The Fantasy Fan, Volume 1, Number 12, August 1934

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Title: The Fantasy Fan, Volume 1, Number 12, August 1934 - The Fan's Own Magazine
Author: Various
Language: English
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12, AUGUST 1934 ***

THE FANTASY FAN

THE FANS' OWN MAGAZINE

Published
Monthly

Editor: Charles D. Hornig
(Managing Editor: Wonder Stories)

10 cents a copy
$1.00 per year

137 West Grand Street,
Elizabeth, New Jersey

Volume 1
August, 1934
Number 12

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

NOTICE!

This issue completes the first year in the existence of THE FANTASY
FAN. Many subscriptions expire with this number, and we urge all those
who had one year subscriptions starting with the first issue to send in
their dollar for volume two immediately--it is absolutely essential to
the existence of THE FANTASY FAN as a monthly that everyone renews his
subscription upon expiration. We cannot afford to lose circulation at
the present time. Will you co-operate with us? Thank you!

The next issue, September, is our First Anniversary Number and we hope
to have at least one pleasant surprise for you. During the past year
we have given you many stories by Clark Ashton Smith, H. P. Lovecraft,
Robert E. Howard, August W. Derleth, R. H. Barlow, and others--new
stories that have never appeared in print before, not to mention the
scores of articles, columns, departments, and items of interest to all
fantasy lovers. We have on hand piles of manuscripts to be published in
future issues well up to the high standard that THE FANTASY FAN has
created. If you are a lover of weird fiction, you should not be without
THE FANTASY FAN--the only one in its field--"the fans' magazine."

* * * * *

OUR READERS SAY

We have two things to say before we present the letters from our
readers. First, we wish to thank Farnsworth Wright, thank him a
thousand times, for placing a paragraph telling all about THE FANTASY
FAN, giving our address, in the Eyrie columns of the September _Weird
Tales_. This will really let the readers of _Weird Tales_ know of the
existence of our little magazine which is designed for them alone. This
should raise the circulation of THE FANTASY FAN sufficiently so that in
a very short time we can greatly increase the number of pages and give
you everything you have asked for. Thank you again, Mr. Wright--words
cannot express our gratitude.

Second: How would you like an index of the first volume of THE FANTASY
FAN? We could supply you with a printed pamphlet for 25 cents, with a
double index, alphabetically, according to titles and authors so that
any item published during our first year could be easily found. If we
receive enough requests for this pamphlet, it will be prepared. Let us
know immediately if you will be willing to pay 25 cents for it when it
is published. Send no money.

"THE FANTASY FAN, June, 1934, on page 152, states: 'Ralph Milne
Farley is Roger Sherman Hoar.' This is not quite up-to-date. For
several years, Ralph Milne Farley has been Roger Sherman Hoar
plus his daughter, Caroline Prescott Hoar, who formerly wrote as
Jacqueline Farley, but has now merged her identity with that of her
father."--Ralph Milne Farley

"The June FANTASY FAN certainly had a distinguishing and distinguished
feature in Lovecraft's story 'From Beyond.' Robert Nelson's poem 'Below
the Phosphor' sounds a genuinely macabre note. I enjoyed 'The Little
Box,' 'Within the Circle'--in fact, the whole issue."--Clark Ashton
Smith

"The magazine fills a long-needed niche. The reprinting of Lovecraft's
article is especially good, as comparatively little material has been
published in the critical line."--Richard Ely Morse

"The July FANTASY FAN is one of the best, the Clark Ashton Smith tale
being very good. My only objection is that you're wasting space on that
ass Barlow in Baldwin's column!! But say, doesn't Mr. Pritchard have an
eventful life?"--R. H. Barlow

"'The Epiphany of Death' by Smith is truly a C. A. Smith type. The odd,
agelessness, the cadaverous features of Tomeron bring to mind one of
Smith's former stories, in Weird Tales sometime in 1932--'The Gorgon,'
which tale also had such an old, ancient-appearing person.--Gertrude
Hemken

"I just received the excellent July issue of THE FANTASY FAN. I think
that your fine little magazine is steadily improving, and I hope to be
able to read many more of your splendid stories and articles in them.
Clark Ashton Smith and H. P. Lovecraft may always be relied on to
produce a fascinating tale; they have the gift of a great imagination
and love of beauty. Please publish many more writings by these two
masters of the art!"--Fred John Walsen

"The July FANTASY FAN was excellent as usual, and the green cover gave
it just the right tone. Schwartz and Weisinger continue their good
work as does Mr. Baldwin. I missed the Prose Pastels by Smith and look
forward to more of them. His story, 'The Epiphany of Death' amply made
up for it though."--Duane W. Rimel

