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Title: The Works of Edgar Allan Poe
The Raven Edition
Author: Edgar Allan Poe
Release Date: May 19, 2008 [eBook #25525]
[Most recently updated: January 5, 2022]
Language: English
Produced by: David Widger and Carlo Traverso
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLEN POE ***
[Illustration]
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe
IN FIVE VOLUMES
The Raven Edition
Contents
VOLUME 1.
PREFACE
LIFE OF POE
DEATH OF POE
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAALL
THE GOLD-BUG
FOUR BEASTS IN ONE—THE HOMO-CAMELEOPARD
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.(*1)
THE BALLOON-HOAX
MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE
THE OVAL PORTRAIT
VOLUME 2.
THE PURLOINED LETTER
THE THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM.
VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY
MESMERIC REVELATION
THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR
THE BLACK CAT.
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
SILENCE—A FABLE
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH.
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO.
THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE
THE ISLAND OF THE FAY
THE ASSIGNATION
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
THE PREMATURE BURIAL
THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM
LANDOR’S COTTAGE
WILLIAM WILSO
THE TELL-TALE HEART.
BERENICE
ELEONORA
NOTES TO THE SECOND VOLUME
VOLUME 3.
NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
NOTES TO THE THIRD VOLUME
LIGEIA
MORELLA
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
THE SPECTACLES
KING PEST
THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK
VOLUME 4.
THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY
LIONIZING
X-ING A PARAGRAPH
METZENGERSTEIN
THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER
THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.
HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE
A PREDICAMENT
MYSTIFICATION
DIDDLING
THE ANGEL OF THE ODD
MELLONTA TAUTA
THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE
THE OBLONG BOX
LOSS OF BREATH
THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP
THE BUSINESS MAN
THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN
MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER
THE POWER OF WORDS
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION
SHADOW—A PARABLE
VOLUME 5.
PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE
A TALE OF JERUSALEM
THE SPHINX
HOP-FROG
THE MAN OF THE CROWD
NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD
THOU ART THE MAN
WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING
BON-BON
SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE
OLD ENGLISH POETRY
POEMS
PREFACE
POEMS OF LATER LIFE
THE RAVEN
THE BELLS
ULALUME
TO HELEN
ANNABEL LEE
A VALENTINE
AN ENIGMA
FOR ANNIE
TO F——
TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
ELDORADO
TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
O MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
THE CITY IN THE SEA
THE SLEEPER
NOTES
POEMS OF MANHOOD
LENORE
TO ONE IN PARADISE
THE COLISEUM
THE HAUNTED PALACE
THE CONQUEROR WORM
SILENCE
DREAM-LAND
HYMN
TO ZANTE
SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”
POEMS OF YOUTH
INTRODUCTION TO POEMS—1831
_LETTER TO MR. B—._
SONNET—TO SCIENCE
AL AARAAF
TAMERLANE
TO HELEN
THE VALLEY OF UNREST
ISRAFEL
TO ——
TO ——
TO THE RIVER——
SONG
SPIRITS OF THE DEAD
A DREAM
ROMANCE
FAIRY-LAND
THE LAKE —— TO——
EVENING STAR
“THE HAPPIEST DAY.”
IMITATION
HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS
DREAMS
“IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE”
NOTES
DOUBTFUL POEMS
ALONE
TO ISADORE
THE VILLAGE STREET
THE FOREST REVERIE
NOTES
VOLUME 1.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
AN APPRECIATION
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “never—never more!”
This stanza from “The Raven” was recommended by James Russell
Lowell as an inscription upon the Baltimore monument which marks
the resting place of Edgar Allan Poe, the most interesting and
original figure in American letters. And, to signify that
peculiar musical quality of Poe’s genius which inthralls every
reader, Mr. Lowell suggested this additional verse, from the
“Haunted Palace”:
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling ever more,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
Born in poverty at Boston, January 19, 1809, dying under painful
circumstances at Baltimore, October 7, 1849, his whole literary
career of scarcely fifteen years a pitiful struggle for mere
subsistence, his memory malignantly misrepresented by his
earliest biographer, Griswold, how completely has truth at last
routed falsehood and how magnificently has Poe come into his own.
For “The Raven,” first published in 1845, and, within a few
months, read, recited and parodied wherever the English language
was spoken, the half-starved poet received $10! Less than a year
later his brother poet, N. P. Willis, issued this touching appeal
to the admirers of genius on behalf of the neglected author, his
dying wife and her devoted mother, then living under very
straitened circumstances in a little cottage at Fordham, N. Y.:
“Here is one of the finest scholars, one of the most original men
of genius, and one of the most industrious of the literary
profession of our country, whose temporary suspension of labor,
from bodily illness, drops him immediately to a level with the
common objects of public charity. There is no intermediate
stopping-place, no respectful shelter, where, with the delicacy
due to genius and culture, he might secure aid, till, with
returning health, he would resume his labors, and his unmortified
sense of independence.”
And this was the tribute paid by the American public to the
master who had given to it such tales of conjuring charm, of
witchery and mystery as “The Fall of the House of Usher” and
“Ligeia”; such fascinating hoaxes as “The Unparalleled Adventure
of Hans Pfaall,” “MSS. Found in a Bottle,” “A Descent Into a
Maelstrom” and “The Balloon-Hoax”; such tales of conscience as
“William Wilson,” “The Black Cat” and “The Tell-tale Heart,”
wherein the retributions of remorse are portrayed with an awful
fidelity; such tales of natural beauty as “The Island of the Fay”
and “The Domain of Arnheim”; such marvellous studies in
ratiocination as the “Gold-bug,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,”
“The Purloined Letter” and “The Mystery of Marie Roget,” the
latter, a recital of fact, demonstrating the author’s wonderful
capability of correctly analyzing the mysteries of the human
mind; such tales of illusion and banter as “The Premature Burial”
and “The System of Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether”; such bits of
extravaganza as “The Devil in the Belfry” and “The Angel of the
Odd”; such tales of adventure as “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon
Pym”; such papers of keen criticism and review as won for Poe the
enthusiastic admiration of Charles Dickens, although they made
him many enemies among the over-puffed minor American writers so
mercilessly exposed by him; such poems of beauty and melody as
“The Bells,” “The Haunted Palace,” “Tamerlane,” “The City in the
Sea” and “The Raven.” What delight for the jaded senses of the
reader is this enchanted domain of wonder-pieces! What an
atmosphere of beauty, music, color! What resources of
imagination, construction, analysis and absolute art! One might
almost sympathize with Sarah Helen Whitman, who, confessing to a
half faith in the old superstition of the significance of
anagrams, found, in the transposed letters of Edgar Poe’s name,
the words “a God-peer.” His mind, she says, was indeed a “Haunted
Palace,” echoing to the footfalls of angels and demons.
“No man,” Poe himself wrote, “has recorded, no man has dared to
record, the wonders of his inner life.”
In these twentieth century days—of lavish recognition—artistic,
popular and material—of genius, what rewards might not a Poe
claim!
Edgar’s father, a son of General David Poe, the American
revolutionary patriot and friend of Lafayette, had married Mrs.
Hopkins, an English actress, and, the match meeting with parental
disapproval, had himself taken to the stage as a profession.
Notwithstanding Mrs. Poe’s beauty and talent the young couple had
a sorry struggle for existence. When Edgar, at the age of two
years, was orphaned, the family was in the utmost destitution.
Apparently the future poet was to be cast upon the world homeless
and friendless. But fate decreed that a few glimmers of sunshine
were to illumine his life, for the little fellow was adopted by
John Allan, a wealthy merchant of Richmond, Va. A brother and
sister, the remaining children, were cared for by others.
In his new home Edgar found all the luxury and advantages money
could provide. He was petted, spoiled and shown off to strangers.
In Mrs. Allan he found all the affection a childless wife could
bestow. Mr. Allan took much pride in the captivating, precocious
lad. At the age of five the boy recited, with fine effect,
passages of English poetry to the visitors at the Allan house.
From his eighth to his thirteenth year he attended the Manor
House school, at Stoke-Newington, a suburb of London. It was the
Rev. Dr. Bransby, head of the school, whom Poe so quaintly
portrayed in “William Wilson.” Returning to Richmond in 1820
Edgar was sent to the school of Professor Joseph H. Clarke. He
proved an apt pupil. Years afterward Professor Clarke thus wrote:
“While the other boys wrote mere mechanical verses, Poe wrote
genuine poetry; the boy was a born poet. As a scholar he was
ambitious to excel. He was remarkable for self-respect, without
haughtiness. He had a sensitive and tender heart and would do
anything for a friend. His nature was entirely free from
selfishness.”
At the age of seventeen Poe entered the University of Virginia at
Charlottesville. He left that institution after one session.
Official records prove that he was not expelled. On the contrary,
he gained a creditable record as a student, although it is
admitted that he contracted debts and had “an ungovernable
passion for card-playing.” These debts may have led to his
quarrel with Mr. Allan which eventually compelled him to make his
own way in the world.
Early in 1827 Poe made his first literary venture. He induced
Calvin Thomas, a poor and youthful printer, to publish a small
volume of his verses under the title “Tamerlane and Other Poems.”
In 1829 we find Poe in Baltimore with another manuscript volume
of verses, which was soon published. Its title was “Al Aaraaf,
Tamerlane and Other Poems.” Neither of these ventures seems to
have attracted much attention.
Soon after Mrs. Allan’s death, which occurred in 1829, Poe,
through the aid of Mr. Allan, secured admission to the United
States Military Academy at West Point. Any glamour which may have
attached to cadet life in Poe’s eyes was speedily lost, for
discipline at West Point was never so severe nor were the
accommodations ever so poor. Poe’s bent was more and more toward
literature. Life at the academy daily became increasingly
distasteful. Soon he began to purposely neglect his studies and
to disregard his duties, his aim being to secure his dismissal
from the United States service. In this he succeeded. On March 7,
1831, Poe found himself free. Mr. Allan’s second marriage had
thrown the lad on his own resources. His literary career was to
begin.
Poe’s first genuine victory was won in 1833, when he was the
successful competitor for a prize of $100 offered by a Baltimore
periodical for the best prose story. “A MSS. Found in a Bottle”
was the winning tale. Poe had submitted six stories in a volume.
“Our only difficulty,” says Mr. Latrobe, one of the judges, “was
in selecting from the rich contents of the volume.”
During the fifteen years of his literary life Poe was connected
with various newspapers and magazines in Richmond, Philadelphia
and New York. He was faithful, punctual, industrious, thorough.
N. P. Willis, who for some time employed Poe as critic and
sub-editor on the “Evening Mirror,” wrote thus:
“With the highest admiration for Poe’s genius, and a willingness
to let it alone for more than ordinary irregularity, we were led
by common report to expect a very capricious attention to his
duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time
went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious.
We saw but one presentiment of the man—a quiet, patient,
industrious and most gentlemanly person.
“We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be stated in
all mention of his lamentable irregularities), that with a single
glass of wine his whole nature was reversed, the demon became
uppermost, and, though none of the usual signs of intoxication
were visible, his will was palpably insane. In this reversed
character, we repeat, it was never our chance to meet him.”
On September 22, 1835, Poe married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, in
Baltimore. She had barely turned thirteen years, Poe himself was
but twenty-six. He then was a resident of Richmond and a regular
contributor to the “Southern Literary Messenger.” It was not
until a year later that the bride and her widowed mother followed
him thither.
Poe’s devotion to his child-wife was one of the most beautiful
features of his life. Many of his famous poetic productions were
inspired by her beauty and charm. Consumption had marked her for
its victim, and the constant efforts of husband and mother were
to secure for her all the comfort and happiness their slender
means permitted. Virginia died January 30, 1847, when but
twenty-five years of age. A friend of the family pictures the
death-bed scene—mother and husband trying to impart warmth to her
by chafing her hands and her feet, while her pet cat was suffered
to nestle upon her bosom for the sake of added warmth.
These verses from “Annabel Lee,” written by Poe in 1849, the last
year of his life, tell of his sorrow at the loss of his
child-wife:
_I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,
In a kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea.
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
Poe was connected at various times and in various capacities with
the “Southern Literary Messenger” in Richmond, Va.; “Graham’s
Magazine” and the “Gentleman’s Magazine” in Philadelphia; the
“Evening Mirror,” the “Broadway Journal,” and “Godey’s Lady’s
Book” in New York. Everywhere Poe’s life was one of unremitting
toil. No tales and poems were ever produced at a greater cost of
brain and spirit.
Poe’s initial salary with the “Southern Literary Messenger,” to
which he contributed the first drafts of a number of his
best-known tales, was $10 a week! Two years later his salary was
but $600 a year. Even in 1844, when his literary reputation was
established securely, he wrote to a friend expressing his
pleasure because a magazine to which he was to contribute had
agreed to pay him $20 monthly for two pages of criticism.
Those were discouraging times in American literature, but Poe
never lost faith. He was finally to triumph wherever pre-eminent
talents win admirers. His genius has had no better description
than in this stanza from William Winter’s poem, read at the
dedication exercises of the Actors’ Monument to Poe, May 4, 1885,
in New York:
He was the voice of beauty and of woe,
Passion and mystery and the dread unknown;
Pure as the mountains of perpetual snow,
Cold as the icy winds that round them moan,
Dark as the caves wherein earth’s thunders groan,
Wild as the tempests of the upper sky,
Sweet as the faint, far-off celestial tone of angel whispers,
fluttering from on high,
And tender as love’s tear when youth and beauty die.
In the two and a half score years that have elapsed since Poe’s
death he has come fully into his own. For a while Griswold’s
malignant misrepresentations colored the public estimate of Poe
as man and as writer. But, thanks to J. H. Ingram, W. F. Gill,
Eugene Didier, Sarah Helen Whitman and others these scandals have
been dispelled and Poe is seen as he actually was—not as a man
without failings, it is true, but as the finest and most original
genius in American letters. As the years go on his fame
increases. His works have been translated into many foreign
languages. His is a household name in France and England—in fact,
the latter nation has often uttered the reproach that Poe’s own
country has been slow to appreciate him. But that reproach, if it
ever was warranted, certainly is untrue.
W. H. R.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
By James Russell Lowell
The situation of American literature is anomalous. It has no
centre, or, if it have, it is like that of the sphere of Hermes.
It is divided into many systems, each revolving round its several
suns, and often presenting to the rest only the faint glimmer of
a milk-and-water way. Our capital city, unlike London or Paris,
is not a great central heart from which life and vigor radiate to
the extremities, but resembles more an isolated umbilicus stuck
down as near as may be to the centre of the land, and seeming
rather to tell a legend of former usefulness than to serve any
present need. Boston, New York, Philadelphia, each has its
literature almost more distinct than those of the different
dialects of Germany; and the Young Queen of the West has also one
of her own, of which some articulate rumor barely has reached us
dwellers by the Atlantic.
Perhaps there is no task more difficult than the just criticism
of contemporary literature. It is even more grateful to give
praise where it is needed than where it is deserved, and
friendship so often seduces the iron stylus of justice into a
vague flourish, that she writes what seems rather like an epitaph
than a criticism. Yet if praise be given as an alms, we could not
drop so poisonous a one into any man’s hat. The critic’s ink may
suffer equally from too large an infusion of nutgalls or of
sugar. But it is easier to be generous than to be just, and we
might readily put faith in that fabulous direction to the hiding
place of truth, did we judge from the amount of water which we
usually find mixed with it.
Remarkable experiences are usually confined to the inner life of
imaginative men, but Mr. Poe’s biography displays a vicissitude
and peculiarity of interest such as is rarely met with. The
offspring of a romantic marriage, and left an orphan at an early
age, he was adopted by Mr. Allan, a wealthy Virginian, whose
barren marriage-bed seemed the warranty of a large estate to the
young poet.
Having received a classical education in England, he returned
home and entered the University of Virginia, where, after an
extravagant course, followed by reformation at the last
extremity, he was graduated with the highest honors of his class.
Then came a boyish attempt to join the fortunes of the insurgent
Greeks, which ended at St. Petersburg, where he got into
difficulties through want of a passport, from which he was
rescued by the American consul and sent home. He now entered the
military academy at West Point, from which he obtained a
dismissal on hearing of the birth of a son to his adopted father,
by a second marriage, an event which cut off his expectations as
an heir. The death of Mr. Allan, in whose will his name was not
mentioned, soon after relieved him of all doubt in this regard,
and he committed himself at once to authorship for a support.
Previously to this, however, he had published (in 1827) a small
volume of poems, which soon ran through three editions, and
excited high expectations of its author’s future distinction in
the minds of many competent judges.
That no certain augury can be drawn from a poet’s earliest
lispings there are instances enough to prove. Shakespeare’s first
poems, though brimful of vigor and youth and picturesqueness,
give but a very faint promise of the directness, condensation and
overflowing moral of his maturer works. Perhaps, however,
Shakespeare is hardly a case in point, his “Venus and Adonis”
having been published, we believe, in his twenty-sixth year.
Milton’s Latin verses show tenderness, a fine eye for nature, and
a delicate appreciation of classic models, but give no hint of
the author of a new style in poetry. Pope’s youthful pieces have
all the sing-song, wholly unrelieved by the glittering malignity
and eloquent irreligion of his later productions. Collins’ callow
namby-pamby died and gave no sign of the vigorous and original
genius which he afterward displayed. We have never thought that
the world lost more in the “marvellous boy,” Chatterton, than a
very ingenious imitator of obscure and antiquated dulness. Where
he becomes original (as it is called), the interest of ingenuity
ceases and he becomes stupid. Kirke White’s promises were
indorsed by the respectable name of Mr. Southey, but surely with
no authority from Apollo. They have the merit of a traditional
piety, which to our mind, if uttered at all, had been less
objectionable in the retired closet of a diary, and in the sober
raiment of prose. They do not clutch hold of the memory with the
drowning pertinacity of Watts; neither have they the interest of
his occasional simple, lucky beauty. Burns having fortunately
been rescued by his humble station from the contaminating society
of the “Best models,” wrote well and naturally from the first.
Had he been unfortunate enough to have had an educated taste, we
should have had a series of poems from which, as from his
letters, we could sift here and there a kernel from the mass of
chaff. Coleridge’s youthful efforts give no promise whatever of
that poetical genius which produced at once the wildest,
tenderest, most original and most purely imaginative poems of
modern times. Byron’s “Hours of Idleness” would never find a
reader except from an intrepid and indefatigable curiosity. In
Wordsworth’s first preludings there is but a dim foreboding of
the creator of an era. From Southey’s early poems, a safer augury
might have been drawn. They show the patient investigator, the
close student of history, and the unwearied explorer of the
beauties of predecessors, but they give no assurances of a man
who should add aught to stock of household words, or to the rarer
and more sacred delights of the fireside or the arbor. The
earliest specimens of Shelley’s poetic mind already, also, give
tokens of that ethereal sublimation in which the spirit seems to
soar above the regions of words, but leaves its body, the verse,
to be entombed, without hope of resurrection, in a mass of them.
Cowley is generally instanced as a wonder of precocity. But his
early insipidities show only a capacity for rhyming and for the
metrical arrangement of certain conventional combinations of
words, a capacity wholly dependent on a delicate physical
organization, and an unhappy memory. An early poem is only
remarkable when it displays an effort of _reason,_ and the rudest
verses in which we can trace some conception of the ends of
poetry, are worth all the miracles of smooth juvenile
versification. A school-boy, one would say, might acquire the
regular see-saw of Pope merely by an association with the motion
of the play-ground tilt.
Mr. Poe’s early productions show that he could see through the
verse to the spirit beneath, and that he already had a feeling
that all the life and grace of the one must depend on and be
modulated by the will of the other. We call them the most
remarkable boyish poems that we have ever read. We know of none
that can compare with them for maturity of purpose, and a nice
understanding of the effects of language and metre. Such pieces
are only valuable when they display what we can only express by
the contradictory phrase of _innate experience._ We copy one of
the shorter poems, written when the author was only fourteen.
There is a little dimness in the filling up, but the grace and
symmetry of the outline are such as few poets ever attain. There
is a smack of ambrosia about it.
TO HELEN
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand!
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
It is the tendency of the young poet that impresses us. Here is
no “withering scorn,” no heart “blighted” ere it has safely got
into its teens, none of the drawing-room sansculottism which
Byron had brought into vogue. All is limpid and serene, with a
pleasant dash of the Greek Helicon in it. The melody of the
whole, too, is remarkable. It is not of that kind which can be
demonstrated arithmetically upon the tips of the fingers. It is
of that finer sort which the inner ear alone _can_ estimate. It
seems simple, like a Greek column, because of its perfection. In
a poem named “Ligeia,” under which title he intended to personify
the music of nature, our boy-poet gives us the following
exquisite picture:
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one,
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
Say, is it thy will,
On the breezes to toss,
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone albatross,
Incumbent on night,
As she on the air,
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
John Neal, himself a man of genius, and whose lyre has been too
long capriciously silent, appreciated the high merit of these and
similar passages, and drew a proud horoscope for their author.
