Little Fiction in Current Monthly

The February number of the Monthly does not loss in interest though it presents a surprising contrast to the "Pagan" issue of last month. The figures and sentiments of antiquity no longer flit through its pages; they are replaced by comparatively modern and sordid actualities; like the U. S. Foreign Policy, the "Movie" and the Theatre and the Harvard Regiment. The prevailing note of the number is non-fictional; indeed, the only serious criticism that can be brought against the Monthly of 1916 is the absence of anything particularly creative in the realm of the short story.

On the other hand, both prose and verse in this number are unusual and good. Perhaps the best thing in the issue is Mr. McCombs' review of one of those militaristic books which flood the shelves just now. In the form of a book-notice and in remarkably few words, the writer constructs a very neat case against the war maniacs. There is a certain cold charm in the temperance and lucidity of his style--a charm which we encounter frequently in the best work of the so-called "Pacifist" school, and which is in happy contrast to the bow-wow of the opposite camp. Mr. Reniers concludes his article on the moving Picture in this issue. Though a little slow-moving, it is clearly patterned and has been written with pains. The "Agrippina" of Mr. Lyman Dudley lacks what so many historical productions lack,--a sense of atmosphere. Mr. Burrows' article on our foreign policy is youthful and sincere, and (so far as it goes) arrestingly written. We prefer Mr. C. G. Paulding's short editorial on the late General Huerta to his longer article. Brief, bitter, and to the point, it reveals, like so much of the writer's other work, a personality which it were far better to agree with comfortably than combat. The only story in the issue--Mr. Dos Passos' "Cardinal's Grapes"--is a light trifle as the author intends it to be. If the latter added more humor to his other gifts,--the reaction to color, feeling for childhood, and sense of atmosphere,--he would be a better artist.

The poetry in the number is interestingly contrasted. When we say that Mr. Thacher Nelson's "Evening Prayer" suggests irresistibly the odor of the steam pipes in an Anglican church, we are not attacking it as a poem. On the contrary, it has lines which render it almost the most notable verse in the number. The first line of Mr. Benshimol's poem makes it memorable, while in Mr. Brent Allison the Monthly has a new and interesting talent. The last stanza of his "Moonrise in Boston," however faulty, is poignant and beautiful. In Mr. Poore's poem, an exceptional technique is combined with a delicacy of feeling which is difficult to analyze. Mr. Stewart Mitchell's "Neith," perhaps the most remarkable poem in the number, is also the most baffling. If there were a fraction less intellect in it, and a fraction more of real poetry, it would be notable verse.

Altogether this is a rather striking issue. We could not wish the Monthly better than the happy equipoise between the fanciful lightness of the last number and the vigorous thinking of the February one.