So to the sound of melody the White Ship sailed into the mist betwixt the basalt pillars of the West. And when the music ceased and the mist lifted, we beheld not the Land of Cathuria, but a swift-rushing resistless sea, over which our helpless barque was borne toward some unknown goal. Soon to our ears came the distant thunder of falling waters, and to our eyes appeared on the far horizon ahead the titanic spray of a monstrous cataract, wherein the oceans of the world drop down to abysmal nothingness. Then did the bearded man say to me with tears on his cheek, "We have rejected the beautiful Land of Sona-Nyl, which we may never behold again. The gods are greater than men, and they have conquered." And I closed my eyes before the crash that I knew would come, shutting out the sight of the celestial bird which flapped its mocking blue wings over the brink of the torrent. Out of that crash came darkness, and I heard the shrieking of men and of things which were not men. From the East tempestuous winds arose, and chilled me as I crouched on the slab of damp stone which had risen beneath my feet. Then as I heard another crash I opened my eyes and beheld myself upon the platform of that lighthouse from whence I had sailed so many Êons ago. In the darkness below there loomed the vast blurred outlines of a vessel breaking up on the cruel rocks, and as I glanced out over the waste I saw that the light had failed for the first time since my grandfather had assumed its care. And in the later watches of the night, when I went within the tower, I saw on the wall a calendar which still remained as when I had left it at the hour I sailed away. With the dawn I descended the tower and looked for wreckage upon the rocks, but what I found was only this: a strange dead bird whose hue was as of the azure sky, and a single shattered spar, of a whiteness greater than that of the wave-tips or of the mountain snow. And thereafter the ocean told me its secrets no more; and though many times since has the moon shone full and high in the heavens, the White Ship from the South came never again. TO MISTRESS SOPHIA SIMPLE, QUEEN OF THE CINEMA (With humblest apologies to Randolph St. John, Gent.) L. Theobald, Jun. Before our sight your mobile face Depicts your joys or woes distracting; We marvel at your winsome grace-- And wish you'd learn the art of acting! Your eyes, we vow, surpass the stars; Your mouth is like the bow of Cupid; Your rose-ting'd cheeks no wrinkle mars-- Yet why are you so sweetly stupid? The hero views you with delight, To win your hand forever working; We pity him--the witless wight-- To fall a victim to your smirking! And yet, why should we wail in rhyme Because so crudely you dissemble? We can't expect for one small dime, To see a Woffington or Kemble! THE UNITED AMATEUR JANUARY 1920 Literary Composition H. P. Lovecraft