Writings in the United Amateur, 1915-1922, H. P. Lovecraft [best free ebook reader for android .txt] 📗
- Author: H. P. Lovecraft
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The influence of the Latin classics upon modern literature has been tremendous. They are today, and will ever be, vital sources of inspiration and guidance. Our own most correct age, that of Queen Anne and the first three Georges, was saturated with their spirit; and there is scarce a writer of note who does not visibly reflect their immediate influence. Each classic English author has, after a fashion, his Latin counterpart. Mr. Pope was a Horace; Dr. Johnson a Juvenal. The early Elizabethan tragedy was a reincarnation of Seneca, as comedy was of Plautus. English literature teems with Latin quotations and allusions to such a degree that no reader can extract full benefit if he have not at least a superficial knowledge of Roman letters.
Wherefore it is enjoined upon the reader not to neglect cultivation of this rich field; a field which offers as much of pure interest and enjoyment of necessary cultural training and wholesome intellectual discipline.
To Alan Seeger: Howard Phillips Lovecraft(In National Enquirer)
Wak'd the dull dreamer to a manlier fire;
Whose martial voice, by martial deeds sustain'd,
Denounc'd the age when shameful peace remain'd;
Let thy brave spirit yet among us dwell,
And linger where thy form in valour fell:
Proudly before th' invader's fury mass'd,
Behold thy country's cohorts, rous'd at last!
It was not for thy mortal eye to see
Columbia arm'd for right and liberty;
Thine was the finer heart, that could not stay
To wait for laggards in the vital fray,
And ere the millions felt thy sacred heat,
Thou hadst thy gift to Freedom made complete.
But while thou sleepest in an honour'd grave
Beneath the Gallic sod thou bledst to save,
May thy soul's vision scan the ravag'd plain,
And tell thee that thou didst not fall in vain:
Here, as though pray'dst, a million men advance,
To prove Columbia one with flaming France,
And heeding now the long-forgotten debt,
Pay with their blood the gen'rous LAFAYETTE!
Thy ringing odes to prophecies are turn'd,
Whilst legions feel the blaze that in thee burn'd.
Not as a lonely stranger dost thou lie,
Thy form forsaken 'neath a foreign sky,
On Gallic tongues thy name forever lives,
First of the mighty host thy country gives:
All that thou dreamt'st in life shall come to be,
And proud Columbia find her voice in thee!
1858-1919
The sacred torch of greatness and of right,
A stricken world, that cannot boast thy peer,
Mourns o'er thy grave amidst the new-born night.
First to behold, and first to preach, the truth;
Soldier and patriot, in whose mighty heart
Throbb'd the high valour of eternal youth.
Within thy mind no weak inaction lay;
Leal to thy standards, firm in thy beliefs;
As quick to do, as others are to say.
With kindness' and with goodness' warmest fire;
To prince and peasant thy broad friendship flow'd,
Each proud to take, and eager to admire.
Lies open for a world's respecting view;
Thou stand'st the first and purest of our age,
To private, as to public virtue true.
That none might grudge thee an Imperial place;
Yet such thy modesty, thou need'st must seem
The leader, not the monarch, of thy race.
With energy that sham'd the envious sun;
The ablest, bravest, noblest of mankind—
A Caesar and Aurelius mixt in one.
Oppression slunk ingloriously away;
The virtuous follow'd where thy footsteps led,
And Freedom bless'd thy uncorrupted sway.
And selfish ignorance restrain'd our hand,
Thy voice was first to bid us draw the sword
To guard our liberties and save our land.
And held thee from the battle-seething plain;
Yet thy proud blood in filial bodies fought,
And poppies blossom o'er thy QUENTIN slain.
Thy grateful eyes beheld a world redeem'd;
Would that thy wisdom might have shap'd the laws
Of the new age, and led to heights undream'd!
Like that of all the great who liv'd before?
Will not new wonders of thy fashioning
Rise from thy words, as potent as of yore?
Shin'st as the beacon of the brave and free;
Thou art our country's soul—our loftiest aim
Is but to honour and to follow thee!
Comment occasioned by the verse of Mr. Howard P. Lovecraft, who is a more or less frequent contributor to the amateur press, has not consisted of unmixed praise.
