THE RAINBOW

IN THE INTERESTS OF AMATEUR JOURNALISM

Volume II

May, 1922

Number 2

Amateurdom and the Editor

The complaint made by Mr. Leo Fritter in the October Woodbee, that the literary standard of The United Amateur is too high, deserves to be answered before its ingeniousness and sincerity lend weight to a mistaken opinion.

THE RAINBOW is firm in the be- lief that there can be but one legiti- mate policy for the official organ of a progressive literary association— the maintenance of as high a standard as the editor can set. We are told by Mr. Fritter that the present stand- ard unduly emphasizes the work of our more mature members, and dis- courages the cruder aspirants; but in reply we may say that only by em- phasizing the work of the mature can the crude be encouraged to emulate it. If we give the highest honors to writing which is not artistic, our be- ginners will never aspire to sincere art, but will feel satisfied when they attain a mediocrity sufficient to earn them the cheapened distinction of prominent featuring. Experience has proved this to be the case. The United Amateur, clearly designed to be the nucleus and prime formative influence of a band seeking the best in real literature, must not be im- paired in usefulness by the few who would transform its pages to a monu- ment of petty vanity—a cheap vehicle for schoolboy compositions or for crude and sometimes stinging per- sonal gossip. The writer once con- fessed that she would have to “go some” to attain the level of the official organ. Others will surely have to do the same—but is that not what we all wish to do? Were there no high example to follow, we should have no incentive to “go”, and the main object of amateurdom would be defeated.

Is our official organ to be merely a fragment of silvered glass in which every vain passer-by may mirror his conceit, or is it to be a shining crystal transmitting to the majority the bril- liancy of the best minds? THE RAINBOW would like to think of it as a minature sun, from which all lesser luminaries may draw their warmth and strength, yet whose life- sustaining force they do not try to enfeeble by giving it their own weak- er nature.

When Mr. Fritter: implies that a high-grade United Amateur does not

THE OFFICIAL ORGAN

fit the quality and character of our membership, he is doing the United an injustice. Of course, not all our members are able at the outset to produce work of the official organ grade; but to use that fact as an ar- gument that the organ is too lofty, is to make the false assumption that the sole aim of a member is to gain im- mediate publicity in that paper. The very reverse is true. The object of our novices is to improve their talent, and this they can do at first only through criticism and good example. Where may they be sure of finding such example and inspiration if not in the official organ? The many who have congratulated THE RAINBOW as constituting a much-needed ideal for others to follow, would revoke their own approbation if they per- mitted the average scribbler to dom- inate the pages of The United Amateur. Our desire is not for an easy means of typographical notori- ety, but for a genuine incentive to sincere asthetic endeavor. There is no advantage in having work in print until it attains a certain level of de- velopment. One does not wish to make oneself ridiculous.

Let it not be thought that THE RAINBOW is overrating the charac- ter of our members and of our so- ciety. The United, though not neces- sarily designed for those who are per- fect, certainly is meant for those who cherish perfection as a goal, and who are not satisfied with mere journal- ism or shallow commercial “litera- ture.” No one with such sincere as- Pirations, no matter how little de- veloped he may be at a certain time, will object to the present nature of the official organ. Our whole trend, as exhibited by the work of all our recent leaders, is that of genuine pro- gressiveness; so that the mere amuse- ment-seeker or publicity-flend cannot be regarded as a United type. There are other associations for such el- ements—the elements that wish to stand still, and the minds which are incurably conventional and superficial no matter how much culture they may assimilate—nor do we gain anything by catering to such representatives of them as may chance to drift into the United. It is our duty to help the aspirant, but always the aspirant to genuine artistic expression—not

the would-be journalist whose ambi- tion is simply to get into print or to make money. In a word, the United exists neither for those who scribble the same empty platitudes year after year without effort to improve, nor for those who crave cheap advertising and mercenary success. It exists primarily for persons who have some- thing to say, no matter how crude they may be. If over-ambitious re- cruiters occasionally bring in novices of another type, the mistake is theirs. Our spirit is that of advance, and it is only sensible that the central pub- lication should reflect it. A lower of- ficial organ would be an injury to true aspirants, would help none, and would please only those hopelessly dull and mediocre types who do not belong among us at all.

The present writer cannot help viewing with disapproval and disap- pointment any attempt to lower the standard of the official organ, for by that standard the whole tone of the Association is ultimately determined. No policy can be too high for those needing and seeking encouragement and guidance, as the experience of all sincere aspirants attests. It was the high standard of The United Amateur, The Philosopher, The Saturnian, The Conservative, and other amateur jour- nals of similar quality which gave the writer—among others—the orig- inal impetus to join the U. A. P. A. Any departure from such a standard would certainly bring about the dan- ger of alienating all our best and most useful members; the members who give our society its unique supremacy. A famous old-timer, who has per- haps done more for amateurdom than any other active member and whose membership extends back to the clos- ing years of the last century, has em- phatically declared that we derive all our individuality from the distinct and higher object pursued during the past decade.

In speaking of ‘what is owed to the struggling writer’, Mr. Fritter is again making the misconception that publicity is the prime boon of am- ateurdom. It is true that the organ is as much the property of the newer generation as of the established lit- erati, but how are the novices to gain what is owed them if their property is not judiciously managed? What

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THE RAINBOW

our strugglers need is guidance and example. The experienced must help and inspire the inexperienced. Would a school be more valuable if its whole curriculum were brought down to match the ignorance of the newest pupil? Where could the pupil, in such a case, look for his instruction and elevation? To devote The United Amateur to even the best work of all the members would be to invite chaos and stagnation, for most of us know that the best of many writers is not of a grade to inspire or help others. Such immature matter should be excluded from a central organ; and if that is not exactly the present pol- icy, it should be. Certainly, no re- laxation is in order—such a _ step would bring down on the editor’s head a universal anathema vastly greater than any few complaints which a lim- ited reactionary faction may now be making.

Theoretically it might be an excel- lent thing if our members could have some open forum for miscellaneous self-expression; but the place for such a thing is outside the official organ. That such a thing is not established and financed co-operatively, reflects badly upon those who complain so much of its absence—though it is quite usual to hear the loudest de- mands for control from those who have the least to offer. Not many seem to recall the old adage that he who dances should pay the fiddler—

Amateur editors are constantly ex- horting their readers to secure re- cruits for the ranks of amateurdom by bringing in as many friends and acquaintances as possible. This is a commendable policy if tempered with a spirit of judicious selection.

In “rustling up” new members for our. societies we should use both energy and judgment, being careful to choose only such individuals as are likely to receive and confer bene- fits through their affiliation. There are those who see in amateur journal- ism only a trfling hobby—a novel kind of social diversion, and a novel means of diffusing petty gossip and exploit- ing trivial private likes and dislikes of other persons and their efforts. Such have nothing to give us, and nothing to gain from us. They only clog the machinery and obscure our real goal. Nor does amateurdom form a congenial field for those whose

ideas of writing centre in the desire -

for material gain. -If they join us they will neither add to our proper activities nor reap aught but disap- pointment and a false notion of am- ateurdom’s uselessness. The recruits we need are persons whose dominant interest is sincere self-expression for

not necessarily in cash, but in gen- eral service and fidelity to the cause. It may ‘well be asked if the members realize that all of the present meagre dissatisfaction comes from an element which practically deserted the Asso- ciation during the trying period from 1917 to 1919

The writer, on the other hand, while trying her modest best to help allevi- ate the prevailing depletion of funds, had not for a moment sought to use her contributions as a lever for con- trol of key to premature publicity. She has felt content to reap the un- told benefits which the United offers the recruit in a normal way, and would not consider it any advantage or privilege to hold a place of power or to consume space before she is fitted to do so. It was the high standard of The United Amateur which impelled THE RAINBOW to aim at the same level. The latter may have fallen short by a “long shot’, but time and a continued good example will help diminish the length of the “shot”, and bring the arrow to the target at last.

It may be fancied that, since the writer was introduced to the United by the editor whose policy Mr. Frit- ter has attacked, her opinions are formed from a one-sided presentation of the case. Such is most emphati- cally not the fact, for nine months and more of active membership and correspondence with a wide array of

RECRUITING

its own sake, and whose general in- telligence is such that they can ap- preciate the purposeful spirit we pos- sess, and the unique advantages we have to offer.

To fill our ranks indiscriminately for the mere purpose of boasting a large membership would be exceed- ingly unwise. Nothing could be less valuable than an unwieldy and het- erogeneous assemblage of persons with scarcely any tastes in common. Amateurdom, if it is to be in the least effective, must remain to some extent a limited aristocracy of intelligent and congenial thinkers who possess both a genuine sense of aesthetic values and a sincere love of writing. They need not be advanced students or technicians, but the germ must be there. Only in such a circle can we expect the growth of those finer thoughts and emotions which mark the authentic artist, or the success of that detailed, sympathetic, and con- structive criticism and revision which arises not from the wish to flatter or hurt, but from the honest spirit of co- operation and mutual advancement. There must be example as well as pre- cept; aid as well as counsel; for the latter without the former is futile;

amateurs have given a very clear per- spective and an ample variety of in- formation. To THE RAINBOW amateurdom is represented by no in- dividual or group, but by the whole assemblage of sincere strivers for self- expression such as Samuel Loveman, Alfred Galpin, Jr., Maurice Winter Moe, S. Lilian McMullen, Winifred Virginia Jackson, Edward F. Daas, Edith Miniter, Edward H. Cole, Harry E. Martin, Anne Tillery Renshaw, Paul J. Campbell, James F. Morton, Jr., or Rheinhart Kleiner—as well as those younger and promising as- Pirants typifed by Frank Belknap Long, Jr., Eleanor Beryl North, Jay Fuller Spoerri, Paul Graham True- blood, or Peggy Reid.

Immaturity will become mellowed, and crudity melt away, only through continuous competition with the art of the best writers, And in order to make the competition clear, the best must be definitely emphasized and ar- rayed in such a way that novices will perceive it clearly and strive to el- evate their own work sufficiently to win a place in the array. The ap- pearance of crude work on such a pedestal as the official organ would neither benefit the individual writers concerned, nor reflect credit on the Association as a whole. The United Amateur should be a trail-blazer toward the highest goal—let us be- ware of any political agitation which would destroy its usefulness.

and how can we demand such special boons unless our personnel is re- stricted to minds of real aspiration and congeniality?

We should, moreover, be careful to seek recruits of genuine breadth and tolerance; since amateurdom is a forum of free discussion. We need persons who, regardless of their re- ligious, social, and philosophical doc- trines, are sufficiently liberal to avoid both encroachment on the beliefs of others and resentment at fair-minded criticisms of their own beliefs. Not long ago the editor heard one estim- able woman say, “Oh! I don’t want to belong to any organization that ‘knocks’ religion.” It should be made plain to all that our aim is not to “knock” religion or any other mode of thought; but that we try to keep the atmosphere clear for unhampered philosophical discussion among the many diverse thinkers who comprise our active membership. Personal af- fronts, or offence of any sort, cannot possibly figure in our open, earnest, and abstract debates. It is only the cheap mind, unfit for amateur circles, that veils individual venom in its ut- terances. All should regard amateur- dom as a pleasant and instructive

‘THE RAINBOW

game, in which each player must be broad and considerate enough to “sive and take’ in that genial and cordial manner which alone can make him the winner. While upon this sub- ject the editor wishes to assure all those who took offence at any of the paragraphs in the philosophic column of the previous RAINBOW, that no affronts or personalities whatever were intended there. It is hoped that

Several of THE RAINBOW’'S cor- respondents have seen fit to take ex- ception to the philosophical views of some of the contributors to the first number, as if there were one stereo- typed set of opinions in the world, which everyone should endorse with- out thinking for himself.

Upon such persons the editor would urge a broader point of view, involv- ing a recognition of the fact that sin- cerity is the only criterion we may universally apply in such a case. Any attempt to conform opinion to pop- ular prejudice would rob it of this one paramount virtue.

It should further be remembered that philosophical opinion has noth-

no one will in future read offence into any remark in these pages; for noth- ing could be further from the editor’s mood in writing.

THE RAINBOW would suggest that each year at convention time a prize be awarded to the member who introduces the largest number of re- cruits to his association. The search should be made carefully, and not without efforts to find a certain per-

OPINION

ing to do with aesthetic quality. To condemn an author because he holds certain views is the height of absurd- ity. As an author he is not governed by these views at all, but by his ar- tistic imagination. At most, the opin- ions merely suggest a background; and in the case of the purely aesthetic writer this background is seldom a literal application of any set of be- liefs. Often the same author will base different works of art on differ- ent theories.

So we judge an artist’s work of im- agination only by purely aesthetic cri- teria. If the work is intense, vivid, simple, and poignant, it is good.

When the writer expresses an opin-

centage of workers who can “boost A. J.” with purse as well as pen. This does not, of course, mean that the dollarless are to be barred—somehow the latter usually seem to have the finest art, to offer, so that we cannot do without them.