Mr. Poe had that indescribable something which men have agreed to
call _genius_. No man could ever tell us precisely what it is,
and yet there is none who is not inevitably aware of its presence
and its power. Let talent writhe and contort itself as it may, it
has no such magnetism. Larger of bone and sinew it may be, but
the wings are wanting. Talent sticks fast to earth, and its most
perfect works have still one foot of clay. Genius claims kindred
with the very workings of Nature herself, so that a sunset shall
seem like a quotation from Dante, and if Shakespeare be read in
the very presence of the sea itself, his verses shall but seem
nobler for the sublime criticism of ocean. Talent may make
friends for itself, but only genius can give to its creations the
divine power of winning love and veneration. Enthusiasm cannot
cling to what itself is unenthusiastic, nor will he ever have
disciples who has not himself impulsive zeal enough to be a
disciple. Great wits are allied to madness only inasmuch as they
are possessed and carried away by their demon, while talent keeps
him, as Paracelsus did, securely prisoned in the pommel of his
sword. To the eye of genius, the veil of the spiritual world is
ever rent asunder that it may perceive the ministers of good and
evil who throng continually around it. No man of mere talent ever
flung his inkstand at the devil.
When we say that Mr. Poe had genius, we do not mean to say that
he has produced evidence of the highest. But to say that he
possesses it at all is to say that he needs only zeal, industry,
and a reverence for the trust reposed in him, to achieve the
proudest triumphs and the greenest laurels. If we may believe the
Longinuses and Aristotles of our newspapers, we have quite too
many geniuses of the loftiest order to render a place among them
at all desirable, whether for its hardness of attainment or its
seclusion. The highest peak of our Parnassus is, according to
these gentlemen, by far the most thickly settled portion of the
country, a circumstance which must make it an uncomfortable
residence for individuals of a poetical temperament, if love of
solitude be, as immemorial tradition asserts, a necessary part of
their idiosyncrasy.
Mr. Poe has two of the prime qualities of genius, a faculty of
vigorous yet minute analysis, and a wonderful fecundity of
imagination. The first of these faculties is as needful to the
artist in words, as a knowledge of anatomy is to the artist in
colors or in stone. This enables him to conceive truly, to
maintain a proper relation of parts, and to draw a correct
outline, while the second groups, fills up and colors. Both of
these Mr. Poe has displayed with singular distinctness in his
prose works, the last predominating in his earlier tales, and the
first in his later ones. In judging of the merit of an author,
and assigning him his niche among our household gods, we have a
right to regard him from our own point of view, and to measure
him by our own standard. But, in estimating the amount of power
displayed in his works, we must be governed by his own design,
and placing them by the side of his own ideal, find how much is
wanting. We differ from Mr. Poe in his opinions of the objects of
art. He esteems that object to be the creation of Beauty, and
perhaps it is only in the definition of that word that we
disagree with him. But in what we shall say of his writings, we
shall take his own standard as our guide. The temple of the god
of song is equally accessible from every side, and there is room
enough in it for all who bring offerings, or seek in oracle.
In his tales, Mr. Poe has chosen to exhibit his power chiefly in
that dim region which stretches from the very utmost limits of
the probable into the weird confines of superstition and
unreality. He combines in a very remarkable manner two faculties
which are seldom found united; a power of influencing the mind of
the reader by the impalpable shadows of mystery, and a minuteness
of detail which does not leave a pin or a button unnoticed. Both
are, in truth, the natural results of the predominating quality
of his mind, to which we have before alluded, analysis. It is
this which distinguishes the artist. His mind at once reaches
forward to the effect to be produced. Having resolved to bring
about certain emotions in the reader, he makes all subordinate
parts tend strictly to the common centre. Even his mystery is
mathematical to his own mind. To him X is a known quantity all
along. In any picture that he paints he understands the chemical
properties of all his colors. However vague some of his figures
may seem, however formless the shadows, to him the outline is as
clear and distinct as that of a geometrical diagram. For this
reason Mr. Poe has no sympathy with Mysticism. The Mystic dwells
in the mystery, is enveloped with it; it colors all his thoughts;
it affects his optic nerve especially, and the commonest things
get a rainbow edging from it. Mr. Poe, on the other hand, is a
spectator _ab extra_. He analyzes, he dissects, he watches
“with an eye serene,
The very pulse of the machine,”
for such it practically is to him, with wheels and cogs and
piston-rods, all working to produce a certain end.
This analyzing tendency of his mind balances the poetical, and by
giving him the patience to be minute, enables him to throw a
wonderful reality into his most unreal fancies. A monomania he
paints with great power. He loves to dissect one of these cancers
of the mind, and to trace all the subtle ramifications of its
roots. In raising images of horror, also, he has strange success,
conveying to us sometimes by a dusky hint some terrible _doubt_
which is the secret of all horror. He leaves to imagination the
task of finishing the picture, a task to which only she is
competent.
“For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles’ image stood his spear
Grasped in an armed hand; himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind.”
Besides the merit of conception, Mr. Poe’s writings have also
that of form.
His style is highly finished, graceful and truly classical. It
would be hard to find a living author who had displayed such
varied powers. As an example of his style we would refer to one
of his tales, “The House of Usher,” in the first volume of his
“Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque.” It has a singular charm
for us, and we think that no one could read it without being
strongly moved by its serene and sombre beauty. Had its author
written nothing else, it would alone have been enough to stamp
him as a man of genius, and the master of a classic style. In
this tale occurs, perhaps, the most beautiful of his poems.
The great masters of imagination have seldom resorted to the
vague and the unreal as sources of effect. They have not used
dread and horror alone, but only in combination with other
qualities, as means of subjugating the fancies of their readers.
The loftiest muse has ever a household and fireside charm about
her. Mr. Poe’s secret lies mainly in the skill with which he has
employed the strange fascination of mystery and terror. In this
his success is so great and striking as to deserve the name of
art, not artifice. We cannot call his materials the noblest or
purest, but we must concede to him the highest merit of
construction.
As a critic, Mr. Poe was aesthetically deficient. Unerring in his
analysis of dictions, metres and plots, he seemed wanting in the
faculty of perceiving the profounder ethics of art. His
criticisms are, however, distinguished for scientific precision
and coherence of logic. They have the exactness, and at the same
time, the coldness of mathematical demonstrations. Yet they stand
in strikingly refreshing contrast with the vague generalisms and
sharp personalities of the day. If deficient in warmth, they are
also without the heat of partisanship. They are especially
valuable as illustrating the great truth, too generally
overlooked, that analytic power is a subordinate quality of the
critic.
On the whole, it may be considered certain that Mr. Poe has
attained an individual eminence in our literature which he will
keep. He has given proof of power and originality. He has done
that which could only be done once with success or safety, and
the imitation or repetition of which would produce weariness.
DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE
By N. P. Willis
The ancient fable of two antagonistic spirits imprisoned in one
body, equally powerful and having the complete mastery by
turns-of one man, that is to say, inhabited by both a devil and
an angel seems to have been realized, if all we hear is true, in
the character of the extraordinary man whose name we have written
above. Our own impression of the nature of Edgar A. Poe, differs
in some important degree, however, from that which has been
generally conveyed in the notices of his death. Let us, before
telling what we personally know of him, copy a graphic and highly
finished portraiture, from the pen of Dr. Rufus W. Griswold,
which appeared in a recent number of the “Tribune”:
“Edgar Allen Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore on Sunday, October
7th. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved
by it. The poet was known, personally or by reputation, in all
this country; he had readers in England and in several of the
states of Continental Europe; but he had few or no friends; and
the regrets for his death will be suggested principally by the
consideration that in him literary art has lost one of its most
brilliant but erratic stars.
“His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its
eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishing skill, and
his large and variably expressive eyes looked repose or shot
fiery tumult into theirs who listened, while his own face glowed,
or was changeless in pallor, as his imagination quickened his
blood or drew it back frozen to his heart. His imagery was from
the worlds which no mortals can see but with the vision of
genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharply
defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected
the forms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of
accretion, built up his ocular demonstrations in forms of
gloomiest and ghastliest grandeur, or in those of the most airy
and delicious beauty, so minutely and distinctly, yet so rapidly,
that the attention which was yielded to him was chained till it
stood among his wonderful creations, till he himself dissolved
the spell, and brought his hearers back to common and base
existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest
passion.
“He was at all times a dreamer dwelling in ideal realms in heaven
or hell peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his
brain. He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips
moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate
prayer (never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel,
that he was already damned, but) for their happiness who at the
moment were objects of his idolatry; or with his glances
introverted to a heart gnawed with anguish, and with a face
shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms, and all
night, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds and
rains, would speak as if the spirits that at such times only
could be evoked by him from the Aidenn, close by whose portals
his disturbed soul sought to forget the ills to which his
constitution subjected him—close by the Aidenn where were those
he loved—the Aidenn which he might never see, but in fitful
glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less fiery and more
happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of
death.
“He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will
and engrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some
controlling sorrow. The remarkable poem of ‘The Raven’ was
probably much more nearly than has been supposed, even by those
who were very intimate with him, a reflection and an echo of his
own history. _He_ was that bird’s
“‘Unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—never more.’
“Every genuine author in a greater or less degree leaves in his
works, whatever their design, traces of his personal character:
elements of his immortal being, in which the individual survives
the person. While we read the pages of the ‘Fall of the House of
Usher,’ or of ‘Mesmeric Revelations,’ we see in the solemn and
stately gloom which invests one, and in the subtle metaphysical
analysis of both, indications of the idiosyncrasies of what was
most remarkable and peculiar in the author’s intellectual nature.
But we see here only the better phases of his nature, only the
symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience had
deprived him of all faith in man or woman. He had made up his
mind upon the numberless complexities of the social world, and
the whole system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave
a direction to his shrewd and naturally unamiable character.
Still, though he regarded society as composed altogether of
villains, the sharpness of his intellect was not of that kind
which enabled him to cope with villany, while it continually
caused him by overshots to fail of the success of honesty. He was
in many respects like Francis Vivian in Bulwer’s novel of ‘The
Caxtons.’ Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst
emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not
contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak
of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing
natural advantages of this poor boy—his beauty, his readiness,
the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery
atmosphere—had raised his constitutional self-confidence into an
arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into
prejudices against him. Irascible, envious—bad enough, but not
the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with
a cold, repellant cynicism, his passions vented themselves in
sneers. There seemed to him no moral susceptibility; and, what
was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the
true point of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that, desire to
rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the
esteem or the love of his species; only the hard wish to
succeed—not shine, not serve—succeed, that he might have the
right to despise a world which galled his self-conceit.
“We have suggested the influence of his aims and vicissitudes
upon his literature. It was more conspicuous in his later than in
his earlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or
three years—including much of his best poetry—was in some sense
biographical; in draperies of his imagination, those who had
taken the trouble to trace his steps, could perceive, but
slightly concealed, the figure of himself.”
Apropos of the disparaging portion of the above well-written
sketch, let us truthfully say:
Some four or five years since, when editing a daily paper in this
city, Mr. Poe was employed by us, for several months, as critic
and sub-editor. This was our first personal acquaintance with
him. He resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles
out of town, but was at his desk in the office, from nine in the
morning till the evening paper went to press. With the highest
admiration for his genius, and a willingness to let it atone for
more than ordinary irregularity, we were led by common report to
expect a very capricious attention to his duties, and
occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on,
however, and he was invariably punctual and industrious. With his
pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a reminder of what
genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him
always with deferential courtesy, and, to our occasional request
that he would not probe too deep in a criticism, or that he would
erase a passage colored too highly with his resentments against
society and mankind, he readily and courteously assented—far more
yielding than most men, we thought, on points so excusably
sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead in another
periodical, he, at last, voluntarily gave up his employment with
us, and, through all this considerable period, we had seen but
one presentment of the man—a quiet, patient, industrious, and
most gentlemanly person, commanding the utmost respect and good
feeling by his unvarying deportment and ability.
Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in hours
of leisure; but he frequently called on us afterward at our place
of business, and we met him often in the street—invariably the
same sad mannered, winning and refined gentleman, such as we had
always known him. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his
death, that we knew of any other development of manner or
character. We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be
stated in all mention of his lamentable irregularities), that,
with a single glass of wine, his whole nature was reversed, the
demon became uppermost, and, though none of the usual signs of
intoxication were visible, his will was palpably insane.
Possessing his reasoning faculties in excited activity, at such
times, and seeking his acquaintances with his wonted look and
memory, he easily seemed personating only another phase of his
natural character, and was accused, accordingly, of insulting
arrogance and bad-heartedness. In this reversed character, we
repeat, it was never our chance to see him. We know it from
hearsay, and we mention it in connection with this sad infirmity
of physical constitution; which puts it upon very nearly the
ground of a temporary and almost irresponsible insanity.
The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart, of which Mr. Poe
was generally accused, seem to us referable altogether to this
reversed phase of his character. Under that degree of
intoxication which only acted upon him by demonizing his sense of
truth and right, he doubtless said and did much that was wholly
irreconcilable with his better nature; but, when himself, and as
we knew him only, his modesty and unaffected humility, as to his
own deservings, were a constant charm to his character. His
letters, of which the constant application for autographs has
taken from us, we are sorry to confess, the greater portion,
exhibited this quality very strongly. In one of the carelessly
written notes of which we chance still to retain possession, for
instance, he speaks of “The Raven”—that extraordinary poem which
electrified the world of imaginative readers, and has become the
type of a school of poetry of its own—and, in evident earnest,
attributes its success to the few words of commendation with
which we had prefaced it in this paper. It will throw light on
his sane character to give a literal copy of the note:
“FORDHAM, _April_ 20, 1849
“MY DEAR WILLIS—The poem which I inclose, and which I am so vain
as to hope you will like, in some respects, has been just
published in a paper for which sheer necessity compels me to
write, now and then. It pays well as times go-but unquestionably
it ought to pay ten prices; for whatever I send it I feel I am
consigning to the tomb of the Capulets. The verses accompanying
this, may I beg you to take out of the tomb, and bring them to
light in the ‘Home Journal?’ If you can oblige me so far as to
copy them, I do not think it will be necessary to say ‘From the
——,’ that would be too bad; and, perhaps, ‘From a late —— paper,’
would do.
“I have not forgotten how a ‘good word in season’ from you made
‘The Raven,’ and made ‘Ulalume’ (which by-the-way, people have
done me the honor of attributing to you), therefore, I _would_
ask you (if I dared) to say something of these lines if they
please you.
“Truly yours ever,
“EDGAR A. POE.”
In double proof of his earnest disposition to do the best for
himself, and of the trustful and grateful nature which has been
denied him, we give another of the only three of his notes which
we chance to retain:
“FORDHAM, _January_ 22, 1848.
“MY DEAR MR. WILLIS—I am about to make an effort at
re-establishing myself in the literary world, and _feel_ that I
may depend upon your aid.
“My general aim is to start a Magazine, to be called ‘The
Stylus,’ but it would be useless to me, even when established, if
not entirely out of the control of a publisher. I mean,
therefore, to get up a journal which shall be _my own_ at all
points. With this end in view, I must get a list of at least five
hundred subscribers to begin with; nearly two hundred I have
already. I propose, however, to go South and West, among my
personal and literary friends—old college and West Point
acquaintances—and see what I can do. In order to get the means of
taking the first step, I propose to lecture at the Society
Library, on Thursday, the 3d of February, and, that there may be
no cause of _squabbling_, my subject shall _not be literary_ at
all. I have chosen a broad text: ‘The Universe.’
“Having thus given you _the facts_ of the case, I leave all the
rest to the suggestions of your own tact and generosity.
Gratefully, _most gratefully,_
“Your friend always,
“EDGAR A. POE.”
Brief and chance-taken as these letters are, we think they
sufficiently prove the existence of the very qualities denied to
Mr. Poe-humility, willingness to persevere, belief in another’s
friendship, and capability of cordial and grateful friendship!
Such he assuredly was when sane. Such only he has invariably
seemed to us, in all we have happened personally to know of him,
through a friendship of five or six years. And so much easier is
it to believe what we have seen and known, than what we hear of
only, that we remember him but with admiration and respect; these
descriptions of him, when morally insane, seeming to us like
portraits, painted in sickness, of a man we have only known in
health.
But there is another, more touching, and far more forcible
evidence that there was _goodness_ in Edgar A. Poe. To reveal it
we are obliged to venture upon the lifting of the veil which
sacredly covers grief and refinement in poverty; but we think it
may be excused, if so we can brighten the memory of the poet,
even were there not a more needed and immediate service which it
may render to the nearest link broken by his death.
Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe’s removal to this city was by a
call which we received from a lady who introduced herself to us
as the mother of his wife. She was in search of employment for
him, and she excused her errand by mentioning that he was ill,
that her daughter was a confirmed invalid, and that their
circumstances were such as compelled her taking it upon herself.
The countenance of this lady, made beautiful and saintly with an
evidently complete giving up of her life to privation and
sorrowful tenderness, her gentle and mournful voice urging its
plea, her long-forgotten but habitually and unconsciously refined
manners, and her appealing and yet appreciative mention of the
claims and abilities of her son, disclosed at once the presence
of one of those angels upon earth that women in adversity can be.
It was a hard fate that she was watching over. Mr. Poe wrote with
fastidious difficulty, and in a style too much above the popular
level to be well paid. He was always in pecuniary difficulty,
and, with his sick wife, frequently in want of the merest
necessaries of life. Winter after winter, for years, the most
touching sight to us, in this whole city, has been that tireless
minister to genius, thinly and insufficiently clad, going from
office to office with a poem, or an article on some literary
subject, to sell, sometimes simply pleading in a broken voice
that he was ill, and begging for him, mentioning nothing but that
“he was ill,” whatever might be the reason for his writing
nothing, and never, amid all her tears and recitals of distress,
suffering one syllable to escape her lips that could convey a
doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of pride in his
genius and good intentions. Her daughter died a year and a half
since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering
angel—living with him, caring for him, guarding him against
exposure, and when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief
and the loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his
self abandonment prostrated in destitution and suffering,
_begging_ for him still. If woman’s devotion, born with a first
love, and fed with human passion, hallow its object, as it is
allowed to do, what does not a devotion like this—pure,
disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisible spirit—say
for him who inspired it?
We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, on
the morning in which she heard of the death of this object of her
untiring care. It is merely a request that we would call upon
her, but we will copy a few of its words—sacred as its privacy
is—to warrant the truth of the picture we have drawn above, and
add force to the appeal we wish to make for her:
“I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie....
Can you give me any circumstances or particulars?... Oh! do not
desert your poor friend in his bitter affliction!... Ask Mr. ——
to come, as I must deliver a message to him from my poor
Eddie.... I need not ask you to notice his death and to speak
well of him. I know you will. But say what an affectionate son he
was to me, his poor desolate mother...”
To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there,
between the relinquished wealth and honors of the world, and the
story of such a woman’s unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do,
in delicacy, by making it public, we feel—other reasons
aside—that it betters the world to make known that there are such
ministrations to its erring and gifted. What we have said will
speak to some hearts. There are those who will be glad to know
how the lamp, whose light of poetry has beamed on their far-away
recognition, was watched over with care and pain, that they may
send to her, who is more darkened than they by its extinction,
some token of their sympathy. She is destitute and alone. If any,
far or near, will send to us what may aid and cheer her through
the remainder of her life, we will joyfully place it in her
hands.
THE UNPARALLELED ADVENTURES OF ONE HANS PFAAL (*1)
By late accounts from Rotterdam, that city seems to be in a high
state of philosophical excitement. Indeed, phenomena have there
occurred of a nature so completely unexpected—so entirely
novel—so utterly at variance with preconceived opinions—as to
leave no doubt on my mind that long ere this all Europe is in an
uproar, all physics in a ferment, all reason and astronomy
together by the ears.
It appears that on the—— day of—— (I am not positive about the
date), a vast crowd of people, for purposes not specifically
mentioned, were assembled in the great square of the Exchange in
the well-conditioned city of Rotterdam. The day was
warm—unusually so for the season—there was hardly a breath of air
stirring; and the multitude were in no bad humor at being now and
then besprinkled with friendly showers of momentary duration,
that fell from large white masses of cloud which chequered in a
fitful manner the blue vault of the firmament. Nevertheless,
about noon, a slight but remarkable agitation became apparent in
the assembly: the clattering of ten thousand tongues succeeded;
and, in an instant afterward, ten thousand faces were upturned
toward the heavens, ten thousand pipes descended simultaneously
from the corners of ten thousand mouths, and a shout, which could
be compared to nothing but the roaring of Niagara, resounded
long, loudly, and furiously, through all the environs of
Rotterdam.
