# The United Amateur/May 1917/Department of Public Criticism

Department of Public Criticism
The Conservative for January deserved distinction for its opening poem, “The Vagrant,” which proceeds from the thrice-gifted pen of of Mrs. W. V. Jordan. The piece is one well worthy of close attention, since it contains to a marked degree those elements of charm which render its author so prominent among amateur bards. Bold and discriminating choice of words and phrases, apt and unique images and personifications, and a carefully sustained atmosphere of delicate unreality, all unite to impart a characteristic beauty to the lines. This beauty, searchingly analysed, reveals itself as something more sylvan and spontaneous than studied and bookish; indeed, all of Mrs. Jordan’s verse is born rather than built.
“The Unbreakable Link,” a prose sketch by Arthur W. Ashby, is smooth and graphic in its delineation of a dream or vision of the past. The ancient heritage of Old England and its hoary edifices is here vividly set forth. Mr. Ashby’s work, always notable for its command and intelligent interpretation of detail, is welcome wherever encountered.
“When New-Year Comes,” a poem by Rev. Eugene B. Kuntz, exhibits its brilliant author in a most felicitous though decidedly novel vein. Turning from his usual Alexandrines and heptameters, and laying aside his characteristically stately and sonorous vocabulary, Dr. Kuntz has produced a gem of brevity and simplicity in octosyllabic couplets. The ease and naturalness of the language are so grout that the reader feels no other words or constructions could have been used with equal effect. The remainder of The Conservative, being the work of the present critic, deserves no particular mention. *********** The Coyote for January bears an attractive cover design illustrating the gentle beast after which the publication is named. The opening piece, an alleged poem by the present crticic, contains an humiliating error for which none but the author is responsible. The impossible word supremest in line 16, should read sublimest. The author is likewise responsible for the omission of the following couplet after line 26:
“Around his greatness pour disheart’ning woes, But still he tow’rs above his conquering foes.”
The rest of the magazine is devoted to prose of practical nature, containing suggestions by Editor Harrington and Rev. Graeme Davis for the resuscitation of one of the dormant press associations. *********** The Coyote for April, home-printed and reduced to the conventional 5x7 page, opens with Mrs. Jordan’s pleasant lines on “The Duty.” While the general sentiment of this piece is by no means novel, the powerful and distinctive touch of the authoress is revealed by such highly original passages as the following:
“And black-wing’d, clucking shadows Brought out their broods of fears.”
A poet of rather different type is displayed in “The Five-Minute School,” by Lovell Leland Massie. Mr. Massie is said to have “an unlimited supply of poems on hand which he desires to publish,” but it is evident that some preliminary alterations would not be undesirable. In the first place, the metre requires correction; though it is remarkably good for beginner’s work. Particularly weak lines are the second in stanza four, and the second in stanza six. The phraseology is stiff but by no means hopeless, and proclaims nothing mere serious than the need of greater poetic familiarity on the author’s part. The rhymes are good with two exceptions; past and class, and jewel and school. Mr. Massie, however, is not the first bard to reduce jew-el to “jool!” “The Coyote,” by Obert O. Bakken, is a worthy and interesting composition upon a well-known animal. “A Soul,” by Olive G. Owen, is reprinted from the professional press, and amply merits the honour. The poem is of unexceptionable technique and adequate sentiment. Miss Owen’s brilliant, fruitful, and long-continued poetical career has few parallels in the amateur world. “The Amateur Christian,” a brief prose essay by Benjamin Winskill, presents more than one valuable truth; though we wish the word “par.” near the close, might be expanded to proper fulness. We presume that it is intended to stand for paragraph. *********** The Crazyquilt for December is a highly entertaining illustrated publication whose exact classification is a matter of some difficulty. We ​might perhaps best describe it as a bubbling over of youthful spirits, with here and there a touch of unobtrusive seriousness. The editor, Mr. Melvin Ryder, is to be commended upon his enterprise; which consists in approximately equal parts of prose, verse, and whimsical vers libre. It is the last named product which most absorbs our attention, since the given specimens afford a very brilliant satire on the absurd medium in which they are set. The choicest selections are due to the fertile pen of Mr. William S. Wabnitz, assisted by that not unknown classic called “Mother Goose,” whose ideas accord well with the thought of the new “poetry.” “A Futuresk Romance,” by Mr. Wabnitz alone, is of exceeding cleverness. Among the genuine poems, we may give particular commendation to “Bluebirds are Flying Over,” by Mrs. Dora Hepner Moitoret; “Longin’ and Yearnin’,” “Spring,” “Verses,” and “Dreaming,” by J. H. Gavin; and “Stars After Rain,” by William S. Wabnitz. Mr. Gavin’s “Dreaming” is a hauntingly pretty piece, though marred by an imperfect line (the twelfth) and by an incorrect accentuaton of the word romance. This word hsould be accented on the final syllable.
