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

Department of Public Criticism
The Dabbler, for September, in the entire unexpectedness and splendor of its appearance, must be counted as one of the most effective of recent rebukes to the pessimists. There have been several such rebukes, and those who had already prepared themselves for another barren year in amateur journalism are beginning to realize that even history cannot be relied upon to repeat itself indefinitely. The Dabbler is issued by H. L. Lindquist of Chicago, and contains 16 pages, exclusive of the covers. The initial letters and a few incidental adornments are printed in green, and the title-page, with its harmonious arrangement of type and decoration, is a delight to the eye. The typography, throughout, is almost flawless, and the contents, in general, are worthy of the care with which they have been presented to the reader. Paul J. Campbell, in his article, “What Does Amateur Journalism Mean to You?” once again defines the peculiar benefits and pleasures to be derived from our hobby, and warns away all those who come to it because of an idle curiosity, or a vain desire for self-glorification, or any motive other than a true impulse toward mental development and literary culture. “A Critical Review” by Frank C. Reighter is devoted to the July Brooklynite, and subjects that publication to a well-nigh exhaustive analysis and criticism. The article is both interesting and instructive and reveals Mr. Reighter as an acute and capable critic. The verses with which he concludes his remarks are particularly clever and melodious, and furnish an excellent example of light verse when it is written by one possessing a natural aptitude for that form of expression. Jennie M. Kendall, in her fragment, “The One Thing Needful,” makes a modern business woman give her opinion of idle wives, which she does in forceful, although not always accurate, English. “U. A. P. A. Convention Echoes,” by Litta Voelchert; “The Old-Timer’s Comeback,” by L. J. Cohen; and “The Only Hope of A. J.,” by W. E. Mellinger, consist of reminiscence, assurance and advice, from three well-known amateur journalists. The articles were obviously written somewhat hastily but are, nevertheless, very interesting and suggestive. H. L. Lindquist in “At It Again,” tells how he severed his connection with amateur journalism six years ago—being occupied with several professional ventures—only to find that the old passion would not die and finally compelled him to return to his early ​love. Those who have seen the result of Mr. Lindquist’s acquiescence in his Fate will gain some idea of what his activity must have meant in other days. ****** The Dabbler, for October, follows hard upon its predecessor and, in all essentials, is of equal merit. “Hiking in the Rocky Mountain National Park,” by Louis H. Kerber, Jr., is a well-written account of a tour through some of America’s most wonderful scenery, and reflects great credit on Mr. Kerber’s powers of observation. “Day-Dreams,” by Frank C. Reighter, is a didactic poem and no labors under an initial handicap in attempting to hold the attention of the reader. The technique of the poet, however, is deserving of praise, and if a fault must be pointed out, it is in the forced pronounciation of the word “idea” in the last line, which seems too cheap a device to appear in poetry, even when, as in the present case, it is used intentionally. “Dominion Day in Winnipeg,” by W. B. Stoddard, is an account of a patriotic celebration in Canada and was evidently witnessed by the writer on his recent—and somewhat protracted—travels. “Ecstacy,” a poem, by Eleanor J. Barnhart, begins rather promisingly but we do not proceed very far before detecting various crudities of craftsmanship. Lines like the following: “The changing fire splendor of sky opals, rare,” and “Like sea gulls swift soaring in tireless sky flight,” and, once again, “Till star gleams bright glittering high in mid-sky,” contain the germ of true poetry, but when we read them we are aware not only of a harsh and difficult combination of consonants but also of an entire absence of metrical swing and grace. In fact, we get an impression from the above lines that an excessive number of imporant words have been crowded hap-hazard upon a metrical pattern which was not intended to hold so many, and it is not surprising that the fabric should show signs of being subjected to a severe strain. But care and practise may yet awaken that poet’s instinct within Miss Barnhart which will enable her to detect and reject, instantly, all such blemishes in what should be the rounded beauty of her song.
Thomas Curtis Clark is indeed a poet of “Ring and Swing,” as an editorial note to his poems declares him to be. “The Dawn of Liberty” and “America’s Men” must be read in their entirety to be appreciated, but a quotation from the latter poem may not be amiss.
We are America’s men Brave, dauntless and true; We are America’s men, Ready to dare and do; Ready to wield the sword with might, Ready the tyrant’s brow to smite— And ready to sheath the sword—for Right! We are America’s Men.
