By H. P. Lovecraft

Supernatural Horror in Literature

I. Introduction

The   oldest   and   strongest   emotion   ofmankind is fear, and the oldest and strongestkind of fear  is  fear of the unknown. Thesefacts   few   psychologists   will   dispute,   andtheir   admitted   truth  must   establish   for   alltime   the   genuineness   and   dignity   of   theweirdly   horrible   tale   as   a   literary   form.Against it are discharged all the shafts of amaterialistic   sophistication   which   clings   tofrequently felt emotions and external events,and   of   a   naively   insipid   idealism   whichdeprecates the aesthetic motive and calls fora   didactic   literature   to   uplift   the   readertoward   a   suitable   degree   of   smirkingoptimism. But in spite of all this oppositionthe weird tale has survived, developed, andattained   remarkable   heights   of   perfection;founded   as   it   is   on   a   profound   andelementary   principle   whose   appeal,   if   notalways   universal,   must   necessarily   bepoignant   and   permanent   to   minds   of   therequisite sensitiveness.

The   appeal   of   the   spectrally   macabre   isgenerally  narrow because  it  demands  fromthe reader  a  certain  degree of   imaginationand a capacity  for  detachment  from every­day life. Relatively few are free enough fromthe spell of the daily routine to respond torappings from outside, and tales of ordinaryfeelings   and   events,   or   of   commonsentimental distortions of such feelings andevents,   will   always   take   first   place   in   thetaste of the majority; rightly, perhaps, sinceof   course   these   ordinary  matters  make  upthe  greater  part  of  human experience.  Butthe   sensitive   are   always   with   us,   andsometimes a curious streak of fancy invadesan obscure corner of the very hardest head;so that no amount of rationalisation, reform,or   Freudian   analysis   can   quite   annul   the

thrill  of  the chimney­corner whisper or  thelonely   wood.   There   is   here   involved   apsychological pattern or tradition as real andas deeply grounded in mental experience asany other  pattern or   tradition of  mankind;coeval with the religious feeling and closelyrelated to many aspects of it, and too much apart of our inmost biological heritage to losekeen potency over a very important, thoughnot   numerically   great,   minority   of   ourspecies.

Man’s first instincts and emotions formed hisresponse   to   the   environment   in   which   hefound   himself.   Definite   feelings   based   onpleasure   and   pain   grew   up   around   thephenomena   whose   causes   and   effects   heunderstood,   whilst   around   those   which   hedid   not   understand—and   the   universeteemed with them in the early days—werenaturally   woven   such   personifications,marvellous interpretations, and sensations ofawe and fear as would be hit upon by a racehaving   few   and   simple   ideas   and   limitedexperience. The unknown, being likewise theunpredictable,   became   for   our   primitiveforefathers a terrible and omnipotent sourceof   boons   and   calamities   visited   uponmankind   for   cryptic   and   wholly   extra­terrestrial   reasons,   and   thus   clearlybelonging   to   spheres   of   existence   whereofwe know nothing and wherein we have nopart. The phenomenon of dreaming likewisehelped to build up the notion of an unreal orspiritual   world;   and   in   general,   all   theconditions   of   savage   dawn­life   so   stronglyconduced   toward   a   feeling   of   thesupernatural,   that  we  need  not  wonder  atthe   thoroughness   with   which   man’s   veryhereditary   essence   has   become   saturatedwith   religion   and   superstition.   Thatsaturation   must,   as   a   matter   of   plainscientific   fact,   be   regarded   as   virtuallypermanent so far as the subconscious mindand inner instincts are concerned; for thoughthe area of the unknown has been steadilycontracting   for   thousands   of   years,   an

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infinite reservoir of mystery still engulfs mostof the outer cosmos, whilst a vast residuumof   powerful   inherited   associations   clingsaround   all   the   objects   and   processes   thatwere   once   mysterious,   however   well   theymay now be explained. And more than this,there   is   an  actual  physiological   fixation  ofthe old instincts in our nervous tissue, whichwould make them obscurely operative evenwere the conscious mind to be purged of allsources of wonder.

Because we remember pain and the menaceof   death   more   vividly   than   pleasure,   andbecause our   feelings toward the beneficentaspects of the unknown have from the firstbeen   captured   and   formalised   byconventional religious rituals, it has fallen tothe   lot  of   the  darker  and  more  maleficentside  of   cosmic  mystery   to   figure  chiefly   inour   popular   supernatural   folklore.   Thistendency, too, is naturally enhanced by thefact that uncertainty and danger are alwaysclosely  allied;   thus  making  any kind of  anunknown   world   a   world   of   peril   and   evilpossibilities. When to this sense of fear andevil the inevitable fascination of wonder andcuriosity   is   superadded,   there   is   born   acomposite   body   of   keen   emotion   andimaginative provocation whose vitality mustof   necessity   endure  as   long  as   the  humanrace itself. Children will always be afraid ofthe dark, and men with minds sensitive tohereditary impulse will always tremble at thethought of the hidden and fathomless worldsof strange life which may pulsate in the gulfsbeyond   the   stars,   or   press   hideously   uponour own globe in unholy dimensions whichonly   the   dead   and   the   moonstruck   canglimpse.

With this foundation, no one need wonder atthe existence of a literature of cosmic fear. Ithas   always   existed,   and   always   will   exist;and   no   better   evidence   of   its   tenaciousvigour can be cited than the impulse which

now   and   then   drives   writers   of   totallyopposite leanings to try their hands at it inisolated tales,  as  if   to  discharge from theirminds   certain   phantasmal   shapes   whichwould otherwise haunt them. Thus Dickenswrote several eerie narratives; Browning, thehideous   poem   “Childe   Roland”;   HenryJames,  The Turn of   the Screw;  Dr.  Holmes,the   subtle   novel  Elsie   Venner;  F.   MarionCrawford, “The Upper Berth” and a numberof   other   examples;   Mrs.   Charlotte   PerkinsGilman,   social   worker,   “The   Yellow   WallPaper”; whilst  the humourist W. W. Jacobsproduced that able melodramatic bit  called“The Monkey’s Paw”.

This   type   of   fear­literature   must   not   beconfounded   with   a   type   externally   similarbut   psychologically   widely   different;   theliterature   of   mere   physical   fear   and   themundanely   gruesome.   Such   writing,   to   besure, has its place, as has the conventional oreven   whimsical   or   humorous   ghost   storywhere   formalism   or   the   author’s   knowingwink removes the true sense of the morbidlyunnatural;   but   these   things   are   not   theliterature of cosmic fear in its purest sense.The true weird tale has something more thansecret  murder,  bloody  bones,  or   a   sheetedform   clanking   chains   according   to   rule.   Acertain   atmosphere   of   breathless   andunexplainable   dread   of   outer,   unknownforces must be present; and there must be ahint,   expressed   with   a   seriousness   andportentousness becoming its subject, of thatmost terrible conception of the human brain—a   malign   and   particular   suspension   ordefeat of those fixed laws of  Nature whichare our only safeguard against the assaults ofchaos and the daemons of unplumbed space.

Naturally we cannot expect all weird tales toconform absolutely to any theoretical model.Creative minds are uneven, and the best offabrics have their dull spots. Moreover, muchof   the  choicest  weird work  is  unconscious;

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appearing in memorable fragments scatteredthrough material  whose massed effect  maybe of a very different cast. Atmosphere is theall­important thing, for the final criterion ofauthenticity is not the dovetailing of a plotbut   the   creation   of   a   given   sensation.  Wemay   say,  as   a  general   thing,   that   a  weirdstory whose intent is to teach or produce asocial effect, or one in which the horrors arefinally explained away by natural means, isnot   a   genuine   tale   of   cosmic   fear;   but   itremains   a   fact   that   such   narratives   oftenpossess,   in   isolated   sections,   atmospherictouches which fulfil every condition of truesupernatural horror­literature. Therefore wemust judge a weird tale not by the author’sintent, or by the mere mechanics of the plot;but by the emotional level which it attains atits   least   mundane   point.   If   the   propersensations   are   excited,   such   a   “high   spot”must be admitted on its own merits as weirdliterature,   no   matter   how   prosaically   it   islater   dragged   down.   The   one   test   of   thereally weird is simply this—whether or notthere  be  excited   in   the   reader   a  profoundsense of dread, and of contact with unknownspheres   and   powers;   a   subtle   attitude   ofawed listening, as if for the beating of blackwings   or   the   scratching   of   outside   shapesand entities on the known universe’s utmostrim. And of course, the more completely andunifiedly   a   story   conveys   this   atmosphere,the better it is as a work of art in the givenmedium.

II. The Dawn of the Horror­Tale

As may naturally be expected of a form soclosely connected with primal emotion, thehorror­tale is as old as human thought andspeech   themselves.Cosmic terror appears as an ingredient of theearliest   folklore   of   all   races,   and   iscrystallised   in   the   most   archaic   ballads,chronicles,   and   sacred   writings.   It   was,indeed, a prominent feature of the elaborateceremonial   magic,   with   its   rituals   for   theevocation  of   daemons   and   spectres,  which

flourished from prehistoric times, and whichreached   its   highest   development   in   Egyptand the Semitic nations. Fragments like theBook   of   Enoch   and   the   Claviculae   ofSolomon   well   illustrate   the   power   of   theweird   over   the   ancient  Eastern  mind,   andupon   such   things   were   based   enduringsystems and traditions whose echoes extendobscurely even to the present time. Touchesof this transcendental fear are seen in classicliterature,  and  there   is  evidence  of   its   stillgreater emphasis in a ballad literature whichparalleled the classic stream but vanished forlack of a written medium. The Middle Ages,steeped   in   fanciful   darkness,   gave   it   anenormous   impulse   toward   expression;   andEast   and   West   alike   were   busy   preservingand   amplifying   the   dark   heritage,   both   ofrandom   folklore   and   of   academicallyformulated magic and cabbalism, which haddescended   to   them.   Witch,   werewolf,vampire,  and  ghoul  brooded ominously  onthe  lips of  bard and grandam, and neededbut   little   encouragement   to   take   the   finalstep   across   the   boundary   that   divides   thechanted tale or song from the formal literarycomposition.   In   the  Orient,   the  weird   taletended to assume a gorgeous colouring andsprightliness which almost transmuted it intosheer   phantasy.   In   the   West,   where   themystical   Teuton  had   come  down   from hisblack   Boreal   forests   and   the   Celtremembered   strange   sacrifices   in   Druidicgroves,   it   assumed a   terrible   intensity   andconvincing seriousness of atmosphere whichdoubled the force of its half­told, half­hintedhorrors.

Much of   the  power  of  Western horror­lorewas undoubtedly due to the hidden but oftensuspected   presence   of   a   hideous   cult   ofnocturnal   worshippers   whose   strangecustoms—descended   from   pre­Aryan   andpre­agricultural times when a squat race ofMongoloids   roved   over   Europe   with   theirflocks and herds—were rooted in the mostrevolting   fertility­rites   of   immemorial

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antiquity.   This   secret   religion,   stealthilyhanded   down   amongst   peasants   forthousands of years despite the outward reignof the Druidic, Graeco­Roman, and Christianfaiths in the regions involved, was marked bywild   “Witches’   Sabbaths”   in   lonely   woodsand   atop   distant   hills   on   Walpurgis­Nightand   Hallowe’en,   the   traditional   breeding­seasons of   the goats  and sheep and cattle;and   became   the   source   of   vast   riches   ofsorcery­legend,  besides provoking extensivewitchcraft­ prosecutions of which the Salemaffair   forms   the   chief   American   example.Akin to it in essence, and perhaps connectedwith it in fact, was the frightful secret systemof inverted theology or Satan­worship whichproduced such horrors as the famous “BlackMass”; whilst operating toward the same endwe may note   the activities  of   those  whoseaims   were   somewhat   more   scientific   orphilosophical—the   astrologers,   cabbalists,and   alchemists   of   the  Albertus  Magnus   orRaymond Lully type, with whom such rudeages invariably abound. The prevalence anddepth   of   the   mediaeval   horror­spirit   inEurope,   intensified   by   the   dark   despairwhich waves of pestilence brought, may befairly gauged by the grotesque carvings slylyintroduced   into   much   of   the   finest   laterGothic   ecclesiastical  work  of   the   time;   thedaemoniac   gargoyles   of   Notre   Dame   andMont   St.   Michel   being   among   the   mostfamous   specimens.   And   throughout   theperiod, it must be remembered, there existedamongst   educated   and  uneducated  alike   amost   unquestioning   faith   in   every   form ofthe   supernatural;   from   the   gentlest   ofChristian   doctrines   to   the   most   monstrousmorbidities of witchcraft and black magic. Itwas   from   no   empty   background   that   theRenaissance   magicians   and   alchemists—Nostradamus,   Trithemius,   Dr.   John   Dee,Robert Fludd, and the like—were born.

In this fertile soil were nourished types andcharacters of sombre myth and legend whichpersist in weird literature to this day, more

or   less   disguised   or   altered   by   moderntechnique.  Many of   them were   taken   fromthe earliest  oral   sources,  and  form part  ofmankind’s   permanent   heritage.   The   shadewhich appears and demands the burial of itsbones, the daemon lover who comes to bearaway his still living bride, the death­fiend orpsychopomp riding the night­wind, the man­wolf,   the   sealed   chamber,   the   deathlesssorcerer—all   these   may   be   found   in   thatcurious   body   of   mediaeval   lore   which   thelate   Mr.   Baring­Gould   so   effectivelyassembled   in   book   form.   Wherever   themystic   Northern   blood   was   strongest,   theatmosphere   of   the   popular   tales   becamemost intense; for in the Latin races there is atouch   of   basic   rationality   which   denies   toeven   their   strangest   superstitions   many   ofthe overtones of glamour so characteristic ofour   own   forest­born   and   ice­fosteredwhisperings.

Just   as   all   fiction   first   found   extensiveembodiment in poetry, so is it in poetry thatwe  first  encounter   the  permanent  entry  ofthe weird  into standard  literature.  Most  ofthe ancient instances, curiously enough, arein   prose;   as   the   werewolf   incident   inPetronius,   the   gruesome   passages   inApuleius,   the  brief  but   celebrated   letter  ofPliny   the   Younger   to   Sura,   and   the   oddcompilation  On   Wonderful   Events  by   theEmperor   Hadrian’s   Greek   freedman,Phlegon. It   is  in Phlegon that we first  findthat   hideous   tale   of   the   corpse­bride,“Philinnion and Machates”,   later related byProclus   and   in   modern   times   forming   theinspiration   of   Goethe’s   “Bride   of   Corinth”and Washington Irving’s “German Student”.But by the time the old Northern myths takeliterary form, and in that later time when theweird   appears   as   a   steady   element   in   theliterature  of   the  day,  we   find   it  mostly   inmetrical dress; as indeed we find the greaterpart of the strictly imaginative writing of theMiddle   Ages   and   Renaissance.   TheScandinavian Eddas and Sagas thunder with

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cosmic horror, and shake with the stark fearof Ymir and his shapeless spawn; whilst ourown   Anglo­Saxon  Beowulf  and   the   laterContinental   Nibelung   tales   are   full   ofeldritch weirdness. Dante is a pioneer in theclassic capture of macabre atmosphere, andin Spenser’s stately stanzas will be seen morethan   a   few   touches   of   fantastic   terror   inlandscape,   incident,   and   character.   Proseliterature gives us Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, inwhich are presented many ghastly situationstaken from early ballad sources—the theft ofthe sword and silk from the corpse in ChapelPerilous  by Sir   Launcelot,   the  ghost  of  SirGawaine,   and   the   tomb­fiend   seen   by   SirGalahad—whilst other and cruder specimenswere  doubtless   set   forth   in   the  cheap  andsensational   “chapbooks”   vulgarly   hawkedabout   and   devoured   by   the   ignorant.   InElizabethan drama, with its  Dr. Faustus,  thewitches in Macbeth, the ghost in Hamlet, andthe   horrible   gruesomeness   of   Webster,   wemay   easily   discern   the   strong   hold   of   thedaemoniac   on   the   public   mind;   a   holdintensified   by   the   very   real   fear   of   livingwitchcraft, whose terrors, first wildest on theContinent,  begin   to  echo  loudly   in  Englishears as the witch­hunting crusades of Jamesthe   First   gain   headway.   To   the   lurkingmystical  prose of  the ages  is  added a longline   of   treatises   on   witchcraft   anddaemonology   which   aid   in   exciting   theimagination of the reading world.

Through   the   seventeenth   and   into   theeighteenth   century   we   behold   a   growingmass   of   fugitive   legendry   and   balladry   ofdarksome   cast;   still,   however,   held   downbeneath the surface of  polite  and acceptedliterature.   Chapbooks   of   horror   andweirdness   multiplied,   and   we   glimpse   theeager   interest   of   the   people   throughfragments   like   Defoe’s   “Apparition   of   Mrs.Veal”,   a   homely   tale   of   a   dead   woman’sspectral visit   to a distant  friend, written toadvertise covertly a badly selling theologicaldisquisition on death.  The upper  orders  of

society   were   now   losing   faith   in   thesupernatural,  and   indulging   in  a  period ofclassic rationalism. Then, beginning with thetranslations of Eastern tales in Queen Anne’sreign  and   taking  definite   form  toward   themiddle of the century, comes the revival ofromantic   feeling—the   era   of   new   joy   inNature,  and  in   the   radiance  of  past   times,strange   scenes,   bold   deeds,   and   incrediblemarvels. We feel it first in the poets, whoseutterances take on new qualities of wonder,strangeness,   and   shuddering.   And   finally,after   the   timid  appearance  of  a   few weirdscenes   in   the   novels   of   the   day—such   asSmollett’s  Adventures   of   Ferdinand,   CountFathom—the   released   instinct   precipitatesitself in the birth of a new school of writing;the “Gothic” school of horrible and fantasticprose fiction, long and short, whose literaryposterity is destined to become so numerous,and in many cases so resplendent in artisticmerit.   It   is,   when   one   reflects   upon   it,genuinely   remarkable   that   weird   narrationas   a   fixed   and   academically   recognisedliterary   form   should   have   been   so   late   offinal birth. The impulse and atmosphere areas old as man, but the typical weird tale ofstandard   literature   is   a   child   of   theeighteenth century.

III. The Early Gothic Novel

The shadow­haunted landscapes of “Ossian”,the   chaotic   visions   of   William   Blake,   thegrotesque   witch­dances   in   Burns’s   “TamO’Shanter”,   the   sinister   daemonism   ofColeridge’s  Christabel  and  Ancient  Mariner,the   ghostly   charm   of   James   Hogg’s“Kilmeny”,  and   the   more   restrainedapproaches   to  cosmic  horror   in  Lamia  andmany   of   Keats’s   other   poems,   are   typicalBritish   illustrations   of   the   advent   of   theweird   to   formal   literature.   Our   Teutoniccousins   of   the   Continent   were   equallyreceptive   to   the   rising   flood,   and  Bürger’s“Wild Huntsman” and the even more famousdaemon­bridegroom   ballad   of   “Lenore”—both   imitated   in   English   by   Scott,   whose

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respect   for   the   supernatural   was   alwaysgreat—are only a  taste of   the eerie wealthwhich   German   song   had   commenced   toprovide. Thomas Moore adapted from suchsources   the   legend  of   the   ghoulish   statue­bride (later used by Prosper Mérimée in “TheVenus of   Ille”,  and  traceable back to  greatantiquity) which echoes so shiveringly in hisballad   of   “The   Ring”;   whilst   Goethe’sdeathless   masterpiece  Faust,  crossing   frommere   balladry   into   the   classic,   cosmictragedy   of   the   ages,   may   be   held   as   theultimate height to which this German poeticimpulse arose.

But   it   remained   for   a   very   sprightly   andworldly   Englishman—none   other   thanHorace   Walpole   himself—to   give   thegrowing impulse definite shape and becomethe   actual   founder   of   the   literary   horror­story   as   a   permanent   form.   Fond   ofmediaeval   romance   and   mystery   as   adilettante’s   diversion,   and   with   a   quaintlyimitated   Gothic   castle   as   his   abode   atStrawberry Hill, Walpole in 1764 publishedThe   Castle   of   Otranto;  a   tale   of   thesupernatural   which,   though   thoroughlyunconvincing   and   mediocre   in   itself,   wasdestined   to   exert   an   almost   unparalleledinfluence on the literature of the weird. Firstventuring   it   only   as   a   translation   by   one“William Marshal, Gent.” from the Italian ofa mythical  “Onuphrio Muralto”,   the authorlater  acknowledged his connexion with thebook   and   took   pleasure   in   its   wide   andinstantaneous   popularity—a   popularitywhich   extended   to   many   editions,   earlydramatisation, and wholesale imitation bothin England and in Germany.

The   story—tedious,   artificial,   andmelodramatic—is further impaired by a briskand prosaic style whose urbane sprightlinessnowhere   permits   the   creation   of   a   trulyweird   atmosphere.   It   tells   of   Manfred,   anunscrupulous   and   usurping   prince

determined  to   found  a   line,  who after   themysterious   sudden   death   of   his   only   sonConrad on the latter’s bridal morn, attemptsto put away his wife Hippolita and wed thelady destined for the unfortunate youth—thelad, by the way, having been crushed by thepreternatural fall of a gigantic helmet in thecastle   courtyard.   Isabella,   the   widowedbride, flees from this design; and encountersin subterranean crypts beneath the castle anoble   young   preserver,   Theodore,   whoseems   to   be   a   peasant   yet   strangelyresembles the old lord Alfonso who ruled thedomain   before   Manfred’s   time.   Shortlythereafter   supernatural   phenomena   assailthe   castle   in   divers   ways;   fragments   ofgigantic  armour being discovered here andthere, a portrait walking out of its frame, athunderclap   destroying   the   edifice,   and   acolossal  armoured spectre of  Alfonso risingout of   the ruins  to  ascend through partingclouds   to   the   bosom   of   St.   Nicholas.Theodore, having wooed Manfred’s daughterMatilda and lost her through death—for sheis   slain   by   her   father   by   mistake—isdiscovered   to   be   the   son   of   Alfonso   andrightful heir to the estate. He concludes thetale   by  wedding   Isabella   and  preparing   tolive   happily   ever   after,   whilst   Manfred—whose usurpation was the cause of his son’ssupernatural death and his own supernaturalharassings—retires   to   a   monastery   forpenitence; his saddened wife seeking asylumin a neighbouring convent.

