# The United Amateur/March 1919/Department of Public Criticism

Official Reports
Department of Public Criticism
The Coyote for October–January is a “Special War Number,” dedicated to Cpl. Raymond Wesley Harrington, the editor’s valiant soldier brother, and having a general martial atmosphere throughout. Among the contents are two bits of verse by the gallant overseas warrior to whom the issue is inscribed, both of which speak well for the poetic sentiment of their heroic author.
“Lord Love You, Lad,” a poem by Winifred V. Jordan, is the opening contribution; and deserves highest commendation both for its spirit and for its construction.
“The Paramount Issue,” by William T. Harrington, is a somewhat ambitious attempt to trace the responsibility for the great war to alcoholic liquor and its degenerative effect on mankind. The author even goes so far as to say that “had man been represented in his true and noble form, then war would have been impossible.” Now although the present critic is and always has been an ardent prohibitionist, he must, protest at this extravagant theory. Vast and far-reaching us are the known evil effects of drink, it is surely transcending fact to accuse it of causing mankind’s natural greed, pride, and combative instincts, which lie at the base of all warfare. It may, however, be justly suggested that much of the peculiar bestiality of the Huns is derived from their swinish addiction to beer. Technically, Mr. Harrington’s essay is marked by few crudities, and displays an encouraging fluency. Other pieces by Mr. Harrington are “A Bit of My Diary,” wherein the author relates his regrettably brief military experience at Camp Dodge, and “Victory,” a stirring editorial.
“Black Sheep,” by Edna Hyde, is an excellent specimen of blank verse by our gifted laureate. Line 14 seems to lack a syllable, but this deficiency is probably the result of a typographical error.
A word of praise is due the general appearance of the magazine. The cover presents a refreshing bit of home-made pictorial art, whilst the photograph of Corporal Harrington makes a most attractive frontispiece.
The Pathfinder for January is easily the best issue yet put forth by its enterprising young editor. “Hope,” which adorns the cover, is a poem of much merit by Annie Pearce. The apparent lack of a syllable in line 2 of the third stanza is probably due to a printer’s error whereby the word us is omitted immediately after the word for.
“How and Why Roses Are White,” by Margaret Mahon, is a fairy legend of much charm and decided originality, which argues eloquently for its author’s imaginative scope and literary ability.
“Happiness in a Glove” is a very facile and pleasing rendering of a bit of Spanish dialogue. Through a mistake, the authorship is credited to the translator, Miss Ella M. Miller, though her own manuscript fully proclaimed the text as a translation.
“Welcome, 1919,” is a brief contemplative essay by Editor Glause; in spirit admirable, but in phraseology showing some of the uncertainty of youthful work. Mr. Glause might well pay more attention to compact precision in his prose, using as few and as forceful words as possible to express his meaning. For instance, his opening words would gain greatly in strength if contracted to the following: “Now that a new year is beginning.” Farther down the page we find the word namely in a place which impels us to question its use. Its total omission would strengthen the sentence which contains it. Another point we must mention is the excessive punctuation, especially the needless hyphenation of amateurdom and therefore, and the apostrophe in the possessive pronoun its. The form it’s is restricted to the colloquial contraction of “it is”; the similiarly spelled pronoun is written solidly without an apostrophe. Additional notes by Mr. Glause are of equal merit, and his reply to a recent article on travel is highly sensible and commendable. He is a writer and thinker of much power, and needs only technical training in order to develop into an essayist of the first rank. As an editor he cannot be praised too highly for his faithfulness in publishing his welcome and attractive quarterly. ****** Pine Cones for February well maintains the high standard set by Mr. Pryor in his ​opening number. “Life, Death and Immortality,” by Jonathan E. Hoag, is a brief but appealing piece from the pen of a gifted and venerable bard, and thoroughly deserves its place of honour on the cover. On the next page occurs a metrical tribute to this sweet singer on his 88th birthday, written by H. P. Lovecraft in the latter’s typical heroic strain.
“The Helpful Twins,” a clever child story by Editor Pryor, is the prose treat of the issue. It would, indeed, be hard to find more than one or two equally interesting, human, and well-developed bits of fiction in any current amateur periodicals. Not only are the characters drawn with delightful naturalness, but there is real humour present; and the plot moves on to its climax without a single instance of awkwardness or a single intrusive or extraneous episode. In short, the story is almost a model of its kind; one which ought to prove a success in a professional as well as an amateur magazine. Mr. Pryor’s humour is more broadly shown in the smile-producing psuedo-anecdotes of “The Boy Washington.”
The bit of unsigned verse, “A New Year Wish,” is excellent, though we question the advisability of having an Alexandrine for the final line.
“Comment Pryoristic” is always interesting, and that in the current Pine Cones forms no exception to the rule. The appearance of this vigorously alive and intelligently edited publication is proving a great and gratfying factor in amateurdom’s post-bellum renaissance. ********* The Recruiter for January marks the advent to amateurdom of a new paper, which easily takes its place among the very best of recent editorial enterprises. Edited by Misses Mary Faye Durr and L. Evelyn Schump in the interest of the United recruits whom they are securing, its thoroughly meritorious quality speaks well for the new members thus added to our circle.