* * * * *

WEIRD WHISPERINGS

by Schwartz and Weisinger

Popular Publications (205 East 42nd Street, N.Y.C.) has launched a new
magazine, _Terror Tale's_, which is featuring terror and horror stories
of all varieties. It is edited by Rogers Terrill and C. H. Whipple,
and will sell for 15 cts a copy.... The first two numbers will feature
the following stories and writers: "House of Living Death" by Arthur
Leo Zagat; "Blood Magic" by C. F. Roberts; "Dead Man's Bride" by Wyatt
Blassingame; "Terror Island" by Hugh B. Cave; "Village of the Dead"
by Wyatt Blassingame; "Death's Loving Arms" by Hugh B. Cave; and "The
House where Horrors Dwell" by C. F. Roberts.

Otis Adelbert Kline will serial it shortly in _Weird Tales_ with a
three-parter, "The Lord of Lamia" ... L.A. Eshbach's weird-scientific
thriller, "The Brain of Ali Kahn," is slated for the October issue
of _Wonder Stories_.... Dr. Keller's unique tale, "The Dead Woman,"
published originally in _Fantasy Magazine_, will be reprinted in the
11th volume of the "Not at Night" series.... And an English publishing
concern is arranging to put out an anthology of Dr. Keller's best
weird stories both published and unpublished.... As a result of Jack
Williamson's recent tropical adventure with Edmond Hamilton, Jack's
eyes are now on the blink, and it may be some weeks before he will be
producing again.... M. Brundage _is_ a woman and has a young son in
grammar school.

Farnsworth Wright has recently accepted stories from a famous Flemish
artist, writing under the pseudonym of John Flanders. His first tale
will be "The Graveyard Duchess".... The September _Weird Tales_ will
contain a story, "Naked Lady," by a new author named Lord, which,
despite its title, is _not_ sexy.... H. Bedford-Jones makes his bow
to WT readers in this issue with "The Sleeper," a tale of an Egyptian
magician.... Clark Ashton Smith has sold "Xeethra" and "The Last
Heiroglyph" to _Weird_. At present he is working on a science fiction
yarn, "Secondary Cosmos," and on a weird-scientific tale, "The Juju
Country".... Francis Flagg, who has collaborated with Forrest J.
Ackerman on "The Slow Motion Man," is associate editor of _The Anvil_.

As mentioned here last month, Seabury Quinn has finally succeeded
in turning out another Jules de Grandin story, "The Jest of Warburg
Tantavul".... The reason for the delay was that Quinn has been so
extremely occupied with work for his own journal, _Casket & Sunnyside_,
that he found it almost impossible to spare the extra time.... A few
days after completing the story, when Quinn was again up to his neck
in work at his office, to make up for time he borrowed in writing the
story, he discovered he had been summoned to serve a full week on a
jury--and not even Jules de Grandin could get him out of it!... Willard
E. Hawkins, editor of the _Author & Journalist_, who also wrote "The
Dead Man's Tale," which was the first story in the first issue of
_Weird Tales_, has written a most interesting booklet, "Castaways of
Plenty," showing up fallacies in our economic system.

* * * * *

FAMOUS FANTASY FICTION

by Emil Petaja

"Uncanny Stories" Macmillan Co. This splendid collection contains F.
Marion Crawford's "For the Blood is the Life" (considered one of the
best vampire stories ever written) and Sinclair's "Where their Fire is
not Quenched." Other of its stories are equally interesting.

Algernon Blackwood is well known to lovers of fantasy. Of the books
containing his short stories "Wolves of God" and "The Dance of Death"
are two of the best. "The Man Who Found Out" (in "Wolves of God")
I consider one of the best short stories I have ever read. Like
Lovecraft, he merely hints at unmentionable things, leaving the reader
with a vague sense of fear.

"Visible and Invisible," E. F. Benson, Doubleday, Doran & Co. This
is probably Benson's best work of fantasy. Readers of "Weird Tales"
will remember some of his splendid stories that have appeared in this
magazine.

Lord Dunsany's two delightful books, "A Dreamer's Tales" and "Book of
Wonder" can now be had in the Modern Library list. After reading the
dark tales of Lovecraft, Howard, etc., these are a refreshing change.

Some of the other good collections of stories of ghosts, vampires,
ghouls, etc. are "Physic Stories" French, "The White Ghost Book," "The
Grey Ghost Book" Middleton, "Sinister Stories" Walker, "Stories of the
Seen and Unseen" Oliphant. Frank Owen's two fantasies "The Wind
that Tramps the World" and "The Purple Sea"--and Birch's "The Moon
Terror" should be mentioned. A rare treat is Clark Ashton Smith's
booklet "The Double Shadow." These tales range from the wild terror of
Edgar Allen Poe, to the weird, imaginative beauty of Lord Dunsany.