Such is the tale; flat, stilted, and altogetherdevoid   of   the   true   cosmic   horror   whichmakes   weird   literature.   Yet   such   was   thethirst   of   the   age   for   those   touches   ofstrangeness  and spectral  antiquity  which  itreflects, that it was seriously received by thesoundest   readers  and  raised   in   spite  of   itsintrinsic   ineptness   to   a   pedestal   of   loftyimportance   in   literary  history.  What   it  didabove all else was to create a novel type ofscene,   puppet­characters,   and   incidents;which,   handled   to   better   advantage   by

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writers   more   naturally   adapted   to   weirdcreation,   stimulated   the   growth   of   animitative   Gothic   school   which   in   turninspired the real weavers of cosmic terror—the line of actual artists beginning with Poe.This novel dramatic paraphernalia consistedfirst   of   all   of   the   Gothic   castle,   with   itsawesome   antiquity,   vast   distances   andramblings, deserted or ruined wings, dampcorridors,   unwholesome  hidden   catacombs,and galaxy of ghosts and appalling legends,as   a   nucleus   of   suspense   and   daemoniacfright. In addition, it included the tyrannicaland   malevolent   nobleman   as   villain;   thesaintly, longpersecuted, and generally insipidheroine   who   undergoes   the   major   terrorsand serves as a point of view and focus forthe   reader’s   sympathies;   the   valorous   andimmaculate  hero,  always  of  high  birth  butoften in humble disguise; the convention ofhigh­sounding foreign names, mostly Italian,for the characters; and the infinite array ofstage   properties   which   includes   strangelights, damp trap­doors, extinguished lamps,mouldy   hidden   manuscripts,   creakinghinges, shaking arras, and the like. All  thisparaphernalia   reappears   with   amusingsameness,   yet   sometimes   with   tremendouseffect, throughout the history of the Gothicnovel;   and   is   by   no   means   extinct   eventoday, though subtler technique now forcesit to assume a less naive and obvious form.An harmonious milieu for a new school hadbeen found, and the writing world was notslow to grasp the opportunity.

German romance at once responded to theWalpole   influence,   and   soon   became   abyword   for   the   weird   and   ghastly.   InEngland  one  of   the   first   imitators  was   thecelebrated  Mrs.  Barbauld,   then  Miss  Aikin,who   in   1773   published   an   unfinishedfragment called “Sir Bertrand”, in which thestrings of genuine terror were truly touchedwith no clumsy hand. A nobleman on a darkand lonely moor, attracted by a tolling belland   distant   light,   enters   a   strange   and

ancient   turreted   castle   whose   doors   openand close and whose bluish will­o’­the­wispslead  up  mysterious   staircases   toward  deadhands and animated black statues. A coffinwith a dead lady, whom Sir Bertrand kisses,is   finally   reached;   and   upon   the   kiss   thescene dissolves   to  give  place  to  a  splendidapartment where  the  lady,  restored to   life,holds  a  banquet   in  honour  of  her   rescuer.Walpole   admired   this   tale,   though   heaccorded   less   respect   to   an   even   moreprominent offspring of his Otranto—The OldEnglish Baron,  by Clara Reeve, published in1777. Truly enough, this tale lacks the realvibration to the note of outer darkness andmystery which distinguishes Mrs. Barbauld’sfragment;   and   though   less   crude   thanWalpole’s   novel,   and   more   artisticallyeconomical of horror in its possession of onlyone   spectral   figure,   it   is   nevertheless   toodefinitely   insipid   for  greatness.  Here  againwe   have   the   virtuous   heir   to   the   castledisguised as  a  peasant  and restored  to  hisheritage through the ghost of his father; andhere again we have a case of wide popularityleading to many editions, dramatisation, andultimate translation into French. Miss Reevewrote   another   weird   novel,   unfortunatelyunpublished and lost.

The   Gothic   novel   was   now   settled   as   aliterary   form,   and   instances   multiplybewilderingly   as   the   eighteenth   centurydraws toward its close. The Recess, written in1785  by  Mrs.  Sophia  Lee,  has   the  historicelement, revolving round the twin daughtersof Mary, Queen of Scots; and though devoidof   the   supernatural,   employs   the   Walpolescenery and mechanism with great dexterity.Five years  later,  and all  existing  lamps arepaled  by   the   rising  of  a   fresh   luminary  ofwholly   superior   order—Mrs.   Ann   Radcliffe(1764–1823),   whose   famous   novels   madeterror and suspense a fashion, and who setnew and higher standards in the domain ofmacabre   and   fear­inspiring   atmospheredespite a provoking custom of destroying her

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own phantoms at the last through labouredmechanical   explanations.   To   the   familiarGothic   trappings   of   her   predecessors   Mrs.Radcliffe   added   a   genuine   sense   of   theunearthly   in   scene   and   incident   whichclosely   approached   genius;   every   touch   ofsetting and action contributing artistically tothe   impression   of   illimitable   frightfulnesswhich she wished to convey. A few sinisterdetails like a track of blood on castle stairs, agroan from a distant vault, or a weird songin a nocturnal forest can with her conjure upthe   most   powerful   images   of   imminenthorror; surpassing by far the extravagant andtoilsome   elaborations   of   others.   Nor   arethese   images   in   themselves   any   the   lesspotent   because   they   are   explained   awaybefore the end of the novel. Mrs. Radcliffe’svisual   imagination   was   very   strong,   andappears as much in her delightful landscapetouches—always   in   broad,   glamorouslypictorial outline, and never in close detail—as   in   her   weird   phantasies.   Her   primeweaknesses, aside from the habit of prosaicdisillusionment,   are   a   tendency   towarderroneous geography and history and a fatalpredilection for bestrewing her novels withinsipid   little   poems,   attributed   to   one   oranother of the characters.

Mrs. Radcliffe wrote six novels;  The Castlesof  Athlin   and  Dunbayne  (1789),  A  SicilianRomance  (1790),  The Romance of the Forest(1791), The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), TheItalian  (1797),   and  Gaston   de   Blondeville,composed   in   1802   but   first   publishedposthumously  in 1826. Of these  Udolpho  isby far the most famous, and may be taken asa type of the early Gothic tale at its best. It isthe   chronicle   of   Emily,   a   youngFrenchwoman   transplanted   to   an   ancientand   portentous   castle   in   the   Apenninesthrough   the  death  of   her   parents   and   themarriage of her aunt to the lord of the castle—the   scheming   nobleman   Montoni.Mysterious   sounds,   opened   doors,   frightfullegends,  and a nameless  horror   in  a  niche

behind   a   black   veil   all   operate   in   quicksuccession  to  unnerve   the heroine and herfaithful attendant Annette; but finally, afterthe death of her aunt, she escapes with theaid   of   a   fellow­prisoner   whom   she   hasdiscovered. On the way home she stops at achateau   filled   with   fresh   horrors—theabandoned   wing   where   the   departedchatelaine dwelt, and the bed of death withthe   black   pall—but   is   finally   restored   tosecurity   and   happiness   with   her   loverValancourt, after the clearing­up of a secretwhich seemed for a time to involve her birthin mystery. Clearly, this is only the familiarmaterial   re­worked;   but   it   is   so   well   re­worked that Udolpho will always be a classic.Mrs.  Radcliffe’s  characters are puppets,  butthey are less markedly so than those of herforerunners. And in atmospheric creation shestands preëminent among those of her time.

Of  Mrs.  Radcliffe’s   countless   imitators,   theAmerican novelist  Charles  Brockden Brownstands the closest in spirit and method. Likeher,   he   injured   his   creations   by   naturalexplanations;  but   also   like  her,  he  had  anuncanny atmospheric power which gives hishorrors   a   frightful   vitality   as   long   as   theyremain unexplained. He differed from her incontemptuously   discarding   the   externalGothic   paraphernalia   and   properties   andchoosing   modern   American   scenes   for   hismysteries;   but   this   repudiation   did   notextend   to   the   Gothic   spirit   and   type   ofincident.   Brown’s   novels   involve   somememorably frightful scenes, and excel evenMrs. Radcliffe’s in describing the operationsof   the perturbed mind.  Edgar Huntly  startswith a sleep­walker digging a grave, but  islater   impaired   by   touches   of   Godwiniandidacticism. Ormond involves a member of asinister secret brotherhood. That and ArthurMervyn  both  describe  the plague of  yellowfever,   which   the   author   had   witnessed   inPhiladelphia   and   New   York.   But   Brown’smost   famous   book   is  Wieland;   or,   TheTransformation  (1798),   in   which   a

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Pennsylvania German, engulfed by a wave ofreligious   fanaticism,  hears  voices  and slayshis wife and children as a sacrifice. His sisterClara, who tells the story, narrowly escapes.The   scene,   laid  at   the  woodland   estate   ofMittingen on the Schuylkill’s remote reaches,is   drawn   with   extreme   vividness;   and   theterrors   of   Clara,   beset   by   spectral   tones,gathering   fears,   and   the   sound   of   strangefootsteps in the lonely house, are all shapedwith truly artistic  force.  In the end a lameventriloquial explanation is offered, but theatmosphere is genuine while it lasts. Carwin,the malign ventriloquist, is a typical villain ofthe Manfred or Montoni type.

IV. The Apex of Gothic Romance

Horror in literature attains a new malignityin   the   work   of   Matthew   Gregory   Lewis(1775–1818), whose novel The Monk (1796)achieved marvellous  popularity  and earnedhim   the   nickname   of   “Monk”   Lewis.   Thisyoung   author,   educated   in   Germany   andsaturated with  a  body of  wild Teuton  loreunknown to Mrs. Radcliffe, turned to terrorin   forms   more   violent   than   his   gentlepredecessor had ever dared to think of; andproduced as a result a masterpiece of activenightmare   whose   general   Gothic   cast   isspiced   with   added   stores   of   ghoulishness.The   story   is   one   of   a   Spanish   monk,Ambrosio,   who   from   a   state   of   overproudvirtue is tempted to the very nadir of evil bya fiend in the guise of the maiden Matilda;and who is finally, when awaiting death atthe Inquisition’s hands, induced to purchaseescape at the price of his soul from the Devil,because   he   deems   both   body   and   soulalready   lost.   Forthwith   the   mocking   Fiendsnatches him to a lonely place, tells him hehas sold his soul in vain since both pardonand a chance for salvation were approachingat the moment of his hideous bargain, andcompletes the sardonic betrayal by rebukinghim for his unnatural crimes, and casting hisbody   down   a   precipice   whilst   his   soul   isborne  off   for   ever   to  perdition.  The  novel

contains some appalling descriptions such asthe   incantation   in   the   vaults   beneath   theconvent   cemetery,   the   burning   of   theconvent, and the final end of the wretchedabbot. In the sub­plot where the Marquis delas Cisternas meets the spectre of his erringancestress,   The   Bleeding   Nun,   there   aremany enormously potent strokes; notably thevisit of the animated corpse to the Marquis’sbedside,  and  the cabbalistic   ritual  wherebythe Wandering Jew helps him to fathom andbanish his dead tormentor. Nevertheless TheMonk drags sadly when read as a whole. It istoo   long  and   too  diffuse,  and  much  of   itspotency   is  marred  by   flippancy  and  by  anawkwardly  excessive  reaction against   thosecanons   of   decorum   which   Lewis   at   firstdespised as prudish. One great thing may besaid of the author; that he never ruined hisghostly   visions  with  a  natural   explanation.He succeeded in breaking up the Radcliffiantradition   and   expanding   the   field   of   theGothic novel. Lewis wrote much more thanThe Monk. His drama, The Castle Spectre, wasproduced in 1798, and he later found time topen other   fictions   in  ballad  form—Tales  ofTerror (1799), Tales of Wonder (1801), and asuccession of translations from the German.

Gothic romances, both English and German,now   appeared   in   multitudinous   andmediocre   profusion.   Most   of   them   weremerely   ridiculous   in   the   light   of   maturetaste,   and   Miss   Austen’s   famous   satireNorthanger   Abbey  was   by   no   means   anunmerited   rebuke   to   a   school   which   hadsunk   far   toward   absurdity.   This   particularschool was petering out, but before its finalsubordination   there   arose   its   last   andgreatest   figure   in   the   person   of   CharlesRobert   Maturin   (1782–1824),   an   obscureand   eccentric   Irish   clergyman.   Out   of   anample body of miscellaneous writing whichincludes one confused Radcliffian  imitationcalled  Fatal   Revenge;   or,   The   Family   ofMontorio  (1807), Maturin at length evolvedthe vivid horror­masterpiece of  Melmoth the

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Wanderer  (1820),   in which  the Gothic   taleclimbed to altitudes of sheer spiritual frightwhich it had never known before.

Melmoth  is   the   tale   of   an   Irish   gentlemanwho, in the seventeenth century, obtained apreternaturally extended life from the Devilat the price of his soul. If he can persuadeanother   to   take   the  bargain  off  his  hands,and   assume   his   existing   state,   he   can   besaved;   but   this   he   can   never   manage   toeffect, no matter how assiduously he hauntsthose whom despair has made reckless andfrantic.  The framework of  the story is veryclumsy;  involving tedious length, digressiveepisodes,   narratives   within   narratives,   andlaboured  dovetailing  and  coincidences;  butat   various   points   in   the   endless   ramblingthere is felt a pulse of power undiscoverablein any previous work of this kind—a kinshipto the essential   truth of  human nature,  anunderstanding of the profoundest sources ofactual   cosmic   fear,   and   a   white   heat   ofsympathetic   passion   on   the   writer’s   partwhich makes the book a true document ofaesthetic self­expression rather than a mereclever   compound   of   artifice.   No   unbiassedreader   can   doubt   that   with  Melmoth  anenormous   stride   in   the   evolution   of   thehorror­tale is represented. Fear is taken outof the realm of the conventional and exaltedinto   a   hideous   cloud   over   mankind’s   verydestiny. Maturin’s shudders, the work of onecapable of shuddering himself, are of the sortthat convince. Mrs. Radcliffe and Lewis arefair game for the parodist, but it would bedifficult to find a false note in the feverishlyintensified   action   and   high   atmospherictension   of   the   Irishman   whose   lesssophisticated  emotions  and   strain  of  Celticmysticism   gave   him   the   finest   possiblenatural   equipment   for   his   task.   Without   adoubt Maturin is a man of authentic genius,and  he  was   so   recognised  by  Balzac,  whogrouped Melmoth with Molière’s Don Juan,Goethe’s Faust, and Byron’s Manfred as thesupreme   allegorical   figures   of   modern

European literature, and wrote a whimsicalpiece called “Melmoth Reconciled”, in whichthe   Wanderer   succeeds   in   passing   hisinfernal   bargain   on   to   a   Parisian   bankdefaulter, who in turn hands it along a chainof victims until a revelling gambler dies withit   in  his  possession,  and by his  damnationends   the   curse.   Scott,  Rossetti,   Thackeray,and Baudelaire are the other titans who gaveMaturin   their   unqualified   admiration,   andthere   is  much  significance   in   the   fact   thatOscar   Wilde,   after   his   disgrace   and   exile,chose for his last days in Paris the assumedname of “Sebastian Melmoth”.

Melmoth  contains   scenes   which   even   nowhave not lost their power to evoke dread. Itbegins   with   a   deathbed—an   old   miser   isdying of  sheer   fright because of  somethinghe has seen, coupled with a manuscript hehas read and a family portrait which hangsin an obscure closet of his centuried home inCounty   Wicklow.   He   sends   to   TrinityCollege,  Dublin,   for  his  nephew John;  andthe latter upon arriving notes many uncannythings. The eyes of the portrait in the closetglow horribly,  and twice a  figure strangelyresembling the portrait appears momentarilyat the door. Dread hangs over that house ofthe  Melmoths,  one  of  whose  ancestors,   “J.Melmoth, 1646”, the portrait represents. Thedying   miser   declares   that   this   man—at   adate   slightly   before  1800—is   alive.   Finallythe miser dies, and the nephew is told in thewill   to   destroy   both   the   portrait   and   amanuscript to be found in a certain drawer.Reading the manuscript, which was writtenlate   in   the   seventeenth   century   by   anEnglishman   named   Stanton,   young   Johnlearns of a terrible incident in Spain in 1677,when   the   writer   met   a   horrible   fellow­countryman   and   was   told   of   how   he   hadstared   to   death   a   priest   who   tried   todenounce  him as  one   filled  with   fearsomeevil.  Later,  after meeting the man again  inLondon, Stanton is cast into a madhouse andvisited  by   the   stranger,  whose  approach   is

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heralded by spectral music and whose eyeshave a more than mortal glare. Melmoth theWanderer—for such  is   the malign visitor—offers   the   captive   freedom   if   he   will   takeover his bargain with the Devil; but like allothers   whom   Melmoth   has   approached,Stanton   is   proof   against   temptation.Melmoth’s description of the horrors of a lifein a madhouse, used to tempt Stanton, is oneof   the   most   potent   passages   of   the   book.Stanton   is   at   length   liberated,   and   spendsthe rest of his life tracking down Melmoth,whose   family   and   ancestral   abode   hediscovers.   With   the   family   he   leaves   themanuscript,  which by young John’s  time issadly   ruinous   and   fragmentary.   Johndestroys both portrait and manuscript, but insleep is visited by his horrible ancestor, wholeaves a black and blue mark on his wrist.

Young   John   soon   afterward   receives   as   avisitor   a   shipwrecked   Spaniard,   Alonzo   deMonçada, who has escaped from compulsorymonasticism   and   from   the   perils   of   theInquisition.   He   has   suffered   horribly—andthe   descriptions   of   his   experiences   undertorment and in the vaults through which heonce essays escape are classic—but had thestrength   to   resist   Melmoth   the   Wandererwhen   approached   at   his   darkest   hour   inprison. At the house of a Jew who shelteredhim after his escape he discovers a wealth ofmanuscript   relating   other   exploits   ofMelmoth including his wooing of an Indianisland maiden, Immalee, who later comes toher   birthright   in   Spain   and   is   known   asDonna Isidora; and of his horrible marriageto her by the corpse of a dead anchorite atmidnight in the ruined chapel of a shunnedand   abhorred   monastery.   Monçada’snarrative to young John takes up the bulk ofMaturin’s   four­volume   book;   thisdisproportion   being   considered   one   of   thechief technical faults of the composition.

At last the colloquies of John and Monçada

are interrupted by the entrance of Melmoththe Wanderer himself, his piercing eyes nowfading,   and   decrepitude   swiftly   overtakinghim. The term of his bargain has approachedits   end,   and   he   has   come   home   after   acentury and a half to meet his fate. Warningall   others   from  the   room,  no  matter  whatsounds they may hear in the night, he awaitsthe   end   alone.   Young   John   and   Monçadahear frightful ululations, but do not intrudetill silence comes toward morning. They thenfind the room empty. Clayey footprints leadout a rear door to a cliff overlooking the sea,and near the edge of the precipice is a trackindicating   the   forcible   dragging   of   someheavy body.  The Wanderer’s   scarf   is   foundon a crag some distance below the brink, butnothing further is ever seen or heard of him.

Such is the story, and none can fail to noticethe   difference   between   this   modulated,suggestive,   and   artistically  moulded  horrorand—to use the words of Professor GeorgeSaintsbury—“the   artful   but   rather   jejunerationalism   of   Mrs.   Radcliffe,   and   the   toooften   puerile   extravagance,   the   bad   taste,and the sometimes slipshod style of Lewis.”Maturin’s   style   in   itself   deserves   particularpraise, for its forcible directness and vitalitylift   it   altogether   above   the   pompousartificialities  of  which  his  predecessors   areguilty.   Professor   Edith   Birkhead,   in   herhistory of   the Gothic novel,   justly  observesthat   with   all   his   faults   Maturin   was   thegreatest   as   well   as   the   last   of   the   Goths.Melmoth  was   widely   read   and   eventuallydramatised, but its late date in the evolutionof   the   Gothic   tale   deprived   it   of   thetumultuous  popularity  of  Udolpho  and  TheMonk.

V. The Aftermath of Gothic Fiction

Meanwhile other hands had not been idle, sothat above the dreary plethora of trash likeMarquis   von   Grosse’s  Horrid   Mysteries(1796),  Mrs.  Roche’s  Children of   the  Abbey

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(1796),  Miss  Dacre’s  Zofloya;  or,  The Moor(1806),   and   the   poet   Shelley’s   schoolboyeffusions  Zastrozzi  (1810)   and  St.   Irvyne(1811)   (both   imitations   of  Zofloya  )   therearose many memorable weird works both inEnglish  and German.  Classic   in  merit,   andmarkedly different from its fellows becauseof its foundation in the Oriental tale ratherthan   the  Walpolesque  Gothic   novel,   is   thecelebrated History of the Caliph Vathek by thewealthy   dilettante   William   Beckford,   firstwritten in the French language but publishedin   an   English   translation   before   theappearance   of   the   original.   Eastern   tales,introduced   to   European   literature   early   inthe   eighteenth   century   through   Galland’sFrench   translation   of   the   inexhaustiblyopulent  Arabian   Nights,  had   become   areigning   fashion;   being   used   both   forallegory and for amusement. The sly humourwhich only the Eastern mind knows how tomix   with   weirdness   had   captivated   asophisticated   generation,   till   Bagdad   andDamascus   names   became   as   freely   strownthrough popular literature as dashing Italianand Spanish ones were soon to be. Beckford,well   read   in   Eastern   romance,   caught   theatmosphere with unusual receptivity; and inhis fantastic  volume reflected very potentlythe   haughty   luxury,   sly   disillusion,   blandcruelty,   urbane   treachery,   and   shadowyspectral   horror   of   the   Saracen   spirit.   Hisseasoning of the ridiculous seldom mars theforce   of   his   sinister   theme,   and   the   talemarches   onward   with   a   phantasmagoricpomp   in   which   the   laughter   is   that   ofskeletons   feasting  under  Arabesque  domes.Vathek is a tale of the grandson of the CaliphHaroun,   who,   tormented   by   that   ambitionfor   super­terrestrial   power,   pleasure,   andlearning which animates the average Gothicvillain or  Byronic  hero  (essentially  cognatetypes), is lured by an evil genius to seek thesubterranean   throne   of   the   mighty   andfabulous   pre­Adamite   sultans   in   the   fieryhalls   of   Eblis,   the   Mahometan   Devil.   Thedescriptions   of   Vathek’s   palaces   anddiversions, of his scheming sorceress­mother

Carathis and her witch­tower with the fiftyone­eyed negresses, of his pilgrimage to thehaunted ruins of Istakhar (Persepolis) and ofthe   impish   bride   Nouronihar   whom   hetreacherously   acquired   on   the   way,   ofIstakhar’s primordial towers and terraces inthe burning moonlight of the waste, and ofthe terrible Cyclopean halls of Eblis, where,lured by glittering promises,  each victim iscompelled to wander in anguish for ever, hisright   hand  upon  his   blazingly   ignited   andeternally   burning   heart,   are   triumphs   ofweird  colouring  which  raise   the  book  to  apermanent place  in English  letters.  No  lessnotable   are   the   three  Episodes   of   Vathek,intended   for   insertion   in   the   tale   asnarratives of Vathek’s fellow­victims in Eblis’infernal  halls,  which remained unpublishedthroughout   the   author’s   lifetime   and   werediscovered as recently as 1909 by the scholarLewis Melville whilst collecting material forhis  Life   and   Letters   of   William   Beckford.Beckford,   however,   lacks   the   essentialmysticism which marks the acutest form ofthe weird;   so   that  his   tales  have a  certainknowing   Latin   hardness   and   clearnesspreclusive   of   sheer   panic   fright.