“Odd Patches and Even” is the title of the editorial column, which contains many words of wisdom (though not too grave) by Mr. Ryder We hope to behold future issues of The Crazyquilt. *********** Dowdell’s Bearcat for October, partly compiled and financed by the United’s official board in lieu of the missing Official Quarterly, comes to us unbound and without a cover; yet contains, aside from the inexcusable editorials, a rich array of meritorious material. Mr. Dowdell’s comment on radical eccentrics and malcontents is apt and clever, showing how bright this young writer can be when he avoids bad taste and personalities.
“A Little Lovely Lyric,” by Mrs. Dora H. Moitoret, is one of the choicest of this author’s poems, having a spirit and cadence of rare quality. In “The Real Amateur Spirit,” Pres. Campbell presents in vigorous prose many important truths and principles of amateur journalism. The concluding sentence forms a definition of our animating impulse which deserves repeated publication as a motto and inspiration. “An American To Mother England,” by the present citic, is an expression of cultural and ancestral ties which have now, through the fortunes of war, grown doubly strong. The word Saxon, in the last line, should begin with a capital. “Dream Life” is a vivid piece of prose mysticism by our versatile and gifted Vice-president, Mr. Ira A. Cole. Defying precise grouping either as a sketch or a story, this enigmatical bit of fancy deserves highest praise for its fluent diction, rich imagination, potent atmosphere, and graphic colouring. Mr. Cole has a bright future in prose as well as in verse for in both of these media he is a genuine and spontaneous poet. “United Impressions,” by Mrs. E. L. Whitehead, is clear, interesting, and well-written, as is also the sketch by Mary M. Bisson entitled “Passion versus Calm.” “The Elm Tree,” by James Tobey Pyke, is a poem of remarkable sweetness and nobility, through whose lofty sentiment shines the true splendour of the inspired bard. There is a master touch in the passage referring to
“—— a sweet heaven Of singing birds and whispering leaves.”
Mrs. Winifred Virginia Jordan, without one of whose delightful verses no amateur publication can really compete, contributes a sparkling succession of amatory anapaests entitled “Dear.” The middle stanza rises to great lyric heights, and should prove especially captivating to such discriminating critics of lyricism as our colleague Mr. Kleiner.
The Enthusiast for February fs a hectographed publication issued by our latest young recruit, Mr. James Mather Mosely of Westfield, Mass. Mr. Mosely is a youth of sterling ability and great promise, whose work is already worthy of notice and encouragement. The editor’s leading article, “The Secret Inspiration of a Man Who Made Good,” shows unusual fluency and literary assurance, though we might wish for a more dignified title. The expression to make good is pure slang, and should be supplanted by one of the many legitimate English words and phrases which convey the same moaning. Mr. Mosely’s editorials are likewise open to criticism on the ground of colloquialism, though the natural exuberance of youth excuses much. “The Birds,” by Harold Gordon Hawkins, in a truly excellent specimen of juvenile verse, which contains much promise for the author’s efforts. Increased familiarity with standard literary models will ​remove all evidences of stiffness now perceptible. “How Men Go Wrong,” a conventional moral homily by Edgar Holmes Plummer, slows a slight want of original ideas and a tendency to commonplaces; though having much merit in construction. Another subject might display Mr. Plummer’s talent to better advantage. The use of the word habitat for inhabitant or denizen is incorrect, for its true meaning is a natural locality or place of habitation. “Blueberry Time,” by Ruth Foster, is obviously a schoolgirl composition, albeit a pleasing one.
