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There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn,

either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost

enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and

misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep

phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with

that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to

Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might

fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled

with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through

the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic

shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room and

crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the

leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the

sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills and wandering

round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers

and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave.