The Horror in Clay

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.

I think the most merciful thing in the world is that the human mind cannot connect everything it contains. We live on a calm island of ignorance amid the black seas of infinity. We were never meant to sail far. The sciences have each pushed in their own direction and have done us little harm so far. But someday, connecting scattered pieces of knowledge will reveal terrifying views of reality and our dreadful place within it. Those revelations will either drive us mad or send us fleeing from the deadly light. We will seek the peace and safety of a new dark age.

Theosophists have guessed at the awesome grandeur of the cosmic cycle wherein our world and human race form transient incidents. They have hinted at strange survivals in terms which would freeze the blood if not masked by a bland optimism. But it is not from them that there came the single glimpse of forbidden eons which chills me when I think of it and maddens me when I dream of it. That glimpse, like all dread glimpses of truth, flashed out from an accidental piecing together of separated things—in this case an old newspaper item and the notes of a dead professor. I hope that no one else will accomplish this piecing out; certainly, if I live, I shall never knowingly supply a link in so hideous a chain. I think that the professor, too, intended to keep silent regarding the part he knew, and that he would have destroyed his notes had not sudden death seized him.

Theosophists have guessed at the awe-inspiring vastness of the cosmic cycle. Our world and the human race are only brief events within that cycle. They have hinted that strange things have survived from the distant past. Their hints would freeze the blood if they were not hidden behind a mild optimism. But those hints did not give me my single glimpse of forbidden ages. That glimpse chills me when I think of it and drives me mad when I dream of it. Like all terrifying glimpses of truth, it flashed into view when separate things were accidentally pieced together. In this case, those things were an old newspaper article and a dead professor’s notes. I hope no one else will piece them together. Certainly, as long as I live, I will never knowingly provide a link in so hideous a chain. I think the professor also intended to keep silent about what he knew. I think he would have destroyed his notes if death had not taken him suddenly.

My knowledge of the thing began in the winter of 1926-27 with the death of my grand-uncle, George Gammell Angell, Professor Emeritus of Semitic languages in Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. Professor Angell was widely known as an authority on ancient inscriptions, and had frequently been resorted to by the heads of prominent museums; so that his passing at the age of ninety-two may be recalled by many. Locally, interest was intensified by the obscurity of the cause of death. The professor had been stricken whilst returning from the Newport boat; falling suddenly, as witnesses said, after having been jostled by a nautical-looking negro who had come from one of the queer dark courts on the precipitous hillside which formed a short cut from the waterfront to the deceased's home in Williams Street. Physicians were unable to find any visible disorder, but concluded after perplexed debate that some obscure lesion of the heart, induced by the brisk ascent of so steep a hill by so elderly a man, was responsible for the end. At the time I saw no reason to dissent from this dictum, but latterly I am inclined to wonder—and more than wonder.

I first learned of the thing in the winter of 1926 to 1927, when my great-uncle, George Gammell Angell, died. He was Professor Emeritus of Semitic languages at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. Professor Angell was widely known as an expert on ancient inscriptions. The heads of leading museums had often consulted him, so many may remember his death at ninety-two. Locally, the uncertainty about the cause of his death drew greater interest. The professor had collapsed while returning from the Newport boat. Witnesses said he fell suddenly after being jostled by a negro who looked like a sailor. The man had emerged from one of the strange, dark courtyards on the steep hillside. That hillside offered a shortcut from the waterfront to the professor's home on Williams Street. Doctors could find no visible sign of illness. After much puzzled debate, however, they concluded that some hard-to-detect heart damage had caused his death. They believed the damage resulted from a man of his age walking briskly up so steep a hill. At the time, I saw no reason to question their judgment. But now I am beginning to wonder, and to do more than wonder.

As my granduncle's heir and executor, for he died a childless widower, I was expected to go over his papers with some thoroughness; and for that purpose moved his entire set of files and boxes to my quarters in Boston. Much of the material which I correlated will be later published by the American Archeological Society, but there was one box which I found exceedingly puzzling, and which I felt much averse from showing to other eyes. It had been locked, and I did not find the key till it occurred to me to examine the personal ring which the professor carried always in his pocket. Then, indeed, I succeeded in opening it, but when I did so seemed only to be confronted by a greater and more closely locked barrier. For what could be the meaning of the queer clay bas-relief and the disjointed jottings, ramblings, and cuttings which I found? Had my uncle, in his latter years, become credulous of the most superficial impostures? I resolved to search out the eccentric sculptor responsible for this apparent disturbance of an old man's peace of mind.