Now all together! Let each member find at least one suitable recruit this year, and prove his sincerity of pur- pose!

ion he leaves the realm of art and becomes another character. He then deals in intellectual instead of aesthe- tic matters, and must be judged by an entirely new set of standards. Do not try to find in his plain statements and hypotheses any of the airy stuff from which his dreams are made. If the writing is sincere, analytical, log- ical, and forcible, it is good.

Readers as well as authors need mental discipline. We must all strive for breadth, discernment, objectivity, and impartiality; so that when we praise or blame we may know why we do so, and may confine our senti- ments to regions where they are legitimately applicable.

Commercialism---The Curse of Art

Throughout the ages the sincere ar- tist has been the victim of a cruel struggle, not only to gain recognition but to preserve existence itself. Ever modest, he cannot be aggressive; and many of his kind would starve had they not private means of support. Designing his work for himself alone, the artist gives it to the world only incidentally; for fame if he be rich, and for fame and bread if he be poor. But the quantity is always small, be- cause it is not guided by the demands of trade, so that the impoverished ar- tist seldom finds his genius the key to fortune.

The real artist, poet, or philosopher creates only as the nightingale sings, because he must. It is purely instinc- tive with him, and he moulds his thoughts and images mostly in the solitude of his own life, sharing them on rare occasions with some close friend who loves, understands, appre- ciates, and applauds. This he deems almost a sufficient reward for his pleasurable task, and it is well that he does; for had he labored with mer- cenary intent he could not have at- tained that aesthetic purity which only spontaneousneéss can give. Commer- cialism would have urged him on be- yond his will and creative mood; al- tering his subject-matter and method, and cheapening the whole atmosphere

By Sonia H. Greene

of his products. While he might have evolved a good piece of mechanism, it would not have been fraught with the beauty of his soul. But though the artist cannot express himself per- functorily for pay, it does not follow that he should be denied all tangible recognition for his more valuable cre- ations. After he has successfully put his whole spirit into a work of art, he surely deserves proper remunera- tion.

Yet instead of reward and encour- agement, the artist generally receives from society only a series of rebuffs and impediments ruinous to his peace and productiveness. Commerce and religion, both of which ought to as- sist him, have never ceased to place a stupid check upon his free expres- sion; and have cramped and retarded art in every form. The artist thus has, besides the burden of creation, the additional burden of eliminating two serious obstacles, and of becom- ing an unhampered pagan and dream- er in defiance of those around him. In other words, he is forced to strug- gle for the simple right of being him- self; for he can never give forth the best that is in him if dominated either by a material power or a religious

spectre. In the days of Raphael and Michael- angelo, both royalty and religion

played a great part in bringing art to the fore. America has no royalty, and its remnants of religion are hos- tile rather than favorable; so native art is neither stimulated nor subsid- ized, but goes begging while the im- ported product, secured for its reputa- tion rather than understandingly, fur- nishes what culture there is. To the artist the commercially artistic pluto- crat says: “Go and make good else- where first. Get your apprenticeship abroad; come back with a reputation and then I will pay you well.” In other words, he proclaims his lack of confidence in native and spontaneous art, and bids his slaves break their spirit and exchange their originality for fashionable foreign accomplish- ments before he will harbor them as his or take pride in them. Truly, the commercial America has no taste for art—she appreciates it only as a sal- able commodity with a definite mar- ket value. Supply the mob and you will be well paid for it, whether your product be sculpture, painting, music, literature, drama, or mousetraps. Inartistic America further says: “My own opinion of your art is worthless, so I dare not pit it against public ignorance. Though I know the aesthetic minority is generally right, I dare not admit this truth upon my own authority. I am a ‘connoisseur’,

4

and mould my artistic opinion in terms of selling prices; so for the sake of sound business must gain the sanction of other ‘connoisseurs’ in whom the public believes.

“T must, moreover, be able to ad- vertise your art according to the best principles of modern salesmanship— schemingly, cunningly, seductively, subtly. I must play the auctioneer, that pompous competing buyers may force the price up. To make your art a good selling proposition I must be able to tell interesting press-agent stories about it—about how the ar- tist has languished in some Green- wich Village garret, or starved in the slums and ghettos of New York or ‘London, or perhaps in the Paris Quartier Latin. My stories must have zest—they must tell how the genius was discovered by accident after years of hunger and misery and freezing; how the marvellously strange and weird picture, poem, or novel took shape beneath the leaking attic roof as the rats scrambled loathesomely about. Or perhaps a more splendid fiction will be better for some pur- chasers—of how the artist is the seventh son of the old Earl of Hobo- leigh, disinherited for his elopement with. the beauteous daughter of a linen-draper who drops his ‘h’s”, and forced to seek fame and fortune in the sordid city. If this story alone is not enough, the charming and “cul- tured” lady will do the rest; and opu- lent dilettanti will flock to the studio of the Hon. Percival Paintbrush to inspect his wares, twirl their waxed moustaches, and ogle the comely daughter of the lower middle classes.” Thus is art pitifully degraded and commercialized by invented settings and ingenious bait, all typical of the cheap and salesmanlike spirit of the age and place.

AMATORY APHORISMS

The generality of women admire a genius, but few know how to live with one.

All the world loves a lover, except the wife whose husband loves an- other.

Before he is married many a man buys flowers and candy for his sweet- heart, but afterward often forgets that his wife exists except when he wants his dinner.

It is possible to be happy though married if each of the contingent lives next door.

On her wedding day many a wo- man flatters herself that she is marry- ing her Prince Charming, but awakes one morning to find that her husband is no longer attractive.

THE RAINBOW

The product of real genius seems to find no haven in the mart of com- merce unless it has been previously besmirched with the false glamour of puerile and mendacious advertising. Neglected, the artist who scorns

. shrewd exploitation must fare as best

he may, usually suffering the intoler- able grating of some hack work just enough like his real work to make it an endless and agonizing mockery. It is suicidal—but alternatives are not easy to find. Nothing is more pathe- tic and censurable than that the soul must be destroyed for the sake of feeding the body, yet the superb orig- inality of the unique mind becomes clogged and sometimes annihilated by that most sordid of necessities— “making a living.” Truly, the genius without means must drink gall and wormwood before his art is recog- nized; with always the graver peril that the art itself will succumb dur- ing the ordeal.

Would that some system of patron- age or pensioning might be evolved, whereby worthy but impecunious ar- tists could receive substantial assist- ance in their struggle to enhance the world’s beauty. Why must many who are truly great be forced to starve and weep, and often to go down into oblivion “unhonored and unsung”, when with but a little material appre- ciation from those whom they benefit, they might easily attain life’s highest and most lasting joys as the just re- ward of their travails and achieve-

ments? Who can say how much priceless art we may have lost through our callousness But for

Liszt, who introduced him to the King and to the world, we might today be destitute of the colossal art of Rich- ard Wagner.

The highly and unevenly organized mind of the true artist is largely in-

Many a woman raves about the other fellow; when he becomes her own she still raves about the other fellow.

Beauty and Brains may often at- tract a fool, but only the homo sa- piens proves the perfect magnet for the intelligent. That is why Beauty and Brains succeed in nine cases out of ten.

Concerning women, some men are slow of speech, others are slow of comprehension, while nearly all are slow of appreciation. Often their speed must be applied with a hammer.

The soul thrives neither on bread nor on manna. In his pursuit of ma- terial attainments to lay at her feet, many a man forgets to supply his wife with the greater necessity, that upon which her soul may feed and thrive.

Sele Ge:

capable of dividing itself between the ecstasy of aesthetic creation and the prosaic necessity of earning a living. Perhaps the living will come ul- timately through his art, but that is only after recognition, and does not help during the most terrible and most important period of his creative life. How often does our indiffer- ence, aloofness, parsimony, or preoc- cupation condemn some rare mind to suffering, loneliness, and oblivion, when with a little warm-hearted aid at the right time we might place him on the high-road to greatness, happi- ness, and splendor! By such acts of omission we deny full life to the ar- tist, and new beauty to ourselves, crushing genius before it can reap its first reward or shed its first beams.

We can best serve ourselves by en- couraging art and genius; for what, after all, is the measure of any civil- ization save the height of aesthetic and intellectual greatness which it has attained? Was it not the fostering of art and philosophy which made Greece the sole source of our existing culture and the unsurpassed summit of hu- man development ‘To emulate such development we must care for our artists and philosophers, and see that their shining thoughts ‘and images are brought successfully to birth.

As for them—so often the delicate creator who gives us our greatest treasures dies before he can enjoy the fruits of his toil! Perhaps it is Na- ture’s decree that the great one shall be gently relieved of the burdens of life after he has given what he had to

give. More often he falls asleep less gently and maturely—that is the tragdy. A starved and emaciated

body is hardly the temple for a vast and flaming soul,

A GAME OF CHESS

In this metropolitan city, LIFE, like everything else, moves by the clock rather than by the spirit of living.

Life here is like a game of chess. Commercialism is the great chess- board. The Cunning and Crafty are the players. The Slaves of Industry are the Pawns, and Big Business is the King. The Knights are those who serve Big Business, and the Cas- tles are the institutions, mainly those of Wall Street. The Queen of all is she who is the slave of Fashion and the Mistress of Commercialism. The Checkmate is often the obscure Pawn who thwarts Big Business. The Bish- op is the Wall Street Plutocrat who, with suave, smirking salaam, sancti- moniously serves Big Business while unrighteously and unjustly condenin- ing the helpless Pawns to a meagre existence and a pauper’s grave.

SONIA H. GREENE.

THE writer regrets inexpressibly that the honorable name of Amateur Journalism should be dragged in the mire by such disgraceful episodes of petty personal warfare and recrimina- tion as those recently developing in the National Association. The condi- tion, culminating in the public out- burst of John Milton Heins in his supplement to The National Amateur has become such that amateurdem’s standing is in jeopardy. No person now feels his reputation secure in the National, and that even the United Amateur Press Association suffers through reflected discredit is shown by the widely regretted resignation of Professor McDonald from both as- sociations last spring.

It is no longer a question of whether a remedy should be applied; the problem is now merely what remedy to apply. Something, quite obviously, must be done to check the degeneration of a supposedly literary and intellectual circle into a cesspool of valueless personal gossip and vi- cious slander both public and private. We are reaping the distasteful harvest which comes as a result of the toler- ance and even encouragement hitherto extended to the purely “social side” of amateurdom—a side generally sym- bolized by the journal of sheer frivol- ity and individual raillery. Today most of the National’s local club cen- tres are seething with spite and bit- terness, while its papers have become venomous with ill-concealed hatreds which argue an appalling ethical vac- uum, misdirection of interest, and waste of energy. Amid this sordid mess, what has become of amateur literature?

The’ Heins-Houtain feud, leading up to the explosive muckraking in the supplementary American Amateur, is the last straw. Of the “inside” merits of the case the writer is wholly igno- rant. Previous offences may or may not have been committed on either side. But as a neutral spectator the writer is surely justified in insisting upon two things; first, that both sides allowed a love of personal power and celebrity to obscure the literary wel- fare of their association and of ama- teurdom as a whole; and second, that no matter what the provocation, the foul expose perpetrated by Heins forms a revelation of the very ground- work of good taste and common de- cency, which not even his extreme youth and overheated temper can ex- cuse.

To claim that this final discarding of all dignity and restraint was justi- fied, is entirely futile. Official tan- gles are not new to amateur journal- ism, and they are certainly distres« ing enough things for all concerned. But since the corrosive poison of pub- lic brawling is so destructive to the

THE RAINBOW

Heins versus Houtain

very vitals of amateurdom, it becomes the one supreme duty of everyone to arbitrate these tangles without inflict- ing a sorry mess of squabbling upon the members at large, or advertising an association unfavorably by means of sensational surprise attacks and childishly defamatory “news scoops.” This, it seems to the writer, could be done if each participant held the wel- fare of amateur journalism above his petty personal importance. Most of the trouble arises from pure narrow- ness, selfishness, and sordidness of ambition—from the valuing of a cheap sense of individual supremacy above the general xsthetic growth which is our proper object.

In the present controversy the writ- er holds a position of absolute impar- tiality, The editor on the one hand carries no brief for Mrs. Houtain; and on the other hand is not disposed to condemn sweepingly an official who, if flagrantly indiscreet and tasteless, is nevertheless very young and largely a product of conditions. What should be condemned is the general state of mind which encourages and condones such vengeful outbreaks and unjusti- fied exploitations of editorship as that now exhibited. The atmosphere should hold a higher and less vulgar tone so that in such a situation Heins would not have thought of any course save an exhaustive analysis and pri- vate discussion with President Hou- tain in an effort to clear away the sources of misunderstanding. Some- times a public disaster is too high a price to pay for a personal victory— though it requires more than a little cultivation of spirit to realize and practice this principle. That cultiva- tion should be an indispensable quali- fication for membership in amateur journalism.

The cure for the existing ills should be drastic; drastic enough to involve the penalty of permanent expulsion for amateurs who stubbornly employ the public press for personal attacks. Public sentiment must be educated in the rudiments of good-breeding, and taught to condemn not only the offi- cial who abuses his power by employ- ing for private malice, but any editor or author who pollutes the columns of our journals with cheap paroxysms of pusillanimous “mud-slinging.” It should be understood that such of- fences call for immediate suspension; if possible, suspension from all ama- teur organizations through a judi- ciously negotiated series of under- standings. Amateurdom stands pri- marily for learning and cultivation, and a display of chronic personal maliciousness and pettiness proves a member’s unfitness for participation in its pleasures.

