Project Gutenberg Australia
a treasure-trove of literature
treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership

Title: Out of the Earth
Author: Arthur Machen
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0700381.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: March 2007
Date most recently updated: February 2011

This eBook was produced by: Malcolm Farmer

Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions
which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice
is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular
paper edition.

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this

This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at

To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to


Title: Out of the Earth
Author: Arthur Machen

There was some sort of confused complaint during last August of
the ill behaviour of the children at certain Welsh watering-places.
Such reports and vague rumours are most difficult to trace to their
heads and fountains; none has better reason to know that than
myself. I need not go over the old ground here, but I am afraid that
many people are wishing by this time that they had never heard my
name; again, a considerable number of estimable persons are concerning
themselves gloomily enough, from my point of view, with my everlasting
welfare.  They write me letters, some in kindly remonstrance, begging
me not to deprive poor, sick-hearted souls of what little comfort they
possess amidst their sorrows. Others send me tracts and pink leaflets
with allusions to "the daughter of a well-known canon"; others again
are violently and anonymously abusive. And then in open print, in fair
book form, Mr. Begbie has dealt with me righteously but harshly, as I
cannot but think.

Yet, it was all so entirely innocent, nay casual, on my part. A
poor linnet of prose, I did but perform my indifferent piping in the
Evening News because I wanted to do so, because I felt that the story
of "The Bowmen" ought to be told. An inventor of fantasies is a poor
creature, heaven knows, when all the world is at war; but I thought
that no harm would be done, at any rate, if I bore witness, after the
fashion of the fantastic craft, to my belief in the heroic glory of
the English host who went back from Mons fighting and triumphing.

And then, somehow or other, it was as if I had touched a button and
set in action a terrific, complicated mechanism of rumours that
pretended to be sworn truth, of gossip that posed as evidence, of wild
tarradiddles that good men most firmly believed. The supposed
testimony of that "daughter of a well-known canon" took parish
magazines by storm, and equally enjoyed the faith of dissenting
divines. The "daughter" denied all knowledge of the matter, but people
still quoted her supposed sure word; and the issues were confused with
tales, probably true, of painful hallucinations and deliriums of our
retreating soldiers, men fatigued and shattered to the very verge of
death. It all became worse than the Russian myths, and as in the fable
of the Russians, it seemed impossible to follow the streams of
delusion to their fountain-head--or heads. Who was it who said
that "Miss M. knew two officers who, etc., etc."? I suppose we shall
never know his lying, deluding name.

And so, I dare say, it will be with this strange affair of the
troublesome children of the Welsh seaside town, or rather of a group of
small towns and villages lying within a certain section or zone, which I
am not going to indicate more precisely than I can help, since I love
that country, and my recent experience with "The Bowmen" have taught me
that no tale is too idle to be believed. And, of course, to begin with,
nobody knew how this odd and malicious piece of gossip originated. So
far as I know, it was more akin to the Russian myth than to the tale of
"The Angels of Mons." That is, rumour preceded print; the thing was
talked of here and there and passed from letter to letter long before
the papers were aware of its existence. And--here it resembles rather
the Mons affair--London and Manchester, Leeds and Birmingham were
muttering vague unpleasant things while the little villages concerned
basked innocently in the sunshine of an unusual prosperity.

In this last circumstance, as some believe, is to be sought the
root of the whole matter. It is well known that certain east coast
towns suffered from the dread of air-raids, and that a good many of
their usual visitors went westward for the first time. So there is a
theory that the east coast was mean enough to circulate reports
against the west coast out of pure malice and envy. It may be so; I do
not pretend to know. But here is a personal experience, such as it is,
which illustrated the way in which the rumour was circulated. I was
lunching one day at my Fleet Street tavern--this was early in
July--and a friend of mine, a solicitor, of Serjeants' Inn, came
in and sat at the same table. We began to talk of holidays and my
friend Eddis asked me where I was going. "To the same old place," I
said. "Manavon.  You know we always go there." "Are you really?" said
the lawyer; "I thought that coast had gone off a lot. My wife has a
friend who's heard that it's not at all that it was."

I was astonished to hear this, not seeing how a little village like
Manavon could have "gone off." I had known it for ten years as having
accommodation for about twenty visitors, and I could not believe that
rows of lodging houses had sprung up since the August of 1914. Still I
put the question to Eddis: "Trippers?" I asked, knowing firstly that
trippers hate the solitudes of the country and the sea; secondly, that
there are no industrial towns within cheap and easy distance, and
thirdly, that the railways were issuing no excursion tickets during
the war.