The origin of this hubbub soon became sufficiently evident. From
behind the huge bulk of one of those sharply-defined masses of
cloud already mentioned, was seen slowly to emerge into an open
area of blue space, a queer, heterogeneous, but apparently solid
substance, so oddly shaped, so whimsically put together, as not
to be in any manner comprehended, and never to be sufficiently
admired, by the host of sturdy burghers who stood open-mouthed
below. What could it be? In the name of all the vrows and devils
in Rotterdam, what could it possibly portend? No one knew, no one
could imagine; no one—not even the burgomaster Mynheer Superbus
Von Underduk—had the slightest clew by which to unravel the
mystery; so, as nothing more reasonable could be done, every one
to a man replaced his pipe carefully in the corner of his mouth,
and cocking up his right eye towards the phenomenon, puffed,
paused, waddled about, and grunted significantly—then waddled
back, grunted, paused, and finally—puffed again.
In the meantime, however, lower and still lower toward the goodly
city, came the object of so much curiosity, and the cause of so
much smoke. In a very few minutes it arrived near enough to be
accurately discerned. It appeared to be—yes! it was undoubtedly a
species of balloon; but surely no such balloon had ever been seen
in Rotterdam before. For who, let me ask, ever heard of a balloon
manufactured entirely of dirty newspapers? No man in Holland
certainly; yet here, under the very noses of the people, or
rather at some distance above their noses was the identical thing
in question, and composed, I have it on the best authority, of
the precise material which no one had ever before known to be
used for a similar purpose. It was an egregious insult to the
good sense of the burghers of Rotterdam. As to the shape of the
phenomenon, it was even still more reprehensible. Being little or
nothing better than a huge foolscap turned upside down. And this
similitude was regarded as by no means lessened when, upon nearer
inspection, there was perceived a large tassel depending from its
apex, and, around the upper rim or base of the cone, a circle of
little instruments, resembling sheep-bells, which kept up a
continual tinkling to the tune of Betty Martin. But still worse.
Suspended by blue ribbons to the end of this fantastic machine,
there hung, by way of car, an enormous drab beaver hat, with a
brim superlatively broad, and a hemispherical crown with a black
band and a silver buckle. It is, however, somewhat remarkable
that many citizens of Rotterdam swore to having seen the same hat
repeatedly before; and indeed the whole assembly seemed to regard
it with eyes of familiarity; while the vrow Grettel Pfaall, upon
sight of it, uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise, and
declared it to be the identical hat of her good man himself. Now
this was a circumstance the more to be observed, as Pfaall, with
three companions, had actually disappeared from Rotterdam about
five years before, in a very sudden and unaccountable manner, and
up to the date of this narrative all attempts had failed of
obtaining any intelligence concerning them whatsoever. To be
sure, some bones which were thought to be human, mixed up with a
quantity of odd-looking rubbish, had been lately discovered in a
retired situation to the east of Rotterdam, and some people went
so far as to imagine that in this spot a foul murder had been
committed, and that the sufferers were in all probability Hans
Pfaall and his associates. But to return.
The balloon (for such no doubt it was) had now descended to
within a hundred feet of the earth, allowing the crowd below a
sufficiently distinct view of the person of its occupant. This
was in truth a very droll little somebody. He could not have been
more than two feet in height; but this altitude, little as it
was, would have been sufficient to destroy his equilibrium, and
tilt him over the edge of his tiny car, but for the intervention
of a circular rim reaching as high as the breast, and rigged on
to the cords of the balloon. The body of the little man was more
than proportionately broad, giving to his entire figure a
rotundity highly absurd. His feet, of course, could not be seen
at all, although a horny substance of suspicious nature was
occasionally protruded through a rent in the bottom of the car,
or to speak more properly, in the top of the hat. His hands were
enormously large. His hair was extremely gray, and collected into
a queue behind. His nose was prodigiously long, crooked, and
inflammatory; his eyes full, brilliant, and acute; his chin and
cheeks, although wrinkled with age, were broad, puffy, and
double; but of ears of any kind or character there was not a
semblance to be discovered upon any portion of his head. This odd
little gentleman was dressed in a loose surtout of sky-blue
satin, with tight breeches to match, fastened with silver buckles
at the knees. His vest was of some bright yellow material; a
white taffety cap was set jauntily on one side of his head; and,
to complete his equipment, a blood-red silk handkerchief
enveloped his throat, and fell down, in a dainty manner, upon his
bosom, in a fantastic bow-knot of super-eminent dimensions.
Having descended, as I said before, to about one hundred feet
from the surface of the earth, the little old gentleman was
suddenly seized with a fit of trepidation, and appeared
disinclined to make any nearer approach to terra firma. Throwing
out, therefore, a quantity of sand from a canvas bag, which, he
lifted with great difficulty, he became stationary in an instant.
He then proceeded, in a hurried and agitated manner, to extract
from a side-pocket in his surtout a large morocco pocket-book.
This he poised suspiciously in his hand, then eyed it with an air
of extreme surprise, and was evidently astonished at its weight.
He at length opened it, and drawing there from a huge letter
sealed with red sealing-wax and tied carefully with red tape, let
it fall precisely at the feet of the burgomaster, Superbus Von
Underduk. His Excellency stooped to take it up. But the aeronaut,
still greatly discomposed, and having apparently no farther
business to detain him in Rotterdam, began at this moment to make
busy preparations for departure; and it being necessary to
discharge a portion of ballast to enable him to reascend, the
half dozen bags which he threw out, one after another, without
taking the trouble to empty their contents, tumbled, every one of
them, most unfortunately upon the back of the burgomaster, and
rolled him over and over no less than one-and-twenty times, in
the face of every man in Rotterdam. It is not to be supposed,
however, that the great Underduk suffered this impertinence on
the part of the little old man to pass off with impunity. It is
said, on the contrary, that during each and every one of his
one-and twenty circumvolutions he emitted no less than
one-and-twenty distinct and furious whiffs from his pipe, to
which he held fast the whole time with all his might, and to
which he intends holding fast until the day of his death.
In the meantime the balloon arose like a lark, and, soaring far
away above the city, at length drifted quietly behind a cloud
similar to that from which it had so oddly emerged, and was thus
lost forever to the wondering eyes of the good citizens of
Rotterdam. All attention was now directed to the letter, the
descent of which, and the consequences attending thereupon, had
proved so fatally subversive of both person and personal dignity
to his Excellency, the illustrious Burgomaster Mynheer Superbus
Von Underduk. That functionary, however, had not failed, during
his circumgyratory movements, to bestow a thought upon the
important subject of securing the packet in question, which was
seen, upon inspection, to have fallen into the most proper hands,
being actually addressed to himself and Professor Rub-a-dub, in
their official capacities of President and Vice-President of the
Rotterdam College of Astronomy. It was accordingly opened by
those dignitaries upon the spot, and found to contain the
following extraordinary, and indeed very serious, communication:
“To their Excellencies Von Underduk and Rub-a-dub, President and
Vice-President of the States’ College of Astronomers, in the city
of Rotterdam.
“Your Excellencies may perhaps be able to remember an humble
artizan, by name Hans Pfaall, and by occupation a mender of
bellows, who, with three others, disappeared from Rotterdam,
about five years ago, in a manner which must have been considered
by all parties at once sudden, and extremely unaccountable. If,
however, it so please your Excellencies, I, the writer of this
communication, am the identical Hans Pfaall himself. It is well
known to most of my fellow citizens, that for the period of forty
years I continued to occupy the little square brick building, at
the head of the alley called Sauerkraut, in which I resided at
the time of my disappearance. My ancestors have also resided
therein time out of mind—they, as well as myself, steadily
following the respectable and indeed lucrative profession of
mending of bellows. For, to speak the truth, until of late years,
that the heads of all the people have been set agog with
politics, no better business than my own could an honest citizen
of Rotterdam either desire or deserve. Credit was good,
employment was never wanting, and on all hands there was no lack
of either money or good-will. But, as I was saying, we soon began
to feel the effects of liberty and long speeches, and radicalism,
and all that sort of thing. People who were formerly, the very
best customers in the world, had now not a moment of time to
think of us at all. They had, so they said, as much as they could
do to read about the revolutions, and keep up with the march of
intellect and the spirit of the age. If a fire wanted fanning, it
could readily be fanned with a newspaper, and as the government
grew weaker, I have no doubt that leather and iron acquired
durability in proportion, for, in a very short time, there was
not a pair of bellows in all Rotterdam that ever stood in need of
a stitch or required the assistance of a hammer. This was a state
of things not to be endured. I soon grew as poor as a rat, and,
having a wife and children to provide for, my burdens at length
became intolerable, and I spent hour after hour in reflecting
upon the most convenient method of putting an end to my life.
Duns, in the meantime, left me little leisure for contemplation.
My house was literally besieged from morning till night, so that
I began to rave, and foam, and fret like a caged tiger against
the bars of his enclosure. There were three fellows in particular
who worried me beyond endurance, keeping watch continually about
my door, and threatening me with the law. Upon these three I
internally vowed the bitterest revenge, if ever I should be so
happy as to get them within my clutches; and I believe nothing in
the world but the pleasure of this anticipation prevented me from
putting my plan of suicide into immediate execution, by blowing
my brains out with a blunderbuss. I thought it best, however, to
dissemble my wrath, and to treat them with promises and fair
words, until, by some good turn of fate, an opportunity of
vengeance should be afforded me.
“One day, having given my creditors the slip, and feeling more
than usually dejected, I continued for a long time to wander
about the most obscure streets without object whatever, until at
length I chanced to stumble against the corner of a bookseller’s
stall. Seeing a chair close at hand, for the use of customers, I
threw myself doggedly into it, and, hardly knowing why, opened
the pages of the first volume which came within my reach. It
proved to be a small pamphlet treatise on Speculative Astronomy,
written either by Professor Encke of Berlin or by a Frenchman of
somewhat similar name. I had some little tincture of information
on matters of this nature, and soon became more and more absorbed
in the contents of the book, reading it actually through twice
before I awoke to a recollection of what was passing around me.
By this time it began to grow dark, and I directed my steps
toward home. But the treatise had made an indelible impression on
my mind, and, as I sauntered along the dusky streets, I revolved
carefully over in my memory the wild and sometimes unintelligible
reasonings of the writer. There are some particular passages
which affected my imagination in a powerful and extraordinary
manner. The longer I meditated upon these the more intense grew
the interest which had been excited within me. The limited nature
of my education in general, and more especially my ignorance on
subjects connected with natural philosophy, so far from rendering
me diffident of my own ability to comprehend what I had read, or
inducing me to mistrust the many vague notions which had arisen
in consequence, merely served as a farther stimulus to
imagination; and I was vain enough, or perhaps reasonable enough,
to doubt whether those crude ideas which, arising in
ill-regulated minds, have all the appearance, may not often in
effect possess all the force, the reality, and other inherent
properties, of instinct or intuition; whether, to proceed a step
farther, profundity itself might not, in matters of a purely
speculative nature, be detected as a legitimate source of falsity
and error. In other words, I believed, and still do believe, that
truth, is frequently of its own essence, superficial, and that,
in many cases, the depth lies more in the abysses where we seek
her, than in the actual situations wherein she may be found.
Nature herself seemed to afford me corroboration of these ideas.
In the contemplation of the heavenly bodies it struck me forcibly
that I could not distinguish a star with nearly as much
precision, when I gazed on it with earnest, direct and
undeviating attention, as when I suffered my eye only to glance
in its vicinity alone. I was not, of course, at that time aware
that this apparent paradox was occasioned by the center of the
visual area being less susceptible of feeble impressions of light
than the exterior portions of the retina. This knowledge, and
some of another kind, came afterwards in the course of an
eventful five years, during which I have dropped the prejudices
of my former humble situation in life, and forgotten the
bellows-mender in far different occupations. But at the epoch of
which I speak, the analogy which a casual observation of a star
offered to the conclusions I had already drawn, struck me with
the force of positive conformation, and I then finally made up my
mind to the course which I afterwards pursued.
“It was late when I reached home, and I went immediately to bed.
My mind, however, was too much occupied to sleep, and I lay the
whole night buried in meditation. Arising early in the morning,
and contriving again to escape the vigilance of my creditors, I
repaired eagerly to the bookseller’s stall, and laid out what
little ready money I possessed, in the purchase of some volumes
of Mechanics and Practical Astronomy. Having arrived at home
safely with these, I devoted every spare moment to their perusal,
and soon made such proficiency in studies of this nature as I
thought sufficient for the execution of my plan. In the intervals
of this period, I made every endeavor to conciliate the three
creditors who had given me so much annoyance. In this I finally
succeeded—partly by selling enough of my household furniture to
satisfy a moiety of their claim, and partly by a promise of
paying the balance upon completion of a little project which I
told them I had in view, and for assistance in which I solicited
their services. By these means—for they were ignorant men—I found
little difficulty in gaining them over to my purpose.
“Matters being thus arranged, I contrived, by the aid of my wife
and with the greatest secrecy and caution, to dispose of what
property I had remaining, and to borrow, in small sums, under
various pretences, and without paying any attention to my future
means of repayment, no inconsiderable quantity of ready money.
With the means thus accruing I proceeded to procure at intervals,
cambric muslin, very fine, in pieces of twelve yards each; twine;
a lot of the varnish of caoutchouc; a large and deep basket of
wicker-work, made to order; and several other articles necessary
in the construction and equipment of a balloon of extraordinary
dimensions. This I directed my wife to make up as soon as
possible, and gave her all requisite information as to the
particular method of proceeding. In the meantime I worked up the
twine into a net-work of sufficient dimensions; rigged it with a
hoop and the necessary cords; bought a quadrant, a compass, a
spy-glass, a common barometer with some important modifications,
and two astronomical instruments not so generally known. I then
took opportunities of conveying by night, to a retired situation
east of Rotterdam, five iron-bound casks, to contain about fifty
gallons each, and one of a larger size; six tinned ware tubes,
three inches in diameter, properly shaped, and ten feet in
length; a quantity of a particular metallic substance, or
semi-metal, which I shall not name, and a dozen demijohns of a
very common acid. The gas to be formed from these latter
materials is a gas never yet generated by any other person than
myself—or at least never applied to any similar purpose. The
secret I would make no difficulty in disclosing, but that it of
right belongs to a citizen of Nantz, in France, by whom it was
conditionally communicated to myself. The same individual
submitted to me, without being at all aware of my intentions, a
method of constructing balloons from the membrane of a certain
animal, through which substance any escape of gas was nearly an
impossibility. I found it, however, altogether too expensive, and
was not sure, upon the whole, whether cambric muslin with a
coating of gum caoutchouc, was not equally as good. I mention
this circumstance, because I think it probable that hereafter the
individual in question may attempt a balloon ascension with the
novel gas and material I have spoken of, and I do not wish to
deprive him of the honor of a very singular invention.
“On the spot which I intended each of the smaller casks to occupy
respectively during the inflation of the balloon, I privately dug
a hole two feet deep; the holes forming in this manner a circle
twenty-five feet in diameter. In the centre of this circle, being
the station designed for the large cask, I also dug a hole three
feet in depth. In each of the five smaller holes, I deposited a
canister containing fifty pounds, and in the larger one a keg
holding one hundred and fifty pounds, of cannon powder. These—the
keg and canisters—I connected in a proper manner with covered
trains; and having let into one of the canisters the end of about
four feet of slow match, I covered up the hole, and placed the
cask over it, leaving the other end of the match protruding about
an inch, and barely visible beyond the cask. I then filled up the
remaining holes, and placed the barrels over them in their
destined situation.
“Besides the articles above enumerated, I conveyed to the depot,
and there secreted, one of M. Grimm’s improvements upon the
apparatus for condensation of the atmospheric air. I found this
machine, however, to require considerable alteration before it
could be adapted to the purposes to which I intended making it
applicable. But, with severe labor and unremitting perseverance,
I at length met with entire success in all my preparations. My
balloon was soon completed. It would contain more than forty
thousand cubic feet of gas; would take me up easily, I
calculated, with all my implements, and, if I managed rightly,
with one hundred and seventy-five pounds of ballast into the
bargain. It had received three coats of varnish, and I found the
cambric muslin to answer all the purposes of silk itself, quite
as strong and a good deal less expensive.
“Everything being now ready, I exacted from my wife an oath of
secrecy in relation to all my actions from the day of my first
visit to the bookseller’s stall; and promising, on my part, to
return as soon as circumstances would permit, I gave her what
little money I had left, and bade her farewell. Indeed I had no
fear on her account. She was what people call a notable woman,
and could manage matters in the world without my assistance. I
believe, to tell the truth, she always looked upon me as an idle
boy, a mere make-weight, good for nothing but building castles in
the air, and was rather glad to get rid of me. It was a dark
night when I bade her good-bye, and taking with me, as
aides-de-camp, the three creditors who had given me so much
trouble, we carried the balloon, with the car and accoutrements,
by a roundabout way, to the station where the other articles were
deposited. We there found them all unmolested, and I proceeded
immediately to business.
“It was the first of April. The night, as I said before, was
dark; there was not a star to be seen; and a drizzling rain,
falling at intervals, rendered us very uncomfortable. But my
chief anxiety was concerning the balloon, which, in spite of the
varnish with which it was defended, began to grow rather heavy
with the moisture; the powder also was liable to damage. I
therefore kept my three duns working with great diligence,
pounding down ice around the central cask, and stirring the acid
in the others. They did not cease, however, importuning me with
questions as to what I intended to do with all this apparatus,
and expressed much dissatisfaction at the terrible labor I made
them undergo. They could not perceive, so they said, what good
was likely to result from their getting wet to the skin, merely
to take a part in such horrible incantations. I began to get
uneasy, and worked away with all my might, for I verily believe
the idiots supposed that I had entered into a compact with the
devil, and that, in short, what I was now doing was nothing
better than it should be. I was, therefore, in great fear of
their leaving me altogether. I contrived, however, to pacify them
by promises of payment of all scores in full, as soon as I could
bring the present business to a termination. To these speeches
they gave, of course, their own interpretation; fancying, no
doubt, that at all events I should come into possession of vast
quantities of ready money; and provided I paid them all I owed,
and a trifle more, in consideration of their services, I dare say
they cared very little what became of either my soul or my
carcass.
“In about four hours and a half I found the balloon sufficiently
inflated. I attached the car, therefore, and put all my
implements in it—not forgetting the condensing apparatus, a
copious supply of water, and a large quantity of provisions, such
as pemmican, in which much nutriment is contained in
comparatively little bulk. I also secured in the car a pair of
pigeons and a cat. It was now nearly daybreak, and I thought it
high time to take my departure. Dropping a lighted cigar on the
ground, as if by accident, I took the opportunity, in stooping to
pick it up, of igniting privately the piece of slow match, whose
end, as I said before, protruded a very little beyond the lower
rim of one of the smaller casks. This manoeuvre was totally
unperceived on the part of the three duns; and, jumping into the
car, I immediately cut the single cord which held me to the
earth, and was pleased to find that I shot upward, carrying with
all ease one hundred and seventy-five pounds of leaden ballast,
and able to have carried up as many more.
“Scarcely, however, had I attained the height of fifty yards,
when, roaring and rumbling up after me in the most horrible and
tumultuous manner, came so dense a hurricane of fire, and smoke,
and sulphur, and legs and arms, and gravel, and burning wood, and
blazing metal, that my very heart sunk within me, and I fell down
in the bottom of the car, trembling with unmitigated terror.
Indeed, I now perceived that I had entirely overdone the
business, and that the main consequences of the shock were yet to
be experienced. Accordingly, in less than a second, I felt all
the blood in my body rushing to my temples, and immediately
thereupon, a concussion, which I shall never forget, burst
abruptly through the night and seemed to rip the very firmament
asunder. When I afterward had time for reflection, I did not fail
to attribute the extreme violence of the explosion, as regarded
myself, to its proper cause—my situation directly above it, and
in the line of its greatest power. But at the time, I thought
only of preserving my life. The balloon at first collapsed, then
furiously expanded, then whirled round and round with horrible
velocity, and finally, reeling and staggering like a drunken man,
hurled me with great force over the rim of the car, and left me
dangling, at a terrific height, with my head downward, and my
face outwards, by a piece of slender cord about three feet in
length, which hung accidentally through a crevice near the bottom
of the wicker-work, and in which, as I fell, my left foot became
most providentially entangled. It is impossible—utterly
impossible—to form any adequate idea of the horror of my
situation. I gasped convulsively for breath—a shudder resembling
a fit of the ague agitated every nerve and muscle of my frame—I
felt my eyes starting from their sockets—a horrible nausea
overwhelmed me—and at length I fainted away.
