… from the World-Herald …

F ANDREW CALLINGHAM were a less modest artist, as indeed all great men are truly modest, he would have had reason to crow over his native land this morning. It was America’s indifference to his genius eighteen years ago that sent him roaming the world, from China Seas to the Mediterranean until, decorated with literary prizes and an international reputation as one of our greatest living authors, he returned yesterday to these soils. MacTweed, his latest publisher, told reporters in the author’s suite at the Madison, of the artist’s early struggles, the mean little attic in Chelsea, the brave solitary fight for publication and fame. He told of his efforts to earn a bare living against the skepticism of his family and friends.

“ ‘It is to this country’s everlasting shame,’ said Mr. MacTweed, ‘that England was the first to recognize his genius.’

“Callingham appeared to be a tall, bronzed, healthy specimen, in the prime of life, gray mustache and sparse gray hair, keen dark eyes under unrimmed spectacles, speaking with the unmistakable twang of the Yankee. He waved his hands disparagingly at photographers and the autograph hunters outside the hotel, and only shook his head at the flattering remarks on his last novel.

“Asked what he thought of the work of the newer generation of American writers, Wolfe, Caldwell, and Faulkner, he answered that unquestionably they had something. He was equally spontaneous in praise of Dos Passos, Hemingway, Lewis, and Ellen Glasgow.

“ ‘Where do you think you stand in American letters?’ he was asked.

“He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“ ‘Some critics would put me at the bottom of the ladder,’ he said good-naturedly, and added with a twinkle, ‘I do hope they’re not right.’ ”