College literary magazines generally meet like two dogs, but the June Monthly makes its comprehensive review of similar publications a helpful discussion of just what such publications should aim to be; and finally works out a very satisfactory creed--to wit: "A magazine which makes sensationalism or journalism or propaganda its first concern has no right to the name literary"; and again: "We aim, not to be professional, or in any cheap ways distinguished, but only to be as excellent as possible in the field of amateur literature." So, if amateurs in literature can do as well as they have, say in tennis or in Christianity, then the editors have set themselves a high standard; and long may they live up to it; and far removed be the day when they shall be induced to merge their magazine with any other.

Those who think Mr. Thomas Lawson's political advertisements better reading than the Monthly ought to look at Mr. C. V. Wright's essay, "A Lost Art". He champions the old Gregorian music like a Sir Kay; to him all church choirs not consecrated to the old plain chant are "merely formed for the use of tenors and fat women." Wagner, he says, "dissatisfied with the figure of the historic Christ, transformed him into a German prig with a nasty-minded distrust of feminity". That's Parsifal! There's plenty of go in the Monthly still. Mr. Pichel in his helpful "note" on Strindberg,--which, by the way, was written before Strindberg's death--does not find it necessary to be so vehement. That "note" suggests the query, whether or not it looks well to have the items on the title-page all labelled "verse", "essay", "fiction" and so forth--although of course this helps the worried reviewer.

The fiction of this number is interesting, Mr. M. Britten's "Poetastors", although clever, is not perfectly successful: it is a tale of the mismating of two half-baked literary souls, and the diction is rich with expressions like "she glimpsed his profile." Mr. Seldes' "The Other Crucified" is a too daring conception skillfully carried out except at the climax, where naturally it must be inadequate. "The Necklace of Death," by Mr. Skinner, is a good Indian yarn by one who knows the Indians; yet his properties get him into trouble in the middle of the narrative. The verse shows as usual craftsmanship, and occasionally makes music, but sel-

dom sense--except that there are glimpses of something both pleasant and purposeful toward the end of "Spring Hill," by W. D. The editorial paragraphs are graceful and sound; especially timely is that on Yale's university press--would that we were so fortunate as Yale!

The retiring editors of the Monthly certainly deserve the thanks of all interested in good writing for salving the magazine; and the new board may be sure of our good wishes in their indispensable and self-rewarding work