A Lament That Disproves Itself?
Atazums axp Excunsions. By James Agate. Grant Richards. 7s, 6d. net.
In one of the agreeable essays composing this volume Mr. Agate discusses the decay of criticism," yoming to very positive and dis-inspiriting conclusions. Yet he refutes himself out of his own mouth, for his own writing is convincing evidence that criticism, far from being in decay, still flourishes exceedingly. Indeed, the reader will be well advised not to allow his judgement to be swayed too much by this excursus on "the decay of criticism," for he may be deterred from passing on to what follows, and then he will miss acquaintance of Mr. Agate at his best ~and his best is very good. That most of it should have been written for newspapers, in the beaten track of duty, makes its quality the more signal, for newspaper articles are kittle stuff for book-making.
What the reader will especially enjoy in Mr. Agate is his humanity. Ho is interesting because he is himself interested, and he is more concerned to illustrate his subject than to exhibit his own accomplishments. Not that he is not conscious of the dignity of his office and of the Manchester models on which he has formed his standards of judgement, but at least he never attempts to play the superior person.
AxnecpoTes or Horses.
Being a professional critic of the drama, he has naturally much to say of recent theatrical productions—much that is both humourous and shrewd. But the best thing in this book has nothing to do with the stage. It is concerned entirely with horses—a subject on which Mr. Agate writes with an enthusiasm which no more can be acquired than an affection for pipes. And yet the glow is infectious, for after Mr. Agate has told us all his anecdotes about the famous hackney mare Ophelia we feel insensibly that it was a great thing to have seen her in the life, and we understand why, when she was led for the last time into the show-ring, everyone present rose and stood bare-headed. Quoting a memorable tribute to the mare, Mr. Agate asks any motorist to say "of what cylindered thing could you write such a description as this of Ophelia?"
Next to ''Cackle and Osses," we like best the essay Sarah Bernhardt: a Postscript," written on the theme that "the hey-day of a great spirit knows no passing." Those who cherish their memories of Bernhardt will delight in this essay; and those to whom she is but a@ name will regret the misfortune
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.