The writer would suggest the estab- lishment of a special committee or

tribunal, either inter-associational or within the National, before which the victim of slander, libel, or other injus- tice may place his case for full, ana- lytical and impartial consideration and action. Both parties to each contro- versy should have an equal hearing, and no phase should be left undis- cussed or unappraised in the effort to discharge the matter honorably before the rest of the membership. Could a means be found to create such a com- mittee, whose formation and person- nel might command the respect of all, its deliberations and decisions would probably be accepted as final; even when involving radical remedies and prominent expulsions. Such a body could not but help decrease the nam- ber of public quarrels, thus saving the membership much distress, and «eliev- ing all amateurdom of much hunulia- tion. In time it would perhaps be- come quite natural for the amateur with a grievance to resort to a “court” of this kind, rather than to burst forth into cheap accusatiors and invectives of the sort which Mr. Heins so unfortunately chooses.

A possible beginning would be a temporary volunteer committee with- in the National, formed of responsible neutral members, for the emergency purpose of ending at once the current series of offences against refined taste. Such a committee, if accepted by the membership in general, could accom- plish much good and form the nucleus of a permanent organization. The least it could do would be to register emphatically the society’s determina- tion to abolish and repudiate the dis- graceful tactics of today.

But the main remedy must be some- thing deeper; something less tangible because it is psychological. It must be an improved and clarified attitude of all the members toward the insti- tution of amateurdom, whereby they may appreciate its high object, and perceive how much they lose if they try to degrade it by the introduction of unworthy personalities and jarring hatreds and jealousies. It is impor- tant that such a change of. thought be quickly made, because a continuance oi the present fallacious drifting actu- ally threatens the life and prosperity of amateur letters.

As a sincere lover of amateur jour- nalism, the writer trusts that never again may the institution be so con- vulsed by the malfeasance and indif- ference of those who misconceive its serious purpose. The time is ripe for action, and we must all hope that our better elements, instead of retiring in disgust, will place their shoulders to the wheel in one new and gigantic ef- fort to keep their society worthy of themselves and their aspirations.

SONIA GREENE.

THE RAINBOW

i cee U a EEEdIE EEE EEESEEnESnSnn nD

I WONDER

If all the weeks were roses, and all the forests gold, And all the leaves were silver grown in the dollar’s mold, If all the seas were nectar, and every lake brewed cheer, And all the hills were honey, would we be happy here? If all the rocks were diamonds and all the sands were pearls, And every human being were al- ways boys and girls, lf all the noise were music and every sky were clear, If every heart were loving, would we be happy here? If all the poor were wealthy and all the hungry fed, And all the sick were healthy and every lie unsaid, If all these things were given, and many more beside, I wonder, God, I wonder, would we be satisfied?

KEEP SMILING Good Logic—But

When Landlords are heartless And charge you like sin,

And you stalk around hungry With your stomach caved in; When they charge you for extras As they size up your pile,

And do it so brazen, How in Hell can you smile?

When ‘railroads are kicking, Say they’re running behind, And point to their stocks Which have sharply declined, Yet if you ride in their coaches It’s four cents a mile, With pullmans near double, Why in Hell should you smile?

“The situation that has not its ideal was never yet occupied by man. Yes, here, in this poor, miserable, ham- pered, despicable actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy ideal; work it out therefrom, and, working, believe, live, be free. Fool, the ideal is in thyself—Carlyle.

In 1883, when I entered Amateur Journalism by way of the Gardner convention, it took 3 cents to mail a letter, but any amateur paper larger than’ a postage stamp could secure second class rates by only once ask- ing. Badges were designed, with the aid of buillion and fringe, to attract as much notice as possible, and those who had: been to, Detroit in 1882 or Buffalo in 1881 appeared - proudly pouter pigeoning a breast plastered

When shoes cost a fortune Though leather is cheap, And there’s nothing much cheaper Than the wool on the sheep, Yet clothes cost a plenty Unless out of style, And you wear your old suit Why in Hell should you smile?

hatin

B. ‘C,, BIRIGHE RAVES,

Certain Ideals

with the old ones. Also there was always a base ball game between the visiting “amachewers” and the hosts and every year several papers came out adorned with the following rea- son for existence:

Amateur Journalism—the pursuit of American youth.

Ex-Speaker RANDALL.

noblest

Who ex-Speaker Randall was, what he spoke about, why he ‘had ceased speaking and retired into the exs, I neither knew nor cared, nor did any of the others who so effusively quoted his convincing argument. He might have flourished in the days of G. W., or in the days of Chester Arthur, it was all one to us. I have a dim idea that someone, learned above his fel- lows, told me Randall was a Demo-

When expenses are heavy, And collections are lazy, With bills coming due, And creditors crazy, All wanting their pay, What on earth can you do? What on earth can you say? You can write them a letter And stall them a while, But pay day is coming, How in Hell can you smile?

B. C. BRIGHTRALL.

MY YESTERDAYS

If I could gather my yesterdays, I’d sort them one by one,

I’d take the dark and gloomy days And place them in the sun,

And they would be made the better By being shone upon.

Then I’d take my shiney days, The days that knew a smile, And heap them with the other days To rear a radiant pile, For they would cleanse the darker days Of all their hurts and sorrows, Then I would live them o’er again In all of my tomorrows.

W. C. BRIGHTRALL.

THE DISTANT FOREST

The distant forest far away,

Seen dimly when the day is gay, Seen brightly when the day is bright, And darkly in the moon’s pale light.

How small it looks—from far away, It looks not green—but simply gray, I often look at it and see, A picture full of mystery.

BETTY JANE KENDALL, 9 years old, 1922.

crat who went out (like a lamp) when the defeat of Grover Cleveland shut off the oil.

Privately I have always believed that he got into disrepute by saying what he did of amateur journalism. He said it, perchance in an unthink- ing moment, with a buzzing young amateur at his elbow urging him on with suggestion—“Ain’t it, sir?”—and then these to whom the word “am- ateur” is as red to a bull, canned him.

Anyway, it was the one big thing he did. No one remembers him now, but a few stray amateur journalists, and all. we remember of him is that.

Did he speak the truth? I'll say he did. So, I doubt not, will say many among the great and good— Former. Assistant Attorney General

Beck, Willard O. Wylie, Edward

Harold Cole, Leonard E. Tilden, James F. Morton, Jr., Truman J. Spencer, to pick a random few.. All the Fossils say so, only they em- phasize the last word. And to prove that getting out an amateur paper is properly a youthful pursuit. they club together and get out a whale of a one in their old age. Consistence be- ing a splendid virtue for the other fellow to practice.

It is about time now to define am- ateur journalism; only, like beauty and a yaller dog’s love for a nigger, the secret of Jane Austen’s_ style, poetry and the pleasure of looking at a brick wall with the sun shining on it, it is undefinable. Let us call it “the play spirit.” This will account for its ability to strike old and young alike with great virulence, and to skip lightly over others that seemed vul- nerable.

This ability we have all noted in doing recruit work. I suppose more money and thought have been wasted on the recruiting problem in amateur journalism than on all the other prob- lems put together. To go no farther back than 1907—William R. Murphy believed he had solved it by articles on amateur journalism in certain boy’s papers. He wrote the articles, and they were good ones; he care- fully answered the letters of inquiry, and he secured a few recruits, but by no means the number that he had hoped to secure. Then came C. W. Heins, who announced gleefully that he had discovered the source of faery gold. This was a list of men and women who had submitted Mss. to a popular professional magazine— Marden’s Success, I think it was. These people would all be writers, President Heins thought they stood as potential amateurs ripe for har- vesting.

Nothing of the sort. On being ad- dressed they asked, generally, the fatal question, “Amateur journalism— what do you get out of it?’ And all was o'er.

You get so much out of it—but it is all unexplainable. And you do not get out of it the practical and financial benefit for which the average would- be writer is looking. Putting $1 into membership in the National, $25 into publication of an amateur paper, No. 100 into attendance at a convention and then borrowing $14 to get home on (you would make it $15 only $14 is probably all the poor guy has) by no means assures vou publication of that poem on “Spring” in The Dial, or utter forgetfulness of what the re- jection slip of Snappy Stories looks like. So the “recruit” shakes the dust of amateur journalism from his feet with curses, and joins the “Editor’s Council” with more hope—and, it must be acknowledged, more ground for hope.

Amateur Journalism is like a college career, you may emerge from it with

THE RAINBOW

more than the average of non-intel- lectual eccentricity which you pos- sessed on entering, yet 47 per cent. of our presidents, and from 60 to 70 per cent. of our men of affairs, writers

7

coal man, come beautiful: Olympians in which you couldn’t secure ad. space though you crept on your: knees up Tower Street hill in omienuille and all the way down again.

EDITH MINITER

and “leaders of thought” are college graduates. Amateur journalism may but encourage you in a sloppy style, in sentimentalizing, in carelessness; it may seem to you to put a premium on remaining “low brow”, as when a certain young writer regretted hay- ing put forth his best efforts. because thereby he discouraged one still younger. These, however, are spora- dic cases. In general the improve- ment of any amateur is marked from year to year, from funny Hustlers bristling with ads, of the grocer and

“Amateur—dilletant, desultory eG: tivator’—doesn’t that exactly de- scribe us? We cultivate in so desul- tory a manner that when we take an office with the sole proviso of getting something into print six times a year we just can’t manage to doit. “Take” did 1 say? Rather fight for, pursue eagerly, grab with an impoliteness be: yond that of cats and dogs. It re- quires, we will say, seven ballots to elect us, after which we lie down and do nothing. Similarly we move heaven and earth to secure 25 beauti-

8

THE RAINBOW

ful recruits. We then put their $25 in our pockets and fail to supply them with blank proxies for voting. And, mea culpa, we are all tarred more or less with the same brush, all desul- tory cultivators.

Amateur journalism attracts these people, which is at once its charm and its bane. Thus one may say with truth that the amateurs one dislikes most one likes more than the non- amateurs to whom one may be sin- cerely attached. Imagine yourself cast away on a desert island, your sole companion that amateur journal- ist who is now your bete noir. Would you say, coldly and firmly, “thou go- ing eastward and I going west”, and stake out between your two selves a no-man’s land rank in cacti and taran- tulas? Indeed, you would do no such thing. You would sit right down be- side him and while sharing with him your last wormy biscuit would live over the halcyon days of ’02 until in- terrupted by guns of a rescuing sub- marine.

The most unhappy denizens of our small world are those who try to bring into it the rules and regulations of the world of professionalism. <A campaign conducted in real “business fashion’ —follow-up letters, card cata- logues, circulars ad lib. etc., may suc- ceed—probably will, because of excess of amateur “‘desultory cultivation”. on the other side, but that which one ob- tains from the piper will be hardly worth his bill. Again, “rewards” for literary achievements, taking the form, say, of really beautiful gold and silver medals, are not competed for by the best writers, and are even refused by some to whom they may be awarded.

That which the real, the true blue amateur desires in amateur journal- ism is a land where “efficiency” is a word unknown, where lost motions are cultivated with enthusiasm, where individualism and personality are al- ways “plus”, where one is judged wholly and solely by one’s “desultory cultivation” and not in the least by one’s achievements in the professional world. To “put this over” to any out- sider is almost impossible. Attempts made, result, at conventions, in sicken- ing “speeches” by “real newspaper men” who insist on addressing us as “aspiring young reporters”, and who give us advice about securing adver- tisements and subscribers “with a view to making our little magazines self supporting.” ;

Three words of reminiscence from some of amateur journalism’s grand old men delights us more than a whole lecture by a “professional” who commands the most sumptuous fees.

We may be narrow. If so, ’tis an age of specialism and we glory in it. When we think of certain men and women of prominence it is as ama- teurs only. L. E. Tilden may be a trusted employe of the government, with a substantial salary—probably is

—but we consider him simply as a person who goes about digging up “old timers”, now securing a personal check from Thomas Edison for mem- bership in the Fossils, again expend- ing incredible sums in taxi fares to rout out one who may be a substan- tial citizen—or may be a denizen of the poorhouse. Judging from the magnificance of his publications W. Paul Cook was once rated as a mil- lionaire when (according to his own statement) he shivered minus an over- coat all one winter because he placed Saint Franklin above Saint Sartar. We establish our own standards, stories which sell to the Atlantic Monthly do not with our laureate- ships, verses that later obtain publica- tion in the Century leave us cold. The editor of this publication is hon- ored—not because she is an extra- ordinary successful business woman, but because she had issued one of the notable amateur magazines of the decade.

Nothing exasperates us quite so much as to hear a newcomer (it al- ways is a newcomer) using achieve- ments in the professional world as a lever to boost him into a position above others in the amateur world. The fall of Humpty Dumpty was no less disastrous in result ‘than is the tumble of such a one. = For amateur journalism is seldom deceived by bunk for more than a little while—in which it pleasantly differs- from the world of business and finance. Real worth has here its innings.

