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The story hunter

Chapter 2: PREFACE.
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About This Book

The narrator, a solitary caravan-dweller and amateur hypnotist, travels the countryside and induces willing guests to recount extraordinary episodes, then presents ten compact tales drawn from those trance confessions. Stories range from uncanny and Gothic incidents—ruined towers, mysterious resurrections, phantom horsemen, and a monk's penitent secret—to speculative and historical imaginings such as an encounter with a Martian visitor and winter reflections on a legendary outlaw. Each piece emphasizes atmosphere, first-person testimony, and antiquarian curiosity, blending rural settings, eerie coincidences, and mild science-fictional conceits into a varied sequence of weird and wild vignettes.

PREFACE.

A year or two since, when I wrote Jethou; or Crusoe Life in the Channel Isles, I received a large number of press reviews and criticisms, all but two of which were of a very satisfactory and encouraging tone, and spoke so flatteringly of my future career as a writer of fiction, as to cause a blush—perhaps of modesty—perhaps of hope—to suffuse my lily cheek. One of the adverse critics, who must have been troubled with liver complaint in some form, took a pessimistic view of my work, doubting the facts contained in the book, and—in a literary sense—running amuck with the fictional portions. But, as he unwittingly helped the sale of the first edition of Jethou, I thank the wielder of this biting pen.

The other detractor found no particular fault with the book, but thought the writer somewhat lacking in high invention, i.e., in imaginative power.

Of course few persons see their own faults, and I had never even dreamed that I had any lack of inventive power. But now that my deficiency has been suggested to me by the critic of London’s leading daily newspaper, I venture to place the present volume before the public as an effort towards the vindication of my imaginative power, and with the earnest hope that something may be found in it of sufficient interest to repay the reader for the time spent in its perusal.

E. R. Suffling.

Blomfield Lodge,
Portsdown Road,
London, W.