F. R. Starr’s cartoon scarcely comes within the province of a literary critic, but is doubtless an excellent example of elementary art. We question, however, the place of popular cartoons in serious papers; the “funny picture” habit is essentially a plebeian one, and alien to journalism of the highest grade. All things considered, The Enthusiast is a creditable exponent of junior letters, which deserves the encouragement and support of the United. *********** Excelsior for March is in many respects the most notable of the season’s amateur magazines edited by our brilliant Laureate Recorder, Miss Verna McGeoch, it contains a surprisingly ample and impressive collection of prose and verse by our best writers; including the delectable lyricist Perrin Holmes Lowrey, whose work has hitherto been unrepresented in the press of the United. The issue opens with Mr. Jonathan E. Hoag’s stately “Ode to Old Ocean,” whose appropriate imagery and smooth couplets are exceedingly pleasant to the mind and ear alike. Mr. Hoag’s unique charm is no less apparent in the longer reminiscent piece entitled “The Old Farm Home,” which describes the author’s boyhood scenes at Valley Falls, New York, where he was born more than eighty-six year ago. This piece has attracted much favorable notice in the professional world, having been reprinted in The Troy Times. Perrin Holmes Lowrey contributes a cycle of three poems touching on the beauties of the month of April; one of which, “April in Killarney,” will this summer he set to music by Leopold Godowsky. The style of Mr. Lowrey possesses an attractive individuality and delicacy which is already bringing him celebrity in the larger literary sphere. What could be more thoroughly enchanting than such a stanza as the following?
“Oh, It's April in Killarney, Early April in Killarney, Whore the Irish lanes are merry And the lyric breezes blow; And the scented snows of cherry Drift across the fields of Kerry— Oh, it’s April in Killarney And she loves the April so.”
“Treasure Trove,” by Henry Cleveland Wood, is a pleasing and urbane bit of light verse; whilst “Percival Lowell,” by Howard Phillips Lovecraft, is an abominably dull elegiac piece of heavy verse. Edwin Gibson’s “Sonnet to Acylon” deserves keen attention as the work of a capable and rapidly developing young bard. “Real versus Ideal” is a bright metrical divertissement by John Russell, which suffers through the omission of the opening line by the printer. This line is: “For sale—a cottage by the sea.”
We recommend the final line to the attention of those careless bards who pronounce real as reel, and ideal as ideel. The correct quantities, as there given, will serve as examples. Verse of deeper quality is furnished by amateurdom’s foremost expressionist, Anne Tillery Renshaw, two of whose poems appear. “The Singing Sea” contains an error of technique, hope and note being placed in attempted rhyme; but the structure is in general very regular, considering the author’s radical theories. Of the merit of the sentiment it is unnecessary to speak. “A Wish” is cast in less fluent metre, but is so replete with aptness, grandeur and refinement of ideas, that the sternest critic must needs view its form with lenient glance. The prose contents of Excelsior is worthy company for the verse. Paul J. Campbell is represented by a very brief though characteristic essay entitled “The Price of Freedom,” wherein appears the sound reasoning and courageous philosophy for which Mr. Campbell has always been distinguished. Another notable essay or review is “English History,” by Henry Clapham McGavach. Mr. McGavach here ably employs his keen analysis and lucid style in dissecting Prof. Mayer’s absurdly biased but dialectically clever pro-German History of England.
