HATH DRUNK HIS FILL

Ever since the Advocate ceased to worship at the shrine of the Dial and directed its casual litanies towards the Atlantic Monthly there has existed a feeling in certain quarters that there was one undergraduate mood or type which was receiving no adequate expression. The answer would appear to be found in the Hound and Horn, whose bay is akin to a yelp from the Village and whose blast is more dulcet than shrill. Not a popular magazine in content, in fact apparently somewhat proud of its aloofness, its appeal is directed to the denizens of the candle-lit tea rooms, those flery spirits to whom James Joyce is an immortal and Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot minor prophets. The sincerity of this public compensates for its numerical insignificance and the reward for its undergraduate devotion is the exquisitely edited Hound and Horn.

A great deal of clear and not a little convulsive thought has gone into the initial number of this quarterly, the presence of which is being bruited about in the better bookshops from Brattle Street to Willoughby Street in London. One cannot dismiss it as another transitory emulation of the Parisian expatriates, although that group is the indubitable fount of its inspiration. Certainly it is not a periodical for the layman; rather is it one of the arts and for artists, or those who aspire to become artists. But it is too well made up to qualify as merely a fleeting pamphlet. It may or may not sustain the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but its first issue, by the solidity of its appearance and its finished air, gives promise of a hardy line of successors.

The Hound and Horn is exactly the magazine one will like if one likes that sort of thing. Other new publications have had less merit; certainly few have possessed the technical excellence of this one. The substantial list of god fathers, including President Neilson of Smith and Professor Murdock of Harvard does a great deal toward removing the qualms which its rather vague parentage gives forth. Those who can neither read Plato is the original nor Harrah's is signs may appreciate the tremendous significance exhibited by snapshots of Cambridge candy kitchens; those who are able to do neither one may find pleasure in admiring the type in which the magazine is set, and everyone can look at if not revel in the Manet-like art which in contained in the present issue. At any rate the fires on Montparnasse are leaping higher since the advent of a Rockwell Kent Hound and a safely modulated Horn.