Gentle breezes from the tower of Aiolos wafted them high above warm,
scented seas, till suddenly they came upon Zeus holding court on the
double-headed Parnassus; his golden throne flanked by Apollo and the
Muses on the right hand, and by ivy-wreathed Dionysus and
pleasure-flushed Bacchae on the left hand. So much of splendour Marcia
had never seen before, either awake or in dreams, but its radiance did
her no injury, as would have the radiance of lofty Olympus; for in this
lesser court the Father of Gods had tempered his glories for the sight
of mortals. Before the laurel-draped mouth of the Corycian cave sat in a
row six noble forms with the aspect of mortals, but the countenances of
Gods. These the dreamer recognised from images of them which she had
beheld, and she knew that they were none else than the divine Maeonides,
the Avernian Dante, the more than mortal Shakespeare, the
chaos-exploring Milton, the cosmic Goethe, and the Musaean Keats. These
were those messengers whom the Gods had sent to tell men that Pan had
passed not away, but only slept; for it is in poetry that Gods speak to
men. Then spake the Thunderer:
"O daughter, for, being one of my endless line, thou art indeed my
daughter, behold upon ivory thrones of honour the august messengers that
Gods have sent down, that in the words and the writings of men there may
still be some trace of divine beauty. Other bards have men justly
crowned with enduring laurels, but these hath Apollo crowned, and these
have I set in places apart, as mortals who have spoken the language of
the Gods. Long have we dreamed in lotos-gardens beyond the West, and
spoken only through our dreams; but the time approaches when our voices
shall not be silent. It is a time of awaking and of change. Once more
hath Phaeton ridden low, searing the fields and drying the streams. In
Gaul lone nymphs with disordered hair weep beside fountains that are no
more, and pine over rivers turned red with the blood of mortals. Ares
and his train have gone forth with the madness of Gods, and have
returned, Deimos and Phobos glutted with unnatural delight. Tellus moans
with grief, and the faces of men are as the faces of the Erinyes, even
as when Astraea fled to the skies, and the waves of our bidding
encompassed all the land saving this high peak alone. Amidst this chaos,
prepared to herald his coming yet to conceal his arrival, even now
toileth our latest-born messenger, in whose dreams are all the images
which other messengers have dreamed before him. He it is that we have
chosen to blend into one glorious whole all the beauty that the world
hath known before, and to write words wherein shall echo all the wisdom
and the loveliness of the past. He it is who shall proclaim our return,
and sing of the days to come when Fauns and Dryads shall haunt their
accustomed groves in beauty. Guided was our choice by those who now sit
before the Corycian grotto on thrones of ivory, and in whose songs thou
shalt hear notes of sublimity by which years hence thou shall know the
greater messenger when he cometh. Attend their voices as one by one they
sing to thee here. Each note shalt thou hear again in the poetry which
is to come; the poetry which shall bring peace and pleasure to thy soul,
though search for it through bleak years thou must. Attend with
diligence, for each chord that vibrates away into hiding shall appear
again to thee after thou hast returned to earth, as Alpheus, sinking his
waters into the soil of Hellas, appears as the crystal Arethusa in
remote Sicilia."
Then arose Homeros, the ancient among bards, who took his lyre and
chaunted his hymn to Aphrodite. No word of Greek did Marcia know, yet
did the message fall not vainly upon her ears; for in the cryptic rhythm
was that which spake to all mortals and Gods, and needed no interpreter.
So too the songs of Dante and Goethe, whose unknown words clave the
ether with melodies easy to read and to adore. But at last remembered
accents rebounded before the listener. It was the Swan of Avon, once a
God among men, and still a God among Gods:
"Write, write, that from the bloody course of war,
My dearest master, your dear son, may hie;
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far,
His name with zealous fervour sanctify."
Accents still more familiar arose as Milton, blind no more, declaimed
immortal harmony:
"Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I might oft outwatch the Bear
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds or what vast regions hold
Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshy nook.
∑ ∑ ∑
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine."
Last of all came the young voice of Keats, closest of all the messengers
to the beauteous faun-folk.
"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on....