“The Association,” by David H. Whittier, comes with good advice concerning the proper management of the United. Mr. Whittier’s style is smooth and dignified, exhibiting a ​sober maturity unusual for a young author. “’Tonio’s Salvation,” a short story by Edna von der Heide, is the only bit of fiction in the magazine. This brief glimpse of the cosmopolitan child life of a modern city is marked equally by naturalness of plot and facility of technic, forming a piece quite professional in quality and atmosphere. Excelsior has done much to sustain the best traditions of the United, and we hope its future appearance will be frequent and regular. The editorial column reveals the genius and exquisite taste of its gifted publisher. *********** Merry Minutes for December–January is an interesting number of an interesting publication, opening with some extremely clever cartoons by the United’s soldier-member, George William Stokes. “Merry Minutes,” a poem in trochaic measure by Olive G. Owen, is distinguished by the touch of beauty characteristic of all its author’s work; but has a singular sort of rhyming in the first and third lines of the stanzas. The cadence seems to call for double rhymes, yet only the final syllables agree. The last word of the first stanza is unfortunately, shorn by the printer of its final s. “The Dancing Tiger” is an excellent short story by Raymond Blathwayt, which might, however, be improved in style by a slightly closer attention to punctuation and structure of sentences. “Home,” by Margaret Mahon, is a poem in that rather popular modern measure which seems to waver betwixt the iambus and anapaest. The imagery is pleasing, and the sentiment, though not novel, is acceptable. “The Choice,” a serial story by Beryl Mappin, exhibits the same immaturities of style which mark the didactic articles of this author; yet so active is the imagination shown in some of the passages, that we believe Miss Mappin requires only time and harder study in order to become a very meritorious writer. The syntactical structure of this story is, on the average, smoother than that of Miss Mappin’s essays; indeed, there is reason to believe that fiction in the better suited to her pen. “Absence,” by Winifred Virginian Jordan, is a brief poem of faultless harmony whose quaintly sparkling imagery gives to an old theme a new lustre. “Education in Trinidad” another of F. E. Hercules’ terse and informing descriptive sketches. “Alley,” by Mrs. Jordan, is a light pulsing lyric of almost Elizabethan quality, one of whose rhymes is of a type which has caused much discussion in the United’s critical circles. The native pronunciation of New-England makes of scarf and laugh an absolutely perfect rhyme; this perfection depending upon the curtailed phonetic value of the letter r; which in a place such as this is silent, save as it modifies the quality of the preceding vowel. In the London of Walker’s day the same condition existed. But the tongue and ear of the American West have become accustomed to a certain roll which causes scarf to be enunciated as scarrf, thus throwing it out of rhyme with words of similar sound which lack the r. The Westerner would have to write scahf, in order to express to his own mind the New-England sound of scarf. Hitherto, the present critic has called no notice to rhymes of this type; and has, indeed, frequently employed them himself; but recognition of etymological principles involved will hereafter impel him to abandon and discourage the practice, which was not followed by the older classicists. To the New-England author this renunciation means relinquishment of many rhymes which are to his ear perfect, yet in the interests of tradition and universality it seems desirable that the sacrifice be made. “Why Mourn Thy Soldier Dead,” is a poem of brave sorrow by Olive G. Owen. The fervour of the lines is deep, and the sentiments are of great nobility. Structurally the piece is flawless. “Chaucer, the Father of English Poetry,” is the third of Miss Mappin’s series of articles on literary history. An unfortunate misprint relegates to the bottom of the footnote a line which should immediately follow the specimen verse. The style is decidedly clearer and bettor than that of the preceding instalment of the series. “When You Went,” by Mrs. Jordan, is an engagingly pathetic poem; with just that touch of the unseen which lends so particular a charm to Jordanian verse. Miss Trafford’s appealing lines on “A Girl to Her Dead Lover” form a vividly pathetic glimpse into low life. The poetic form is quite satisfactory. As a whole, Merry Minutes constitutes a rather remarkable enterprise, sustaining through troubled times the spark of activity which will kindle anew the fires of British amateur journalism after the victorious close of the war. May America, in her new crisis, do as well! ***********