The first need of amateur journal- ism at this time is utter abandon- ment of any half way methods, any truckling with semi-professionalism. Let our association officers be kept up to constitutional requirements, be- cause that’s part of the game, but may this backbone of ‘duty’ be the only part of a skeleton at our feast. We need it (perhaps. as amateur sports need rules, and rigorous ones.

Otherwise, let us come out strong on personality, by which I do not in the least mean personalities. My first introduction to this last, in amateur journalism, was when I read the famous St. Nicholas article which Harlan H. Ballard wrote and which was published in July, 1882.

“Will Hazelrigg has given up the idea of going to Indianapolis to live. 3ring a wash pan for our tears.”

This appeared in a paper called The Midget, which on the same page claimed to be half the size of the smallest amateur paper in the world.

Unlike a certain actor’s Hamlet it is vulgar without being funny and has stood for many years as my idea of a vicious and vacuus personality. We do not, or should. not, care es- pecially whether an amateur is old or young, a blacksmith or a college pro- fessor; we do care for a sketch of his den or printshop, a list of his literary likes and dislikes, a review of the pil-

grimage through Optic and Herity to Harold Bell Wright or Jolin Mase- field. I would like to see a continua- tion of the visits to homes of ama- teur journalists which was started by Jennie M. Day and Frances Parsons, New England. amateurs who had a paper called The Duet in the 80s’ and which I endeavored to revive in True Blue in 1910, but was prevented from continuing by the restricted size of that paper.

I would like to see that courage among us which would compel us to face facts, to pay our expenses hon- estly, to abandon a position of men- dicancy. Why do we not take warn- ing by the example of the largely moribund organizations that enjoy coexistence with us, and which we sometimes endeavor to “encourage” (to their own disgust) by including their few publications in the list of our own so-called “bests? Lack of financial honesty has made them what they are. And begging has always been our bane. It was largely be- cause they were held up for money in 1909 that the Fossils exploited Young Blood and stigmatized the rank and file of amateur journalism as “barnacles playing round the gravestones of their youth”, with an unfortunate result now well known. The symbol of the active amateur was, to the average fossil, a man with his ‘hand out. A well known amateur, when president of the National, was introduced to a famous old timer. “How do,’ said the great has been, “how much?” To the credit of to- day be it said he was asked for noth- ing beyond a 50 cent fee for alumni membership. But all presidents are not so modest. It is but a few years since a man who had been expelled from the National for reasons, and that over a. dozen years previously, was able to buy his way back for $50. This was truly selling one’s birthright, and selling it very cheap. An honest adjustment .of expense to income would do away with these tempta- tions to thoughtless officers.

I would like to see a continuity of brisk campaigns, conducted, as they easily may be, without use of intrigue, poison gas, mongering of manufac- tured scandals, anonymous letter writing, and similar borrowings from profssional politicians. Influence based on an understanding of psychology is quite legitimate; better yet is influence resting on the rock bases of actual and known ability.

All comes back to the beginning—

“As streams meander level with their fount,”

said Robert Montgomery, and Macau- lay ventured to doubt the fact, but I think there’s something like it hap- pening daily in amateur journalism. The institution rises no higher than its component parts. To improve the quality of output we must improve

THE RAINBOW

9

the character of amateurs. How? Of course by recruiting, but by judi- cious recruiting. The finest recruiting document ever published was the famous St. Nicholas article, twenty- five years after its printing it was still bringing to the fold “real” amateurs imbued with the right spirit. This is more than can be said of many pam-

For fifteen months, day in, day out, have I

Washed dishes! Morn and noon and night, and morn

And noon and night again, and till I die

I guess I'll stand here washing dishes! Born

Some six-and-fifty years ago, I stand

Here at my job beside a sink, a poor

Damned devil, and with nothing in my hand

But dishes and a dish-mop! the door

That swings into the restaurant, I see

Through

Sometimes, the smug-faced swells that can forget

(Or never cared to know,) that Poverty

And Circumstance can make men slaves! I sweat

Here washing dishes, and I curse this Hell

That men call Life. as hot

As Hell’s own fire! they tell

Me, that it’s 93—but that is not

The half of what it’s here, where smell of food

Chokes any breath of air that dares to creep

This kitchen is

Out in the street

In this ill-lighted hole! But what's the good

Of thinking! —I wash dishes in my sleep

But when I’m washing dishes I’m a-dream

And all my thoughts run riot and revolt

Against a world where Money is supreme

And Poverty a slave! —Oh, damn the dolt

Like me, that is a slave! I never had

Much chance. I always worked. When I was five I started selling papers. As a lad

I'd earn a dollar when I could. Alive

Or dead my father had no use for me

And beat me like a cur. My mother died.

I’ve worked in mines. I’ve been to sea. I’ve harvested the wheat, and I have

cried To see my wife and babes go hungry when

I’ve fought.

phlets in their first year. The most fertile field is in one’s immediate circle of friends. If you write, you surely know others of similar taste, and all may not be looking for immediate “S-cent a word” rates. Such need not be pelted with handbooks or bad- gered with figures. Take them to a club meeting, pitchfork them into a

Behind the Swinging Door

Lilian Middleton

The times were bad, and now my wife is dead,

My sons are gone, and I’ve been sick, and then

For weeks there was no work and little bread,

And here now, morn and noon and night, day in

Day out, I stand here washing dishes!

There

Is such a smug-faced fool, as rich as sin

And bold as money makes ’em, (not a care

Has he) that through the little oblong pane

Of glass there in the swinging door, all day—

Day after day I’ve watched, until my brain

Is hideous with Hate! * * * Luck came his way

And soft he sits and plays with Life, while I

Must toil and sweat and know no

peace or rest.

He swaggers in, thick-set, and heavily

He oe himself and orders of the est

Of food and drink. With brown pro- truding eyes,

—Liquid and sickn’ing soft—he stares around,

Sensuous lips a-gape; his money buys

For him the right to stare at girls!— he found

That fact out long ago—and brazen

chits Ogle his money bags and grin. This side The swinging door, I curse him where he sits

In hellish arrogance. Around the wide Space of the restaurant his putrid gaze

A-search, now fastens gloatingly upon

Young Marion. I knew it would. For days

He’s watched that girl. As graceful as a swan

She glides about the place but well she knows

His eyes are watching her. Oh! I have seen

That hand of his, so fat and white, that shows

No scars of work, touch hers, and slip between :

Her skilful fingers money. needs

All his

convention, even talk with them half a day, and their fate is settled for life. They are the Ideal Amateurs be- cause of a fellow feeling for all its institutions. And you, to them, are the Ideal Amateur, because without your guidance they would have forever been seekers only for the Promised Land. EDITH MINITER.

Or fancies money buys, and now he thinks

To buy her virtue with a string o’ beads!

—Oh! curse the girl and him—his money stinks!—

The girl’s not worth a solitary damn,

The big-eyed, pale-faced slut! —She’ll have her fling

And likely she’ll regret it too! —I am

Not sure her virtue’s even worth his

string

O’bawdy beads! —but what d’I care for her—

It’s the man there, fat, soft, and rich, my age, ‘

That’s never known one day of toil,— the cur!—

That fills me with a stupid hopeless rage

Against the wretched misery of things.

I've stood it nearly long enough. Some day

Til settle scores with him,—this man that flings

His ill-got money with a mock-display

Of generosity! Oh, I would kill

Him if I only dared, and then the Law, :

—That hireling of shriek in shrill

Self-righteous tones, hands lifted high in awe,

“Down with the Law is made

For Poverty to keep and gets the poor

Man every time, but though the rich man wade

Knee-deep in crime, oh! he can grin cock-sure

His money’ll buy him off!—By God, it drives

Me mad!—I wish I could think less of Damme ee

Here at the sink, along the blade of knives

Keen-edged, sharp-pointed, runs my thumb * * *

6 tele koe ek oe is frarting

And shadowy path along the Fen- way, where

He passes, nights, springs to my mind with flood

Of dark suggestion Soames

* * * * Warmly, through my bare

Mis-shapen fingers, water drips like blood * o

the rich—could

murderer!”’—The

10

His’ blood * * * All day the ghoulish fancy nags

My mind. By God, I'll do it yet! eet sullen

Out of: the dark,—Ill strike. —I’ll tear to rags

The bloated face of him! * * * My ‘hands’ll grip

His bloody throat, and in the dark, again

And yet again, my knife’ll find his guts.

Then when he lies there high and dry in pain,

—A loathsome hulk—before the dark- ness shuts

Him in éntirely, I'll stoop and damn

His soul to everlasting Hell! then -pause— :

And hiss into his ear just who I am,

—For once, ’t his face Pll tell him

what he was!

ok

* Easy Coke bo igbenmenniokatamcte SWiK Se Tk

And now again, I stand here at the sink,

Morose and_ silent—but I never talked—

The murder’s in the air. ‘Who d’y think

‘Twas done it?’— “‘Twasn’t thieves

* * ” Just as he walked

Across the Fenway there last night, “but not

A dollar taken!”—“God, but he was hashed

To little bloody bits!’—“Some say but what

A woman was the cause.’—‘“His face was smashed

Beyond all recognition!”,—“Must have been .

A madman did the job—an’ not a trace

O’ him!”—and so on run_ their tongues. Between ,

My fingers drips the water * * * warm * * * My face

Is towards the sink * * * They never look at me;

They never did * * * I do my work and walk

Alone at night * * * I always did * * * And he

Can tell no stories * * * II never talk.

In a dream Kuranes saw the city in the valley, and the sea-coast be- yond, and the snowy peak overlook- ing the sea, and the gaily painted gal- leys that sail out of the harbour toward distant regions where the sea meets the sky. In a dream it also was that he came by his name of Kuranes, for when awake he was called by another name. Perhaps it was natural for him to dream a new name; for he was the last of his fam- ily, and alone among the indifferent millions of London, so there were not

THE RAINBOW

LILIAN MIDDLETON

By H. P. Lovecraft

many to speak to him and remind him who he had been.. His money and lands were gone, and he did not care for the ways of people about him, but preferred to dream and write of his dreams. What he wrote was laughed at by those to whom he shewed it, so that after a time he kept his writings to himself, and fin- ally ceased to write. The more he withdrew from the world about him, the more wonderful became his dreams; and it would have been quite futile to try to describe them on pa-

per. Kuranes was not modern, and did not think like others who wrote. Whilst they strove to strip from life its embroidered robes of myth, and to shew in naked ugliness the foul thing that is reality, Kuranes sought for beauty alone. When truth and experience failed to reveal it, he sought it in fancy and illusion, and found it on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams.

There are not many persons who know what wonders are opened to

ee a

2S =»

them in the stories and visions of their youth; for when as children we listen and dream, we think but half- formed thoughts, and when as men we try to remember, we are dulled and prosaic with the poison of life. But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of fountains that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs over- hanging murmuring seas, of plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and stone, and of shadowy companies of hereos that ride capari- soned white horses along the edges of thick forests; and then we know that we have looked back through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy.

Kuranes came very suddenly upon his old world of childhood. He had been dreaming of the house where he was born; the great stone house with ivy, where thirteen generations of his ancestors had lived, and where he had hoped to die. It was moonlight, and he had stolen out into the fragrant summer night, through the gardens, down the terraces, past the great oaks of the park, and along the long white road to the village. The village seemed very old, eaten away at the edge like the moon which had com- menced to wane, and Kuranes won- dered whether the peaked roofs of the small houses hid sleep or death. In the streets were spears of long grass, and the window-panes on either side were either broken or filmly star- ing. Kuranes had not lingered, but had plodded on as though summoned toward some goal. He dared not dis- obey the summons for fear it might prove an illusion like the urges and aspirations of waking life, which do not lead to any goal. Then he had been drawn down a lane that led off from the village street toward the channel cliffs, and had come to the end of things—to the precipice and the abyss where all the village and all the world fell abruptly away into the unechoing emptiness of infinity, and where even the sky ahead was empty and unlit by the crumbling moon and the peering stars. Faith had urged him on, over the precipice and into the gulf, where he had floated down, down, down; past dark, shape- less, undreamed dreams, faintly glow- ing spheres that may have been partly dreamed dreams, and laughing winged things that seemed to mock the dreamers of all the worlds. Then a rift seemed to open in the darkness before him, and he saw the city of the valley, glistering radiantly far, far be- low, with a background of sea and sky, and a snow-capped mountain near the shore.

Kuranes had awaked the very mo- ment he beheld the city, yet he knew from his brief glance that it was none other than Celephais, in the Valley of Oooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian

THE RAINBOW

It

Hills, where his spirit had dwelt all the eternity of an hour one summer afternoon very long ago, when he had slipt away from his nurse and let the warm sea-breeze lull him to sleep as he watched the clouds from the cliff near the village. He had protested then, when they had found him, waked him, and carried him home, for just as he was aroused he had been about to sail in a golden galley for those alluring regions where the sea meets the sky. And now he was equally resentful of awaking, for he had found his fabulous city after forty weary years.

