The United Amateur/March 1917/Department Of Public Criticism
Department Of Public Criticism
The Conservative for October opens with Miss Olive G. Owen’s tuneful Hues on “The Mocking Bird.” Of the quality of Miss Owen’s poetry it is scarce necessary to speak; be it sufficient to say that the present piece ranks among her best. In the intense fervour of the sentiment, and the felicitous choice of the imagery, the touch of the born poet is alike shown. Through an almost inexcusable editorial mistake of our own, the first word of this poem is erroneously rendered. Line 1 should read: “Where Southern moonlight softly falls.”
“Old England and the Hyphen” is an attempt of the present critic to demonstrate why relations between the United States and Mother England must necessarily be closer than those between the States and any of the really foreign powers. So patent and so inevitable is the essential unity of the Anglo-Saxon world that such an essay as this ought really to be superfluous; but its practical justification is found in the silly clamour of those Anglophobes who are unfortunately permitted to reside within our borders. “Insomnia,” by Winifred Virginia Jordan, is a remarkable piece of verse whose dark turns of fancy are almost worthy of a Poe. The grotesque tropes, the cleverly distorted images, the bizarre atmosphere, and ingeniously sinster repetitions all unite to produce one of the season’s most notable poems. Each of the stanzas is vibrant with the hideous, racking turmoil of the insomnious mind. “Prussianism,” by William Thomas Harrington, is a concise and lucid essay on a timely subject, reviewing ably the cause and responsibility of the present war. It is especially valuable at this season of incoherent peace discussion, for it explodes very effectively that vague, brainless “neutrality” which prompts certain pro-German pacifists to cry for peace before the normal and final settlement of Europe’s troubles shall have been attained by the permanent annihilation of the Prussian military machine. “Twilight,” by Chester Pierce Munroe, is a beautiful bit of poetic fancy and stately phraseology. Mr. Munroe, a Rhode Islander transplanted to the mountains of North Carolina, is acquiring all the grace and delicacy of the native Southern bard, while retaining that happy conservatism of expression which distinguishes his work from that of most contemporary posts. Callously modern indeed must be he who would wish Mr. Munroe’s quaintly euphonious lines transmuted into the irritatingly abrupt and barren phraseology of the day. “The Bond Invincible,” by David H. Whittier, is a short story of great power and skilful construction, suggesting Poe’s “Ligeia” in its central theme. The plot is developed with much dexterity, and the climax comes so forcibly and unexpectedly upon the reader, that one cannot but admire Mr. Whittier’s mastery of technique. Certain over-nice critics may possibly object to the tale, as containing incidents which no one survives to relate; but when we reflect that Poe has similarly written a story without survivors, (“The Masque of the Red Death”) we can afford to applaud without reservation. The complete absence of slang and of doubtful grammar recommends this tale as a model to other amateur fiction-writers. “Respite” is a lachrymose lament in five stanzas by the present critic. The metre is regular, which is perhaps some excuse for its creation and publication. “By the Waters of the Brook,” by Rev. Eugene B. Kuntz, D. D., is one of the noblest amateur poems of the year. While the casual reader may find in the long heptameter lines a want of sing-song facility; the true lover of the Nine pauses in admiration at the deep flowing nobility of the rhym. The quick rippling of the brock is duplicated within each line, rather than from line to line. The imagery and phraseology are of the sort which only Dr. Kuntz can fashion, and are rich in that exalted pantheism of fancy which comes to him who knows Nature in her wilder and more rugged moods and aspects. “The Pool,” by Winifred Virginia Jordan, contains an elusive hint of the terrible and the supernatural which gives it high rank as poetry. Mrs. Jordan has two distinct, yet related, styles in verse. One of these mirrors all the joy and bouyant happiness of life whilst the other reflects that undertone of grimness which is sometimes felt through the exterior of things. The kinship betwixt those styles lies in their essentially fanciful character, as distinguished from the tireomely commonplace realism of the average modern rhymester. Another bit of sinster psychology in verse is “The Unknown,” by Elizabeth Berkeley. Mrs. Berkeley’s style is less restrained than that of Mrs. Jordan, and presents a picture of stark, meaningless horror, the like of which is not often seen in the amateur press. It is difficult to pass upon the actual merit of so peculiar a production, but we will venture the opinion that the use of italics, or heavy-faced type, is not desirable. The author should be able to bring out all needed emphasis by words, not printer’s devices. The issue concludes with “Inspiration,” a poem by Lewis Theobald, Jun. The form and rhythm of this piece are quite satifactory, but