“How long I remained in this state it is impossible to say. It
must, however, have been no inconsiderable time, for when I
partially recovered the sense of existence, I found the day
breaking, the balloon at a prodigious height over a wilderness of
ocean, and not a trace of land to be discovered far and wide
within the limits of the vast horizon. My sensations, however,
upon thus recovering, were by no means so rife with agony as
might have been anticipated. Indeed, there was much of incipient
madness in the calm survey which I began to take of my situation.
I drew up to my eyes each of my hands, one after the other, and
wondered what occurrence could have given rise to the swelling of
the veins, and the horrible blackness of the fingernails. I
afterward carefully examined my head, shaking it repeatedly, and
feeling it with minute attention, until I succeeded in satisfying
myself that it was not, as I had more than half suspected, larger
than my balloon. Then, in a knowing manner, I felt in both my
breeches pockets, and, missing therefrom a set of tablets and a
toothpick case, endeavored to account for their disappearance,
and not being able to do so, felt inexpressibly chagrined. It now
occurred to me that I suffered great uneasiness in the joint of
my left ankle, and a dim consciousness of my situation began to
glimmer through my mind. But, strange to say! I was neither
astonished nor horror-stricken. If I felt any emotion at all, it
was a kind of chuckling satisfaction at the cleverness I was
about to display in extricating myself from this dilemma; and I
never, for a moment, looked upon my ultimate safety as a question
susceptible of doubt. For a few minutes I remained wrapped in the
profoundest meditation. I have a distinct recollection of
frequently compressing my lips, putting my forefinger to the side
of my nose, and making use of other gesticulations and grimaces
common to men who, at ease in their arm-chairs, meditate upon
matters of intricacy or importance. Having, as I thought,
sufficiently collected my ideas, I now, with great caution and
deliberation, put my hands behind my back, and unfastened the
large iron buckle which belonged to the waistband of my
inexpressibles. This buckle had three teeth, which, being
somewhat rusty, turned with great difficulty on their axis. I
brought them, however, after some trouble, at right angles to the
body of the buckle, and was glad to find them remain firm in that
position. Holding the instrument thus obtained within my teeth, I
now proceeded to untie the knot of my cravat. I had to rest
several times before I could accomplish this manoeuvre, but it
was at length accomplished. To one end of the cravat I then made
fast the buckle, and the other end I tied, for greater security,
tightly around my wrist. Drawing now my body upwards, with a
prodigious exertion of muscular force, I succeeded, at the very
first trial, in throwing the buckle over the car, and entangling
it, as I had anticipated, in the circular rim of the wicker-work.
“My body was now inclined towards the side of the car, at an
angle of about forty-five degrees; but it must not be understood
that I was therefore only forty-five degrees below the
perpendicular. So far from it, I still lay nearly level with the
plane of the horizon; for the change of situation which I had
acquired, had forced the bottom of the car considerably outwards
from my position, which was accordingly one of the most imminent
and deadly peril. It should be remembered, however, that when I
fell in the first instance, from the car, if I had fallen with my
face turned toward the balloon, instead of turned outwardly from
it, as it actually was; or if, in the second place, the cord by
which I was suspended had chanced to hang over the upper edge,
instead of through a crevice near the bottom of the car,—I say it
may be readily conceived that, in either of these supposed cases,
I should have been unable to accomplish even as much as I had now
accomplished, and the wonderful adventures of Hans Pfaall would
have been utterly lost to posterity, I had therefore every reason
to be grateful; although, in point of fact, I was still too
stupid to be anything at all, and hung for, perhaps, a quarter of
an hour in that extraordinary manner, without making the
slightest farther exertion whatsoever, and in a singularly
tranquil state of idiotic enjoyment. But this feeling did not
fail to die rapidly away, and thereunto succeeded horror, and
dismay, and a chilling sense of utter helplessness and ruin. In
fact, the blood so long accumulating in the vessels of my head
and throat, and which had hitherto buoyed up my spirits with
madness and delirium, had now begun to retire within their proper
channels, and the distinctness which was thus added to my
perception of the danger, merely served to deprive me of the
self-possession and courage to encounter it. But this weakness
was, luckily for me, of no very long duration. In good time came
to my rescue the spirit of despair, and, with frantic cries and
struggles, I jerked my way bodily upwards, till at length,
clutching with a vise-like grip the long-desired rim, I writhed
my person over it, and fell headlong and shuddering within the
car.
“It was not until some time afterward that I recovered myself
sufficiently to attend to the ordinary cares of the balloon. I
then, however, examined it with attention, and found it, to my
great relief, uninjured. My implements were all safe, and,
fortunately, I had lost neither ballast nor provisions. Indeed, I
had so well secured them in their places, that such an accident
was entirely out of the question. Looking at my watch, I found it
six o’clock. I was still rapidly ascending, and my barometer gave
a present altitude of three and three-quarter miles. Immediately
beneath me in the ocean, lay a small black object, slightly
oblong in shape, seemingly about the size, and in every way
bearing a great resemblance to one of those childish toys called
a domino. Bringing my telescope to bear upon it, I plainly
discerned it to be a British ninety four-gun ship, close-hauled,
and pitching heavily in the sea with her head to the W.S.W.
Besides this ship, I saw nothing but the ocean and the sky, and
the sun, which had long arisen.
“It is now high time that I should explain to your Excellencies
the object of my perilous voyage. Your Excellencies will bear in
mind that distressed circumstances in Rotterdam had at length
driven me to the resolution of committing suicide. It was not,
however, that to life itself I had any positive disgust, but that
I was harassed beyond endurance by the adventitious miseries
attending my situation. In this state of mind, wishing to live,
yet wearied with life, the treatise at the stall of the
bookseller opened a resource to my imagination. I then finally
made up my mind. I determined to depart, yet live—to leave the
world, yet continue to exist—in short, to drop enigmas, I
resolved, let what would ensue, to force a passage, if I could,
to the moon. Now, lest I should be supposed more of a madman than
I actually am, I will detail, as well as I am able, the
considerations which led me to believe that an achievement of
this nature, although without doubt difficult, and incontestably
full of danger, was not absolutely, to a bold spirit, beyond the
confines of the possible.
“The moon’s actual distance from the earth was the first thing to
be attended to. Now, the mean or average interval between the
centres of the two planets is 59.9643 of the earth’s equatorial
radii, or only about 237,000 miles. I say the mean or average
interval, but it must be borne in mind that the form of the
moon’s orbit being an ellipse of eccentricity amounting to no
less than 0.05484 of the major semi-axis of the ellipse itself,
and the earth’s centre being situated in its focus, if I could,
in any manner, contrive to meet the moon, as it were, in its
perigee, the above mentioned distance would be materially
diminished. But, to say nothing at present of this possibility,
it was very certain that, at all events, from the 237,000 miles I
would have to deduct the radius of the earth, say 4,000, and the
radius of the moon, say 1,080, in all 5,080, leaving an actual
interval to be traversed, under average circumstances, of 231,920
miles. Now this, I reflected, was no very extraordinary distance.
Travelling on land has been repeatedly accomplished at the rate
of thirty miles per hour, and indeed a much greater speed may be
anticipated. But even at this velocity, it would take me no more
than 322 days to reach the surface of the moon. There were,
however, many particulars inducing me to believe that my average
rate of travelling might possibly very much exceed that of thirty
miles per hour, and, as these considerations did not fail to make
a deep impression upon my mind, I will mention them more fully
hereafter.
“The next point to be regarded was a matter of far greater
importance. From indications afforded by the barometer, we find
that, in ascensions from the surface of the earth we have, at the
height of 1,000 feet, left below us about one-thirtieth of the
entire mass of atmospheric air, that at 10,600 we have ascended
through nearly one-third; and that at 18,000, which is not far
from the elevation of Cotopaxi, we have surmounted one-half the
material, or, at all events, one-half the ponderable, body of air
incumbent upon our globe. It is also calculated that at an
altitude not exceeding the hundredth part of the earth’s
diameter—that is, not exceeding eighty miles—the rarefaction
would be so excessive that animal life could in no manner be
sustained, and, moreover, that the most delicate means we possess
of ascertaining the presence of the atmosphere would be
inadequate to assure us of its existence. But I did not fail to
perceive that these latter calculations are founded altogether on
our experimental knowledge of the properties of air, and the
mechanical laws regulating its dilation and compression, in what
may be called, comparatively speaking, the immediate vicinity of
the earth itself; and, at the same time, it is taken for granted
that animal life is and must be essentially incapable of
modification at any given unattainable distance from the surface.
Now, all such reasoning and from such data must, of course, be
simply analogical. The greatest height ever reached by man was
that of 25,000 feet, attained in the aeronautic expedition of
Messieurs Gay-Lussac and Biot. This is a moderate altitude, even
when compared with the eighty miles in question; and I could not
help thinking that the subject admitted room for doubt and great
latitude for speculation.
“But, in point of fact, an ascension being made to any given
altitude, the ponderable quantity of air surmounted in any
farther ascension is by no means in proportion to the additional
height ascended (as may be plainly seen from what has been stated
before), but in a ratio constantly decreasing. It is therefore
evident that, ascend as high as we may, we cannot, literally
speaking, arrive at a limit beyond which no atmosphere is to be
found. It must exist, I argued; although it may exist in a state
of infinite rarefaction.
“On the other hand, I was aware that arguments have not been
wanting to prove the existence of a real and definite limit to
the atmosphere, beyond which there is absolutely no air
whatsoever. But a circumstance which has been left out of view by
those who contend for such a limit seemed to me, although no
positive refutation of their creed, still a point worthy very
serious investigation. On comparing the intervals between the
successive arrivals of Encke’s comet at its perihelion, after
giving credit, in the most exact manner, for all the disturbances
due to the attractions of the planets, it appears that the
periods are gradually diminishing; that is to say, the major axis
of the comet’s ellipse is growing shorter, in a slow but
perfectly regular decrease. Now, this is precisely what ought to
be the case, if we suppose a resistance experienced from the
comet from an extremely rare ethereal medium pervading the
regions of its orbit. For it is evident that such a medium must,
in retarding the comet’s velocity, increase its centripetal, by
weakening its centrifugal force. In other words, the sun’s
attraction would be constantly attaining greater power, and the
comet would be drawn nearer at every revolution. Indeed, there is
no other way of accounting for the variation in question. But
again:—The real diameter of the same comet’s nebulosity is
observed to contract rapidly as it approaches the sun, and dilate
with equal rapidity in its departure towards its aphelion. Was I
not justifiable in supposing with M. Valz, that this apparent
condensation of volume has its origin in the compression of the
same ethereal medium I have spoken of before, and which is only
denser in proportion to its solar vicinity? The lenticular-shaped
phenomenon, also called the zodiacal light, was a matter worthy
of attention. This radiance, so apparent in the tropics, and
which cannot be mistaken for any meteoric lustre, extends from
the horizon obliquely upward, and follows generally the direction
of the sun’s equator. It appeared to me evidently in the nature
of a rare atmosphere extending from the sun outward, beyond the
orbit of Venus at least, and I believed indefinitely farther.(*2)
Indeed, this medium I could not suppose confined to the path of
the comet’s ellipse, or to the immediate neighborhood of the sun.
It was easy, on the contrary, to imagine it pervading the entire
regions of our planetary system, condensed into what we call
atmosphere at the planets themselves, and perhaps at some of them
modified by considerations, so to speak, purely geological.
“Having adopted this view of the subject, I had little further
hesitation. Granting that on my passage I should meet with
atmosphere essentially the same as at the surface of the earth, I
conceived that, by means of the very ingenious apparatus of M.
Grimm, I should readily be enabled to condense it in sufficient
quantity for the purposes of respiration. This would remove the
chief obstacle in a journey to the moon. I had indeed spent some
money and great labor in adapting the apparatus to the object
intended, and confidently looked forward to its successful
application, if I could manage to complete the voyage within any
reasonable period. This brings me back to the rate at which it
might be possible to travel.
“It is true that balloons, in the first stage of their ascensions
from the earth, are known to rise with a velocity comparatively
moderate. Now, the power of elevation lies altogether in the
superior lightness of the gas in the balloon compared with the
atmospheric air; and, at first sight, it does not appear probable
that, as the balloon acquires altitude, and consequently arrives
successively in atmospheric strata of densities rapidly
diminishing—I say, it does not appear at all reasonable that, in
this its progress upwards, the original velocity should be
accelerated. On the other hand, I was not aware that, in any
recorded ascension, a diminution was apparent in the absolute
rate of ascent; although such should have been the case, if on
account of nothing else, on account of the escape of gas through
balloons ill-constructed, and varnished with no better material
than the ordinary varnish. It seemed, therefore, that the effect
of such escape was only sufficient to counterbalance the effect
of some accelerating power. I now considered that, provided in my
passage I found the medium I had imagined, and provided that it
should prove to be actually and essentially what we denominate
atmospheric air, it could make comparatively little difference at
what extreme state of rarefaction I should discover it—that is to
say, in regard to my power of ascending—for the gas in the
balloon would not only be itself subject to rarefaction partially
similar (in proportion to the occurrence of which, I could suffer
an escape of so much as would be requisite to prevent explosion),
but, being what it was, would, at all events, continue
specifically lighter than any compound whatever of mere nitrogen
and oxygen. In the meantime, the force of gravitation would be
constantly diminishing, in proportion to the squares of the
distances, and thus, with a velocity prodigiously accelerating, I
should at length arrive in those distant regions where the force
of the earth’s attraction would be superseded by that of the
moon. In accordance with these ideas, I did not think it worth
while to encumber myself with more provisions than would be
sufficient for a period of forty days.
“There was still, however, another difficulty, which occasioned
me some little disquietude. It has been observed, that, in
balloon ascensions to any considerable height, besides the pain
attending respiration, great uneasiness is experienced about the
head and body, often accompanied with bleeding at the nose, and
other symptoms of an alarming kind, and growing more and more
inconvenient in proportion to the altitude attained.(*3) This was
a reflection of a nature somewhat startling. Was it not probable
that these symptoms would increase indefinitely, or at least
until terminated by death itself? I finally thought not. Their
origin was to be looked for in the progressive removal of the
customary atmospheric pressure upon the surface of the body, and
consequent distention of the superficial blood-vessels—not in any
positive disorganization of the animal system, as in the case of
difficulty in breathing, where the atmospheric density is
chemically insufficient for the due renovation of blood in a
ventricle of the heart. Unless for default of this renovation, I
could see no reason, therefore, why life could not be sustained
even in a vacuum; for the expansion and compression of chest,
commonly called breathing, is action purely muscular, and the
cause, not the effect, of respiration. In a word, I conceived
that, as the body should become habituated to the want of
atmospheric pressure, the sensations of pain would gradually
diminish—and to endure them while they continued, I relied with
confidence upon the iron hardihood of my constitution.
“Thus, may it please your Excellencies, I have detailed some,
though by no means all, the considerations which led me to form
the project of a lunar voyage. I shall now proceed to lay before
you the result of an attempt so apparently audacious in
conception, and, at all events, so utterly unparalleled in the
annals of mankind.
“Having attained the altitude before mentioned, that is to say
three miles and three-quarters, I threw out from the car a
quantity of feathers, and found that I still ascended with
sufficient rapidity; there was, therefore, no necessity for
discharging any ballast. I was glad of this, for I wished to
retain with me as much weight as I could carry, for reasons which
will be explained in the sequel. I as yet suffered no bodily
inconvenience, breathing with great freedom, and feeling no pain
whatever in the head. The cat was lying very demurely upon my
coat, which I had taken off, and eyeing the pigeons with an air
of nonchalance. These latter being tied by the leg, to prevent
their escape, were busily employed in picking up some grains of
rice scattered for them in the bottom of the car.
“At twenty minutes past six o’clock, the barometer showed an
elevation of 26,400 feet, or five miles to a fraction. The
prospect seemed unbounded. Indeed, it is very easily calculated
by means of spherical geometry, what a great extent of the
earth’s area I beheld. The convex surface of any segment of a
sphere is, to the entire surface of the sphere itself, as the
versed sine of the segment to the diameter of the sphere. Now, in
my case, the versed sine—that is to say, the thickness of the
segment beneath me—was about equal to my elevation, or the
elevation of the point of sight above the surface. ‘As five
miles, then, to eight thousand,’ would express the proportion of
the earth’s area seen by me. In other words, I beheld as much as
a sixteen-hundredth part of the whole surface of the globe. The
sea appeared unruffled as a mirror, although, by means of the
spy-glass, I could perceive it to be in a state of violent
agitation. The ship was no longer visible, having drifted away,
apparently to the eastward. I now began to experience, at
intervals, severe pain in the head, especially about the
ears—still, however, breathing with tolerable freedom. The cat
and pigeons seemed to suffer no inconvenience whatsoever.
“At twenty minutes before seven, the balloon entered a long
series of dense cloud, which put me to great trouble, by damaging
my condensing apparatus and wetting me to the skin. This was, to
be sure, a singular recontre, for I had not believed it possible
that a cloud of this nature could be sustained at so great an
elevation. I thought it best, however, to throw out two
five-pound pieces of ballast, reserving still a weight of one
hundred and sixty-five pounds. Upon so doing, I soon rose above
the difficulty, and perceived immediately, that I had obtained a
great increase in my rate of ascent. In a few seconds after my
leaving the cloud, a flash of vivid lightning shot from one end
of it to the other, and caused it to kindle up, throughout its
vast extent, like a mass of ignited and glowing charcoal. This,
it must be remembered, was in the broad light of day. No fancy
may picture the sublimity which might have been exhibited by a
similar phenomenon taking place amid the darkness of the night.
Hell itself might have been found a fitting image. Even as it
was, my hair stood on end, while I gazed afar down within the
yawning abysses, letting imagination descend, as it were, and
stalk about in the strange vaulted halls, and ruddy gulfs, and
red ghastly chasms of the hideous and unfathomable fire. I had
indeed made a narrow escape. Had the balloon remained a very
short while longer within the cloud—that is to say—had not the
inconvenience of getting wet, determined me to discharge the
ballast, inevitable ruin would have been the consequence. Such
perils, although little considered, are perhaps the greatest
which must be encountered in balloons. I had by this time,
however, attained too great an elevation to be any longer uneasy
on this head.
“I was now rising rapidly, and by seven o’clock the barometer
indicated an altitude of no less than nine miles and a half. I
began to find great difficulty in drawing my breath. My head,
too, was excessively painful; and, having felt for some time a
moisture about my cheeks, I at length discovered it to be blood,
which was oozing quite fast from the drums of my ears. My eyes,
also, gave me great uneasiness. Upon passing the hand over them
they seemed to have protruded from their sockets in no
inconsiderable degree; and all objects in the car, and even the
balloon itself, appeared distorted to my vision. These symptoms
were more than I had expected, and occasioned me some alarm. At
this juncture, very imprudently, and without consideration, I
threw out from the car three five-pound pieces of ballast. The
accelerated rate of ascent thus obtained, carried me too rapidly,
and without sufficient gradation, into a highly rarefied stratum
of the atmosphere, and the result had nearly proved fatal to my
expedition and to myself. I was suddenly seized with a spasm
which lasted for more than five minutes, and even when this, in a
measure, ceased, I could catch my breath only at long intervals,
and in a gasping manner—bleeding all the while copiously at the
nose and ears, and even slightly at the eyes. The pigeons
appeared distressed in the extreme, and struggled to escape;
while the cat mewed piteously, and, with her tongue hanging out
of her mouth, staggered to and fro in the car as if under the
influence of poison. I now too late discovered the great rashness
of which I had been guilty in discharging the ballast, and my
agitation was excessive. I anticipated nothing less than death,
and death in a few minutes. The physical suffering I underwent
contributed also to render me nearly incapable of making any
exertion for the preservation of my life. I had, indeed, little
power of reflection left, and the violence of the pain in my head
seemed to be greatly on the increase. Thus I found that my senses
would shortly give way altogether, and I had already clutched one
of the valve ropes with the view of attempting a descent, when
the recollection of the trick I had played the three creditors,
and the possible consequences to myself, should I return,
operated to deter me for the moment. I lay down in the bottom of
the car, and endeavored to collect my faculties. In this I so far
succeeded as to determine upon the experiment of losing blood.
Having no lancet, however, I was constrained to perform the
operation in the best manner I was able, and finally succeeded in
opening a vein in my right arm, with the blade of my penknife.
The blood had hardly commenced flowing when I experienced a
sensible relief, and by the time I had lost about half a moderate
basin full, most of the worst symptoms had abandoned me entirely.
