…my dream.In other dreams I continually visit the same places, sometimes — a waterfall, sometimes — a river flowing through a dense wood, sometimes — a farm-house; and on each occasion the incidents are strictly repeated. Close beside the waterfall I fish, and am always in the act of landing a huge trout, when my tackle gets entangled in some hyper-extraordinary fashion, and I awake. I wander along a shady road by the side of the river, and always at a certain opening an old man, staggering beneath a load of sticks, crosses my path and enters the wicket-gate leading to a tiny, white- washed and neatly thatched cottage. The man has a black patch over one eye, very thick white hair, and is clean-shaven. He wears a white jacket with bone buttons, corduroy trousers, and shoes, one of which is fastened with common or garden string. I have certainly…

…with suspense and trepidation. Though I had not as yet seen it, the face of the huntsman was what I feared most. It is the faces — always the faces — of these grotesque-looking individuals in my dreamland that are so alarming. As minute after minute passed and still he did not turn round, my anticipation at length grew to such a pitch that, unable to restrain myself any longer, I shrieked to heaven for pity; upon which he swung round and his countenance was fully revealed. So strong were the moonbeams — far stronger than they are in actuality — that every feature in his face stood out as clearly as if I had seen them through a magnifying-glass. The nose was hawk-like, prominent and curved, the chin — long and pointed, the eyebrows — black and slanting; and the eyes — God help me!— only a lurid, Satanic…