"No, not exactly trippers," the lawyer replied. "But my wife's
friend knows a clergyman who says that the beach at Tremaen is not at
all pleasant now, and Tremaen's only a few miles from Manavon, isn't

"In what way not pleasant?" I carried on my examination. "Pierrots
and shows, and that sort of thing?" I felt that it could not be so,
for the solemn rocks of Tremaen would have turned the liveliest
Pierrot to stone. He would have frozen into a crag on the beach, and
the seagulls would carry away his song and make it a lament by lonely,
booming caverns that look on Avalon. Eddis said he had heard nothing
about showmen; but he understood that since the war the children of
the whole district had gone quite out of hand.

"Bad language, you know," he said, "and all that sort of thing,
worse than London slum children. One doesn't want one's wife and
children to hear foul talk at any time, much less on their
holiday. And they say that Castell Coch is quite impossible; no decent
woman would be seen there!"

I said: "Really, that's a great pity," and changed the subject. But
I could not make it out at all. I knew Castell Coch well--a
little bay bastioned by dunes and red sandstone cliffs, rich with
greenery. A stream of cold water runs down there to the sea; there is
the ruined Norman Castle, the ancient church and the scattered
village; it is altogether a place of peace and quiet and great
beauty. The people there, children and grown-ups alike, were not
merely decent but courteous folk: if one thanked a child for opening a
gate, there would come the inevitable response: "And welcome kindly,
sir." I could not make it out at all. I didn't believe the lawyer's
tales; for the life of me I could not see what he could be driving
at. And, for the avoidance of all unnecessary mystery, I may as well
say that my wife and child and myself went down to Manavon last August
and had a most delightful holiday. At the time we were certainly
conscious of no annoyance or unpleasantness of any kind. Afterwards, I
confess, I heard a story that puzzled and still puzzles me, and this
story, if it be received, might give its own interpretation to one or
two circumstances which seemed in themselves quite insignificant.

But all through July I came upon traces of evil rumours affecting
this most gracious corner of the earth. Some of these rumours were
repetitions of Eddis's gossip; others amplified his vague story and
made it more definite. Of course, no first-hand evidence was
available.  There never is any first-hand evidence in these cases. But
A knew B who had heard from C that her second cousin's little girl had
been set upon and beaten by a pack of young Welsh savages. Then people
quoted "a doctor in large practice in a well-known town in the
Midlands," to the effect that Tremaen was a sink of juvenile
depravity. They said that a responsible medical man's evidence was
final and convincing; but they didn't bother to find out who the
doctor was, or whether there was any doctor at all--or any doctor
relevant to the issue. Then the thing began to get into the papers in
a sort of oblique, by-the-way sort of manner. People cited the case of
these imaginary bad children in support of their educational
views. One side said that "these unfortunate little ones'' would have
been quite well behaved if they had had no education at all; the
opposition declared that continuation schools would speedily reform
them and make them into admirable citizens. Then the poor Arfonshire
children seemed to become involved in quarrels about Welsh
disestablishment and in the question of the miners; and all the while
they were going about behaving politely and admirably as they always
do behave. I knew all the time that it was all nonsense, but I
couldn't understand in the least what it meant, or who was pulling the
wires of rumour, or their purpose in so pulling. I began to wonder
whether the pressure and anxiety and suspense of a terrible war had
unhinged the public mind, so that it was ready to believe any fable,
to debate the reasons for happenings which had never happened. At
last, quite incredible things began to be whispered: visitors'
children had not only been beaten, they had been tortured; a little
boy had been found impaled on a stake in a lonely field near Manavon;
another child had been lured to destruction over the cliffs at Castell
Coch. A London paper sent a good man down quietly to Arfon to
investigate. He was away for a week, and at the end of that period
returned to his office and in his own phrase, "threw the whole story
down." There was not a word of truth, he said, in any of these
rumours; no vestige of a foundation for the mildest forms of all this
gossip. He had never seen such a beautiful country; he had never met
pleasanter men, women or children; there was not a single case of
anyone having been annoyed or troubled in any sort or fashion.