* * * * *

WITHIN THE CIRCLE

by F. Lee Baldwin

Richard F. Searight has had accepted by WT a short story titled "The
Sealed Casket" and a poem "The Wizard's Death."

Wright expects to reprint H. P. Lovecraft's "Arthur Jermyn."

Forrest Ackerman's foreign correspondence runs something like this: one
Canada; one Philippine Islands; several New Zealand; four or five Great
Britain; two Ireland; one Switzerland; one Hungarian.

Here's a "new" word: _Fantastiac_. One who goes in for the weird and
grotesque in life; also one who likes weird fiction.

R. H. Barlow is planning on issuing "The Shunned House" by H. P.
Lovecraft sometime in the fall.

Clark Ashton Smith is about 40 and has been a weird poet since boyhood.
He is a protege of the late George Sterling and a fantastic painter of
great power. He has translated "Baudelaire."

Donald Wandrei is 25 and a U. of Minn. graduate. His sole occupation is
fiction-writing--comes from St. Paul but lives in New York.

* * * * *

The Fall of the Three Cities

(Annals of the Jinns--8)

by R. H. Barlow

Far to the south of Phoor and bordering upon Yondath extends the vast
jungle land. The River Oolae enters it at several points, making
travel by boat difficult between Phargo on the desert its outlet in
the unnamed land. Where the jungle ceases it gives way abruptly to a
vast and mighty plain. This open country is now desolate and entirely
uninhabited. Nothing but the six-legged and grotesque monster-things
called _rogii_ roam its interminable fields of waving grass. Yet once
this lower south-land was a populous and fertile plateau, from the
swampy morasses of Yondath even unto the mountains and Zath, where
dwell the fungii-masters. How it came to be so barren is told in
antique myth, and when people hear the fate of the land beyond the
jungle they shudder and make prayers in the air with the small finger.

This then is the tale of the fall of the cities of the plain--they that
were called by men Naazim, Zo, and Perenthines.

Naazim lies now a waste, nor is there any trace of Perenthines. But
one can yet find ancient ruins of Zo, and the vandals of Time have not
entirely effaced the elaborate carvings of amber which lie half-buried
in the concealing grass near where the vast pool was once constructed
in the center of the city.

The whole thing started when the magician Volnar refused to leave
Perenthines. He had been a most successful and prosperous sorceror
until the deplorable case of the fishwife whose hair all fell out and
took root in the ground before her house. This the people took to be
an evil omen, and it was really quite difficult for them to break into
his low, strange house after his refusal to depart. They were all
disappointed he had gone. They did not know of the black tunnel beneath
where he kept his magical supplies. So after searching hopefully around
the house some one set it afire, and they made merry by the embers,
diverting themselves lustily during the pale night while he fled with
only his vengeful thoughts for company. The curious manner of his
attire together with the black-edged mantle of crimson caused him to
resemble a great moth flapping across the wasteland between the cities.
By the time the last flagon of wine lay untidily upon the paving
before where his house once was, and while yet his pet mondal moaned
inconsolably about the ashes, for his persecutors had been unable to
capture the highly edible pet, Volnar arrived at the gates of Zo.

The brilliance had begun in the northern sky, and the three suns were
nearly risen. Soon would the far mountains be illuminated in yellow
light, and Zath shine its metal towers like the armor of a weary knight
sprawled upon the hills. The black stone of the precipice directly
under the fasthold served only to set it off. Soon too would the rich
rice fields of cultivated vegetation gleam pleasingly and the jungle
come to animated life. But not yet were the gates open, for it had been
the rule in Zo to keep fast-closed, till full dawn, ever since the
Night of The Monster in neighboring Droom, close unto the mountains.
There was a smell of spice hanging in the air, for the breeze was
small, but this loveliness was wholly wasted upon the angry little
sorceror as he chaffed before the giant gate. His robe was bedraggled
from the mud and he was wearied of no sleep.

"Ho, guard!" he shouted irritably, "can you not let an honest traveler
within your cursed village before high noon?"

This was on the whole a misrepresentation for his traveling was
unintentional and he was by no means honest but he did not consider the
moral aspect of the matter.

After a time sounds of distant shuffling reached his ears, and after
prodigious squeakings and bangings a sleepy-faced man gave him
entrance. Volnar entered the handsome city and made his way along the
vast paving-stones of yellow and brown, and at length arrived at a
lodging-house, the lighted lantern yet glimmering in the shadow of the
sleeping town.

