the lips of the Dark Interpreter.
Who is he? He is a shadow, reader, but a shadow with whom you must
suffer me to make you acquainted. You need not be afraid of him, for
when I explain his nature and origin you will see that he is essentially
inoffensive; or if sometimes he menaces with his countenance, that is
but seldom: and then, as his features in those moods shift as rapidly as
clouds in a gale of wind, you may always look for the terrific aspects
to vanish as fast as they have gathered. As to his origin--what it is, I
know exactly, but cannot without a little circuit of preparation make
_you_ understand. Perhaps you are aware of that power in the eye of many
children by which in darkness they project a vast theatre of
phantasmagorical figures moving forwards or backwards between their
bed-curtains and the chamber walls. In some children this power is
semi-voluntary--they can control or perhaps suspend the shows; but in
others it is altogether automatic. I myself, at the date of my last
confessions, had seen in this way more processions--generally solemn,
mournful, belonging to eternity, but also at times glad, triumphal
pomps, that seemed to enter the gates of Time--than all the religions of
paganism, fierce or gay, ever witnessed. Now, there is in the dark
places of the human spirit--in grief, in fear, in vindictive wrath--a
power of self-projection not unlike to this. Thirty years ago, it may
be, a man called Symons committed several murders in a sudden epilepsy
of planet-struck fury. According to my recollection, this case happened
at Hoddesdon, which is in Middlesex. 'Revenge is sweet!' was his hellish
motto on that occasion, and that motto itself records the abysses which
a human will can open. Revenge is _not_ sweet, unless by the mighty
charm of a charity that seeketh not her own it has become benignant.[1]
And what he had to revenge was woman's scorn. He had been a plain
farm-servant; and, in fact, he was executed, as such men often are, on a
proper point of professional respect to their calling, in a smock-frock,
or blouse, to render so ugly a clash of syllables. His young mistress
was every way and by much his superior, as well in prospects as in
education. But the man, by nature arrogant, and little acquainted with
the world, presumptuously raised his eyes to one of his young
mistresses. Great was the scorn with which she repulsed his audacity,
and her sisters participated in her disdain. Upon this affron