Arthur Machen

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Arthur Llewelyn Jones was born on March 3rd, 1863 in Carleleon in Monmouthshire, Wales. His father had adopted his wife's maiden name, Machen, to inherit a legacy, legally becoming "Jones-Machen"; his son was baptised under that name. Later he shortened it to Arthur Machen, as a pen name. An early and avid reader, Arthur read books far beyond his years the results of which ensured a firm foundation in literature. At eleven, Arthur boarded at Hereford Cathedral School. However family poverty ruled out attendance at university, and Arthur was sent to London to sit exams to attend medical school but failed to get in. Arthur, however, showed literary promise, publishing in 1881 a long poem "Eleusinia." In London, he lived in relative poverty, attempting to work as a journalist, as a publisher's clerk, and as a children's tutor while writing in the evening and going on long rambling walks across London. By 1884 he published his second work, 'The Anatomy of Tobacco', and worked with the publisher and bookseller George Redway. This led to further work as a translator from French. In 1887, Arthur married Amelia Hogg, an unconventional music teacher with a passion for the theatre. Soon after the marriage, Arthur began to receive a series of legacies from Scottish relatives that allowed him to devote more time to writing. Around 1890 Arthur began to publish in literary magazine. This led to his first major success, 'The Great God Pan'. It was published in 1894 was widely denounced for its sexual and horrific content and of course sold extremely well. In 1899, Amelia died of cancer after a long period of illness. Arthur was devastated. His recovery was helped by his a change of career to acting. By 1901 he was a member of Frank Benson's company of travelling players. In 1902 Arthur managed to find a publisher in 1902 for 'Hieroglyphics', an analysis of the nature of literature. Arthur married Dorothie Purefoy Hudleston, in 1902. In 1906 Machen's literary career began once more as the book 'The House of Souls' collected his most notable works of the nineties and brought them to a new audience. By 1910 Arthur accepted a full-time journalist's job at Alfred Harmsworth's Evening News. In February 1912 his son Hilary was born, and a daughter Janet in 1917. The coming of war in 1914 saw Arthur return to the public eye with 'The Bowmen' and the publicity surrounding the "Angels of Mons" episode. He published a series of stories capitalizing on this success, the most notable 'The Great Return' (1915) and 'The Terror' (1917). The year 1922 saw 'The Secret Glory' published, as was the first volume of his autobiography 'Far Off Things', and new editions of Machen's Casanova, The House of Souls and The Hill of Dreams all came out. Arthur's works had now found a new audience and publishers in America. By 1926 the boom in republication was mostly over, and Arthur's income dropped. In 1927, he became a manuscript reader for the publisher Ernest Benn until 1933. By 1929, Arthur and his family had moved to Amersham, Buckinghamshire. In 1932 he received a Civil List pension of £100 per annum in 1932, but the loss of work from Benn's a year later made things difficult once more. Arthur's finances finally stabilised with a literary appeal in 1943 for his eightieth birthday. The names on the appeal show the recognition of Machen's stature as a distinguished man of letters. They included Max Beerbohm, T. S. Eliot, Bernard Shaw, Walter de la Mare, Algernon Blackwood, and John Masefield. The success of the appeal allowed Arthur to live the last few years of his life in relative comfort, until his death at age 84 on December 15th, 1947 in Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire.

But all the afternoon his eyes had looked on glamour; he had strayed in fairyland. The holidays were nearly done, and Lucian Taylor had gone out resolved to lose himself, to discover strange hills and prospects that he had never seen before. The air was still, breathless, exhausted after heavy rain, and the clouds looked as if they had been molded of lead. No breeze blew upon the hill, and down in the well of the valley not a dry leaf stirred, not a bough shook in all the dark January woods.

The two men were slowly pacing the terrace in front of Dr. Raymond’s house. The sun still hung above the western mountain-line, but it shone with a dull red glow that cast no shadows, and all the air was quiet; a sweet breath came from the great wood on the hillside above, and with it, at intervals, the soft murmuring call of the wild doves. Below, in the long lovely valley, the river wound in and out between the lonely hills, and, as the sun hovered and vanished into the west, a faint mist, pure white, began to rise from the hills. Dr. Raymond turned sharply to his friend.

There are strange things lost and forgotten in obscure corners of the newspaper. I often think that the most extraordinary item of intelligence that I have read in print appeared a few years ago in the London Press. It came from a well known and most respected news agency; I imagine it was in all the papers. It was astounding. The circumstances necessary — not to the understanding of this paragraph, for that is out of the question — but, we will say, to the understanding of the events which made it possible, are these. We had invaded Thibet, and there had been trouble in the hierarchy of that country, and a personage known as the Tashai Lama had taken refuge with us in India. He went on pilgrimage from one Buddhist shrine to another, and came at last to a holy mountain of Buddhism, the name of which I have forgotten. And thus the morning paper. His Holiness the Tashai Lama then ascended the Mountain and was transfigured.— Reuter.

It was the writing guy who drew this story out of Captain Shreve. He talked so much I think the Old Man spun the yarn just to shut him up. He had talked ever since his arrival on board, early that morning, with a letter from the owners' agent, and the announcement he intended making the voyage with us. He had weak lungs, he said, and was in search of mild, tropical breezes. Also, he was seeking local color, and whatever information he could pick up about "King" Waldon.He had heard of the death of "King" Waldon, down in Samoa—Waldon, the trader, of the vanishing race of island adventurers—and he expected to travel about the south seas investigating the "king's" past, so he could write a book about the old viking. He had heard that Captain Shreve had known Waldon. Hence, he was honoring a cargo carrier with his presence instead of taking his ease upon a mail-boat.Captain Shreve must tell him all he knew about the "king." He was intensely interested in the subject. Splendid material, you know. That romantic legend of Waldon's arrival in the islands—too good to be true, and certainly too good not to put into a book. Was Captain Shreve familiar with the tale? How this fellow, Waldon, sailed into a Samoan harbor in an open boat, his only companion his beautiful young wife? Imagine—this man and woman coming from nowhere, sailing in from the open sea in a small boat, never telling whence they came!He said this was the stuff to go into his book. Romance, mystery! It was quite as important as the later and better known incidents in the "king's" life. That was why Captain Shreve must tell him all he knew about the fellow. If he could only get at the beginning of the "king's" career in the islands. Where did the fellow come from? Why should a man bring his bride into an uncivilized and lawless section of the world, and settle down for life? There must be a story in that. Ah, yes, and he was the man who could properly do it.

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