When I was six my philosophical evolution received its most aesthetically significant impetus — the dawn of Graeco-Roman thought. Always avid for fairy lore, I had chanced on Hawthorne’s Wonder Book and Tanglewood Tales, and was enraptured by the Hellenic myths even in their Teutonised form. Then a tiny book in the private library of my elder aunt — the story of the Odyssey in “Harper’s Half-Hour Series” — caught my attention. From the opening chapter I was electrified, and by the time I reached the end I was for evermore a Graeco-
Roman. My Bagdad name and affiliations disappeared at once, for the magic of silks and colours faded before that of fragrant templed groves, faun-peopled meadows in the twilight, and the blue, beckoning Mediterranean that billowed mysteriously out from Hellas into the reaches of haunting wounder where dwelt Lotophagi and Laestrygonians, where Aeolus kept his winds and Circe her swine, and where in Thrinacian pastures roamed the oxen of the radiant Helios. As soon as possible I procured an illustrated edition of Bulfinch’s Age of Fable, and gave all my time to the reading of the text, in which the true spirit of Hellenism is delightfully preserved, and to the contemplation of the pictures, splendid designs and half-tones of the standard classical statues, and paintings of classical subjects. Before long I was fairly familiar with the principal Grecian myths, and had become a constant visitor at the classical art museums of Providence and Boston. I commenced a collection of small plaster casts of the Greek sculptural masterpieces, and learned the Greek alphabet and the rudiments of the Latin language. I adopted the pseudonym of “Lucius Valerius Messala” — Roman and not Greek, since Rome had a charm all its own for me. My grandfather had travelled observingly through Italy, and delighted me with long first-hand accounts of its beauties and memorials of ancient grandeur. I mention this aesthetic tendency in detail only to lead up to its philosophical result — my last flickering of religious belief. When about seven or eight I was a genuine pagan, so intoxicated with the beauty of Greece that I acquired a half-sincere belief in the old gods and Nature-spirits. I have in literal truth built altars to Pan, Apollo, Diana, and Athena, and have watched for dryads and satyrs in the woods and fields at dusk. Once I firmly thought I beheld some of these sylvan creatures dancing under autumnal oaks; a kind of “religious experience” as true in its way as the subjective ecstasies of any Christian. If a Christian tell me he has felt the reality of his Jesus or Jahveh, I can reply that I have seen the hoofed Pan and the sisters of the Hesperian Phaëthusa.
But in my ninth year, as I was reading the Grecian myths in their standard poetical translations and thus acquiring unconsciously my taste for Queen-Anne English, the real foundations of my scepticism were laid. Impelled by the fascinating pictures of scientific instruments in the back of Webster’s Unabridged, I began to take an interest in natural philosophy and chemistry, and soon had a promising laboratory in my cellar, and a new stock of simple scientific text-books in my budding library. Ere long I was more of a scientific student than pagan dreamer. In 1897 my leading “literary” work was a “poem” entitled “The New Odyssey”; in 1899 it was a compendious treatise on chemistry in several pencil-scribbled “volumes”. But mythology was by no means neglected. In this period I read much in Egyptian, Hindoo, and Teutonic mythology, and tried experiments in pretending to believe each one, to see which might contain the greatest truth. I had, it will be noted, immediately adopted the method and manner of science! Naturally, having an open and unemotional mind, I was soon a complete sceptic and materialist. My scientific studies had enlarged to include geographical, geological, biological, and astronomical rudiments, and I had acquired the habit of relentless analysis in all matters. My pompous “book” called Poemata Minora, written when I was eleven, was dedicated “To the Gods, Heroes, and Ideals of the Ancients”, and harped in disillusioned, world-weary tones on the sorrow of the pagan robbed of his antique pantheon. Some of these very juvenile “poemata” were reprinted in The Tryout for April, 1919, under new titles and pseudonyms.