But Beckford remained alone in his devotionto   the  Orient.  Other  writers,   closer   to   theGothic   tradition   and   to   European   life   ingeneral,   were   content   to   follow   morefaithfully in the lead of Walpole. Among thecountless   producers   of   terror­literature   inthese times may be mentioned the Utopianeconomic   theorist   William   Godwin,   whofollowed   his   famous   but   non­supernaturalCaleb  Williams  (1794)  with   the   intendedlyweird St. Leon (1799), in which the theme ofthe   elixir   of   life,   as   developed   by   theimaginary secret  order of “Rosicrucians”,   ishandled   with   ingeniousness   if   not   withatmospheric convincingness. This element ofRosicrucianism,   fostered   by   a   wave   ofpopular magical   interest exemplified in thevogue  of   the   charlatan  Cagliostro   and   thepublication   of   Francis   Barrett’s  The   Magus

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(1801), a curious and compendious treatiseon   occult   principles   and   ceremonies,   ofwhich a reprint was made as lately as 1896,figures   in  Bulwer­Lytton   and   in  many   lateGothic   novels,   especially   that   remote   andenfeebled posterity which straggled far downinto   the   nineteenth   century   and   wasrepresented   by   George   W.   M.   Reynolds’Faust and the Demon and Wagner, the Wehr­wolf.   Caleb   Williams,  though   non­supernatural, has many authentic touches ofterror. It is the tale of a servant persecutedby a  master  whom he has   found guilty  ofmurder, and displays an invention and skillwhich have kept it alive in a fashion to thisday. It was dramatised as The Iron Chest, andin that form was almost equally celebrated.Godwin,   however,   was   too   much   theconscious   teacher   and   prosaic   man   ofthought   to   create   a   genuine   weirdmasterpiece.

His daughter, the wife of Shelley, was muchmore   successful;   and   her   inimitableFrankenstein;   or,   The   Modern   Prometheus(1818)   is   one   of   the   horror­classics   of   alltime.   Composed   in   competition   with   herhusband, Lord Byron, and Dr. John WilliamPolidori in an effort to prove supremacy inhorror­making,   Mrs.   Shelley’s  Frankensteinwas the only one of the rival narratives to bebrought   to   an   elaborate   completion;   andcriticism  has   failed   to   prove   that   the   bestparts are due to Shelley rather than to her.The   novel,   somewhat   tinged   but   scarcelymarred   by   moral   didacticism,   tells   of   theartificial human being moulded from charnelfragments  by  Victor  Frankenstein,   a  youngSwiss   medical   student.   Created   by   itsdesigner “in the mad pride of intellectuality”,the   monster   possesses   full   intelligence   butowns   a   hideously   loathsome   form.   It   isrejected   by   mankind,   becomes   embittered,and at length begins the successive murderof all whom young Frankenstein loves best,friends   and   family.   It   demands   thatFrankenstein create a wife for it; and when

the student finally refuses in horror lest theworld be  populated with  such monsters,   itdeparts with a hideous threat ‘to be with himon his wedding night’.  Upon that night thebride   is   strangled,   and   from   that   time   onFrankenstein hunts down the monster, eveninto   the   wastes   of   the   Arctic.   In   the   end,whilst seeking shelter on the ship of the manwho tells the story, Frankenstein himself  iskilled  by  the  shocking  object  of  his   searchand   creation   of   his   presumptuous   pride.Some   of   the   scenes   in  Frankenstein  areunforgettable, as when the newly animatedmonster enters its creator’s room, parts thecurtains of his bed, and gazes at him in theyellow moonlight with watery eyes—“if eyesthey   may   be   called”.   Mrs.   Shelley   wroteother   novels,   including   the   fairly   notableLast Man; but never duplicated the success ofher   first   effort.   It   has   the   true   touch   ofcosmic   fear,   no   matter   how   much   themovement   may   lag   in   places.   Dr.   Polidorideveloped his competing idea as a long shortstory, “The Vampyre”; in which we behold asuave  villain of   the  true Gothic  or  Byronictype, and encounter some excellent passagesof stark fright, including a terrible nocturnalexperience   in   a   shunned   Grecian   wood.

In   this   same   period   Sir   Walter   Scottfrequently concerned himself with the weird,weaving   it   into   many   of   his   novels   andpoems,   and   sometimes   producing   suchindependent   bits   of   narration   as   “TheTapestried Chamber” or “Wandering Willie’sTale”  in  Redgauntlet,  in the latter of whichthe force of the spectral and the diabolic isenhanced   by   a   grotesque   homeliness   ofspeech   and   atmosphere.   In   1830   Scottpublished   his  Letters   on   Demonology   andWitchcraft, which still forms one of our bestcompendia   of   European   witch­lore.Washington Irving is another famous figurenot unconnected with the weird; for thoughmost   of   his   ghosts   are   too   whimsical   andhumorous   to   form   genuinely   spectralliterature,   a   distinct   inclination   in   this

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direction   is   to   be   noted   in   many   of   hisproductions. “The German Student” in Talesof a Traveller  (1824) is a slyly concise andeffective   presentation  of   the  old   legend  ofthe dead bride, whilst woven into the comictissue of  “The Money­Diggers”   in  the samevolume   is  more   than  one  hint   of   piraticalapparitions in the realms which Captain Kiddonce roamed. Thomas Moore also joined theranks   of   the   macabre   artists   in   the   poemAlciphron, which he later elaborated into theprose novel of The Epicurean (1827). Thoughmerely   relating   the  adventures  of  a   youngAthenian  duped  by   the  artifice   of   cunningEgyptian  priests,  Moore  manages   to   infusemuch   genuine   horror   into   his   account   ofsubterranean   frights   and   wonders   beneaththe   primordial   temples   of   Memphis.   DeQuincey more than once revels in grotesqueand   arabesque   terrors,   though   with   adesultoriness and learned pomp which denyhim   the   rank   of   specialist.

This   era   likewise   saw   the   rise   of   WilliamHarrison Ainsworth, whose romantic novelsteem with the eerie and the gruesome. Capt.Marryat, besides writing such short tales as“The   Werewolf”,   made   a   memorablecontribution   in  The   Phantom   Ship  (1839),founded   on   the   legend   of   the   FlyingDutchman,   whose   spectral   and   accursedvessel sails for ever near the Cape of GoodHope.   Dickens   now   rises   with   occasionalweird   bits   like   “The  Signalman”,   a   tale  ofghostly   warning   conforming   to   a   verycommon   pattern   and   touched   with   averisimilitude which allies   it  as  much withthe coming psychological school as with thedying Gothic school. At this time a wave ofinterest   in   spiritualistic   charlatanry,mediumism,   Hindoo   theosophy,   and   suchmatters, much like that of the present day,was flourishing; so that the number of weirdtales   with   a   “psychic”   or   pseudo­scientificbasis   became   very   considerable.   For   anumber   of   these   the   prolific   and   popularLord Edward Bulwer­Lytton was responsible;

and despite the large doses of turgid rhetoricand empty romanticism in his products, hissuccess in the weaving of a certain kind ofbizarre   charm   cannot   be   denied.

“The House and the Brain”,  which hints ofRosicrucianism   and   at   a   malign   anddeathless figure perhaps suggested by LouisXV’s   mysterious   courtier   St.   Germain,   yetsurvives  as  one of   the  best   short  haunted­house tales ever written. The novel  Zanoni(1842)   contains   similar   elements   moreelaborately  handled,   and   introduces  a   vastunknown   sphere   of   being  pressing  on  ourown   world   and   guarded   by   a   horrible“Dweller of the Threshold” who haunts thosewho try to enter and fail.  Here we have abenign brotherhood kept alive  from age toage till finally reduced to a single member,and as a hero an ancient Chaldaean sorcerersurviving in the pristine bloom of youth toperish   on   the   guillotine   of   the   FrenchRevolution. Though full of the conventionalspirit   of   romance,  marred  by   a  ponderousnetwork of symbolic and didactic meanings,and left unconvincing through lack of perfectatmospheric   realisation   of   the   situationshinging   on   the   spectral   world,  Zanoni  isreally   an   excellent   performance   as   aromantic   novel;   and   can   be   read   withgenuine   interest   today   by   the   not   toosophisticated   reader.   It   is   amusing   to  notethat   in   describing   an   attempted   initiationinto   the   ancient   brotherhood   the   authorcannot escape using the stock Gothic castleof   Walpolian   lineage.

In  A   Strange   Story  (1862)   Bulwer­Lyttonshews a marked improvement in the creationof   weird   images   and   moods.   The   novel,despite enormous  length,  a highly artificialplot bolstered up by opportune coincidences,and   an   atmosphere   of   homiletic   pseudo­science designed to please the matter­of­factand   purposeful   Victorian   reader,   isexceedingly effective as a narrative; evoking

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instantaneous   and  unflagging   interest,   andfurnishing   many   potent—if   somewhatmelodramatic—tableaux and climaxes. Againwe have the mysterious user of life’s elixir inthe   person   of   the   soulless   magicianMargrave,   whose   dark   exploits   stand   outwith dramatic vividness against the modernbackground of a quiet English town and ofthe   Australian   bush;   and   again   we   haveshadowy intimations of a vast spectral worldof the unknown in the very air about us—this time handled with much greater powerand vitality than in  Zanoni.  One of the twogreat incantation passages, where the hero isdriven  by  a   luminous   evil   spirit   to   rise   atnight   in  his   sleep,   take  a  strange Egyptianwand, and evoke nameless presences in thehaunted and mausoleum­facing pavilion of afamous  Renaissance  alchemist,   truly  standsamong the major terror scenes of literature.Just   enough   is   suggested,   and   just   littleenough   is   told.  Unknown words  are   twicedictated   to   the   sleep­walker,   and   as   herepeats   them  the  ground  trembles,  and allthe dogs of the countryside begin to bay athalf­seen   amorphous   shadows   that   stalkathwart the moonlight. When a third set ofunknown   words   is   prompted,   the   sleep­walker’s   spirit   suddenly   rebels   at   utteringthem, as if the soul could recognise ultimateabysmal  horrors   concealed   from  the  mind;and   at   last   an   apparition   of   an   absentsweetheart   and   good   angel   breaks   themalign  spell.  This   fragment  well   illustrateshow   far   Lord   Lytton   was   capable   ofprogressing   beyond   his   usual   pomp   andstock   romance   toward   that   crystallineessence of artistic fear which belongs to thedomain   of   poetry.   In   describing   certaindetails   of   incantations,   Lytton   was   greatlyindebted   to   his   amusingly   serious   occultstudies,   in the course of which he came intouch   with   that   odd   French   scholar   andcabbalist Alphonse­Louis Constant (“EliphasLévi”), who claimed to possess the secrets ofancient   magic,   and   to   have   evoked   thespectre of the old Grecian wizard Apolloniusof Tyana, who lived in Nero’s time.

The   romantic,   semi­Gothic,   quasi­moraltradition   here   represented   was   carried   fardown the nineteenth century by such authorsas Joseph Sheridan LeFanu, Thomas PreskettPrest  with his  famous  Varney,  the Vampyre(1847), Wilkie Collins, the late Sir H. RiderHaggard   (whose  She  is   really   remarkablygood), Sir A. Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells, andRobert Louis Stevenson—the latter of whom,despite an atrocious tendency toward jauntymannerisms,   created   permanent   classics   in“Markheim”,   “The Body­Snatcher”,  and  Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Indeed, we may say thatthis   school   still   survives;   for   to   it   clearlybelong   such   of   our   contemporary   horror­tales   as   specialise   in   events   rather   thanatmospheric   details,   address   the   intellectrather than the impressionistic imagination,cultivate a luminous glamour rather than amalign   tensity   or   psychologicalverisimilitude,  and  take a  definite   stand  insympathy with mankind and  its  welfare.  Ithas its undeniable strength, and because ofits   “human   element”   commands   a   wideraudience   than   does   the   sheer   artisticnightmare.   If   not   quite   so   potent   as   thelatter,   it   is   because   a  diluted   product   cannever achieve the intensity of a concentratedessence.

Quite alone both as a novel and as a piece ofterror­literature   stands   the   famousWuthering Heights  (1847) by Emily Brontë,with   its   mad   vista   of   bleak,   windsweptYorkshire  moors   and   the   violent,   distortedlives they foster. Though primarily a tale oflife,   and  of  human  passions   in   agony   andconflict,   its   epically   cosmic   setting   affordsroom for  horror  of   the  most   spiritual   sort.Heathcliff, the modified Byronic villain­hero,is a strange dark waif found in the streets asa   small   child  and   speaking  only  a   strangegibberish   till   adopted   by   the   family   heultimately   ruins.   That   he   is   in   truth   adiabolic spirit rather than a human being ismore than once suggested, and the unreal isfurther approached in the experience of the

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visitor   who   encounters   a   plaintive   child­ghost   at   a   bough­brushed   upper   window.Between Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshawis a tie deeper and more terrible than humanlove.  After her death he twice disturbs hergrave,   and   is   haunted   by   an   impalpablepresence which can be nothing less than herspirit.   The   spirit   enters   his   life   more   andmore,  and at   last  he becomes confident  ofsome imminent mystical reunion. He says hefeels   a   strange   change   approaching,   andceases   to   take   nourishment.   At   night   heeither walks abroad or opens the casementby his bed. When he dies the casement is stillswinging  open   to   the  pouring   rain,   and   aqueer smile pervades the stiffened face. Theybury him in a grave beside the mound he hashaunted   for   eighteen   years,   and   smallshepherd boys say that he yet walks with hisCatherine   in   the   churchyard   and   on   themoor   when   it   rains.   Their   faces,   too,   aresometimes seen on rainy nights behind thatupper casement at Wuthering Heights. MissBrontë’s eerie terror is no mere Gothic echo,but a tense expression of man’s shudderingreaction   to   the   unknown.   In   this   respect,Wuthering Heights  becomes the symbol of aliterary transition, and marks the growth of anew and sounder school.

VI. Spectral Literature on the Continent

On the Continent literary horror fared well.The   celebrated   short   tales   and   novels   ofErnst   Theodor   Wilhelm   Hoffmann   (1776–1822)   are   a   byword   for   mellowness   ofbackground   and   maturity   of   form,   thoughthey incline to levity and extravagance, andlack the exalted moments of stark, breathlessterror which a less sophisticated writer mighthave   achieved.   Generally   they   convey   thegrotesque   rather   than   the   terrible.   Mostartistic of all the Continental weird tales isthe   German   classic  Undine  (1811),   byFriedrich Heinrich  Karl,  Baron de   la  MotteFouqué.   In  this story of a water­spirit  whomarried a mortal and gained a human soulthere is a delicate fineness of craftsmanship

which makes it notable in any department ofliterature,   and   an   easy   naturalness   whichplaces it close to the genuine folk­myth. It is,in   fact,   derived   from   a   tale   told   by   theRenaissance   physician   and   alchemistParacelsus   in   his  Treatise   on   ElementalSprites.

Undine,   daughter   of   a   powerful   water­prince,   was   exchanged  by  her   father   as   asmall   child   for   a   fisherman’s   daughter,   inorder   that   she   might   acquire   a   soul   bywedding a human being. Meeting the nobleyouth Huldbrand at the cottage of her foster­father by the sea at the edge of a hauntedwood,   she   soon   marries   him,   andaccompanies  him  to  his  ancestral   castle  ofRingstetten. Huldbrand, however, eventuallywearies of his wife’s supernatural affiliations,and   especially   of   the   appearances   of   heruncle,   the   malicious   woodland   waterfall­spirit   Kühleborn;   a  weariness   increased  byhis growing affection for Bertalda, who turnsout   to   be   the   fisherman’s   child   for   whomUndine   was   exchanged.   At   length,   on   avoyage down the Danube, he is provoked bysome   innocent   act   of   his   devoted   wife   toutter   the   angry   words   which   consign   herback   to   her   supernatural   element;   fromwhich she can,  by the  laws of  her  species,return only once—to kill  him, whether shewill or no, if ever he prove unfaithful to hermemory. Later, when Huldbrand is about tobe married  to  Bertalda,  Undine returns  forher sad duty, and bears his life away in tears.When he is buried among his fathers in thevillage   churchyard   a   veiled,   snow­whitefemale figure appears among the mourners,but after the prayer is seen no more. In herplace   is   seen   a   little   silver   spring,   whichmurmurs its way almost completely aroundthe   new   grave,   and   empties   into   aneighbouring  lake.  The villagers shew it  tothis   day,   and   say   that   Undine   and   herHuldbrand are thus united  in death.  Manypassages   and   atmospheric   touches   in   thistale reveal Fouqué as an accomplished artist

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in   the   field  of   the  macabre;   especially   thedescriptions  of   the  haunted  wood  with   itsgigantic   snow­white   man   and   variousunnamed terrors,  which  occur  early   in   thenarrative.

Not   so   well   known   as  Undine,  butremarkable   for   its   convincing   realism   andfreedom   from   Gothic   stock   devices,   is   theAmber Witch  of Wilhelm Meinhold, anotherproduct  of   the  German   fantastic   genius  ofthe   earlier   nineteenth   century.   This   tale,which is laid in the time of the Thirty Years’War,   purports   to   be   a   clergyman’smanuscript   found   in   an   old   church   atCoserow,   and   centres   round   the   writer’sdaughter, Maria Schweidler, who is wronglyaccused   of   witchcraft.   She   has   found   adeposit of amber which she keeps secret forvarious reasons, and the unexplained wealthobtained   from   this   lends   colour   to   theaccusation;  an accusation  instigated by  themalice of the wolf­hunting nobleman WittichAppelmann,   who   has   vainly   pursued   herwith   ignoble  designs.   The  deeds   of   a   realwitch,   who   afterward   comes   to   a   horriblesupernatural   end   in   prison,   are   gliblyimputed  to   the  hapless  Maria;  and  after  atypical   witchcraft   trial   with   forcedconfessions under torture she is about to beburned at the stake when saved just in timeby   her   lover,   a   noble   youth   from   aneighbouring   district.   Meinhold’s   greatstrength is in his air of casual and realisticverisimilitude, which intensifies our suspenseand sense of the unseen by half persuadingus that the menacing events must somehowbe either the truth or very close to the truth.Indeed,   so   thorough   is   this   realism  that   apopular magazine once published the mainpoints   of  The   Amber   Witch  as   an   actualoccurrence   of   the   seventeenth   century!

[In   the  present  generation German horror­fiction is most notably represented by HannsHeinz Ewers, who brings to bear on his dark

conceptions   an   effective   knowledge   ofmodern   psychology.   Novels   like  TheSorcerer’s Apprentice  and  Alraune,  and shortstories like “The Spider”, contain distinctivequalities which raise them to a classic level.]

But   France   as   well   as   Germany   has   beenactive   in   the   realm   of   weirdness.   VictorHugo, in such tales as  Hans of Iceland,  andBalzac, in The Wild Ass’s Skin, Séraphîta, andLouis Lambert, both employ supernaturalismto a greater or less extent; though generallyonly as a means to some more human end,and   without   the   sincere   and   daemonicintensity which characterises the born artistin shadows.   It   is   in Théophile Gautier  thatwe   first   seem  to   find  an   authentic  Frenchsense  of   the  unreal  world,   and  here   thereappears   a   spectral   mastery   which,   thoughnot   continuously   used,   is   recognisable   atonce   as   something   alike   genuine   andprofound.   Short   tales   like   “Avatar”,   “TheFoot   of   the   Mummy”,   and   “Clarimonde”display   glimpses   of   forbidden   visits   thatallure,   tantalise,   and   sometimes   horrify;whilst the Egyptian visions evoked in “One ofCleopatra’s  Nights”  are  of   the  keenest   andmost   expressive   potency.   Gautier   capturedthe   inmost   soul   of   aeon­weighted   Egypt,with   its   cryptic   life   and   Cyclopeanarchitecture, and uttered once and for all theeternal   horror   of   its   nether   world   ofcatacombs, where to the end of time millionsof   stiff,   spiced corpses  will   stare up  in  theblackness   with   glassy   eyes,   awaiting   someawesome and unrelatable summons. GustaveFlaubert   ably   continued   the   tradition   ofGautier in orgies of poetic phantasy like TheTemptation   of   St.   Anthony,  and   but   for   astrong   realistic   bias   might   have   been   anarch­weaver  of   tapestried   terrors.   Later   onwe see the stream divide, producing strangepoets and fantaisistes of  the Symbolist andDecadent schools whose dark interests reallycentre   more   in   abnormalities   of   humanthought   and   instinct   than   in   the   actualsupernatural, and subtle story­tellers whose

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thrills   are   quite   directly   derived   from   thenight­black wells of cosmic unreality. Of theformer class of “artists in sin” the illustriouspoet Baudelaire, influenced vastly by Poe, isthe   supreme  type;  whilst   the  psychologicalnovelist Joris­Karl Huysmans, a true child ofthe   eighteen­nineties,   is   at   once   thesummation and finale. The latter and purelynarrative   class   is   continued   by   ProsperMérimée, whose “Venus of Ille” presents interse and convincing prose the same ancientstatue­bride   theme   which   Thomas   Moorecast   in   ballad   form   in   “The   Ring”.

The horror­tales of the powerful and cynicalGuy   de   Maupassant,   written   as   his   finalmadness   gradually   overtook   him,   presentindividualities of their own; being rather themorbid outpourings of a realistic mind in apathological   state   than   the   healthyimaginative   products   of   a   vision   naturallydisposed   toward  phantasy  and   sensitive   tothe   normal   illusions   of   the   unseen.Nevertheless they are of the keenest interestand poignancy;   suggesting with marvellousforce the imminence of nameless terrors, andthe   relentless   dogging   of   an   ill­starredindividual   by   hideous   and   menacingrepresentatives   of   the   outer   blackness.   Ofthese   stories   “The   Horla”   is   generallyregarded   as   the   masterpiece.   Relating   theadvent to France of an invisible being wholives on water and milk, sways the minds ofothers,  and seems to be the vanguard of ahorde of  extra­terrestrial  organisms arrivedon   earth   to   subjugate   and   overwhelmmankind,   this   tense   narrative   is   perhapswithout a peer in its particular department;notwithstanding its indebtedness to a tale bythe American Fitz­James O’Brien for detailsin   describing   the   actual   presence   of   theunseen   monster.   Other   potently   darkcreations   of   de   Maupassant   are   “WhoKnows?”, “The Spectre”, “He?”, “The Diary ofa   Madman”,   “The   White   Wolf”,   “On   theRiver”,   and   the   grisly   verses   entitled“Horror”.

