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Phillips was not a ready writer and his letters cost him some pains. Several lay open on the table in different stages of composition. They were all exactly the same in wording as the first one Urwick had received. They were addressed to Booth Tarkington, Don Marquis, Ellen Glasgow, Edna Ferber, Agnes Repplier, Holworthy Hall and Fannie Hurst.
Though it may indeed be difficult for a thinker of the widest views to contract himself to the dimensions needed for naturalistic art, and though he may often fail when he attempts it, when he does succeed he has the opportunity, which the mere worldling lacks, of ennobling his art with some of the great light of the poets. Booth Tarkington is the glass of adolescence and the mold of Indiana.
So considered, her machinations to enchant and hold him have a comic aspect; one touch more of exaggeration and she would pass over to join those sorry ladies of the world of farce who take a larger visible hand in wooing than human customs happen to approve. But Mr. Tarkington withholds that one touch more of exaggeration.
Adolescence, however, when left to itself, has other and very different hours which Mr. Tarkington shows almost no signs of comprehending. The author of Penrod, of Penrod and Sam, and of Seventeen passes for an expert in youth; rarely has so persistent a reputation been so insecurely founded.
"Molly told me that you told her that secret I told you not to tell her," whispered Margaret. "Oh, isn't she a mean thing!" gasped Katherine. "Why, I told her not to tell you!" "Well," returned Margaret, "I told her I wouldn't tell you she told me so don't tell her I did." When Booth Tarkington was visiting Naples he was present at an eruption of Vesuvius.
While her lodgers were at church the tireless Mrs. Schiller was doing a little housecleaning: he could hear the monotonous rasp of a carpet-sweeper passing back and forth in an adjoining room. He creaked irritably downstairs, and heard the usual splashing behind the bathroom door. In the frame of the hall mirror he saw a pencilled note: Will Mrs. Smith please call Tarkington 1565, it said.
That memorable year of fiction which saw so many superior books produced saw them successful beyond any reasonable expectation; and it is scarcely to be wondered at that the year following with which this chronicle does not undertake to deal should have responded to such encouragement. If Dorothy Canfield challenged the tendency, Booth Tarkington saw it and ventured Alice Adams.
A novelist does not require a universe in which to find the universe, which lies folded, for the sufficiently perceptive eye, in any village. Thoreau and Emerson found it in Concord; Thomas Hardy in Wessex has watched the world move by without himself moving. But Mr. Tarkington has toward his native state the conscious attitude of the booster.
Hodges, the school trustee, about the lack of heat in mid-January, she completely subdued him be remarking that there wasn't "the least raison d'etre for such a condition." In view of these and other intellectual associations, Miss Miller's "room" was obviously the place for the Literary Society to meet. Mr. George Ade, Mr. Booth Tarkington, Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, Mr.
"You haven't anything like that in America, have you?" said an Italian friend with pride. "No, we haven't," replied Tarkington; "but we've got Niagara Falls that would put the d d thing out in five minutes." We often take delight in fancying what we would do if things were really reversed in this oftentimes trying world: and particularly what we would do to the president of our bank.
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