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 meaning. 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,
is 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,
shows 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
years 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 be 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,
Where 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 pleasant and urbane bit
of light verse; while "Percival Lowell," by Howard Phillips Lovecraft,
is an abominably dull elegiac piece of heavy verse. Edwin Gibson's
"Sonnet to Acyion" 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= are 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 McGavack. Mr. McGavack here ably employs his keen analysis
and lucid style in dissecting Prof. Meyer's absurdly biased but
diabolically clever pro-German History of England.
"The Association," by David H. Whittier, teems 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 is the better suited to
her pen. "Absence," by Winifred Virginia Jordan, is a brief poem of
faultless harmony whose quaintly sparkling imagery gives to an old theme
a new lustre. "Education in Trinidad" is 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 better
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 present 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 is 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 roof 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 editor
labouring under the disadvantages of haste, carelessness, 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 is out of accord with =wrought=, which is
correctly spelled. If 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 light 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 new forms from their
publications, 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 which 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 reveals 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 Hazel 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 story 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 clever 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 by a recent article from the pen of Richard Le
Gallienne, 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.
* * * * *