Little Journeys to the Homes of Prominent Amateurs
Among the many amateurs I have never met in the flesh and realness of Life, Howard Phillips Lovecraft, poet, critic and student, appeals to me as no other recent "find" in the circles of amateuria has ever appealed.
And Lovecraft _is_ a distinct "find." Just why he holds a firm grip on my heart-strings is something of a mystery to me. Perhaps it is because of his wholesome ideals; perhaps it is because he is a recluse, content to nose among books of ancient lore; perhaps it"s because of his physical afflictions; his love of things beautiful in Life; his ardent advocacy of temperance, cleanliness and purity--I don"t know. We disagree on many questions; he criticises my literary activities; he smiles at my suffrage theories, and disapproves of my language in _Chain Lightning_. But I like him.
Howard Phillips Lovecraft has an interesting history, and this fact was known to Official Editor Daas when he asked me to take a little journey to the study-home of the Vice-President. "Don"t stint yourself for s.p.a.ce" was noted on the a.s.signment tab, and after glancing over the biographical notes before me--I am sure that Daas has again exemplified his quiet humor during a serious moment.
Lovecraft was born at 454 Angell St., Providence, R. I., on August 20, 1890. His nationality is Anglo-American, and under British law he can claim to be a British subject, since he is a grandson in direct male line of a British subject not naturalized in the United States. His ancestry is purely English. On the paternal side he is a descendant of the Lovecrafts, a Devonshire family which has furnished a great many clergymen to the Church of England, and the Allgoods of Northumberland, a history-honored family of which several members have been knighted.
The Allgoods have been a military line, and this may account for Lovecraft"s militarism and belief in the justice of war. On the maternal side he is a typical Yankee, coming from East English stock which settled in Rhode Island about 1680. Lovecraft is a student of astronomy--it is a domineering pa.s.sion with him--and this love was apparently inherited from his maternal grandmother, Rhoby Phillips, who studied it thoroughly in her youth at Lapham Seminary, and whose collection of old astronomical books first interested him. Lovecraft came from pure-blood stock, and he is the last male descendant of that family in the United States. With him the name will die in America. He is unmarried.
As he was about to enter college at the age of eighteen, his feeble health gave way, and since then he has been physically incapacitated and rendered almost an invalid. Being thus deprived of his cherished hope to further his education and prepare himself for a life of letters, he has contented himself with his home, which is just three squares from his birthplace, and where he lives with his mother. And his home life is ideal. His personal library--his haven of contentment--contains more than 1500 volumes, many of them yellowed with age, and crude examples of the printer"s art. Among these treasured books may be found volumes which have pa.s.sed through the various branches of his family, some dating back to 1681 and 1702, and methinks I can see Lovecraft poring over these time-stained bits o" bookish lore as the monks of old followed the printed lines with quivering fingers in the taper"s uncertain, flickering light. For Lovecraft appeals to me as a bookworm--one of those lovable mortals whose very existence seems to hang on the numbered pages of a heavy, clumsy book!
His connection with organized amateur journalism is of recent date. On April 6, 1914, his application for membership in the United Amateur Press a.s.sociation of America was forwarded to the Secretary. Like a great many of the recruits, Lovecraft was completely ignored for several months. In July of last year he became active, and he has proven to be an invaluable a.s.set to the literary life of the a.s.sociation. He is _not_ a politician. However, his literary activities had been prosecuted many years before he had ever heard of the United. At the age of eight and one-half years he published the _Scientific Gazette_, a weekly periodical, written in pencil and issued in editions of four carbon copies. This journal was devoted to the science of chemistry, which was one of his earliest hobbies, and ran from March, 1899, to February, 1904. As in most cases, my knowledge of chemistry was acquired after I had spent four years in high-school, and the fact that any boy should be interested in that study at the age of eight and one-half years appeals to me as something out of the ordinary. But Lovecraft was not an ordinary boy. His second and more ambitious venture was the _Rhode Island Journal of Astronomy_. This was at first published as a weekly, and later changed to a monthly publication. This was carefully printed by hand and then duplicated on the hectograph and issued in lots of twenty-five copies. The _Journal_ was issued from 1903 to 1907, and contained the latest astronomical news, re-written from the original telegraphic reports issued from Harvard University and seen at the Ladd Observatory. It also contained many of his original articles and forecasts of phenomena. He owns a 3-inch telescope of French make, and aside from amateur journalism, his one great hobby is astronomy. At the age of sixteen he commenced writing monthly astronomical articles for the Providence _Tribune_, and later changed to the _Evening News_, to which he still contributes. During the present year he has contributed a complete elementary treatise on astronomy in serial form to the Asheville (N. C.) _Gazette-News_. Besides contributing a great many poems and articles to the amateur press, editing _The Conservative_ and a.s.sisting with the editorial work on _The Badger_, the appearance of Mr.
Lovecraft"s work in the professional magazines is of common occurrence.
During the past year he has had charge of the Bureau of Public Criticism in THE UNITED AMATEUR, where he has proven himself a just, impartial and painstaking critic. That he will achieve a great popularity in the world of amateur letters is a foregone conclusion, and I do not think that I am indulging in extravagant praise in predicting a brilliant future for him in the professional field.