the insipidity of the sentiment leaves much to be desired. The whols poem savour too much of the current magazine style. *********** The Coyote for October is made notable by Editor Harrington’s thoughtful and well compiled article on “Worldwide Prohibition,” wherein an extremely important step in the world’s progress is truthfully chronicled. That legislation against alcohol is spreading rapidly throughout civilization, is something which not even the densest champions of “personal liberty” can deny. The utter emptiness of all arguments in behalf of strong drink is made doubly apparent by the swift prohibitory enactments of the European nations when confronted by the emergencies of war, and by the abolition of liquor in a large number of American states for purely practical reasons. All these things point to a general recognition of liquor as a foe to governmental and industrial welfare. Mr. Harrington’s style in this essay is clear and in most respects commendable; though certain passages might gain force and dignity through a less colloquial manner. In particular, we must protest against the reputed use of the vulgurism booze, a word probably brought into public favour by the new school of gutter evangelism, whose chief exponent is the Reverend William Sunday. The verb to booze, boose, or bouse, meaning “to drink immoderately,” and the adjective boozy, boosy, or bousy, meaning “drunken,” are by no means new to our language, Dryden having written the form bousy in some of his verses; but booze as a noun signifying “liquor” is certainly too vulgar a word for constant employment in any formal literary composition. Another essay of Mr. Harrington’s is “The Divine Book,” a plea for the restoration of the Bible as a source of popular reading and arbiter of moral conduct. Whatever may be the opinion of the searching critic regarding the place of the Scriptures in the world of fact; it is undeniably true that a closer study of the revered volume, and a stricter adherence to its best precepts, would do much toward mending the faults of a loose age. We have yet to find a more efficacious means of imparting virtue and contentment of heart to the masses of mankind. “Pioneers of New Englund,” an article by Alice M. Hamlet, gives much interesting information concerning the sturdy settlers of New Hampshire and Vermont. In the unyielding struggles of these unsung heroes against the sting of hardship and the asperity of primeval Nature. we may discern more than a trace of that divine fire of conquest which has made the Anglo-Saxon the empire builder of all the ages. In Mr. Harrington’s editorial column there is much discussion of a proposed “International Amateur Press Association,” but we fail to perceive why such an innovation is needed, now that the United has opened itself unreservedly to residents of all the countries of the globe. *********** Merry Minutes for November is a clever publication of semi-professional character, edited by Miss Margaret Trafford of London, and containing a pleasant variety of prose, verses, and puzzles. “King of the Nursery Realm,” by Margaret Mahon, is a smooth and musical pleco of juvenile verse which excels in correstness of form rather than in novelty of thought.
“Bards and Minstrels, and The Augustan Age,” by Beryl Mappin, is the second of a series of articles on English literature and its classical foundations. The erudition and enthusiasm displayed in this essay speak well for the future of the authoress, though certain faults of style and construction demand correction. Careful grammatical study would eliminate from Miss Mappin’s style such solesisms as the use of like for as, whilst greater attention to the precepts of rhetoric would prevent the construction of such awkward sentences as the following: “The same if one is reading an interesting book, can one not see all that is happening there as clearly with one’s inner eyes as if it was all taking place before one, and viewed with one’s outer ones?” This passage is not only wanting in coherence and correctness of syntax, but is exceedingly clumsy throuh redundancy of statement, and repetition of the word one. This word, though essential to colloquial diction, becomes very tiresome when used to excess; and should be avoid in many cases through judicious transpositions of the text. The following is a revised version of the sentence quoted above: “Thus, in reading an interesting book, can one not see with the inner eyes all that is happening there, as clearly as if it were taking place in reality before the outer eyes?” Other parts of the essay require similar revision. Concerning the development of the whole, we must needs question the unity of the topics. Whilst the connecting thread is rather evident after a second or third perusal, the cursory reader is apt to become puzzled over the skips from the Graeco-Roman world to the early Saxon kingdoms, and thence to the dawn of our language amongst the Anglo-Normans. What Miss Mappin evidently wishes to bring out, is that the sources of English literature are twofold; being on the one hand the polished classics of antiquity, inspired by Greece, amplified and diffused by Rome, preserved by France, and brought to England