A Son of Perdition: An Occult Romance — A Reader’s Guide

(0 User reviews) 118

In Category - Young Readers Enchanted Adventures

Authors: Hume, Fergus, 1859-1932 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2012 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Magicians -- Fiction; Clairvoyants -- Fiction; Occultism -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 109,807

Reading time 478 min

Text sections 13

The source record for A Son of Perdition: An Occult Romance — A Reader’s Guide measures this digital text at 109,807 words, 7 hr 58 min estimated reading time, and 13 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 14.8 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Magicians -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #41071

Fergus Hume's occult romance uses precise diction and dialogue to contrast artistic genius, religious orthodoxy, and esoteric knowledge, with a Cornish setting and recurring symbols like the red granite heart.

Editorial Edition Score 4.8/5

★★★★★ ★★★★★

Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.

How this score is calculated

Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg41071

Read the Text

Hardwick looked at her earnestly. "I have this much, that I know how deeply I love you, my dear!" and he took her hand gently between his palms.

Alice let it lie there undisturbed, but did not return his pressure. For a few moments she looked straightly at the sunset. "I am sorry to hear you say that," was her calm remark when she did decide to speak.

"Because I can never love you!"

"Love can create love," urged Julian, again pressing her hand and again receiving no answering caress.

"Not between you and me. You may be fire, but I am not tow to catch alight." The flush had disappeared from her face, leaving it pure and white and calm to such a degree that the man dropped her hand. It was like holding a piece of ice, and he felt chilled by the aloofness of touch and look. "But you are a woman," he said roughly in his vexation, "you must know what love means."

"I don't: really I don't." Alice hugged her knees and stared with the sublime quietness of an Egyptian statue at his perturbed countenance. As he did not answer, she continued to speak in a deliberate way, which showed that his proposal had not touched her heart in the least. "My mother died when I was born, and I had Dame Trevel in the village yonder as my foster-mother until I was ten years of age. Then my father sent me to a Hampstead boarding school for eleven years. I returned only twelve months ago to live at Tremore"--she nodded towards a long low grey house, which basked on a neighbouring hilltop like a sullen reptile in the sunshine.

"But your father----?"

"My father," interrupted the girl in a melancholy tone, "has no love for any one but himself. At times I think he hates me for causing the death of my mother by being born."

"Well, you have seen my father. I leave you to judge."

Hardwick was puzzled how to reply. "He is not a man who shows his feelings, you know," he said delicately.

"I don't think he has any feelings to show," replied Alice indifferently. "I am used to his neglect, and so have schooled myself to be quietly agreeable without expecting any demonstrations of affection."

Hardwick nodded. "I have noticed, when dining at Tremore, that you are more like well-bred acquaintances than father and daughter. Perhaps," he added in a dreamy tone, "that is what first made me fall in love with you."

"I see," said Miss Enistor ironically, "you have come across the line of Shakespeare which says that pity is akin to love."

"I have never read Shakespeare's plays," admitted Mr. Hardwick simply. "I'm not a clever chap, you know. But you looked so forlorn in that dismal house, and seemed so starving for kind words and actions, that I wanted to take you away with me and make you happier. Yes," the artist quite brightened at his own perspicuity, "that is what drew me to you--a desire to give you a really good time."

Alice looked at him gravely, but with a suspicion of a smile on her pale lips. "Do you know, Julian, that I believe you to be a good man." The artist blushed again: he had the trick of blushing on occasions, which showed him to possess still the modesty of boyhood. "Oh, I say," he murmured almost inaudibly; then to cover his confusion added: "You call me Julian."

"Yes," Alice nodded her head in a stately way. "Henceforth let us be the greatest of friends."

"Lovers," he urged, "true honest lovers."

"No, Julian. We would be neither true nor honest as lovers. Our marriage would not be one of those made in heaven."

"Are any marriages made in heaven?" he asked somewhat cynically.

She looked at him in surprise. "Of course. When one soul meets another soul capable of blending with it, that is a heavenly marriage."

"Well then," he cried impetuously, "my soul and your soul?"

Alice shook her head. "We don't strike the same note: we are not in harmony, Julian. As friends we can esteem one another, but as lovers, as man and wife, you would end in boring me as I should finally bore you."