The   collaborators   Erckmann­Chatrianenriched   French   literature   with   manyspectral fancies like The Man­Wolf,  in whicha transmitted curse works toward its end in atraditional Gothic­castle setting. Their powerof   creating   a   shuddering   midnightatmosphere   was   tremendous   despite   atendency   toward   natural   explanations   andscientific   wonders;   and   few   short   talescontain   greater   horror   than   “The   InvisibleEye”,   where   a   malignant   old   hag   weavesnocturnal  hypnotic  spells  which  induce thesuccessive   occupants   of   a   certain   innchamber   to   hang   themselves   on   a   cross­beam. “The Owl’s Ear” and “The Waters ofDeath”   are   full   of   engulfing   darkness   andmystery,   the   latter   embodying   the   familiarovergrown­spider   theme   so   frequentlyemployed   by   weird   fictionists.   Villiers   del’Isle­Adam   likewise   followed   the   macabreschool; his “Torture by Hope”, the tale of astake­condemned   prisoner   permitted   toescape   in   order   to   feel   the   pangs   ofrecapture, being held by some to constitutethe most harrowing short story in literature.This type, however, is less a part of the weirdtradition than a class peculiar to itself—theso­called conte cruel, in which the wrenchingof   the   emotions   is   accomplished   throughdramatic   tantalisations,   frustrations,   andgruesome   physical   horrors.   Almost   whollydevoted   to   this   form   is   the   living   writerMaurice   Level,   whose   very   brief   episodeshave lent themselves so readily to theatricaladaptation   in   the   “thrillers”   of   the   GrandGuignol.   As   a   matter   of   fact,   the   Frenchgenius is more naturally suited to this darkrealism than to the suggestion of the unseen;since the latter process requires, for its bestand   most   sympathetic   development   on   alarge   scale,   the   inherent   mysticism   of   theNorthern   mind.

A very flourishing, though till recently quitehidden, branch of weird literature is that of

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the   Jews,   kept   alive   and   nourished   inobscurity   by   the   sombre   heritage   of   earlyEastern   magic,   apocalyptic   literature,   andcabbalism. The Semitic mind, like the Celticand   Teutonic,   seems   to   possess   markedmystical   inclinations;   and   the   wealth   ofunderground   horror­lore   surviving   inghettoes   and   synagogues   must   be   muchmore   considerable   than   is   generallyimagined.   Cabbalism   itself,   so   prominentduring   the   Middle   Ages,   is   a   system   ofphilosophy   explaining   the   universe   asemanations of  the Deity,  and involving theexistence   of   strange   spiritual   realms   andbeings apart from the visible world, of whichdark   glimpses   may   be   obtained   throughcertain secret incantations. Its ritual is boundup with mystical   interpretations of  the OldTestament,   and   attributes   an   esotericsignificance   to   each   letter   of   the   Hebrewalphabet—a   circumstance   which   hasimparted to Hebrew letters a sort of spectralglamour   and   potency   in   the   popularliterature   of   magic.   Jewish   folklore   haspreserved much of the terror and mystery ofthe past, and when more thoroughly studiedis   likely   to  exert  considerable   influence  onweird   fiction.   The   best   examples   of   itsliterary use so far are the German novel TheGolem,  by  Gustav  Meyrink,  and  the  dramaThe Dybbuk,  by the Jewish writer using thepseudonym  “Ansky”.   [The   former,  with   itshaunting   shadowy   suggestions   of   marvelsand   horrors   just   beyond   reach,   is   laid   inPrague, and describes with singular masterythat   city’s   ancient  ghetto  with   its   spectral,peaked gables. The name is derived from afabulous artificial giant supposed to be madeand animated by mediaeval rabbis accordingto  a   certain   cryptic   formula.]  The  Dybbuk,translated and produced in America in 1925,[and more recently produced as an opera,]describes with singular power the possessionof a living body by the evil soul of a deadman.   Both   golems   and   dybbuks   are   fixedtypes,  and serve as   frequent  ingredients  oflater Jewish tradition.

VII. Edgar Allan Poe

In   the   eighteen­thirties   occurred   a   literarydawn directly affecting not only the historyof the weird tale, but that of short fiction asa whole; and indirectly moulding the trendsand fortunes of a great European aestheticschool. It is our good fortune as Americansto be able to claim that dawn as our own, forit came in the person of our illustrious andunfortunate   fellow­countryman Edgar AllanPoe. Poe’s fame has been subject to curiousundulations, and it is now a fashion amongstthe “advanced intelligentsia” to minimise hisimportance   both   as   an   artist   and   as   aninfluence;   but   it   would   be   hard   for   anymature   and   reflective   critic   to   deny   thetremendous   value   of   his   work   and   thepervasive potency of his mind as an openerof  artistic  vistas.  True,  his   type  of  outlookmay  have  been  anticipated;  but   it  was  hewho first realised its possibilities and gave itsupreme   form   and   systematic   expression.True also, that subsequent writers may haveproduced greater   single   tales   than his;  butagain we must comprehend that it was onlyhe who taught them by example and preceptthe art which they, having the way clearedfor them and given an explicit guide, wereperhaps   able   to   carry   to   greater   lengths.Whatever his limitations, Poe did that whichno one else ever did or could have done; andto him we owe the modern horror­story in itsfinal   and   perfected   state.

Before   Poe   the   bulk   of   weird   writers   hadworked   largely   in   the   dark;   without   anunderstanding of  the psychological  basis  ofthe horror appeal, and hampered by more orless of  conformity to certain empty literaryconventions such as the happy ending, virtuerewarded,   and   in   general   a   hollow   moraldidacticism, acceptance of popular standardsand   values,   and   striving   of   the   author   toobtrude his own emotions into the story andtake sides with the partisans of the majority’sartificial   ideas.   Poe,   on   the   other   hand,perceived the essential impersonality of the

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real   artist;   and   knew   that   the   function  ofcreative   fiction   is   merely   to   express   andinterpret events and sensations as they are,regardless  of  how  they   tend  or  what   theyprove—good or evil, attractive or repulsive,stimulating  or  depressing—with   the  authoralways   acting   as   a   vivid   and   detachedchronicler   rather   than   as   a   teacher,sympathiser,  or vendor of  opinion.  He sawclearly that all phases of life and thought areequally   eligible   as   subject­matter   for   theartist, and being inclined by temperament tostrangeness   and  gloom,   decided   to   be   theinterpreter   of   those   powerful   feeling,   andfrequent   happenings   which   attend   painrather   than   pleasure,   decay   rather   thangrowth,   terror  rather   than tranquillity,  andwhich  are   fundamentally  either  adverse  orindifferent   to   the   tastes   and   traditionaloutward sentiments of mankind, and to thehealth, sanity, and normal expansive welfareof   the   species.

Poe’s   spectres   thus   acquired   a   convincingmalignity   possessed   by   none   of   theirpredecessors,   and   established   a   newstandard of realism in the annals of literaryhorror.   The   impersonal   and   artistic   intent,moreover, was aided by a scientific attitudenot often found before; whereby Poe studiedthe human mind rather  than the usages ofGothic fiction, and worked with an analyticalknowledge   of   terror’s   true   sources   whichdoubled   the   force   of   his   narratives   andemancipated   him   from   all   the   absurditiesinherent   in   merely   conventional   shudder­coining. This example having been set, laterauthors were naturally forced to conform toit in order to compete at all; so that in thisway  a  definite   change  began   to  affect   themain  stream of  macabre  writing.  Poe,   too,set a fashion in consummate craftsmanship;and although today some of his own workseems   slightly   melodramatic   andunsophisticated, we can constantly trace hisinfluence in such things as the maintenanceof a single mood and achievement of a single

impression in a tale, and the rigorous paringdown of  incidents to such as have a directbearing   on   the   plot   and   will   figureprominently  in the climax. Truly may it besaid that Poe invented the short story in itspresent   form.   His   elevation   of   disease,perversity,   and   decay   to   the   level   ofartistically   expressible   themes  was   likewiseinfinitely   far­reaching   in   effect;   for   avidlyseized,   sponsored,   and   intensified   by   hiseminent   French   admirer   Charles   PierreBaudelaire,   it   became   the   nucleus   of   theprincipal   aesthetic   movements   in   France,thus making Poe in a sense the father of theDecadents   and   the   Symbolists.

Poet   and   critic   by   nature   and   supremeattainment, logician and philosopher by tasteand   mannerism,   Poe   was   by   no   meansimmune   from defects   and  affectations.  Hispretence   to   profound   and   obscurescholarship,   his   blundering   ventures   instilted and laboured pseudo­humour, and hisoften vitriolic outbursts of critical prejudicemust all be recognised and forgiven. Beyondand   above   them,   and   dwarfing   them   toinsignificance,  was a  master’s  vision of   theterror that stalks about and within us, andthe   worm   that   writhes   and   slavers   in   thehideously   close  abyss.  Penetrating   to  everyfestering horror in the gaily painted mockerycalled   existence,   and   in   the   solemnmasquerade   called   human   thought   andfeelings   that   vision   had   power   to   projectitself  in blackly magical crystallisations andtransmutations;   till   there   bloomed   in   thesterile   America   of   the   ’thirties   and   ’fortiessuch a moon­nourished garden of gorgeouspoison fungi as not even the nether slope ofSaturn  might  boast.  Verses   and   tales  alikesustain   the   burthen   of   cosmic   panic.   Theraven whose noisome beak pierces the heart,the ghouls that toll iron bells in pestilentialsteeples,   the vault  of  Ulalume  in the blackOctober   night,   the   shocking   spires   anddomes under the sea, the “wild, weird climethat   lieth,   sublime,   out   of   Space—out   of

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Time”—all these things and more leer at usamidst   maniacal   rattlings   in   the   seethingnightmare  of   the  poetry.  And  in   the  prosethere yawn open for us the very jaws of thepit—inconceivable abnormalities slyly hintedinto   a   horrible   half­knowledge   by   wordswhose innocence we scarcely doubt till   thecracked tension of the speaker’s hollow voicebids   us   fear   their   nameless   implications;daemoniac   patterns   and   presencesslumbering   noxiously   till   waked   for   onephobic   instant   into   a   shrieking   revelationthat   cackles   itself   to   sudden   madness   orexplodes   in   memorable   and   cataclysmicechoes. A Witches’ Sabbath of horror flingingoff   decorous   robes   is   flashed  before  us—asight   the   more   monstrous   because   of   thescientific skill with which every particular ismarshalled   and   brought   into   an   easyapparent   relation   to   the   knowngruesomeness   of   material   life.

Poe’s   tales,   of   course,   fall   into   severalclasses;   some   of   which   contain   a   pureressence of spiritual horror than others. Thetales of logic and ratiocination, forerunnersof the modern detective story, are not to beincluded   at   all   in   weird   literature;   whilstcertain   others,   probably   influencedconsiderably   by   Hoffmann,   possess   anextravagance   which   relegates   them   to   theborderline   of   the   grotesque.   Still   a   thirdgroup  deal  with   abnormal   psychology   andmonomania   in   such   a   way   as   to   expressterror   but   not   weirdness.   A   substantialresiduum, however, represent the literatureof   supernatural   horror   in   its   acutest   form;and   give   their   author   a   permanent   andunassailable   place   as   deity   and   fountain­head of all modern diabolic fiction. Who canforget the terrible swollen ship poised on thebillow­chasm’s   edge   in   “MS.   Found   in   aBottle”—the   dark   intimations   of   herunhallowed age and monstrous growth, hersinister crew of unseeing greybeards, and herfrightful   southward   rush   under   full   sailthrough the ice of the Antarctic night, sucked

onward   by   some   resistless   devil­currenttoward   a   vortex   of   eldritch   enlightenmentwhich must end in destruction? Then there isthe   unutterable   “M.   Valdemar”,   kepttogether   by   hypnotism   for   seven   monthsafter his death, and uttering frantic soundsbut   a   moment   before   the   breaking   of   thespell   leaves   him   “a   nearly   liquid   mass   ofloathsome—of   detestable   putrescence”.   Inthe Narrative of A. Gordon Pym the voyagersreach   first   a   strange   south   polar   land   ofmurderous  savages where  nothing  is  whiteand where vast rocky ravines have the formof   titanic   Egyptian   letters   spelling   terribleprimal arcana of earth; and thereafter a stillmore mysterious realm where everything iswhite,   and   where   shrouded   giants   andsnowy­plumed birds guard a cryptic cataractof   mist   which   empties   from   immeasurablecelestial   heights   into   a   torrid   milky   sea.“Metzengerstein”   horrifies   with   its   malignhints   of   a  monstrous  metempsychosis—themad nobleman who burns the stable of hishereditary foe; the colossal unknown horsethat   issues   from  the  blazing  building  afterthe   owner   has   perished   therein;   thevanishing bit of ancient tapestry where wasshewn   the   giant   horse   of   the   victim’sancestor in the Crusades; the madman’s wildand constant riding on the great horse, andhis   fear   and   hatred   of   the   steed;   themeaningless prophecies that brood obscurelyover   the   warring   houses;   and   finally,   theburning   of   the   madman’s   palace   and   thedeath therein of   the owner,  borne helplessinto   the   flames  and  up   the   vast   staircasesastride the beast he has ridden so strangely.Afterward the rising smoke of the ruins takesthe form of a gigantic horse. “The Man of theCrowd”, telling of one who roams day andnight to mingle with streams of people as ifafraid   to  be  alone,  has  quieter  effects,  butimplies   nothing   less   of   cosmic   fear.   Poe’smind was never far from terror and decay,and   we   see   in   every   tale,   poem,   andphilosophical dialogue a tense eagerness tofathom unplumbed wells of night, to piercethe veil  of  death,  and to reign  in  fancy as

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lord  of   the   frightful  mysteries  of   time andspace.

Certain of Poe’s tales possess an almostabsolute   perfection   of   artistic   form   whichmakes   them   veritable   beacon­lights   in   theprovince of the short story. Poe could, whenhe wished, give to his prose a richly poeticcast;   employing   that   archaic   andOrientalised   style   with   jewelled   phrase,quasi­Biblical   repetition,   and   recurrentburthen so successfully used by later writerslike Oscar Wilde and Lord Dunsany; and inthe cases where he has done this we have aneffect of lyrical phantasy almost narcotic inessence—an opium pageant of dream in thelanguage   of   dream,   with   every   unnaturalcolour and grotesque image bodied forth in asymphony   of   corresponding   sound.   “TheMasque   of   the   Red   Death”,   “Silence—AFable”,   and   “Shadow—A   Parable”   areassuredly poems in every sense of the wordsave the metrical one, and owe as much oftheir   power   to   aural   cadence   as   to   visualimagery. But it is in two of the less openlypoetic   tales,   “Ligeia”   and   “The  Fall   of   theHouse of Usher”—especially the latter—thatone   finds   those   very   summits   of   artistrywhereby Poe takes his place at the head offictional   miniaturists.   Simple   andstraightforward  in plot,  both  of   these  talesowe   their   supreme   magic   to   the   cunningdevelopment which appears in the selectionand   collocation   of   every   least   incident.“Ligeia”   tells   of   a   first   wife   of   lofty   andmysterious   origin,  who  after  death   returnsthrough a preternatural force of will to takepossession   of   the   body   of   a   second   wife;imposing  even  her  physical   appearance  onthe   temporary   reanimated   corpse   of   hervictim   at   the   last   moment.   Despite   asuspicion of prolixity and topheaviness,  thenarrative   reaches   its   terrific   climax   withrelentless power. “Usher”, whose superiorityin   detail   and   proportion   is   very   marked,hints   shudderingly   of   obscure   life   ininorganic things, and displays an abnormallylinked trinity of entities at the end of a longand   isolated   family   history—a brother,  his

twin   sister,   and   their   incredibly   ancienthouse all sharing a single soul and meetingone   common   dissolution   at   the   samemoment.

These   bizarre   conceptions,   so   awkward   inunskilful   hands,   become   under   Poe’s   spellliving  and   convincing   terrors   to  haunt  ournights;   and   all   because   the   authorunderstood so perfectly the very mechanicsand physiology of fear and strangeness—theessential   details   to   emphasise,   the   preciseincongruities   and   conceits   to   select   aspreliminaries or concomitants to horror, theexact   incidents  and  allusions   to   throw outinnocently   in   advance   as   symbols   orprefigurings of each major step toward thehideous   denouement   to   come,   the   niceadjustments   of   cumulative   force   and   theunerring accuracy in linkage of parts whichmake   for   faultless   unity   throughout   andthunderous   effectiveness   at   the   climacticmoment, the delicate nuances of scenic andlandscape value to select in establishing andsustaining   the  desired  mood  and   vitalisingthe desired illusion—principles of this kind,and dozens of obscurer ones too elusive tobe described or even fully comprehended byany ordinary commentator. Melodrama andunsophistication there may be—we are toldof one fastidious Frenchman who could notbear   to   read   Poe   except   in   Baudelaire’surbane and Gallically modulated translation—but   all   traces   of   such   things   are  whollyovershadowed by a potent and inborn senseof the spectral, the morbid, and the horriblewhich  gushed   forth   from every   cell  of   theartist’s   creative  mentality   and   stamped  hismacabre work with the ineffaceable mark ofsupreme genius. Poe’s weird tales are alive ina manner that few others can ever hope tobe.

Like most fantaisistes, Poe excels in incidentsand  broad   narrative   effects   rather   than   incharacter drawing. His typical protagonist is

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generally   a   dark,   handsome,   proud,melancholy,   intellectual,   highly   sensitive,capricious,   introspective,   isolated,   andsometimes slightly mad gentleman of ancientfamily   and   opulent   circumstances;   usuallydeeply   learned   in   strange   lore,   and  darklyambitious of penetrating to forbidden secretsof the universe. Aside from a high­soundingname, this character obviously derives littlefrom the early Gothic novel; for he is clearlyneither the wooden hero nor the diabolicalvillain of Radcliffian or Ludovician romance.Indirectly, however, he does possess a sort ofgenealogical   connexion;   since   his   gloomy,ambitious,   and   anti­social   qualities   savourstrongly of the typical Byronic hero, who inturn is definitely an offspring of the GothicManfreds,  Montonis,   and   Ambrosios.  Moreparticular   qualities   appear   to   be   derivedfrom   the   psychology   of   Poe   himself,   whocertainly possessed much of the depression,sensitiveness, mad aspiration, loneliness, andextravagant freakishness which he attributesto his haughty and solitary victims of Fate.

VIII. The Weird Tradition in America

The   public   for   whom   Poe   wrote,   thoughgrossly unappreciative of his art, was by nomeans   unaccustomed   to   the   horrors   withwhich he dealt.  America, besides  inheritingthe  usual  dark   folklore   of   Europe,   had  anadditional fund of weird associations to drawupon; so  that   spectral   legends had alreadybeen recognised as fruitful subject­matter forliterature.   Charles   Brockden   Brown   hadachieved   phenomenal   fame   with   hisRadcliffian   romances,   and   WashingtonIrving’s lighter treatment of eerie themes hadquickly become classic. This additional fundproceeded, as Paul Elmer More has pointedout, from the keen spiritual and theologicalinterests   of   the   first   colonists,   plus   thestrange and forbidding nature of  the sceneinto which they were plunged. The vast andgloomy   virgin   forests   in   whose   perpetualtwilight   all   terrors   might   well   lurk;   thehordes   of   coppery   Indians   whose   strange,

saturnine visages and violent customs hintedstrongly at traces of infernal origin; the freerein   given   under   the   influence   of   Puritantheocracy to all manner of notions respectingman’s relation to the stern and vengeful Godof   the   Calvinists,   and   to   the   sulphureousAdversary of that God, about whom so muchwas thundered in the pulpits each Sunday;and the morbid  introspection developed byan isolated backwoods life devoid of normalamusements  and of   the recreational  mood,harassed by commands for theological  self­examination,  keyed  to  unnatural  emotionalrepression,   and   forming   above   all   a   meregrim struggle   for   survival—all   these   thingsconspired   to   produce   an   environment   inwhich   the   black   whisperings   of   sinistergrandams   were   heard   far   beyond   thechimney   corner,   and   in   which   tales   ofwitchcraft   and   unbelievable   secretmonstrosities   lingered  long after   the  dreaddays   of   the   Salem   nightmare.

Poe   represents   the   newer,   moredisillusioned,  and more technically   finishedof   the  weird   schools   that   rose   out   of   thispropitious   milieu.   Another   school—thetradition   of   moral   values,   gentle   restraint,and mild, leisurely phantasy tinged more orless with the whimsical—was represented byanother famous, misunderstood, and lonelyfigure   in   American   letters—the   shy   andsensitive   Nathaniel   Hawthorne,   scion   ofantique Salem and great­grandson of one ofthe bloodiest of the old witchcraft judges. InHawthorne  we  have  none  of   the  violence,the daring,   the high  colouring,   the   intensedramatic   sense,   the   cosmic   malignity,   andthe undivided and impersonal artistry of Poe.Here,   instead,   is  a  gentle   soul  cramped bythe   Puritanism   of   early   New   England;shadowed   and   wistful,   and   grieved   at   anunmoral   universe   which   everywheretranscends the conventional patterns thoughtby  our   forefathers   to   represent   divine   andimmutable   law.   Evil,   a   very   real   force   toHawthorne,   appears   on   every   hand   as   a

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lurking  and conquering  adversary;  and  thevisible world becomes in his fancy a theatreof   infinite   tragedy   and   woe,   with   unseenhalf­existent influences hovering over it andthrough   it,   battling   for   supremacy   andmoulding the destinies of the hapless mortalswho   form   its   vain   and   self­deludedpopulation.   The   heritage   of   Americanweirdness was his to a most intense degree,and   he   saw   a   dismal   throng   of   vaguespectres behind the common phenomena oflife; but he was not disinterested enough tovalue  impressions,   sensations,  and beautiesof   narration   for   their   own   sake.   He   mustneeds weave his phantasy into some quietlymelancholy   fabric  of  didactic  or  allegoricalcast, in which his meekly resigned cynicismmay display with naive moral appraisal theperfidy  of   a  human   race  which  he   cannotcease   to   cherish   and   mourn   despite   hisinsight   into   its   hypocrisy.   Supernaturalhorror, then, is never a primary object withHawthorne;   though   its   impulses   were   sodeeply   woven   into   his   personality   that   hecannot help suggesting it  with the force ofgenius when he calls upon the unreal worldto illustrate the pensive sermon he wishes topreach.

Hawthorne’s   intimations   of   the   weird,always gentle,  elusive,  and restrained,  maybe   traced   throughout  his  work.  The  moodthat   produced   them   found   one   delightfulvent   in   the   Teutonised   retelling   of   classicmyths   for   children  contained   in  A WonderBook  and  Tanglewood   Tales,  and   at   othertimes   exercised   itself   in   casting   a   certainstrangeness   and   intangible   witchery   ormalevolence   over   events   not   meant   to   beactually   supernatural;   as   in   the   macabreposthumous   novel  Dr.   Grimshawe’s   Secret,which   invests   with   a   peculiar   sort   ofrepulsion   a   house   existing   to   this   day   inSalem, and abutting on the ancient CharterStreet Burying Ground. In The Marble Faun,whose design was sketched out in an Italianvilla   reputed  to  be  haunted,  a   tremendous

background   of   genuine   phantasy   andmystery palpitates just beyond the commonreader’s   sight;   and   glimpses   of   fabulousblood  in mortal  veins  are hinted at duringthe course of a romance which cannot helpbeing   interesting   despite   the   persistentincubus   of   moral   allegory,   anti­Poperypropaganda,   and   a   Puritan   prudery   whichhas   caused   the   late   D.   H.   Lawrence   toexpress  a   longing   to   treat   the  author   in  ahighly undignified manner. Septimius Felton,a posthumous novel whose idea was to havebeen  elaborated  and   incorporated   into   theunfinished Dolliver Romance,  touches on theElixir   of   Life   in   a   more   or   less   capablefashion; whilst the notes for a never­writtentale   to   be   called   “The   Ancestral   Footstep”shew   what   Hawthorne   would   have   donewith an intensive treatment of an old Englishsuperstition—that   of   an   ancient   andaccursed line whose members left footprintsof   blood   as   they   walked—which   appearsincidentally in both Septimius Felton and Dr.Grimshawe’s   Secret.