by the Normans; and on the other hand the crude but virile products of our Saxon ancestors, brought from the uncivilized forests of the continent or written after the settlement in Britain. From this union of Graeco-Roman classicism with native Anglo-Saxon vitality springs the unquestioned supremacy of English literature. Assiduous devotion to the mastery of rhetoric, and the habit of constructing logical synopses before writing the text of articles would enable Mine Mappin to utilise her knowledge of literary history in a manner truly worthy of its depth. “Trinidad and its People,” by “F. E. M. Hercules,” exhibits a somewhat maturer style, and forms a very interesting piece of geographical description. “The Pursuit of the Innocent,” is a serial story by Miss Trafford, and though only a small part of it is printed in the current issue, we judge that it derives its general atmosphere from the popular “thrillers” of the day. The dialogue is not wholly awkard, but there is a noticeable want of proportion in the development of the narrative. Miss Trafford would probably profit by a more faithful study of the standard novelists, and a more copmlete avoidance of the type of fiction found in modern weekly periodicals such as Answers or Tit-Bits. Those who feel impelled to introduce stirring adventure into their tales, can do so without sacrifice of excitement and interest by following really classic writers like Poe and Stevenson; or semi-standard authors like Sir A. Conan Doyle. The puzzles propounded by Miss Hillman are quite interesting, though mutter of this sort is scarcely to be included within the domain of pure literature. We guess airship as the answer to the first one, but have not space to record our speculations concerning the second. Merry Minutes closes with the following poem by Master Randolph Trafford, a very young author:
“Once upon a time, there wax a little boy,
And, if you please, he went to school;
That little boy, he always would annoy,
And found at school a very nasty rule.”
Without undue flattery to Master Trafford, we may conclusively state that we deem his poem a great deal better than most of the vers libre effusions which so many of his elders are perpetrating nowadays! *********** The Scot for July is devoted completely to the work of the feminine amateurs of the United States, and is announced by its editor as an “American ‘Petticoat’ Number;” a title which might possibly bear replacement by something rather less colloquial. “Over the Edge of the World,” a poem by Olive G. Owen, is correct in construction and appropriate in sentiment, deriving much force from the consentiment, deriving much force from the continued repetition of the first line. “In Morven’s Mead,” by Winifred V. Jordan, is one of a series of fanciful poems all hearing the same title. The present verses show all the charm and delicacy which characterise the whole. “Patience—A Woman’s Virtue,” is one of Mrs. Eloise N. Griffith’s thoughtful moral essays, and is as commendable for its precepts as for its pure style. “His Flapper,” by Edna von der Heide, is a clever piece of trochaic verse in Cockney dialect, which seems, so far as an American critic can judge, to possess a very vivid touch of local colour. “An Eye for an Eye,” by the same authoress, seems vaguely familiar, having possibly been published in the amateur press before. If so, it is well worthy of republication. “Women and Snakes,” a sketch by Eleanor J. Barnhart, is not a misogynistical attempt at comparison, but a theory regarding the particular fear with which the former are poplarly supposed to regard the latter. Whilst Miss Barnhart writes with the bravery of the true scientist, we are constrained to remark that a certain dislike of snakes, mice, and insects is a very real thing; not only amongst the fair, but equally amongst those sterner masculine souls who would stoutly deny it if questioned. It is an atavistical fear, surviving from primitive ages when the venomous qualities of reptiles, insects, and the like, made their quick avoidance necessary to uninstructed man. “Be Tolerant,” by Winifred V. Jordan, is a didactic poem of the sort formerly published in The Symphony. While it does not possess in fullest measure the grace and facility observed in Mrs. Jordan’s more characteristic work; it is nevertheless correct and melodious, easily equalling most poetry of its kind. Mr. McColl’s editorial column, the only masculine feature of the issue, contains a very noble tribute to the two soldier cousins of Miss von der Heide, who have laid down their lives for the cause of England and the right. From such men springs the glory of Britannia. *********** The Scot for August opens with Winifred V. Jordan’s tuneful lines, “If You but Smile,” whose inspiration and construction are alike of no mean order. “Hoary Kent,” by Benjamin Winskill, is an exquisite sketch of a region where the past sill lives. In an age of turmoil and unrest, it is comfort to think that in one spot, at least, the destroying claws of Time have left no scars. There lie the scenes dear to every son and grandson of Britain; there are bodied forth the eternal and unchanging traditions that place above the rest of the world.
