Or is it that our subliminal ego, to use the jargon of the new psychology, or our astral, in the terms of the new theology, can learn and convey to the mind that which our own known senses are unable to apprehend?  But that is too long a side track for us to turn down it.

When Maupassant chose he could run Poe close in that domain of the strange and weird which the American had made so entirely his own.  Have you read Maupassant’s story called “Le Horla”?  That is as good a bit of diablerie as you could wish for.  And the Frenchman has, of course, far the broader range.  He has a keen sense of humour, breaking out beyond all decorum in some of his stories, but giving a pleasant sub-flavour to all of them.  And yet, when all is said, who can doubt that the austere and dreadful American is far the greater and more original mind of the two?

Talking of weird American stories, have you ever read any of the works of Ambrose Bierce?  I have one of his works there, “In the Midst of Life.”  This man had a flavour quite his own, and was a great artist in his way.  It is not cheering reading, but it leaves its mark upon you, and that is the proof of good work.

I have often wondered where Poe got his style.  There is a sombre majesty about his best work, as if it were carved from polished jet, which is peculiarly his own.  I dare say if I took down that volume I could light anywhere upon a paragraph which would show you what I mean.  This is the kind of thing—­

“Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi—­in the iron-bound melancholy volumes of the Magi.  Therein, I say, are glorious histories of the heaven and of the earth, and of the mighty sea—­and of the genius that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven.  There were much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the Sybils, and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves which trembled round Dodona, but as Allah liveth, that fable which the Demon told me as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all.”  Or this sentence:  “And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling and aghast, for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed friends.”

Is there not a sense of austere dignity?  No man invents a style.  It always derives back from some influence, or, as is more usual, it is a compromise between several influences.  I cannot trace Poe’s.  And yet if Hazlitt and De Quincey had set forth to tell weird stories they might have developed something of the kind.

Now, by your leave, we will pass on to my noble edition of “The Cloister and the Hearth,” the next volume on the left.