For a long time none saw the bearded little sorceror upon the streets
of Zo. He purchased an old house with curious artificial gold of
his own contriving--a secret of wizardry he held to be pleasingly
unique--and busied himself most industriously in the dank, ill-lit
cellar. Twice he ventured forth, after nightfall, to obtain certain odd
ingredients from a man to whom he was known, and the man (who had no
ears, but patches of fur that he concealed beneath his head-gear) saw
what was up, and left the city straightaway. Volnar worked on with his
charms and spells, occasionally sighing for his abandoned mondal, and
frequently pondering upon his revenge.

He pottered amidst his instruments. The thin cold light streaming
through a crack in the rocky ceiling was aided by that of the small
fire beneath the pot of bulging iron. Yet though with even these the
gloom was little disspelled, Volnar did not care, for his eyes were
familiar with darkness, in which his long apprenticeship had been
spent. That students of the dark lore were not appreciated had become
increasingly clear to him, ever since the night of his departure
from Perenthines. Consequent discretion called for subterranean
quarters. These he had obtained, and thus did he work upon the Doom
for Perenthines. And before he had completed the strange substance
that bubbled so obscenely and which cast off the odour of fresh blood
mingled with some nauseating aroma, Volnar sent a messenger to Sarall,
the Lord of Worms, to obtain a certain ingredient most accessible
to maggots. Frequently did he consult the parchments that were said
to have been copied from the Hsothian manuscripts by a slave of the
Lord Krang very long ago, and elaborate care was exercised upon the
concoction.

Then, at last, it was completed, and Volnar gazed speculatively about
the cellar, thinking for some time. He arose from his lengthy vigil,
and poured the contents of the pot into a cylinder of unglazed pottery,
deftly sealing it with enchanted gummy material of moist black. While
the stuff was inside it continued to seethe audibly, although it had
been off the fire for some time. And this jar he bore with extreme
caution as he turned the immense iron key in the cellar door.

The sky was a starless void when he entered into the street, intent
upon his mission. As he hurried through the silent city, accompanied
only by his shadow, a successive lifting of vapor-mists revealed the
moon of ashen blue, but it was quickly obscured again. The air was
chill and in ceaseless motion, faintly disturbing his crimson robe. His
footsteps echoed hollowly upon the paving, and he felt that everyone
must surely hear him, but he was not accosted. A lone pedestrian abroad
for no good purpose emerged from the mist abruptly, but passed Volnar
unseeing and soon was lost in the fast-gathering dimness. It was very
late now, and he was relieved when he approached the central part of
the city with the cylinder beneath his arm, for it was increasingly
heavy and the contents unruly with new animation.

Soon he reached the handsome marble pool that was the center of Zo and
the marvel of the three towns, but which is now but a faint indentation
in the waving grass. The water was very still, and he let the thing in
the urn slide noiselessly into the pool. It sank unhurryingly to the
bottom, expanding, more solid now, and drifted away in the dimly-hidden
water. Whether it had moved of its own volition or was borne by a
current, none but the inscrutable little man could have told. Volnar
gazed after it, and apparently satisfied, departed.

He did not return to his lodging, but made directly for the mountains
upon a stolen _rogii_ which attained a remarkable speed for its bulk.
And while the fate of the three cities moved slowly about the pool, the
magician traveled ceaselessly towards Mt. Boriau. After the man and
his steed had approximated the nearer peaks, they stopped, and Volnar
knew he was within safety. Therefore he watched searchingly the far
dim mass that was the grouped cities. Nothing could be discerned, but
the watcher knew evil forces were at work, forces none could halt or
evade save by direct flight, and who was to wake the sleeping towns?
He chuckled grimly, and hoped his pet mondal was not within the doomed
area. Then he made his way more slowly toward the crags of Boriau.

During this while the strange substance grew and distended in size and
weight until it restlessly filled the large pool. It had assumed no
definite shape, but life was unquestionably within the vast prehensile
tissue that groped at the edge of its confines. It was as yet unable
to release itself and venture in search of food, but the time was not
distant. A chance pedestrian, with his moth-like cloak that was of the
type common in those days went slowly by and did not fully realize what
was happening when he saw the thing droolingly emerge from the pool.
The hundred evil eyes peered loathesomely as it extended an awful limb
and seized him, intent upon the process of absorbing nutrition.

Nor was that the end, for it roved the streets unsated, growing,
devouring throughout the night, and in a few horrible hours had
depopulated the cities that were so hostile to sorcerors....

Volnar, it is told, went unto the black crags near Zath, though
discreetly distant from the inhabitants of that fearful place, and with
occult aid constructed for himself a castle of black stone in a very
short period, wherein he dwelt the remainder of his existence. This was
not long because of his ungrateful creation's abnormal longevity and
appetite.

