we hope, remain as a regular feature. "Tobias Smithers, Leading Man" is
Miss Ellen Moore's prize-winning attempt at constructing a story from a
very brief nucleus given by Mr. Moe. Miss Moore here exhibits a facile
pen and a just appreciation of humorous situations. "Ghosts," by Mrs.
Renshaw, well illustrates the vague superstitions of the negroes, those
strange creatures of darkness who seem never to cross completely the
threshold from apedom to humanity. "March," by ourselves, is a gem of
exquisite poesy, etc., etc., which we have here praised because no one
else could ever conscientiously do so. Line 10 apparently breaks the
metre, but this seeming break is due wholly to the printer. The line
should read:
"The longer sunshine, and the shorter night."
"The Unknown Equation" is a love story by Mrs. Florence Shepphird.
Though the major portion is quite polished and consistent, we cannot but
deem the conclusion too abrupt and precipitate. Perhaps, being a frigid
old critic without experience in romance, we ought to submit the
question to some popular newspaper column of Advice to the Lovelorn,
inquiring whether or not it be permissible for a young lady, after only
a few hours' acquaintanceship with a young gentleman, to encourage him
to "put his arm around her yielding form and kiss her passionately"!!
THE UNITED AMATEUR for May is graced by "Reveille," a powerful and
stirring poem written in collaboration by our two gifted bards, Mr.
Kleiner, the Laureate, and Miss von der Heide. "Nature and the
Countryman," by A. W. Ashby, is an iconoclastic attack on that love of
natural beauty which is inherent in every poetical, imaginative and
delicately strung brain. In prose of faultless technique and polished
style, Mr. Ashby catalogues like a museum curator every species of flaw
that he can possibly pick in the scenes and events of rustic life. But
while the career of the farmer is assuredly not one of uninterrupted
bliss, it were folly to assert that Nature's superlative loveliness is
not more than enough to compensate for its various infelicities. No mind
of high grade is so impervious to aesthetic emotion that it can behold
without admiration the wonders of the rural realm, even though a vein of
sordid suffering ran through the beauteous ensemble. Of all our personal
friends, the one who most adores and loves to personify Nature is a
successful farmer of unceasing diligence. Mr. Ashby errs, we are
certain, in taking the point of view of the unimaginative and
unappreciative peasant. This sort of animal interprets Nature by
physical, not mental associations, and is unfitted by heredity to
receive impressions of the beautiful in its less material aspects.
Whilst he grumbles at the crimson flames of Aurora, thinking only of the
afternoon rain thus predicted, the man of finer mould, though equally
cognizant that a downpour may follow, rejoices impulsively at the pure
beauty of the scene itself, a scene whose intellectual exaltation will
help him the better to bear the dull afternoon. Is not the beauty-lover
the happier of the two? Both must endure the trials, but the poet enjoys
compensating pleasures which the boor may never know. The
personification and deification of Nature is a legacy from primitive
ages which will delight us in an atavistical way till our very race
shall have perished. And let Mr. Ashby remember that those early tribes
who placed a god or goddess in every leafy tree, crystal fount, reedy
lake or sparkling brook, were far closer to Nature and the soil than is
any modern tenant farmer.
_The United Official Quarterly_ for May has resumed its former
attractive appearance, and contains a very creditable assortment of
literary matter. "Atmosphere," by Mrs. Shepphird, is a thoughtful and
pleasing essay, whose second half well describes the individuality of
the various amateur authors and editors. "The Kingly Power of Laughter,"
by Louena Van Norman, is no less just and graphic, illustrating the
supreme force of humour and ridicule. Leo Fritter, in "Concerning
Candidates," points out some important details for office-seekers,
whilst Ira A. Cole, in "Five Sticks on Finance," gives some interesting
suggestions for economy. "Opportunity," an essay by Mildred Blanchard,
concludes the issue, and successfully disputes the noxious old
platitude, that "Opportunity knocks but once at each man's door." With
the _Quarterly_ is bound _The New Member_, reviewed elsewhere, the two
forming a tasteful and meritorious magazine.
_The Woodbee_ for July is an issue of unusual interest, revealing the
more serious and substantial activities of the prosperous Columbus Club.
The opening feature is a sonnet by Alma Sanger, "To Autumn Violets,"
which exhibits some poetical talent and a just sense of metrical values.
We are sure that the defective second line is the fault of the printer
rather than of the author. "The Blind Prince," by Henriette Ziegfeld, is
an excellent juvenile tale involving a fairy story. The only serious
objection is the undercurrent of adult comment which flows through the
narrative. Particularly cynical is the closing sentence: "'And here's
Mother,' finished poor Auntie with a sigh of relief." The ordinary fairy
stories told to children are bits of actual Teutonic mythology, and
should be related with a grave, absolute simplicity and naivete.
However, as a psychological study of the typical childish auditor, the
sketch as a whole is highly meritorious. We are inclined to wonder at
the possible meaning of the strange word "alright," which appears more
than once in Miss Ziegfeld's tale. It is certainly no part of our
language, and if it be a corruption of "all right," we must say that we
fail to perceive why the correct expression could not have been used.
"What's in a Name?" by Irene Metzger, is a clever sketch concerning
the silly modern practice of giving fancy names to helpless infants.
Glancing backward a little through history, Miss Metzger would probably
sympathize with the innocent offspring of the old Puritans, who
received such names as "Praise-God," and the like. Praise-God Barebones,
a leading and fanatical member of Cromwell's rebel parliament,
went a step further than his father, naming his own son
"If-Jesus-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-Damned"! All this
was actually the first name of young Barebones, but after he grew up and
took a Doctor's degree, he was called by his associates, "_Damned Dr.
Barebones_"! "Moonlight on the River," by Ida Cochran Haughton, is an
exquisite sentimental poem, each stanza of which ends with the same
expression. The atmosphere is well created, and the images dexterously
introduced. The whole piece reminds the reader of one of Thomas Moore's
beautiful old "Irish Melodies." That Mrs. Haughton's talent has
descended to the second generation is well proven by Edna M. Haughton's
"Review of the Literary Work of the Quarter." Miss Haughton is a
polished and scholarly reviewer, and her criticisms are in every
instance just and helpful. The editorial on "Miss United" is very well
written, and should be carefully perused by those in danger of
succumbing to the autumnal advances of that sour old maid, Miss
National.
--HOWARD P. LOVECRAFT
Chairman.
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
space" was noted on the assignment 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 passion 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 passed 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 Association 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 asset to the literary life of the Association. 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
assisting 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 nobilitas diu--
Laetus cerevisiam cum 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 Gods 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 bloody tempest breaks,
And Midgard 'neath the tread of warriors shakes.
On to thy death, Berserker bold! And try
In acts of Godlike 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 passive 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 Gods 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 Gods 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 Gods 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 Gods 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 prone
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 God of War. Asgard,
or heaven, was the dwelling-place of the Gods, 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 Gods, when all creation would be destroyed, and
all the Gods and men save Alfadur perish. Surtur, after killing the last
of these Gods, would burn up the world. Afterward the supreme Alfadur
would make a new earth or paradise, creating again the Gods and men, and
suffering them ever after to dwell in peace and plenty.
THE UNITED AMATEUR
OFFICIAL ORGAN OF THE UNITED AMATEUR PRESS ASSOCIATION
VOLUME XV GEORGETOWN, ILL., APRIL, 1916 NUMBER 9
DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC CRITICISM
=The Brooklynite= for January contains one of Rheinhart Kleiner's
characteristic poems, entitled "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 entitled "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 analyse 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".