“This precious stone set in the silver sea—
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,”
“Meditation of a Scottish Queen on Imprisonment,” a poem by Margaret Trafford, contains noble passages, but is marred by defective technique. Passing over the use of the expletives do and doth as legitimate archaisms in this case, we must call attention to some awkard phraseology, and to the roughness of certain lines, which have either too few or too many syllables. The very first line of the poem requires contraction, which might be accomplished by substituting hapless for unhappy. Line 8 would read better if thus amended: “I would that death might come and me release.”
The final line of the first stanza lacks a syllable, which might be supplied by replacing vile with hateful. The second stanza will pass as it is, but the entire remainder of the poem requires alteration, since but two of the lines are of normal decasyllabic length. The following is rough revision, though wo have not attempted to build the poetry anew:
Oh! could I breathe again dear Scotland’s air;
Behold once more her stately mountains high,
Thence view the wide expanse of azure sky,
Instead of these perpetual walls so bare!
Could I but see the grouse upon the moor,
Or pluck again the beauteous heather bell!
Freedom I know not in this dismal cell,
As I my anguish from my heart outpour.
My Scotland! know’st thou thy poor Queen’s distress,
And canst thou hear my wailing and my woe?
May the soft wind that o’er thy ills doth blow
Waft thee these thoughts, that I cannot suppress!
“Six Cylinder Happiness,” a brief essay by William J. Dowdell, presents in ingeniously pleasing style a precept not entirely new amongst philosophers. Mr. Dowdell’s skill with the pen is very considerable, particularly when he ventures outside the domain of slang. We should like to suggest a slightly less colloquial title for this piece, such as “Real Happiness.” “For Right and Liberty,” a poem by Matthew Hilson, is commendable in sentiment and clever in construction, but lacks perfection in several details of phraseology. In the third line of the third stanza ology. In the third line of the third stanza the word ruinous must be replaced by a true dissyllable, preferably ruin’d. “For Their Country,” a short story by Margaret Trafford, is vivid in plot and truly heroic in moral, but somewhat deficient in technique, particularly at the beginning. Miss Trafford should use care in moulding long sentences, and should avoid the emloyment of abbreviations like etc. in the midst of narrative text. “That Sunny Smile,” by John Russell, is a cleverly optimistic bit of verse whose rhythm is very facile, but which would be improved by the addition of two syllables to the third and sixth lines of each stanza, The rhyme of round you and found true is incorrect, since the second syllables of double rhymes must be identical. “The Evil One,” by Narcissus Blanchfield, is announced as “A Prose-poem, after Oscar Wilde— a long way after.” As an allegory it is true to the facts of the case; though one cannot but feel that there is room for a freer play of the poetic imagination in so great a subject. *********** Toledo Amateur for October is a literary publication which reflects much credit upon its young editor, Mr. Wesley Hilon Porter, and upon the several contributors. “Twilight,” a correct and graceful poem by Miss von der Heide opens the issue. “A Sabbath,” by Mary Margaret Sisson, is a sketch of great merit, though not wholly novel in subject. The hypocricy of many self-satisfied “pillars of the church” is only too well known both in life and in literature. At the very close of the piece, the word epithet is used in a slightly incorrect sense, meaning “motto.” Epithet, as its Greek derivation shows, signifies an adjective or descriptive expression. “The Workers of the World,” by Dora M. Hepner, is another sociological sketch of no small merit, pleasantly distinguished by the absence of slang. “Not All,” by Olive G. Owen, is a poem of much fervour, albeit having a somewhat too free use of italics. The words and rhythm of a poet should be able to convey his images without the more artificial devices of typographical variation. Another questionable point is the manner of using archaic pronouns and verb forms. Miss Owen seems to use both ancient and modern conjugations of the verb indifferently with such subjects as thou. “A Day at Our Summer Home,” by Emma Marie Voigt, is a descriptive sketch of considerable promise, and “My First Amateur Convention,” by Mrs. Addie L. Porter, is a well written chronicle of events. “The Wild Rose,” by Marguerite Allen, is a poem of no little grace, though beset with many of the usual crudities of youthful work. In the first place, the quatrains should have their rhymes