I trust that my instincts are not awry
when they prompt me to leave the account, in simplicity, as it was
handed to me.
And the MS. itself--You must picture me, when first it was given into my
care, turning it over, curiously, and making a swift, jerky examination.
A small book it is; but thick, and all, save the last few pages, filled
with a quaint but legible handwriting, and writ very close. I have the
queer, faint, pit-water smell of it in my nostrils now as I write, and
my fingers have subconscious memories of the soft, "cloggy" feel of the
long-damp pages.
I read, and, in reading, lifted the Curtains of the Impossible that
blind the mind, and looked out into the unknown. Amid stiff, abrupt
sentences I wandered; and, presently, I had no fault to charge against
their abrupt tellings; for, better far than my own ambitious phrasing,
is this mutilated story capable of bringing home all that the old
Recluse, of the vanished house, had striven to tell.
Of the simple, stiffly given account of weird and extraordinary matters,
I will say little.
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