​Merry Minutes for February opens with Margaret Mahon’s poem “God’s Solace,” a smooth and restful bit of versification. “Spencer and the Beginning of the Elizabethan Era” is the current article of Beryl Mappin’s series on English Literature, and contains some very promising passages, especially the almost poetic introduction. Miss Mappin has an unusual fund of knowledge, and a pleasing gift of expression; but these advantages are as yet not fully systematised or marshalled to best effect. Miss Trafford’s serial, “The Pursuit of the Innocent,” concludes in this number. This story bears many of the signs of juvenile workmanship, the presemn instalment being so hurried in action that it almost attains the brevity of a synopsis. Careful and analytical perusal of standard fiction would assist greatly in maturing and perfecting the author’s style. “Religion and Superstition” is the current article in F. E. M. Hercules’ interesting series on Trinidad; and exhibits all the polish, lucidity and conciseness of its predecessors. “His Photo,” by Master Randolph Trafford, is a very promising poem by a youthful bard. Every rhyme is correct, which is more than can be claimed for a great deal of the poesy perpetrated by older and more pretentious versifiers on this side of the Atlantic. The present instalment of “The Choice," by Beryl Mappin, is marked by considerable fluency and animation, though possessed of certain limitations previously mentioned. *********** Merry Minutes for March commences with the present critic’s dull lines “On Receiving a Picture of the Marshes at Ipswich.” Passing to more meritorious matter, we encounter Miss Mappin’s latest literary article, “Shakespeare,” which interests even whilst it reveals deficiencies of prose technique. “Jimmy’s Little Girl,” by Joseph Parks, is a vivid transcript of military life by a military author. While the tale in not one of vast originality, it nevertheless recommends itself through simplicity and verisimilitude. Miss Mappin’s serial “The Choice,” concludes in this issue. It is very praiseworthy for its many colourful passages, but mildly censurable for its melodramatic atmosphere and rhetorical lapses. The opening sentence of this instalment contains instances of both of these faults: “A terrible foreboding gripped Christabel’s heart in bands of steel, as if for a moment to cleave her tongue to the root of her mouth.” This is the last number of the publication to appear under the present name. Beginning with the April issue it will be known as The Little Budget; and will contain, on the average, a rather higher grade of reading matter than heretofore. But in forming a judgment of any kind, it is well to recognize that the magazine’s appeal is frankly popular. *********** Pep for February is the first number of a somewhat extraordinary enterprise conducted by George W. Macauley with the laudable object of waking up a sleeping amateurdom. The editor very justly takes the press associations to task for their manifold sins, particularly the dubious circumstances surrounding a recent convention, in which it is needless to say the United had no part. Mr. Macauley’s literary attainments are very considerable, but as yet unperfected. Possessed of rare charm in descriptive prose, he needs to exercise a greater nicety of construction in order to develop fully the riches which are his. Gifted with a large, facile, and ingenious vocabulary, he is not sufficiently precise and discriminating in his employment of words according to their finer shades of meaning. This carelessness makes faults of his very virtues; for his vigour of expression tends to take the form of outre and inadmissible rhetoric, whilst his talent for word-painting tends to degenerate into word-coining. It would be quite possible for an acute critic to compile a dictionary of peculiarly Macaulian words and phrases, to which the current Pep might contribute such terms as probverb (proverb?). Spelling and punctuation also should claim more of Mr. Macauley’s time and attention; for he might easily avoid such slips as believeing, it’s (for its), thots, and the like. In short, Mr. Macauley is at present a gifted writer and brilliant edior labouring under the disadvantages of haste, carelensness, and perhaps a dash of radicalism. *********** The Phoenician for Spring is the first number of an enthusiastically conducted semi-professional venture of juvenile nature, whose connexion with the United hinges on the associate editorship of our clever recruit, Mr. James Mather Mosely. Like Merry Minutes, this publication is of the popular rather than conservative sort; being obviously designed primarily to please, secondarily to instruct. ​We deplore the use of commonplace and sensational topics, colloquial expressions, and malformed spelling; but make due concessions to the youth of the editorial staff and the nascent state of the periodical. So promising are the young publishers, that time cannot fail to refine and mature their efforts. “An Hour with a Lunatic,” by Harry B. Sadik, is a very short and very thrilling tale of the “dime novel” variety. Mr. Sadik has a commendable sense of the dramatic, which