Vol. VI No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK SAM: God forgive me, great God Lily, I'm old Jamaica Sam that don't never go ashore. Amen. I'd be drownd, too, only for Van and the captain's wife, who gave me some of the secret water, so that if they died I could roll 'em over the side and not leave 'em on the clean deck. Amen. Youm known my whole life, great God Lily, and how I stole the Portagee's red bag, only it was almost empty, and . . . and that other thing. Send a lot of rain and a ship to save us. Amen. VAN [crawling up beneath the -figure and throwing hknself full lengthy hysterically}: You've gone and forgiven me everything. Sure you have. I didn't kill the captain. The secret water was mine. Save us now, great Gawd Lily, and bring me back to my uncle in Amsterdam and make him leave me his three coal barges. MINNA [rocking herself]: We'm lost. She'll save Sam, but I've done what the gods don't like. They'm after me. They've got me now. [Suddenly staring of the deck] Van! Van! Them's a ship coming to us. Van, look! [She falls back crymg.] VAN: Them's coming. SAM [trying to jump up and down]: It's the "Maria Theresa Third," comin' right at us. VAN [his eye falls on the angel]: What'll they say to the figgerhead here? SAM [sententiously]: But that's the great God Lily. Her's saved us. You ain't goin' to do anything to her? VAN [starting to beat the angel forward with his hammer] : They'll call us heathen, bowin' down to wood and stone. Get the rope, Sam. We'll put her back. MINNA [frightened]: But I can't never forget her and her great starey eyes. Her I've prayed to. 12
THE NOVELS OF D. H. LAWRENCE: AN APPRECIATION BY J. S. COLLIS GREAT writers are justly regarded as mirrors into which we may look to see ourselves intensely reflected. If we dislike what we see therein we are obviously entitled to dislike ourselves. Therefore Art is a moral force. Sometimes a writer does not show what we are but what we might be. In proportion as he does both he is powerful as a moral force. It might seem that once we allow ourselves to say that a writer reflects his age we land ourselves in difficulties. An amusing essay could be written in which the chief writers of the Victorian age could be shown to contradict each other hopelessly. But it would be superficial. There are exceptions (Carpenter and Carlyle to a certain extent) but in the main the Victorians were all alike in this important aspect— namely that they concentrated their attention upon environment. They thought that by adjusting the outside world our problems could be solved. They paid little heed to the mysterious inner workings of the individual which cause the problems. As we are still paying for so great a simplification it is natural that we should have resolutely turned our attention to the individual and his psychology. For every good book on economics there appear two or three on psychology. So turning to the novel of to-day we are not surprised to find in at least one series of works a concentrated attention upon the individual. We find that the difference between the novels of Mr. D. H. Lawrence and those preceding him is clear-cut. If we quickly sweep our minds over the work of Austen, Eliot, Bronte, Thackeray, Dickens, Trollope, Hardy, Bennett, Galsworthy, Forster, we see that they all deal with individuals in relation to something else. They deal with them in relation to society, to institutions, to conventions. These individuals are social beings before they are human beings. The author is not sufficiently interested in them to let them stand absolutely on their own merits. However fond he is of them he is just as fond of his picture of the social world, of his satire, his disillusion, his propaganda, his story. His presentation of human beings is not thorough enough to make their experiences or incidents sufficient to hold attention. The reader is held to the very end by a skilfully unfolding story held together by an intricate system of wires, such as eaves-dropping (Dickens' favourite trick), intercepted letters, coincidences, disguises, 13
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK never known. I
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK at least twenty
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK (Antony Hope's
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK He was light-he
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK happening that
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK in the house, a
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK Looking at the
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A MOSAIC By DOROTHY ALSTON SANTA MA
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK Saturday. Pve b
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK white camellias
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CURB-STONE FINANCIERS By ALF HEWITT
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK hat stuck on th
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THE LAST WISDOM By B. G. BREW HE wa
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK the forest can
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK from the audien
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THE BOOKSHELF TEN YEARS AGO. By R.
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK Montague loved.
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK "The poetry of
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK high reputation
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK One wonders wha
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK CHRISTOPHER'S D
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK of it, some of
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DEAR BERMONDSEY BOOK, THE BERMONDSE
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK (one of the bes
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK unsurpassed suc
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THE BERMONDSEY BOOK DEAR BERMONDSEY
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A Newspaper A Magazine A Review Suc
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The Book Pages of are on the highes
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TWO CHARMING SERIES NOEL DOUGLAS RE
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WINTER SONATA by Dorothy Edwards "T
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HAVE YOU SEEN THE Saturday Review ?
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TWO INTERESTING BOOKS English Prose
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BOOKS OF TO-DAY A Monthly Journal f
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Vol. VI No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

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