Yet all the while the story grew, and grew more monstrous and
incredible. I was too much occupied in watching the progress of my own
mythological monster to pay much attention. The town clerk of Tremaen,
to which the legend had at length penetrated, wrote a brief letter to
the press indignantly denying that there was the slightest foundation
for "the unsavoury rumours" which, he understood, were being
circulated; and about this time we went down to Manavon and, as I say,
enjoyed ourselves extremely. The weather was perfect: blues of
paradise in the skies, the seas all a shimmering wonder, olive greens
and emeralds, rich purples, glassy sapphires changing by the rocks; far
away a haze of magic lights and colours at the meeting of sea and
sky. Work and anxiety had harried me; I found nothing better than to
rest on the thymy banks by the shore, finding an infinite balm and
refreshment in the great sea before me, in the tiny flowers beside
me. Or we would rest all the summer afternoon on a "shelf" high on the
grey cliffs and watch the tide creaming and surging about the rocks,
and listen to it booming in the hollows and caverns below. Afterwards,
as I say, there were one or two things that struck cold. But at the
time those were nothing. You see a man in an odd white hat pass by and
think little or nothing about it. Afterwards, when you hear that a man
wearing just such a hat had committed murder in the next street five
minutes before, then you find in that hat a certain interest and
significance. "Funny children," was the phrase my little boy used; and
I began to think they were "funny" indeed.

If there be a key at all to this queer business, I think it is to
be found in a talk I had not long ago with a friend of mine named
Morgan. He is a Welshman and a dreamer, and some people say he is like
a child who has grown up and yet has not grown up like other children
of men. Though I did not know it, while I was at Manavon, he was
spending his holiday time at Castell Coch. He was a lonely man and he
liked lonely places, and when we met in the autumn he told me how, day
after day, he would carry his bread and cheese and beer in a basket to
a remote headland on that coast known as the Old Camp. Here, far above
the waters, are solemn, mighty walls, turf-grown; circumvallations
rounded and smooth with the passing of many thousand years. At one end
of this most ancient place there is a tumulus, a tower of observation,
perhaps, and underneath it slinks the green, deceiving ditch that
seems to wind into the heart of the camp, but in reality rushes down
to sheer rock and a precipice over the waters.

Here came Morgan daily, as he said, to dream of Avalon, to purge
himself from the fuming corruption of the streets.

And so, as he told me, it was with singular horror that one
afternoon as he dozed and dreamed and opened his eyes now and again to
watch the miracle and magic of the sea, as he listened to the myriad
murmurs of the waves, his meditation was broken by a sudden burst of
horrible raucous cries--and the cries of children, too, but
children of the lowest type. Morgan says that the very tones made him
shudder--"They were to the ear what slime is to the touch," and
then the words: every foulness, every filthy abomination of speech;
blasphemies that struck like blows at the sky, that sank down into the
pure, shining depths, defiling them! He was amazed. He peered over the
green wall of the fort, and there in the ditch he saw a swarm of
noisome children, horrible little stunted creatures with old men's
faces, with bloated faces, with little sunken eyes, with leering
eyes. It was worse than uncovering a brood of snakes or a nest of

No; he would not describe what they were about. "Read about
Belgium," said Morgan, "and think they couldn't have been more than
five or six years old." There was no infamy, he said, that they did
not perpetrate; they spared no horror of cruelty. "I saw blood running
in streams, as they shrieked with laughter, but I could not find the
mark of it on the grass afterwards."

Morgan said he watched them and could not utter a word; it was as
if a hand held his mouth tight. But at last he found his voice and
shrieked at them, and they burst into a yell of obscene laughter and
shrieked back at him, and scattered out of sight. He could not trace
them; he supposes that they hid in the deep bracken behind the Old

"Sometimes I can't understand my landlord at Castell Coch," Morgan
went on. "He's the village postmaster and has a little farm of his
own--a decent, pleasant, ordinary sort of chap. But now and again
he will talk oddly. I was telling him about these beastly children and
wondering who they could be when he broke into Welsh, something like
'the battle that is for age unto ages; and the People take delight in

So far Morgan, and it was evident that he did not understand at
all. But this strange tale of his brought back an odd circumstance or
two that I recollected: a matter of our little boy straying away more
than once, and getting lost among the sand dunes and coming back
screaming, evidently frightened horribly, and babbling about "funny
children." We took no notice; did not trouble, I think, to look
whether there were any children wandering about the dunes or not. We
were accustomed to his small imaginations.

But after hearing Morgan's story I was interested and I wrote an
account of the matter to my friend, old Doctor Duthoit, of Hereford.
And he:

"They were only visible, only audible to children and the
childlike. Hence the explanation of what puzzled you at first; the
rumours, how did they arise? They arose from nursery gossip, from
scraps and odds and ends of half-articulate children's talk of horrors
that they didn't understand, of words that shamed their nurses and
their mothers.

"These little people of the earth rise up and rejoice in these
times of ours. For they are glad, as the Welshman said, when they know
that men follow their ways."


This site is full of FREE ebooks - Project Gutenberg Australia