I am acquainted with Howard Phillips Lovecraft only through correspondence; I have never felt the flesh of his palm, and yet, I know he is a man--every inch of him--and that amateur journalism will be enriched and promoted to its highest plane through his kindly influence and literary leadership.
ANDREW FRANCIS LOCKHART
THE UNITED AMATEUR FEBRUARY 1916
The Teuton"s Battle-Song
"Omnis erat vulnus unda Terra rubefacta calido Frendebat gladius in loricas Gladius findebat clypeos-- Non retrocedat vir a viro Hoc fuit viri fortis n.o.bilitas diu-- Laetus cerevisiam c.u.m Asis In summa sede bibam Vitae elapsae sunt horae Ridens moriar."
--REGNER LODBROG
The mighty Woden laughs upon his throne, And once more claims his children for his own.
The voice of Thor resounds again on high, While arm"d Valkyries ride from out the sky: The G.o.ds of Asgard all their pow"rs release To rouse the dullard from his dream of peace.
Awake! ye hypocrites, and deign to scan The actions of your "brotherhood of Man."
Could your shrill pipings in the race impair The warlike impulse put by Nature there?
Where now the gentle maxims of the school, The cant of preachers, and the Golden Rule?
What feeble word or doctrine now can stay The tribe whose fathers own"d Valhalla"s sway?
Too long restrain"d, the b.l.o.o.d.y tempest breaks, And Midgard "neath the tread of warriors shakes.
On to thy death, Berserker bold! And try In acts of G.o.dlike bravery to die!
Who cares to find the heaven of the priest, When only warriors can with Woden feast?
The flesh of Sehrimnir, and the cup of mead, Are but for him who falls in martial deed: Yon luckless boor, that pa.s.sive meets his end, May never in Valhalla"s court contend.
Slay, brothers, Slay! And bathe in crimson gore; Let Thor, triumphant, view the sport once more!
All other thoughts are fading in the mist, But to attack, or if attack"d, resist.
List, great Alfadur, to the clash of steel; How like a man does each brave swordsman feel!
The cries of pain, the roars of rampant rage, In one vast symphony our ears engage.
Strike! Strike him down! Whoever bars the way; Let each kill many ere he die today!
Ride o"er the weak; accomplish what ye can; The G.o.ds are kindest to the strongest man!
Why should we fear? What greater joy than this?
Asgard alone could give us sweeter bliss!
My strength is waning; dimly can I see The helmeted Valkyries close to me.
Ten more I slay! How strange the thought of fear, With Woden"s mounted messengers so near!
The darkness comes; I feel my spirit rise; A kind Valkyrie bears me to the skies.
With conscience clear, I quit the earth below, The boundless joys of Woden"s halls to know.
The grove of Glasir soon shall I behold, And on Valhalla"s tablets be enroll"d: There to remain, till Heimdall"s horn shall sound, And Ragnarok enclose creation round; And Bifrost break beneath bold Surtur"s horde, And G.o.ds and men fall dead beneath the sword; When sun shall die, and sea devour the land, And stars descend, and naught but Chaos stand.
Then shall Alfadur make his realm anew, And G.o.ds and men with purer life indue.
In that blest country shall Abundance reign, Nor shall one vice or woe of earth remain.
Then, not before, shall men their battles cease, And live at last in universal peace.
Through cloudless heavens shall the eagle soar, And happiness prevail forevermore.
--H. P. LOVECRAFT
_Author"s Note._
The writer here endeavours to trace the ruthless ferocity and incredible bravery of the modern Teutonic soldier to the hereditary influence of the ancient Northern G.o.ds and Heroes. Despite the cant of the peace-advocate, we must realise that our present Christian civilisation, the product of an alien people, rests but lightly upon the Teuton when he is deeply aroused, and that in the heat of combat he is quite p.r.o.ne to revert to the mental type of his own Woden-worshipping progenitors, losing himself in that superb fighting zeal which baffled the conquering cohorts of a Caesar, and humbled the proud aspirations of a Varus.
Though appearing most openly in the Prussian, whose recent acts of violence are so generally condemned, this native martial ardour is by no means peculiar to him, but is instead the common heritage of every branch of our indomitable Xanthochroic race, British and Continental alike, whose remote forefathers were for countless generations reared in the stern precepts of the virile religion of the North. Whilst we may with justice deplore the excessive militarism of the Kaiser Wilhelm and his followers, we cannot rightly agree with those effeminate preachers of universal brotherhood who deny the virtue of that manly strength which maintains our great North European family in its position of undisputed superiority over the rest of mankind, and which in its purest form is today the bulwark of Old England. It is needless to say to an educated audience that the term "Teuton" is in no way connected with the modern German Empire, but embraces the whole Northern stock, including English and Belgians.