would serve him well should he choose a less sensational field of endeavour. “Our Soldiers,” a Canadian mother’s war song by Mrs. Minnie E. Taylor, exhibits merit, though having many signs of imperfect technic. In line 2 of the first stanza bid should be replaced by bade. The final rhyme of the poem, that of gain and name, is false and inadmissible. Metrically there is much roughness, which careful study and diligent reading of good verse can in time correct. “Candy and Health,” and “If You Were Down and Out,” by James Mather Mosely, are two typical newspaper interviews with representative men. Mr. Mosely shows much aptitude as a reporter, having an almost professional ease and fluency. This is not literature, but it is good journalism. “The Dinner Never Paid For,” by Viola Jameson, is a piece of characteristic light fiction; commendably innocuous, and not at all overburdened with philosophical complexity. “The Secret of Success,” by Edith L. Clark, is a promising bit of didactic prose. “The End of the Road,” by Pearl K. Merritt, is a brief essay of substantial worth. “The Toll of the Sea,” a poem by Harold Gordon Hawkins, shows considerable merit despite irregularities. “Memories,” by Arthur Goodenough, well sustains the high poetical reputation of its author, though it is cruelly marred by the illogical and censurable “simplified” spelling which the young editors see fit to employ. One line affords a silent but striking instance of the utter senselessness and confusion of the new orthographical fad. This line reads: “Of human thot might well be wrought”
Now in the first place, thot does not express the true pronunciation of thought. The word, thus written, tends to acquire the vocal quality of shot or blot, as distinguished from taught or brought. Secondly, in this place it in out of accord with wrought, which is correctly spelled. Is Messrs. Plummer and Mosely would be logical, let them write wrought as wrot—or perhaps plain rot would be still more correct and phonetic, besides furnishing a laconic punning commentary on simple spelling in general. The Phoenician’s editorial column is conducted with laudable seriousness, the item of “The Power of Books” being well worthy of perusal. What could best be spared from the magazine are the vague jokes and cartoons, purposeless “fillers” of miscellaneous nature, and columns of idle gossip about things in general. Some of the moving picture items are greatly suggestive of what a newspaper man would dub “press agent stuff.” The magazine represents a degree of purpose and energy quite rare amongst the anaemic youth of today, and should receive corresponding encouragement from the members of the United. Those who are inclined to censure its professional aspect would do well to remember the much-vaunted beginnings of amateur journalism, when the most highly respected sheets were of this selfsame variety. *********** The United Amateur for November is heavily burdened with a sombre and sinister short story from our own pen, entitled “The Alchemist.” This is our long unpublished credential to the United, and constitutes the first and only piece of fiction we have ever laid before a critical and discerning public wherefore we must needs beg all the charitable indulgence the Association can extend to an humble though ambitious tyro. A more interesting feature of the magazine is the biography of Mr. Fritter, written by our brilliant Official Editor, Andrew Francis Lockhart. Mr. Lockhart’s quaint and friendly prose style is here displayed at its best, giving a vivid and sympathetic portrayal of his prominent subject. “Beyond the Law,” by Mary Faye Durr, is a ight short story of excellent idea and construction, whose only censurable point is the use of “simplified” spelling. We believe that some procedure of quite drastic nature should be taken against the spread of this empty innovation before our settled orthography shall have become completely disorganized. Even in the United we can “do our bit.” Our editors should band together in an effort to exclude the now forms from their publication, and our manuscript managers should see that every piece passing through their hands is duly purged of these radical distortions. At ​the same time, a series of articles explaining and analysing the spelling problem should be given wide publicity. The poetry in this issue is of encouraging quality. George M. Whiteside, in “Dream of the Ideal,” gives indications of real genius; at the same time displaying a little of the technical infelicity whish has marked his earlier verse. Mr. Whiteside’s greatest weakness is in the domain of rhyme, a noticeable error in the present poem being the attempted rhyming of hours with bars and stars. “I Know a Garden,” by Agnes Richmond Arnold, is a tuneful and beautiful lyric of a somewhat Elizabethan type. The metre, as the lines are rendered, appears to be quite unusual; but scansion revails the fact that it is none other than the octosyllabic couplet, disguised by the printer’s