The most exciting thing that happened to us when we got to New York last February was finding a book in a yellow wrapper. Its title was “Old Junk,” which appealed to us. The name of the author was H. M. Tomlinson, which immediately became to us a name of honour and great meaning. All day and every day intelligent men find themselves surrounded by oceans of what is quaintly15 called “reading matter.” Most of it is turgid, lumpy, fuzzy in texture17, squalid in intellect. The rewards of the literary world—that is, the tangible18, potable, spendable rewards—go mostly to the cheapjack and the mountebank19. And yet here was a man who in every paragraph spoke20 to the keenest intellectual sense—who, ten times a page, enchanted21 the reader with the surprising and delicious pang22 given by the critically chosen word. We sat up late at night reading that book, marvelling23 at our good fortune. We wanted to cry aloud (to such as cared to understand), “Rejoice and be exceeding glad, for here is born a man who knows how to write!” In our exuberance24 we seized a pen and wrote in the stern of our copy: “Here speaks the Lord God of prose; here is the clear eye, the ironic25 mind, the compassionate26 heart; the thrilling honesty and (apparent) simplicity27 of great work.” Then we set about making the book known to our friends. We propelled them into bookshops and made them buy it. We took our own copy down to William McFee on[Pg 86] S.S. Turrialba and a glad heart was ours when he, too, said it was “the real thing.” This is a small matter, you say? When the discovery of an honest pen becomes a small matter life will lose something of its savour. Those who understand will understand; let the others spend their time in the smoker28 playing pinochle. Those who care about these things can get the book for themselves.
Of Mr. Tomlinson in person: he is a London newspaperman, we understand, and now on the staff of the London Nation. (Trust Mr. Massingham, the editor of that journal, to know an honest writer when he sees him.) Mr. Tomlinson says of himself:
My life is like my portrait. It won't bear investigation29. I am not conscious of having done anything that would interest either a policeman or the young lady of the kind who dotes on Daddy Long Legs; worse luck. It's about time I got down to business and did something interesting either to one or the other. That is why it won't bear investigation, this record of mine. I am about as entertaining as one of the crowd coming out of the factory gates with his full dinner pail. All my adventures have been no more than keeping that pail moderately full. I've been doing that since I was twelve, in all sorts of ways. I was an office boy and a clerk among London's ships, in the last days of the clippers. And I am forced to recall some of the things—such as bookkeeping in a jam factory and stoking on a tramp steamer—I can understand [Pg 87]why I and my fellows, without wanting to, drifted about in indecision till we drifted into war and drifted into peace. And of course, I've been a journalist. I am still; and so have seen much of Africa, America, and Europe, without knowing exactly why. I was in France in 1914—the August, too, of that year, and woke up from that nightmare in 1917, after the Vimy Ridge30 attack, when I returned to England to sit with my wife and children in a cellar whenever it was a fine night and listened to the guns and bombs. God, who knows all, might make something of this sort of inconsequential drift of one day into the next, but I give it up.
But now we pass to the phase of the matter that puzzles us. How is it that there are some books which can never have abiding31 life until they perish and are born again? We have noticed it so often. There is a book of a certain sort to which this process seems inevitable32. One need only mention Leonard Merrick or Samuel Butler as examples. The book, we will suppose, has some peculiar33 subtlety34 or flavour of appeal. (We are thinking at the moment of William McFee's “Letters From an Ocean Tramp.”) It is published and falls dead. Later on—usually about ten years later—it is taken up with vigour35 by some other publisher, the stone is rolled away from the sepulchre, and it begins to move among its destined36 lovers.
This remark is caused by our delighted discovery[Pg 88] of a previous book by the author of “Old Junk.” “The Sea and the Jungle” is the title of it, the tale of a voyage on the tramp steamer Capella, from Swansea to Para in the Brazils, and thence 2,000 miles along the forests of the Amazon and Madeira rivers. It is the kind of book whose readers will never forget it; the kind of book that happens to some happy writers once in a lifetime (and to many never at all) when the moving hand seems gloriously in gear with the tremulous and busy mind, and all the spinning earth stands hearkeningly still waiting for the perfect expression of the thought. It is the work of a hand trained in laborious37 task-work and then set magnificently free, for a few blessed months, under no burden save that of putting its captaining spirit truthfully on paper. And this book—in which there is a sea passage that not even Mr. Conrad has ever bettered—this book, which makes the utmost self-satisfied heroics of the Prominent Writers of our market place shrivel uncomfortably in remembrance—this book, we repeat, though published in this country in 1913, has been long out of print; and the copy which we were lucky enough to lay hand on through the courtesy of the State Librarian of Pennsylvania had not previously38 been borrowed since November 18, 1913. Someone asks us if this man can really write. Let us choose a paragraph for example. This deals with the first day at sea of the tramp steamer Capella:[Pg 89]
It was December, but by luck we found a halcyon39 morning which had got lost in the year's procession. It was a Sunday morning, and it had not been ashore40. It was still virgin41, bearing a vestal light. It had not been soiled yet by any suspicion of this trampled42 planet, this muddy star, which its innocent and tenuous43 rays had discovered in the region of night. I thought it still was regarding us as a lucky find there. Its light was tremulous, as if with joy and eagerness. I met this discovering morning as your ambassador while you still slept, and betrayed not, I hope, any grayness and bleared satiety44 of ours to its pure, frail45, and lucid regard. That was the last good service I did before leaving you quite. I was glad to see how well your old earth did meet such a light, as though it had no difficulty in looking day in the face. The world was miraculously46 renewed. It rose, and received the newborn of Aurora47 in its arms. There were clouds of pearl above hills of chrysoprase. The sea ran in volatile48 flames. The shadows on the bright deck shot to and fro as we rolled. The breakfast bell rang not too soon. This was a right beginning.