My granduncle had died a childless widower, leaving me as his heir and executor. I was therefore expected to examine his papers thoroughly. For that purpose, I moved all his files and boxes to my rooms in Boston. Much of the material I gathered and organized will later be published by the American Archeological Society. But one box puzzled me greatly, and I was very reluctant to let anyone else see its contents. The box was locked, and I could not find the key. Then I thought to examine the ring the professor always carried in his pocket. I did manage to open the box, but opening it only seemed to reveal a greater, more firmly locked barrier. For what could I make of the strange clay bas-relief and the disconnected notes, ramblings, and clippings inside? Had my uncle, in his later years, become willing to believe even the flimsiest frauds? I decided to track down the eccentric sculptor responsible for this apparent disturbance of an old man's peace of mind.

The bas-relief was a rough rectangle less than an inch thick and about five by six inches in area; obviously of modern origin. Its designs, however, were far from modern in atmosphere and suggestion; for, although the vagaries of cubism and futurism are many and wild, they do not often reproduce that cryptic regularity which lurks in prehistoric writing. And writing of some kind the bulk of these designs seemed certainly to be; though my memory, despite much familiarity with the papers and collections of my uncle, failed in any way to identify this particular species, or even hint at its remotest affiliations.

The bas-relief was a rough rectangle, less than an inch thick and about five by six inches across. It was clearly modern. Its designs, however, felt and suggested something far from modern. Although cubism and futurism take many wild forms, they rarely reproduce the mysterious patterns found in prehistoric writing. And most of these designs certainly seemed to be some kind of writing. Yet I could not identify this particular kind, despite my familiarity with my uncle’s papers and collections. I could not even recall anything that might hint at its most distant connections.

Above these apparent hieroglyphics was a figure of evidently pictorial intent, though its impressionistic execution forbade a very clear idea of its nature. It seemed to be a sort of monster, or symbol representing a monster, of a form which only a diseased fancy could conceive. If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing. A pulpy, tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings; but it was the general outline of the whole which made it most shockingly frightful. Behind the figure was a vague suggestion of a Cyclopean architectural background.

Above these apparent hieroglyphics was a figure clearly meant to depict something, though its loose style made its nature unclear. It seemed to be some kind of monster, or a symbol of one. Only a diseased imagination could have conceived such a form. If I say my somewhat wild imagination pictured an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature all at once, that would capture its spirit. A soft, fleshy head with tentacles sat atop a grotesque, scaly body with rudimentary wings. But the creature’s general outline was what made it so shockingly terrifying. Behind the figure was a vague suggestion of massive, Cyclopean architecture.

The writing accompanying this oddity was, aside from a stack of press cuttings, in Professor Angell's most recent hand; and made no pretense to literary style. What seemed to be the main document was headed "CTHULHU CULT" in characters painstakingly printed to avoid the erroneous reading of a word so unheard-of. This manuscript was divided into two sections, the first of which was headed "1925—Dream and Dream Work of H. A. Wilcox, 7 Thomas St., Providence, R. I.," and the second, "Narrative of Inspector John R. Legrasse, 121 Bienville St., New Orleans, La., at 1908 A. A. S. Mtg—Notes on Same, & Prof. Webb's Acct." The other manuscript papers were all brief notes, some of them accounts of the queer dreams of different persons, some of them citations from theosophical books and magazines (notably W. Scott-Eliott's Atlantis and the Lost Lemuria), and the rest comments on long-surviving secret societies and hidden cults, with references to passages in such mythological and anthropological source-books as Frazer's Golden Bough and Miss Murray's Witch-Cult in Western Europe. The cuttings largely alluded to outré mental illnesses and outbreaks of group folly or mania in the spring of 1925.

Apart from a stack of newspaper clippings, the writing accompanying this oddity was in Professor Angell's most recent handwriting. It made no attempt at literary style. What seemed to be the main document was headed "CTHULHU CULT". The letters were carefully printed to prevent anyone from misreading so unfamiliar a word. This manuscript had two sections. The first was headed "1925: Dreams and Dream Work of H. A. Wilcox, 7 Thomas St., Providence, R. I." The second was headed "Account by Inspector John R. Legrasse, 121 Bienville St., New Orleans, La., at the 1908 A. A. S. Meeting: Notes on This Account, and Prof. Webb's Account." The other manuscript papers were all brief notes. Some described the strange dreams of various people. Others cited theosophical books and magazines, notably W. Scott-Eliott's Atlantis and the Lost Lemuria. The rest commented on secret societies and hidden cults that had survived for a long time. These comments included references to passages in sourcebooks on mythology and anthropology. Among these were Frazer's Golden Bough and Miss Murray's Witch-Cult in Western Europe. The clippings mostly referred to bizarre mental illnesses and outbreaks of collective foolishness or mania in the spring of 1925.