* * * * *

GLEANINGS

by Louis C. Smith

A. Merritt's family were believers in that ancient custom of going to
the Bible for the name of each new arrival. So when the future author
of "The Ship of Ishtar," "The Moon Pool," and those other famous
science fantasy classics was born, they rushed to the Book. Over his
defenseless body, they argued at to whether the infant should be named
Job, Hezekiah, Joshua, or Abraham. The Abes had it. So--A. Merritt. His
parentage is traceable back to the French Huguenots.

And while on the subject of Merritt--when his "Moon Pool" first
appeared, a responsible critic compared it favorably in style with the
best of Poe. We'll let Clark Ashton Smith have it out with Merritt for
the title "Edgar Allan Poe, second."

"I was once an industrious writer of short stories," states H. G.
Wells, in a preface to his "Man who Could Work Miracles," reprinted
last year in Golden Book. "I found that by taking almost any incident
as a starting point, I could arrive at a story." Some thousands of
scientifiction lovers may deplore the fact that he is no longer so
industrious. But Mr. Wells finds more recreation nowadays in writing
allegorically of such things as the "Bulpington of Blup."

Frank Owen, of whose stories it has been said, "They are like delicate
carvings in jade," is a surprising man. Contrary to expectations that
would hope to reveal him a mystical, quiet, debonairly dreamy fellow,
Mr. Owen is "pleasingly plump," jolly, generous, energetic, and
voluminous in his writings. His work ranges from children's stories and
poems--fairy tales, stories in church magazines--to novels of a "sexy"
tang, and finally right down to our own back doorstep ... and the
wonderful "Wind that Tramps the World" type of fantasy. In all, Frank
Owen has written well over 500 published stories.

A very well-known author of shuddery weird tales once wrote:

"Otis Adelbert Kline is a typical writer--of the type of stories he
writes. Rather large, inclined toward embonpoint, always perfectly
dressed, pleasant in manner, but with an undeniable air of forcefulness
about him, you can easily imagine him performing some of the things his
characters do."

We are glad to hear, always, how our favorite authors appear; we
are more happy when we find that the author is in keeping with the
type of story he turns out. It is disappointing--and not a little
incongruous--to read a thrilling, mile-a-minute, blood and thunder
adventure tale, with a death by violence to every page, and then find
that the author is a meek, mild-mannered, diminutive fellow who fears
to go out alone at night and has never experienced a more exciting
adventure than falling down in the bathtub!

Where is the credit so justly due Sir H. Rider Haggard, one of the
greatest of the authors of fantastic adventure fiction?

His tales of mysticism, ancient rites, and lost peoples of the dark
continent are marvels of weird adventure and ingenious plot. His
character, Allan Quartermain, is an adventurer of the rarest type. His
native witch doctors are real enough to step bodily out of the pages
and cast a malignant spell.

Have you ever read his "People of the Mist," "When the Earth Shook,"
"King Solomon's Mines," "She," "Marion Isle," "Morning Star," "Alan
and the Ice Gods," or any of the other two score novels penned by this
prolific Englishman? It is a living experience to read "People of the
Mist." It is a happy day when you travel into ancient Egypt through the
pages of "Morning Star." It is an event to read any of Haggard's works.
He ranks with Wells and Verne.