Many   of   Hawthorne’s   shorter   tales   exhibitweirdness,   either   of   atmosphere   or   ofincident,   to  a   remarkable  degree.   “EdwardRandolph’s   Portrait”,   in  Legends   of   theProvince   House,  has   its   diabolic   moments.“The Minister’s  Black Veil”  (founded on anactual incident) and “The Ambitious Guest”imply   much   more   than   they   state,   whilst“Ethan Brand”—a fragment of a longer worknever completed—rises to genuine heights ofcosmic fear with its vignette of the wild hillcountry and the blazing, desolate lime­kilns,and   its   delineation   of   the   Byronic“unpardonable   sinner”,  whose   troubled   lifeends with a peal  of  fearful   laughter  in thenight as he seeks rest amidst the flames ofthe furnace. Some of Hawthorne’s notes tellof weird tales he would have written had helived  longer—an especially vivid plot beingthat   concerning   a   baffling   stranger   whoappeared now and then in public assemblies,and who was at last followed and found to

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come   and   go   from   a   very   ancient   grave.

But   foremost   as   a   finished,   artistic   unitamong all our author’s weird material is thefamous and exquisitely wrought novel,  TheHouse   of   the   Seven   Gables,  in   which   therelentless working out of an ancestral curseis developed with astonishing power againstthe   sinister   background   of   a   very   ancientSalem  house—one  of   those  peaked  Gothicaffairs   which   formed   the   first   regularbuilding­up of our New England coast towns,but  which  gave  way   after   the   seventeenthcentury to the more familiar gambrel­roofedor   classic   Georgian   types   now   known   as“Colonial”.   Of   these   old   gabled   Gothichouses scarcely a dozen are to be seen todayin   their   original   condition   throughout   theUnited   States,   but   one   well   known   toHawthorne   still   stands   in   Turner   Street,Salem,   and   is   pointed   out   with   doubtfulauthority as the scene and inspiration of theromance.  Such an edifice,  with  its   spectralpeaks,   its   clustered   chimneys,   itsoverhanging   second   story,   its   grotesquecorner­brackets,   and   its   diamond­panedlattice   windows,   is   indeed   an   object   wellcalculated   to   evoke   sombre   reflections;typifying as it does the dark Puritan age ofconcealed horror and witch­whispers whichpreceded   the   beauty,   rationality,   andspaciousness   of   the   eighteenth   century.Hawthorne   saw   many   in   his   youth,   andknew the black tales connected with some ofthem.   He   heard,   too,   many   rumours   of   acurse upon his own line as the result of hisgreat­grandfather’s   severity   as   a   witchcraftjudge   in   1692.

From this setting came the immortal tale—New England’s greatest contribution to weirdliterature—and we can feel in an instant theauthenticity of the atmosphere presented tous. Stealthy horror and disease lurk withinthe   weather­blackened,   moss­crusted,   andelm­shadowed walls of the archaic dwelling

so   vividly   displayed,   and   we   grasp   thebrooding   malignity   of   the   place   when   weread that its builder—old Colonel Pyncheon—snatched   the   land   with   peculiarruthlessness   from   its   original   settler,Matthew Maule, whom he condemned to thegallows as a wizard in the year of the panic.Maule died cursing old Pyncheon—“God willgive him blood to drink”—and the waters ofthe old well on the seized land turned bitter.Maule’s carpenter son consented to build thegreat   gabled   house   for   his   father’striumphant enemy, but the old Colonel diedstrangely on the day of its dedication. Thenfollowed   generations   of   odd   vicissitudes,with queer whispers about the dark powersof the Maules, and peculiar and sometimesterrible   ends   befalling   the   Pyncheons.

The   overshadowing   malevolence   of   theancient   house—almost   as   alive   as   Poe’sHouse of Usher, though in a subtler way—pervades   the   tale   as   a   recurrent   motifpervades an operatic tragedy; and when themain story is reached, we behold the modernPyncheons in a pitiable state of decay. Poorold   Hepzibah,   the   eccentric   reducedgentlewoman;   child­like,   unfortunateClifford,   just   released   from   undeservedimprisonment;   sly   and   treacherous   JudgePyncheon,  who   is   the  old  Colonel  all  overagain—all   these   figures   are   tremendoussymbols,   and   are   well   matched   by   thestunted vegetation and anaemic fowls in thegarden. It was almost a pity to supply a fairlyhappy   ending,   with   a   union   of   sprightlyPhoebe,   cousin   and   last   scion   of   thePyncheons, to the prepossessing young manwho turns out to be the last of the Maules.This   union,   presumably,   ends   the   curse.Hawthorne avoids all violence of diction ormovement,   and   keeps   his   implications   ofterror well in the background; but occasionalglimpses  amply   serve   to   sustain   the  moodand redeem the work from pure allegoricalaridity. Incidents like the bewitching of AlicePyncheon   in   the   early   eighteenth   century,

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and   the   spectral  music   of   her   harpsichordwhich precedes  a  death  in  the  family—thelatter   a   variant   of   an   immemorial   type  ofAryan   myth—link   the   action   directly   withthe supernatural; whilst the dead nocturnalvigil  of  old Judge Pyncheon in the ancientparlour, with his frightfully ticking watch, isstark   horror   of   the   most   poignant   andgenuine sort. The way in which the Judge’sdeath is first adumbrated by the motions andsniffing of a strange cat outside the window,long before   the   fact   is   suspected either  bythe reader or by any of the characters, is astroke of genius which Poe could not havesurpassed.   Later   the   strange   cat   watchesintently   outside   that   same   window   in   thenight and on the next day, for—something.It   is   clearly   the   psychopomp   of   primevalmyth,   fitted   and   adapted   with   infinitedeftness   to   its   latter­day   setting.

But Hawthorne left no well­defined literaryposterity. His mood and attitude belonged tothe age which closed with him, and it is thespirit of Poe—who so clearly and realisticallyunderstood the natural basis of the horror­appeal   and   the   correct   mechanics   of   itsachievement—which   survived   andblossomed.   Among   the   earliest   of   Poe’sdisciples may be reckoned the brilliant youngIrishman   Fitz­James   O’Brien   (1828–1862),who became naturalised as an American andperished honourably in the Civil War. It is hewho gave us “What Was It?”, the first well­shaped short story of a tangible but invisiblebeing, and the prototype of de Maupassant’s“Horla”; he also who created the inimitable“Diamond   Lens”,   in   which   a   youngmicroscopist falls in love with a maiden of aninfinitesimal world which he has discoveredin   a   drop   of   water.   O’Brien’s   early   deathundoubtedly deprived us of some masterfultales  of   strangeness  and  terror,   though hisgenius   was   not,   properly   speaking,   of   thesame titan quality  which  characterised Poeand   Hawthorne.

Closer   to   real   greatness   was   the   eccentricand   saturnine   journalist   Ambrose   Bierce,born in 1842; who likewise entered the CivilWar,  but   survived   to  write   some  immortaltales and to disappear in 1913 in as great acloud of mystery as any he ever evoked fromhis nightmare fancy. Bierce was a satirist andpamphleteer   of   note,   but   the   bulk   of   hisartistic   reputation must   rest  upon his  grimand savage short stories; a large number ofwhich deal with the Civil War and form themost   vivid   and   realistic   expression   whichthat   conflict   has   yet   received   in   fiction.Virtually   all   of   Bierce’s   tales   are   tales   ofhorror; and whilst many of them treat onlyof   the   physical   and   psychological   horrorswithin   Nature,   a   substantial   proportionadmit the malignly supernatural and form aleading element in America’s fund of weirdliterature.   Mr.   Samuel   Loveman,   a   livingpoet   and   critic   who   was   personallyacquainted   with   Bierce,   thus   sums   up   thegenius   of   the   great   shadow­maker   in   thepreface to some of his letters:

“In Bierce, the evocation of horrorbecomes for the first time, not somuch   the   prescription   orperversion   of   Poe   andMaupassant,   but   an   atmospheredefinite   and   uncannily   precise.Words, so simple that one wouldbe prone  to  ascribe   them  to   thelimitations of a literary hack, takeon an unholy horror,  a new andunguessed transformation. In Poeone   finds   it   a  tour   de   force,  inMaupassant   a   nervousengagement   of   the   flagellatedclimax.   To   Bierce,   simply   andsincerely,   diabolism   held   in   itstormented depth, a legitimate andreliant  means   to   the   end.  Yet   atacit  confirmation with Nature  isin   every   instance   insisted   upon.

“In ‘The Death of Halpin Frayser’,

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flowers, verdure, and the boughsand   leaves   of   trees   aremagnificently   placed   as   anopposing   foil   to   unnaturalmalignity.   Not   the   accustomedgolden   world,   but   a   worldpervaded with the mystery of blueand the breathless recalcitrance ofdreams, is Bierce’s. Yet, curiously,inhumanity   is   not   altogetherabsent.”

The   “inhumanity”   mentioned   by   Mr.Loveman   finds   vent   in   a   rare   strain   ofsardonic   comedy   and   graveyard   humour,and a  kind of  delight   in  images of   crueltyand tantalising disappointment. The formerquality   is   well   illustrated   by   some   of   thesubtitles   in   the   darker   narratives;   such   as“One  does  not   always   eat  what   is   on   thetable”,   describing   a   body   laid   out   for   acoroner’s inquest, and “A man though nakedmay   be   in   rags”,   referring   to   a   frightfullymangled   corpse.

Bierce’s   work   is   in   general   somewhatuneven.  Many  of   the   stories   are   obviouslymechanical,   and   marred   by   a   jaunty   andcommonplacely  artificial  style  derived fromjournalistic   models;   but   the   grimmalevolence stalking through all of them isunmistakable,   and   several   stand   out   aspermanent   mountain­peaks   of   Americanweird   writing.   “The   Death   of   HalpinFrayser”, called by Frederic Taber Cooper themost fiendishly ghastly tale in the literatureof   the   Anglo­Saxon   race,   tells   of   a   bodyskulking by night without a soul in a weirdand   horribly   ensanguined   wood,   and   of   aman beset by ancestral  memories who metdeath at the claws of that which had beenhis   fervently   loved   mother.   “The   DamnedThing”,   frequently   copied   in   popularanthologies,   chronicles   the   hideousdevastations   of   an   invisible   entity   thatwaddles and flounders on the hills and in thewheatfields by night and day. “The Suitable

Surroundings” evokes with singular subtletyyet   apparent   simplicity  a  piercing   sense  ofthe terror  which may reside  in the writtenword. In the story the weird author Colstonsays   to   his   friend   Marsh,   “You   are   braveenough to read me in a street­car, but—in adeserted   house—alone—in   the   forest—atnight! Bah! I have a manuscript in my pocketthat   would   kill   you!”   Marsh   reads   themanuscript in “the suitable surroundings”—and it does kill him. “The Middle Toe of theRight Foot” is clumsily developed, but has apowerful climax. A man named Manton hashorribly killed his two children and his wife,the latter of whom lacked the middle toe ofthe   right   foot.   Ten   years   later   he   returnsmuch   altered   to   the   neighbourhood;   and,being secretly recognised, is provoked into abowie­knife duel in the dark, to be held inthe now abandoned house where his crimewas   committed.   When   the  moment   of   theduel arrives a trick is played upon him; andhe  is   left  without  an antagonist,   shut   in  anight­black   ground   floor   room   of   thereputedly   haunted   edifice,   with   the   thickdust of a decade on every hand. No knife isdrawn against him, for only a thorough scareis intended; but on the next day he is foundcrouched   in   a   corner   with   distorted   face,dead   of   sheer   fright   at   something   he   hasseen. The only clue visible to the discoverersis  one having   terrible   implications:   “In   thedust of years that lay thick upon the floor—leading   from  the  door  by  which   they  hadentered, straight across the room to within ayard   of   Manton’s   crouching   corpse—werethree  parallel   lines  of   footprints—light  butdefinite  impressions of  bare  feet,   the outerones   those   of   small   children,   the   inner   awoman’s.   From   the   point   at   which   theyended they did not return; they pointed allone way.” And, of course, the woman’s printsshewed a lack of the middle toe of the rightfoot.   “The   Spook   House”,   told   with   aseverely   homely   air   of   journalisticverisimilitude,   conveys   terrible   hints   ofshocking mystery. In 1858 an entire familyof   seven   persons   disappears   suddenly   and

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unaccountably   from   a   plantation   house   ineastern Kentucky, leaving all its possessionsuntouched—furniture,   clothing,   foodsupplies, horses, cattle, and slaves. About ayear   later   two   men   of   high   standing   areforced   by   a   storm   to   take   shelter   in   thedeserted dwelling, and in so doing stumbleinto a strange subterranean room lit by anunaccountable greenish light and having aniron   door   which   cannot   be   opened   fromwithin. In this room lie the decayed corpsesof all the missing family; and as one of thediscoverers   rushes   forward   to   embrace   abody he seems to recognise, the other is sooverpowered   by   a   strange   foetor   that   heaccidentally shuts his companion in the vaultand   loses   consciousness.   Recovering   hissenses six weeks later, the survivor is unableto find the hidden room; and the house  isburned during the Civil War. The imprisoneddiscoverer is  never seen or heard of again.

Bierce   seldom   realises   the   atmosphericpossibilities of his themes as vividly as Poe;and   much   of   his   work   contains   a   certaintouch of naiveté, prosaic angularity, or early­American   provincialism   which   contrastssomewhat  with   the   efforts  of   later  horror­masters.   Nevertheless   the   genuineness   andartistry   of   his   dark   intimations   are   alwaysunmistakable, so that his greatness is in nodanger   of   eclipse.   As   arranged   in   hisdefinitively   collected   works,   Bierce’s   weirdtales occur mainly in two volumes, Can SuchThings   Be?  and  In   the   Midst   of   Life.  Theformer, indeed, is almost wholly given overto   the   supernatural.

Much   of   the   best   in   American   horror­literature   has   come   from  pens   not   mainlydevoted   to   that   medium.   Oliver   WendellHolmes’s historic  Elsie Venner  suggests withadmirable   restraint   an   unnatural   ophidianelement   in   a   young   woman   pre­natallyinfluenced,   and   sustains   the   atmospherewith finely discriminating landscape touches.

In  The   Turn   of   the   Screw  Henry   Jamestriumphs over his inevitable pomposity andprolixity   sufficiently   well   to   create   a   trulypotent air of sinister menace; depicting thehideous   influence   of   two   dead   and   evilservants, Peter Quint and the governess MissJessel,  over  a   small  boy and girl  who hadbeen under their care. James is perhaps toodiffuse,   too   unctuously   urbane,   and   toomuch   addicted   to   subtleties   of   speech   torealise   fully   all   the   wild   and   devastatinghorror in his situations; but for all that thereis   a   rare   and   mounting   tide   of   fright,culminating   in   the  death  of   the   little  boy,which gives the novelette a permanent placein   its   special   class.

F. Marion Crawford produced several weirdtales of varying quality,  now collected in avolume entitled  Wandering Ghosts.  “For theBlood Is   the Life”   touches powerfully  on acase   of   moon­cursed   vampirism   near   anancient   tower   on   the   rocks   of   the   lonelySouth   Italian   sea­coast.   “The   Dead   Smile”treats of family horrors in an old house andan ancestral vault in Ireland, and introducesthe   banshee   with   considerable   force.   “TheUpper Berth”, however, is Crawford’s weirdmasterpiece;   and   is   one   of   the   mosttremendous horror­stories in all literature. Inthis tale of a suicide­haunted stateroom suchthings as   the spectral  salt­water  dampness,the   strangely   open   porthole,   and   thenightmare struggle with the nameless objectare   handled   with   incomparable   dexterity.

Very genuine, though not without the typicalmannered   extravagance   of   the   eighteen­nineties, is the strain of horror in the earlywork   of   Robert   W.   Chambers,   sincerenowned   for   products   of   a   very   differentquality.  The   King   in   Yellow,  a   series   ofvaguely connected short stories having as abackground   a   monstrous   and   suppressedbook whose perusal brings fright, madness,and spectral tragedy, really achieves notable

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heights   of   cosmic   fear   in   spite   of   uneveninterest and a somewhat trivial and affectedcultivation  of   the  Gallic   studio  atmospheremade  popular  by  Du  Maurier’s  Trilby.  Themost powerful of its tales, perhaps, is “TheYellow Sign”, in which is introduced a silentand   terrible   churchyard   watchman   with   aface   like   a   puffy   grave­worm’s.   A   boy,describing   a   tussle   he   has   had   with   thiscreature, shivers and sickens as he relates acertain   detail.   “Well,   sir,   it’s   Gawd’s   truththat when I ’it ’im ’e grabbed me wrists, sir,and when I twisted ’is soft, mushy fist one of’is   fingers  come off   in me  ’and.”  An artist,who   after   seeing   him   has   shared   withanother   a   strange   dream   of   a   nocturnalhearse, is shocked by the voice with whichthe watchman accosts him. The fellow emitsa  muttering   sound   that   fills   the  head   likethick oily smoke from a fat­rendering vat oran   odour   of   noisome   decay.   What   hemumbles is merely this: “Have you found theYellow   Sign?”

A   weirdly   hieroglyphed   onyx   talisman,picked up in the street by the sharer of hisdream, is shortly given the artist; and afterstumbling   queerly   upon   the   hellish   andforbidden   book   of   horrors   the   two   learn,among other hideous things which no sanemortal   should   know,   that   this   talisman   isindeed   the   nameless   Yellow   Sign   handeddown   from   the   accursed   cult   of   Hastur—from   primordial   Carcosa,   whereof   thevolume treats, and some nightmare memoryof which seems to lurk latent and ominous atthe back of all men’s minds. Soon they hearthe   rumbling   of   the   black­plumed   hearsedriven   by   the   flabby   and   corpse­facedwatchman.   He   enters   the   night­shroudedhouse in quest of the Yellow Sign, all boltsand bars rotting at his touch. And when thepeople rush in, drawn by a scream that nohuman   throat   could   utter,   they   find   threeforms on the floor—two dead and one dying.One of the dead shapes is far gone in decay.It   is   the   churchyard   watchman,   and   the

doctor exclaims, “That man must have beendead for months.” It is worth observing thatthe  author  derives  most  of   the  names  andallusions connected with his eldritch land ofprimal  memory   from  the   tales  of  AmbroseBierce. Other early works of Mr. Chambersdisplaying   the   outré   and  macabre   elementare The Maker of Moons and In Search of theUnknown. One cannot help regretting that hedid not further develop a vein in which hecould   so   easily   have   become   a   recognisedmaster.

Horror  material  of  authentic   force  may  befound in the work of the New England realistMary   E.   Wilkins;   whose   volume   of   shorttales,  The Wind in the Rose­Bush,  contains anumber   of   noteworthy   achievements.   In“The Shadows on the Wall”  we are shewnwith   consummate   skill   the   response   of   astaid   New   England   household   to   uncannytragedy;  and  the   sourceless   shadow of   thepoisoned   brother   well   prepares   us   for   theclimactic  moment when the shadow of  thesecret murderer, who has killed himself in aneighbouring  city,   suddenly  appears  besideit. Charlotte Perkins Gilman, in “The YellowWall Paper”, rises to a classic level in subtlydelineating the madness which crawls over awoman  dwelling   in   the   hideously   paperedroom   where   a   madwoman   was   onceconfined.

[In “The Dead Valley” the eminent architectand   mediaevalist   Ralph   Adams   Cramachieves   a   memorably   potent   degree   ofvague regional horror through subtleties ofatmosphere   and   description.]

Still   further   carrying   on   our   spectraltradition   is   the   gifted   and   versatilehumourist   Irvin S.  Cobb,  whose work bothearly and recent contains some finely weirdspecimens.   “Fishhead”,   an   earlyachievement,   is   banefully   effective   in   its

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portrayal  of  unnatural   affinities  between  ahybrid   idiot   and   the   strange   fish   of   anisolated lake, which at the last avenge theirbiped kinsman’s murder. Later work of Mr.Cobb   introduces   an   element   of   possiblescience, as in the tale of hereditary memorywhere a modern man with a negroid strainutters words in African jungle speech whenrun down by a train under visual and auralcircumstances   recalling   the  maiming of  hisblack   ancestor   by   a   rhinoceros   a   centurybefore.

[Extremely   high   in   artistic   stature   is   thenovel The Dark Chamber (1927), by the lateLeonard Cline. This is the tale of a man who—with   the   characteristic   ambition   of   theGothic or Byronic hero­villain—seeks to defyNature and recapture every moment of  hispast life through the abnormal stimulation ofmemory.   To   this   end   he   employs   endlessnotes,   records,   mnemonic   objects,   andpictures—and   finally   odours,   music,   andexotic   drugs.   At   last   his   ambition   goesbeyond his personal life and reaches towardthe   black   abysses   of  hereditary  memory—even   back   to   pre­human   days   amidst   thesteaming swamps of the Carboniferous age,and   to   still   more   unimaginable   deeps   ofprimal time and entity. He calls for maddermusic and takes stronger drugs, and finallyhis great dog grows oddly afraid of him. Anoxious   animal   stench   encompasses   him,and he grows vacant­faced and sub­human.In the end he takes to the woods, howling atnight beneath windows. He is finally foundin a thicket, mangled to death. Beside him isthe  mangled corpse  of  his  dog.  They  havekilled   each   other.   The   atmosphere   of   thisnovel is malevolently potent, much attentionbeing   paid   to   the   central   figure’s   sinisterhome   and   household.

A   less   subtle   and   well­balanced   butnevertheless   highly   effective   creation   isHerbert S. Gorman’s novel,  The Place Called

Dagon,  which  relates   the dark history  of  awestern Massachusetts backwater where thedescendants   of   refugees   from   the   Salemwitchcraft   still   keep   alive   the   morbid   anddegenerate   horrors   of   the   Black   Sabbat.

Sinister House, by Leland Hall, has touches ofmagnificent atmosphere but is marred by asomewhat   mediocre   romanticism.

Very notable   in  their  way are some of   theweird conceptions of the novelist and short­story  writer   Edward   Lucas  White,  most   ofwhose   themes   arise   from   actual   dreams.“The Song of the Sirens” has a very pervasivestrangeness,   while   such   things   as“Lukundoo”  and   “The  Snout”   rouse  darkerapprehensions.   Mr.   White   imparts   a   verypeculiar quality to his tales—an oblique sortof glamour which has its own distinctive typeof   convincingness.]