The first half of the principal manuscript told a very peculiar tale. It appears that on March 1st, 1925, a thin, dark young man of neurotic and excited aspect had called upon Professor Angell bearing the singular clay bas-relief, which was then exceedingly damp and fresh. His card bore the name of Henry Anthony Wilcox, and my uncle had recognized him as the youngest son of an excellent family slightly known to him, who had latterly been studying sculpture at the Rhode Island School of Design and living alone at the Fleur-de-Lys Building near that institution. Wilcox was a precocious youth of known genius but great eccentricity, and had from childhood excited attention through the strange stories and odd dreams he was in the habit of relating. He called himself "psychically hypersensitive", but the staid folk of the ancient commercial city dismissed him as merely "queer". Never mingling much with his kind, he had dropped gradually from social visibility, and was now known only to a small group of esthetes from other towns. Even the Providence Art Club, anxious to preserve its conservatism, had found him quite hopeless.

The first half of the main manuscript told a very strange story. Apparently, on March 1st, 1925, a thin, dark young man had visited Professor Angell. He seemed nervous and excited, and carried the unusual clay bas-relief, still very damp and freshly made. His card gave his name as Henry Anthony Wilcox. My uncle had recognized him as the youngest son of a fine family he knew slightly. Wilcox had recently been studying sculpture at the Rhode Island School of Design. He lived alone at the Fleur-de-Lys Building near the school. Wilcox was gifted beyond his years, with a recognized genius, but he was also extremely eccentric. Since childhood, he had drawn attention by telling strange stories and describing his odd dreams. He called himself "psychically hypersensitive", but the sober residents of the old trading city dismissed him as merely "queer". He had never mixed much with people like himself and had gradually disappeared from social life. Now he was known only to a small group of art lovers from other towns. Even the Providence Art Club, eager to maintain its conservative standards, had found him quite hopeless.

On the occasion of the visit, ran the professor's manuscript, the sculptor abruptly asked for the benefit of his host's archeological knowledge in identifying the hieroglyphics on the bas-relief. He spoke in a dreamy, stilted manner which suggested pose and alienated sympathy; and my uncle showed some sharpness in replying, for the conspicuous freshness of the tablet implied kinship with anything but archeology. Young Wilcox's rejoinder, which impressed my uncle enough to make him recall and record it verbatim, was of a fantastically poetic cast which must have typified his whole conversation, and which I have since found highly characteristic of him. He said, "It is new, indeed, for I made it last night in a dream of strange cities; and dreams are older than brooding Tyre, or the contemplative Sphinx, or garden-girdled Babylon."

During the visit, the professor’s manuscript said, the sculptor suddenly asked his host to draw on his archaeological knowledge. He wanted help identifying the hieroglyphics on the bas-relief. He spoke in a dreamy, stiff way that seemed affected and made him hard to sympathize with. My uncle replied rather sharply, because the tablet looked so obviously new that it hardly belonged to archaeology. Young Wilcox’s reply impressed my uncle enough that he remembered and recorded it word for word. The reply had a fantastically poetic quality that must have marked all his conversation. I have since found that quality highly characteristic of him. He said, "It is certainly new, for I made it last night in a dream of strange cities. And dreams are older than brooding Tyre, or the thoughtful Sphinx, or Babylon surrounded by gardens."

It was then that he began that rambling tale which suddenly played upon a sleeping memory and won the fevered interest of my uncle. There had been a slight earthquake tremor the night before, the most considerable felt in New England for some years; and Wilcox's imagination had been keenly affected. Upon retiring, he had had an unprecedented dream of great Cyclopean cities of Titan blocks and sky-flung monoliths, all dripping with green ooze and sinister with latent horror. Hieroglyphics had covered the walls and pillars, and from some undetermined point below had come a voice that was not a voice; a chaotic sensation which only fancy could transmute into sound, but which he attempted to render by the almost unpronounceable jumble of letters, "Cthulhu fhtagn".