Certain critics have regarded his efforts as too obviously imitative of a style that has long been discredited. Others have accepted his work with admiration and have even gone so far as to imitate the couplets which he produces with such apparent ease.
Between these two opinions there is a critical neutral ground, the holders of which realise how large an element of conscious parody enters into many of Mr. Lovecraft's longer and more serious productions, and who are capable of appreciating the cleverness and literary charm of these pastoral echoes without being dominated by them to the extent of indiscriminate praise and second-hand imitation.
Those who would beguile Mr. Lovecraft from his chosen path are probably unaware of the attitude which he consistently maintains toward hostile criticism. Mr. Lovecraft contends that it gives him pleasure to write as the Augustans did, and that those who do not relish his excursions into classic fields need not follow him. He tries to conciliate no one, and is content to be his own sole reader! What critic, with these facts before him, will think it worthwhile to break a lance with the poet?
But even Mr. Lovecraft is willing to be original, at times. He has written verse of a distinctly modern atmosphere, and where his imagery is not too obtrusively artificial—according to the modern idea—many of his quatrains possess genuine poetic value.
Many who cannot read his longer and more ambitious productions find Mr. Lovecraft's light or humorous verse decidedly refreshing. As a satirist along familiar lines, particularly those laid down by Butler, Swift and Pope, he is most himself—paradoxical though it seems. In reading his satires one cannot help but feel the zest with which the author has composed them. They are admirable for the way in which they reveal the depth and intensity of Mr. Lovecraft's convictions, while the wit, irony, sarcasm and humour to be found in them serve as an indication of his powers as a controversialist. The almost relentless ferocity of his satires is constantly relieved by an attendant broad humour which has the merit of causing the reader to chuckle more than once in the perusal of some attack levelled against the particular person or policy which may have incurred Mr. Lovecraft's displeasure.
OFFICIAL REPORTS DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC CRITICISMThe Coyote for October-January is a "Special War Number," dedicated to Cpl. Raymond Wesley Harrington, the editor's valiant soldier brother, and having a general martial atmosphere throughout. Among the contents are two bits of verse by the gallant overseas warrior to whom the issue is inscribed, both of which speak well for the poetic sentiment of their heroic author.
"Lord Love You, Lad," a poem by Winifred V. Jordan, is the opening contribution; and deserves highest commendation both for its spirit and for its construction.
"The Paramount Issue," by William T. Harrington, is a somewhat ambitious attempt to trace the responsibility for the great war to alcoholic liquor and its degenerative effect on mankind. The author even goes so far as to say that "had man been represented in his true and noble form, then war would have been impossible." Now although the present critic is and always has been an ardent prohibitionist, he must protest at this extravagant theory. Vast and far-reaching as are the known evil effects of drink, it is surely transcending fact to accuse it of causing mankind's natural greed, pride, and combative instincts, which lie at the base of all warfare. It may, however, be justly suggested that much of the peculiar bestiality of the Huns is derived from their swinish addiction to beer. Technically, Mr. Harrington's essay is marked by few crudities, and displays an encouraging fluency. Other pieces by Mr. Harrington are "A Bit of My Diary," wherein the author relates his regrettably brief military experience at Camp Dodge, and "Victory," a stirring editorial.
"Black Sheep," by Edna Hyde, is an excellent specimen of blank verse by our gifted laureate. Line 14 seems to lack a syllable, but this deficiency is probably the result of a typographical error.
A word of praise is due the general appearance of the magazine. The cover presents a refreshing bit of home-made pictorial art, whilst the photograph of Corporal Harrington makes a most attractive frontispiece.
The Pathfinder for January is easily the best issue yet put forth by its enterprising young editor. "Hope," which adorns the cover, is a poem of much merit by Annie Pearce. The apparent lack of a syllable in line 2 of the third stanza is probably due to a printer's error whereby the word us is omitted immediately after the word for.
"How and Why Roses Are White," by Margaret Mahon, is a fairy legend of much charm and decided originality, which argues eloquently for its author's imaginative scope and literary ability.
"Happiness in a Glove" is a very facile and pleasing rendering of a bit of Spanish dialogue. Through a mistake, the authorship is credited to the translator, Miss Ella M. Miller, though her own manuscript fully proclaimed the text as a translation.
"Welcome, 1919," is a brief
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