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EDITORIAL & NEWS

Next stop … the sublime

by Margie Deck & Nancy Holder

On page eight of our story, the stakes are raised for Hardcastle, as his heretofore “amusing” investigation of the Terror of Blue John Gap morphs into a terrifying fight for survival. Doyle’s penciled-in revisions heighten Hardcastle’s predicament: A stone becomes a top-heavy boulder that tips him into not just ice-cold water, but a rushing stream so powerful that it has eroded the base of the boulder. His candle is extinguished; his box of matches are soaked and therefore unusable. He reports:

In the black velvetty (sic) darkness one lost all one’s bearings in an instant. Before I had made a dozen paces I was utterly bewildered as to my whereabouts.

In a search for direction, he tries to feel the Roman writing on the cavern walls, but the letters are too high up. He is helpless, and in realizing this, his focus shifts from himself and, in a state of terror, centers on his surroundings. He has entered the realm of the sublime.

Literary critics explain that in the century before Doyle, literature served as a civilizing force, emphasizing classical notions of propriety and morality (and conformity). As time went on, the trend changed to stories about the unique struggles and psychological makeup of individuals. It was the age of the self.

It was also the age of the loss of self. Writers began to explore how it felt to give oneself up to overwhelming emotions such as awe. However, statesman-philosopher Edmund Burke argued that fear is the sensation that most strongly propels a person into the sublime. Contemporary author Adam Nicolson describes it as “grandeur, threat, strangeness.” “What’s behind the door or lurking at the top of the stairs is never as frightening as the door or the staircase itself,” horror writer Stephen King asserts.

We already know that Hardcastle will survive this very dark night of his soul—we are reading his recounting of his adventure. It’s a tribute, then, to Doyle’s skill as he presses on our “phobic pressure points” (as termed by Stephen King) when he throws Hardcastle into mortal peril…in the realm of the sublime.

COMMENTARY & CREATIVITY

The Terror of Victorian Match Making

by Cynthia K. Brown

Matches were mentioned as early as 1366 in China, referred to as “fire inch sticks.” They went through many iterations before becoming a long overdue and much appreciated convenience in the early 1900’s, when our story takes place. Once they had been refined for dependable ignitability and were minimally safe, demand soared. (You could say “it caught fire.”) In 1850, matches were being produced in Great Britian at the rate of over 250 million per day. From 1830 into the early 1900’s the formula changed very little, and contained enough white phosphorous in one packet of matches to kill an adult. This danger was unknown by most and those who had the knowledge weren’t anxious to share it, because their pockets were getting fatter by leaps and bounds on a daily basis.

continued . . .

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front cover & matter: a (home) • b • c • d back cover: e

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The autograph manuscript of “The Terror of Blue John Gap” reproduced above is courtesy of Dartmouth College Library, Rauner Special Collections, MS-93: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Transcription

ran across my path and I walked for some little distance along the

bank to find a spot where I could cross dryshod. Finally I came to a

place where a single flat [deleted: stone / inserted: boulder] lay near the centre which I could

reach in a stride. As it chanced however the rock had been cut

away and made top heavy by the rush of the [deleted: water / inserted: stream], so that it

tilted over as I landed on it, and shot me into the ice cold

water. My candle went out, and I found myself floundering

about in an utter and absolute darkness.

I staggered to my feet again, more amused than ashamed

by my adventure. The candle had fallen from my hand and [inserted: was] lost in

the stream, but I had two others in my pocket so that it was of no

importance. I got one of them ready, and drew out my box of matches

to light it. Only then did I realise my position. The box had been

soaked in my fall into the river. It was impossible to strike the

matches.

A cold hand seemed to close round my heart as I

realised my position. The darkness was opaque & horrible. It was so

utter that one put one's hand up to one's face as if to press of something

solid. I stood still and by an effort I steadied myself. I tried to

reconstruct in my mind a map of the floor of the cavern as I

had last seen it. Alas, the bearings which had impressed

themselves upon my mind were high on the wall, and not to be

found by touch. Still I remembered in a general way how the

sides were situated, and I hoped that by groping my way

along them I would come at last to the opening of the Roman tunnel.

moving very slowly, and continually striking against the rocks, I

set out on this desperate quest.

But I very soon realised how impossible it was. In

that black velvetty darkness one lost all one's bearings in an

instant. Before I had made a dozen paces I was utterly

bewildered as to my whereabouts. The rippling of the stream

which was the one sound audible, showed me where it lay,

but the moment that I left its bank, I was utterly lost. The idea

The full story as it was printed in The Strand is available at
The Arthur Conan Doyle Encyclopedia.