Hitherto my philosophy had been distinctly juvenile and empirical. It was a revolt from obvious falsities and ugliness, but involved no particular cosmic or ethical theory. In ethical questions I had no analytical interest because I did not realise that they were questions. I accepted Victorianism, with consciousness of many prevailing hypocrisies aside from Sabbatarian and supernatural matters, without dispute; never having heard of inquiries which reached “beyond good and evil”. Though at times interested in reforms, notably prohibition (I have never tasted alcoholic liquor), I was inclined to be bored by ethical casuistry; since I believed conduct to be a matter of taste and breeding, with virtue, delicacy, and truthfulness as symbols of gentility. Of my word and honour I was inordinately proud, and would permit no reflections to be cast upon them. I thought ethics too obvious and commonplace to be scientifically discussed, and considered philosophy solely in its relation to truth and beauty. I was, and still am, pagan to the core. Regarding man’s place in Nature, and the structure of the universe, I was as yet unawakened. This awakening was to come in the winter of 1902-3, when astronomy asserted its supremacy amongst my studies.
The most poignant sensations of my existence are those of 1896, when I discovered the Hellenic world, and of 1902, when I discovered the myriad suns and worlds of infinite space. Sometimes I think the latter event the greater, for the grandeur of that growing conception of the universe still excites a thrill hardly to be duplicated. I made of astronomy my principal scientific study, obtaining larger and larger telescopes, collecting astronomical books to the number of 61, and writing copiously on the subject in the form of special and monthly articles in the local daily press. By my thirteenth birthday I was thoroughly impressed with man’s impermanence and insignificance, and by my seventeenth, about which time I did some particularly detailed writing on the subject, I had formed in all essential particulars my present pessimistic cosmic views. The futility of all existence began to impress and oppress me; and my references to human progress, formerly hopeful, began to decline in enthusiasm. Always partial to antiquity, I allowed myself to originate a sort of one-man cult of retrospective suspiration. Realistic analysis, favoured by history and by diffusive scientific leanings which now embraced Darwin, Haeckel, Huxley, and various other pioneers, was checked by my aversion for realistic literature. In fiction I was devoted to the phantasy of Poe; in poetry and essays to the elegant formalism and conventionality of the eighteenth century. I was not at all wedded to what illusions I retained. My attitude has always been cosmic, and I looked on man as if from another planet. He was merely an interesting species presented for study and classification. I had strong prejudices and partialities in many fields, but could not help seeing the race in its cosmic futility as well as in its terrestrial importance. By the time I was of age, I had scant faith in the world’s betterment; and felt a decreasing interest in its cherished pomps and prides. When I entered amateurdom in my twenty-fourth year, I was well on the road to my present cynicism; a cynicism tempered with immeasurable pity for man’s eternal tragedy of aspirations beyond the possibility of fulfilment.
The war confirmed all the views I had begun to hold. The cant of idealists sickened me increasingly, and I employed no more than was necessary for literary embellishment. With me democracy was a minor question, my anger being aroused primarily by the audacity of a challenge to Anglo-Saxon supremacy, and by the needless territorial greed and disgusting ruthlessness of the Huns. I was unvexed by the scruples which beset the average liberal. Blunders I expected; a German defeat was all I asked or hoped for. I am, I hardly need add, a warm partisan of Anglo-American reunion; my opinion being that the division of a single culture into two national units is wasteful and often dangerous. In this case my opinion is doubly strong because I believe that the entire existing civilisation depends on Saxon dominance.
About this time my philosophical thought received its greatest and latest stimulus through discussion with several amateurs; notably Maurice Winter Moe, an orthodox
but tolerant Christian and inspiring opponent, and Alfred Galpin, Jr., a youth in approximate agreement with me, but with a mind so far in the lead that comparison is impossible without humility on my part. Correspondence with these thinkers led to a recapitulation and codification of my views, revealing many flaws in my elaborated doctrines, and enabling me to secure greater clearness and consistency. The impetus also enlarged my philosophical reading and research, and broke down many hindering prejudices. I ceased my literal adherence to Epicurus and Lucretius, and reluctantly dismissed free-will forever in favour of determinism.