The unsigned story entitled, “The Man Out of Work,” is very brief, but apparently not the effort of a tyro. It would probably hold the attention even if it were much longer and we are almost inclined to regret its extreme abruptness. Nevertheless, it is complete as it stands and an artistic whole. “Still At It,” by Mr. Lindquist, gives us interesting information regarding the editor and also some sound advice as to finding congenial employment. Mr. Lindquist seems to be a philosopher whose practise will bear comparison with his theory. ****** The Olympian for October, awakens much of the old-time thrill with which amateurs were wont to receive the once frequent issues of that justly known and esteemed publication. The present number is not so ambitious in some respects as many of its predecessors, but it must be said that within a somewhat smaller scope it accomplishes quite as much as a more pretentious issue could hope to do. Nor is the latest Olympian at all in need of any apologies for short comings in the way of size, appearance, or general literary quality. Indeed, publications that consist of 12 pages and cover are always certain of a hearty welcome, while the present production of Mr. and Mrs. Cole has qualifications in addition to those just mentioned that recommend it warmly to all readers. The poem, “Motherhood,” by Ethelwyn Dithridge is a truly noble and inspired effort. Amateur journalism is fortunate to number a poet of Miss Dithridge’s attainments in its ranks. In “Retrospect and Prospect,” Edward H. ​Cole sums up the three years of amateur history which have just passed and comes to the conclusion that “the beat hope for amateur journalism in these days of stress and strain .. is in the peaceful cooperation of the surviving associations in a campaign of expansion of a practicable nature.” “Here and Now,” by Helene Hoffman Cole, consists of suggestions for the practical cooperation proposed by Mr. Cole, and should be a stimulus to increased activity in some positive form among present-day amateurs. “The Reviewers’ Club” is quite as authoritative and sound in its criticisms as in the past and must always be considered one of the most delightful and instructive features of The Olympian. ****** The National Amateur Press Association could hardly inaugurate a year of promised activity more auspiciously than it has by the sterling issue of its president’s Sprite. It is just about everything that one could ask for in amateur journalism. The modest gray of the cover, the excellence of the paper stock, the flawlessness of the typography, the exquisite taste with which the component parts are blended—all these strike the eye at the first glance. When one comes to read the contents, he finds each contribution well worth the setting. For a leading article we have something that is well nigh unique in literature, either amateur or professional, an attempted reconstruction of a scene supposedly excised from “King Lear.” This is so unusual, in fact, that it might well be called a “stunt,” but certainly it is a successful stunt. In the not overly long scene presented, which pictures the ruthless hanging of Cordelia and the Fool before the eyes of the aged Lear, we can discern no quality that is not strictly Shakespearian. The language has been purged of every trace of modernism and flows with that semi-solemn, archaic, Elizabethan cadence that almost makes it hard to believe that it was written in this century. But all this might be done without achieving the supreme Shakespearian touch. The triumph of the scone is that the character delineation is carried on with such a mastery of its intricacies that this scene might be interpolated in a now edition of the play and fool the higher critics of the future. The author, Samuel Loveman, is an amateur of former days who celebrates his return to the hobby with this feat so characteristic of his peculiar genius. The United has its Lovecraft, a belated Georgian who says he is nowhere so much at home today as he would be in the coffee-houses of Pope or Johnson. The National once more after a lapse of years has its Loveman, a belated Elizabethan who could have walked into the Mermaid Tavern and proved a congenial soul to Kit Marlowe and friend Will. The United welcomes him back.
Harry Martin, the editor, follows with an essay on the elements of the classic Greek tragedy to be found in “King Lear” which in depth, tone, and general literary quality are strongly reminiscent of the best work that appears in the Atlantic Monthly. As an essay it is perfect in form, its thesis is stated clearly and developed with forceful logic, and the wealth of material brought to bear upon the subject displays a knowledge of Shakespeare and the classic drama worthy of Truman Spencer, of beloved amateur memory.
The editorial section is only to be criticized in that Mr. Martin has cut us off with so few of his readable “Views Martinique,” but we shall live in hopes of another excellent Sprite with a longer editorial department. George Cribbs’ “History” is just a little poem used for a filler, but this must not be taken in derogation, for it is filler chosen with the good taste that characterizes the choice of all the other contributions. In spite of its simplicity and its brevity, it plays with the deft touch of mastery on that chord of pathos that always vibrates to the thought of Time’s ceaseless and inevitable surge. From every point of view the whole journal is a symphony of excellence. ****** The Yerma, for October, is edited by John H. D. Smith of Orondo, Washington, and, aside from the fact that it is an attractive and well-printed publication, may be considered as being rather in the nature of a promise of future achievement. The dedicatory verses “To the Yerma,” by Alice M. Hamlet are fairly good so far as rhyme and metre are concerned. They run smoothly and are really graceful in sentiment. They contain one or two grammatical inversions, however, such as ​“I would a little jingle write,” and “I’d love to be a poet great,” which have no more right to appear in verse than in prose. Then, too, they betray an occasional inelegance of expression like the following: “I find that I am stuck.” But Miss Hamlet should by all means persist in her versifying, since there can be no doubt that she owns an instinctive grasp of the basic laws of rhyme and rhythm. If she will read and study the lighter efforts to be found in any standard anthology of poetry and then, with such models ever before her, strive sincerely to overcome her present defects by unremitting practise, Miss Hamlet may yet become a truly clever and accomplished versifier. “The Reform Spirit—Its Mission,” by P. A. Spain, M. D., is an exceedingly able and thought provoking essay. It is to be hoped that in future issues Mr. Smith will give us an inkling of his own ideas on various subjects. The chief defect in The Yerma is the entire absence of editorial comment.