I nevertheless did not think it expedient to attempt getting on
my feet immediately; but, having tied up my arm as well as I
could, I lay still for about a quarter of an hour. At the end of
this time I arose, and found myself freer from absolute pain of
any kind than I had been during the last hour and a quarter of my
ascension. The difficulty of breathing, however, was diminished
in a very slight degree, and I found that it would soon be
positively necessary to make use of my condenser. In the
meantime, looking toward the cat, who was again snugly stowed
away upon my coat, I discovered to my infinite surprise, that she
had taken the opportunity of my indisposition to bring into light
a litter of three little kittens. This was an addition to the
number of passengers on my part altogether unexpected; but I was
pleased at the occurrence. It would afford me a chance of
bringing to a kind of test the truth of a surmise, which, more
than anything else, had influenced me in attempting this
ascension. I had imagined that the habitual endurance of the
atmospheric pressure at the surface of the earth was the cause,
or nearly so, of the pain attending animal existence at a
distance above the surface. Should the kittens be found to suffer
uneasiness in an equal degree with their mother, I must consider
my theory in fault, but a failure to do so I should look upon as
a strong confirmation of my idea.
“By eight o’clock I had actually attained an elevation of
seventeen miles above the surface of the earth. Thus it seemed to
me evident that my rate of ascent was not only on the increase,
but that the progression would have been apparent in a slight
degree even had I not discharged the ballast which I did. The
pains in my head and ears returned, at intervals, with violence,
and I still continued to bleed occasionally at the nose; but,
upon the whole, I suffered much less than might have been
expected. I breathed, however, at every moment, with more and
more difficulty, and each inhalation was attended with a
troublesome spasmodic action of the chest. I now unpacked the
condensing apparatus, and got it ready for immediate use.
“The view of the earth, at this period of my ascension, was
beautiful indeed. To the westward, the northward, and the
southward, as far as I could see, lay a boundless sheet of
apparently unruffled ocean, which every moment gained a deeper
and a deeper tint of blue and began already to assume a slight
appearance of convexity. At a vast distance to the eastward,
although perfectly discernible, extended the islands of Great
Britain, the entire Atlantic coasts of France and Spain, with a
small portion of the northern part of the continent of Africa. Of
individual edifices not a trace could be discovered, and the
proudest cities of mankind had utterly faded away from the face
of the earth. From the rock of Gibraltar, now dwindled into a dim
speck, the dark Mediterranean sea, dotted with shining islands as
the heaven is dotted with stars, spread itself out to the
eastward as far as my vision extended, until its entire mass of
waters seemed at length to tumble headlong over the abyss of the
horizon, and I found myself listening on tiptoe for the echoes of
the mighty cataract. Overhead, the sky was of a jetty black, and
the stars were brilliantly visible.
“The pigeons about this time seeming to undergo much suffering, I
determined upon giving them their liberty. I first untied one of
them, a beautiful gray-mottled pigeon, and placed him upon the
rim of the wicker-work. He appeared extremely uneasy, looking
anxiously around him, fluttering his wings, and making a loud
cooing noise, but could not be persuaded to trust himself from
off the car. I took him up at last, and threw him to about half a
dozen yards from the balloon. He made, however, no attempt to
descend as I had expected, but struggled with great vehemence to
get back, uttering at the same time very shrill and piercing
cries. He at length succeeded in regaining his former station on
the rim, but had hardly done so when his head dropped upon his
breast, and he fell dead within the car. The other one did not
prove so unfortunate. To prevent his following the example of his
companion, and accomplishing a return, I threw him downward with
all my force, and was pleased to find him continue his descent,
with great velocity, making use of his wings with ease, and in a
perfectly natural manner. In a very short time he was out of
sight, and I have no doubt he reached home in safety. Puss, who
seemed in a great measure recovered from her illness, now made a
hearty meal of the dead bird and then went to sleep with much
apparent satisfaction. Her kittens were quite lively, and so far
evinced not the slightest sign of any uneasiness whatever.
“At a quarter-past eight, being no longer able to draw breath
without the most intolerable pain, I proceeded forthwith to
adjust around the car the apparatus belonging to the condenser.
This apparatus will require some little explanation, and your
Excellencies will please to bear in mind that my object, in the
first place, was to surround myself and cat entirely with a
barricade against the highly rarefied atmosphere in which I was
existing, with the intention of introducing within this
barricade, by means of my condenser, a quantity of this same
atmosphere sufficiently condensed for the purposes of
respiration. With this object in view I had prepared a very
strong perfectly air-tight, but flexible gum-elastic bag. In this
bag, which was of sufficient dimensions, the entire car was in a
manner placed. That is to say, it (the bag) was drawn over the
whole bottom of the car, up its sides, and so on, along the
outside of the ropes, to the upper rim or hoop where the net-work
is attached. Having pulled the bag up in this way, and formed a
complete enclosure on all sides, and at bottom, it was now
necessary to fasten up its top or mouth, by passing its material
over the hoop of the net-work—in other words, between the
net-work and the hoop. But if the net-work were separated from
the hoop to admit this passage, what was to sustain the car in
the meantime? Now the net-work was not permanently fastened to
the hoop, but attached by a series of running loops or nooses. I
therefore undid only a few of these loops at one time, leaving
the car suspended by the remainder. Having thus inserted a
portion of the cloth forming the upper part of the bag, I
refastened the loops—not to the hoop, for that would have been
impossible, since the cloth now intervened—but to a series of
large buttons, affixed to the cloth itself, about three feet
below the mouth of the bag, the intervals between the buttons
having been made to correspond to the intervals between the
loops. This done, a few more of the loops were unfastened from
the rim, a farther portion of the cloth introduced, and the
disengaged loops then connected with their proper buttons. In
this way it was possible to insert the whole upper part of the
bag between the net-work and the hoop. It is evident that the
hoop would now drop down within the car, while the whole weight
of the car itself, with all its contents, would be held up merely
by the strength of the buttons. This, at first sight, would seem
an inadequate dependence; but it was by no means so, for the
buttons were not only very strong in themselves, but so close
together that a very slight portion of the whole weight was
supported by any one of them. Indeed, had the car and contents
been three times heavier than they were, I should not have been
at all uneasy. I now raised up the hoop again within the covering
of gum-elastic, and propped it at nearly its former height by
means of three light poles prepared for the occasion. This was
done, of course, to keep the bag distended at the top, and to
preserve the lower part of the net-work in its proper situation.
All that now remained was to fasten up the mouth of the
enclosure; and this was readily accomplished by gathering the
folds of the material together, and twisting them up very tightly
on the inside by means of a kind of stationary tourniquet.
“In the sides of the covering thus adjusted round the car, had
been inserted three circular panes of thick but clear glass,
through which I could see without difficulty around me in every
horizontal direction. In that portion of the cloth forming the
bottom, was likewise, a fourth window, of the same kind, and
corresponding with a small aperture in the floor of the car
itself. This enabled me to see perpendicularly down, but having
found it impossible to place any similar contrivance overhead, on
account of the peculiar manner of closing up the opening there,
and the consequent wrinkles in the cloth, I could expect to see
no objects situated directly in my zenith. This, of course, was a
matter of little consequence; for had I even been able to place a
window at top, the balloon itself would have prevented my making
any use of it.
“About a foot below one of the side windows was a circular
opening, eight inches in diameter, and fitted with a brass rim
adapted in its inner edge to the windings of a screw. In this rim
was screwed the large tube of the condenser, the body of the
machine being, of course, within the chamber of gum-elastic.
Through this tube a quantity of the rare atmosphere circumjacent
being drawn by means of a vacuum created in the body of the
machine, was thence discharged, in a state of condensation, to
mingle with the thin air already in the chamber. This operation
being repeated several times, at length filled the chamber with
atmosphere proper for all the purposes of respiration. But in so
confined a space it would, in a short time, necessarily become
foul, and unfit for use from frequent contact with the lungs. It
was then ejected by a small valve at the bottom of the car—the
dense air readily sinking into the thinner atmosphere below. To
avoid the inconvenience of making a total vacuum at any moment
within the chamber, this purification was never accomplished all
at once, but in a gradual manner—the valve being opened only for
a few seconds, then closed again, until one or two strokes from
the pump of the condenser had supplied the place of the
atmosphere ejected. For the sake of experiment I had put the cat
and kittens in a small basket, and suspended it outside the car
to a button at the bottom, close by the valve, through which I
could feed them at any moment when necessary. I did this at some
little risk, and before closing the mouth of the chamber, by
reaching under the car with one of the poles before mentioned to
which a hook had been attached.
“By the time I had fully completed these arrangements and filled
the chamber as explained, it wanted only ten minutes of nine
o’clock. During the whole period of my being thus employed, I
endured the most terrible distress from difficulty of
respiration, and bitterly did I repent the negligence or rather
fool-hardiness, of which I had been guilty, of putting off to the
last moment a matter of so much importance. But having at length
accomplished it, I soon began to reap the benefit of my
invention. Once again I breathed with perfect freedom and
ease—and indeed why should I not? I was also agreeably surprised
to find myself, in a great measure, relieved from the violent
pains which had hitherto tormented me. A slight headache,
accompanied with a sensation of fulness or distention about the
wrists, the ankles, and the throat, was nearly all of which I had
now to complain. Thus it seemed evident that a greater part of
the uneasiness attending the removal of atmospheric pressure had
actually worn off, as I had expected, and that much of the pain
endured for the last two hours should have been attributed
altogether to the effects of a deficient respiration.
“At twenty minutes before nine o’clock—that is to say, a short
time prior to my closing up the mouth of the chamber, the mercury
attained its limit, or ran down, in the barometer, which, as I
mentioned before, was one of an extended construction. It then
indicated an altitude on my part of 132,000 feet, or
five-and-twenty miles, and I consequently surveyed at that time
an extent of the earth’s area amounting to no less than the three
hundred-and-twentieth part of its entire superficies. At nine
o’clock I had again lost sight of land to the eastward, but not
before I became aware that the balloon was drifting rapidly to
the N. N. W. The convexity of the ocean beneath me was very
evident indeed, although my view was often interrupted by the
masses of cloud which floated to and fro. I observed now that
even the lightest vapors never rose to more than ten miles above
the level of the sea.
“At half past nine I tried the experiment of throwing out a
handful of feathers through the valve. They did not float as I
had expected; but dropped down perpendicularly, like a bullet, en
masse, and with the greatest velocity—being out of sight in a
very few seconds. I did not at first know what to make of this
extraordinary phenomenon; not being able to believe that my rate
of ascent had, of a sudden, met with so prodigious an
acceleration. But it soon occurred to me that the atmosphere was
now far too rare to sustain even the feathers; that they actually
fell, as they appeared to do, with great rapidity; and that I had
been surprised by the united velocities of their descent and my
own elevation.
“By ten o’clock I found that I had very little to occupy my
immediate attention. Affairs went swimmingly, and I believed the
balloon to be going upward with a speed increasing momently
although I had no longer any means of ascertaining the
progression of the increase. I suffered no pain or uneasiness of
any kind, and enjoyed better spirits than I had at any period
since my departure from Rotterdam, busying myself now in
examining the state of my various apparatus, and now in
regenerating the atmosphere within the chamber. This latter point
I determined to attend to at regular intervals of forty minutes,
more on account of the preservation of my health, than from so
frequent a renovation being absolutely necessary. In the
meanwhile I could not help making anticipations. Fancy revelled
in the wild and dreamy regions of the moon. Imagination, feeling
herself for once unshackled, roamed at will among the
ever-changing wonders of a shadowy and unstable land. Now there
were hoary and time-honored forests, and craggy precipices, and
waterfalls tumbling with a loud noise into abysses without a
bottom. Then I came suddenly into still noonday solitudes, where
no wind of heaven ever intruded, and where vast meadows of
poppies, and slender, lily-looking flowers spread themselves out
a weary distance, all silent and motionless forever. Then again I
journeyed far down away into another country where it was all one
dim and vague lake, with a boundary line of clouds. And out of
this melancholy water arose a forest of tall eastern trees, like
a wilderness of dreams. And I have in mind that the shadows of
the trees which fell upon the lake remained not on the surface
where they fell, but sunk slowly and steadily down, and
commingled with the waves, while from the trunks of the trees
other shadows were continually coming out, and taking the place
of their brothers thus entombed. “This then,” I said
thoughtfully, “is the very reason why the waters of this lake
grow blacker with age, and more melancholy as the hours run on.”
But fancies such as these were not the sole possessors of my
brain. Horrors of a nature most stern and most appalling would
too frequently obtrude themselves upon my mind, and shake the
innermost depths of my soul with the bare supposition of their
possibility. Yet I would not suffer my thoughts for any length of
time to dwell upon these latter speculations, rightly judging the
real and palpable dangers of the voyage sufficient for my
undivided attention.
“At five o’clock, p.m., being engaged in regenerating the
atmosphere within the chamber, I took that opportunity of
observing the cat and kittens through the valve. The cat herself
appeared to suffer again very much, and I had no hesitation in
attributing her uneasiness chiefly to a difficulty in breathing;
but my experiment with the kittens had resulted very strangely. I
had expected, of course, to see them betray a sense of pain,
although in a less degree than their mother, and this would have
been sufficient to confirm my opinion concerning the habitual
endurance of atmospheric pressure. But I was not prepared to find
them, upon close examination, evidently enjoying a high degree of
health, breathing with the greatest ease and perfect regularity,
and evincing not the slightest sign of any uneasiness whatever. I
could only account for all this by extending my theory, and
supposing that the highly rarefied atmosphere around might
perhaps not be, as I had taken for granted, chemically
insufficient for the purposes of life, and that a person born in
such a medium might, possibly, be unaware of any inconvenience
attending its inhalation, while, upon removal to the denser
strata near the earth, he might endure tortures of a similar
nature to those I had so lately experienced. It has since been to
me a matter of deep regret that an awkward accident, at this
time, occasioned me the loss of my little family of cats, and
deprived me of the insight into this matter which a continued
experiment might have afforded. In passing my hand through the
valve, with a cup of water for the old puss, the sleeves of my
shirt became entangled in the loop which sustained the basket,
and thus, in a moment, loosened it from the bottom. Had the whole
actually vanished into air, it could not have shot from my sight
in a more abrupt and instantaneous manner. Positively, there
could not have intervened the tenth part of a second between the
disengagement of the basket and its absolute and total
disappearance with all that it contained. My good wishes followed
it to the earth, but of course, I had no hope that either cat or
kittens would ever live to tell the tale of their misfortune.
“At six o’clock, I perceived a great portion of the earth’s
visible area to the eastward involved in thick shadow, which
continued to advance with great rapidity, until, at five minutes
before seven, the whole surface in view was enveloped in the
darkness of night. It was not, however, until long after this
time that the rays of the setting sun ceased to illumine the
balloon; and this circumstance, although of course fully
anticipated, did not fail to give me an infinite deal of
pleasure. It was evident that, in the morning, I should behold
the rising luminary many hours at least before the citizens of
Rotterdam, in spite of their situation so much farther to the
eastward, and thus, day after day, in proportion to the height
ascended, would I enjoy the light of the sun for a longer and a
longer period. I now determined to keep a journal of my passage,
reckoning the days from one to twenty-four hours continuously,
without taking into consideration the intervals of darkness.
“At ten o’clock, feeling sleepy, I determined to lie down for the
rest of the night; but here a difficulty presented itself, which,
obvious as it may appear, had escaped my attention up to the very
moment of which I am now speaking. If I went to sleep as I
proposed, how could the atmosphere in the chamber be regenerated
in the interim? To breathe it for more than an hour, at the
farthest, would be a matter of impossibility, or, if even this
term could be extended to an hour and a quarter, the most ruinous
consequences might ensue. The consideration of this dilemma gave
me no little disquietude; and it will hardly be believed, that,
after the dangers I had undergone, I should look upon this
business in so serious a light, as to give up all hope of
accomplishing my ultimate design, and finally make up my mind to
the necessity of a descent. But this hesitation was only
momentary. I reflected that man is the veriest slave of custom,
and that many points in the routine of his existence are deemed
essentially important, which are only so at all by his having
rendered them habitual. It was very certain that I could not do
without sleep; but I might easily bring myself to feel no
inconvenience from being awakened at intervals of an hour during
the whole period of my repose. It would require but five minutes
at most to regenerate the atmosphere in the fullest manner, and
the only real difficulty was to contrive a method of arousing
myself at the proper moment for so doing. But this was a question
which, I am willing to confess, occasioned me no little trouble
in its solution. To be sure, I had heard of the student who, to
prevent his falling asleep over his books, held in one hand a
ball of copper, the din of whose descent into a basin of the same
metal on the floor beside his chair, served effectually to
startle him up, if, at any moment, he should be overcome with
drowsiness. My own case, however, was very different indeed, and
left me no room for any similar idea; for I did not wish to keep
awake, but to be aroused from slumber at regular intervals of
time. I at length hit upon the following expedient, which, simple
as it may seem, was hailed by me, at the moment of discovery, as
an invention fully equal to that of the telescope, the
steam-engine, or the art of printing itself.
“It is necessary to premise, that the balloon, at the elevation
now attained, continued its course upward with an even and
undeviating ascent, and the car consequently followed with a
steadiness so perfect that it would have been impossible to
detect in it the slightest vacillation whatever. This
circumstance favored me greatly in the project I now determined
to adopt. My supply of water had been put on board in kegs
containing five gallons each, and ranged very securely around the
interior of the car. I unfastened one of these, and taking two
ropes tied them tightly across the rim of the wicker-work from
one side to the other; placing them about a foot apart and
parallel so as to form a kind of shelf, upon which I placed the
keg, and steadied it in a horizontal position. About eight inches
immediately below these ropes, and four feet from the bottom of
the car I fastened another shelf—but made of thin plank, being
the only similar piece of wood I had. Upon this latter shelf, and
exactly beneath one of the rims of the keg, a small earthern
pitcher was deposited. I now bored a hole in the end of the keg
over the pitcher, and fitted in a plug of soft wood, cut in a
tapering or conical shape. This plug I pushed in or pulled out,
as might happen, until, after a few experiments, it arrived at
that exact degree of tightness, at which the water, oozing from
the hole, and falling into the pitcher below, would fill the
latter to the brim in the period of sixty minutes. This, of
course, was a matter briefly and easily ascertained, by noticing
the proportion of the pitcher filled in any given time. Having
arranged all this, the rest of the plan is obvious. My bed was so
contrived upon the floor of the car, as to bring my head, in
lying down, immediately below the mouth of the pitcher. It was
evident, that, at the expiration of an hour, the pitcher, getting
full, would be forced to run over, and to run over at the mouth,
which was somewhat lower than the rim. It was also evident, that
the water thus falling from a height of more than four feet,
could not do otherwise than fall upon my face, and that the sure
consequences would be, to waken me up instantaneously, even from
the soundest slumber in the world.
“It was fully eleven by the time I had completed these
arrangements, and I immediately betook myself to bed, with full
confidence in the efficiency of my invention. Nor in this matter
was I disappointed. Punctually every sixty minutes was I aroused
by my trusty chronometer, when, having emptied the pitcher into
the bung-hole of the keg, and performed the duties of the
condenser, I retired again to bed. These regular interruptions to
my slumber caused me even less discomfort than I had anticipated;
and when I finally arose for the day, it was seven o’clock, and
the sun had attained many degrees above the line of my horizon.
“April 3d. I found the balloon at an immense height indeed, and
the earth’s apparent convexity increased in a material degree.
Below me in the ocean lay a cluster of black specks, which
undoubtedly were islands. Far away to the northward I perceived a
thin, white, and exceedingly brilliant line, or streak, on the
edge of the horizon, and I had no hesitation in supposing it to
be the southern disk of the ices of the Polar Sea. My curiosity
was greatly excited, for I had hopes of passing on much farther
to the north, and might possibly, at some period, find myself
placed directly above the Pole itself. I now lamented that my
great elevation would, in this case, prevent my taking as
accurate a survey as I could wish. Much, however, might be
ascertained. Nothing else of an extraordinary nature occurred
during the day. My apparatus all continued in good order, and the
balloon still ascended without any perceptible vacillation. The
cold was intense, and obliged me to wrap up closely in an
overcoat. When darkness came over the earth, I betook myself to
bed, although it was for many hours afterward broad daylight all
around my immediate situation. The water-clock was punctual in
its duty, and I slept until next morning soundly, with the
exception of the periodical interruption.
“April 4th. Arose in good health and spirits, and was astonished
at the singular change which had taken place in the appearance of
the sea. It had lost, in a great measure, the deep tint of blue
it had hitherto worn, being now of a grayish-white, and of a
lustre dazzling to the eye. The islands were no longer visible;
whether they had passed down the horizon to the southeast, or
whether my increasing elevation had left them out of sight, it is
impossible to say. I was inclined, however, to the latter
opinion. The rim of ice to the northward was growing more and
more apparent. Cold by no means so intense. Nothing of importance
occurred, and I passed the day in reading, having taken care to
supply myself with books.