But three nights afterward Kuranes came again to Celephais. As before, he dreamed first of the village that was asleep or dead, and of the abyss down which one must float silently; then the rift appeared again, and he beheld the glittering minarets of the city, and saw the graceful galleys riding at anchor in the blue harbour, and watched the gingko trees on Mount Aran swaying in the sea- breeze. But this time he was not snatched away, and like a winged be- ing settled gradually over a grassy hillside till finally his feet rested gent- ly on the turf. He had indeed come back to the Valley of Ooth-Nargai and the splendid City of Celephais.

Down the hill amid scented grasses and brilliant flowers walked Kuranes, over the bubbling Naraxa on the small wooden bridge where he had carved his name so many years ago, and through the whispering grove to the great stone bridge by the city gate. All was as of old, nor were the marble walls discoloured, nor the polished bronze statues upon them tarnished. And Kuranes saw that he need not tremble lest the things he knew be vanished; for even the sen- tries on the ramparts were the same, and still as young as he remembered them. When he entered the city, past the bronze gates and over the onyx pavements, the merchants and camel- drivers greeted him as if he had never been away; and it was the same at the turquoise temple of Nath-Hor- thath, where the orchid-wreathed priests told him that there is no time in Ooth-Nargai, but only perpetual youth. Then Kuranes walked through the Street of Pillars to the seaward wall, where gathered the traders and sailors, and strange men from the regions where the sea meets the sky. There he stayed long, gazing out over the bright harbour where the ripples sparkled beneath an unknown sun, and where rode lightly the galleys from far places over the water. And he gazed also upon Mount Aran ris- ing regally from the shore, its lower slopes green with swaying trees and its white summit touching the sky.

More than ever Kuranes wished to sail in a galley to the far places of which he had heard so many strange tales, and he sought again the cap-

tain who had agreed to carry him so long ago. He found the man, Athib, sitting on the same chest of spices he had sat upon before, and Athib seemed not to realize that any time had passed. Then the two rowed to a galley in the harbour, and giving orders to the oarsmen, commenced to sail out into the billowy Cerenarian Sea that leads to the sky. For sev- eral days they glided undulatingly over the water, till finally they came to the horizon, where the sea meets the sky. Here the galley paused not at all, but floated easily in the blue of the sky among fleecy clouds tinted with rose. And far beneath the keel Kuranes could see strange lands and rivers and cities of surpassing beauty, spread indolently in the sunshine which seemed never to lessen or dis- appear. At length Athib told him that their journey was near its end, and that they would soon enter the harbour of Serannian, the pink marble city of the clouds, which is built on that ethereal coast where the west wind flows into the sky; but as the highest of the city’s carven towers cauie into sight there was a sound somewhere in space, and Kuranes awaked in his London garret.

For many months after that Ku- ranes sought the marvelous city of Celephais and its sky-bound galleys in vain; and though his dreams car- ried him to many gorgeous and un= heard-of places, no one whom he met could tell him how to find Ooth- Nargai, beyond the Tanarian Hills. One night he went flying over dark mountains where there were faint, lone campfires at great distances apart, and strange, shaggy herds with tinkling bells on the leaders; and in the wildest part of this hilly country, so remote that few men could ever have seen it, he found a hideously an- cient wall or causeway of stone zig- zagging along the ridges and valleys; toc gigantic ever to have risen by human hands, and of such a length that neither end of it could be seen. Beyond that wail in the grey down he came to a land of quaint gardens and cherry trees, and when the sun rose he beheld such beauty of red and white flowers, green foliage and lawns, white paths, diamond brooks, blue lakelets, carven bridges, and red- roofed pagodas, that he for a mo- ment forgot Celephais in sheer de- light. But he remembered it again when he walked down a white path toward a _ red-roofed pagoda, and would have questioned the people of that land about it, had he not found that there were no people there, but only birds and bees and butterflies. Cn another night Kuranes walked up a damp stone spiral stairway endless- ly, and came to a tower window over- looking a mighty plain and river lit by the full moon; and in the silent city that spread away from the river bank he thought he beheld some feature or

12

arrangement which he had known be- fore. He would have descended and asked the way to Ooth-Nargai had not a fearsome aurora sputtered up from some remote place beyond the horizon, shewing the ruin and an- tiquity of the city, and the stagnation of the reedy river, and the death lying upon that land, as it had lain since King Kynaratholis came home from his conquests to find the vengence of the gods.

So Kuranes sought fruitlessly for the marvellous city of Celephais and its galleys that sail to Serannian in the sky, meanwhile seeing many won- ders and once barely escaping from the high-priest not to be described, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and dwells all alone in a prehistoric stone monastery on the cold desert plateau of Leng. In time he grew so impatient of the bleak in- tervals of day that he began buying drugs in order to increase his periods of sleep. Hasheesh helped a great deal, and once sent him to a part of space where form does not exist, but where glowing gases study the secrets of existence. And a violet-coloured gas told him that this part of space was outside what he had called in- finity. The gas had not heard of planets and organisms before, but identified Kuranes merely as one from the infinity where matter, energy, and gravitation exist. Kuranes was now very anxious to return to minaret- studded Celephais, and increased his doses of drugs; but eventually he had no more money left, and could buy no drugs. Then one summer day he was turned out of his garret, and wan- dered aimlessly through the streets,

Art, like other great abstract con- cepts, has always eluded definition. It is, in fact, correctly used in several senses. Its Latin original ars is a word of uncertain origin, according to the lexicographers. In a broad sense, the term signifies skill of any kind. From this its sense is quickly trans- ferred to mean either the exertion of skill or the product of that exertion. Indeed, it is sometimes given a phil- osophical extension to include the whole realm of action. Thus religion (embracing the entire field of phil- osophy), science (including all the pursuant of knowledge) and art (im- plying every form of activity), are named as the grand divisions covering human life in all its aspects. Again, a distinction is made between the pro- duction of objects for utilitarian pur- poses and that of works in which the imagination is expressed, or between the utilitarian and the fine arts; and the word art is used to include only the latter field. Still more narrowly, a distinction is made between the

THE RAINBOW

drifting over a bridge to a place where the houses grew thinner and thinner. And it was there that fulfilment came, and he met the cortege of knights come from Celephais to bear him thither for ever.

Handsome knights they were, astride roan horses and clad in shin- ing armour with tabards of cloth-of- gold curiously emblazoned. So nu- merous were they, that Kuranes al- most mistook them for an army, but their leader told him they were sent in his honour; since it was he who had created Ooth-Nargai in his dreams, on which account he was now to be appointed its chief god for ever- more. Then they gave Kuranes a horse and placed him at the head of the cavalcade, and all rode majesti- cally through the downs of Surrey and onward toward the region where Kuranes and his ancestors were born. It was very strange, but as the riders went on they seemed to gallop back through Time; for whenever they passed through a village in the twi- light they saw only such houses and villages as Chaucer or men before him might have seen, and sometimes they saw knights on horseback with small companies of retainers. When it grew dark they travelled more swiftly, till soon they were flying uncannily as if in the air. In the dim dawn they came upon the village which Kuranes had seen alive in his child- hood, and asleep or dead in his dreams. It was alive now, and early villagers courtesied as the horsemen clattered down the street and turned off into the lane that ends in the abyss of dream. Kuranes had pre-

Misconceptions of Art

plastic arts painting and sculpture, to which architecture is added by some, and the other expressions of the art spirit, such as music, poetry, drama, acting, recitation, dancing, interpre- tative reading, pantomime et al. To avoid confusion, the term will be used here exclusively in the sense of the fine arts as a whole, since the funda- mental principles to be discussed ap- ply alike to arts in time and to those in space, however different the tech- nique.

Even with this clear understanding of the field of art, an exact definition is impossible. Shelley’s brief defini- tion of poetry, as “the expression of the imagination,’ may in a general way be held to cover the ground; and there are excellent elements in Rus- kin’s statement that art is the giving “by the imagination of noble grounds

for the noble emotions.” There is, however, a notable incompleteness even in these attempts. Browning,

who in several great poems has suc- ceeded more fully than any other

viously entered that abyss only at night, and wondered what it would look like by day; so he watched an- xiously as the column approached its brink. Just as they galloped up the rising ground to the precipice a gold- en glare came somewhere out of the east and hid all the landscape in its effulgent draperies. The abyss was now a seething chaos of roseate and cerulean splendour, and _ invisible voices sang exultantly as the knightly entourage plunged over the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and silvery coruscations. End- lessly down the horsemen floated, their chargers pawing the aether as if galloping over golden sands; and then the luminous vapours spread apart to reveal a greater brightness, the brightness of the city Celephais, and the sea coast beyond, and the snowy peak overlooking the sea, and the gaily painted galleys that sail out of the harbour toward distant regions where the sea meets the sky.

And Kuranes reigned thereafter over Ooth-Nargai and all the neigh- bouring regions of dream, and held his court alternately in Celephais and in the cloud-fashioned Serannian. He reigns there still, and will reign hap- pily for ever, though below the cliffs at Innsmouth the channel tides played mockingly with the body of a tramp who had stumbled through the half- deserted village at dawn; played mockingly, and cast it upon the rocks by ivy-covered Trevor Towers, where a notably fat and especially offensive millionaire brewer enjoys the pur- chased atmosphere of extinct no- bility.

writer in interpreting the art spirit, makes no attempt at an actual defini- tion, but states much of the art func- tion in the famous lines:

“* * % it is the glory and good of Art,

That Art remains the one way possible

Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine at least.

How look a brother in the face and say:

‘Thy right is wrong, eyes hast thou, yet art blind;

Thine ears are stuffed and stopped, despite their length; And oh, the foolishness thou

countest faith!

But Art,—wherein man nowise speaks to men,

Only to mankind,—Art may tell a truth

Obliquely, do the thing breed the thought,

Nor wrong the thought, missing the mediate word.”

shall

THE RAINBOW

1S)

A

However art may be defined, it is clear that the essence of it is the revelation of some aspect of reality. It is an interpretation by the imagina- tion, manifesting the less obvious meanings of things by indirection, stimulating comprehension by the suggestion of analogies and contrasts, indicating the whole by a selection of its salient parts. It is inevitably founded on nature, but not a photo- graphic copy of nature. It must be truthful, but need not be factual. It is indicative, but not imitative. Its greatness depends on the measure in which it attains these ends.

A careful analysis will show that the foregoing. principles apply alike to all the arts. Those purely decora- tive in their nature constitute an in- terpretation of the general spirit of beauty, and reveal its function, which is no mean one. Some forms of art are intended to reveal abstract truth, others certain concrete phases of truth. Some indicate permanent states, others the effect of transitory influences. Some manifest contem- porary conditions, others successive states of consciousness. Some are objective, others subjective. All, how- ever, busy themselves with revelation; and all call the creative imagination into play in the management of ma- terials.

Misconceptions of art customarily consist in too limited conceptions. A narrow view is often taken, correct so far as it goes, but, because of its incompleteness, leading to false con- clusions. The main types of error consist, on the one hand, in an im- perfect view of the purpose or scope of art in general, and, on the other hand, in attempts to override the in- herent technical limitations of the varied forms of art expression.

As main forms of the first class of misconceptions, may be cited what for convenience in nomenclature I will call the didactic, realistic, esthetic, classical and hedonistic fallacies. Bet- ter names might be chosen for some of these; and it is possible that not all wrong or inadequate viewpoints may be brought under these five heads. Still, these may suffice to in- dicate the dangers of onesidedness in the contemplation of art.

By the didactic fallacy is meant the view of those who hold that the one purpose of art is to preach. There are those, not numerous indeed, but still to be found, who insist tha t there is no proper place for any work of art which does not teach a distinct moral lesson. In direct antagonism to this group stand a few who, like Oscar Wilde, hold that “all art is es- sentially immoral.” Another element insists that art is neither moral nor immoral, but unmoral, as standing wholly aloof from all moral issues. Issue may properly be taken with all three of these positions. It is certain that art has not the mission of con-

veying a distinct categorical impera- tive concerning the details of ethical conduct. A contrary hypothesis would result in the elimination of all the dec- orative arts and of most of what re- mained. But little music and few of the recognized masterpieces of paint- ing and sculpture would be suffered to remain. On the other hand, the

JAMES F. MORTON, JR.

paradox of the brilliant Wilde can still less be accepted at its face value. It is beyond all cavil that the general effect of art on human life has ever been to exalt and not to degrade. Nor can art be even classed as unmoral. Being essentially a testimony to real- ity and a revelation of the inner mean- ings of things, it is necessarily in har- mony with the larger laws of life. Since harmony with these laws on the part of the individual must bring and keep him in right relations with na- ture and with his fellows, the reflec- tion of them in art can only impel him toward finer ideals of living. Hence art is distinctly moral, though its les- sons are conveyed indirectly through revelation of the beauties of the uni- verse and of harmony with its laws, and not directly through conscious sermonizing. The very suggestion of symmetry in outward form is a mor- alizing influence, although it does not teach specific conformity to human codes. It may fairly be said that the greater the art, the greater its moral influence. The erratic lives of some artists and the occasional abuse of art for unworthy ends in no way contra- vene the main principle. There is nothing good which may not be dis- torted from its normal use to serve evil ends; and an influence which acts beneficently on normal minds may combine with the peculiar qualities of

warped natures in such a way as to produce unwholesome fruits.

