Robert Mackay.
Robert Mackay, who is one of the youngest, but none the less promising of America’s poets, was born in Virginia City, Nevada, 1871. His father, who is among the oldest of the living “Comstockers,” settled in Nevada over fifty years ago, when the state was practically unknown to white men. The subject of this sketch began his literary work when a mere boy as a reporter on the San Francisco Chronicle. Subsequently he was editor and assistant editor of several papers on the Pacific coast. In 1895 he determined to travel over the world. The trip occupied the greater portion of five years, during which period he visited lands where white men were seldom seen. Naturally he gathered many experiences, and much valuable data. While Mr. Mackay has written a great many poems he has never compiled them in book form. He has a theory that too many young writers throw themselves on the mercy of a public which do not know them and necessarily do not care for their callow wares. He therefore proposes to mature his work until he is satisfied that it has a fighting chance for public favor. Nevertheless he is by no means a stranger to the public. Those poems of his that have appeared in a number of periodicals have made him many friends. Mr. Mackay’s verses are finely fibered. Technically correct, they are acceptable to those critics who place mechanism on the same plane with motive. But they are more than finished specimens of the verse-maker’s art. With deft and tender fingers he plays upon the heart chords of humanity, and these ring responsive to his sympathetic touch. His themes are those that are as old as the race, and as imperishable. Mother love, wedded love, patriotism, the eternal yearning for the higher life, the eternal problem of the hereafter—such they are—and they are treated by him with a facile sincerity that marks him as a true poet—one who writes not for the sake of writing, but because of inner spiritual promptings that will not be denied.