art. *********** The United Amateur for December begins with “A Girl’s Ambition,” a poem by Margaret Trafford. The general idea of the piece is both ingenious and appropriate, but the language and technical development leave considerable to be desired. In the first place, the rhyming plan is unfortunate; the opening and concluding couplets of each stanza being unrhymed. In the second place, the metre is irregular; departing very widely in places from the iambic heptameter which appears to be the dominant measure. Miss Trafford should cultivate an ear for rhythm, at the same time counting very carefully the syllables in each line she composes. A third point requiring mention is the occasional awkwardness of expression, a juvenile fault which will doubtless amend itself in time. Just now we will call attention to only one defect—the exceedingly forced abbreviation “dresses’d” for dresses would. “To My Physician,” by M. Estella Shufelt, is a smooth, graceful, and serious poem whose only possible fault is the infrequency of rhyme. This is not a technical defect, since the plan of construction is well maintained throughout; but we believe a poem of this type requires more than one rhyme to each stanza of eight lines. “The Old Inn,” a stirring short story by Gertrude L. Merkle, is a very promising piece of work, albeit somewhat conventional and melodramatic. The alliterative romance of Harry Henders and Havel Hansen has a genuinely mid-Victorian flavour. “Dead Men Tell No Tales,” a short story by Ida Cochran Haughton, is a ghastly and gruesome anecdote of the untenanted clay; related by a village dressmaker. The author reveals much comprehension of rural psychology in her handling of the theme; an incident which might easily shake the reason of a sensitive and imaginative person, merely “unnerves” the two quaint and prim maiden ladies. Poe would have made of this tale a thing to gasp and tremble at; Mrs. Haughton, with the same material, constructs genuine though grim comedy! *********** The United Amateur for January contains Editor Lockhart’s captivatingly graceful retrospect of the older amateur journalism, concluding with a just and eloquent appeal for the revival of our ancient enthusiasm. “Who Pays,” by Helene H. Cole, is a brief and tragic history of considerable sociological significance. We deplore the use of the false verbal form alright; for while the expression all right may well occur in conversation of the character uttering it, the two words should be written out in full. “To a Babe,” by Olive G. Owen, embodies in impeccable verse a highly clover and pleasing array of poetical conceits; and deserves to be ranked amongst the choicest of recent amateur offerings. “Girls are Like Gold,” by Paul J. Campbell, is a striking and witty adaptation of Thomas Hood’s celebrated lines on
“Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold.”
Mr. Campbell exhibits both ingenuity and metrical ability in this facile jeu d’esprit. *********** The United Amateur for March contains “Love’s Scarlet Roses,” an exquisite piece of lyric verse by Mary Henrietta Lehr of California. Miss Lehr, a scholar and poetic genius of high order, is a prominent amateur of a few years ago, lately returned to activity after a period of endeavour in other fields. Her verse is uniformly distinguished by depth of inspiration, delicacy of sentiment, and grace of structure; occupying a place amongst the rarest products of amateurdom. Another poem of remarkable merit in this issue is “The Gods’ Return,” by Olive G. Owen. Inspired ty a recent article from the pen of Richard Le Galienne, these well-wrought lines interpret one of the subtlest yet most potent of the ​varied moods created in the human breast by the momentous occurrences of the age. Looking over the file of The United Amateur for the present administrative year, one may discover a diverse and meritorious array of poetry and prose, which amply proves the contention of Pres. Campbell that a literary official organ is not only feasible but eminently desirable. *********** The Woodbee for January introduces to amateurdom a new bard, Mr. J. Morris Widdows, Hoosier exponent of rural simplicity. Mr. Widdows has enjoyed considerable success in the professional world as a poet, songwriter, and musicial composer; hence it is no untried or faltering quill which he brings within our midst. “Stringtown on the Pike,” which adorns the first page of the magazine, is a very pleasing bit of dialect verse whose accent and cadences suggest the work of the late James Whitcomb Riley. The metre is gartityingly correct, and the rusticisms exceedingly colourful; though the average reader might find it somewhat difficult to associate the name Mike with Yankee countryside. Such a praenomen carries with it suggestions of a rich brogue rather than a nasal drawl. “Personal Liberty,” a brilliant short essay by Leo Fritter, ably and sensibly explodes one of the characteristically specious arguments of the liquor advocates. Mr. Fritter’s legal