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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 5, whole no. 28, June 1942
Page 3
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SPACEWAYS AVE ATQUE VALE! by EDWARD H. COLE (Condensed from [[underline]] The Olympian [[/underline]], no. 35, by permission of the author and editor) [[drawing of paper and quill]] On March 18, 1937, at Swan Point Cemetery, Providence, Rhode Island, were laid to rest the mortal remains of Howard Phillips Lovecraft, one of the noblest and inspiring spirits in the Society of Amateur Journalists. Only three of those who cherished him in life accompanied him to the grave: his beloved aunt, another more distant relative, and I, who could not bear that he should lack the final tribute of at least one fellow amateur journalist. It remains an abiding satisfaction of my life that I was present. Ten days later I visited again the delightful Georgian home at 66 College Street that had brought to Howard a supreme happiness of environment in his last years. There in the large rectangular, high-ceilinged room which had been his study I talked with young Robert Barlow, his literary executor, who had flown from Kansas City only too late to attend the funeral, and was remaining to fulfill the sad task of arranging for the disposal of Howard's estate. Barlow's was a most bewildering task. There were hundreds of books on nearly every topic and stacks of magazines to which Lovecraft had contributed or in which he had had a peculiar interest. There were an extensive collection of amateur papers and accumulations of geological phenomena that Lovecraft had gathered in the course of his tireless ramblings. There were manuscripts without number on well night every conceivable theme of every description-essays, stories, poetry, scientific discussions, tales of mystery-but how can they be enumerated? We spoke long and lovingly of him who had been the Genius of this room. What an enigma! Talented as few men have been, he had been denied the active career his ambition urged. None the less, he had made truce with Fate and Fortune and had created for himself a world that gave him happiness, though he felt himself denied the full enjoyment of the world about him! Though his abilities might well have enabled him to loom large in that other world, he had been content to devote his best energies to that of his own making. It was a world that had much make-believe and many idiosyncrasies. Those of us who knew him were always a bit amused by his pose as Theobald, as grandpa sitting by the window and watching the world go by, foregoing its rugged activities, but very knowing and forgiving with respect to its foibles and follies. We smiled at his conviction that civilization had reached its pinnacle in the eighteenth century, and we felt it an eccentricity that he should affect the literary style of the Georgian era and find reason for ecstasy only in colonial art and architecture and dress and manners and politics. Because these things were so genuine to him and because we loved him so, we honored his oddity, only to find ourselves half converted to his mood and his belief as we felt his enthusiasm and saw through his eyes. Barlow and I asked one another the solution of the enigma. For Lovecraft had shown himself adept in the life and manners of our own day, too, once he permitted himself to participate fully in the world about him. Who could enter more heartily into the discussion of any contemporary problem or participate more effectively and wittily in any gathering? Yet he remained to the last content to appear the recluse, the passive observer of an active world form which he was withdrawn. He was, however, the Presiding Genius in the world of his own creation, or, more accurately, in several little worlds. Amateur journalism was one. The
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SPACEWAYS AVE ATQUE VALE! by EDWARD H. COLE (Condensed from [[underline]] The Olympian [[/underline]], no. 35, by permission of the author and editor) [[drawing of paper and quill]] On March 18, 1937, at Swan Point Cemetery, Providence, Rhode Island, were laid to rest the mortal remains of Howard Phillips Lovecraft, one of the noblest and inspiring spirits in the Society of Amateur Journalists. Only three of those who cherished him in life accompanied him to the grave: his beloved aunt, another more distant relative, and I, who could not bear that he should lack the final tribute of at least one fellow amateur journalist. It remains an abiding satisfaction of my life that I was present. Ten days later I visited again the delightful Georgian home at 66 College Street that had brought to Howard a supreme happiness of environment in his last years. There in the large rectangular, high-ceilinged room which had been his study I talked with young Robert Barlow, his literary executor, who had flown from Kansas City only too late to attend the funeral, and was remaining to fulfill the sad task of arranging for the disposal of Howard's estate. Barlow's was a most bewildering task. There were hundreds of books on nearly every topic and stacks of magazines to which Lovecraft had contributed or in which he had had a peculiar interest. There were an extensive collection of amateur papers and accumulations of geological phenomena that Lovecraft had gathered in the course of his tireless ramblings. There were manuscripts without number on well night every conceivable theme of every description-essays, stories, poetry, scientific discussions, tales of mystery-but how can they be enumerated? We spoke long and lovingly of him who had been the Genius of this room. What an enigma! Talented as few men have been, he had been denied the active career his ambition urged. None the less, he had made truce with Fate and Fortune and had created for himself a world that gave him happiness, though he felt himself denied the full enjoyment of the world about him! Though his abilities might well have enabled him to loom large in that other world, he had been content to devote his best energies to that of his own making. It was a world that had much make-believe and many idiosyncrasies. Those of us who knew him were always a bit amused by his pose as Theobald, as grandpa sitting by the window and watching the world go by, foregoing its rugged activities, but very knowing and forgiving with respect to its foibles and follies. We smiled at his conviction that civilization had reached its pinnacle in the eighteenth century, and we felt it an eccentricity that he should affect the literary style of the Georgian era and find reason for ecstasy only in colonial art and architecture and dress and manners and politics. Because these things were so genuine to him and because we loved him so, we honored his oddity, only to find ourselves half converted to his mood and his belief as we felt his enthusiasm and saw through his eyes. Barlow and I asked one another the solution of the enigma. For Lovecraft had shown himself adept in the life and manners of our own day, too, once he permitted himself to participate fully in the world about him. Who could enter more heartily into the discussion of any contemporary problem or participate more effectively and wittily in any gathering? Yet he remained to the last content to appear the recluse, the passive observer of an active world form which he was withdrawn. He was, however, the Presiding Genius in the world of his own creation, or, more accurately, in several little worlds. Amateur journalism was one. The
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