The realistic fallacy is the error of those who would reduce art to a mere matter of copying. They would abol= ish selection of materials, and demand that whatever is within the scope of observation be represented exactly as it is. In their revolt against the rule of beauty, they commonly go to the other extreme, and specialize in the ugly. Their fault is a lack of true perspective. The incompleteness of their creed is evident from their ins ability to apply it to all the arts. In music, for example, a realistic imita- tion of objective facts can be carried to only an insignificant distance. In public reading it becomes an atrocity, and in dancing or pantomime merely grotesque. Efforts to apply it in even a small degree in architecture have produced monstrosities. In painting and sculpture, where alone a serious

‘and protracted attempt is made to

carry it out in a consistent manner, its failure is manifest to all serious students. The infinite detail of nature cannot be transferred to canvas or to”:

tarble. The most realistic possible presentation of a given scene or ob- ject at a given moment must omit many of the accessory elements. The individual trees cannot be suffered to obscure the forest. The wart on the nose is not to dominate the face. Each item in nature is a complete cos- mos in itself; but in a pictorial com- position the lesser must be subordi- nated to the greater. In order that there may be a foreground, there must be a background, in which only the most salient factors can be shown at ail The attention must be led to a detinite centre, toward which all lines have the effect of converging. A con- fused picture becomes totally incom- prehensible, and loses its artistic value, because it neither interprets nor re- veals anything. Things must be shown and combined, not as they in fact ex- ist in the given scene, nor even (a very different thing) precisely as they appear to the physical eye, but as they are seen by the eye of the imagination as elements in the production of a to- tal effect. A great landscape, for ex- ample, is one which produces on the observer an impression analogous to that felt by the artist either actually or imaginatively, in viewing the origi- nal scene under particular atmospheric and other conditions and in a partic- ular frame of mind. Mutatis mutan- dis, what is true of landscapes is true of other artistic representations. There is a truth in the realistic creed; but it is very far from being the whole truth, =

The esthetic fallacy is of almost a directly opposite nature. It finds the sole reason for art to consist in its representation of objective beauty. Its dogma is that no work of art should reed a title or require any axplanation of the subject. All art is held ‘to be

14,

THE RAINBOW

tee —S

cssentially decorative. Here is again a half truth, masquerading as a whole one. Truly, “beauty is truth, truth beauty”; but beauty is of more than one type and of more than one class. The great masters of painting who have sought to exemplify this theory have themselves demonstrated its in- adequacy. In vain did Whistler label his wonderful portrait of his mother “an arrangement in black and white.” The revelation of a human _ being mocked the dogma of the artistic the- orist; and this mighty tribute to a loved personality will survive all of this painter’s highly prized “noc- turnes” and “arrangements.” Great art is beautiful, to those who bring to it a spirit in harmony with its own, because it is harmony with the laws of life. It is the inner truth of the universe, and is one with truth, which is ever beautiful to those who most fully conceive it. If it is not objec- tively beautiful, it is subjectively so. The esthetic school is right in saying that beauty will always be found in true art but wrong in assuming that beauty is an objective thing to be sought for itself alone.

The classical fallacy is the tendency to confine art to arbitrary rules and precedents, and to worship technique for its own sake. It is usually more a habit of mind than a deliberate the- ory; and it is responsible for the en- slavement of many artists to the meth- ods of particular “schools” or to per- sonal mannerisms, whether conscious- ly or unconsciously adopted. It is a cause of the deadly dullness of many annual exhibitions of paintings, where a jury of academically minded artists makes the selections, and carefully bars nonconformist works. Let. this not be taken as a plea for the prod- ucts of the various futuristic, post- impressionistic, cubist and other re- cent movements. Not all of these are honest attempts to produce true art. Many of them are simply bad art, which tries to be conventional, and seeks to capitalize its humiliating fail- ure. Others are mere schemes to at- tract attention by meretricious sensa- tionalism, with no sober conviction ai the bottom. Still others are more or less morbid erraticism, with no real significance. Many more are the prod- uct of half-baked theories; and others are somewhat wild experiments. The residuum consists in works which are part of an attempt to break away from arbitrary precedents, and find new and sound modes of expression. Crude as some of them are, it is yet too early to judge them as a whole. Certain it is that the vast majority of the new schools will perish, and some of them in no good odor. But from

the few that survive the art of the fu- ture is certain to learn much. It may be added that some of them form an inveited classicism, with all the nar- rowness of the old academic spirit, and the same insistence on a particu- lar technique.

The hedonistic fallacy belongs es- pecially to the “lowbrow,’ who is proud of his ignorance and unwilling- ness to learn or to develop. He frankly seeks art only for purposes of idle amusement, and does not care who knows it. The idea that enlarged vision broadens and deepens the whole nature and infinitely enriches life and character is incomprehensible to him. He “knows nothing about art, but knows what he likes’; and the thought of improving his taste and learning the finer joys of a nobler type of “liking” is alien to him. He has no patience to study any picture which does not instantly catch his eye by a flamboyant display of colrs or by thrusting a “story” on his attention in a manner redolent of the headlines in a Hearst or other disreputable pa- per. He throws away any opportu- nity to develop appreciation of the wonderful melodies of classical music, but does on the jangling horrors of jazz and the cheap trashiness of rag- time and the “popular” songs from the wretched musical comedies of the day. A genuinely fine drama is anath- ema to him; for he is afraid of any- thing that makes him think. Know- ing next to nothing of the better types of literature and art, he can refer to them only with a sneer. While sen- sitive to the point of touchiness to even the mildest criticism of his utter lack of taste or of interest in the really -worthwhile things in artistic expression, he assumes that the “high- brow,” who is simply the man or wo- man who likes good art and seeks to learn more of it, is always fair game, and to be made the subject of unlim- ited and never ending ridicule: His armor of self-complacency is too thick to be pierced by any argument; and since the great lessons of art can never be learned without personal study, he will never know any better, nor realize that he is wilfully cutting himself off from the most perfect joys of life, which would yield as great pleasure to him as to the thousands of others, made of the same clay as himself, who do enjoy them, if he would only resolve to make the effort to find out what art has to offer. There is always hope for the victims of the other fallacies, who may by further study come to broader views; but only a miracle or miracles can bring artistic salvation to the mere sensation-monger.

e

Of the other class of fallacies, deal- ing with technique, it is not necessary to say much. Many of them have arisen in the past, and, after running their course, were universally aban- doned. Most of these are now for- gotien. At the present time, they are represented by divers new schools, which vainly seek to break down the dividing lines among the different art forms. When a novel becomes a sim- ple sermon, when music undertakes to relate a detailed and complete narra- tive, when painting seeks not merely to suggest, but actually to represent motion, when dancing is employed to expound an entire sociological theory, the result -is not interpretation, but simple chaos. When the whirling col- ors that dance before the eye of the victim of seasickness are remembered, and later transferred to canvas and la- belled “A Storm at Sea,” we have a derangement of art, which belongs only ina madhouse. When New York skyscrapers are pictured as drunk and reeling, because the painter had seen them when he was in a drunken fit, or had imagined the shape which they would assume to the victim of intoxi- cation, no artistic end is served. When the refuse of a lumber-yard is gathered up, and thrown on canvas as “A Nude Descending a Staircase,” art has become the handmaid of sheer ab- surdity. When a sculptor undertakes to represent Dian de Pougy with eyes which are distorted and bulging ob- jects as large as hen’s eggs, we are in the realm of the wildly grotesque. These and many like them are the ex- crescences of the new movements in art. In poetry, the crimes committed under name of “vers libre” are innu- merable, although many true poems have been, and more will be, written in the new forms, which will in time find their due place in perfect har- mony with the older ones.

The future of art is as certain as the future of life. Schools will come and go; theories will be born and die; out of a thousand experiments, a handful will succeed and modify the technique of the future. Always, how- ever, art will continue its mission of interpretation. As the race grows, it will keep even pace, however it may change its modes of expression. It can never be outgrown, and can never die out, while man himself remains alive, and retains something in his na- ture which lifts him in sympathy above the muckheap. Forever it will remain his loved and honored com- panion, leading him gently but surely out of the realm of the sordid and selfish into the region of the larger and nobler vision.

JAMES F. MORTON, JR.

THE. RAINBOW

15

A Letter to G— K—

Here, in the night, are winds that

cry and keep

Their frozen clangor on the wall of sleep;

Autumn, in pyramidal splendour pales,

But in her heart the joy it is that fails

And fades. Not all her sun, rain, wrath, her cries,

The red lustration of a soul that dies

Uncherished and regretful, still’d in

bronze,

Under the year’s immortal gonfal- ons—

Dare keep her with us. To her clar- ion call,

Is whispered moaning the confes- sional

That precedes Winter, when by way and flood,

Steals as a doom, the whiter broth- erhood,

Unshriving and unshriven with a speech,

Deeper than heartache in the depth of each,

Alone, yet muted. O my dearest friend! Never the day that does not reach an end. Never yet in the wild symphonic din, But there came subtlier the cry with- in: Give up... give over! Iam he who said: Until this disquiet heart be quieted; Until upon these eyes, this lyric brain, Not even a winged vestige shall re- main, Save the one prophecying voice that spells, Rebellion for this nethermost of hells; Protest against the blind, the dumb, the driven, Beggar’d on earth yet still denied their heaven; Not until thither as a torch at tryst, There perish in my soul the mutinist, Shall I be silenced! T have heard it told, Of a vast tower of perfume and of gold; About a wayfarer as in a dream, Who saw the molten spire and win- dows gleam, Heard cry a voice in the enchanted night, From lips like music, laughter and de- light; Something that pealed: Enter! for here at feast, | Thou, that of mankind art accounted

least, Shalt as a god sit, strange, imperial, ’ lone, Tremulous and sublunar on_ thy throne . Z And entered in huge silence, but at : -dawn, One who beside him stood, cried:

‘Now, begone!

A shadow art thou henceforth, even as these

That wrought so cruelly thy desti- nies—

SAMUEL LOVEMAN Call thyself Pity, ever after!

Must be that wayfarer until I die;

Shall ree and always seeking, never fin

Wisdom in hearts, beauty in eyes stone-blind,

Then pass to one who passed before MCs «3 0 enlles

Who so loved life, who so loved lib- erty,

That all the darkness in eternal space,

Shone golden on us with his godlike face,

In still, saturnian largess.

We remain,

Never to know his druid self again;

Nor on the water’s perilous rise and fall,

To hear soft-brimm’d, that voice of voices call

Lines from the sonnets he so-loved to speak,

Shakspere, Stagnelius, or some purple Greek,

Who sang to lyres by the Ionian sea,

Forgotten, save by him alone. But we,

When Spring begins out Dover-way, shall find

The butterflies again upon the wind,

And see in all the blue sky, pink and white,

The apple-blossoms ward flight,

Hearken the birds upon the boughs that bend,

in their down-

To sing the song that only Spring

shall end,

And hear his soul, the cry in flowers and leaves, :

Love me—but love me not, who pines and grieves!

16

THE RAINBOW

Through the Eyes of the Poet

What I am about to say seems much like a confession of the obvi- ous, but like the Ancient Mariner I cannot rest until the tale is told. For some years I have been trying to teach the appreciation of poetry, and I have rested fairly content under the apprehension that I was turning out my pupils with at least a bit more of an idea as to why some famous poems are great and beautiful. It is only in the last year or so that I have come slowly to a realization that any reading of a poem without a clear vision of the poet’s primary pictures can hardly be dignified by the name of reading. To read is to look at words on a page and transmute them, through the alchemy of the brain, into images, the coinage of thought. Train- ing in reading, therefore, must devote itself to perfecting this process of im- age formation.

Like any other act requiring the least skill, this image-forming process is something which the natural man performs poorly or hardly at all. The fact that he usually reads to ‘‘see what happens” or to “see how it turns out” demonstrates this clearly enough. It is sufficient for him if the author in- troduces a number of vague figures, barely distinguished by particular names, ages, sexes, and maybe an out- standing scrap or two of costume, and proceeds to put them through an in- teresting set of paces. he is interested enough to visualize quite clearly; what they are, however, he hardly sees, and usually he doesn’t care enough to make the effort.

It is evident that the instructor must do some breaking of ground to fertil- ize and cultivate such fallow imagi- nations. He must develop the pupil’s ability to imagine people and things as well as motions, and, at the author’s suggestion, to endow those persons and things with form, shape, color, and individual characteristics. How can this be done? As in learning to swim, principally by doing it.

In my classes the question “What do you see?” has been repeated so often that I am quite expecting to be- hold it some time in the high school monthly under “Favorite Remarks of Our Faculty.” But that repetition is beginning to bear fruit. Where at first it was greeted with blankness or an attempt to explain or interpret the figure in place of describing, it is now almost sure to bring forth a clear- visioned “I see’ with plenty of trim- mings not in the original picture—a very good sign.