In the Northern religion, Alfadur, or the All-Father, was a vague though supreme deity. Beneath him were among others Woden, or Odin, practically the supreme deity, and Woden"s eldest son Thor, the G.o.d of War. Asgard, or heaven, was the dwelling-place of the G.o.ds, whilst Midgard was the earth, or abode of man. The rainbow, or bridge of Bifrost, which connected the two regions, was guarded by the faithful watchman Heimdall. Woden lived in the palace of Valhalla, near the grove of Glasir, and had as messengers to earth the Valkyries, armed, mailed and mounted virgins who conveyed from the earth to Asgard such men as had fallen bravely in battle. Only those who fell thus could taste to the full the joys of paradise. These joys consisted of alternate feasting and fighting. At Woden"s feasts in Valhalla was served the flesh of the boar Sehrimnir, which, though cooked and eaten at every meal, would regain its original condition the next day. The wounds of the warriors in each celestial combat were miraculously healed at the end of the fighting.
But this heaven was not to last forever. Some day would come Ragnarok, or the Twilight of the G.o.ds, when all creation would be destroyed, and all the G.o.ds and men save Alfadur perish. Surtur, after killing the last of these G.o.ds, would burn up the world. Afterward the supreme Alfadur would make a new earth or paradise, creating again the G.o.ds and men, and suffering them ever after to dwell in peace and plenty.
THE UNITED AMATEUR
OFFICIAL ORGAN OF THE UNITED AMATEUR PRESS a.s.sOCIATION
VOLUME XV GEORGETOWN, ILL., APRIL, 1916 NUMBER 9
DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC CRITICISM
=The Brooklynite= for January contains one of Rheinhart Kleiner"s characteristic poems, ent.i.tled "A Mother"s Song". Mr. Kleiner"s command of good taste, harmony, and correctness requires no further panegyric amongst those who know him; but to the more recent United members who have not yet read extensively in our journals, his work may well be recommended as undoubtedly the safest of all amateur poetical models for emulation. Mr. Kleiner has a sense of musical rhythm which few amateur bards have ever possessed, and his choice of words and phrases is the result of a taste both innate and cultivated, whose quality appears to rare advantage in the present degenerate age. This remarkable young poet has not yet fully displayed in verse the variety of thoughts and images of which his fertile brain and well selected reading have made him master, but has preferred to concentrate most of his powers upon delicate amatory lyrics. While some of his readers may at times regret this limitation of endeavor, and wish he might practice to a greater extent that immense versatility which he permitted the amateur public to glimpse in the September =Piper=; it is perhaps not amiss that he should cultivate most diligently that type of composition most natural and easy to him, for he is obviously a successor of those polished and elegant poets of gallantry whose splendour adorned the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James the First.
=The Conservative= for January opens with Winifred Virginia Jordan"s "Song of the North Wind", one of the most powerful poems lately seen in the amateur press. Mrs. Jordan is the newest addition to the United"s constellation of genuine poetical luminaries; shining as an artist of lively imagination, faultless taste, and graphic expression, whose work possesses touches of genius and individualism that have already brought her renown in amateur circles. In the poem under consideration, Mrs.
Jordan displays a phenomenal comprehension of the sterner aspects of Nature, producing a thoroughly virile effect. Words are chosen with care and placed with remarkable force, whilst both alliteration and onomatopoeia are employed with striking success. By the same author is the shorter poem ent.i.tled "Galileo and Swammerdam", which though vastly different in aspect and rhythm, yet retains that suggestion of mysticism so frequently encountered in Mrs. Jordan"s work.
James Tobey Pyke, a lyrical and philosophical poet of high scholastic attainments, contributes two poems; "Maia", and "The Poet". The latter is a stately sonnet, rich in material for reflection. Such is the quality of Mr. Pyke"s work, that his occasional contributions are ever to be acclaimed with the keenest interest and appreciation.
Rheinhart Kleiner, our Laureate, is another bard twice represented in the January =Conservative=. His two poems, "Consolation" and "To Celia", though widely different in structure, are yet not unrelated in sentiment, being both devoted to the changing heart. One amateur critic has seen fit to frown upon so skilled an apotheosis of inconsistency, but it seems almost captious thus to a.n.a.lyse an innocuous bit of art so daintily and tastefully arrayed. "To Celia" is perhaps slightly the better of the two, having a very commendable stateliness of cadence, and a gravity of thought greater than that of "Consolation".
"The Horizon of Dreams", by Mrs. Renshaw, is a graphic and enthralling venture into the realm of nocturnal unreality. The free play of active imagination, the distorted and transitory conceptions and apparitions, and the strangely elusive a.n.a.logies, all lend charm and color to this happy portrayal of the vague boundaries of Somnus" domain. Mrs.
Renshaw"s rank as a poet is of very high tone, most of her productions involving a spiritual insight and metaphysical comprehension vastly beyond that of the common mind. But this very n.o.bility of imagination, and superiority to the popular appeal, are only too likely to render her best work continually underestimated and unappreciated by the majority.
She is not a "poet of the ma.s.ses", and her graver efforts must needs reach audiences more notable for cultured than numerical magnitude. Of Mrs. Renshaw"s liberal metrical theories, enough is said elsewhere. This Department can neither endorse principles so radical, nor refrain from remarking that want of proper rhyme and metre has relegated to obscurity many a rich and inspired poem.