Tales of the Enchanted Islands of the Atlantic — Background and Themes

From Atlantis to Avalon: The Arc of the Collection

The table of contents reveals a deliberate chronology, moving from classical Atlantis through Celtic and Arthurian material (Taliessin, the Swan-Children of Lir, Usheen, Bran, Merlin, Lancelot, Arthur at Avalon) to medieval voyages (Maelduin, St. Brandan) and finally to exploration-era legends (Hy-Brasail, Satan's Hand, Antillia, Norumbega, the Island of Demons, Bimini). This structure suggests a narrative of transmission: ancient myths give way to Christianized quests, then to colonial encounters. The final chapter on the Fountain of Youth ties the collection to Spanish exploration of Florida. Readers should note that the excerpts provided cover only the preface and the chapter on the Isle of Satan's Hand, so the treatment of earlier figures like Merlin or Lancelot cannot be assessed from this sample.

The Isle of Satan's Hand: A Case Study in Higginson's Method

The excerpt from Chapter XV shows Higginson weaving together cartographic evidence, folk belief, and a dramatic narrative. He cites specific early charts—Bianco's 'De la Man Satanagio' and Beccaria's 'Satanagio'—to ground the legend in historical geography. The story itself follows a group of voyagers who, having once called themselves 'Satan's children,' boldly seek the island. The demon hand appears as a physical threat: it 'lifted itself high above them, like a gigantic hand,' then 'descended with a crushing grasp' on a boat of Spanish fishermen. Higginson sustains suspense through repeated fogs, chilling waters, and the hand's unpredictable strikes. Notably, the survivors include rescued fishermen, and the tale ends with the island vanishing—a pattern of elusive islands that recurs throughout the collection.

The Sea as a Realm of Romance and Danger

In the preface, Higginson reflects on the sea's dual nature: 'the ocean forever tends to encroach on the island, the island upon the ocean. They exist side by side, friends yet enemies.' This ambivalence pervades the Satan's Hand chapter, where the ocean is alternately a 'summer sea' and a zone of 'deadly cold' and 'boiling and seething' water. The fog serves as a threshold between the known and the supernatural, obscuring islands that 'seemed to float' and amplifying the threat of the hand. Higginson's prose balances factual detail—such as the coordinates implied by 'roaring forties'—with the eerie, suggesting that these legends arose from real maritime hazards. The collection as a whole likely exploits this tension between empirical observation and mythic imagination.

Reading Between the Legends: Higginson's Editorial Voice

Higginson does not simply retell tales; he frames them with commentary. In the preface, he explicitly contrasts his project with earlier historians like George Bancroft, who 'made it a matter of actual pride that the beginning of the American annals was bare and literal.' By reclaiming these 'hazy legends,' Higginson asserts that myth is integral to national identity. His dedication 'to General Sir George Wentworth Higginson' and his reference to 'the common heritage of the English-speaking race' signal a cultural agenda: these stories unite both sides of the Atlantic. Readers should watch for how Higginson introduces each tale—whether through historical context, personal anecdote, or moral reflection—as this framing shapes the reader's experience of the legend itself.

Because the excerpts are limited to the preface and one chapter, readers should approach the collection as a sampler of Higginson's range rather than a complete narrative. The table of contents offers a roadmap, but the actual treatment of figures like Merlin or St. Brandan may differ in tone and structure. Pay attention to how Higginson balances documentation with drama: his citations of maps and sources are as much a part of the story as the supernatural events. This is a book best read sequentially, letting each legend build on the last, and with an eye for the author's own voice threading through the centuries of myth.

Reading about St. Brandan’s voyage, I remembered sitting by a gray Atlantic window as a child, half-believing the fog held those same islands. Years later, Myths and Legends of Our Own Land — Complete — Text and Context gave me that same quiet ache—not for lost places, but for the way a coastline remembers its own stories. Both books feel like old maps, worn soft at the folds.