Then he began his rambling tale, which suddenly stirred a dormant memory and gripped my uncle with feverish interest. There had been a slight earthquake the night before, the strongest felt in New England for some years. The tremor had deeply affected Wilcox's imagination. After going to bed, he had dreamed something unlike anything he had dreamed before. He saw vast Cyclopean cities built from Titan blocks, with monoliths soaring into the sky. All dripped with green ooze and seemed sinister with hidden horror. Hieroglyphics covered the walls and pillars. From some unknown point below came a voice that was not a voice. It was a chaotic sensation that only imagination could turn into sound. But he tried to capture it with an almost unpronounceable jumble of letters, "Cthulhu fhtagn".

This verbal jumble was the key to the recollection which excited and disturbed Professor Angell. He questioned the sculptor with scientific minuteness; and studied with almost frantic intensity the bas-relief on which the youth had found himself working, chilled and clad only in his nightclothes, when waking had stolen bewilderingly over him. My uncle blamed his old age, Wilcox afterward said, for his slowness in recognizing both hieroglyphics and pictorial design. Many of his questions seemed highly out of place to his visitor, especially those which tried to connect the latter with strange cults or societies; and Wilcox could not understand the repeated promises of silence which he was offered in exchange for an admission of membership in some widespread mystical or paganly religious body. When Professor Angell became convinced that the sculptor was indeed ignorant of any cult or system of cryptic lore, he besieged his visitor with demands for future reports of dreams. This bore regular fruit, for after the first interview the manuscript records daily calls of the young man, during which he related startling fragments of nocturnal imagery whose burden was always some terrible Cyclopean vista of dark and dripping stone, with a subterrene voice or intelligence shouting monotonously in enigmatical sense-impacts uninscribable save as gibberish. The two sounds most frequently repeated are those rendered by the letters "Cthulhu" and "R'lyeh".

This jumble of words unlocked the memory that excited and disturbed Professor Angell. He questioned the sculptor with scientific precision. He studied the bas-relief with almost frantic intensity. The young man had found himself working on it as he slowly and bewilderedly woke, cold and wearing only his nightclothes. Wilcox later said my uncle blamed his old age for being slow to recognize both the hieroglyphics and the design. Many of the professor’s questions seemed highly out of place to his visitor. This was especially true of questions trying to connect Wilcox with strange cults or societies. Wilcox could not understand the repeated promises of secrecy offered to him. In exchange, he was asked to admit belonging to some widespread mystical or pagan religious group. Eventually, Professor Angell became convinced that the sculptor knew nothing of any cult or system of secret knowledge. He then pressed his visitor repeatedly to report future dreams. These requests brought regular results. After the first interview, the manuscript records daily visits from the young man. During these visits, he described startling fragments of dream imagery. Their recurring theme was always some terrible view of immense structures of dark, dripping stone. An underground voice or intelligence shouted monotonously, conveying mysterious meanings through impressions that could only be written down as gibberish. The two sounds repeated most often are represented by the letters "Cthulhu" and "R'lyeh".

On March 23rd, the manuscript continued, Wilcox failed to appear; and inquiries at his quarters revealed that he had been stricken with an obscure sort of fever and taken to the home of his family in Waterman Street. He had cried out in the night, arousing several other artists in the building, and had manifested since then only alternations of unconsciousness and delirium. My uncle at once telephoned the family, and from that time forward kept close watch of the case; calling often at the Thayer Street office of Dr. Tobey, whom he learned to be in charge. The youth's febrile mind, apparently, was dwelling on strange things; and the doctor shuddered now and then as he spoke of them. They included not only a repetition of what he had formerly dreamed, but touched wildly on a gigantic thing "miles high" which walked or lumbered about. He at no time fully described this object, but occasional frantic words, as repeated by Dr. Tobey, convinced the professor that it must be identical with the nameless monstrosity he had sought to depict in his dream-sculpture. Reference to this object, the doctor added, was invariably a prelude to the young man's subsidence into lethargy. His temperature, oddly enough, was not greatly above normal; but the whole condition was otherwise such as to suggest true fever rather than mental disorder.