"One would think you were fifty to hear you talk so," said Hardwick crossly.

"Do you reckon knowledge by Time?" she asked, harking back to the phrase he had used earlier in the conversation.

He had no reply ready. "Still it is odd to hear a girl of twenty-one talk as you do, Alice."

"You are speaking of my new suit of clothes. I am as old as the world."

Continue Reading →

Fergus Hume opens A Son of Perdition with a painter, Hardwick, despairing over his inability to capture a Cornish sunset, while the girl at his elbow, Miss Enistor, defines genius as the power to make others see as vividly as oneself. This early exchange establishes a central tension between talent and vision, and between the visible world and hidden meanings. The novel’s dialogue is often philosophical, with characters debating art, faith, and the occult in a manner that reveals their distinct voices: Hardwick’s laborious reflection, Montrose’s confident esotericism, and the vicar’s wife’s resentful piety. The Cornish landscape—grim, opalescent, and ancient—serves as more than backdrop; it is a stage for conflicts between materialism and mysticism.

Diction and the Language of Belief

Hume’s word choices mark characters by their intellectual and spiritual leanings. The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Sparrow, thinks in terms of “heathen” and “the wicked,” contrasting with Montrose’s vocabulary of “Atlantean race,” “sacred word,” and “hieroglyphics.” The Squire, Enistor, is pragmatic, using archaeology to sidestep theology. The narrator’s own diction shifts: when describing Mrs. Sparrow’s resentment, the prose becomes ironically precise—“she frequently doubted if the world was governed justly”—while the occult discussions employ terms like “trance,” “star-worship,” and “red granite heart.” This lexical variety creates a layered world where each character speaks a slightly different language of belief.

Dialogue as Debate

Conversations in the excerpts are structured as debates, not mere exchanges. Hardwick and Miss Enistor argue about genius; Montrose and Sparrow clash over Atlantis versus Druids. Hume uses dialogue to advance plot and theme simultaneously. For instance, Montrose’s insistence that “Atlantis did exist” is countered by Sparrow’s “Absurd!”—a clash that echoes the novel’s larger conflict between occult and orthodox worldviews. The dialogue is often didactic, with characters lecturing one another, yet it remains natural to their roles: the artist questions, the occultist explains, the clergyman dismisses. This technique keeps exposition lively while revealing each speaker’s intellectual territory.

Description and the Seen World

Hume’s descriptive passages are economical but evocative. The sunset is “opalescent,” the table “snow-white” with “scarlet and golden autumn leaves.” These details ground the occult elements in a tangible reality. The Cornish setting is described with a geologist’s eye: “grim Cornish country,” “far-stretching Atlantic waters,” a hill with a Roman camp. The red granite heart is a physical object, dug from the earth, that triggers metaphysical debate. By anchoring the supernatural in precise, sensory description—crystal, silver, wax candles—Hume makes the fantastic feel credible. The contrast between the vicarage’s “unlovely surroundings” and the Squire’s luxury further emphasizes a world of material disparities.

Recurring Details and Structural Echoes

Certain motifs recur across the excerpts. The “heart” appears as a symbol—first as a carved artifact, then as a topic of theological dispute. The word “genius” is debated early and later implied in the contrast between talent and occult knowledge. The setting of the hill, with its Druidical altar and Roman camp, is mentioned twice, linking past and present. These repetitions are not accidental; they create a web of meaning that rewards close reading. Hume also uses structural parallels: the opening sunset scene, with its painterly frustration, mirrors later scenes where characters attempt to interpret hidden signs. The reader is invited to see connections between the visible and the invisible, much like the artist who struggles to “transfer that to canvas.”

Readers attentive to Hume’s authorial choices will notice how diction, dialogue, and description work together to build a world where the occult is treated seriously, not sensationally. The novel rewards those who track recurring symbols and debates, as these elements foreshadow later developments. Approach the text as a puzzle of voices and visions, where every character’s language reveals their allegiance in the eternal strife between faith and knowledge.

Reading about Fergus Hume’s red granite heart made me think of my grandmother’s rock collection, each stone a stubborn memory. She gave me The Wonderful Visit once, and I felt that same quiet ache of something sacred yet out of place. The Wonderful Visit — Edition Insights reminded me how visiting can change what you thought you knew about home.