Thorough appreciation of poetry has little to do with anything except the sensations, chiefly those of sight and sound. A knowledge of the foot, the line, and the stanza-form should of course be well in hand, but one may be an expert technician and still fail miserably to sense the beauty of a

What they do

poem. If he can be given the poet’s glasses, however, and made to feel, ever so remotely, the rapture which inspired the poem, his appreciation has begun.

Let me illustrate with a few lines from some of the great English poems commonly studied in high school. I will begin with a very simple but vivid picture from the “Deserted Vil- lage”:

To husband out life’s taper at the close.

see how many “will catch the. picture at the first reading. .You will be amazed at the percentage of times it either fails to register altogether or else leaves only a cloudy image.

But if that was too easy to bother with, try another couplet fromthe same poem:

Princes or lords may flourish or may fade; ;

A breath can: make them as a breath has made. .

MAURICE W. MOE

To interpret these words in literal terms is one thing, a very important part of the reading process; but fully as important is the clear vision of a guttering little candle-end with a hand protectingly curved around it to shield the feeble flame from the eddy- ing currents of this drafty existence. Do you think the picture in that line is already too distinct to need such additional outlining? Just try it on a group of ordinary young people and

Never have I ‘tried. that on a class and received a clear image from the first reading. Disregarding the prob- ably unconscious imagery of the first line, endeavor to-reconstruct the scene Goldsmith must have had in his mind as he penned the second line—for be assured that no image flows from the pen of a poet utitil it has been limned upon his mental canvas with a wealth of color and detail.he cannot hope to crowd into the narrow limits of his

figure. There can be no doubt that we have here a scene at court during the conferring of knighthood, the ac- colade of the royal blade on the bowed shoulder, accompanied by the “T dub thee knight” of the king. In this case the real value of this image exercise becomes apparent, for if the line was obscure upon first reading, its interpretation is a very simple mat- ter once the primary picture is made distinct.

Sometimes the picture is so vast and startling that one’s cramped im- agination refuses to register it in its original form. A good. example of this | is found in the “Ancient Mari- ner”:

Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast;

His great bright eye most silently Up to the moon is cast.

Here again there can be no doubt that Coleridge visioned a gigantic master with a slave lying prostrate before him—but flat on his back instead- of on his face, for his eye is directed up- ward. The size of that, stupendous blue eye, the whole visible surface of the ocean from horizon to horizon, implies such a still more stupendous size in the whole figure of the slave and his master that imagination fal- ters and must be coaxed to do its work.

Again, in Byron’s famous trophe to the. ocean:

apos-

Thou glorious mirror, where the Al- mighty’s form Glasses itself in tempests.

the poet’s sublimated imagination con- jures up an image so vast and so ma- jestic that our poor mundane minds can only grope at the outlines of it. It is a figure, however, to make one realize, once it is outlined, how rarely modern art—whether verbal or picto- rial—has presumed to visualize Deity. A study of poetry from this particu- lar angle brings many interesting facts to light. It reveals, for in- stance, that Shelley’s poems are the most nearly continuous cinema of im- ages in the whole realm of English poetry. Any adequate proof of this assertion would string this article out to unreasonable lengths. One has only to read such wonderful poems as his “Ode to the West Wind,” “To a Skylark,” “The Cloud,” or “Adonais,” with imagination’s lens sharply in fo- cus to realize in what rare profusion

THE RAINBOW

the images tumble out of the poet’s mind. The leaves become

Yellow ani black and pale and hectic re Pestilence-stricken multitudes.

Thunder-clouds are to him

The locks of the approaching storm...

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad.

Surely no poet has ever built a more beautiful picture of

Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, Staining the white radiance of eter-

nity, Until Death tramples it to fragments.

In a few cases the close succession of metaphors applied to the same object carries Shelley very nearly over the border-line of poetic taste in a mixed metaphor. It is one virtue of our moving-picture process of study that it infallibly plays the spotlight upon such lapses. Take, for instance, the lines

Make me thy lyre, even as the for- est is:

What if my leaves are falling as thine own. .

The first line contains a picture of a gigantic lyre. Such an instrument the poet wishes to be; and yet in the very rext clause he assumes himself to be a tree with falling leaves (“growing bald,” quoth one of my youthful ap- preciators). This comes about as near as possible to being a mixed metaphor without actually being one.

Often class discussion will wage fu- riously as to just why the poet chose the picture he did. Shelley, for exam- ple, says to the skylark,

Like a cloud of fire The blue deep thou wingest.

On the face of it this simile pictures the little bird as a mass of flame mov- ing along in the sky. Why should a little speck away up so high as to be almost if not quite invisible suggest to the poet a mass of flame? Is it not an inept comparison? At first a class gropes blindly for the solution of this riddle, and then almost infal- libly it will dawn on one or two that the little lark, as it wings its way through the deep, pours forth a flood of melody which to the rarified vi-

e

WY

sion of the poet envelops it in a per- fect nimbus of fire. The blending of the visual and the auditory image into one is a daring device, but Shelley shows himself partial to this very thing several times in this poem, as in the moonbeam and the glow-worm similes. Nothing finer can be found to sharpen the appreciative powers of the amateur reader than the exercise in leaping the gap between one sense and another, as one must in such sim- iles.

I have spoken of this method as if it were solely for the benefit of the beginner; but there can be little doubt that the mental gymnastics it affords will have their value even to the vet- eran reader. Let me repeat that the best of us are all too apt to glide over the mere surface of figurative language “to see what happens,” often throwing away the opportunity of rev- eling in some beautiful little vignette the painstaking word-artist has etched for us. What, for instance, are you going to do with these lines from William Vaughan Moody’s “Glouces- ter Moore”?

And the racing winds that wheel and flee On the flying heels of June.

Are you going to think merely of wind blowing across flowery meadows, or are you going to be so alive to the poet’s words that those heels of June cannot fly unless they have a body to propel them? And in personifying June are you going to make her a beautiful, light-footed maiden, or what? And when you have gone so far with your picture, are you going to be satisfied with those wheeling, fleeing winds merely as invisible cur- rents of air, or will they take tangible form and become the only things that naturally wheel and flee about human beings in an excess of animal enjoy- ment, namely dogs? If you don’t like my picture, construct one of your own, but in any case don’t leave the words unimaged.

After some systematic exercise of the kind I have just described you will be almost sure to find that you are developing a more or less dor- mant photographic faculty in your mind, and the reading of poetry, and even of prose, where the latter abounds in figure, will become a de- lightful excursion through the endless picture-galleries of the world’s great minds.

MAURICE WINTER MOE.

18

That the American nation hates and derides its men of genius, has become a platitude which Mr. Mencken, so loud in pointing it out, himself con- tributes to prove. While he, a first- rate yellow journalist, has risen to fame by the typically indigenous method of Noise, he has chosen to overlook, as a_ perfectly feasible companion in his elevation, a man of superior penetration, greater ar- tistic accomplishments, and a warm and untainted genius. That man is Frank Harris; a voluble and frequent writer, easy to read, with none of the suspect subtleties of style or allusion, as American as Mencken and more diverse in theme; yet who, while in his native country, has been oppressed and obscure, and who today is almost unknown. Mr. Mencken has aided Dreiser, Cabell, Howe, and others in- ferior to Harris; from private corre- spondence I know that he thinks high- ly of his work, but like the rest of the journalistic public he refrains from mentioning it.

I cannot attempt to account for this neglect. The only hints I can find are the well-known artistic tastes of the American public, and the capital- istic prejudices of the press. For Harris is a Liberal, one of the most offensive of ‘that objectionable tribe who insist on speaking their own minds and striving for the welfare of the workers, when, as the newspapers have so often proved, they don’t de- serve it. He is offensive because his management of Pearson’s Magazine was historical in its clarion and un- wavering honesty. Harris spoke his mind when the whole nation was in- sane against free speech; he was reviled and his paper oppressed, but he kept up the fight with glorious pugnacity and today his magazine is one of the few honest ones that have survived the war hysteria.

Harris is of Irish and American descent, born on the Kansas prairies. In his long career since, he edited the Saturday Review in London, and as- sociated himself intimately for more than a decade, about the close of the last century, with the leaders in art, politics, and literature in England and America. He gained admirers and some notoriety by his courageous and wounding attack upon the British con- duct of the Boer war, but his enduring fame rests on his literature. Among his books are “The Man Shakespeare and his Tragic Life Story;” “Oscar Wilde, His Life and Confessions;” a superb realistic novel; “The Bomb,” two or three volumes of “Contem- porary Portraits” of eminent men he has known; and many short stories.

His sympathies, never tasting of anti-America, have nevertheless kept always their Hibernian flavor. He

THE RAINBOW

Frank Harris By Alfred Galpin, Jr.

probably hates the English middle classes, and all they represent, more than any man alive. In art, too, he is opposed to current democratic scriptures—inculcated by such author- ities as Dr. Sherman and the Mission- ary Bulletin. He is intensely advo- cative of independent and un-popular, though not necessarily aristocratic, writing. In these opinions he is vio- lent and incurable, yet he has room above them for a broad and passion- ate humanity.

I have said that his opinions were violent. This is typical of his appar- ently obvious, yet curiously esoteric

temperament. There is no fiercer fighter, in his field, alive. When he took the editorship of Pearson’s

Magazine four years or more ago, it was all but defunct. By the insight and force of his political comment, even more than by his stories and literary criticism, he put it on its feet. His suggestions showed re- markable perspicuity, and his prophe- cies were most wunpleasantly right; but he was in a losing cause, and in the October, 1921, issue of his maga- zine he expresses his despair:

“T am finished; to fight for the American ideals of Washington and Jefferson in these states is like spit- ting against a gale. * * * Six: millions of workmen out of work and noth- ing is done for them; President Hard- ing gives the railroad bosses another half billion of public money for their notorious worthlessness and denies our soldiers the pitiful bonus prom- ised them; Harding talks disarmament and puts through an increase of arma- ment that will cost * * * more than the whole German indemnity; amnesty still refused to conscientious objec- tors * * * though every European na- tion has granted free deliverance months ago * * *. My protests against all this insanity are unheeded and worse; they are alienating opin- ion; ‘your grouching is not wanted,’ I am told * * *.” He ends by an- nouncing his return to pure literature: inevitable, and surely for the best, but cutting short a brave struggle.

It is in literature that, with the lapse of time, he will be remembered, Judi- cious critics have ranked his life of Wilde with the greatest biographies ever written, and some have put it supreme among those in English. In this regard, an anecdote illustrates his naive and candid egotism: A distin- euished English critic said that his “Wilde” was one of the best six biog- raphies in the language; whereupon Harris at once telegraphed him, in- dignantly, to “name the other five;” In truth, it is an appalling piece of work, to which one must carry all his alert- ness. The most apparent comment is upon his method: He delights in

making the picture so black that only the most hardened, or the most com- passionate, can bear his revelations; then, by force of deep, thrilling pity, unquestionably sentimental in effect, but the clear stamp of greatness, the shadows are redeemed and the whole glows with that indefinable charm that we find in the contact of two large souls, opposite but akin. Read- ing this book, a sensitive poet of my acquaintance said that in the huge- ness of its compassion it stands al- most beside the New Testament. Moreover, it is written with a keen eye for the reader’s attention, never dull. It is defiantly unconventional— frank on a subject which the author’s dear English-middle-classes consider very dubious. He ignores research, and relies entirely on facts within his immediate personal knowledge: which is necessarily vast, since during the period of Wilde’s fame and infamy he was in the inner circle of the favorite’s faithful friends.

His book on Shakespeare is even greater, in its revelations on a topic seeming so old, so well-worn, and even so uninteresting. Harris ridicules all past commentators, personify- ing them together as Dryasdust, and then sets up his thesis—starting on the obvious but new assumption that Shakespeare was not a detestable, myriad-minded symbol of objective perfection, but that like other artists his fundamental aim was passionate self-expression. Then we are treated to an iconoclastic analysis of the plays and a synthesis of the character and life of their author. As a contribution to criticism it is epochal; and there is something more, it may very well be genius, which paints us the innex- most soul, and conjectures at the tragic history, of him who was “prob- ably the finent and most passionate spirit that has yet visited mankind.”

Of his short stories I know less; but Wells and Shaw (the latter a life- long friend and associate) in England are among those who rank him with the greatest of all masters of this form. The curious reader may seek in the files of our university library for some of his printed volumes, or keep track of Pearson’s magazine: which, commencing with the October issue, plans to print some of his best. In that issue there is a tale which surely is the best written by an Amer- ican in years: “A Mad Love: The Strange Story of a Musician.” Here Harris shows again his flair for de- picting men of genius; he tells of the breaking of an exquisitely passionate and original genius upon the wheel of life, through his own too great refine- ment as much as through the definite instrumentation of love. Harris is im- mensely proud of his stories.

