Amateurdom’s progress toward a civilised condition is halting and devious. No sooner do we advance a step, than some obstacle in the shape of glorified mediocrity or aesthetic and philosophical reaction appears to block the path; so that half our energy is spent in brushing away false ideas rather than increasing our store of genuine ideas. It is so in most departments of life, hence need call for no especial resentment among us—but it is none the less provoking.

The past official year has witnessed a depressing revival of obsolete notions and parading of outworn theories of art, as conspicuously exemplified by the anti-Loveman criticisms of last December. We were then informed in the best mid-Victorian manner that classical themes are obsolete, that Poe is reprehensively “morbid”, that Swinburnian paganism is too “blasphemous” for proper use in a decorous Christian country, that verse must not be above the interests and understanding of the “folksy” throng, that poets must protest against the evils of the age—and much more of the same. This precipitated a controversy yet in its prime, and now there dawns a new effulgence of pale-pink primness and propriety in the shape of Pauke’s Quill, edited and published by the diverse avatars, aboriginal and otherwise, of that spirited adolescent Paul Livingston Keil, Esq.

Far be it from the undersigned to discourage young Mr. Keil. Indeed, it is our sincere opinion that his vigorous personality will ultimately be of immense benefit in revivifying Amateur Journalism. But certain qualities of his present offering move us to protest in the name of rational thought and artistic progress against a renewed wave of unthinking reaction and emotional Puritanism which cannot but hurt the advance of amateur culture.

Mr. Keil’s cry for literary censorship is something particularly dangerous because it excites our sympathy before we fully realise all its implications. Nor many of us, even in this age, have any marked leaning toward public pornography; so that we would generally welcome any agency calculated to banish offences against good taste. But when we come to reflect on the problem of enforcement, and perceive how absurdly any censorship places us in the hands of dogmatic and arbitrary officials with Puritan illusions and no true knowledge of life or literary values, we have to acknowledge that absolute liberty is the lesser evil. The literature of today, with its conscientious striving toward sincerity, must necessarily contain large amounts of matter repugnant to those who hold the hypocritical nineteenth-century view of the world. It need not be vulgarly presented, but it cannot be excluded if art is to express life. That censors actually do seek to remove this legitimate and essential matter, and that they would if given greater power do even greater harm, is plainly shewn by the futile action against “Jurgen”, and the present ban on “Ulysses”, both significant contributions to contemporary art. And, ironically enough, this same censorship blandly tolerates, through legal technicalities, infinite sewers full of frankly and frivolously nasty drivel without the least pretence of aesthetic or intellectual significance.

But Mr. Keil’s major contribution to obscurantism is to be found under the heading “Opinion vs. Fact”, where he assiduously strives to prove that the merit of an author’s work depends absolutely on the philosophical views he may happen to hold. According to our editor-sage, beauty is not beauty if created by a gentleman who does not belong to our church or bet on our favourite racehorse. No matter how masterful the limning of a picture, it must not hang on our wall unless the painter is endorsed by the Ku Klux Klan, the Y.M.C.A., and the Epworth League This is quite entertaining, even if not much more luminous than Mr. Keil’s masterpiece of meaningless metaphor—the quart of black paint as a tavern night scene. Can it be that people ever believed this sort of thing? It may be so, for anything was possible in Victorian times. There was a tenebrous period, if our grandsires speak truth, when Shelley was banished from the best parlour bookcase because his social and religious principles “weren’t quite correct”.

But this is 1923—an adult age—and we can ill afford to waste time on chimaeras which perished with Rogers groups and haircloth. Accordingly it is not encouraging to see these periodic recrudescences. Mr. Keil’s final air-rifle shot at philosophy is an off. hand distinction between “fact” and “opinion” which makes us wonder what supernal wisdom has decided for him a question which yet baffles the eminent of the earth. We would certainly like to discover that solid and irrefutable body of fact, opinions contrary to which are absolutely and irredeemably worthless. Somehow, though, we fear that a voyage of discovery would only bring us once more against the age-old question-mark, and explain away Mr. Keil’s boyish certitudes in a manner already made common property by Herr Nietzsche’s “Genealogy of Morals”.

Pauke’s Quill is a welcome arrival—let us not undervalue it—but it is a pity that its effervescent influence should be lent to the side of obstruction and reaction. It will doubtless mature as Mr. Keil himself matures, and some day we hope to praise it for its virile support of that sounder civilisation which it now opposes with such sprightly ardour.