∑ ∑ ∑
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty'--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
As the singer ceased, there came a sound in the wind blowing from far
Egypt, where at night Aurora mourns by the Nile for her slain son
Memnon. To the feet of the Thunderer flew the rosy-fingered Goddess, and
kneeling, cried, "Master, it is time I unlocked the gates of the East."
And Phoebus, handing his lyre to Calliope, his bride among the Muses,
prepared to depart for the jewelled and column-raised Palace of the Sun,
where fretted the steeds already harnessed to the golden car of day. So
Zeus descended from his carven throne and placed his hand upon the head
of Marcia, saying:
"Daughter, the dawn is nigh, and it is well that thou shouldst return
before the awaking of mortals to thy home. Weep not at the bleakness of
thy life, for the shadow of false faiths will soon be gone, and the Gods
shall once more walk among men. Search thou unceasingly for our
messenger, for in him wilt thou find peace and comfort. By his word
shall thy steps be guided to happiness, and in his dreams of beauty
shall thy spirit find all that it craveth." As Zeus ceased, the young
Hermes gently seized the maiden and bore her up toward the fading stars;
up, and westward over unseen seas.
* * *
Many years have passed since Marcia dreamt of the Gods and of their
Parnassian conclave. Tonight she sits in the same spacious drawing-room,
but she is not alone. Gone is the old spirit of unrest, for beside her
is one whose name is luminous with celebrity; the young poet of poets at
whose feet sits all the world. He is reading from a manuscript words
which none has ever heard before, but which when heard will bring to men
the dreams and fancies they lost so many centuries ago, when Pan lay
down to doze in Arcady, and the greater Gods withdrew to sleep in
lotos-gardens beyond the lands of the Hesperides. In the subtle cadences
and hidden melodies of the bard the spirit of the maiden has found rest
at last, for there echo the divinest notes of Thracian Orpheus; notes
that moved the very rocks and trees by Hebrus' banks. The singer ceases,
and with eagerness asks a verdict, yet what can Marcia say but that the
strain is "fit for the Gods"?
And as she speaks there comes again a vision of Parnassus and the
far-off sound of a mighty voice saying, "By his word shall thy steps be
guided to happiness, and in his dreams of beauty shall thy spirit find
all that it craveth."
* * * * *
Mr. Paul J. Campbell deserves the most unstinted thanks of the United
this year, for besides serving as First Vice-President he has furnished
free of charge a supply of recruiting booklets and application blanks,
thus relieving us of one of our most onerous burdens. Mr. Campbell's
eighteen years of undiminished devotion to amateurdom form a thing
worthy of emulation.
THE UNITED AMATEUR NOVEMBER 1920
Nyarlathotep
H. P. LOVECRAFT
Nyarlathotep ... the crawling chaos ... I am the last ... I will tell
the audient void....
I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The
general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social
upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous
physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as
may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I
recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and
whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat
or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt
was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill
currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a
demoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons--the autumn heat
lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the
universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of
gods or forces which were unknown.
And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, none
could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a
Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He
said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and
that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the
lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister,
always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them
into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences--of
electricity and psychology--and gave exhibitions of power which sent his
spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding
magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered.
And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours were
rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams of
nightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished
they could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of cities
might less horribly disturb the pale, pitying moon as it glimmered on
green waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples crumbling against a
sickly sky.
I remember when Nyarlathotep came to my city--the great, the old, the
terrible city of unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him, and of
the impelling fascination and allurement of his revelations, and I
burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend said
they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings;
that what was thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied things
none but Nyarlathotep dare prophesy, and that in the sputter of his
sparks there was taken from men that which had never been taken before
yet which shewed only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that
those who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not.
It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless
crowds to see Nyarlathotep; through the stifling night and up the
endless stairs into the choking room. And shadowed on a screen, I saw
hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behind
fallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness;
against the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling,
churning; struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Then the sparks
played amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood up
on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and
squatted on the heads. And when I, who was colder and more scientific
than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about "imposture" and "static
electricity," Nyarlathotep drave us all out, down the dizzy stairs into
the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was
_not_ afraid; that I never could be afraid; and others screamed with me
for solace. We sware to one another that the city _was_ exactly the
same, and still alive; and when the electric lights began to fade we
cursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the queer faces
we made.