THE RAINBOW

19

I have mentioned him as a foil to Mencken, to the latter’s disadvantage: I am sure that this judgment will be sustained by a study of Harris’, criti- cisms, a relatively unimportant part of his work, written carelessly and journalistically. In Mencken we have an erudite first-nighter. shouting for artistic honesty, and turning out to be the initial patron of the new Amer- ican Realism. Harris is not so strict- ly contemporary. - He says he is “not well read, for I only like the best;” but he studied at Heidelberg and knows both English and foreign literatures well. He is intolerant of Sherwood Anderson and “Main Street” because they are ridiculously inartistic, ugly, and worst of all, dull. It is no matter to him that they paint our ridiculously inartistic, ugly, and dull life in America with some fidelity; they are poor books, out upon them! He cannot be fooled, as a lover of Shakespeare, with the New Poetry. But he is best at “spotting” a dull book; he demands that his emotions be moved, and so he is often surpris- ing in his praise of popular works like “Slippy McGee” while he pooh- poohs Knut Hamsun and says there are only five pages worth reading in “The Growth of the Soil.” On the whole, he is an original and outspoken reviewer, with traditions behind him.

As to his aspect I quote a letter from a Cleveland friend who heard him at one of his Shakespeare lectures

Not until I had the rare good for- tune of entering Amateur Journalism did I realize that, added to the joys I already possess, life held still an- other. in store for me.

Tonight as I sit at my little desk trying to compose an eloquent address to you, I find that the head gives way to the heart; so that instead of mak- ing ambitious flights into the aether of rhetoric, I may only express my profound gratitude to all you spirited and delightful Fellow-amateurs for the joys of this splendid game. In a reminiscent mood, I am looking over some old amateur papers, and scarce- ly can I find adequate words of praise for each; they are so full of the joy of living and so vibrant with every emo- tion—love, laughter, joy, sorrow, and good-natured humor—therefore so al- luring and delightful.

One of the first which comes to hand is a number of The Trail, with a splendid introduction by the editor, Mr. Alfred L. Hutchinson. In this number I find a witty and humorous criticism of The Creator's work; “A Better Body,’ by Mr. Maurice W. Moe. In his clever skit Mr. Moe’s ingenious pen readily provokes that spontaneous mirth which is followed

there: “A small man, ruddy-faced, hair black with a dash of gray, and hardly showing his sixty-five odd years, * * -* He started with a glass of whiskey, poured by himself. The thing ended in a near-riot. Some doctor took objection to Harris’ de- nunciation of the English and af- firmed that he (Harris) was anti- American. The climax was marvelous. Harris pointed to a huge American flag above him and cried—‘I believe in the Constitution of the United States, but damn your version of it.’ Then, one of the members arose and suggested that they tender Mr. Harris a vote of thanks for saying the things so many of them felt but were too cowardly to utter aloud. They brought the house down with cheer- ing.”

To summarize: I hope that enough of the fundamental structure of Har- ris’ mind has inhered in my exposi- tion to give you the groundwork of an understanding of it. As in all great American writers, there is more than a little journalism in him; but Harris’ is probably resolvable into his native bluntness plus life-long asso- ciations as a magazine writer and ed- itor. That bluntness strips him bare, in all but his most finely-wrought stories, of all style for style’s sake, even of all refinement in writing, for which he is rather more insistent in his criticisms.. It gives us, too, so un-

Atactoumdgink of the Bue

JUST JOURNALS

by peals of unrestrained laughter. Other interesting features abound in this number—a variety too vast to enumerate.

Being a lover of humor, I am glad to pick up two Sun beams and en- joy their sparkling rays. Come to think of it, Sun beams are usually elusive; but these two are chained, and what delightful links the chain is made of! “Literary Derelicts” and “Tolerated Nonsense’ may well be relished by the best of amateurs. . The rest of the ‘links’ are equally interest- ing. Even the editor's name, Elgie Joseph Andrione, is sunny!

Next in my file I proudly count

eighteen numbers of the delightful ©

magazinlet, The Scot, whose pages are sweet with the fragrance of Scotch heather and sonorous with the char- acteristic note of the Bag-pipe, played by a true highlander, garbed in his native kilt. And here all amateur- dom may take a lesson from the edi- tor, Mr. Gavin T. McColl, who is un- fortunately an invalid, yct, who, I be- lieve, has outdistanced all the rest of amateurdom save our beloved Tryout alone with the frequency and reg- ularity of his issues.

At ‘random I have taken up two

obstructed a view into his tempera- ment that we suspect his candour and fear it is a part.of some higher dis- simulation. For there is a great spirit behind it; and Harris himself is fond of saying, a. propos. of his Shakes- pearian triumphs, that one “cannot see above his own head.” His fervent devotion for the most removed type of artistic temperament, for Shakes- peares and Goethes, certainly does not entitle him to be called democratic; yet today he is one ‘of the two or three most vigorous fighters in the country for the rights of the down- trodden. His humanity is broad, emo- tional. No aristocrat by birth, he has less of that contempt for the abstract noun “Man” than more artificial types possess. He detests popular judg- ments, and flames. against middle- class predominance in anything; but he sees the finer feelings, the emo- tional ardor, which are instilled into the “under dog” by the very nature of his circumstances, and defends him always. He is assertive, fiery, healthy, utterly independent: Shaw, comparing him with the effeminate Wilde, said he looked like the shade of some old buccaneer. But perhaps he is best un- derstood when placed beside his be- loved Shakespeare. . Like the man he so well and so newly understood, his is a flaming soul, knight-errant for Beauty, in conflict with the over- whelming ‘stupidity and sordidness of the world.

copies of The United Amateur; one of October, 1915, the cover page of which presents the attractive and in- teresting features of Mr. Edward F. Daas, the Official Editor, for that year. And from the first page of an- other number, that for September, 1915, is reflected the youthful and scholarly half-tone of Mr. H. P. Love- craft, then First Vice-President of the United Amateur Press Association. In both numbers this organization may well have indulged a justifiable pride in the rich and active intellects of these youthful incumbents, whose works already formed excellent lit- erary models. Though immature in years and experience, Mr. Lovecraft even at that remote age indicated the mellowness which has so considerably developed with recent maturity.

The next at hand is an interesting file of The Silver Clarion, whose sweet note sounds the characteristic depth of its peace-loving, God-fearing editor. For proof of this I need go no farther than the first page of the number before me, upon which is pre- sented the sweetly smiling counte- nance of the editor’s charming baby- daughter, Miss Loyce Ruth Samples. Accept my best wishes and hearty

20

THE RAINBOW

congratulations, Baby Ruth, for dis- playing so good a taste in the selec- tion of your parents! If your Daddy and Mammy were not literally born to the manner of amateur journalism, at least you surely are. Some day your lovely name will be blazoned in glowing colors across the amateur sky, and who can tell but that it may reach out still a greater distance— perhaps into the professional world of art and letters?

Some of our more mature friends will have to wait while I make my little bow and speech to you; but be- ing a lover of kittens, puppies, babies and all animate mammals diminutive, I cannot pass them by without a word of greeting; they seem to be the only people who truly comprehend my unique language. Bye-bye, Baby Ruth, [’ll be glad to meet you again!

Now I have before me, I believe, the real inspiration—or shall I say excuse—or reason—for imposing this lengthy dissertation upon you. It is the “Informal Number of Mr. Mau- rice Winter Moe’s always delectable Apprentice. Mr. Moe, I am delighted to meet you! Your fame has pre- ceded you, reaching me even before I knew of the existence of your en- ticing publication. I insist that it is enticing—just look at these nonsen- sical pages of mischief for which I hold your publication to blame! But I am indeed happy to know your Ap- prentice. May I hope for a continu- ance of the pleasure when he becomes a “master”? Thank you!

Now my hand idly falls upon a few numbers of The Tryout. Really, Mr. Smith, you ought to change the name —I think it is no longer a “tryout”! If you ask’me (as your friend Love- craft would say) Ill inform the cos- mos that it’s a “Headliner”!

The next brochure fills me with sin- cere regret and profound reverence. “In Memoriam—Jennie E. T. Dowe,” edited by Mr. Michael White, is a lovelier and more lasting monument to her noble memory than any im- posing marble shaft might be. I re- egret that mine was not the good for- tune to have known the kindly and charming mother of the none less kindly and charming Mrs. Edith Mun- ter.

Of the next few amateur publica- tions I can justly say that many have been my inspiration, recreation, ani- mation and dissipation; and some— sometimes—my desperation! Above all, they have been my incentive to strive after a goal which I may per- haps never reach, but whose pursuit is alluring and inspiring. It is like trying to climb a steep and rugged mountain; worth the effort and ex- haustion, even if the summit be never attained.

Several more numbers of The United Amateur of the season 1920- 1921 thrill me with delight. Upon the cover-page of the uppermost issue I

behold “John Clare in a Madhouse,” by Mr. Samuel Loveman; another contains “A Scene for Macbeth,” by the same gifted young poet.

Two issues of The Sprite are now before me; more fitting names could not be desired. In these I find a great many delightful and iridescent dreams from Mr. Loveman’s facile fancy, not the least exquisite, dainty and artistic of which are the beautiful Chinese poems. Read them aloud, dear Fellow-Amateurs. Note the charming and adorable little lilt in the following:

Li Ho Chan in the sunset’s gleam Murmurs: “Life is an opium dream.

“Drugged or drunk were the gods that blew, This world on their lacquered pipe of dew. ° “That wrought in the poppy’s colored deep,

Laughter and Love and an endless sleep!”

Li Ho Chan descries from afar

The yellow moon and the evening star.

Not only is this poetry of a rich and rare sort, but one reads a world of philosophy in its eight short lines. Isn’t it delightful? Don’t you love it? I do! I go about my work singing this little song to a tune all my own, made up “out of my own head.”

And now for some of the more se- rious poems; “Ode on the Passing of Youth’, “Isolation’, and “Ode to Apollo” from The Saturnian. I'll ad- mit they started to go “over my head,” but I just wouldn’t let them. [I find that in order to understand and enjoy Mr. Loveman’s poems one must be on speaking terms with some of the dead languages, so I hied me away to Columbia and “bought” a course of studies in Jatin and Greek literature. Having made the delightful acquaint- ance of Mr. Homeros, Mr. P. Vergil- ius Maro, and the rest of the classic “amateur journalists” (!!) I am now quite ready to continue enjoying Mr. Loveman’s “po-tree.” I thought I'd miss something I’d regret missing un- less I understood the “dead classics”, which I find very much alive!

Now I come to two of the most erudite and “high-brow” publications in amateurdom: The Conservative and The Philosopher. How the former can be so radical in philosophy and still live with such a name is more than I can tell! The pertinent reti- cence of The Conservative has cer- tainly struck a heavy blow in the solar plexus of my radicalism. I am flab- bergasted! After recovering from its polite but forceful impact I am now as meek as a lamb, and as in Mary’s school jingle

I may make A. J. laugh and play— ’Tis not against the rule—

But follow The Conservative Quite faithfully to school!

Before me there are more and still more amateur papers, each crying for its rightful little place in my tiny uni- verse. Among these are several is- sues of The Quill, a first-class amateur publication forming the official organ of the Quill Club of London, England, of which Mr. Max Pemberton, the noted author, is President. But it is to the kindness of the Chairman, Mr. Juan W. P. Chamberlain, that I owe the pleasure of my recent acquaint- ance with the magazine.

Looking at me with eyes ablaze is The Bear-Cat, edited by Mr. Dowdell. Billy, it’s a bear! As soon as they hatch, send me a coupl’a cubs!

I want also to thank the editors of the following for having included me on their lists: The Austral Bay, by Mr. Leon Stone; In Lighter Vein, by Mr. Andrew Lockhart; Buds of Prom- ise, by Peggy Reid; The Wolverine, by Mr. Lawson; The Brooklynite, The Piper, by Mr. Rheinhart Kleiner, and more and still more amateur papers with poems by Miss L. Middleton, Miss Winifred Jackson, Mr. Good- enough, Mr. Eugene Kuntz, Mrs. Anne T. Renshaw, Mrs. Whitehead, Mr. Campbell, Mr. H. Youmans and Mr. James Crowley. I am bewildered, enraptured and intoxicated by the joys derived from the surrounding amateur publications, which are as rare flowers whose fragrance I inhale with all the force of my mental and spiritual lungs.

Night’ after night, almost until the wee hours of morning, I burn my “magic mazda” and keep chirographic vigil in the untiring and elusive pur- suit of Amateur Journalism. I say elusive because it is always just fleet and exacting enough to make one lag behind, never quite able to catch up with it. Reams and reams of good paper, badly exploited, are nightly consigned to the waste-basket. [I work by day, too; really, ’m a won- der! huh?]

No matter what I’ve said to you in those sadly mutilated. pages reposing so peacefully in my prettily berib- boned waste-basket, it was said with sincerest intent. But not being satis- fied with my former messages, I sat down this ‘wild and woolly” night and abandoned myself entirely to you, dear fellow amateurs. It is so much nicer and easier to write a chatty string of talk a mile long than to per- plex my doubtful cranium with some deep and vital question of the day. Let’s leave that to newspaper editors, politicians and other public nuisances. Notwithstanding my apparent frivol- ity, please believe that I am sincere and that incidentally I enjoyed my chosen task very much!

A. J., I exclaim, is a wonderful game; but perhaps in my zeal I’m di- gressing. So, lest rhetoric soar till it seems but a bore, I’ll adjourn for the time with a blessing.

Dear A. Js., Au Revoir!

THE EDITOR.