* * * * *

SUPERNATURAL HORROR IN LITERATURE

by H. P. Lovecraft

Part Eleven

V. The Aftermath of Gothic Fiction

Meanwhile, other hands had not been idle, so that above the dreary
plethora of trash like Marquis von Gross's "Horrid Mysteries," (1796)
Mrs. Roche's "Children of the Abbey," (1798) Mrs. Dacre's "Zofloya;
Or, the Moor," (1806) and the poet Shelley's schoolboy effusions
"Zastrozzi" (1810) and "St. Irvyne" (1811) (both imitations of
"Zofloya") there arose many memorable weird works both in English and
German. Classic in merit, and markedly different from its fellows
because of its foundation in the Oriental tale rather than the
Walpolesque Gothic novel, is the celebrated "History of the Caliph
Vathek" by the wealthy dilettante William Beckford, first written in
the French language but published in English translation before the
appearance of the original. Eastern tales, introduced to European
literature early in the eighteenth century through Galland's French
translation of the inexhaustibly opulent "Arabian Nights," had become
a reigning fashion; being used both for allegory and amusement. The
sly humour which only the Eastern mind knows how to mix with weirdness
had captivated a sophisticated generation, till Bagdad and Damascus
names became as freely strewn through popular literature as dashing
Italian and Spanish ones were soon to be. Beckford, well read in
Eastern romance, caught the atmosphere with unusual receptivity;
and in his fantastic volume reflected very potently the haughty
luxury, sly disillusion, bland cruelty, urbane treachery, and shadowy
spectral horror of the Saracen spirit. His seasoning of the ridiculous
seldom mars the force of his sinister theme, and the tale marches
onward with a phantasmagoric pomp in which the laughter is that of
skeletons feasting under Arabesque domes. "Vathek" is a tale of the
grandson of the Caliph Haroun, who, tormented by that ambition for
super-terrestrial power, pleasure, and learning which animates the
average Gothic villain or Byronic hero, (essentially cognate types) is
lured by an evil genius to seek the subterranean throne of the mighty
and fabulous pre-Adamite sultans in the fiery halls of Eblis, the
Mahomedan Devil. The descriptions of Vathek's palaces and diversions,
of his scheming sorceress-mother Carathis and her witch-tower with
the fifty one-eyed negresses, of his pilgrimage to the haunted ruins
of Istakhar (Persepolis) and of the impish bride Nouronihar whom he
treacherously acquired on the way, of Istakhar's primordial towers, and
terraces in the burning moonlight of the waste, and of the terrible
Cyclopean halls of Eblis, where, lured, by glittering promises, each
victim is compelled to wander in anguish for ever, his right hand upon
his blazingly ignited and eternally burning heart, are triumphs of
weird colouring which raise the book to a permanent place in English
letters. No less notable are the three "Episodes of Vathek," intended
for insertion in the tale as narratives of Vathek's fellow-victims
in Eblis' infernal halls, which remained unpublished throughout the
author's lifetime and were discovered as recently as 1909 by the
scholar Lewis Melville whilst collecting material for his "Life and
Letters of William Beckford." Beckford, however, lacks the essential
mysticism which marks the acutest form of the weird; so that his tales
have a certain knowing Latin hardness and clearness preclusive of sheer
panic fright.

But Beckford remained alone In his devotion to the Orient. Other
writers, closer to the Gothic tradition and to European life in
general, were content to follow more faithfully in the lead of Walpole.
Among the countless producers of terror-literature in these times
may be mentioned the Utopian economic theorist William Godwin, who
followed his famous but non-supernatural "Caleb Williams" (1794) with
the intendedly weird "St. Leon" (1799) in which the theme of the elixir
of life, as developed by the imaginary secret order of "Roticrucians,"
is handled with ingeniousness if not with atmospheric convincingness.
This element of Rosicrucianism, fostered by a wave of popular magical
interest exemplified in the vogue of the charlatan Cagliostro and the
publication of Francis Barrett's "The Magus" (1801), a curious and
compendius treatise on occult principles and ceremonies, of which
a reprint was made as lately as 1896, figures in Bulwer-Lytton and
in many late Gothic novels, especially that remote and enfeebled
posterity which straggled far down into the nineteenth century and was
represented by George W.M. Reynolds' "Faust and the Demon" and "Wagner
and the Wehr-Wolf." "Caleb Williams," though non-supernatural, has many
authentic touches of terror. It is the tale of a servant persecuted
by a master whom he has found guilty of a murder, and displays an
invention and skill which have kept it alive in a fashion of this day.
It was dramatised as "The Iron Chest," and in that form was almost
equally celebrated. Godwin, however, was too much the conscious teacher
and prosaic man of thought to create a genuine weird masterpiece.

His daughter, the wife of Shelley, was much more successful; and her
inimitable "Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus" (1817) is one of
the horror-classics of all time. Composed in competition with her
husband, Lord Byron, and Dr. John William Polidori in an effort to
prove supremacy in horror-making, Mrs. Shelley's "Frankenstein" was
the only one of the rival narratives to be brought to an elaborate
completion; and criticism has failed to prove that the best parts
are due to Shelley rather than to her. The novel, somewhat tinged
but scarcely marred by moral didacticism, tells of the artificial
human being moulded from charnel fragments by Victor Frankenstein,
a young Swiss medical student. Created by its designer "in the mad
pride of intellectuality," the monster possesses full intelligence but
owns a hideously loathsome form. It is rejected by mankind, becomes
embittered, and at length begins the successive murder of all whom
young Frankenstein loves best, friends and family. It demands that
Frankenstein create a wife for it; and when the student finally refuses
in horror lest the world be populated with such monsters, it departs
with a hideous threat 'to be with him on his wedding night.' Upon that
night the bride is strangled, and from that time on Frankenstein hunts
down the monster, even into the wastes of the Arctic. In the end,
whilst seeking shelter on the ship of the man who tells the story,
Frankenstein himself is killed by the shocking object of the search and
creation of his presumptous pride. Some of the scenes in "Frankenstein"
are unforgettable, as when the newly animated monster enters its
creator's room, parts the curtains of his bed, and gazes at him in
the yellow moonlight with watery eyes--"if eyes they may be called."
Mrs. Shelley wrote other novels, including the fairly notable "Last
Man;" but never duplicated the success of her first effort. It has the
true touch of cosmic fear, no matter how much the movement may lag
in places. Dr. Polidori developed his competing idea as a long short
story, "The Vampyre;" in which we behold a suave villain of the true
Gothic or Byronic type, and encounter some excellent passages of stark
fright, including a terrible nocturnal experience in a shunned Grecian
wood.