Of younger Americans, none strikes the noteof   cosmic   terror   so   well   as   the   Californiapoet,   artist,   and   fictionist   Clark   AshtonSmith,   whose   bizarre   writings,   drawings,paintings,   and   stories   are   the  delight   of   asensitive   few.   Mr.   Smith   has   for   hisbackground   a   universe   of   remote   andparalysing fright—jungles of poisonous andiridescent blossoms on the moons of Saturn,evil   and   grotesque   temples   in   Atlantis,Lemuria,   and   forgotten   elder   worlds,   anddank   morasses   of   spotted   death­fungi   inspectral   countries   beyond   earth’s   rim.   Hislongest   and   most   ambitious   poem,  TheHashish­Eater,  is in pentameter blank verse;and opens up chaotic and incredible vistas ofkaleidoscopic   nightmare   in   the   spacesbetween   the   stars.   In   sheer   daemonicstrangeness and fertility  of  conception,  Mr.Smith   is   perhaps   unexcelled   by   any   otherwriter dead or living. Who else has seen suchgorgeous, luxuriant, and feverishly distortedvisions   of   infinite   spheres   and   multiple

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dimensions and  lived  to   tell   the  tale? [Hisshort   stories   deal   powerfully   with   othergalaxies, worlds, and dimensions, as well aswith strange regions and aeons on the earth.He tells of primal Hyperborea and its blackamorphous   god   Tsathoggua;   of   the   lostcontinent   Zothique,   and   of   the   fabulous,vampire­curst   land   of   Averoigne   inmediaeval France. Some of Mr. Smith’s bestwork can be found in the brochure entitledThe   Double   Shadow   and   Other   Fantasies(1933).]

IX. The Weird Tradition in the British Isles

Recent   British   literature,   besides   includingthe three or four greatest fantaisistes of thepresent age, has been gratifyingly fertile  inthe  element  of   the weird.  Rudyard Kiplinghas often approached it; and has, despite theomnipresent   mannerisms,   handled   it   withindubitable   mastery   in   such   tales   as   “ThePhantom ’Rickshaw”, “  ‘The Finest Story inthe World’ ”, “The Recrudescence of Imray”,and “The Mark of the Beast”. This latter is ofparticular   poignancy;   the   pictures   of   thenaked leper­priest who mewed like an otter,of the spots which appeared on the chest ofthe man that priest  cursed, of  the growingcarnivorousness of the victim and of the fearwhich horses began to display toward him,and   of   the   eventually   half­accomplishedtransformation of that victim into a leopard,being things which no reader is ever likely toforget.   The   final   defeat   of   the   malignantsorcery does not impair the force of the taleor   the   validity   of   its   mystery.

Lafcadio   Hearn,   strange,   wandering,   andexotic, departs still farther from the realm ofthe real; and with the supreme artistry of asensitive poet weaves phantasies impossibleto an author of the solid roast­beef type. HisFantastics, written in America, contains someof   the  most   impressive   ghoulishness   in   allliterature;   whilst   his  Kwaidan,  written   inJapan,   crystallises  with  matchless   skill   and

delicacy   the   eerie   lore   and   whisperedlegends of that richly colourful nation. Stillmore of Hearn’s weird wizardry of languageis shewn in some of his translations from theFrench, especially from Gautier and Flaubert.His version of the latter’s  Temptation of St.Anthony  is  a  classic  of   fevered and riotousimagery clad in the magic of singing words.

Oscar Wilde may likewise be given a placeamongst  weird  writers,   both   for   certain  ofhis   exquisite   fairy   tales,   and   for   his   vividPicture of Dorian Gray, in which a marvellousportrait for years assumes the duty of ageingand coarsening  instead of   its  original,  whomeanwhile plunges into every excess of viceand crime without the outward loss of youth,beauty, and freshness. There is a sudden andpotent   climax   when   Dorian   Gray,   at   lastbecome   a   murderer,   seeks   to   destroy   thepainting whose changes testify to his moraldegeneracy. He stabs it with a knife, and ahideous cry and crash are heard; but whenthe   servants   enter   they   find   it   in   all   itspristine loveliness. “Lying on the floor was adead man, in evening dress, with a knife inhis  heart.  He  was  withered,  wrinkled,   andloathsome of visage. It was not till they hadexamined the rings that they recognised whoit   was.”

Matthew   Phipps   Shiel,   author   of   manyweird,   grotesque,   and   adventurous   novelsand tales, occasionally attains a high level ofhorrific   magic.   “Xélucha”   is   a   noxiouslyhideous   fragment,   but   is   excelled   by   Mr.Shiel’s  undoubted masterpiece,  “The Houseof  Sounds”,   floridly  written   in   the   “yellow’nineties”,   and   re­cast   with   more   artisticrestraint in the early twentieth century. Thisstory, in final form, deserves a place amongthe foremost things of its kind. It tells of acreeping horror and menace trickling downthe centuries on a sub­arctic   island off   thecoast of Norway; where, amidst the sweep ofdaemon   winds   and   the   ceaseless   din   of

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hellish waves and cataracts, a vengeful deadman   built   a   brazen   tower   of   terror.   It   isvaguely like, yet infinitely unlike, Poe’s “Fallof   the House of  Usher”.   [In  the novel  ThePurple   Cloud  Mr.   Shiel   describes   withtremendous power a curse which came outof the arctic to destroy mankind, and whichfor a time appears to have left but a singleinhabitant on our planet. The sensations ofthis lone survivor as he realises his position,and   roams   through   the   corpse­littered  andtreasure­strown cities of   the world as  theirabsolute  master,   are  delivered  with   a   skilland   artistry   falling   little   short   of   actualmajesty. Unfortunately the second half of thebook,   with   its   conventionally   romanticelement,   involves   a   distinct   “letdown”.]

Better known than Shiel is the ingeniousBram   Stoker,   who   created   many   starklyhorrific   conceptions   in   a   series   of   novelswhose poor technique sadly impairs their neteffect.  The Lair of the White Worm,  dealingwith a gigantic primitive entity that lurks ina   vault   beneath   an   ancient   castle,   utterlyruins a magnificent  idea by a developmentalmost   infantile.  The   Jewel   of   Seven   Stars,touching on a strange Egyptian resurrection,is less crudely written. But best of all is thefamous  Dracula,  which  has  become almostthe   standard   modern   exploitation   of   thefrightful   vampire   myth.   Count   Dracula,   avampire,  dwells   in  a  horrible   castle   in   theCarpathians; but finally migrates to Englandwith   the  design  of   populating   the   countrywith   fellow  vampires.  How an  Englishmanfares within Dracula’s stronghold of terrors,and how the dead fiend’s plot for dominationis at last defeated, are elements which uniteto   form   a   tale   now   justly   assigned   apermanent place in English letters.  Draculaevoked many similar novels of supernaturalhorror,  among which   the  best  are  perhapsThe Beetle,  by Richard Marsh,  Brood of   theWitch­Queen,  by   “Sax   Rohmer”   (ArthurSarsfield Ward), and The Door of the Unreal,by   Gerald   Biss.   The   latter   handles   quitedexterously   the   standard   werewolfsuperstition. Much subtler and more artistic,

and   told   with   singular   skill   through   thejuxtaposed   narratives   of   the   severalcharacters,   is   the   novel  Cold   Harbour,  byFrancis   Brett   Young,   in   which   an   ancienthouse   of   strange  malignancy   is   powerfullydelineated.   The   mocking   and   well­nighomnipotent fiend Humphrey Furnival  holdsechoes of the Manfred­ Montoni type of earlyGothic   “villain”,   but   is   redeemed   fromtriteness by many clever individualities. Onlythe slight  diffuseness  of  explanation at   theclose,   and   the   somewhat   too   free   use   ofdivination   as   a   plot   factor,   keep   this   talefrom   approaching   absolute   perfection.

[In   the   novel  Witch   Wood  John   Buchandepicts with tremendous force a survival ofthe   evil   Sabbat   in   a   lonely   district   ofScotland. The description of the black forestwith the evil stone, and of the terrible cosmicadumbrations   when   the   horror   is   finallyextirpated,   will   repay   one   for   wadingthrough the very gradual action and plethoraof   Scottish   dialect.   Some   of   Mr.   Buchan’sshort stories are also extremely vivid in theirspectral   intimations;   “The   GreenWildebeest”,   a   tale   of   African   witchcraft,“The   Wind   in   the   Portico”,   with   itsawakening of dead Britanno­Roman horrors,and “Skule Skerry”, with its touches of sub­arctic   fright,   being   especially   remarkable.]

Clemence  Housman,   in   the   brief   novelette“The   Were­wolf”,   attains   a   high   degree   ofgruesome   tension   and   achieves   to   someextent the atmosphere of authentic folklore.[In The Elixir of Life Arthur Ransome attainssome   darkly   excellent   effects   despite   ageneral naiveté  of plot, while H. B. Drake’sThe Shadowy Thing summons up strange andterrible vistas. George Macdonald’s Lilith hasa compelling bizarrerie all its own; the firstand   simpler   of   the   two   versions   beingperhaps   the   more   effective.]

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Deserving   of   distinguished   notice   as   aforceful   craftsman   to   whom   an   unseenmystic world is ever a close and vital realityis   the   poet   Walter   de   la   Mare,   whosehaunting verse and exquisite prose alike bearconsistent traces of a strange vision reachingdeeply   into   veiled   spheres   of   beauty   andterrible and forbidden dimensions of being.In the novel The Return we see the soul of adead   man   reach   out   of   its   grave   of   twocenturies and fasten itself upon the flesh ofthe living, so that even the face of the victimbecomes that which had long ago returnedto dust. Of the shorter tales, of which severalvolumes   exist,   many   are   unforgettable   fortheir command of fear’s and sorcery’s darkestramifications;   notably   “Seaton’s   Aunt”,   inwhich there lowers a noxious background ofmalignant   vampirism;   “The   Tree”,   whichtells  of  a   frightful  vegetable  growth  in  theyard of a starving artist; “Out of the Deep”,wherein we are given leave to imagine whatthing   answered   the   summons   of   a   dyingwastrel   in   a   dark   lonely   house   when   hepulled   a   long­feared   bell­cord   in   the   atticchamber of his dread­haunted boyhood; [“ARecluse”, which hints at what sent a chanceguest flying from a house in the night;] “Mr.Kempe”,   which   shews   us   a   mad   clericalhermit in quest of the human soul, dwellingin   a   frightful   sea­cliff   region   beside   anarchaic   abandoned   chapel;   and   “All­Hallows”,   a   glimpse   of   daemoniac   forcesbesieging   a   lonely   mediaeval   church   andmiraculously restoring the rotting masonry.De la Mare does not make fear the sole oreven  the dominant element  of  most  of  histales,   being   apparently   more   interested   inthe   subtleties   of   character   involved.Occasionally   he   sinks   to   sheer   whimsicalphantasy   of   the   Barrie   order.   Still,   he   isamong the very few to whom unreality is avivid, living presence; and as such he is ableto put into his occasional fear­studies a keenpotency   which   only   a   rare   master   canachieve.  His  poem “The  Listeners”   restoresthe   Gothic   shudder   to   modern   verse.

The weird short story has fared well of late,an important contributor being the versatileE.  F.  Benson,  whose  “The Man Who WentToo Far” breathes whisperingly of a house atthe edge of a dark wood, and of Pan’s hoof­mark   on   the   breast   of   a   dead   man.   Mr.Benson’s   volume,  Visible   and   Invisible,contains   several   stories   of   singular   power;notably   “Negotium   Perambulans”,  whoseunfolding reveals an abnormal monster froman   ancient   ecclesiastical   panel   whichperforms an act of miraculous vengeance ina   lonely   village  on   the  Cornish   coast,   and“The  Horror­Horn”,   through  which   lopes  aterrible   half­human   survival   dwelling   onunvisited   Alpine   peaks.   [“The   Face”,   inanother   collection,   is   lethally   potent   in   itsrelentless aura of doom. H. R. Wakefield, inhis   collections  They  Return  at  Evening  andOthers Who Return,  manages now and thento achieve great heights of horror despite avitiating   air   of   sophistication.   The   mostnotable stories are “The Red Lodge” with itsslimy   aqueous   evil,   “‘He   Cometh   and   HePasseth By’”, “‘And He Shall Sing . . .’”, “TheCairn”,   “‘Look   Up   There!’”,   “Blind   Man’sBuff”,   and   that   bit   of   lurking   millennialhorror,   “The   Seventeenth   Hole   atDuncaster”.  Mention has been made of theweird   work   of   H.  G.   Wells   and  A.  ConanDoyle. The former, in “The Ghost of Fear”,reaches a very high level; while all the itemsin Thirty Strange Stories have strong fantasticimplications.  Doyle  now and  then struck  apowerfully spectral note, as in “The Captainof   the   ‘Pole­Star’   ”,   a   tale   of   arcticghostliness, and “Lot No. 249”, wherein thereanimated   mummy   theme   is   used   withmore than ordinary skill. Hugh Walpole, ofthe   same   family   as   the   founder   of   Gothicfiction,   has   sometimes   approached   thebizarre  with  much   success;  his   short   story“Mrs.   Lunt”   carrying   a   very   poignantshudder.]   John   Metcalfe,   in   the   collectionpublished as  The Smoking Leg,  attains nowand  then a  rare  pitch  of  potency;   the   taleentitled   “The   Bad   Lands”   containinggraduations of horror that strongly savour of

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genius. More whimsical and inclined towardthe amiable and innocuous phantasy of Sir J.M. Barrie are the short tales of E. M. Forster,grouped   under   the   title   of  The   CelestialOmnibus. Of these only one, dealing with aglimpse of Pan and his aura of fright, may besaid   to   hold   the   true   element   of   cosmichorror. [Mrs. H. D. Everett, though adheringto   very   old   and   conventional   models,occasionally   reaches   singular   heights   ofspiritual   terror   in   her   collection   of   shortstories.   L.   P.   Hartley   is   notable   for   hisincisive and extremely ghastly tale, “A Visitorfrom Down Under”.] May Sinclair’s UncannyStories contain more of traditional occultismthan of that creative treatment of fear whichmarks mastery in this field, and are inclinedto lay more stress on human emotions andpsychological   delving   than   upon   the   starkphenomena   of   a   cosmos   utterly   unreal.   Itmay   be   well   to   remark   here   that   occultbelievers   are   probably   less   effective   thanmaterialists   in  delineating   the   spectral  andthe   fantastic,   since   to   them   the   phantomworld is so commonplace a reality that theytend to refer to it with less awe, remoteness,and impressiveness than do those who see init  an absolute  and  stupendous  violation  ofthe   natural   order.

[Of rather uneven stylistic quality,  but vastoccasional power in its suggestion of lurkingworlds   and   beings   behind   the   ordinarysurface of life, is the work of William HopeHodgson,   known   today   far   less   than   itdeserves   to  be.  Despite  a   tendency  towardconventionally   sentimental   conceptions   ofthe universe, and of man’s relation to it andto   his   fellows,   Mr.   Hodgson   is   perhapssecond only   to  Algernon Blackwood  in  hisserious treatment of unreality. Few can equalhim   in   adumbrating   the   nearness   ofnameless   forces   and   monstrous   besiegingentities   through   casual   hints   andinsignificant details, or in conveying feelingsof   the   spectral   and   the   abnormal   inconnexion with regions or buildings.

In  The Boats of the “Glen Carrig”  (1907) weare shewn a variety of malign marvels andaccursed unknown lands as encountered bythe survivors of a sunken ship. The broodingmenace   in   the  earlier  parts  of   the  book  isimpossible to surpass,  though a letdown inthe   direction   of   ordinary   romance   andadventure   occurs   toward   the   end.   Aninaccurate and pseudo­romantic  attempt   toreproduce eighteenth­century prose detractsfrom   the   general   effect,   but   the   reallyprofound   nautical   erudition   everywheredisplayed   is   a   compensating   factor.

The   House   on   the   Borderland  (1908)—perhaps   the   greatest   of   all   Mr.   Hodgson’sworks—tells of a lonely and evilly regardedhouse   in   Ireland   which   forms   a   focus   forhideous   other­world   forces   and   sustains   asiege by blasphemous hybrid anomalies froma hidden abyss below. The wanderings of thenarrator’s spirit through limitless light­yearsof cosmic space and kalpas of eternity, andits   witnessing   of   the   solar   system’s   finaldestruction,   constitute   something   almostunique   in   standard   literature.   Andeverywhere   there   is   manifest   the   author’spower to suggest vague,  ambushed horrorsin natural scenery. But for a few touches ofcommonplace   sentimentality   this   bookwould   be   a   classic   of   the   first   water.

The  Ghost  Pirates  (1909),   regarded by  Mr.Hodgson as rounding out a trilogy with thetwo   previously   mentioned   works,   is   apowerful account of a doomed and hauntedship on  its   last  voyage,  and of   the terriblesea­devils   (of   quasi­human   aspect,   andperhaps   the   spirits   of   bygone   buccaneers)that besiege it and finally drag it down to anunknown   fate.   With   its   command   ofmaritime knowledge, and its clever selectionof   hints   and   incidents   suggestive   of   latenthorrors in Nature, this book at times reaches

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enviable   peaks   of   power.

The  Night   Land  (1912)   is   a   long­extended(583 pp.) tale of the earth’s infinitely remotefuture—billions   of   billions   of   years   ahead,after   the  death  of   the   sun.   It   is   told   in   arather   clumsy   fashion,   as   the  dreams  of   aman in the seventeenth century, whose mindmerges with its own future incarnation; andis   seriously  marred by painful  verboseness,repetitiousness,   artificial   and   nauseouslysticky   romantic   sentimentality,   and   anattempt   at   archaic   language   even   moregrotesque   and   absurd   than   that   in   “GlenCarrig”.

Allowing for all its faults, it is yet one of themost potent pieces of  macabre imaginationever  written.  The  picture  of   a   night­black,dead planet, with the remains of the humanrace   concentrated   in   a   stupendously   vastmetal  pyramid and besieged by monstrous,hybrid,   and   altogether   unknown   forces   ofthe   darkness,   is   something   that   no   readercan  ever   forget.  Shapes  and  entities  of  analtogether   non­human   and   inconceivablesort—the   prowlers   of   the   black,   man­forsaken, and unexplored world outside thepyramid—are suggested and partly describedwith   ineffable   potency;   while   the   night­bound landscape with its chasms and slopesand   dying   volcanism   takes   on   an   almostsentient   terror   beneath   the  author’s   touch.

Midway   in   the   book   the   central   figureventures   outside   the   pyramid   on   a   questthrough   death­haunted   realms   untrod   byman for millions of years—and in his slow,minutely   described,   day­by­day   progressover   unthinkable   leagues   of   immemorialblackness there is a sense of cosmic alienage,breathless mystery, and terrified expectancyunrivalled in the whole range of  literature.The last quarter of the book drags woefully,but   fails   to  spoil   the  tremendous  power of

the   whole.

Mr.   Hodgson’s   later   volume,  Carnacki,   theGhost­Finder, consists of several longish shortstories   published   many   years   before   inmagazines.   In quality   it   falls   conspicuouslybelow the level of the other books. We herefind a more or less conventional stock figureof   the   “infallible   detective”   type—theprogeny of M. Dupin and Sherlock Holmes,and  the close kin of  Algernon Blackwood’sJohn   Silence—moving   through   scenes   andevents   badly  marred   by   an   atmosphere   ofprofessional   “occultism”.   A   few   of   theepisodes, however, are of undeniable power;and  afford  glimpses  of   the  peculiar  geniuscharacteristic   of   the   author.]

Naturally it is impossible in a brief sketch totrace out all the classic modern uses of theterror   element.   The   ingredient   must   ofnecessity enter into all work both prose andverse   treating   broadly   of   life;   and   we   aretherefore   not   surprised   to   find   a   share   insuch  writers   as   the  poet  Browning,  whose“Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came ” isinstinct with hideous menace, or the novelistJoseph Conrad, who often wrote of the darksecrets within the sea, and of the daemoniacdriving power of Fate as influencing the livesof   lonely  and  maniacally   resolute  men.   Itstrail is one of infinite ramifications; but wemust   here   confine   ourselves   to   itsappearance   in   a   relatively   unmixed   state,where it determines and dominates the workof   art   containing   it.

Somewhat   separate   from   the   main   Britishstream is that current of weirdness in Irishliterature   which   came   to   the   fore   in   theCeltic   Renaissance   of   the   later   nineteenthand   early   twentieth   centuries.   Ghost   andfairy   lore   have   always   been   of   greatprominence   in   Ireland,   and   for   over   anhundred years have been recorded by a line

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of such faithful  transcribers and translatorsas William Carleton, T. Crofton Croker, LadyWilde—mother   of   Oscar   Wilde—DouglasHyde, and W. B. Yeats. Brought to notice bythe  modern  movement,   this  body  of  mythhas been carefully collected and studied; andits salient features reproduced in the work oflater figures like Yeats, J. M. Synge, “A. E.”,Lady   Gregory,   Padraic   Colum,   JamesStephens,   and   their   colleagues.

Whilst   on   the   whole   more   whimsicallyfantastic than terrible, such folklore and itsconsciously   artistic   counterparts   containmuch that   falls   truly within the domain ofcosmic   horror.   Tales   of   burials   in   sunkenchurches beneath haunted lakes, accounts ofdeath­heralding   banshees   and   sinisterchangelings,   ballads   of   spectres   and   “theunholy   creatures   of   the   raths”—all   thesehave their poignant and definite shivers, andmark   a   strong   and   distinctive   element   inweird   literature.   Despite   homelygrotesqueness and absolute naiveté, there isgenuine nightmare in the class of narrativerepresented by the yarn of Teig O’Kane, whoin punishment for his wild life was ridden allnight   by   a   hideous   corpse   that   demandedburial   and   drove   him   from   churchyard   tochurchyard as the dead rose up loathsomelyin each one and refused to accommodate thenewcomer with a berth. Yeats, undoubtedlythe greatest figure of the Irish revival if notthe   greatest   of   all   living   poets,   hasaccomplished notable things both in originalwork and in the codification of old legends.

X. The Modern Masters

The best horror­tales of  today, profiting bythe   long   evolution   of   the   type,   possess   anaturalness,   convincingness,   artisticsmoothness,   and   skilful   intensity  of  appealquite  beyond  comparison  with  anything   inthe Gothic work of a century or more ago.Technique,   craftsmanship,   experience,   andpsychological   knowledge   have   advanced

tremendously with the passing years, so thatmuch   of   the   older   work   seems   naive   andartificial;  redeemed, when redeemed at all,only   by   a   genius   which   conquers   heavylimitations. The tone of jaunty and inflatedromance,   full   of   false   motivation   andinvesting   every   conceivable   event   with   acounterfeit   significance   and   carelesslyinclusive glamour, is now confined to lighterand more whimsical phases of supernaturalwriting.   Serious   weird   stories   are   eithermade   realistically   intense   by   closeconsistency   and   perfect   fidelity   to   Natureexcept   in   the   one   supernatural   directionwhich the author allows himself, or else castaltogether   in   the   realm   of   phantasy,   withatmosphere   cunningly   adapted   to   thevisualisation of a delicately exotic world ofunreality  beyond space and time,   in whichalmost anything may happen if it but happenin   true   accord   with   certain   types   ofimagination   and   illusion   normal   to   thesensitive human brain. This, at least, is thedominant tendency; though of course manygreat contemporary writers slip occasionallyinto some of the flashy postures of immatureromanticism,   or   into   bits   of   the   equallyempty and absurd jargon of pseudo­scientific“occultism”, now at one of its periodic hightides.