The Peace Conference, Friedrich Nietzsche, Samuel Butler (the modern), H. L. Mencken, and other influences have perfected my cynicism; a quality which grows more intense as the advent of middle life removes the blind prejudice whereby youth clings to the vapid “all’s right with the world” hallucination from sheer force of desire to have it so. As I near thirty-two I have no particular wishes, save to perceive facts as they are. My objectivity, always marked, is now paramount and unopposed, so that there is nothing I am not willing to believe. I no longer really desire anything but oblivion, and am thus ready to discard any gilded illusion or accept any unpalatable fact with perfect equanimity. I can at last concede willingly that the wishes, hopes, and values of humanity are matters of total indifference to the blind cosmic mechanism. Happiness I recognise as an ethical phantom whose simulacrum comes fully to none and even partially to but few, and whose position as the goal of all human striving is a grotesque mixture of farce and tragedy.
Selections from “News Notes”
July 1917
H. P. Lovecraft, the original “Pooh-Bah” of amateurdom, is now serving as Official Editor, Chairman of the Department of Public Criticism, and Chairman of the Year-Book Committee. He deserves to be expelled from the United for his inexcusable delay in issuing the Year-Book, but vows that he will eventually complete the labour or perish in the attempt.
W. Paul Cook, sterling Old-Timer in amateurdom and editor of The Vagrant, will attend the Grand Army encampment at Boston next August with the Sons of Veterans; following which he will make a tour of Southern New England, dropping in at the Conservative office, where he will receive a hearty welcome.
Maurice W. Moe, Chief of our Department of Private Criticism, is trying a novel experiment this summer for the sake of his health. He has undertaken a labourer’s work on one of the new buildings at Lawrence College, lifting planks, shovelling mud, and wheeling bags of cement like a seasoned workingman. While painful at first, the regimen is proving actually beneficial, and Mr. Moe is proud of the physical prowess he is beginning to exhibit. One of our amateur poetasters recently perpetrated the following four lines on the unusual occurrence of a learned instructor working manually upon a college building:
To M. W. M.
Behold the labourer, who builds the walls
That soon shall shine as Learning’s sacred halls;
A man so apt at ev’ry art and trade,
He might well govern what his hands have made!
September 1920:
Amateurdom will remember 1920 as the year when three conventions, instead of the usual two, were held. The third was the unofficial gathering at Boston during the week of July 4, which has been perpetuated by the deliciously whimsical magazine Epgephi. Besides the local amateurs, there were present W. Paul Cook, Rheinhart Kleiner, George Julian Houtain, and H. P. Lovecraft, all ex-Presi- dents of the United or the National.
January 1921:
The Boston Amateur Conference of February 22, held at the Quincy House, was successful from every point of view, reflecting the greatest credit upon Mrs. Edith Miniter, who led in arranging it. The event was divided into two major sessions — an afternoon symposium under the chairmanship of Nelson G. Morton, and a dinner, with the renowned “old-timer” Willard Otis Wylie as toastmaster; both evoking a representative display of wit and wisdom from the numerous delegates and visitors. A musical programme featuring Mrs. McMullen’s “Bumble Fairy” proved a delightful interlude. Among those present, aside from the local members, were Mrs. Bertha York Grant Avery, George Julian Houtain, Mrs. K. Leyson Brown, Mrs. E. Dorothy McLoughlin, W. Paul Cook, and H. P. Lovecraft.
May 1921:
Among the major bereavements which have afflicted amateurs during recent months are those of H. P. Lovecraft, whose mother, Mrs. S. Lovecraft, died on May 24, and of Mrs. Daisy Crump Whitehead, whose husband, Edward L. Whitehead, died on July 10. Especial sympathy is due Mrs. Whitehead, since this is the second sudden blow to befall her this year; her brother, Mr. Julian J. Crump, having been instantly killed February 20.
On Saturday, July 2, 1921, peace was formally established between the United States and Germany, and between William J. Dowdell and H. P. Lovecraft. The latter treaty was signed at 9 p m. at 20 Webster St., Allston, Mass., and was confirmed by a joint photograph taken at 2 p m., July 5, by George Julian Houtain. Pictorial evidence will be found in a coming Zenith.
July 1921:
A revival of The Conservative is to be expected in the near future, at least two numbers being likely to appear during the official year. The first will contain a notable group of poems likely to win the approval of the discriminating.
