherwise tremendcusly loosened world. Hzlena, living in wickedness and retiring at last into the decorum of an honest elderly” man’s house and home. Not a true story, certainly. And Larry Barretto knows that he is spinning a fairy tale. To be sure, his name has an alien twist and we are told that in somz parts of the world—maybe, where the Bar- rettos grow—social institutions and ways of life are different from our own. However, to dis- cover whether or not this be true would involve investigation quite outside the business in hand. And this is Larry Barretto’s new novel. Frankly, it is the story of a misbehaving woman. Odd, that recently there appears to be a turn on the part of youthful male novelists toward this strange matter. Not only a turn toward it, but one that is in the grip of a new spirit. It was the war, Let us go back. Everybody mad, the world itself turned madman. Gross lapses of every sort under the tremendous fear and emotionalism of the terrible situation, That is where the story of Helena begins. And the matter progresses much in man fashion. As if, possibly, this author had deliberately shifted the time-honored role of man the devastator and the despoiler. Just to see, possibly, how life would have looked if the inconceivable had come to pass, if woman had been the recreant that man has so complacently ever been. How- ever, the purpose of the author is, in the main, immaterial. The point is his personal attitude toward the theme of a beautiful, intelligent, poised, attractive woman who has departed from the way laid out for her by her traditional protector and superior—man. The attitude of Barretto is one of studious concern and of sym- pathy. Now, by sympathy I mean nothing of soft and ameliorative content. I mean understanding, nothing else. Such exclusive attention of mind and intuition and interpretation comes close to making this a study of account. And all along it seems to me that here is a warmer, a more understanding contact with human nature, male and female, under great disruptive forces, such as the war brought to bear, than will be come upon in much reading of, perhaps, more pre- tentious form than a mere novel can expect to offer. Much of the story is very beautiful. None of it is unbeautiful. The episode of Tito, the young Florentine boy, is an idyl—heart- breaking in the simple pity of it. Maybe I'm giving this Bayretto man more credit than should go into a theme which is generally looked upon as an opprobrious theme. Sorry! But again it seems to me that here is an honest man, painting a picture, real- istic and bitter, of this terrible thing called “being alive,” An honest man, and clearly a gifted one. THE ENTRANCING LIFE. By J. M. Barrie. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. A LITTLE thing. First, a talk to-young men, a body of students. Then, a booklet. Now, in effect, a personal letter to you and to me. A few minutes will serve for its reading. Hours will go into its pondering, into many a swift recapturing of the spirit that sent it out on its wide way. The promise of youth never matures. Its dream never comes true. Its visions are the perfect mirage. It lasts but an hour yet, merg and women do not as a rule lay by for the rainy day of its flight. The world is still beau- tiful, but this they do not see. Being alive is still an adventure, but this they deny. And, so, the majority settle into the dismal swamp of self-pity, into the sluggard thoughts of lazy minds and bodies. Not James M. Barrie, not that man! To him the world is still a wonder world. To him, even the common run of every day's doings is still an enchantment. To this young man all life is an entra=.cing thing to be seized upon at its every approach, whether it come in rain or Zu shine, in laughter or in grief. That 13 why this little letter from James B-.rie, so sincere, so honest in its faith, so st.«dy in its approach to each new ex- pe”.ence, so robust and even gay—that is why this letter, address, booklet makes its way, and will make its way where the discouraged and the despondent, however learned he may be, will be refused even in the most ponderous of his reasonings and teachings. But this other man will step off with hosts of us in the plain day’s work of making a go of life. I HAVE KILLED A MAN. By Cecil Freeman Gregg, author of “The Three Daggers,” etc. New York: The Dial Press. LIKE the prologue of old days, a straight declaration of the truth embodied in this title settles the one point about which mystery tales huzz in a bewilderment of doubt and false clue. A startling effect is produced by this device, as was, jntended, The point in passing s that prepared tricks for the sake of putiing an edge to curiosity are likely to fall flat in total failure. This one