regularly recurring; either in both first and third, and second and fourth lines; or only in second and fourth. A rhyme occuring only in first and third lines gives an unmusical cast, since it causes the stanza to end unrhymed. Secondly, the words fence and scent do not form a legitimate rhyme. The easy correctness of the metre is an encouraging sign, and indicates a poetic talent which Miss Allen would do well to cultivate. Mr. Porter’s article on amateur journalism is interesting and quite just, though we hope that the United has not quite so “little to offer” the devotes of “so-called high-class literature” as the author believes. If we are to retain our cultivated members, or our younger members after they acquire cultivation, we must necessarily cater to the better grade of taste; though of course without neglecting the succeeding generation of novices. The editorial colum of this issue is bright and fluent, concluding one of the best amateur journals of the season. *********** The United Amateur for September contains something only too seldom found in the amateur press; a really meritorious short story. “The Shadow on the Trail,” by Eleanor J. Barnhart, possesses every element of good fiction; a substantial and really interesting plot, a logical development from beginning to conclusion, an adequate amount of suspense, a climax which does not disappoint, and a praiseworthy degree of local colour. Besides all of which it is fluent in language and correct in syntax. The rest of the literary department in this issue is devoted to verse. “To a Friend,” by Alice M. Hamlet, is particularly pleasing through the hint of old school techinque which its well ordered phrases convey. The one week point is the employment of thy, a singular expression, in connexion with several objects; namely, “pauper, pen, and ready hand.” Your should have been used. The metre is excellent throughout, and the whole piece displays a gratifying skill on its author’s part. “The Path Along the Sea,” by Rev. Eugene B. Kuntz, is a flawless and beautiful bit of sentimental poetry, cast in fluent and felicitous heptameter. “Dad,” by Horace Fowler Goodwin, is decidedly the best of this writer’s pieces yet to appear in the amateur press. The defects are mostly technical, including the bad rhyme of engaged and dismayed, and the over-weighted seventh line of the final stanza. The latter might be rectified by substituting blest, or some other monosyllable, for lucky. “Li’l Baby Mine,” by W. Frank Booker, is a quaint and captivating darky lullaby, whose accuracy of dialect and atmosphere comes from that first-hand knowledge of the negroes which only a Southern writer can possess. Mr. Booker is one of our most promising bards, and will be doubly notable when his style shall have received its final polish. “When I Gaze on Thee,” by Kathleen Foster Smith, is an amatory poem of much grace and fluency. • The United Amateur for October furnishes us with a species of composition not frequently encountered in amateurdom; an official report which is also a literary classic. Pres. Campbell’s message is really an essay on contemporary amateur journalism, and contains a multitude of well stated truths which every member of the fraternity would do well to peruse. “The Wanderer’s Return,” by Andrew Francis Lockhart, is a beautiful piece of anapaestic verse whose flow is as pleasing as its sentiment. *********** The Woodbee for October is edited by Mrs. Ida C. Haughton, and though not of large size, does credit both to her and to the Columbus club. “To the Woodbees,” a witty parody of Poe’s “Annabel Lee,” exhibits Miss Irene Metzger as the possessor of no little skill in numbers; and incidentally suggests that other young bards might well improve their styles by judicious exercises of this sort. Much of the spirit of metre may be absorbed through copying the works of the standard poets. “Louise’s Letter,” a short story by Norma Sanger, contains some of the defects of early composition, notably an undue hastening of the action immediately after the letter quoted in the text. The plot involves a rather unusual coincidence, yet is probably no more overstrained than that of the average piece of light fiction. “The Ruling Passion,” by Edna M. Haughton, is a story of phenomenal power and interest, forming a psychological study worthy of more than one perusal. All the requirements of good fiction, both inspirational and technical, are complied with to the satisfaction of even the most exacting critic. Miss Haughton’s work is of a very high grade, and would be welcomed in larger quantities by the amateur world. Miss Harwood’s interesting News Notes and Mrs. Haughton’s thoughtful editorial conclude an issue whose every feature deserves commendation.
H. P. Lovecraft,
Chairman.