(_Continued next month_)

* * * * *

BOOK REVIEW

by Bob Tucker

Black Moon by Thomas Ripley is a thrilling, weird book of voodoo
worship and adventure that should please any weird fan. The author
knows voodoo, and voodoo worshipers, and he most ably presents it in
this story.

The story concerns a young man of New York City, who is called to San
Cristobal, an island off the coast of Haiti, by a mysteriously worded
message, to the effect that the life of his sweetheart depends on his
coming. Of course he goes, and is immediately plunged up to his neck in
mystery and adventure.

His skirmishes with the voodoo'ers and his eventual discovery that his
own is the virgin queen of the voodoo worshipers prove thrilling. He is
beset by two villains, so to speak. Both his sweetheart, and her father
make several attempts upon his life, after he makes the discovery.

The only criticisms of the book, are two, which even the most casual
readers will notice at once. The story, and one of the characters, are
altogether too "silvery" and too "cool".

* * * * *

NECROMANCY

by Clark Ashton Smith

My heart is made a necromancer's glass,
Where homeless forms and exile phantoms teem;
Where faces of forgotten sorrows gleam,
And dead despairs archaic peer and pass:
Grey longings of some weary heart that was.
Possess me, and the multiple, supreme,
Unwildered hope and star-emblazoned dream
Of questing armies.... Ancient queen and lass,
Risen vampire-like from out the wormy mold,
Deep in the magic mirror of my heart
Behold their perished beauty, and depart.
And now, from black aphelions far and cold,
Swimming in deathly light on charnel skies,
The enormous ghosts of bygone worlds arise.

* * * * *

THE UNREMEMBERED REALM

by Robert Nelson

Nameless: that unremembered realm of the temporal universe
Which the sundry gods have slighted to complete:
These azure ice-peaks thrive and wane in wild exult,
And shift their freezing heights in tremulous tumult;
The wan ice-forms are vanished creatures lost in time.

Nameless: that unremembered realm of the temporal universe
Which the sundry gods have slighted to complete:
There the youthful moon is like a fount of living flame;
The eldern sun moves in a clique of pallid, dying mist;
Dark birds flow endlessly to turn the dawn to amethyst;
When moon and sun and birds are gone the dead make fires
In reeking, foul-swept skies above the great ice-spires,
And view the cold-fraught land with last and mad proclaim.

* * * * *

Ebony and Ash

(A Tale of Three Wishes)

by Richard Ely Morse

The city lay stricken, in those streets where once the carnival had
passed to the sound of lute and hautboy, now masquers of another sort
held reign, gray Pestilence, and livid Fever, and black-hooded Death.
The houses, so short a time ago bedecked with sweet-scented garlands
and precious stuffs, stood bleak and shuttered above the echoing
streets. Inside the people crouched, with staring eyes and hands
that trembled. No more did song or dance fantastic make bright their
chambers; prayer and fasting rather, penance for their sins. "Sackcloth
and ashes," had the gray-robed friars thundered for many a year, and
now were their warnings proved indeed.

But there were those who, having made a jest of life, would mock even
at Death himself. In tall painted chambers they feasted, where peacocks
stalked emerald and amethyst on marble floors, while the banished flute
and hautboy murmured softly, and great candles guttered away into
perfumed ruin. Wine and jewels and the white breasts of women against
the pall of darkness outside. When the feast was ended the guests
departed each to his home, hiding his face in a cloak nor looking to
right or to left.

But there were three, greatly favored by fortune, who left the
feast boldly and unafraid. Florian, Marius, and Leon, friends from
childhood, scoffers who feared nothing of the dank and noisome streets.
With lanterns of hammered brass in their hands and swords girded
at waist they set out, singing a love song, a sugared trifle more
befitting to some pleached alley than to this seething night. They had
gone but a short way before they came upon an aged crone who feebly
leaned beside an empty pedestal. A thousand years seemed lined within
the wrinkles of her face, but her eyes were young.

Bidding them stop she cried that she, who ever loved bold youth,
would grant to each one wish if such he should choose to ask of her.
Believing her mad, yet willing to humor the fancies of a disordered
mind, they wished. Florian spoke first and begged that all the wealth
within the teeming world be his. Marius next bespoke the fairest of
women for his love. Leon last, and hesitating--sought happiness to
be his boon. Then laughing they passed on, and coming to the square,
parted, each for his home.