I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon, for when
we began to depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntary
marching formations and seemed to know our destinations though we dared
not think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocks
loose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to show
where the tramways had run. And again we saw a tram-car, lone,
windowless, dilapidated, and almost on its side. When we gazed around
the horizon, we could not find the third tower by the river, and noticed
that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then we
split up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different
direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only
the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subway
entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked
toward the open country, and presently felt a chill which was not of the
hot autumn: for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us
the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows,
swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blacker
for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it
plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in
the green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard the
reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my
power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before,
I half-floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid,
into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable.
Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can
tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands,
and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses
of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the
pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts
of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest
on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the
spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolving graveyard of
the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin,
monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted
chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance
slowly, awkwardly and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate
gods--the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is
Nyarlathotep.
Editorial
Editorial comment upon amateur journalism generally falls within one of
two classes; complacent self-congratulation upon a mythical perfection,
or hectic urging toward impossible achievements. It is our purpose this
month to indulge in neither of these rhetorical recreations, but to make
one very prosaic and practical appeal which springs solely from
realistic observation.
This appeal concerns the official situation in the United. For several
years our foes have reproached us for excessive centralisation of
authority: asserting that the control of our society is anything from
oligarchical to monarchial, and pointing to the large amount of
influence wielded by a very few leaders. Denials on our part, prompted
by the conspicuous absence of any dictatorial ambitions in the minds of
our executives, have been largely nullified by the fact that while power
has not been autocratically usurped and arbitrarily exercised, the
burden of administrative work has certainly been thrust by common
consent on a small number of reluctant though loyal shoulders. A few
persons have been forced to retain authority because no others have
arisen to relieve them of their burdens, until official nominations have
come to mean no more than a campaign by one or two active spirits to
persuade certain patient drudges to "carry on" another year. Nor does
the formal official situation reflect all of the prevailing condition.
Much of the Association's most important activity, such as recruiting,
welcoming and criticism, verges into the field of unorganised effort;
and here the tendency to leave everything to a narrow group is
overwhelming.
Obviously, this condition demands a remedy; and that remedy lies in one
direction only--an acceptance of potential official responsibility by
all of those members who possess the time and experience to act as
leaders. As the fiscal year progresses, the season for candidacies draws
near; and amateurs who feel competent to sustain their share of the
administrative burden should come forward as nominees, or at least
should respond when approached by their friends. That office-holding
involves tedious work, all admit, but this tedium is a small enough
price to pay for the varied boons of amateurdom. In unofficial labour an
equal willingness should be shown. Why is it that all the private
revision in the United is performed by about three men at most, despite
the presence in our ranks of a full score of scholars abundantly capable
of rendering such service? If the _literati_ as a whole will not awaken
to the needs of the day, one of two things will occur. The United will
stagnate quietly under the perpetual dictatorship of a limited group of
unwilling but benevolent autocrats, or it will succumb to the onslaught
of some political clique of vigorous barbarians who will destroy in a
month what it has taken the United over ten years to build up. Memories
of 1919 should prove to us the reality of such a danger of sudden
relapse.
Our appeal, then, is for responsible candidates for high office, and for
volunteers in the work of maintaining interest and lending literary aid.
We know that executive energy and enthusiasm tend to be more abundant in
the Goth than in the Greek; that those best qualified to serve are
generally least moved by political ambition. But we are sure that the
needs of our society should arouse enough sense of duty among its
cultivated membership to draw to the front a new generation of leaders.
We ask for new presidential and editorial candidates who are prepared to
serve faithfully and independently if elected; for new critics and
recruiters who understand our traditions and are willing to expend
energy in upholding and diffusing them. Shall 1921 bring them to light?
