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If the upper-middle class, with other classes, is destined to "move on" into amorphism, here, pickled in these pages, it lies under glass for strollers in the wide and ill-arranged museum of Letters. Here it rests, preserved in its own juice: The Sense of Property. 1922. by JOHN GALSWORTHY "........You will answer The slaves are ours....." Merchant of Venice.
A letter from John Dowsett had been the cause a simple little typewritten letter of several lines. But Daylight had thrilled as he read it. He remembered the thrill that was his, a callow youth of fifteen, when, in Tempas Butte, through lack of a fourth man, Tom Galsworthy, the gambler, had said, "Get in, Kid; take a hand." That thrill was his now.
My heart gave a jump when I saw it was none other than Captain Galsworthy, the gentleman with whom Mr. Vetch had been in converse at the bridge. We knew the captain well; he was, in a way, one of the notable persons of our town.
"They've shortened her sticks, those Norwegians, and painted her their beastly mustard colour and white. She's hogbacked, too. Well, she's old." The old man continued his quiet meditation. He was really talking to himself, I think, and I was listening to his thoughts. "Look!" cried Galsworthy, suddenly rising, his hand gripping my shoulder. The tug had cast off and was going about.
There is no need to point it out to Mr Galsworthy, who in The Silver Box and in Strife shows that he fully appreciates the point; nor to Mr Granville Barker, who produced Strife, for in Waste, which is in most respects the greatest English drama of our times, he exhibited it with extraordinary intensity, and also in The Voysey Inheritance, an admirable play, which it is to be hoped we shall soon see again.
And we, too, were silent, seeing in spirit that vigil of early morning: The thin, lifeless, sandy-coloured body, stretched on those red mats; and this black creature now lying at our feet propped on its haunches like the dog in "The Death of Procris," patient, curious, ungrieved, staring down at it with his bright, interested eyes. 1912. By John Galsworthy
The consequence is that a great educative influence, like the theatre, where a few playwrights like M. Brieux, and Mr. Bernard Shaw, and Mr. Granville Barker, and Mr. John Galsworthy, might effect the greatest things, is relegated by Mrs. Grundy to the plays produced by Mr. George Edwardes and other earnest upholders of the censorship.
Although Bennett has shown great versatility, yet his individual, strong, and vital work is found in the one field where he brings us face to face with the circumscribed, but appealing life of the "Five Towns" district of his youth. John Galsworthy. John Galsworthy was born in Coombe, Surrey, in 1867.
The "churl," the "hind," the "peasant," the "first servant" and "second countryman," who were the mere transitions of earlier stories now are central in literature. They come with a challenge, and when we read Galsworthy, Wells, Sinclair, Dreiser, Hardy's "The Dynasts," Bennett we are conscious of criticizing life as we read. The pale cast of thought has sicklied modern pages.
A disquieting feeling has since come over me that perhaps it was Sir James I had been interviewing all the time, and Brown who had escaped down the elevator. *A "Credo" for Keeping Faith* *By John Galsworthy.* I believe in peace with all my heart. I believe that war is outrage a black stain on the humanity and the fame of man. I hate militarism and the god of force.
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