September 1921:
One of the most brilliant and important of recent recruits to the United is Mrs. Sonia H. Greene, 259 Parkside Ave., Brooklyn, N.Y. Mrs. Greene is a Russian by birth, and descended from an illustrious line of artists and educators. Coming at an early age to the United States, she acquired a remarkable degree of erudition mainly through her own initiative; being now a master of several languages and deeply read in all the literatures and philosophies of modern Europe. Probably no more thorough student of Continental literature has ever held membership in amateurdom, whilst our many philosophical members will note with interest her position as a former Nietzschean who has at present rejected the theories of the celebrated iconoclast.
An example of amateur devotion and enthusiasm which should be heeded by all members as an inspiration to renewed activity is afforded by our new recruit, Mrs. Sonia H. Greene of Brooklyn, N.Y. Mrs. Greene, immediately upon receipt of a bundle of United papers and before the arrival of her membership certificate, sent the following phenomenal pledge to the Official Organ Fund; a pledge eloquent of a real and self-sacrificing interest which, if shared by the majority of our workers, would bring about at once that amateur renaissance so long desired, yet always so prone to retreat into the future. Mrs. Greene writes:
“So much do I appreciate the efforts of all those who contribute to the sum total of this pleasurable experience, that I, too, wish to do my meagre ‘bit’... I shall consider it a special privilege to be permitted, each month, to contribute with a modest portion of my earnings; so that those who have not the financial means may make use of mine in advancing the noble cause of amateur journalism. I hereby pledge myself to contribute fifty dollars ($50.00) for the season 1921-22.”
With such new members, the United’s future need give no anxiety to its warmest well-wishers.
Beyond a doubt, the leading amateur publication of the season is Mrs. Sonia H. Greene’s resplendent October Rainbow. The editor is anxious to have this magazine reach every member of the United, and hopes that all who have been accidentally overlooked will notify her at 259 Parkside Ave., Brooklyn, N.Y., that the omission may be repaired.
November 1921:
The marriage on August 30 of George Julian Houtain and E. Dorothy McLaughlin is of much interest to United members. Mr. and Mrs. Houtain plan the issuance of a professional monthly magazine of piquant cast, to be entitled Home Brew, among whose contributors will be our members Rheinhart Kleiner and H. P. Lovecraft.
January 1922:
Readers who noted Mr. Galpin’s friendly review of “The Crawling Chaos” will be interested to know that the opinions of the learned often differ. A prominent politician with a distaste for the “wild, weird tales” of H. P. Lovecraft mistakenly credited this whol
e narrative to him, and during a denunciation of Love- craftian stories remarked: “We can hardly go them. That Crawling Chaos is the limit. His attempts at Poe-esque tales will hand him — Did you know he was on the staff of ‘The Houtain Home Brew’ to furnish six of his worst—” Mr. Lovecraft awaits his landing with keen interest.
March 1922:
Early in April, New York was favoured by a visit from Samuel Loveman, our Prince of Poets, to whom the local amateurs were proud to do homage. He was the guest of Mrs. Sonia H. Greene, brilliant editor of The Rainbow, who magnanimously turned over her entire apartment to Mr. Loveman and to H. P. Lovecraft, who made a pilgrimage to meet him; herself stopping with neighbouring friends. On Sunday, April 9, a gathering was held at the Greene residence in honour of Mr. Loveman; this event marking also the first personal appearance among the local members of Frank Belknap Long, Jr., distinguished young prose-poet and former First Vice-President of the United. Paul Livingston Keil, new recruit and student of Nature lore, likewise lent his presence. During the visit many of the New York amateurs generously guided Messrs. Loveman and Lovecraft to sundry points of interest; and it will be long before either will forget such sights as the skyline from Manhattan Bridge shewn by Mr. Kleiner, or the bust of James F. Morton, Jr., shewn by the well-beloved original model himself. Home Brew office was visited, and a well-arranged musicale heard at the home of the former United member, Adeline E. Leiser, and the unique Russian spectacle “Chauve-Souris” witnessed at the 49th Street Theatre under the benignant guidance of Mrs. Greene.
Delphi Complete Works of H. P. Lovecraft (Illustrated) Page 233