The above is a paragraph that we have chosen from Mr. Tomlinson's book almost at random49. We could spend the whole afternoon (and a happy afternoon it would be for us) copying out for you passages from “The Sea and the Jungle” that would give you the extremity50 of pleasure, O high-spirited reader! It is an odd thing, it is a quaint16 thing, it is a thing that would seem inconceivable (were we not tolerably acquainted with the vagaries51 of the reading[Pg 90] public) that a book of this sort should lie perdu on the shelves of a few libraries. Yet one must not leap too heartily52 to the wrong conclusion. The reading public is avid53 of good books, but it does not hear about them. Now we would venture to say that we know fifty people—nay, two hundred and fifty—who would never have done thanking us if we could lay a copy of a book of this sort in their hand. They would think it the greatest favour we could do them if we could tell them where they could go and lay down honest money and buy it. And we have to retort that it is out of print, not procurable54.[1] Is it the fault of publishers? We do not think so—or not very often. For every publisher has experience of this sort of thing—books that he knows to be of extraordinary quality and fascination55 which simply lie like lead in his stockroom, and people will not listen to what he says about them. Whose fault is it, then? Heaven knows.
[1] Since this was written, a new edition has been published by E. P. Dutton & Co.
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hearth
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n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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marrow
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n.骨髓;精华;活力 | |
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hopping
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n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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apparently
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adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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honourable
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adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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bickered
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v.争吵( bicker的过去式和过去分词 );口角;(水等)作潺潺声;闪烁 | |
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blurred
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v.(使)变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 );(使)难以区分;模模糊糊;迷离 | |
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lucid
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adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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bead
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n.念珠;(pl.)珠子项链;水珠 | |
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tribulation
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n.苦难,灾难 | |
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tormented
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饱受折磨的 | |
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arcade
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n.拱廊;(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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maple
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n.槭树,枫树,槭木 | |
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straightforward
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adj.正直的,坦率的;易懂的,简单的 | |
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quaintly
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adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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quaint
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adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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texture
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n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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tangible
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adj.有形的,可触摸的,确凿的,实际的 | |
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mountebank
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n.江湖郎中;骗子 | |
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spoke
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n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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enchanted
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adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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pang
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n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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marvelling
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v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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exuberance
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n.丰富;繁荣 | |
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ironic
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adj.讽刺的,有讽刺意味的,出乎意料的 | |
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compassionate
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adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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simplicity
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n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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smoker
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n.吸烟者,吸烟车厢,吸烟室 | |
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investigation
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n.调查,调查研究 | |
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ridge
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n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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abiding
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adj.永久的,持久的,不变的 | |
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inevitable
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adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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subtlety
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n.微妙,敏锐,精巧;微妙之处,细微的区别 | |
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vigour
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(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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destined
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adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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laborious
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adj.吃力的,努力的,不流畅 | |
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previously
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adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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halcyon
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n.平静的,愉快的 | |
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ashore
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adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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virgin
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n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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trampled
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踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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tenuous
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adj.细薄的,稀薄的,空洞的 | |
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satiety
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n.饱和;(市场的)充分供应 | |
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frail
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adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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miraculously
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ad.奇迹般地 | |
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aurora
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n.极光 | |
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volatile
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adj.反复无常的,挥发性的,稍纵即逝的,脾气火爆的;n.挥发性物质 | |
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49
random
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adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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extremity
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n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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51
vagaries
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n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 );异想天开;异常行为;难以预测的情况 | |
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heartily
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adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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avid
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adj.热心的;贪婪的;渴望的;劲头十足的 | |
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54
procurable
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adj.可得到的,得手的 | |
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fascination
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n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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