Florian went swiftly, for now the moon lay hidden from the earth and
darkness rode upon the air. But soon he needst must stop--some vast
bulk stopped his pace. Holding his lantern high its gleam came back
a thousandfold; from gold and silver and gems heaped high until they
seemed to threaten Heaven itself. Falling upon his knees Florian
bathed his hands and arms within this precious flood, and threw bright
handfuls against the crouching night. But now there was within his
grasp something which seemed to whisper of sinister import, and as the
dancing rays fell clear upon it he shrieked and threw it far away--a
skull. With stricken face he fled, but as he ran, through every vein a
swifter racer sped, while shuddering pain was in every member. And the
lips of Fever twisted in a jagged grin.

Now the moon tore from her web of shadows and drew strange patterns
over rooftops and cobbled ways. Marius stopped short, beholding at an
open window a face of beauty such is found in dreams only, and then
but seldom. Leaping from the street, Marius grasped the sill. She made
no outcry nor murmur even when he caught her in his arms and kissed
her curving mouth. She smiled ever, while from between her lips there
crawled a bloated worm. And Pestilence laughed aloud.

But Leon lay quiet and forever still in the great square, with two curs
worrying at his feet.

* * * * *

A DISEMBODIED SHADOW

(A True Experience)

by Kenneth B. Pritchard

Everyone has seen shadows, but I'll wager that there are exceedingly
few who have seen the kind I did, beside those who were with me at the
time it happened.

You have read weird stories of shadows, or of people who cast none.
What I am about to relate is true; I have witnesses to prove it.

It was twilight of a summer day in the year '27 or '28. Our little
group was gathered in the rear of our homes--we called it the backyard,
though it was composed of roadways. We were talking and the stars began
to peep out of the skies. The street lamps began to glow, and the
windows of the surrounding houses began to show lights. And thus, the
stage was set.

Our eyes wandered. About fifteen feet away lay a large shadow.

It was mainly because of its size that I thought it might have been
caused by a friend of mine sitting by a window in a nearby building. I
became curious; thinking I could attract his attention so he would come
and join us, I walked to a point of vantage. There was no one by the
window, yet the shadow persisted in remaining!

Upon looking further, being fully aroused, I could find no cause for
its existence. There was no possible, or probable source of blocked
light. I did not forget the sun, the stars, or the sky itself. I found
no flaw; the heavens and all ordinary light were normal. But there was
a shadow covering an area of from 100 to 150 square feet.

The others gave it up. We could draw no satisfactory conclusion. I can
tell you that it was an eerie feeling I had in observing a disembodied
shadow. My mind went riot with thoughts of time travellers, visitors
from space, etc.

Since then, I have tried to think of it as being caused by a kink in an
otherwise clear atmosphere; but my reason seems to tell me differently.
What was it? What strange thing had occurred that evening? Was this
planet of ours visited by some half-seen beings from another world?

* * * * *

FAMOUS FANTASY FANS

No. 3 Raymond A. Palmer

An indomitable will and courage has carried Raymond A. Palmer, or
Rap as he signs his well-liked column in _Fantasy Magazine_, through
trials and tribulations that would have sapped the strength of ordinary
men. It was the organizing genius of Rap that started the Science
Correspondence Club, and it was his guiding hand that brought it to a
success. When he was confirmed at a sanitarium he was forced to give up
his activities, and found the organization run down during his absence,
when he returned. It is he who is again building the International
Scientific Association to a position it once held.

He is the chairman for the Jules Verne Prize Club, and President of the
International Scientific Association and his free hours are filled with
the details of managing these two organizations. His working has been
confined, by the depression, to writing stories.

Now, at the beginning of his writing career, he is already recognized
as an author who will reach the highest pinnacles of the field. His
work has been praised by leading science fiction critics as being among
the outstanding stories appearing today.

Recently, he seems destined to achieve additional success in the field
of radio continuity writing. He is now working on a Western skit on a
year's contract.

He is active as a member of the "Fictioneers," an organized group of
authors in Milwaukee, South Milwaukee, Wauwatosa, and other Wisconsin
cities.

Counts among his friends members of every race and every country of the
world. His letters fill many large packing boxes.

Is the author of "The Time Ray of Jandra," "The Symphony of Death,"
"The Man Who Invaded Time," "Dimension Doom," "Escape from Antarctica,"
"The Vortex World," and "The Range Rid-Riders" (radio skit), besides
many unsubmitted stories. He has submitted nothing for a year because
of the condition of the markets.

* * * * *