Of living creators of cosmic fear raised to itsmost  artistic  pitch,   few if  any can hope toequal the versatile Arthur Machen; author ofsome dozen tales  long and short,   in whichthe elements of hidden horror and broodingfright   attain   an   almost   incomparablesubstance   and   realistic   acuteness.   Mr.Machen, a general man of letters and masterof an exquisitely lyrical and expressive prosestyle, has perhaps put more conscious effortinto his picaresque Chronicle of Clemendy, hisrefreshing essays, his vivid autobiographicalvolumes, his fresh and spirited translations,and   above   all   his   memorable   epic   of   thesensitive aesthetic mind,  The Hill of Dreams,in which the youthful hero responds to themagic   of   that   ancient   Welsh   environment

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which is the author’s own, and lives a dream­life in the Roman city of Isca Silurum, nowshrunk   to   the   relic­strown   village   ofCaerleon­on­Usk.  But   the  fact   remains  thathis powerful horror­material of the ’ninetiesand earlier nineteen­hundreds stands alonein its class, and marks a distinct epoch in thehistory   of   this   literary   form.

Mr.  Machen,  with an  impressionable Celticheritage linked to keen youthful memories ofthe   wild   domed   hills,   archaic   forests,   andcryptical   Roman   ruins   of   the   Gwentcountryside,   has   developed   an   imaginativelife   of   rare   beauty,   intensity,   and   historicbackground. He has absorbed the mediaevalmystery of dark woods and ancient customs,and is a champion of the Middle Ages in allthings—including the Catholic faith. He hasyielded,   likewise,   to   the   spell   of   theBritanno­Roman life which once surged overhis native region; and finds strange magic inthe   fortified   camps,   tessellated   pavements,fragments   of   statues,   and   kindred   thingswhich tell of the day when classicism reignedand Latin was the language of the country. Ayoung American poet, Frank Belknap Long,Jun.,   has   well   summarised   this   dreamer’srich endowments and wizardry of expressionin the sonnet “On Reading Arthur Machen”:

“There   is  a  glory   in   the  autumnwood;The   ancient   lanes   of   Englandwind   and   climbPast  wizard  oaks  and  gorse   andtangled   thymeTo where a fort of mighty empirestood:There is a glamour in the autumnsky;The reddened clouds are writhingin   the   glowOf some great fire, and there areglints   belowOf   tawny   yellow   where   theembers   die.

I wait, for he will show me, clearand   cold,High­rais’d   in   splendour,   sharpagainst   the   North,The Roman eagles, and thro’ mistsof   goldThe   marching   legions   as   theyissue   forth:I wait, for I would share with himagainThe   ancient   wisdom,   and   theancient pain.”

Of   Mr.   Machen’s   horror­tales   the   mostfamous   is   perhaps   “The   Great   God   Pan”(1894), which tells of a singular and terribleexperiment  and   its   consequences.  A  youngwoman, through surgery of the brain­cells, ismade to see the vast and monstrous deity ofNature,   and   becomes   an   idiot   inconsequence,   dying   less   than   a   year   later.Years   afterward   a   strange,   ominous,   andforeign­looking child named Helen Vaughanis   placed   to   board   with   a   family   in   ruralWales,   and   haunts   the   woods   inunaccountable fashion. A little boy is thrownout   of   his   mind   at   sight   of   someone   orsomething  he  spies  with her,  and a younggirl   comes   to   a   terrible   end   in   similarfashion.   All   this   mystery   is   strangelyinterwoven with the Roman rural deities ofthe   place,   as   sculptured   in   antiquefragments.   After   another   lapse   of   years,   awoman of strangely exotic beauty appears insociety,   drives   her   husband   to   horror   anddeath, causes an artist to paint unthinkablepaintings   of   Witches’   Sabbaths,   creates   anepidemic of  suicide among the men of heracquaintance, and is finally discovered to bea   frequenter  of   the   lowest  dens  of  vice   inLondon,   where   even   the   most   callousdegenerates  are shocked at  her  enormities.Through  the  clever   comparing  of  notes  onthe part of those who have had word of herat various stages of her career, this woman isdiscovered   to   be   the   girl   Helen   Vaughan;who   is   the  child—by  no  mortal   father—of

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the   young   woman   on   whom   the   brainexperiment was made. She is a daughter ofhideous Pan himself, and at the last is put todeath amidst horrible transmutations of forminvolving changes of sex and a descent to themost   primal   manifestations   of   the   life­principle.

But the charm of the tale is in the telling. Noone could begin to describe the cumulativesuspense   and   ultimate   horror   with   whichevery paragraph abounds without followingfully the precise order in which Mr. Machenunfolds   his   gradual   hints   and   revelations.Melodrama   is   undeniably   present,   andcoincidence   is   stretched   to  a   length  whichappears   absurd   upon   analysis;   but   in   themalign witchery of the tale as a whole thesetrifles are forgotten, and the sensitive readerreaches   the   end  with  only   an  appreciativeshudder and a tendency to repeat the wordsof one of the characters: “It is too incredible,too monstrous; such things can never be inthis   quiet  world. . . .   Why,   man,   if   such   acase   were   possible,   our   earth   would   be   anightmare.”

Less  famous and  less complex  in plot  than“The Great God Pan”, but definitely finer inatmosphere and general artistic value, is thecurious   and   dimly   disquieting   chroniclecalled   “The   White   People”,   whose   centralportion purports to be the diary or notes of alittle girl whose nurse has introduced her tosome   of   the   forbidden   magic   and   soul­blasting traditions of the noxious witch­cult—the cult whose whispered lore was handeddown   long   lines   of   peasantry   throughoutWestern   Europe,   and   whose   memberssometimes stole forth at night, one by one,to meet in black woods and lonely places forthe revolting orgies of the Witches’ Sabbath.Mr. Machen’s narrative, a triumph of skilfulselectiveness   and   restraint,   accumulatesenormous power as it flows on in a stream ofinnocent   childish   prattle;   introducingallusions   to   strange   “nymphs”,   “Dôls”,“voolas”,   “White,   Green,   and   Scarlet

Ceremonies”,   “Aklo   letters”,   “Chianlanguage”, “Mao games”, and the like. Therites   learned  by   the  nurse   from her  witchgrandmother are taught to the child by thetime she is three years old, and her artlessaccounts of the dangerous secret revelationspossess   a   lurking   terror   generously   mixedwith   pathos.   Evil   charms   well   known   toanthropologists   are  described  with   juvenilenaiveté,   and   finally   there   comes   a   winterafternoon  journey  into  the old Welsh hills,performed under an imaginative spell whichlends   to   the   wild   scenery   an   addedweirdness,   strangeness,   and   suggestion   ofgrotesque   sentience.   The   details   of   thisjourney are given with marvellous vividness,and form to the keen critic a masterpiece offantastic   writing,   with   almost   unlimitedpower   in   the   intimation   of   potenthideousness   and   cosmic   aberration.   Atlength the child—whose age is then thirteen—comes   upon   a   cryptic   and   banefullybeautiful   thing  in the midst  of  a  dark andinaccessible wood. She flees  in awe, but  ispermanently altered and repeatedly revisitsthe wood. In the end horror overtakes her ina manner deftly prefigured by an anecdote inthe prologue, but she poisons herself in time.Like   the  mother  of  Helen  Vaughan  in  TheGreat  God Pan,  she has seen that   frightfuldeity.   She   is   discovered   dead   in   the   darkwood beside the cryptic thing she found; andthat   thing—a   whitely   luminous   statue   ofRoman   workmanship   about   which   diremediaeval   rumours   had   clustered—isaffrightedly   hammered   into   dust   by   thesearchers.

In the episodic novel of The Three Impostors,a work whose merit as a whole is somewhatmarred   by   an   imitation   of   the   jauntyStevenson manner, occur certain tales whichperhaps   represent   the   high­water   mark   ofMachen’s  skill  as  a  terror­weaver.  Here wefind   in   its   most   artistic   form   a   favouriteweird conception of the author’s; the notionthat  beneath  the mounds and rocks of   thewild Welsh hills dwell subterraneously that

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squat primitive race whose vestiges gave riseto our common folk legends of fairies, elves,and the “little people”,  and whose acts areeven   now   responsible   for   certainunexplained disappearances, and occasionalsubstitutions   of   strange  dark   “changelings”for  normal   infants.  This   theme receives   itsfinest treatment in the episode entitled “TheNovel of the Black Seal”; where a professor,having   discovered   a   singular   identitybetween   certain   characters   scrawled   onWelsh limestone rocks and those existing ina  prehistoric  black   seal   from Babylon,   setsout on a course of discovery which leads himto   unknown   and   terrible   things.   A   queerpassage in the ancient geographer Solinus, aseries   of   mysterious   disappearances   in   thelonely reaches of Wales, a strange idiot sonborn to a rural mother after a fright in whichher  inmost  faculties were shaken; all   thesethings   suggest   to   the   professor   a   hideousconnexion and a condition revolting to anyfriend and respecter of the human race. Hehires the idiot boy, who jabbers strangely attimes   in   a   repulsive   hissing   voice,   and   issubject to odd epileptic seizures. Once, aftersuch   a   seizure   in   the   professor’s   study   bynight,  disquieting  odours  and  evidences  ofunnatural   presences   are   found;   and   soonafter   that   the   professor   leaves   a   bulkydocument and goes into the weird hills withfeverish expectancy and strange terror in hisheart.   He   never   returns,   but   beside   afantastic stone in the wild country are foundhis  watch,  money,  and ring,  done up withcatgut   in   a   parchment   bearing   the   sameterrible   characters   as   those   on   the   blackBabylonish seal  and  the rock  in  the Welshmountains.

The   bulky   document   explains   enough   tobring up the most hideous vistas. ProfessorGregg, from the massed evidence presentedby   the   Welsh   disappearances,   the   rockinscription,   the   accounts   of   ancientgeographers, and the black seal, has decidedthat a frightful race of dark primal beings ofimmemorial   antiquity   and   wide   former

diffusion   still   dwells   beneath   the   hills   ofunfrequented   Wales.   Further   research   hasunriddled the message of the black seal, andproved   that   the   idiot   boy,   a   son   of   somefather   more   terrible   than   mankind,   is   theheir   of   monstrous   memories   andpossibilities. That strange night in the studythe   professor   invoked   ‘the   awfultransmutation of the hills’ by the aid of theblack seal,  and aroused  in the hybrid idiotthe   horrors   of   his   shocking   paternity.   He“saw his body swell  and become distendedas a bladder, while the face blackened. . . .”And   then   the   supreme   effects   of   theinvocation   appeared,   and   Professor   Greggknew the stark frenzy of cosmic panic in itsdarkest form. He knew the abysmal gulfs ofabnormality that he had opened, and wentforth   into   the   wild   hills   prepared   andresigned.   He   would   meet   the   unthinkable‘Little People’—and his document ends witha rational observation: “If I unhappily do notreturn from my journey, there is no need toconjure up here a picture of the awfulness ofmy   fate.”

Also in  The Three Impostors  is the “Novel ofthe   White   Powder”,   which   approaches   theabsolute   culmination   of   loathsome   fright.Francis   Leicester,   a   young   law   studentnervously   worn   out   by   seclusion   andoverwork, has a prescription filled by an oldapothecary none too careful about the stateof   his   drugs.   The   substance,   it   later   turnsout,   is   an   unusual   salt   which   time   andvarying   temperature   have   accidentallychanged   to   something   very   strange   andterrible;   nothing   less,   in   short,   than   themediaeval  Vinum   Sabbati,  whoseconsumption   at   the   horrible   orgies   of   theWitches’   Sabbath   gave   rise   to   shockingtransformations and—if injudiciously used—to   unutterable   consequences.   Innocentlyenough,   the   youth   regularly   imbibes   thepowder in a glass of water after meals; andat   first   seems   substantially   benefited.Gradually,   however,   his   improved   spiritstake   the   form   of   dissipation;   he   is   absent

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from home a great deal, and appears to haveundergone a repellent psychological change.One day  an  odd  livid   spot  appears  on  hisright hand, and he afterward returns to hisseclusion; finally keeping himself shut withinhis   room   and   admitting   none   of   thehousehold. The doctor calls for an interview,and departs in a palsy of horror, saying thathe can do no more in that house. Two weekslater   the   patient’s   sister,   walking   outside,sees   a   monstrous   thing   at   the   sickroomwindow; and servants report that food left atthe   locked   door   is   no   longer   touched.Summons at the door bring only a sound ofshuffling and a demand in a thick gurglingvoice   to   be   let   alone.   At   last   an   awfulhappening   is   reported   by   a   shudderinghousemaid.  The ceiling  of   the  room belowLeicester’s   is   stained  with   a  hideous   blackfluid, and a pool of viscid abomination hasdripped to the bed beneath. Dr. Haberden,now   persuaded   to   return   to   the   house,breaks   down   the   young   man’s   door   andstrikes again and again with an iron bar atthe blasphemous semi­living  thing he  findsthere. It is “a dark and putrid mass, seethingwith   corruption   and   hideous   rottenness,neither   liquid   nor   solid,   but   melting   andchanging”. Burning points like eyes shine outof   its  midst,  and before  it   is  despatched  ittries  to  lift  what  might have been an arm.Soon   afterward   the   physician,   unable   toendure the memory of what he has beheld,dies  at   sea  while  bound   for   a  new  life   inAmerica.

Mr. Machen returns to the daemoniac “LittlePeople” in “The Red Hand” and “The ShiningPyramid”;   and   in  The   Terror,  a   wartimestory, he treats with very potent mystery theeffect   of   man’s   modern   repudiation   ofspirituality on the beasts of the world, whichare thus led to question his supremacy andto   unite   for   his   extermination.   Of   utmostdelicacy, and passing from mere horror intotrue mysticism, is  The Great Return,  a storyof   the   Graal,   also   a   product   of   the   warperiod. Too well known to need description

here   is   the   tale  of   “The  Bowmen”;  which,taken   for   authentic  narration,   gave   rise   tothe   widespread   legend   of   the   “Angels   ofMons”—ghosts of the old English archers ofCrécy   and   Agincourt   who   fought   in   1914beside   the  hard­pressed ranks  of  England’sglorious   “Old   Contemptibles”.

Less intense than Mr. Machen in delineatingthe extremes of stark fear, yet infinitely moreclosely   wedded   to   the   idea   of   an   unrealworld constantly pressing upon ours, is theinspired   and   prolific   Algernon   Blackwood,amidst whose voluminous and uneven workmay   be   found   some   of   the   finest   spectralliterature of this or any age. Of the quality ofMr.   Blackwood’s   genius   there   can   be   nodispute; for no one has even approached theskill,   seriousness,   and   minute   fidelity  withwhich   he   records   the   overtones   ofstrangeness   in   ordinary   things   andexperiences, or the preternatural insight withwhich   he   builds   up   detail   by   detail   thecomplete sensations and perceptions leadingfrom reality into supernormal life or vision.Without   notable   command   of   the   poeticwitchery   of   mere   words,   he   is   the   oneabsolute and unquestioned master of weirdatmosphere;   and   can  evoke  what   amountsalmost to a story from a simple fragment ofhumourless psychological description. Aboveall   others   he   understands   how   fully   somesensitive   minds   dwell   forever   on   theborderland   of   dream,   and   how   relativelyslight is the distinction betwixt those imagesformed from actual objects and those excitedby   the   play   of   the   imagination.

Mr.  Blackwood’s   lesser   work   is  marred  byseveral  defects   such  as   ethical  didacticism,occasional  insipid whimsicality,  the flatnessof benignant supernaturalism, and a too freeuse   of   the   trade   jargon   of   modern“occultism”.   A   fault   of   his   more   seriousefforts   is   that   diffuseness   and   long­windedness   which   results   from   anexcessively   elaborate   attempt,   under   the

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handicap   of   a   somewhat   bald   andjournalistic   style  devoid  of   intrinsic  magic,colour,   and   vitality,   to   visualise   precisesensations   and   nuances   of   uncannysuggestion. But in spite of all this, the majorproducts   of   Mr.   Blackwood   attain   agenuinely   classic   level,   and   evoke   as   doesnothing   else   in   literature   an   awed   andconvinced sense of the immanence of strangespiritual   spheres   or   entities.

The   well­nigh   endless   array   of   Mr.Blackwood’s fiction includes both novels andshorter   tales,   the   latter   sometimesindependent   and   sometimes   arrayed   inseries.   Foremost   of   all   must   be   reckoned“The   Willows”,   in   which   the   namelesspresences on a desolate  Danube  island arehorribly felt and recognised by a pair of idlevoyagers. Here art and restraint in narrativereach their very highest development, and animpression of lasting poignancy is producedwithout a single strained passage or a singlefalse note. Another amazingly potent thoughless   artistically   finished   tale   is   “TheWendigo”,   where   we   are   confronted   byhorrible  evidences  of  a  vast   forest  daemonabout   which   North   Woods   lumbermenwhisper   at   evening.  The  manner   in  whichcertain   footprints   tell   certain   unbelievablethings   is   really   a   marked   triumph   incraftsmanship. In “An Episode in a LodgingHouse”   we   behold   frightful   presencessummoned out of black space by a sorcerer,and “The Listener” tells of the awful psychicresiduum creeping about an old house wherea leper died. In the volume titled  IncredibleAdventures  occur   some   of   the   finest   taleswhich the author has yet produced, leadingthe fancy to wild rites on nocturnal hills, tosecret   and   terrible   aspects   lurking   behindstolid scenes, and to unimaginable vaults ofmystery   below   the   sands   and  pyramids   ofEgypt; all with a serious finesse and delicacythat   convince   where   a   cruder   or   lightertreatment   would   merely   amuse.   Some   ofthese accounts are hardly stories at all, butrather   studies   in   elusive   impressions   and

half­remembered snatches of dream. Plot iseverywhere   negligible,   and   atmospherereigns   untrammelled.

John   Silence—Physician   Extraordinary  is   abook of five related tales, through which asingle character runs his triumphant course.Marred  only   by   traces   of   the  popular   andconventional   detective­story   atmosphere—for  Dr.  Silence   is  one  of   those  benevolentgeniuses   who   employ   their   remarkablepowers to aid worthy fellow­men in difficulty—these   narratives   contain   some   of   theauthor’s best work, and produce an illusionat once emphatic  and lasting. The openingtale,   “A   Psychical   Invasion”,   relates   whatbefell a sensitive author in a house once thescene of  dark  deeds,   and  how a   legion  offiends   was   exorcised.   “Ancient   Sorceries”,perhaps the finest tale in the book, gives analmost hypnotically vivid account of an oldFrench town where once the unholy Sabbathwas  kept  by all   the  people   in   the   form ofcats.   In   “The   Nemesis   of   Fire”   a   hideouselemental   is   evoked   by   new­spilt   blood,whilst   “Secret  Worship”   tells   of   a  Germanschool   where   Satanism   held   sway,   andwhere long afterward an evil aura remained.“The Camp of the Dog” is a werewolf tale,but   is   weakened   by   moralisation   andprofessional   “occultism”.

Too   subtle,   perhaps,   for   definiteclassification   as   horror­tales,   yet   possiblymore truly artistic in an absolute sense, aresuch   delicate   phantasies   as  Jimbo  or  TheCentaur.  Mr.   Blackwood   achieves   in   thesenovels a close and palpitant approach to theinmost   substance   of   dream,   and   worksenormous   havock   with   the   conventionalbarriers   between   reality   and   imagination.

Unexcelled   in   the   sorcery   of   crystallinesinging prose, and supreme in the creation ofa   gorgeous   and   languorous   world   ofiridescently   exotic   vision,   is   Edward   JohnMoreton   Drax   Plunkett,   Eighteenth   Baron

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Dunsany, whose tales and short plays forman almost unique element in our literature.Inventor of a new mythology and weaver ofsurprising   folklore,   Lord   Dunsany   standsdedicated   to   a   strange   world   of   fantasticbeauty,   and   pledged   to   eternal   warfareagainst   the   coarseness   and   ugliness   ofdiurnal reality. His point of view is the mosttruly cosmic of any held in the literature ofany period. As sensitive as Poe to dramaticvalues and the significance of isolated wordsand   details,   and   far   better   equippedrhetorically   through   a   simple   lyric   stylebased on the prose of the King James Bible,this   author   draws   with   tremendouseffectiveness on nearly every body of mythand   legend   within   the   circle   of   Europeanculture;   producing   a   composite   or   eclecticcycle  of  phantasy   in  which  Eastern colour,Hellenic   form,   Teutonic   sombreness,   andCeltic   wistfulness   are   so   superbly   blendedthat each sustains and supplements the restwithout   sacrifice   of   perfect   congruity   andhomogeneity. In most cases Dunsany’s landsare fabulous—“beyond the East”, or “at theedge  of   the  world”.  His   system of  originalpersonal and place names, with roots drawnfrom classical, Oriental, and other sources, isa   marvel   of   versatile   inventiveness   andpoetic discrimination; as one may see fromsuch   specimens   as   “Argim n s”,ē ē“Bethmoora”,   “Poltarnees”,   “Camorak”,“Illuriel”,   or   “Sardathrion”.

Beauty rather than terror  is the keynote ofDunsany’s work. He loves the vivid green ofjade and of copper domes, and the delicateflush   of   sunset   on   the   ivory   minarets   ofimpossible dream­cities. Humour and irony,too,   are   often   present   to   impart   a   gentlecynicism and modify what might otherwisepossess a naive intensity. Nevertheless, as isinevitable   in   a   master   of   triumphantunreality,   there   are   occasional   touches   ofcosmic   fright   which   come   well   within   theauthentic   tradition.   Dunsany   loves   to   hintslyly  and adroitly  of  monstrous   things andincredible dooms, as one hints in a fairy tale.

In  The Book of Wonder  we read of Hlo­hlo,the   gigantic   spider­idol   which   does   notalways   stay   at   home;   of   what   the   Sphinxfeared in the forest; of Slith, the thief whojumps   over   the   edge   of   the   world   afterseeing a certain light lit and knowing who litit;   of   the   anthropophagous  Gibbelins,  whoinhabit an evil tower and guard a treasure;of   the   Gnoles,  who   live   in   the   forest   andfrom whom it is not well to steal; of the Cityof   Never,   and   the   eyes   that   watch   in   theUnder   Pits;   and   of   kindred   things   ofdarkness.  A   Dreamer’s   Tales  tells   of   themystery   that   sent   forth   all   men   fromBethmoora in the desert; of the vast gate ofPerdóndaris,   that was carved from a  singlepiece of ivory; and of the voyage of poor oldBill, whose captain cursed the crew and paidcalls  on  nasty­looking   isles  new­risen   fromthe sea, with low thatched cottages havingevil,   obscure   windows.