On March 23rd, the manuscript continued, Wilcox failed to appear. Inquiries at his lodgings revealed that he had fallen ill with a mysterious fever. He had been taken to his family’s home in Waterman Street. He had cried out during the night, waking several other artists in the building. Since then, he had alternated between unconsciousness and delirium. My uncle immediately telephoned the family and closely followed the case from then on. He often visited Dr. Tobey’s Thayer Street office after learning that the doctor was in charge. The young man’s feverish mind apparently dwelled on strange things. The doctor sometimes shuddered as he spoke about them. Wilcox not only repeated his earlier dreams but rambled wildly about a gigantic thing, "miles high", that walked or lumbered about. He never fully described the thing. But Dr. Tobey repeated occasional frantic words that convinced the professor of its identity. It must be the same nameless monstrosity Wilcox had tried to depict in his dream-sculpture. The doctor added that whenever the young man mentioned the thing, he would then sink into lethargy. Oddly enough, his temperature was not much above normal. But otherwise, his condition suggested a genuine fever rather than a mental disorder.

On April 2nd at about 3 p. m. every trace of Wilcox's malady suddenly ceased. He sat upright in bed, astonished to find himself at home and completely ignorant of what had happened in dream or reality since the night of March 22nd. Pronounced well by his physician, he returned to his quarters in three days; but to Professor Angell he was of no further assistance. All traces of strange dreaming had vanished with his recovery, and my uncle kept no record of his night-thoughts after a week of pointless and irrelevant accounts of thoroughly usual visions.

On April 2nd, at about 3 p.m., every trace of Wilcox's illness suddenly disappeared. He sat upright in bed, astonished to find himself at home. He remembered nothing that had happened in dreams or reality since the night of March 22nd. His doctor declared him well, and three days later he returned to his rooms. But he was no further help to Professor Angell. All traces of strange dreams had vanished with his recovery. For a week, my uncle recorded pointless, irrelevant accounts of entirely ordinary dreams. After that week, he stopped recording Wilcox's dreams.

Here the first part of the manuscript ended, but references to certain of the scattered notes gave me much material for thought—so much, in fact, that only the ingrained skepticism then forming my philosophy can account for my continued distrust of the artist. The notes in question were those descriptive of the dreams of various persons covering the same period as that in which young Wilcox had had his strange visitations. My uncle, it seems, had quickly instituted a prodigiously far-flung body of inquiries amongst nearly all the friends whom he could question without impertinence, asking for nightly reports of their dreams, and the dates of any notable visions for some time past. The reception of his request seems to have been varied; but he must, at the very least, have received more responses than any ordinary man could have handled without a secretary. This original correspondence was not preserved, but his notes formed a thorough and really significant digest. Average people in society and business—New England's traditional "salt of the earth"—gave an almost completely negative result, though scattered cases of uneasy but formless nocturnal impressions appear here and there, always between March 23rd and April 2nd—the period of young Wilcox's delirium. Scientific men were little more affected, though four cases of vague description suggest fugitive glimpses of strange landscapes, and in one case there is mentioned a dread of something abnormal.

The first part of the manuscript ended here, but references to some scattered notes gave me much to think about. Only the deep-rooted skepticism that then shaped my outlook can explain why I still distrusted the artist. These notes described various people's dreams during the same period when young Wilcox had his strange visions. My uncle, it seems, had quickly launched an extraordinarily wide-ranging inquiry. He approached nearly all the friends he could question without being intrusive. He asked for nightly reports of their dreams and the dates of any notable visions from the recent past. Reactions to his request seem to have varied. But he must have received more responses than any ordinary man could have managed without a secretary. The original letters had not been kept, but his notes provided a thorough and truly significant summary. Ordinary people in social and business circles, New England's traditional "salt of the earth", reported almost nothing. Still, scattered reports described uneasy but shapeless impressions during the night. These always occurred between March 23rd and April 2nd, the period of young Wilcox's delirium. Scientists were little more affected. Still, four vaguely described cases suggest fleeting glimpses of strange landscapes. One case also mentions a dread of something abnormal.

It was from the artists and poets that the pertinent answers came, and I know that panic would have broken loose had they been able to compare notes. As it was, lacking their original letters, I half suspected the compiler of having asked leading questions, or of having edited the correspondence in corroboration of what he had latently resolved to see. That is why I continued to feel that Wilcox, somehow cognizant of the old data which my uncle had possessed, had been imposing on the veteran scientist. These responses from esthetes told a disturbing tale. From February 28th to April 2nd a large proportion of them had dreamed very bizarre things, the intensity of the dreams being immeasurably the stronger during the period of the sculptor's delirium. Over a fourth of those who reported anything, reported scenes and half-sounds not unlike those which Wilcox had described; and some of the dreamers confessed acute fear of the gigantic nameless thing visible toward the last. One case, which the note describes with emphasis, was very sad. The subject, a widely known architect with leanings toward theosophy and occultism, went violently insane on the date of young Wilcox's seizure, and expired several months later after incessant screamings to be saved from some escaped denizen of hell. Had my uncle referred to these cases by name instead of merely by number, I should have attempted some corroboration and personal investigation; but as it was, I succeeded in tracing down only a few. All of these, however, bore out the notes in full. I have often wondered if all the objects of the professor's questioning felt as puzzled as did this fraction. It is well that no explanation shall ever reach them.