The issue opens auspiciously with a lyric poem of distinguished excellence by Helen McFarland, entitled “A Casualty.” In depth of sentiment, fervour of expression, and correctness of construction, these melodious lines leave little to be desired; and seem to indicate that the United has acquired one more poet of the first rank.
“Billy,” a character sketch by L. Evelyn Schump, introduces to the Association a light essayist of unusual power and grace, whose work is vividly natural through keen insight, apt and fluent expression; and mastery of homely and familiar detail. The present sketch is captivatingly life-like and thoroughly well-written, arousing a response from every lover of children.
“Winter,” a brief poem by Hettie Murdock, celebrates in a pleasant way an unpleasant season. The lines are notable for correctness, spontaneity and vitality, though not in the least ambitious in scope.
Martha Charlotte Macatee’s “Song of Nature” reveals its 12-year-old creator as a genuine “Galpiness” (if we may coin a word which only amateurs and Appletonians will understand). Mistress Macatee has succeeded in infusing more than a modicum of really poetic atmosphere and imagery into her short lyric, and may be relied upon to produce important work in the coming years of greater maturity. The chief defect of her present piece is the absence of rhyme, which should always occur in a short stanzaic poem. Rhyming is not at all difficult after a little practice, and we trust that the young writer will employ it in later verses.
“Tarrytown,” by Florence Fitzgerald, is a reminiscent poem of phenomenal strength, marred only by a pair of false rhymes in the opening stanza. Assonance must never be mistaken for true rhyme, and combinations like boats–float or them–brim should be avoided. The imagery of this piece is especially appealing, and testifies to its author’s fertility of fancy.
“Shades of Adam,” by Mary Faye Durr, is an intresting and humorously written account of the social side of our 1918 convention. Miss Durr is exceptionally gifted in the field of apt, quiet, and laconic wit, and in this informal chronicle neglects no opportunity for dryly amusing comment on persons and events.
“Spring,” by L. Evelyn Schump, is a refreshingly original poem in blank verse, on a somewhat familiar subject. For inspiration and technique alike, the piece merits enthusiastic commendation; though we may vindicate our reputation as a fault-finding critic by asking why alternate lines are indented despite the non-existence of alternate rhymes.
The Recruiter’s editorial column is brief and businesslike, introducing the magazine ​as a whole, and its contributors individually. Amateurdom in deeply indebted to the publishers of this delightful newcomer, and it is to be hoped that they may continue their efforts; both toward seeking recruits as high in quality as those here represented, and toward issuing their admirable journal as frequently as is feasible. ****** The Silver Clarion for January comes well up to the usual standard, containing a number of places of considerable power. In “The Temple of the Holy Ghost,” Mr. Arthur Goodenough achieves his accustomed success as a religious poet, presenting a variety of apt images, and clothing them in facile metre. The only defect is a lack of uniformity in rhyming plan. The poet, in commencing a piece like this, should decide whether or not to rhyme the first and third tines of quatrains; and having decided, should adhere to his decision. Instead, Mr. Goodenough omits these optional rhymes in the first stanza and in the first half of the third and fourth stanzas; elsewhere employing them. The result, while not flagrantly inharmonious, nevertheless gives an impression of imperfection, and tends to alienate the fastidious critic. Mr. Goodenough possesses so great a degree of inspiration, and so wide an array of allusions and imagery; that he owes it to himself to complete the excellence of his vivid work with an unexceptionable technique.
“The Cross,” a sonnet by Captain Theodore Draper Gottlieb, is dedicated to the Red Cross, with which the author is serving so valiantly, In thought and form this piece deserves unqualified praise.
“Death,” by Andrew Francis Lockhart, exhibits our versatile Western bard in sober mood. The poem contains that unmistakable stamp of genuine emotion which we have come to associate with Mr. Lockhart’s work, and is technically faultless.
“Destiny,” by W. F. Pelton, is a sonnet of smooth construction and thorough excellence by one whom we know better as “Wilfrid Kemble.”
The lines “To My Pal, Fred,” present Mr. Harry E. Rieseberg, a new member of the United who has for some time been a regular Clarion contributor. In this piece Mr. Rieseberg falls somewhat below his usual standard; for though the sentiment is appropriate, the metre is sadly irregular. Mr. Rieseberg should count the syllables in his lines, for he is a young poet of much promise, and should allow his technique to keep pace with his genius.
“Faith,” by Winifred V. Jordan, enunciates a familiar doctrine in melodious and original metaphor, and well sustains the poetical reputation of its celebrated author.
“The Song Unsung,” by W. F. Booker, is a war poem in minor key, which deserves much praise.
“You’re Like a Willow,” by Eugene B. Kuntz, is marked by that warmth of fancy and wealth of imagery for which its author is noted.
“Thoughts,” a courtly offering from the quill of James Laurence Crowley, winds up the poetical part of the magazine; this month a very ample part. In rhyme and metre this sentimental gem is quite satisfactory.