holds itself, and the reader, to a mystery that, away beyond the common run of these, engages every minute of one’s interest. Having made his open confese sion, the author of this ominocus statement re- tires into tke body cf the story, so completely as to provide for himself a secure hiding place, so arifully as never to disclose his neighbor- hood to the reader beside whom it is many & time standing close. A story of stolen gems and hidden treasure. A tale of the doings of murderers and gangsters. An old manor house, a young woman of degree, her brother, Bobby, mystery youth and a truly bright spot in the dismal to-do of theft and arson and murder and the rest of the goods and chattels of the pur- veyors of detective adventures. English in origin, the matter involves a particularly Eng- lish sleuth—a good one, living within the ree straints of believable behaviors and activities. The story is calculated to tax one's powers of pursuits without ever quite exhausting patience cr credence. So the reader keeps right om abreast with the whole to-do till the sorry end= ing comes—and that he repudiates with positive} distaste and regret. - NINETY YEARS AT THE ISLE OF SHOALS. gz Oscar Laighton. Boston: The Beacon ess. URGED to tell what he “can remember” of the long years upon this island, Mr, Laighton tells a true story of many years of remembering. The record begins like a story— “On a pleasant day early in October of the year 1839 a pilot boat sailed out from Portse mouth bound for the Isle of Shoals.” Not a big book, but throughout it carries the savor of the story, of interesting things just familiar enough to attract the reader, just strange enough to delight him. No distance from the mainland of New England here is the record of an island life that, at certain points of time and its ways, is as remote as the South Pacific Islands. The changes that have taken place in water commerce, in water craft are set down here, right from the eyesight of this man who, as boy and later on; saw the trade of the world changing like marvel and magic. The bird life around the island, the sea life, you may be sure play a good part in this story, The lighthouse in its mission of safety, in its care, in the real adventure that it gave to the boy, this becomes an interesting part of the long story. . Interesting people, whose names we know, visited the island, and of these he gives descriptions and impressions. Snatches of poetry, chiefly Celia Thaxter's poetry, step into the pages for points of description and illumination. A most interesting book. Thag is its first effect. And a most valuable one, useful as the personal record of a man who for well toward a hundred years lived on an island in the Atlantic Ocean neighboring New England, and looked out upon some of theé most momentous changes that have taken placé in the whole history of the United States. A firm, clearly related story, without any sign upon # of a falling away from keen interest in the reminiscence itself in the narrator's active part in the incidents described. A joy of a book for at least three good reasons. i Books Received CHURCH HISTORY: By Non-Catholic His- torians. Rev. John E. Graham. Baltimore?¢ The Norman Publishing Co. FREQUENT FALLACIES: Causes and Results of Mental Confusion. By William H. Moore, D. D. Boston: The Christopher Publish- ing House. THE LITTLE HILL FARM: Cruisings in Old Schoharie. By John Van Schaick, jr, Editor of the Christian Leader. Bostons Universalist Publishing House, A SOLDIER’'S DIARY: A Day-to-Day ReCe ord in the World War. By Capt. Will Judy, Illustrated by Bert Hanor. Chicago: Judy Publishing Co. THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER. By Vernon Barte lett, author (with R. C. Sherriff) of “Joure ney’s End.” New York: Frederick A Stokes Co. Fiction: RED FOG. By Bruce Harper. Caldwell; Idaho: The Caxton Printers, Ltd. THE BOSS OF THUNDER BUTTE. By W, D. Hoffman. Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Co. STORMY FIRES. By Florence Ward, authop of “Second Eden,” etc. Philadelphias Macrae-Smith Co. CALL HER PANNIE. By May Edginton, au= thor of “The Joy ‘Girl,” etc. Philadelphia: The Penn Publishing House. Poetry: THE CARPENTER LAD, and Other Poems. By Richard Burton, author of “Lyrics of Brotherhood,” etc. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Co. LOVE—THE CONQUEROR. By Norman B. Hoffman, Boston: The Christopher Pub- lishing House. For Children: z THE CHRISTOPHER ROBIN BIRTHDAY BOOK. Compiled by A. A. Milne. Draw« ings by E. H. Shepard. New York: E R Dutton & Co. RING-A-ROUND. By Mildred P. Harrington. Pictures by Corydon Bell. New York: The Macmillan Co. THE TALKING BIRD: An Aztec Story Booky Tales Told to Paco by His Grandfather. By Idella Purnell and John M. Weatherwax.