training aids him in presenting a clear, polished, and logical arraignment of anti-prohibition hypocracy. “Just a Little Love Tale,” by Elizabeth M. Ballou, is a smoothly constructed bit of very light fiction. Mrs. Haughton’s editorial, “A Review of Reviews,” is concise and sensible; giving a merited rebuke to those who seek to create unrest and dissatisfaction in amateur journalism. *********** The Woodbee for April is an ample and attractive number, opening with Dora H. Moitoret’s excellent poem in the heroic couplet, “The April Maiden.” The metre of this piece follows the fashion of the nineteenth rather than of the eighteenth century, having very few “end-stopt” lines or sense-limiting couplets. The final rhyme of caprice and these is somewhat imperfect, the effect being that of an attempted rhyme of s and z. “Her Fateful Day,” a short story by Maude Dolly, in pleasing and ingenious despite certain improbabilities. “Ashes of Roses,” by Frieda M. Sanger, belongs to that abnormal and lamentable type of pseudo-literature known as vers libre, and is the first serious specimen of its kind ever inflicted upon the United. We are sincerely sorry that one so gifted as Miss Sanger should descend to this hybrid, makeshift medium, when she could so well express her thoughts either in legitimate prose or legitimate verse. “Free Verse” has neither the flow of real verse nor the dignity of real prose. It tends to develop obnoxious eccentricities of expression, and is closely associated with bizarre and radical vagaries of thought. It is in nine cases out of ten a mere refuge of the obtuse, hurried, indolent, ignorant, or negligent bard who cannot or will not take the time and pains to compose genuine poetry or even passable verse. It has absolutely no justification for existence, and should be shunned by every real aspirant to literary excellence, no matter how many glittering inducements it seems to hold out. True, a person of very little knowledge or ability can make himself appear extremely cultured, aesthetic, and aristocratic by juggling a few empty words in the current fashion; scribbling several lines of unequal length, each beginning with a capital letter. It is an admirably easy way to acquire a literary reputation without much effort. As the late W. S. Gilbert once wrote of a kindred fad:
“The meaning doesn’t matter If it’s only idle chatter Of a transcendental kind.”
But we believe that the members of the United are more earsest and solid in their ambition, hence we advise Miss Sanger to turn her undoubted talent into more substantial channels. That she possesses genuine poetic genius is amply evident, even from the specimen of vers libre before us. The labour of real versification will be more arduous, but the fruits will prove richer in proportion. It is better to glean a little gold than much fools’ gold. Miss Sanger’s nephew, Mr. Norman Sanger, is more conservative in his tastes, and is creditably represented by his lines on “The Ol’ Fishin’ Hole.” This piece contains many of the rhythmical defects common to juvenile composition, but is pervaded by a naturalness and pastoral simplicity which promise well for its young author. Wider reading and closer ​rhetorical study will supply all that Mr. Sanger now lacks. At present we should advise him to seek metrical regularity by taking some one well defined line as a model, and moulding all the others to it by counting the syllables and intoning the accents in each. In the case of the present poem, the very first line will serve as a perfect guide; its conformity to the iambic heptameter plan being absolute. The alternating stresses of the fourteen syllables should be noted and copied:
“The days are get-tin’ balm-y now, and first-est thing you know.”
Two defects of rhyme are to be noted. By and lullaby cannot properly be rhymed, since the rhyming syllables are identical, instead of merely similar. “Rapcher” and laughter do not rhyme at all. Miss Haughton’s essay “Is a Lie Ever Justifiable?” forms a prominent feature of the magazine, and presents some very ingenious though dogmatic reasoning. Mrs. Haughton’s editorial, “United We Stand,” is an exceedingly timely appeal for genuine amateur activity, and should be of much value in stimulating a renaissance of the Association. The passage reading “Who has been the latest victim of Cupid? Whom of Hymen?” arouses a query as to the grammatical status of whom. We fear this is what Franklin P. Adams of the New York Tribune playfully calls a “Cyrilization.” It is, as all readers of “The Conning Tower” can testify, a remarkably common error; and one into which many of the leading authors of the age frequently fall. The jingle “A Soldier’s Delight,” by George William Stokes, concludes the current issue in tuneful manner.
Amidst the present dearth of amateur magazines it is ever a delight to behold The Woodbee; meritorious in contents and regular in issuance. The debt of the United to the Columbus club is indeed a heavy one.
H. P. Lovecraft, Chairman.