Many  of  Dunsany’s   short  plays  are   repletewith   spectral   fear.   In  The   Gods   of   theMountain  seven   beggars   impersonate   theseven green idols on a distant hill, and enjoyease   and   honour   in   a   city   of   worshippersuntil they hear that the real idols are missingfrom their wonted seats. A very ungainly sightin   the   dusk   is   reported   to   them—“rockshould not walk in the evening”—and at last,as they sit awaiting the arrival of a troop ofdancers,   they   note   that   the   approachingfootsteps   are   heavier   than   those   of   gooddancers ought to be. Then things ensue, andin   the   end   the   presumptuous   blasphemersare turned to green jade statues by the verywalking   statues   whose   sanctity   theyoutraged.   But   mere   plot   is   the   very   leastmerit of this marvellously effective play. Theincidents  and developments  are   those  of  asupreme master, so that the whole forms oneof   the most   important  contributions  of   thepresent   age   not   only   to   drama,   but   toliterature in general.  A Night at an Inn  tellsof four thieves who have stolen the emeraldeye of Klesh, a monstrous Hindoo god. Theylure to their room and succeed in slaying the

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three   priestly   avengers   who   are   on   theirtrack, but in the night Klesh comes gropinglyfor   his   eye;   and   having   gained   it   anddeparted,   calls   each   of   the   despoilers   outinto   the   darkness   for   an   unnamedpunishment.   In  The   Laughter   of   the   Godsthere is a doomed city at the jungle’s edge,and a ghostly   lutanist  heard only  by thoseabout to die (cf. Alice’s spectral harpsichordin Hawthorne’s  House of  the Seven Gables);whilst  The   Queen’s   Enemies  retells   theanecdote of Herodotus in which a vengefulprincess   invites  her   foes   to  a   subterraneanbanquet and lets in the Nile to drown them.

But   no   amount   of   mere   description   canconvey   more   than   a   fraction   of   LordDunsany’s   pervasive   charm.   His   prismaticcities and unheard­of rites are touched witha sureness which only mastery can engender,and   we   thrill   with   a   sense   of   actualparticipation in his secret mysteries. To thetruly imaginative he is a talisman and a keyunlocking   rich   storehouses   of   dream   andfragmentary memory; so that we may thinkof him not only as a poet, but as one whomakes   each   reader   a   poet   as   well.

At   the   opposite   pole   of   genius   from   LordDunsany, and gifted with an almost diabolicpower of calling horror by gentle steps fromthe midst of prosaic daily life, is the scholarlyMontague   Rhodes   James,   Provost   of   EtonCollege,   antiquary  of  note,   and   recognisedauthority   on   mediaeval   manuscripts   andcathedral   history.  Dr.   James,   long   fond  oftelling   spectral   tales   at   Christmastide,   hasbecome   by   slow   degrees   a   literary   weirdfictionist   of   the   very   first   rank;   and   hasdeveloped   a   distinctive   style   and   methodlikely to serve as models for an enduring lineof   disciples.

The   art   of   Dr.   James   is   by   no   meanshaphazard, and in the preface to one of hiscollections   he   has   formulated   three   verysound   rules   for   macabre   composition.   A

ghost   story,   he   believes,   should   have   afamiliar   setting   in   the   modern   period,   inorder to approach closely the reader’s sphereof   experience.   Its   spectral   phenomena,moreover, should be malevolent rather thanbeneficent;   since  fear  is   the   emotionprimarily   to   be   excited.   And   finally,   thetechnical   patois   of   “occultism”   or   pseudo­science  ought   carefully   to  be  avoided;   lestthe   charm   of   casual   verisimilitude   besmothered   in   unconvincing   pedantry.

Dr.   James,   practicing   what   he   preaches,approaches his themes in a light and oftenconversational way. Creating the illusion ofevery­day events, he introduces his abnormalphenomena   cautiously   and   gradually;relieved at every turn by touches of homelyand   prosaic   detail,   and   sometimes   spicedwith   a   snatch   or   two   of   antiquarianscholarship.  Conscious of   the close relationbetween present weirdness and accumulatedtradition,   he   generally   provides   remotehistorical antecedents for his incidents; thusbeing able to utilise very aptly his exhaustiveknowledge  of   the  past,  and  his   ready  andconvincing command of archaic diction andcolouring. A favourite scene for a James taleis   some   centuried   cathedral,   which   theauthor   can   describe   with   all   the   familiarminuteness   of   a   specialist   in   that   field.

Sly humorous vignettes and bits  of  life­likegenre   portraiture   and   characterisation   areoften to be found in Dr. James’s narratives,and serve in his skilled hands to augment thegeneral effect rather than to spoil it, as thesame qualities would tend to do with a lessercraftsman. In inventing a new type of ghost,he   has   departed   considerably   from   theconventional Gothic tradition; for where theolder stock ghosts were pale and stately, andapprehended   chiefly   through   the   sense   ofsight,   the   average   James   ghost   is   lean,dwarfish,   and   hairy—a   sluggish,   hellishnight­abomination   midway   betwixt   beastand  man—and usually  touched  before   it   isseen.  Sometimes the spectre is of still more

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eccentric composition; a roll of flannel withspidery   eyes,   or   an   invisible   entity   whichmoulds itself in bedding and shews a face ofcrumpled linen. Dr. James has, it is clear, anintelligent   and   scientific   knowledge   ofhuman nerves and feelings; and knows justhow  to   apportion   statement,   imagery,   andsubtle suggestions in order to secure the bestresults  with  his   readers.  He   is  an  artist   inincident   and   arrangement   rather   than   inatmosphere, and reaches the emotions moreoften through the intellect than directly. Thismethod,   of   course,   with   its   occasionalabsences of sharp climax, has its drawbacksas well as its advantages; and many will missthe   thorough   atmospheric   tension   whichwriters like Machen are careful to build upwith words and scenes. But only a few of thetales   are   open   to   the   charge  of   tameness.Generally the laconic unfolding of abnormalevents in adroit order is amply sufficient toproduce   the   desired   effect   of   cumulativehorror.

The short stories of Dr. James are containedin four small collections, entitled respectivelyGhost­Stories   of   an   Antiquary,   More   GhostStories   of   an  Antiquary,  A  Thin  Ghost   andOthers, and A Warning to the Curious. Thereis   also   a   delightful   juvenile   phantasy,  TheFive   Jars,  which   has   its   spectraladumbrations. Amidst this wealth of materialit  is hard to select a favourite or especiallytypical   tale,   though   each   reader   will   nodoubt   have   such   preferences   as   histemperament   may   determine.

“Count Magnus” is assuredly one of the best,forming as   it  does a  veritable  Golconda ofsuspense and suggestion. Mr. Wraxall is anEnglish   traveller   of   the   middle   nineteenthcentury,   sojourning   in   Sweden   to   securematerial for a book. Becoming interested inthe ancient family of De la Gardie, near thevillage of Råbäck, he studies its records; andfinds particular fascination in the builder ofthe   existing   manor­house,   one   CountMagnus, of whom strange and terrible things

are   whispered.  The  Count,  who   flourishedearly in the seventeenth century, was a sternlandlord, and famous for his severity towardpoachers  and delinquent   tenants.  His  cruelpunishments were bywords, and there weredark   rumours   of   influences   which   evensurvived   his   interment   in   the   greatmausoleum he built near the church—as inthe case of the two peasants who hunted onhis  preserves  one night  a  century  after  hisdeath.  There  were  hideous   screams   in   thewoods, and near the tomb of Count Magnusan unnatural laugh and the clang of a greatdoor. Next morning the priest found the twomen; one a maniac, and the other dead, withthe flesh of his face sucked from the bones.

Mr.   Wraxall   hears   all   these   tales,   andstumbles  on  more  guarded  references   to  aBlack Pilgrimage once taken by the Count; apilgrimage to Chorazin in Palestine, one ofthe   cities   denounced   by   Our   Lord   in   theScriptures, and in which old priests say thatAntichrist is to be born. No one dares to hintjust what that Black Pilgrimage was, or whatstrange   being   or   thing   the   Count   broughtback   as   a   companion.   Meanwhile   Mr.Wraxall   is   increasingly   anxious   to   explorethe mausoleum of Count Magnus, and finallysecures permission to do so, in the companyof   a   deacon.   He   finds   several   monumentsand three copper sarcophagi, one of which isthe Count’s. Round the edge of this latter areseveral bands of engraved scenes, includinga   singular   and   hideous   delineation   of   apursuit—the   pursuit   of   a   frantic   manthrough a  forest  by a  squat  muffled  figurewith a devil­fish’s tentacle, directed by a tallcloaked man on a neighbouring hillock. Thesarcophagus   has   three   massive   steelpadlocks, one of which is lying open on thefloor,   reminding   the   traveller  of  a  metallicclash he heard the day before when passingthe   mausoleum   and   wishing   idly   that   hemight   see   Count   Magnus.

His   fascination   augmented,   and   the   keybeing   accessible,   Mr.   Wraxall   pays   the

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mausoleum a second and solitary visit  andfinds another padlock unfastened. The nextday, his last in Råbäck, he again goes aloneto  bid   the   long­dead Count   farewell.  Oncemore queerly impelled to utter a whimsicalwish   for   a   meeting   with   the   buriednobleman, he now sees to his disquiet thatonly   one   of   the   padlocks   remains   on   thegreat sarcophagus. Even as he looks, that lastlock   drops   noisily   to   the   floor,   and   therecomes a sound as of creaking hinges. Thenthe monstrous lid appears very slowly to rise,and Mr. Wraxall flees in panic fear withoutrefastening   the   door   of   the   mausoleum.

During  his   return   to  England   the   travellerfeels a curious uneasiness about his fellow­passengers   on   the   canal­boat   which   heemploys   for   the   earlier   stages.   Cloakedfigures   make   him   nervous,   and   he   has   asense   of   being   watched   and   followed.   Oftwenty­eight persons whom he counts, onlytwenty­six appear at meals; and the missingtwo  are   always   a   tall   cloaked  man  and   ashorter muffled figure. Completing his watertravel at Harwich, Mr. Wraxall takes franklyto flight  in a closed carriage, but sees  twocloaked   figures   at   a   crossroad.   Finally   helodges   at   a   small   house   in   a   village   andspends the time making frantic notes. On thesecond   morning   he   is   found   dead,   andduring the inquest seven jurors faint at sightof the body. The house where he stayed isnever   again   inhabited,   and   upon   itsdemolition   half   a   century   later   hismanuscript   is   discovered   in   a   forgottencupboard.

In “The Treasure of Abbot Thomas” a Britishantiquary   unriddles   a   cipher   on   someRenaissance  painted  windows,  and   therebydiscovers   a   centuried   hoard   of   gold   in   aniche half way down a well in the courtyardof a German abbey. But the crafty depositorhad set a guardian over  that  treasure, andsomething in the black well twines its armsaround the searcher’s neck in such a mannerthat   the   quest   is   abandoned,   and   a

clergyman sent for. Each night after that thediscoverer   feels   a   stealthy   presence   anddetects   a   horrible  odour   of  mould  outsidethe  door  of  his  hotel   room,   till   finally   theclergyman makes a daylight replacement ofthe stone at the mouth of the treasure­vaultin   the   well—out   of   which   something   hadcome in the dark to avenge the disturbing ofold  Abbot  Thomas’s  gold.  As  he  completeshis work the cleric observes a curious toad­like carving on the ancient well­head, withthe   Latin   motto   “Depositum   custodi—keepthat   which   is   committed   to   thee.”

Other notable James tales are “The Stalls ofBarchester Cathedral”, in which a grotesquecarving comes curiously to life to avenge thesecret and subtle murder of an old Dean byhis  ambitious  successor;  “‘Oh,  Whistle,  andI’ll Come to You, My Lad’”, which tells of thehorror summoned by a strange metal whistlefound in a mediaeval church ruin; and “AnEpisode   of   Cathedral   History”,   where   thedismantling of a pulpit uncovers an archaictomb whose  lurking daemon spreads panicand  pestilence.  Dr.   James,   for  all  his   lighttouch, evokes fright and hideousness in theirmost   shocking   forms;   and   will   certainlystand   as   one   of   the   few   really   creativemasters   in   his   darksome   province.

For   those  who relish  speculation regardingthe   future,   the   tale   of   supernatural   horrorprovides an interesting field. Combated by amounting wave of plodding realism, cynicalflippancy, and sophisticated disillusionment,it   is   yet   encouraged   by   a   parallel   tide   ofgrowing   mysticism,   as   developed   boththrough the fatigued reaction of “occultists”and   religious   fundamentalists   againstmaterialistic   discovery   and   through   thestimulation   of   wonder   and   fancy   by   suchenlarged   vistas   and   broken   barriers   asmodern science has given us with its intra­atomic   chemistry,   advancing   astrophysics,doctrines   of   relativity,   and   probings   intobiology and human thought. At the present

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moment the favouring forces would appearto   have   somewhat   of   an   advantage;   sincethere   is   unquestionably   more   cordialityshewn   toward   weird   writings   than   when,thirty years ago, the best of Arthur Machen’swork fell on the stony ground of the smartand   cocksure   ’nineties.   Ambrose   Bierce,almost unknown in his own time, has nowreached something like general recognition.

Startling mutations, however, are not to belooked for in either direction. In any case anapproximate   balance   of   tendencies   willcontinue to exist;  and while we may justlyexpect   a   further   subtilisation  of   technique,we have no reason to think that the generalposition of the spectral in literature will bealtered.   It   is   a   narrow   though   essentialbranch of human expression, and will chieflyappeal as always to a limited audience withkeen special sensibilities. Whatever universalmasterpiece   of   tomorrow  may  be  wroughtfrom   phantasm   or   terror   will   owe   itsacceptance   rather   to   a   supremeworkmanship than to a sympathetic theme.Yet   who   shall   declare   the   dark   theme   apositive handicap? Radiant with beauty, theCup of the Ptolemies was carven of onyx.

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Notes on Writing Weird Fiction

My   reason   for   writing   stories   is   to   givemyself   the   satisfaction   of   visualising   moreclearly and detailedly and stably the vague,elusive, fragmentary impressions of wonder,beauty,  and adventurous  expectancy whichare conveyed to me by certain sights (scenic,architectural,   atmospheric,   etc.),   ideas,occurrences, and images encountered in artand literature. I choose weird stories becausethey   suit   my   inclination   best—one   of   mystrongest  and most  persistent  wishes beingto achieve, momentarily, the illusion of somestrange suspension or violation of the gallinglimitations  of   time,   space,  and natural   lawwhich for ever imprison us and frustrate ourcuriosity   about   the   infinite   cosmic   spacesbeyond the radius of our sight and analysis.These   stories   frequently   emphasise   theelement of horror because fear is our deepestand strongest  emotion,  and  the one whichbest   lends   itself   to   the   creation  of  nature­defying   illusions.  Horror  and  the  unknownor the strange are always closely connected,so   that   it   is   hard   to   create   a   convincingpicture  of   shattered  natural   law or   cosmicalienage   or   “outsideness”   without   layingstress   on   the   emotion   of   fear.   The   reasonwhy time plays a great part in so many of mytales   is   that   this   element   looms  up   in  mymind as the most profoundly dramatic andgrimly terrible thing in the universe. Conflictwith time  seems to me the most potent andfruitful theme in all human expression.

While   my   chosen   form   of   story­writing   isobviously   a   special   and   perhaps   a   narrowone,   it   is   none   the   less   a   persistent   andpermanent   type   of   expression,   as   old   asliterature itself. There will always be a smallpercentage   of   persons   who   feel   a   burningcuriosity about unknown outer space, and aburning   desire   to   escape   from   the   prison­house of the known and the real into thoseenchanted lands of incredible adventure andinfinite  possibilities  which dreams open up

to   us,   and   which   things   like   deep   woods,fantastic urban towers, and flaming sunsetsmomentarily suggest. These persons includegreat   authors   as   well   as   insignificantamateurs like myself—Dunsany, Poe, ArthurMachen, M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood,and Walter de la Mare being typical mastersin this field.

As to how I write a story—there is no oneway.  Each one of  my  tales  has  a  differenthistory. Once or twice I have literally writtenout a dream; but usually I start with a moodor   idea  or   image which   I  wish   to  express,and revolve it in my mind until I can think ofa good way of embodying it in some chain ofdramatic   occurrences   capable   of   beingrecorded   in   concrete   terms.   I   tend   to   runthrough a mental list of the basic conditionsor situations best adapted to such a mood oridea or image, and then begin to speculateon   logical   and   naturally   motivatedexplanations of   the given mood or   idea orimage   in   terms   of   the   basic   condition   orsituation chosen.

The actual process of writing is of course asvaried   as   the   choice   of   theme   and   initialconception; but if the history of all my taleswere   analysed,   it   is   just   possible   that   thefollowing set of rules might be deduced fromthe  average  procedure:(1) Prepare a synopsis or scenario of eventsin the order of their absolute  occurrence  —not   the   order   of   their   narration.   Describewith enough fulness to cover all vital pointsand motivate all  incidents planned. Details,comments,   and   estimates   of   consequencesare   sometimes   desirable   in   this   temporaryframework.(2) Prepare a second synopsis or scenario ofevents—this one in order of  narration  (notactual  occurrence), with ample fulness anddetail,   and   with   notes   as   to   changingperspective, stresses, and climax. Change theoriginal synopsis to fit if such a change willincrease   the   dramatic   force   or   generaleffectiveness   of   the   story.   Interpolate   or

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delete incidents at will—never being boundby   the   original   conception   even   if   theultimate   result   be   a   tale   wholly   differentfrom  that   first   planned.   Let   additions   andalterations be made whenever suggested byanything   in   the   formulating   process.(3)   Write   out   the   story—rapidly,   fluently,and not too critically—following the  secondor   narrative­order   synopsis.   Changeincidents and plot whenever the developingprocess seems to suggest such change, neverbeing bound by any previous design. If thedevelopment   suddenly   reveals   newopportunities   for   dramatic   effect   or   vividstorytelling,   add   whatever   is   thoughtadvantageous—going   back   and   reconcilingthe early parts to the new plan. Insert anddelete   whole   sections   if   necessary   ordesirable,   trying   different   beginnings   andendings until the best arrangement is found.But  be   sure   that   all   references   throughoutthe story are thoroughly reconciled with thefinal   design.   Remove   all   possiblesuperfluities—words, sentences, paragraphs,or   whole   episodes   or   elements—observingthe usual precautions about the reconcilingof   all   references.(4) Revise the entire text, paying attention tovocabulary,   syntax,   rhythm   of   prose,proportioning of parts, niceties of tone, graceand convincingness or transitions (scene toscene, slow and detailed action to rapid andsketchy   time­covering   action   and   viceversa. . . .   etc.,   etc.,   etc.),   effectiveness   ofbeginning,   ending,   climaxes,   etc.,   dramaticsuspense   and   interest,   plausibility   andatmosphere,   and   various   other   elements.(5)   Prepare   a   neatly   typed   copy—nothesitating   to   add   final   revisory   toucheswhere they seem in order.

The   first   of   these   stages   is   often  purely   amental   one—a   set   of   conditions   andhappenings  being  worked out   in  my head,and   never   set   down   until   I   am   ready   toprepare   a   detailed   synopsis   of   events   inorder  of  narration.  Then,   too,   I   sometimesbegin even the actual writing before I know

how I shall develop the idea—this beginningforming   a   problem   to   be   motivated   andexploited.

There   are,   I   think,   four   distinct   types   ofweird   story;   one   expressing   a  mood   orfeeling,  another   expressing   a  pictorialconception,  a   third   expressing   a  generalsituation,   condition,   legend,   or   intellectualconception, and a fourth explaining a definitetableau   or   specific   dramatic   situation   orclimax.  In another way, weird tales may begrouped into two rough categories—those inwhich the marvel  or horror  concerns somecondition or phenomenon, and those in whichit   concerns   some  action   of   persons  inconnexion   with   a   bizarre   condition   orphenomenon.

Each weird story—to speak more particularlyof   the   horror   type—seems   to   involve   fivedefinite elements: (a) some basic, underlyinghorror   or   abnormality—condition,   entity,etc.—, (b) the general effects or bearings ofthe horror, (c) the mode of manifestation—object   embodying   the   horror   andphenomena   observed—,   (d)   the   types   offear­reaction  pertaining   to   the  horror,   and(e)   the   specific   effects   of   the   horror   inrelation to the given set of conditions.

In  writing  a  weird   story   I  always   try   verycarefully   to   achieve   the   right   mood   andatmosphere, and place the emphasis where itbelongs.   One   cannot,   except   in   immaturepulp charlatan–fiction, present an account ofimpossible,   improbable,   or   inconceivablephenomena as a commonplace narrative ofobjective   acts   and   conventional   emotions.Inconceivable events and conditions have aspecial handicap to overcome, and this canbe   accomplished   only   through   themaintenance   of   a   careful   realism   in   everyphase of the story except that touching on theone   given   marvel.   This   marvel   must   betreated very impressively and deliberately—with a careful emotional “build­up”—else itwill  seem flat and unconvincing.  Being the

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principal   thing   in   the   story,   its   mereexistence should overshadow the charactersand   events.   But   the   characters   and   eventsmust be consistent and natural except wherethey touch the single marvel. In relation tothe   central   wonder,   the   characters   shouldshew the same overwhelming emotion whichsimilar characters would shew toward such awonder   in   real   life.  Never  have   a  wondertaken for granted. Even when the charactersare   supposed   to   be   accustomed   to   thewonder   I   try   to  weave  an  air  of   awe  andimpressiveness   corresponding   to   what   thereader should feel. A casual style ruins anyserious fantasy.

Atmosphere,   not   action,   is   the   greatdesideratum of weird fiction. Indeed, all thata wonder story can ever be is a vivid pictureof   a   certain   type   of   human   mood.  Themoment   it   tries   to   be   anything   else   itbecomes  cheap,  puerile,   and  unconvincing.Prime   emphasis   should   be   given   to  subtlesuggestion—imperceptible hints and touchesof selective associative detail which expressshadings   of   moods   and   build   up   a   vagueillusion of the strange reality of the unreal.Avoid   bald   catalogues   of   incrediblehappenings which can have no substance ormeaning   apart   from   a   sustaining   cloud   ofcolour and symbolism.

These   are   the   rules   or   standards   which   Ihave followed—consciously or unconsciously—ever   since   I   first   attempted   the   seriouswriting   of   fantasy.   That   my   results   aresuccessful may well be disputed—but I feelat   least   sure   that,   had   I   ignored   theconsiderations   mentioned   in   the   last   fewparagraphs,   they   would   have   been   muchworse than they are.

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