The Maker of Moons (1896), by Robert W. Chambers


Book Description

The Maker of Moons is an 1896 short story collection by Robert W. Chambers which followed the publication of Chambers' most famous work, The King in Yellow (1895). It contained eight new stories, including the title story "The Maker of Moons," one of his finest weird tales, and several romantic Art Nouveau stories, concluding with two less distinguished weird tales. The latter were subsequently incorporated into the episodic novel In Search of the Unknown. The first three stories are linked by the theme of a dream wife who is named Ysonde, and they form a triptych. The weird nature of the first story has interesting echoes in the other two, which feature picturesque animal figures, such as a Red Ibis and a disagreeable porcupine. The story "In The Name of the Most High" is a war story set in the American Civil War. The next two stories are humorous romantic tales with a fishing theme and setting. Chambers' love of natural scenery illuminates most of the stories. The quality throughout is rather fine. Published by Putnam's, New York and London, in 1896. The first edition featured a frontispiece with a black and white illustration by Lancelot Speed.




The Maker of Moons by Chambers, Robert W. (Robert William), 1865-1933


Book Description

The Maker of Moons is an 1896 short story collection by Robert W. Chambers which followed the publication of Chambers' most famous work, The King in Yellow (1895). It contained eight new stories, including the title story, one of his weird tales, and several romantic Art Nouveau stories, concluding with two less distinguished weird tales. The latter were subsequently incorporated into the episodic novel In Search of the Unknown. Contents "The Maker of Moons" "The Silent Land" "The Black Water" "In the Name of the Most High" "Boy's Sister" "The Crime" "A Pleasant Evening" "The Man At The Next Table"




The Maker of Moons. by


Book Description

Walter "Walt" Whitman ( May 31, 1819 - March 26, 1892) was an American poet, essayist, and journalist. A humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works... The Maker of Moons is an 1896 short story collection by Robert W. Chambers which followed the publication of Chambers' most famous work, The King in Yellow (1895). It contained eight new stories, including the title story "The Maker of Moons," one of his weird tales, and several romantic Art Nouveau stories, concluding with two less distinguished weird tales. The latter were subsequently incorporated into the episodic novel In Search of the Unknown. The first three stories are linked by the theme of a dream wife who is named Ysonde, and they form a triptych. The weird nature of the first story has interesting echoes in the other two, which feature picturesque animal figures, such as a Red Ibis and a disagreeable porcupine. The story "In The Name of the Most High" is a war story set in the American Civil War. The next two stories are humorous romantic tales with a fishing theme and setting. Chambers' love of natural scenery illuminates most of the stories. The quality throughout is rather fine. Published by Putnam's, New York and London, in 1896. The first edition featured a frontispiece with a black and white illustration by Lancelot Speed. Contents: "The Maker of Moons" "The Silent Land" "The Black Water" "In the Name of the Most High" "Boy's Sister" "The Crime" "A Pleasant Evening" "The Man At The Next Table..". Robert William Chambers (May 26, 1865 - December 16, 1933) was an American artist and fiction writer, best known for his book of short stories entitled The King in Yellow, published in 1895.He was born in Brooklyn, New York, to William P. Chambers (1827-1911), a corporate and bankruptcy lawyer, and Caroline Smith Boughton (1842-1913). His parents met when Caroline was twelve years old and William P. was interning with her father, Joseph Boughton, a prominent corporate lawyer. Eventually the two formed the law firm of Chambers and Boughton which continued to prosper even after Joseph's death in 1861. Robert's great-grandfather, William Chambers (birth unknown), a lieutenant in the British Royal Navy, was married to Amelia Saunders, (1765-1822), the great grand daughter of Tobias Saunders, of Westerly, Rhode Island. The couple moved from Westerly, to Greenfield, Massachusetts and then to Galway, New York, where their son, also William Chambers, (1798-1874) was born. The second William graduated from Union College at the age of 18, and then went to a college in Boston, where he studied to be a doctor. Upon graduating, he and his wife, Eliza P. Allen (1793-1880), a direct descendant of Roger Williams, the founder of Providence, Rhode Island were among the first settlers of Broadalbin, New York. His brother was architect Walter Boughton Chambers. Robert was first educated at the Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute, and then entered the Art Students' League at around the age of twenty, where the artist Charles Dana Gibson was his fellow student. Chambers studied at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, and at Academie Julian, in Paris from 1886 to 1893, and his work was displayed at the Salon as early as 1889. On his return to New York, he succeeded in selling his illustrations to Life, Truth, and Vogue magazines. Then, for reasons unclear, he devoted his time to writing, producing his first novel, In the Quarter (written in 1887 in Munich). His most famous, and perhaps most meritorious, effort is The King in Yellow, a collection of Art Nouveau short stories published in 1895. This included several famous weird short stories which are connected by the theme of a fictitious drama of the same title, which drives those who read it insane.E. F. Bleiler described The King in Yellow as one of the most important works of American supernatural fiction.It was also strongly admired by H. P. Lovecraft and his circle




The Maker of Moons


Book Description

»The Maker of Moons« is a short story by Robert W. Chambers, originally published 1896 in the short story collection The Maker of Moons. ROBERT W. CHAMBERS [1865-1933] was an American author and artist. He was highly prolific, writing over 80 novels and short story collections, with the most famous being the short story collection The King in Yellow [1895].




