Hodgson is like David Lindsay ("A Voyage to Arturus"): a terrible writer of leaden prose whose vision is nonetheless so astoundingly overpowering that it compels the reader despite the actual words in which that vision is expressed.
Hodgson dealt in horror, I am tempted to say "plain and simple", but Hodgson's horrors are anything but. "The House on the Borderland" is possibly his most distilled essence, though some of the Carnacki tales are also thoroughly shuddersome. But here, in "The Night Land", he has tinctured the sheer horror with that element of anomie and ages-long regret that Jack Vance later so successfully used in his masterly "Dying Earth".
If you carry on past the witless (and needless) "dream" opening, the florid language settles in and you can see past it to the monstrous world being painted. The effect is stunning. Had Hodgson's prose been only moderately better, he'd be remembered today as a master.
But make no mistake, flaws or not, this is indeed a masterpiece.