The relevant answers came from the artists and poets. I know panic would have broken out if they had been able to compare notes. As it was, I had none of their original letters. I half suspected that the compiler had asked leading questions. Or perhaps he had edited the letters to support what he had unconsciously decided to see. That was why I still felt Wilcox had been deceiving the experienced scientist. Somehow, I thought, Wilcox knew about the old information my uncle had possessed. These responses from artists and poets told a disturbing story. From February 28th to April 2nd, a large proportion of them had experienced very strange dreams. The dreams were far more intense during the sculptor's delirium. More than a quarter of those who reported anything described scenes and indistinct sounds like those Wilcox had described. Some dreamers admitted feeling intense fear of the gigantic, nameless thing that appeared near the end. One case, which the notes emphasized, was very sad. The man was a well-known architect interested in theosophy and occultism. He went violently insane on the day young Wilcox's seizure began. He died several months later, after constantly screaming to be saved from some creature that had escaped from hell. If my uncle had identified these people by name rather than number, I would have tried to verify their accounts. I would also have investigated them personally. As it was, I managed to track down only a few. All of them, however, fully confirmed the notes. I have often wondered whether everyone the professor questioned felt as puzzled as the few I found. It is just as well that no explanation will ever reach them.

The press cuttings, as I have intimated, touched on cases of panic, mania, and eccentricity during the given period. Professor Angell must have employed a cutting bureau, for the number of extracts was tremendous, and the sources scattered throughout the globe. Here was a nocturnal suicide in London, where a lone sleeper had leaped from a window after a shocking cry. Here likewise a rambling letter to the editor of a paper in South America, where a fanatic deduces a dire future from visions he has seen. A dispatch from California describes a theosophist colony as donning white robes en masse for some "glorious fulfilment" which never arrives, whilst items from India speak guardedly of serious native unrest toward the end of March. Voodoo orgies multiply in Haiti, and African outposts report ominous mutterings. American officers in the Philippines find certain tribes bothersome about this time, and New York policemen are mobbed by hysterical Levantines on the night of March 22-23. The west of Ireland, too, is full of wild rumor and legendry, and a fantastic painter named Ardois-Bonnot hangs a blasphemous Dream Landscape in the Paris spring salon of 1926. And so numerous are the recorded troubles in insane asylums that only a miracle can have stopped the medical fraternity from noting strange parallelisms and drawing mystified conclusions. A weird bunch of cuttings, all told; and I can at this date scarcely envisage the callous rationalism with which I set them aside. But I was then convinced that young Wilcox had known of the older matters mentioned by the professor.

As I have mentioned, the press clippings described cases of panic, mania, and strange behavior during that period. Professor Angell must have used a press-clipping service, because the clippings were enormously numerous and came from across the globe. One reported a nighttime suicide in London. A person sleeping alone had leaped from a window after a shocking cry. Another was a rambling letter to the editor of a South American newspaper. In it, a fanatic predicted a terrible future based on visions he had seen. A report from California described an entire theosophist colony putting on white robes for some "glorious fulfilment" that never arrived. Meanwhile, reports from India spoke cautiously of serious native unrest toward the end of March. Voodoo orgies multiplied in Haiti, and African outposts reported ominous mutterings. American officers in the Philippines found certain tribes troublesome around this time. And New York policemen were mobbed by hysterical Levantines on the night of March 22 to 23. The west of Ireland, too, was full of wild rumors and legends. And a painter of fantastic scenes named Ardois-Bonnot hung a blasphemous Dream Landscape in the Paris spring salon of 1926. The recorded disturbances in insane asylums were so numerous that only a miracle could explain the medical profession’s failure. Doctors had neither noticed the strange similarities nor drawn puzzled conclusions. Altogether, it was a strange collection of clippings. Today, I can hardly imagine the cold rationalism with which I dismissed them. But at the time, I was convinced that young Wilcox had known about the earlier matters the professor mentioned.