“April 5th. Beheld the singular phenomenon of the sun rising
while nearly the whole visible surface of the earth continued to
be involved in darkness. In time, however, the light spread
itself over all, and I again saw the line of ice to the
northward. It was now very distinct, and appeared of a much
darker hue than the waters of the ocean. I was evidently
approaching it, and with great rapidity. Fancied I could again
distinguish a strip of land to the eastward, and one also to the
westward, but could not be certain. Weather moderate. Nothing of
any consequence happened during the day. Went early to bed.
“April 6th. Was surprised at finding the rim of ice at a very
moderate distance, and an immense field of the same material
stretching away off to the horizon in the north. It was evident
that if the balloon held its present course, it would soon arrive
above the Frozen Ocean, and I had now little doubt of ultimately
seeing the Pole. During the whole of the day I continued to near
the ice. Toward night the limits of my horizon very suddenly and
materially increased, owing undoubtedly to the earth’s form being
that of an oblate spheroid, and my arriving above the flattened
regions in the vicinity of the Arctic circle. When darkness at
length overtook me, I went to bed in great anxiety, fearing to
pass over the object of so much curiosity when I should have no
opportunity of observing it.
“April 7th. Arose early, and, to my great joy, at length beheld
what there could be no hesitation in supposing the northern Pole
itself. It was there, beyond a doubt, and immediately beneath my
feet; but, alas! I had now ascended to so vast a distance, that
nothing could with accuracy be discerned. Indeed, to judge from
the progression of the numbers indicating my various altitudes,
respectively, at different periods, between six A.M. on the
second of April, and twenty minutes before nine A.M. of the same
day (at which time the barometer ran down), it might be fairly
inferred that the balloon had now, at four o’clock in the morning
of April the seventh, reached a height of not less, certainly,
than 7,254 miles above the surface of the sea. This elevation may
appear immense, but the estimate upon which it is calculated gave
a result in all probability far inferior to the truth. At all
events I undoubtedly beheld the whole of the earth’s major
diameter; the entire northern hemisphere lay beneath me like a
chart orthographically projected: and the great circle of the
equator itself formed the boundary line of my horizon. Your
Excellencies may, however, readily imagine that the confined
regions hitherto unexplored within the limits of the Arctic
circle, although situated directly beneath me, and therefore seen
without any appearance of being foreshortened, were still, in
themselves, comparatively too diminutive, and at too great a
distance from the point of sight, to admit of any very accurate
examination. Nevertheless, what could be seen was of a nature
singular and exciting. Northwardly from that huge rim before
mentioned, and which, with slight qualification, may be called
the limit of human discovery in these regions, one unbroken, or
nearly unbroken, sheet of ice continues to extend. In the first
few degrees of this its progress, its surface is very sensibly
flattened, farther on depressed into a plane, and finally,
becoming not a little concave, it terminates, at the Pole itself,
in a circular centre, sharply defined, whose apparent diameter
subtended at the balloon an angle of about sixty-five seconds,
and whose dusky hue, varying in intensity, was, at all times,
darker than any other spot upon the visible hemisphere, and
occasionally deepened into the most absolute and impenetrable
blackness. Farther than this, little could be ascertained. By
twelve o’clock the circular centre had materially decreased in
circumference, and by seven P.M. I lost sight of it entirely; the
balloon passing over the western limb of the ice, and floating
away rapidly in the direction of the equator.
“April 8th. Found a sensible diminution in the earth’s apparent
diameter, besides a material alteration in its general color and
appearance. The whole visible area partook in different degrees
of a tint of pale yellow, and in some portions had acquired a
brilliancy even painful to the eye. My view downward was also
considerably impeded by the dense atmosphere in the vicinity of
the surface being loaded with clouds, between whose masses I
could only now and then obtain a glimpse of the earth itself.
This difficulty of direct vision had troubled me more or less for
the last forty-eight hours; but my present enormous elevation
brought closer together, as it were, the floating bodies of
vapor, and the inconvenience became, of course, more and more
palpable in proportion to my ascent. Nevertheless, I could easily
perceive that the balloon now hovered above the range of great
lakes in the continent of North America, and was holding a
course, due south, which would bring me to the tropics. This
circumstance did not fail to give me the most heartful
satisfaction, and I hailed it as a happy omen of ultimate
success. Indeed, the direction I had hitherto taken, had filled
me with uneasiness; for it was evident that, had I continued it
much longer, there would have been no possibility of my arriving
at the moon at all, whose orbit is inclined to the ecliptic at
only the small angle of 5° 8′ 48″.
“April 9th. To-day the earth’s diameter was greatly diminished,
and the color of the surface assumed hourly a deeper tint of
yellow. The balloon kept steadily on her course to the southward,
and arrived, at nine P.M., over the northern edge of the Mexican
Gulf.
“April 10th. I was suddenly aroused from slumber, about five
o’clock this morning, by a loud, crackling, and terrific sound,
for which I could in no manner account. It was of very brief
duration, but, while it lasted resembled nothing in the world of
which I had any previous experience. It is needless to say that I
became excessively alarmed, having, in the first instance,
attributed the noise to the bursting of the balloon. I examined
all my apparatus, however, with great attention, and could
discover nothing out of order. Spent a great part of the day in
meditating upon an occurrence so extraordinary, but could find no
means whatever of accounting for it. Went to bed dissatisfied,
and in a state of great anxiety and agitation.
“April 11th. Found a startling diminution in the apparent
diameter of the earth, and a considerable increase, now
observable for the first time, in that of the moon itself, which
wanted only a few days of being full. It now required long and
excessive labor to condense within the chamber sufficient
atmospheric air for the sustenance of life.
“April 12th. A singular alteration took place in regard to the
direction of the balloon, and although fully anticipated,
afforded me the most unequivocal delight. Having reached, in its
former course, about the twentieth parallel of southern latitude,
it turned off suddenly, at an acute angle, to the eastward, and
thus proceeded throughout the day, keeping nearly, if not
altogether, in the exact plane of the lunar ellipse. What was
worthy of remark, a very perceptible vacillation in the car was a
consequence of this change of route—a vacillation which
prevailed, in a more or less degree, for a period of many hours.
“April 13th. Was again very much alarmed by a repetition of the
loud, crackling noise which terrified me on the tenth. Thought
long upon the subject, but was unable to form any satisfactory
conclusion. Great decrease in the earth’s apparent diameter,
which now subtended from the balloon an angle of very little more
than twenty-five degrees. The moon could not be seen at all,
being nearly in my zenith. I still continued in the plane of the
ellipse, but made little progress to the eastward.
“April 14th. Extremely rapid decrease in the diameter of the
earth. To-day I became strongly impressed with the idea, that the
balloon was now actually running up the line of apsides to the
point of perigee—in other words, holding the direct course which
would bring it immediately to the moon in that part of its orbit
the nearest to the earth. The moon itself was directly overhead,
and consequently hidden from my view. Great and long-continued
labor necessary for the condensation of the atmosphere.
“April 15th. Not even the outlines of continents and seas could
now be traced upon the earth with anything approaching
distinctness. About twelve o’clock I became aware, for the third
time, of that appalling sound which had so astonished me before.
It now, however, continued for some moments, and gathered
intensity as it continued. At length, while, stupefied and
terror-stricken, I stood in expectation of I knew not what
hideous destruction, the car vibrated with excessive violence,
and a gigantic and flaming mass of some material which I could
not distinguish, came with a voice of a thousand thunders,
roaring and booming by the balloon. When my fears and
astonishment had in some degree subsided, I had little difficulty
in supposing it to be some mighty volcanic fragment ejected from
that world to which I was so rapidly approaching, and, in all
probability, one of that singular class of substances
occasionally picked up on the earth, and termed meteoric stones
for want of a better appellation.
“April 16th. To-day, looking upward as well as I could, through
each of the side windows alternately, I beheld, to my great
delight, a very small portion of the moon’s disk protruding, as
it were, on all sides beyond the huge circumference of the
balloon. My agitation was extreme; for I had now little doubt of
soon reaching the end of my perilous voyage. Indeed, the labor
now required by the condenser had increased to a most oppressive
degree, and allowed me scarcely any respite from exertion. Sleep
was a matter nearly out of the question. I became quite ill, and
my frame trembled with exhaustion. It was impossible that human
nature could endure this state of intense suffering much longer.
During the now brief interval of darkness a meteoric stone again
passed in my vicinity, and the frequency of these phenomena began
to occasion me much apprehension.
“April 17th. This morning proved an epoch in my voyage. It will
be remembered that, on the thirteenth, the earth subtended an
angular breadth of twenty-five degrees. On the fourteenth this
had greatly diminished; on the fifteenth a still more remarkable
decrease was observable; and, on retiring on the night of the
sixteenth, I had noticed an angle of no more than about seven
degrees and fifteen minutes. What, therefore, must have been my
amazement, on awakening from a brief and disturbed slumber, on
the morning of this day, the seventeenth, at finding the surface
beneath me so suddenly and wonderfully augmented in volume, as to
subtend no less than thirty-nine degrees in apparent angular
diameter! I was thunderstruck! No words can give any adequate
idea of the extreme, the absolute horror and astonishment, with
which I was seized possessed, and altogether overwhelmed. My
knees tottered beneath me—my teeth chattered—my hair started up
on end. ‘The balloon, then, had actually burst!’ These were the
first tumultuous ideas that hurried through my mind: ‘The balloon
had positively burst!—I was falling—falling with the most
impetuous, the most unparalleled velocity! To judge by the
immense distance already so quickly passed over, it could not be
more than ten minutes, at the farthest, before I should meet the
surface of the earth, and be hurled into annihilation!’ But at
length reflection came to my relief. I paused; I considered; and
I began to doubt. The matter was impossible. I could not in any
reason have so rapidly come down. Besides, although I was
evidently approaching the surface below me, it was with a speed
by no means commensurate with the velocity I had at first so
horribly conceived. This consideration served to calm the
perturbation of my mind, and I finally succeeded in regarding the
phenomenon in its proper point of view. In fact, amazement must
have fairly deprived me of my senses, when I could not see the
vast difference, in appearance, between the surface below me, and
the surface of my mother earth. The latter was indeed over my
head, and completely hidden by the balloon, while the moon—the
moon itself in all its glory—lay beneath me, and at my feet.
“The stupor and surprise produced in my mind by this
extraordinary change in the posture of affairs was perhaps, after
all, that part of the adventure least susceptible of explanation.
For the bouleversement in itself was not only natural and
inevitable, but had been long actually anticipated as a
circumstance to be expected whenever I should arrive at that
exact point of my voyage where the attraction of the planet
should be superseded by the attraction of the satellite—or, more
precisely, where the gravitation of the balloon toward the earth
should be less powerful than its gravitation toward the moon. To
be sure I arose from a sound slumber, with all my senses in
confusion, to the contemplation of a very startling phenomenon,
and one which, although expected, was not expected at the moment.
The revolution itself must, of course, have taken place in an
easy and gradual manner, and it is by no means clear that, had I
even been awake at the time of the occurrence, I should have been
made aware of it by any internal evidence of an inversion—that is
to say, by any inconvenience or disarrangement, either about my
person or about my apparatus.
“It is almost needless to say that, upon coming to a due sense of
my situation, and emerging from the terror which had absorbed
every faculty of my soul, my attention was, in the first place,
wholly directed to the contemplation of the general physical
appearance of the moon. It lay beneath me like a chart—and
although I judged it to be still at no inconsiderable distance,
the indentures of its surface were defined to my vision with a
most striking and altogether unaccountable distinctness. The
entire absence of ocean or sea, and indeed of any lake or river,
or body of water whatsoever, struck me, at first glance, as the
most extraordinary feature in its geological condition. Yet,
strange to say, I beheld vast level regions of a character
decidedly alluvial, although by far the greater portion of the
hemisphere in sight was covered with innumerable volcanic
mountains, conical in shape, and having more the appearance of
artificial than of natural protuberance. The highest among them
does not exceed three and three-quarter miles in perpendicular
elevation; but a map of the volcanic districts of the Campi
Phlegraei would afford to your Excellencies a better idea of
their general surface than any unworthy description I might think
proper to attempt. The greater part of them were in a state of
evident eruption, and gave me fearfully to understand their fury
and their power, by the repeated thunders of the miscalled
meteoric stones, which now rushed upward by the balloon with a
frequency more and more appalling.
“April 18th. To-day I found an enormous increase in the moon’s
apparent bulk—and the evidently accelerated velocity of my
descent began to fill me with alarm. It will be remembered, that,
in the earliest stage of my speculations upon the possibility of
a passage to the moon, the existence, in its vicinity, of an
atmosphere, dense in proportion to the bulk of the planet, had
entered largely into my calculations; this too in spite of many
theories to the contrary, and, it may be added, in spite of a
general disbelief in the existence of any lunar atmosphere at
all. But, in addition to what I have already urged in regard to
Encke’s comet and the zodiacal light, I had been strengthened in
my opinion by certain observations of Mr. Schroeter, of
Lilienthal. He observed the moon when two days and a half old, in
the evening soon after sunset, before the dark part was visible,
and continued to watch it until it became visible. The two cusps
appeared tapering in a very sharp faint prolongation, each
exhibiting its farthest extremity faintly illuminated by the
solar rays, before any part of the dark hemisphere was visible.
Soon afterward, the whole dark limb became illuminated. This
prolongation of the cusps beyond the semicircle, I thought, must
have arisen from the refraction of the sun’s rays by the moon’s
atmosphere. I computed, also, the height of the atmosphere (which
could refract light enough into its dark hemisphere to produce a
twilight more luminous than the light reflected from the earth
when the moon is about 32° from the new) to be 1,356 Paris feet;
in this view, I supposed the greatest height capable of
refracting the solar ray, to be 5,376 feet. My ideas on this
topic had also received confirmation by a passage in the
eighty-second volume of the Philosophical Transactions, in which
it is stated that at an occultation of Jupiter’s satellites, the
third disappeared after having been about 1″ or 2″ of time
indistinct, and the fourth became indiscernible near the
limb.(*4)
“Upon the resistance or, more properly, upon the support of an
atmosphere, existing in the state of density imagined, I had, of
course, entirely depended for the safety of my ultimate descent.
Should I then, after all, prove to have been mistaken, I had in
consequence nothing better to expect, as a finale to my
adventure, than being dashed into atoms against the rugged
surface of the satellite. And, indeed, I had now every reason to
be terrified. My distance from the moon was comparatively
trifling, while the labor required by the condenser was
diminished not at all, and I could discover no indication
whatever of a decreasing rarity in the air.
“April 19th. This morning, to my great joy, about nine o’clock,
the surface of the moon being frightfully near, and my
apprehensions excited to the utmost, the pump of my condenser at
length gave evident tokens of an alteration in the atmosphere. By
ten, I had reason to believe its density considerably increased.
By eleven, very little labor was necessary at the apparatus; and
at twelve o’clock, with some hesitation, I ventured to unscrew
the tourniquet, when, finding no inconvenience from having done
so, I finally threw open the gum-elastic chamber, and unrigged it
from around the car. As might have been expected, spasms and
violent headache were the immediate consequences of an experiment
so precipitate and full of danger. But these and other
difficulties attending respiration, as they were by no means so
great as to put me in peril of my life, I determined to endure as
I best could, in consideration of my leaving them behind me
momently in my approach to the denser strata near the moon. This
approach, however, was still impetuous in the extreme; and it
soon became alarmingly certain that, although I had probably not
been deceived in the expectation of an atmosphere dense in
proportion to the mass of the satellite, still I had been wrong
in supposing this density, even at the surface, at all adequate
to the support of the great weight contained in the car of my
balloon. Yet this should have been the case, and in an equal
degree as at the surface of the earth, the actual gravity of
bodies at either planet supposed in the ratio of the atmospheric
condensation. That it was not the case, however, my precipitous
downfall gave testimony enough; why it was not so, can only be
explained by a reference to those possible geological
disturbances to which I have formerly alluded. At all events I
was now close upon the planet, and coming down with the most
terrible impetuosity. I lost not a moment, accordingly, in
throwing overboard first my ballast, then my water-kegs, then my
condensing apparatus and gum-elastic chamber, and finally every
article within the car. But it was all to no purpose. I still
fell with horrible rapidity, and was now not more than half a
mile from the surface. As a last resource, therefore, having got
rid of my coat, hat, and boots, I cut loose from the balloon the
car itself, which was of no inconsiderable weight, and thus,
clinging with both hands to the net-work, I had barely time to
observe that the whole country, as far as the eye could reach,
was thickly interspersed with diminutive habitations, ere I
tumbled headlong into the very heart of a fantastical-looking
city, and into the middle of a vast crowd of ugly little people,
who none of them uttered a single syllable, or gave themselves
the least trouble to render me assistance, but stood, like a
parcel of idiots, grinning in a ludicrous manner, and eyeing me
and my balloon askant, with their arms set a-kimbo. I turned from
them in contempt, and, gazing upward at the earth so lately left,
and left perhaps for ever, beheld it like a huge, dull, copper
shield, about two degrees in diameter, fixed immovably in the
heavens overhead, and tipped on one of its edges with a crescent
border of the most brilliant gold. No traces of land or water
could be discovered, and the whole was clouded with variable
spots, and belted with tropical and equatorial zones.
“Thus, may it please your Excellencies, after a series of great
anxieties, unheard of dangers, and unparalleled escapes, I had,
at length, on the nineteenth day of my departure from Rotterdam,
arrived in safety at the conclusion of a voyage undoubtedly the
most extraordinary, and the most momentous, ever accomplished,
undertaken, or conceived by any denizen of earth. But my
adventures yet remain to be related. And indeed your Excellencies
may well imagine that, after a residence of five years upon a
planet not only deeply interesting in its own peculiar character,
but rendered doubly so by its intimate connection, in capacity of
satellite, with the world inhabited by man, I may have
intelligence for the private ear of the States’ College of
Astronomers of far more importance than the details, however
wonderful, of the mere voyage which so happily concluded. This
is, in fact, the case. I have much—very much which it would give
me the greatest pleasure to communicate. I have much to say of
the climate of the planet; of its wonderful alternations of heat
and cold, of unmitigated and burning sunshine for one fortnight,
and more than polar frigidity for the next; of a constant
transfer of moisture, by distillation like that in vacuo, from
the point beneath the sun to the point the farthest from it; of a
variable zone of running water; of the people themselves; of
their manners, customs, and political institutions; of their
peculiar physical construction; of their ugliness; of their want
of ears, those useless appendages in an atmosphere so peculiarly
modified; of their consequent ignorance of the use and properties
of speech; of their substitute for speech in a singular method of
inter-communication; of the incomprehensible connection between
each particular individual in the moon with some particular
individual on the earth—a connection analogous with, and
depending upon, that of the orbs of the planet and the
satellites, and by means of which the lives and destinies of the
inhabitants of the one are interwoven with the lives and
destinies of the inhabitants of the other; and above all, if it
so please your Excellencies—above all, of those dark and hideous
mysteries which lie in the outer regions of the moon—regions
which, owing to the almost miraculous accordance of the
satellite’s rotation on its own axis with its sidereal revolution
about the earth, have never yet been turned, and, by God’s mercy,
never shall be turned, to the scrutiny of the telescopes of man.
All this, and more—much more—would I most willingly detail. But,
to be brief, I must have my reward. I am pining for a return to
my family and to my home; and as the price of any farther
communication on my part—in consideration of the light which I
have it in my power to throw upon many very important branches of
physical and metaphysical science—I must solicit, through the
influence of your honorable body, a pardon for the crime of which
I have been guilty in the death of the creditors upon my
departure from Rotterdam. This, then, is the object of the
present paper. Its bearer, an inhabitant of the moon, whom I have
prevailed upon, and properly instructed, to be my messenger to
the earth, will await your Excellencies’ pleasure, and return to
me with the pardon in question, if it can, in any manner, be
obtained.
“I have the honor to be, etc., your Excellencies’ very humble
servant,
“HANS PFAALL.”
Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document,
Professor Rub-a-dub, it is said, dropped his pipe upon the ground
in the extremity of his surprise, and Mynheer Superbus Von
Underduk having taken off his spectacles, wiped them, and
deposited them in his pocket, so far forgot both himself and his
dignity, as to turn round three times upon his heel in the
quintessence of astonishment and admiration. There was no doubt
about the matter—the pardon should be obtained. So at least
swore, with a round oath, Professor Rub-a-dub, and so finally
thought the illustrious Von Underduk, as he took the arm of his
brother in science, and without saying a word, began to make the
best of his way home to deliberate upon the measures to be
adopted. Having reached the door, however, of the burgomaster’s
dwelling, the professor ventured to suggest that as the messenger
had thought proper to disappear—no doubt frightened to death by
the savage appearance of the burghers of Rotterdam—the pardon
would be of little use, as no one but a man of the moon would
undertake a voyage to so vast a distance. To the truth of this
observation the burgomaster assented, and the matter was
therefore at an end. Not so, however, rumors and speculations.
