t really
to be superfluous; but its practical justification is found in the silly
clamour of those Anglophobes who are unfortunately permitted to reside
within our borders. "Insomnia," by Winifred Virginia Jordan, is a
remarkable piece of verse whose dark turns of fancy are almost worthy of
a Poe. The grotesque tropes, the cleverly distorted images, the bizarre
atmosphere, and ingeniously sinister repetitions all unite to produce
one of the season's most notable poems. Each of the stanzas is vibrant
with the hideous, racking turmoil of the insomnious mind. "Prussianism,"
by William Thomas Harrington, is a concise and lucid essay on a timely
subject, reviewing ably the cause and responsibility of the present war.
It is especially valuable at this season of incoherent peace
discussion, for it explodes very effectively that vague, brainless
"neutrality" which prompts certain pro-German pacifists to cry for peace
before the normal and final settlement of Europe's troubles shall have
been attained by the permanent annihilation of the Prussian military
machine. "Twilight," by Chester Pierce Munroe, is a beautiful bit of
poetic fancy and stately phraseology. Mr. Munroe, a Rhode Islander
transplanted to the mountains of North Carolina, is acquiring all the
grace and delicacy of the native Southern bard, while retaining that
happy conservatism of expression which distinguishes his work from that
of most contemporary poets. Callously modern indeed must be he who would
wish Mr. Munroe's quaintly euphonious lines transmuted into the
irritatingly abrupt and barren phraseology of the day. "The Bond
Invincible," by David H. Whittier, is a short story of great power and
skilful construction, suggesting Poe's "Ligeia" in its central theme.
The plot is developed with much dexterity, and the climax comes so
forcibly and unexpectedly upon the reader, that one cannot but admire
Mr. Whittier's mastery of technique. Certain overnice critics may
possibly object to the tale, as containing incidents which no one
survives to relate; but when we reflect that Poe has similarly written a
story without survivors, ("The Masque of the Red Death") we can afford
to applaud without reservation. The complete absence of slang and of
doubtful grammar recommends this tale as a model to other amateur
fiction-writers. "Respite" is a lachrymose lament in five stanzas by the
present critic. The metre is regular, which is perhaps some excuse for
its creation and pu