I read, and, in reading, lifted the Curtains of the Impossible that blind the mind, and looked out into the unknown. 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.
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. itself-You must picture me, when first it was given into my care, turning it over, curiously, and making a swift, jerky examination.
I trust that my instincts are not awry when they prompt me to leave the account, in simplicity, as it was handed to me.Īnd the MS. Many are the hours in which I have pondered upon the story that is set forth in the following pages. Hush and hark! Hush and Hark!" _Shoon of the Dead_ Hush and hark, without murmur or sigh, To shoon that tread the lost aeons: To the sound that bids you to die. "Hush! And hark To the sorrowful cry Of the wind in the dark. And, in fancy, the tread Of vanishing shoon- Out in the night with the Dead. Open the door, And listen! Only the wind's muffled roar, And the glisten Of tears 'round the moon. TO MY FATHER _(Whose feet tread the lost aeons)_ Tonnison and Berreggnog in the Ruins that lie to the South of the Village of Kraighten, in the West of Ireland. _From the Manuscript discovered in 1877 by Messrs. Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sjaani and PG Distributed Proofreaders
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