Message #257640

[Blood on the Mors]

It remains to speak of the singular power of Miss Jackson in the realm of the gruesome and the terrible. With that same sensitiveness to the unseen and the unreal which lends witchery to her gayer productions, she has achieved in darker fields of verse results inviting comparison with the best prose work of Ambrose Bierce or Maurice Level. Among her older poems the ghastly and colourful phantasy "Insomnia" and the grimly realistic rustic tragedy "Chores" excited especial praise, a critic referring as follows to the latter piece:

"It has all the compelling power which marks Miss Jackson's darker productions, and is conveyed in an arresting staccato measure which emphasises the homely horror of the theme. The phraseology, with its large proportion of rural and archaic words and constructions, adds vastly to the general effect and atmosphere."

This reference to Miss Jackson's unusual vocabulary deserves elaboration, for one of the secrets of her effective poetry is the wide and diverse array of words and word-combinations which she commands. Recondite archaisms and ruralisms, together with marvellously apt and original descriptive compounds, are things which perpetually astonish and delight her readers. Of recent specimens of Miss Jackson's darker verse, "Finality," "The Song" and "Fallen Fences" deserve especial praise. The horrible picture conjured up in the closing lines of the first named piece is one well calculated to haunt the dreams of the imaginative.

As we conclude this survey of rich and varied poetry, our dominant impression aside from admiration is that of wonder at the tardiness with which the author has been recognised by the non-amateur public. As yet the name of Jackson is a comparative novelty to the literary world, a thing explainable[134] only by the reluctance of its possessor to adopt that species of trumpeting which helps less modest and less genuine poets into the glare of celebrity. But genius such as Miss Jackson's can not remain forever hidden, however slight be her striving for fame; so that we may reasonably expect the next few years to witness her establishment among the leading literary figures, as one of the ablest, broadest and most original of contemporary bards.
Ex Oblivione
Ward Phillips

When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victim's body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.

Once when the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars.

Once when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a sunless stream under the earth till I reached another world of purple twilight, iridescent arbours and undying roses.

And once I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves and ruins, and ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced by a little gate of bronze.

Many times I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I pause in the spectral half-light where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground stretched damply from trunk to trunk, sometimes disclosing the mould-stained stones of buried temples. And always the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with the little gate of bronze therein.

After a while, as the days of waking became less and less bearable from their greyness and sameness, I would often drift in opiate peace through the valley and the shadowy groves, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, so that I need no more crawl back to a dull world stript of interest and new colours. And as I looked upon the little gate in the mighty wall, I felt that beyond it lay a dream-country from which, once it was entered, there would be no return.

So each night in sleep I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivied antique wall, though it was exceedingly well-hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.

Then one night in the dream-city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the thoughts of dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise ever to be born in the waking world. Therein were written many things concerning the world of dream, and among them was lore of a golden valley and a sacred grove with temples, and a high wall pierced by a little bronze gate. When I saw this lore, I knew that it touched on the scenes I had haunted, and I therefore read long in the yellowed papyrus.

Some of the dream-sages wrote gorgeously of the wonders beyond the irrepassable gate, but others told of horror and disappointment. I knew not which to believe, yet longed more and more to cross forever into the unknown land; for doubt and secrecy are the lure of lures, and no new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace. So when I learned of the drug which would unlock the gate and drive me through, I resolved to take it when next I awaked.

Last night I swallowed the drug and floated dreamily into the golden valley and the shadowy groves; and when I came this time to the antique wall, I saw that the small gate of bronze was ajar. From beyond came a glow that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and tops of the buried temples, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the glories of the land from whence I should never return.

But as the gate swung wider and the sorcery of drug and dream pushed me through, I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for in that new realm was neither land nor sea, but only the white void of unpeopled and illimitable space. So, happier than I had ever dared hope to be, I dissolved again into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which the daemon Life had called me for one brief and desolate hour.
OFFICIAL ORGAN FUND
Providence, R. I., July 1, 1921.
RECEIPTS SINCE APRIL 1, 1921
From Treasurer, up to July 1, 1921   $18.50
Verna McGeoch (2 instalments)   10.00
E. Edward Ericson   10.00
Mr. and Mrs. Leo Fritter   2.00
John Milton Samples   1.00
Balance on Hand, April 1, 1921   8.50
Total Receipts   $50.00
EXPENDITURES
To E. E. Ericson, for March U. A.   $46.00
Balance on Hand, July 1, 1921   $4.00
H. P. Lovecraft,
Custodian.

[135]
THE UNITED AMATEUR SEPTEMBER 1921
THE UNITED AMATEUR

Official Organ
of the
United Amateur Press Association
H. P. Lovecraft
E. Edward Ericson
Official Editor
Official Publisher

Issued bi-monthly by the United Amateur Press Association.

Subscription Price, 50 cents per year.

Published at Elroy, Wisconsin.

Entered as second-class mail matter at the post office at Elroy, Wis.
SEPTEMBER 1921
OFFICIAL BOARD

President—Mrs. Ida C. Haughton, 1372 E. Long St., Columbus, Ohio.

First Vice-President—Frank Belknap Long, Jr., 823 West End Ave., New York City.

Second Vice-President—Eleanor Beryl North, 316 Beaver Ave., State College, Pa.

Secretary-Treasurer—Alma B. Sanger, 667 Lilley Ave., Columbus, Ohio.

Official Editor—H. P. Lovecraft, 598 Angell St., Providence, R. I.

Official Publisher—E. Edward Ericson, Elroy, Wis.

Laureate Recorder—Howard R. Conover, Route 1, Cozaddale, Ohio.

Manuscript Manager—Grace M. Bromley, 1432 R St., N. W., Washington, D. C.

Historian—Myrta Alice Little, Westville, N. H.

Supervisor of Amendments—(To be appointed.)

Directors—Paul J. Campbell, Route 2, Ridgefarm, Ill.; Anne T. Renshaw, 2109 F St., N. W., Washington, D. C.; Jay Fuller Spoerri, 304 House Office Bldg., Washington, D. C.

Department of Public Criticism—Alfred Galpin, Jr., Chairman, 830 W. Johnson St., Madison, Wis.

Department of Private Criticism—Maurice W. Moe, Chairman, 2812 Chestnut St., Milwaukee, Wis.

Recruiting Committee—Frank Belknap Long, Jr., Chairman, Paul J. Campbell, Leo Fritter, Alfred L. Hutchinson, Gavin T. McColl, Maurice W. Moe.

Ladies' Auxiliary Committee—Eleanor Beryl North, Chairman, Mary Faye Durr, Jennie Eva Harris, Winifred Virginia Jackson, Margaret Mahon, Anne T. Renshaw.
LAUREATE TITLES

Poetry—S. Lilian McMullen; Honourable Mention, Mary Carver Williams.

Story—H. P. Lovecraft; Honourable Mention, Alfred Galpin, Jr.

Essay—Anna Helen Crofts and H. P. Lovecraft; Honourable Mention, Alfred Galpin, Jr.

Editorial—(To be awarded.)
LITERATI

Poetry—Arthur Goodenough, Olive G. Owen (deceased).

Story—Eleanor Barnhart Campbell.

Editorial—H. P. Lovecraft.
INFORMATION

"Amateur Journalism is for those who cultivate literature from taste or attachment, for those who write for the love of writing, for those who pursue the art of letters for its own sake. They may or may not be engaged (or aspire to be engaged) in authorship as a business, but those who are members of that profession will undoubtedly find in Amateur Journalism the air of freedom which develops personality in writing. They will find every encouragement to self-development, amid an environment of art. Amateur Journalism is for all those who do literary work for the love of it."

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