January 2011

By Herbert G. Goldman; Oxford; 411 pages.

For a while the whole world was enchanted with Al Jolson. Robert Benchley, who was no pushover, wrote in 1925: “To sit and feel the lift of Jolson’s personality is to know what the coiners of the word ‘personality’ meant. … There is something supernatural back of it. … When Jolson enters, it is as if an electric current had been run along the wires under the seats where the hats are stuck. … He trembles his under lip, and your heart breaks with a loud snap. He sings, and you totter out to send a night letter to your mother. …”

The personality was so vivid, in fact, that even today—four decades since his death, half a century since he was last onstage in a big show—almost everyone has a pretty clear sense of Al Jolson: the energy, the high spirits, the amazing flow of that warm, plangent voice.

By Mark M. Boatner III; David McKay Company; 974 pages.

I was pleased to see that the 1913 Notre Dame-Army game was remembered in the November issue’s “Time Machine.” While the body of the article correctly named Gus Dorais as the Notre Dame quarterback and Knute Rockne as the team captain, I was disturbed to find that the caption to the illustration attributed both positions to Mr. Rockne.

As one of Gus Dorais’s grandsons, I can attest not only that he was the quarterback but also that he was the punter, drop kicker (place kicking was not the style in 1913), and punt catcher.

As “Inventing Modern Football” points out, the rule changes made in 1912 lifted most of the restrictions on the forward pass. Gus Dorais was the first to demonstrate how these rules could be made into an offensive strategy, and thus bring football into the modern era.

“Inventing Modern Football” not only is a splendid story but proves again how unchanging our mores are. The problems besetting early football are being repeated against the current pernicious backdrop of drugs.

Watterson’s text is engrossing, J. C. Leyendecker’s paintings absolutely stunning. Where, oh where, today, are illustrators of the worth of the Leyen-deckers?

Olivier Bernier (“American Made,” December 1988) obviously needs to review the printing processes. He calls lithography “the making of prints through the use of engraved stones,” but even the most lowly printer’s devil should know that lithography (or planography) by definition is the process of printing from a flat surface.

Mr. Bernier got one part of the process correct—“the image is drawn with a grease pencil.” From there he went awry and jumped from lithography to relief printing, which is printing from a raised surface. In lithography, after the image is drawn, water is applied, which does not adhere to the greasy image. Next, oily ink is applied, which does not mix with the water. The resulting print shows only the original details drawn with the grease pencil.

To complete the lesson, the third type of printing is intaglio, or printing from an engraved or sunken image. The Treasury Department uses intaglio to print currency.

Peter Baida’s review of my grandfather’s book (“The Business of America,” September/October 1988) is really a very nice article, thoughtfully written. I look forward to sharing it with other members of the family.

As one who played sandlot football in the early teens and high school football from 1918 to 1920, I was fascinated by John S. Watterson’s “Inventing Modern Football” (September/October 1988). But in all the various expositions concerning the sport, I never see any mention of how changes in the size and shape of the ball itself worked to make the modern game.

Back in pre-World War I days, the ball was considerably larger in circumference and heavier than today’s ball. With the coming of the forward pass it was modified; but even so, the smaller ball was extremely difficult to handle in the average human’s hand. Today’s slimmer model makes it easier to grip the ball for length and accuracy.

And as for kicking, I never see any reference to the drop kick, probably the most dramatic play in the whole game. I don’t know if it is even practiced nowadays but it used to count for three points when perfected. (For a drop kick, the ball was kicked on the rebound after being dropped to the ground.) The man on your cover looks to me as if he is drop-kicking.

On the evening of March 1, 1914, Americans all around the nation inaugurated what has become a spring ritual for millions of us. They raced to file the first Form 1040 at the last minute before the deadline, hurrying by motorcar or trolley or on foot.

In New York City, stragglers braved a blizzard to reach the Customs House office of the Bureau of Internal Revenue, which, like district offices everywhere, stayed open until midnight. Their last minute scurrying was front-page news in the Times the next day, and it saved them from being the first Americans to pay penalties for late filing. The weather, no matter how severe, was no excuse, as three men snowbound on a train from New York to Chicago found out. They arrived just after midnight and rushed to file. The tax collector Samuel N. Fitch was unyielding. “If they’re late, they’re late,” he said, “and there is no use in coming in today.”

A. R. Gurney, Jr.’s reminiscences of gracious dinner parties of the twenties and thirties were informative and witty (September/October). But Mr. Gurney was not well served by your caption writer, who did not realize that the maid in the accompanying 1929 illustration on page 69 is not serving soup, as your caption states.

The properly uniformed maid is obviously bringing to the hostess a tray (silver, of course) bearing a coffeepot (also silver) and cups (finest porcelain) for after-dinner coffee.