lost. For this aforesaid amalgamation of his
characteristics does not seem to occur in any of the more recent
attempts at representing him. He is either shown as a mere buffoon, or
as a being so terrible that the mind is revolted by him."

"I think," said Lothair, "you are forgetting one recent story in which
this said mingling of the brightly Intellectual (verging sometimes on
the comic) with the Terrific is very finely managed, and in which the
full effectiveness of the old-world sort of devil-spook-story is
carried out in a masterly manner. I mean Fouque's splendid tale, the
'Galgenmaennlein.'[1] The terribly vivacious little creature in the
phial--who comes out of it at night, and lays himself down on the
breast of that master of his, who has such awful dreams--the fearsome
man in the mountain glen, with his great coal-black steed which crawls
up the perpendicular cliffs like a fly on a wall--in short, all the
uncanny and supernatural elements which are present in the story in
such plentiful measure--together rivet and strain the attention to an
extent absolutely frightening; it affects one like some powerful drink,
which immensely excites the senses and at the same time sheds a
beneficent warmth through the heart. It is owing to the tone which
pervades it all through, and to the vividness of the separate pictures,
that, although at the end one is thoroughly delighted that the poor
wretch does get out of the Devil's clutches, still, the element of the
Intellectuality of the evil beings, and the scenes which touch upon the
realm of comedy (such as the part about the 'Half Heller') stand out
with the principal high-lights upon them. I scarcely can think of any
tale of _diablerie_ which has produced such an impression upon me."

[Footnote 1: Known in English as "The Bottle Imp."]

"There can't be much doubt," said Theodore, "that Fouque got the
materials for that story out of some old chronicle."

"Even if he did," Lothair said, "I should hope you wouldn't detract
from the author's merit on that score, like the more common class of
critics, whose peculiar system obliges them always to try and find out
the fundamental materials from which a writer has 'taken' his work.
They make immense capital out of pointing out said source, and look
down with great contempt on the wretched author who merely kneads his
characters together out of a pre-existent dough. As if it mattered that
the author absorbed into himself germs