--H. P. LOVECRAFT
Official Organ Fund
RECEIPTS
Woodbee Press Club $25.00
From Treasurer, up to October 15 23.00
Susan Nelson Furgerson 6.00
Jonathan E. Hoag 5.00
Verna McGeoch (for each issue) 5.00
Howard R. Conover 3.00
Victor O. Schwab 3.00
Mr. and Mrs. Fritter (for each issue) 2.00
Rev. Eugene B. Kuntz 1.50
Anne Tillery Renshaw 1.50
Anonymous .25
_One dollar each_: Margaret Abraham,
Agnes R. Arnold, Elizabeth Barnhart,
Grace M. Bromley, Mary Faye Durr,
Alice M. Hamlet, Hester Harper.
Total on hand, November 6, 1920 $82.25
REMARKS
The doubling of printing rates makes large contributions imperative if
the Organ is to approach its customary standard. Acknowledgments are due
the Woodbee Press Club for its exceedingly generous contribution, and
ex-Editor Renshaw for the mailing of an appeal which has proved most
effective in the campaign for funds. Emulation of the Woodbees'
generosity by other clubs would save a situation which is very
threatening.
H. P. LOVECRAFT,
Custodian.
THE UNITED AMATEUR JANUARY 1921
OFFICIAL ORGAN FUND
Providence, R. I., April 1, 1921.
RECEIPTS SINCE NOVEMBER 6, 1920
From Treasurer, up to April 1, 1921 $21.50
Verna McGeoch (3 instalments) 15.00
E. Edward Ericson 10.00
Edward F. Daas 6.00
Howard R. Conover 2.00
Anna H. Crofts 1.00
Ernest L. McKeag 1.00
John Milton Samples 1.00
Anonymous .75
-------
Balance on Hand, November 6, 1920 $82.25
Received, November 6, 1920, to April
1, 1921 58.25
-------
Total Receipts $140.50
EXPENDITURES
To E. E. Ericson, for September U. A. $48.00
To E. E. Ericson, for November U. A. 48.00
To E. E. Ericson, for January U. A. 36.00
-------
Total Expenditures $132.00
Balance on Hand, April 1, 1921 $8.50
H. P. LOVECRAFT,
Custodian.
THE UNITED AMATEUR MARCH 1921
Winifred Virginia Jackson: A "Different" Poetess
H. P. LOVECRAFT
In these days of unrestrained license in poetry, it would at first sight
seem difficult to single out any one bard as the possessor of ideas and
modes of expression so unique and original that the overworked adjective
"different" is merited. Every poetaster of the modern school claims to
be "different," and bases his claim to celebrity upon this "difference";
an effect usually achieved by the adoption of a harsh, amorphous style,
and a tone of analytical, introspective subjectivity so individual that
all the common and universal elements of beauty and poetry are excluded.
Indeed, eccentricity has come so completely into fashion, that he who
follows up the wildest vagaries is actually the least different from the
hectic scribbling throng about him.
But notwithstanding this malady of the times, there does remain among us
an ample field for genius and artistic distinctiveness. The laws of
human thought are unchangeable, and whenever there is born a soul
attuned to real harmony, and inspired by that rare sensitiveness which
enables it to feel and express the latent beauty and hidden
relationships of Nature, the world receives a new poet. Such an one will
of necessity break through the decadent customs of the period; and
falling back to the forms of true melody, sing a spontaneous song which
can not help being original, because it represents the unforced reaction
of a keen and delicate mind to the panorama of life. And when this
reaction is enabled to bring out in the simplest and most beautiful
style fancies and images which the world has not received or noted
before, we are justified in claiming that the bard is "different."
Such a bard is Winifred Virginia Jackson, whose poetry has for six years
been the pride of the United Amateur Press Association. Born in Maine,
and through childhood accustomed to the mystical spell of the ancient
New-England countryside, Miss Jackson for a long period quietly and
unconsciously absorbed a prodigious store of beauty and phantasy from
life. Having no design to become a poet, she accepted these ethereal
gifts as a matter of course; until about a decade ago they manifested
themselves in a burst of spontaneous melody which can best be described
as a sheer overflowing of delightful dreams and pictures from a mind
filled to the brim with poetic loveliness. Since that time Miss Jackson
has written vast quantities of verse; always rich and musical, and if
one may speak in paradox, always artless with supreme art. None of these
poems is in any sense premeditated or consciously composed; they are
more like visions of the fancy, instantaneously photographed for the
perception of others, and unerringly framed in the most appropriate
metrical medium.