The Maker of Moons


Book Description

A man tells the mysterious, magical and disturbing story of a hunting trip he had with two friends. This narrative combines an operation against gold manufacturers and smugglers, the fantasy of a love story that makes us doubt what is real in the story, and the suspense of how these elements are linked.




The Maker of Moons


Book Description




Robert W. Chambers: Maker of Moons


Book Description

Robert W. Chambers: Maker of Moons: Author of The King in Yellow Unmasked traces the history of the author of The King in Yellow, the book that influenced H.P. Lovecraft and the Cthulhu Mythos. Chambers was a top selling author in the early 20th century writing nearly 90 books, but has been largely forgotten except by the readers of horror fiction, particularly fans of the Cthulhu Mythos. This is the first full biography of Chambers, researched over nearly four decades by Shawn M. Tomlinson who grew up in the small town where Chambers summered. Tomlinson wrote many articles about Chambers previous to this book, primarily for area newspapers, as well as for several magazines including Adirondack Life and Ride of the Horsemen. His chapbook about Chambers, first published in 1996, went to three editions. Robert W. Chambers: Maker of Moons: Author of The King in Yellow Unmasked includes portraits of Chambers, interior and exterior photos of his summer home (Broadalbin House) and a full bibliography.




Chambers History


Book Description

Some ancestry and many descendants of various Chambers emigrants from Scotland or England to the United States (and one immigrant to Canada). Descendants lived throughout the United States, and in Canada.




The Yellow Sign


Book Description

That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no back out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany. Was it buried forever? Hope cried “No!” For three years I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had waited for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? “No!” cried Hope. I said that I was not good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious, and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton forests. It was too late now for me to regret what had occurred during the day. Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart my path lay marked before me. The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because I am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I have little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps that as long as she had decided to love.somebody she could not marry, it had better be me. I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it. For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard it would be. I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreaded the future, but never for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. Had it been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered my head about scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the affair. She would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy that I should have either to marry her or go away. If I married her we would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish. On the other hand if she tired of me, then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that she should find a substantial friend in me anyway and the future could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put on my evening dress for the little faintly perfumed note on my dresser said, “Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,” and the note was signed “Edith Carmichael, Metropolitan Theater, June 19th, 189—.”




The Demoiselle D'Ys


Book Description

The utter desolation of the scene began to have its effect; I sat down to face the situation and, if possible, recall to mind some landmark which might aid me in extricating myself from my present position. If I could only find the ocean again all would be clear, for I knew one could see the island of Groix from the cliffs. I laid down my gun, and kneeling behind a rock lighted my pipe. Then I looked at my watch. It was nearly four o’clock. I might have wandered far from Kerselec since daybreak. Standing the day before on the cliffs below Kerselec with Goulven, looking out over the sombre moors among which I had now lost my way, these downs had appeared to me level as a meadow, stretching to the horizon, and although I knew how deceptive is distance, I could not realize that what from Kerselec seemed to be mere grassy hollows were great valleys covered with gorse and heather, and what looked like scattered boulders were in reality enormous cliffs of granite. “It’s a bad place for a stranger,” old Goulven had said; “you’d better take a guide;” and I had replied, “I shall not lose myself.” Now I knew that I had lost myself, as I sat there smoking, with the sea-wind blowing in my face. On every side stretched the moorland, covered with flowering gorse and heath and granite boulders. There was not a tree in sight, much less a house. After a while, I picked up the gun, and turning my back on the sun tramped on again. There was little use in following any of the brawling streams which every now and then crossed my path, for, instead of flowing into the sea, they ran inland to reedy pools in the hollows of the moors. I had followed several, but they all led me to swamps or silent little ponds from which the snipe rose peeping and wheeled away in an ecstasy of fright. I began to feel fatigued, and the gun galled my shoulder in spite of the double pads. The sun sank lower and lower, shining level across yellow gorse and the moorland pools. As I walked my own gigantic shadow led me on, seeming to lengthen at every step. The gorse scraped against my leggings, crackled beneath my feet, showering the brown earth with blossoms, and the brake bowed and billowed along my path. From tufts of heath rabbits scurried away through the bracken, and among the swamp grass I heard the wild duck’s drowsy quack. Once a fox stole across my path, and again, as I stooped to drink at a hurrying rill, a heron flapped heavily from the reeds beside me. I turned to look at the sun. It seemed to touch the edges of the plain. When at last I decided that it was useless to go on, and that I must make up my mind to spend at least one night on the moors, I threw myself down thoroughly fagged out. The evening sunlight slanted warm across my body, but the sea-winds began to rise, and I felt a chill strike through me from my wet shooting-boots. High overhead gulls were wheeling and tossing like bits of white paper; from some distant marsh a solitary curlew called. Little by little the sun sank into the plain, and the zenith flushed with the after-glow. I watched the sky change from palest gold to pink and then to smouldering fire. Clouds of midges danced above me, and high in the calm air a bat dipped and soared. My eyelids began to droop. Then as I shook off the drowsiness a sudden crash among the bracken roused me. I raised my eyes. A great bird hung quivering in the air above my face. For an instant I stared, incapable of motion; then something leaped past me in the ferns and the bird rose, wheeled, and pitched headlong into the brake.