The only prose in this Issue is Mr. Samples’ well-written editorial on “The Passing Year.” Herein we find some really excellent passages, savouring somewhat of the oratorical in style. ****** The Silver Clarion for February is of ample size and ample merit. Opening the issue is an excellent poem in heroic couplets by Mrs. Stella L. Tully of Mountmellick, Ireland, a new member of the United. Mrs. Tully, whose best work is in a lyric and religious vein, is one endowed with hereditary or family genius; as the Association no doubt appreciated when reading the poetry of her gifted sister, Mrs. S. Lilian McMullen of Newton Centre, in the preceding issue of The United Amateur. The present piece by Mrs. Tully, “The Greatest of These is Love,” is based upon a Biblical text, and sets forth its ideas very effectively, despite a few passages whose stiff construction betrays a slight inexperience in the traditions of heroic verse.
“The Two Crosses," by Capt. Theodore Gottlieb, is also in heroics, and graphically compares the most holy symbols of today and of nineteen hundred years ago.
More of the religious atmosphere is furnished by John Milton Samples’ trochaic composition entitled “The Millennium”—from whose title, by the way, one of the ​necessary n’s is missing. In this pleasing picture of an impossible age we note but three things requiring critical attention. (1) The term “super-race” in stanza 5, is too technically philosophical to be really poetic. (2) The rhyme of victory and eternally is not very desirable, because both the rhyming syllables bear only a secondary accent. (3) There is something grotesque and unconsciously comic in the prophecy “Then the lamb shall kiss the lion.” Such grotesqueness is not to be found in the original words of Mr. Samples’ predecessor and source of inspiration, the well-known prophet Isaiah. (vide Isaiah, xi:6–7.)
“Nature Worship,” by Arthur Goodenough, is one of the most meritorious poems in the issue, despite some dubious grammar in the first stanza, and an internal rhyme in the final stanza which has no counterpart in the lines preceding. The first named error consists of a disagreement in number betwixt subject and verb: “faith and form and .... mazes which ....perplexes, dazes.”
“The New Order,” an essay by John Milton Samples, is an eloquent but fantastically idealistic bit of speculation concerning the wonderful future which dreamers picture as arising out of the recent war. To us, there is a sort of pathos in these vain hopes and mirage-like visions of an Utopia which can never be; yet if they can cheer anyone, they are doubtless not altogether futile. Indeed, after the successive menaces of the Huns and the Bolsheviki, we can call almost any future Utopian, if it will but afford the comparative calm of pre-1914 days!
“No Night So Dark, No Day So Drear,” by Mamie Knight Samples, is a poem which reveals merit despite many crudities. The outstanding fault is defective metre—Mrs. Samples should carefully count her syllables, and repeat her lines aloud, to make sure of perfect scansion. Since the intended metre appears to be iambic tetrameter, we shall here give a revised rendering of the first stanza; showing how it can be made to conform to that measure:
“No night so dark, no day so drear, But we may sing our songs of cheer.” These words, borne from the world without, Cheer’d a heart sick with grief and doubt. O doubting soul, bow’d down so low, If thou couldst feel, and only know The darkness is in thee alone, For grief and tears it would atone. “No night so dark, no day so drear, But we may sing our songs of cheer.”
Let the authoress note that each line must have eight syllables—no more, no less. For the trite ideas and hackneyed rhymes, nothing can be recommended save a more observant and discriminating persual of standard poets. It must be kept in mind that the verse found in current family magazines and popular hymn-books is seldom, if ever, true poetry. The only authors suitable as models, are those whose names are praised in histories of English literature.
W. F. Booker’s “Song” is a delightful short lyric whose sentiment and technique deserve naught but praise.
“When I Am Gone,” a poem in pentameter quatrains by James Laurence Crowley, contains the customary allotment of sweet sentiment, together with some really commendable imagery. Mr. Crowley’s genius will shine brightly before long.
“The Path to Glory,” by Andrew Francis Lockhart, is perhaps the poetic gem of the issue. In this virile anapæstic piece Mr. Lockhart sums up all the horrors of the trenches in such a way that the reader may guess at the extent of the sacrifice undergone by those who have given all for their country.
In “Coconino Jim, Lumberjack,” Mr. Harry E. Rieseberg shows himself a true and powerful poet of the rugged, virile school of Kipling, Service, Knibbs, and their analogues. The present piece is entirely correct in rhyme and well-developed in thought, wanting only good metre to make it perfect. This latter accomplishment Mr. Rieseberg should strive hard to attain, for his poetry surely deserves as good a form as he can give it.
A word of praise should be given Mr. Samples’ editorial, “The Professional in Amateur Journalism,” in which he shows the fallacy of the plea for a cruder, more juvenile amateurdom, which often emanates from members of the older and less progressive associations. As the editor contends, intellectual evolution must occur; and the whole recent career of the United demonstrates the value of a purely literary society for genuine literary aspirants of every age and every stage of mental development.