The letter, having been published, gave rise to a variety of
gossip and opinion. Some of the over-wise even made themselves
ridiculous by decrying the whole business; as nothing better than
a hoax. But hoax, with these sort of people, is, I believe, a
general term for all matters above their comprehension. For my
part, I cannot conceive upon what data they have founded such an
accusation. Let us see what they say:
Imprimus. That certain wags in Rotterdam have certain especial
antipathies to certain burgomasters and astronomers.
Don’t understand at all.
Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of
whose ears, for some misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his
head, has been missing for several days from the neighboring city
of Bruges.
Well—what of that?
Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little
balloon were newspapers of Holland, and therefore could not have
been made in the moon. They were dirty papers—very dirty—and
Gluck, the printer, would take his Bible oath to their having
been printed in Rotterdam.
He was mistaken—undoubtedly—mistaken.
Fourthly, That Hans Pfaall himself, the drunken villain, and the
three very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no
longer than two or three days ago, in a tippling house in the
suburbs, having just returned, with money in their pockets, from
a trip beyond the sea.
Don’t believe it—don’t believe a word of it.
Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which
ought to be generally received, that the College of Astronomers
in the city of Rotterdam, as well as other colleges in all other
parts of the world,—not to mention colleges and astronomers in
general,—are, to say the least of the matter, not a whit better,
nor greater, nor wiser than they ought to be.
~~~ End of Text ~~~
Notes to Hans Pfaal
(*1) NOTE—Strictly speaking, there is but little similarity
between the above sketchy trifle and the celebrated “Moon-Story”
of Mr. Locke; but as both have the character of _hoaxes_
(although the one is in a tone of banter, the other of downright
earnest), and as both hoaxes are on the same subject, the
moon—moreover, as both attempt to give plausibility by scientific
detail—the author of “Hans Pfaall” thinks it necessary to say, in
_self-defence,_ that his own _jeu d’esprit_ was published in the
“Southern Literary Messenger” about three weeks before the
commencement of Mr. L’s in the “New York Sun.” Fancying a
likeness which, perhaps, does not exist, some of the New York
papers copied “Hans Pfaall,” and collated it with the
“Moon-Hoax,” by way of detecting the writer of the one in the
writer of the other.
As many more persons were actually gulled by the “Moon-Hoax” than
would be willing to acknowledge the fact, it may here afford some
little amusement to show why no one should have been deceived-to
point out those particulars of the story which should have been
sufficient to establish its real character. Indeed, however rich
the imagination displayed in this ingenious fiction, it wanted
much of the force which might have been given it by a more
scrupulous attention to facts and to general analogy. That the
public were misled, even for an instant, merely proves the gross
ignorance which is so generally prevalent upon subjects of an
astronomical nature.
The moon’s distance from the earth is, in round numbers, 240,000
miles. If we desire to ascertain how near, apparently, a lens
would bring the satellite (or any distant object), we, of course,
have but to divide the distance by the magnifying or, more
strictly, by the space-penetrating power of the glass. Mr. L.
makes his lens have a power of 42,000 times. By this divide
240,000 (the moon’s real distance), and we have five miles and
five sevenths, as the apparent distance. No animal at all could
be seen so far; much less the minute points particularized in the
story. Mr. L. speaks about Sir John Herschel’s perceiving flowers
(the Papaver rheas, etc.), and even detecting the color and the
shape of the eyes of small birds. Shortly before, too, he has
himself observed that the lens would not render perceptible
objects of less than eighteen inches in diameter; but even this,
as I have said, is giving the glass by far too great power. It
may be observed, in passing, that this prodigious glass is said
to have been molded at the glasshouse of Messrs. Hartley and
Grant, in Dumbarton; but Messrs. H. and G.‘s establishment had
ceased operations for many years previous to the publication of
the hoax.
On page 13, pamphlet edition, speaking of “a hairy veil” over the
eyes of a species of bison, the author says: “It immediately
occurred to the acute mind of Dr. Herschel that this was a
providential contrivance to protect the eyes of the animal from
the great extremes of light and darkness to which all the
inhabitants of our side of the moon are periodically subjected.”
But this cannot be thought a very “acute” observation of the
Doctor’s. The inhabitants of our side of the moon have,
evidently, no darkness at all, so there can be nothing of the
“extremes” mentioned. In the absence of the sun they have a light
from the earth equal to that of thirteen full unclouded moons.
The topography throughout, even when professing to accord with
Blunt’s Lunar Chart, is entirely at variance with that or any
other lunar chart, and even grossly at variance with itself. The
points of the compass, too, are in inextricable confusion; the
writer appearing to be ignorant that, on a lunar map, these are
not in accordance with terrestrial points; the east being to the
left, etc.
Deceived, perhaps, by the vague titles, Mare Nubium, Mare
Tranquillitatis, Mare Faecunditatis, etc., given to the dark
spots by former astronomers, Mr. L. has entered into details
regarding oceans and other large bodies of water in the moon;
whereas there is no astronomical point more positively
ascertained than that no such bodies exist there. In examining
the boundary between light and darkness (in the crescent or
gibbous moon) where this boundary crosses any of the dark places,
the line of division is found to be rough and jagged; but, were
these dark places liquid, it would evidently be even.
The description of the wings of the man-bat, on page 21, is but a
literal copy of Peter Wilkins’ account of the wings of his flying
islanders. This simple fact should have induced suspicion, at
least, it might be thought.
On page 23, we have the following: “What a prodigious influence
must our thirteen times larger globe have exercised upon this
satellite when an embryo in the womb of time, the passive subject
of chemical affinity!” This is very fine; but it should be
observed that no astronomer would have made such remark,
especially to any journal of Science; for the earth, in the sense
intended, is not only thirteen, but forty-nine times larger than
the moon. A similar objection applies to the whole of the
concluding pages, where, by way of introduction to some
discoveries in Saturn, the philosophical correspondent enters
into a minute schoolboy account of that planet—this to the
“Edinburgh Journal of Science!”
But there is one point, in particular, which should have betrayed
the fiction. Let us imagine the power actually possessed of
seeing animals upon the moon’s surface—what would first arrest
the attention of an observer from the earth? Certainly neither
their shape, size, nor any other such peculiarity, so soon as
their remarkable _situation_. They would appear to be walking,
with heels up and head down, in the manner of flies on a ceiling.
The _real_ observer would have uttered an instant ejaculation of
surprise (however prepared by previous knowledge) at the
singularity of their position; the _fictitious_ observer has not
even mentioned the subject, but speaks of seeing the entire
bodies of such creatures, when it is demonstrable that he could
have seen only the diameter of their heads!
It might as well be remarked, in conclusion, that the size, and
particularly the powers of the man-bats (for example, their
ability to fly in so rare an atmosphere—if, indeed, the moon have
any), with most of the other fancies in regard to animal and
vegetable existence, are at variance, generally, with all
analogical reasoning on these themes; and that analogy here will
often amount to conclusive demonstration. It is, perhaps,
scarcely necessary to add, that all the suggestions attributed to
Brewster and Herschel, in the beginning of the article, about “a
transfusion of artificial light through the focal object of
vision,” etc., etc., belong to that species of figurative writing
which comes, most properly, under the denomination of rigmarole.
There is a real and very definite limit to optical discovery
among the stars—a limit whose nature need only be stated to be
understood. If, indeed, the casting of large lenses were all that
is required, man’s ingenuity would ultimately prove equal to the
task, and we might have them of any size demanded. But,
unhappily, in proportion to the increase of size in the lens, and
consequently of space-penetrating power, is the diminution of
light from the object, by diffusion of its rays. And for this
evil there is no remedy within human ability; for an object is
seen by means of that light alone which proceeds from itself,
whether direct or reflected. Thus the only “artificial” light
which could avail Mr. Locke, would be some artificial light which
he should be able to throw—not upon the “focal object of vision,”
but upon the real object to be viewed—to wit: upon the moon. It
has been easily calculated that, when the light proceeding from a
star becomes so diffused as to be as weak as the natural light
proceeding from the whole of the stars, in a clear and moonless
night, then the star is no longer visible for any practical
purpose.
The Earl of Ross’s telescope, lately constructed in England, has
a _speculum_ with a reflecting surface of 4,071 square inches;
the Herschel telescope having one of only 1,811. The metal of the
Earl of Ross’s is 6 feet diameter; it is 5 1/2 inches thick at
the edges, and 5 at the centre. The weight is 3 tons. The focal
length is 50 feet.
I have lately read a singular and somewhat ingenious little book,
whose title-page runs thus: “L’Homme dans la lvne ou le Voyage
Chimerique fait au Monde de la Lvne, nouellement decouvert par
Dominique Gonzales, Aduanturier Espagnol, autrem?t dit le Courier
volant. Mis en notre langve par J. B. D. A. Paris, chez Francois
Piot, pres la Fontaine de Saint Benoist. Et chez J. Goignard, au
premier pilier de la grand’salle du Palais, proche les
Consultations, MDCXLVII.” Pp. 76.
The writer professes to have translated his work from the English
of one Mr. D’Avisson (Davidson?) although there is a terrible
ambiguity in the statement. “J’ en ai eu,” says he “l’original de
Monsieur D’Avisson, medecin des mieux versez qui soient
aujourd’huy dans la cõnoissance des Belles Lettres, et sur tout
de la Philosophic Naturelle. Je lui ai cette obligation entre les
autres, de m’ auoir non seulement mis en main ce Livre en
anglois, mais encore le Manuscrit du Sieur Thomas D’Anan,
gentilhomme Eccossois, recommandable pour sa vertu, sur la
version duquel j’ advoue que j’ ay tiré le plan de la mienne.”
After some irrelevant adventures, much in the manner of Gil Blas,
and which occupy the first thirty pages, the author relates that,
being ill during a sea voyage, the crew abandoned him, together
with a negro servant, on the island of St. Helena. To increase
the chances of obtaining food, the two separate, and live as far
apart as possible. This brings about a training of birds, to
serve the purpose of carrier-pigeons between them. By and by
these are taught to carry parcels of some weight—and this weight
is gradually increased. At length the idea is entertained of
uniting the force of a great number of the birds, with a view to
raising the author himself. A machine is contrived for the
purpose, and we have a minute description of it, which is
materially helped out by a steel engraving. Here we perceive the
Signor Gonzales, with point ruffles and a huge periwig, seated
astride something which resembles very closely a broomstick, and
borne aloft by a multitude of wild swans _(ganzas)_ who had
strings reaching from their tails to the machine.
The main event detailed in the Signor’s narrative depends upon a
very important fact, of which the reader is kept in ignorance
until near the end of the book. The _ganzas,_ with whom he had
become so familiar, were not really denizens of St. Helena, but
of the moon. Thence it had been their custom, time out of mind,
to migrate annually to some portion of the earth. In proper
season, of course, they would return home; and the author,
happening, one day, to require their services for a short voyage,
is unexpectedly carried straight tip, and in a very brief period
arrives at the satellite. Here he finds, among other odd things,
that the people enjoy extreme happiness; that they have no _law;_
that they die without pain; that they are from ten to thirty feet
in height; that they live five thousand years; that they have an
emperor called Irdonozur; and that they can jump sixty feet high,
when, being out of the gravitating influence, they fly about with
fans.
I cannot forbear giving a specimen of the general _philosophy_ of
the volume.
“I must not forget here, that the stars appeared only on that side of
the globe turned toward the moon, and that the closer they were to it
the larger they seemed. I have also me and the earth. As to the stars,
_since there was no night where I was, they always had the same
appearance; not brilliant, as usual, but pale, and very nearly like the
moon of a morning. _But few of them were visible, and these ten times
larger (as well as I could judge) than they seem to the inhabitants of
the earth. The moon, which wanted two days of being full, was of a
terrible bigness.
“I must not forget here, that the stars appeared only on that side of
the globe turned toward the moon, and that the closer they were to it
the larger they seemed. I have also to inform you that, whether it was
calm weather or stormy, I found myself _always immediately between the
moon and the earth._ I_ _was convinced of this for two reasons-because
my birds always flew in a straight line; and because whenever we
attempted to rest, _we were carried insensibly around the globe of the
earth. _For I admit the opinion of Copernicus, who maintains that it
never ceases to revolve _from the east to the west, _not upon the poles
of the Equinoctial, commonly called the poles of the world, but upon
those of the Zodiac, a question of which I propose to speak more at
length here-after, when I shall have leisure to refresh my memory in
regard to the astrology which I learned at Salamanca when young, and
have since forgotten.”
Notwithstanding the blunders italicized, the book is not without
some claim to attention, as affording a naive specimen of the
current astronomical notions of the time. One of these assumed,
that the “gravitating power” extended but a short distance from
the earth’s surface, and, accordingly, we find our voyager
“carried insensibly around the globe,” etc.
There have been other “voyages to the moon,” but none of higher
merit than the one just mentioned. That of Bergerac is utterly
meaningless. In the third volume of the “American Quarterly
Review” will be found quite an elaborate criticism upon a certain
“journey” of the kind in question—a criticism in which it is
difficult to say whether the critic most exposes the stupidity of
the book, or his own absurd ignorance of astronomy. I forget the
title of the work; but the _means_ of the voyage are more
deplorably ill conceived than are even the _ganzas_ of our friend
the Signor Gonzales. The adventurer, in digging the earth,
happens to discover a peculiar metal for which the moon has a
strong attraction, and straightway constructs of it a box, which,
when cast loose from its terrestrial fastenings, flies with him,
forthwith, to the satellite. The “Flight of Thomas O’Rourke,” is
a _jeu d’ esprit_ not altogether contemptible, and has been
translated into German. Thomas, the hero, was, in fact, the
gamekeeper of an Irish peer, whose eccentricities gave rise to
the tale. The “flight” is made on an eagle’s back, from Hungry
Hill, a lofty mountain at the end of Bantry Bay.
In these various _brochures_ the aim is always satirical; the
theme being a description of Lunarian customs as compared with
ours. In none is there any effort at _plausibility_ in the
details of the voyage itself. The writers seem, in each instance,
to be utterly uninformed in respect to astronomy. In “Hans
Pfaall” the design is original, inasmuch as regards an attempt at
_verisimilitude,_ in the application of scientific principles (so
far as the whimsical nature of the subject would permit), to the
actual passage between the earth and the moon.
(*2) The zodiacal light is probably what the ancients called
Trabes. Emicant Trabes quos docos vocant.—Pliny, lib. 2, p. 26.
(*3) Since the original publication of Hans Pfaall, I find that
Mr. Green, of Nassau balloon notoriety, and other late aeronauts,
deny the assertions of Humboldt, in this respect, and speak of a
decreasing inconvenience,—precisely in accordance with the theory
here urged in a mere spirit of banter.
(*4) Hevelius writes that he has several times found, in skies
perfectly clear, when even stars of the sixth and seventh
magnitude were conspicuous, that, at the same altitude of the
moon, at the same elongation from the earth, and with one and the
same excellent telescope, the moon and its maculae did not appear
equally lucid at all times. From the circumstances of the
observation, it is evident that the cause of this phenomenon is
not either in our air, in the tube, in the moon, or in the eye of
the spectator, but must be looked for in something (an
atmosphere?) existing about the moon.
Cassini frequently observed Saturn, Jupiter, and the fixed stars,
when approaching the moon to occultation, to have their circular
figure changed into an oval one; and, in other occultations, he
found no alteration of figure at all. Hence it might be supposed,
that at some times and not at others, there is a dense matter
encompassing the moon wherein the rays of the stars are
refracted.
THE GOLD-BUG
What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.
_—All in the Wrong._
Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William
Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been
wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To
avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left
New Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his
residence at Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.
This Island is a very singular one. It consists of little else
than the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at
no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the
main land by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through
a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh
hen. The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least
dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be seen. Near the
western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are some
miserable frame buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the
fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed,
the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of
this western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the
seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet
myrtle, so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The
shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet,
and forms an almost impenetrable coppice, burthening the air with
its fragrance.
In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern
or more remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a
small hut, which he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made
his acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship—for there was
much in the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him
well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with
misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate
enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with him many books, but rarely
employed them. His chief amusements were gunning and fishing, or
sauntering along the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of
shells or entomological specimens—his collection of the latter
might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these excursions he
was usually accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter, who had
been manumitted before the reverses of the family, but who could
be induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon what
he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of his
young “Massa Will.” It is not improbable that the relatives of
Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled in intellect,
had contrived to instil this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view
to the supervision and guardianship of the wanderer.
The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are seldom very
severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed
when a fire is considered necessary. About the middle of October,
18—, there occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness.
Just before sunset I scrambled my way through the evergreens to
the hut of my friend, whom I had not visited for several weeks—my
residence being, at that time, in Charleston, a distance of nine
miles from the island, while the facilities of passage and
re-passage were very far behind those of the present day. Upon
reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and getting no
reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked
the door and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth. It
was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an
overcoat, took an arm-chair by the crackling logs, and awaited
patiently the arrival of my hosts.
Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome.
Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some
marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits—how else
shall I term them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown
bivalve, forming a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted
down and secured, with Jupiter’s assistance, a _scarabæus_ which
he believed to be totally new, but in respect to which he wished
to have my opinion on the morrow.
“And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze,
and wishing the whole tribe of _scarabæi_ at the devil.
“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand, “but it’s
so long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would
pay me a visit this very night of all others? As I was coming
home I met Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I
lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it
until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down
for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!”
“What?—sunrise?”
“Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about the
size of a large hickory-nut—with two jet black spots near one
extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the
other. The _antennæ_ are—”
“Dey aint no tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin on you,”
here interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole bug, solid, ebery
bit of him, inside and all, sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby
a bug in my life.”
“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more
earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case demanded, “is that any
reason for your letting the birds burn? The color”—here he turned
to me—“is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You
never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales
emit—but of this you cannot judge till tomorrow. In the mean time
I can give you some idea of the shape.” Saying this, he seated
himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no
paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none.
“Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;” and he drew
from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty
foolscap, and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he
did this, I retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly.
When the design was complete, he handed it to me without rising.
As I received it, a loud growl was heard, succeeded by a
scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large
Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my
shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much
attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over, I
looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a
little puzzled at what my friend had depicted.
“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this
_is_ a strange _scarabæus_, I must confess: new to me: never saw
anything like it before—unless it was a skull, or a
death’s-head—which it more nearly resembles than anything else
that has come under _my_ observation.”
“A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand. “Oh—yes—well, it has something
of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black
spots look like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a
mouth—and then the shape of the whole is oval.”
“Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I
must wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea
of its personal appearance.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw
tolerably—_should_ do it at least—have had good masters, and
flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.”
“But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a
very passable _skull_—indeed, I may say that it is a very
_excellent_ skull, according to the vulgar notions about such
specimens of physiology—and your _scarabæus_ must be the queerest
_scarabæus_ in the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a
very thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you
will call the bug _scarabæus caput hominis_, or something of that
kind—there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But
where are the _antennæ_ you spoke of?”
“The _antennæ!_” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting
unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the
_antennæ_. I made them as distinct as they are in the original
insect, and I presume that is sufficient.”
“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;”
and I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing
to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn
affairs had taken; his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the
drawing of the beetle, there were positively _no antennæ_
visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very close resemblance to the
ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.
He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple
it, apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at
the design seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant
his face grew violently red—in another as excessively pale. For
some minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely
where he sat. At length he arose, took a candle from the table,
and proceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the farthest
corner of the room. Here again he made an anxious examination of
the paper; turning it in all directions. He said nothing,
however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought it
prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by
any comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet,
placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a
writing-desk, which he locked. He now grew more composed in his
demeanor; but his original air of enthusiasm had quite
disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted. As
the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in
reverie, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had
been my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I had
frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I
deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press me to remain,
but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more than his
usual cordiality.
It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had
seen nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston,
from his man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look
so dispirited, and I feared that some serious disaster had
befallen my friend.
“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how is your
master?”
“Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought
be.”
“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain
of?”
“Dar! dat’s it!—him neber ’plain of notin’—but him berry sick for
all dat.”
“_Very_ sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once? Is he
confined to bed?”
“No, dat he aint!—he aint ’fin’d nowhar—dat’s just whar de shoe
pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby ’bout poor Massa Will.”
“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking
about. You say your master is sick. Hasn’t he told you what ails
him?”
“Why, massa, ’taint worf while for to git mad about de
matter—Massa Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him—but
den what make him go about looking dis here way, wid he head down
and he soldiers up, and as white as a gose? And den he keep a
syphon all de time—”
“Keeps a what, Jupiter?”
“Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de queerest figgurs I
ebber did see. Ise gittin’ to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to
keep mighty tight eye ’pon him ’noovers. Todder day he gib me
slip ’fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I
had a big stick ready cut for to gib him deuced good beating when
he did come—but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn’t de heart arter
all—he look so berry poorly.”
“Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you had better not be
too severe with the poor fellow—don’t flog him, Jupiter—he can’t
very well stand it—but can you form no idea of what has
occasioned this illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has
anything unpleasant happened since I saw you?”
“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant _since_ den—‘twas
_’fore_ den I’m feared—‘twas de berry day you was dare.”
“How? what do you mean?”
“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.”
“The what?”
“De bug,—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere ’bout
de head by dat goole-bug.”
“And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?”
“Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sick a
deuced bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him.
Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go ’gin mighty
quick, I tell you—den was de time he must ha’ got de bite. I did
n’t like de look oh de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I would n’t
take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob
paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it
in he mouff—dat was de way.”
“And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the
beetle, and that the bite made him sick?”
“I do n’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What make him dream
’bout de goole so much, if ’taint cause he bit by de goole-bug?
Ise heerd ’bout dem goole-bugs fore dis.”
“But how do you know he dreams about gold?”
“How I know? why ’cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat’s how I
nose.”
“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate
circumstance am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you
to-day?”
“What de matter, massa?”
“Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?”
“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” and here Jupiter handed me
a note which ran thus:
“MY DEAR ——Why have I not seen you for so long a time? I hope you
have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little
_brusquerie_ of mine; but no, that is improbable. Since I saw you
I have had great cause for anxiety. I have something to tell you,
yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether I should tell it at
all.
“I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup
annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions.
Would you believe it?—he had prepared a huge stick, the other
day, with which to chastise me for giving him the slip, and
spending the day, _solus_, among the hills on the main land. I
verily believe that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging.
“I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.
“If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with
Jupiter. _Do_ come. I wish to see you to-_night_, upon business
of importance. I assure you that it is of the _highest_
importance.
“Ever yours,
“WILLIAM LEGRAND”.
There was something in the tone of this note which gave me great
uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially from that of
Legrand. What could he be dreaming of? What new crotchet
possessed his excitable brain? What “business of the highest
importance” could he possibly have to transact? Jupiter’s account
of him boded no good. I dreaded lest the continued pressure of
misfortune had, at length, fairly unsettled the reason of my
friend. Without a moment’s hesitation, therefore, I prepared to
accompany the negro.
Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and three spades, all
apparently new, lying in the bottom of the boat in which we were
to embark.
“What is the meaning of all this, Jup?” I inquired.
“Him syfe, massa, and spade.”
“Very true; but what are they doing here?”
“Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon my buying for
him in de town, and de debbil’s own lot of money I had to gib for
’em.”
“But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your ‘Massa
Will’ going to do with scythes and spades?”
“Dat’s more dan _I_ know, and debbil take me if I don’t b’lieve
’tis more dan he know, too. But it’s all cum ob do bug.”
Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose
whole intellect seemed to be absorbed by “de bug,” I now stepped
into the boat and made sail. With a fair and strong breeze we
soon ran into the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie,
and a walk of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about
three in the afternoon when we arrived. Legrand had been awaiting
us in eager expectation. He grasped my hand with a nervous
empressement which alarmed me and strengthened the suspicions
already entertained. His countenance was pale even to
ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared with unnatural lustre.
After some inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not
knowing what better to say, if he had yet obtained the
_scarabæus_ from Lieutenant G——.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it from him the
next morning. Nothing should tempt me to part with that
_scarabæus_. Do you know that Jupiter is quite right about it?”
“In what way?” I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart.
“In supposing it to be a bug of _real gold_.” He said this with
an air of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked.
“This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, with a triumphant
smile, “to reinstate me in my family possessions. Is it any
wonder, then, that I prize it? Since Fortune has thought fit to
bestow it upon me, I have only to use it properly and I shall
arrive at the gold of which it is the index. Jupiter; bring me
that _scarabæus!_”
“What! de bug, massa? I’d rudder not go fer trubble dat bug—you
mus’ git him for your own self.” Hereupon Legrand arose, with a
grave and stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass
case in which it was enclosed. It was a beautiful scarabæus, and,
at that time, unknown to naturalists—of course a great prize in a
scientific point of view. There were two round, black spots near
one extremity of the back, and a long one near the other. The
scales were exceedingly hard and glossy, with all the appearance
of burnished gold. The weight of the insect was very remarkable,
and, taking all things into consideration, I could hardly blame
Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; but what to make of
Legrand’s concordance with that opinion, I could not, for the
life of me, tell.
“I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had
completed my examination of the beetle, “I sent for you, that I
might have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of
Fate and of the bug—”
“My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, “you are certainly
unwell, and had better use some little precautions. You shall go
to bed, and I will remain with you a few days, until you get over
this. You are feverish and—”
“Feel my pulse,” said he.
I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest
indication of fever.
“But you may be ill and yet have no fever. Allow me this once to
prescribe for you. In the first place, go to bed. In the next—”
“You are mistaken,” he interposed, “I am as well as I can expect
to be under the excitement which I suffer. If you really wish me
well, you will relieve this excitement.”
“And how is this to be done?”
“Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon an expedition
into the hills, upon the main land, and, in this expedition we
shall need the aid of some person in whom we can confide. You are
the only one we can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the
excitement which you now perceive in me will be equally allayed.”
“I am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I replied; “but do you
mean to say that this infernal beetle has any connection with
your expedition into the hills?”
“It has.”
“Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such absurd
proceeding.”
“I am sorry—very sorry—for we shall have to try it by ourselves.”
“Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!—but stay!—how long
do you propose to be absent?”
“Probably all night. We shall start immediately, and be back, at
all events, by sunrise.”
“And will you promise me, upon your honor, that when this freak
of yours is over, and the bug business (good God!) settled to
your satisfaction, you will then return home and follow my advice
implicitly, as that of your physician?”
“Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have no time to
lose.”
With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We started about four
o’clock—Legrand, Jupiter, the dog, and myself. Jupiter had with
him the scythe and spades—the whole of which he insisted upon
carrying—more through fear, it seemed to me, of trusting either
of the implements within reach of his master, than from any
excess of industry or complaisance. His demeanor was dogged in
the extreme, and “dat deuced bug” were the sole words which
escaped his lips during the journey. For my own part, I had
charge of a couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented
himself with the _scarabæus_, which he carried attached to the
end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling it to and fro, with the air
of a conjuror, as he went. When I observed this last, plain
evidence of my friend’s aberration of mind, I could scarcely
refrain from tears. I thought it best, however, to humor his
fancy, at least for the present, or until I could adopt some more
energetic measures with a chance of success. In the mean time I
endeavored, but all in vain, to sound him in regard to the object
of the expedition. Having succeeded in inducing me to accompany
him, he seemed unwilling to hold conversation upon any topic of
minor importance, and to all my questions vouchsafed no other
reply than “we shall see!”
We crossed the creek at the head of the island by means of a
skiff, and, ascending the high grounds on the shore of the main
land, proceeded in a northwesterly direction, through a tract of
country excessively wild and desolate, where no trace of a human
footstep was to be seen. Legrand led the way with decision;
pausing only for an instant, here and there, to consult what
appeared to be certain landmarks of his own contrivance upon a
former occasion.
In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, and the sun was
just setting when we entered a region infinitely more dreary than
any yet seen. It was a species of table land, near the summit of
an almost inaccessible hill, densely wooded from base to
pinnacle, and interspersed with huge crags that appeared to lie
loosely upon the soil, and in many cases were prevented from
precipitating themselves into the valleys below, merely by the
support of the trees against which they reclined. Deep ravines,
in various directions, gave an air of still sterner solemnity to
the scene.
The natural platform to which we had clambered was thickly
overgrown with brambles, through which we soon discovered that it
would have been impossible to force our way but for the scythe;
and Jupiter, by direction of his master, proceeded to clear for
us a path to the foot of an enormously tall tulip-tree, which
stood, with some eight or ten oaks, upon the level, and far
surpassed them all, and all other trees which I had then ever
seen, in the beauty of its foliage and form, in the wide spread
of its branches, and in the general majesty of its appearance.
When we reached this tree, Legrand turned to Jupiter, and asked
him if he thought he could climb it. The old man seemed a little
staggered by the question, and for some moments made no reply. At
length he approached the huge trunk, walked slowly around it, and
examined it with minute attention. When he had completed his
scrutiny, he merely said,
“Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in he life.”
“Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will soon be too
dark to see what we are about.”
“How far mus go up, massa?” inquired Jupiter.
“Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell you which way
to go—and here—stop! take this beetle with you.”
“De bug, Massa Will!—de goole-bug!” cried the negro, drawing back
in dismay—“what for mus tote de bug way up de tree?—d—n if I do!”
“If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you, to take hold
of a harmless little dead beetle, why you can carry it up by this
string—but, if you do not take it up with you in some way, I
shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this
shovel.”
“What de matter now, massa?” said Jup, evidently shamed into
compliance; “always want for to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was
only funnin any how. _Me_ feered de bug! what I keer for de bug?”
Here he took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string,
and, maintaining the insect as far from his person as
circumstances would permit, prepared to ascend the tree.
In youth, the tulip-tree, or _Liriodendron Tulipferum_, the most
magnificent of American foresters, has a trunk peculiarly smooth,
and often rises to a great height without lateral branches; but,
in its riper age, the bark becomes gnarled and uneven, while many
short limbs make their appearance on the stem. Thus the
difficulty of ascension, in the present case, lay more in
semblance than in reality. Embracing the huge cylinder, as
closely as possible, with his arms and knees, seizing with his
hands some projections, and resting his naked toes upon others,
Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at length
wriggled himself into the first great fork, and seemed to
consider the whole business as virtually accomplished. The risk
of the achievement was, in fact, now over, although the climber
was some sixty or seventy feet from the ground.
“Which way mus go now, Massa Will?” he asked.
“Keep up the largest branch—the one on this side,” said Legrand.
The negro obeyed him promptly, and apparently with but little
trouble; ascending higher and higher, until no glimpse of his
squat figure could be obtained through the dense foliage which
enveloped it. Presently his voice was heard in a sort of halloo.
“How much fudder is got for go?”
“How high up are you?” asked Legrand.
“Ebber so fur,” replied the negro; “can see de sky fru de top ob
de tree.”
“Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. Look down the
trunk and count the limbs below you on this side. How many limbs
have you passed?”
“One, two, tree, four, fibe—I done pass fibe big limb, massa, pon
dis side.”
“Then go one limb higher.”
In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing that the
seventh limb was attained.
“Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently much excited, “I want you to
work your way out upon that limb as far as you can. If you see
anything strange, let me know.” By this time what little doubt I
might have entertained of my poor friend’s insanity, was put
finally at rest. I had no alternative but to conclude him
stricken with lunacy, and I became seriously anxious about
getting him home. While I was pondering upon what was best to be
done, Jupiter’s voice was again heard.
“Mos feerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far—’tis dead limb
putty much all de way.”
“Did you say it was a dead limb, Jupiter?” cried Legrand in a
quavering voice.
“Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail—done up for sartain—done
departed dis here life.”
“What in the name heaven shall I do?” asked Legrand, seemingly in
the greatest distress.
“Do!” said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose a word, “why
come home and go to bed. Come now!—that’s a fine fellow. It’s
getting late, and, besides, you remember your promise.”
“Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding me in the least, “do you
hear me?”
“Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain.”
“Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see if you think
it very rotten.”
“Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro in a few
moments, “but not so berry rotten as mought be. Mought ventur out
leetle way pon de limb by myself, dat’s true.”
“By yourself!—what do you mean?”
“Why I mean de bug. ’Tis _berry_ hebby bug. Spose I drop him down
fuss, and den de limb won’t break wid just de weight ob one
nigger.”
“You infernal scoundrel!” cried Legrand, apparently much
relieved, “what do you mean by telling me such nonsense as that?
As sure as you drop that beetle I’ll break your neck. Look here,
Jupiter, do you hear me?”
“Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat style.”
“Well! now listen!—if you will venture out on the limb as far as
you think safe, and not let go the beetle, I’ll make you a
present of a silver dollar as soon as you get down.”
“I’m gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” replied the negro very
promptly—“mos out to the eend now.”
“_Out to the end!_” here fairly screamed Legrand, “do you say you
are out to the end of that limb?”
“Soon be to de eend, massa,—o-o-o-o-oh! Lor-gol-a-marcy! what is
dis here pon de tree?”
“Well!” cried Legrand, highly delighted, “what is it?”
“Why taint noffin but a skull—somebody bin lef him head up de
tree, and de crows done gobble ebery bit ob de meat off.”
“A skull, you say!—very well—how is it fastened to the limb?—what
holds it on?”
“Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why dis berry curous sarcumstance,
pon my word—dare’s a great big nail in de skull, what fastens ob
it on to de tree.”
“Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you—do you hear?”
“Yes, massa.”
“Pay attention, then—find the left eye of the skull.”
“Hum! hoo! dat’s good! why dare aint no eye lef at all.”
“Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand from your
left?”
“Yes, I knows dat—knows all about dat—’tis my lef hand what I
chops de wood wid.”
“To be sure! you are left-handed; and your left eye is on the
same side as your left hand. Now, I suppose, you can find the
left eye of the skull, or the place where the left eye has been.
Have you found it?”
Here was a long pause. At length the negro asked,
“Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef hand of de
skull, too?—cause de skull aint got not a bit ob a hand at
all—nebber mind! I got de lef eye now—here de lef eye! what mus
do wid it?”
“Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string will
reach—but be careful and not let go your hold of the string.”
“All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to put de bug fru
de hole—look out for him dare below!”
During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter’s person could be
seen; but the beetle, which he had suffered to descend, was now
visible at the end of the string, and glistened, like a globe of
burnished gold, in the last rays of the setting sun, some of
which still faintly illumined the eminence upon which we stood.
The _scarabæus_ hung quite clear of any branches, and, if allowed
to fall, would have fallen at our feet. Legrand immediately took
the scythe, and cleared with it a circular space, three or four
yards in diameter, just beneath the insect, and, having
accomplished this, ordered Jupiter to let go the string and come
down from the tree.
Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground, at the precise
spot where the beetle fell, my friend now produced from his
pocket a tape measure. Fastening one end of this at that point of
the trunk, of the tree which was nearest the peg, he unrolled it
till it reached the peg, and thence farther unrolled it, in the
direction already established by the two points of the tree and
the peg, for the distance of fifty feet—Jupiter clearing away the
brambles with the scythe. At the spot thus attained a second peg
was driven, and about this, as a centre, a rude circle, about
four feet in diameter, described. Taking now a spade himself, and
giving one to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand begged us to set
about digging as quickly as possible.
To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such amusement
at any time, and, at that particular moment, would most willingly
have declined it; for the night was coming on, and I felt much
fatigued with the exercise already taken; but I saw no mode of
escape, and was fearful of disturbing my poor friend’s equanimity
by a refusal. Could I have depended, indeed, upon Jupiter’s aid,
I would have had no hesitation in attempting to get the lunatic
home by force; but I was too well assured of the old negro’s
disposition, to hope that he would assist me, under any
circumstances, in a personal contest with his master. I made no
doubt that the latter had been infected with some of the
innumerable Southern superstitions about money buried, and that
his phantasy had received confirmation by the finding of the
_scarabæus_, or, perhaps, by Jupiter’s obstinacy in maintaining
it to be “a bug of real gold.” A mind disposed to lunacy would
readily be led away by such suggestions—especially if chiming in
with favorite preconceived ideas—and then I called to mind the
poor fellow’s speech about the beetle’s being “the index of his
fortune.” Upon the whole, I was sadly vexed and puzzled, but, at
length, I concluded to make a virtue of necessity—to dig with a
good will, and thus the sooner to convince the visionary, by
ocular demonstration, of the fallacy of the opinions he
entertained.
The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work with a zeal
worthy a more rational cause; and, as the glare fell upon our
persons and implements, I could not help thinking how picturesque
a group we composed, and how strange and suspicious our labors
must have appeared to any interloper who, by chance, might have
stumbled upon our whereabouts.
We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was said; and our
chief embarrassment lay in the yelpings of the dog, who took
exceeding interest in our proceedings. He, at length, became so
obstreperous that we grew fearful of his giving the alarm to some
stragglers in the vicinity—or, rather, this was the apprehension
of Legrand;—for myself, I should have rejoiced at any
interruption which might have enabled me to get the wanderer
home. The noise was, at length, very effectually silenced by
Jupiter, who, getting out of the hole with a dogged air of
deliberation, tied the brute’s mouth up with one of his
suspenders, and then returned, with a grave chuckle, to his task.
When the time mentioned had expired, we had reached a depth of
five feet, and yet no signs of any treasure became manifest. A
general pause ensued, and I began to hope that the farce was at
an end. Legrand, however, although evidently much disconcerted,
wiped his brow thoughtfully and recommenced. We had excavated the
entire circle of four feet diameter, and now we slightly enlarged
the limit, and went to the farther depth of two feet. Still
nothing appeared. The gold-seeker, whom I sincerely pitied, at
length clambered from the pit, with the bitterest disappointment
imprinted upon every feature, and proceeded, slowly and
reluctantly, to put on his coat, which he had thrown off at the
beginning of his labor. In the mean time I made no remark.
Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to gather up his
tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled, we turned in
profound silence towards home.
We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direction, when,
with a loud oath, Legrand strode up to Jupiter, and seized him by
the collar. The astonished negro opened his eyes and mouth to the
fullest extent, let fall the spades, and fell upon his knees.
“You scoundrel,” said Legrand, hissing out the syllables from
between his clenched teeth—“you infernal black villain!—speak, I
tell you!—answer me this instant, without
prevarication!—which—which is your left eye?”
“Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef eye for sartain?”
roared the terrified Jupiter, placing his hand upon his right
organ of vision, and holding it there with a desperate
pertinacity, as if in immediate dread of his master’s attempt at
a gouge.
“I thought so!—I knew it! hurrah!” vociferated Legrand, letting
the negro go, and executing a series of curvets and caracols,
much to the astonishment of his valet, who, arising from his
knees, looked, mutely, from his master to myself, and then from
myself to his master.
“Come! we must go back,” said the latter, “the game’s not up
yet;” and he again led the way to the tulip-tree.
“Jupiter,” said he, when we reached its foot, “come here! was the
skull nailed to the limb with the face outwards, or with the face
to the limb?”
“De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get at de eyes
good, widout any trouble.”
“Well, then, was it this eye or that through which you dropped
the beetle?”—here Legrand touched each of Jupiter’s eyes.
“’Twas dis eye, massa—de lef eye—jis as you tell me,” and here it
was his right eye that the negro indicated.
“That will do—we must try it again.”
Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw, or fancied that I
saw, certain indications of method, removed the peg which marked
the spot where the beetle fell, to a spot about three inches to
the westward of its former position. Taking, now, the tape
measure from the nearest point of the trunk to the peg, as
before, and continuing the extension in a straight line to the
distance of fifty feet, a spot was indicated, removed, by several
yards, from the point at which we had been digging.
Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger than in the
former instance, was now described, and we again set to work with
the spades. I was dreadfully weary, but, scarcely understanding
what had occasioned the change in my thoughts, I felt no longer
any great aversion from the labor imposed. I had become most
unaccountably interested—nay, even excited. Perhaps there was
something, amid all the extravagant demeanor of Legrand—some air
of forethought, or of deliberation, which impressed me. I dug
eagerly, and now and then caught myself actually looking, with
something that very much resembled expectation, for the fancied
treasure, the vision of which had demented my unfortunate
companion. At a period when such vagaries of thought most fully
possessed me, and when we had been at work perhaps an hour and a
half, we were again interrupted by the violent howlings of the
dog. His uneasiness, in the first instance, had been, evidently,
but the result of playfulness or caprice, but he now assumed a
bitter and serious tone. Upon Jupiter’s again attempting to
muzzle him, he made furious resistance, and, leaping into the
hole, tore up the mould frantically with his claws. In a few
seconds he had uncovered a mass of human bones, forming two
complete skeletons, intermingled with several buttons of metal,
and what appeared to be the dust of decayed woollen. One or two
strokes of a spade upturned the blade of a large Spanish knife,
and, as we dug farther, three or four loose pieces of gold and
silver coin came to light.
At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely be
restrained, but the countenance of his master wore an air of
extreme disappointment. He urged us, however, to continue our
exertions, and the words were hardly uttered when I stumbled and
fell forward, having caught the toe of my boot in a large ring of
iron that lay half buried in the loose earth.
We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass ten minutes of
more intense excitement. During this interval we had fairly
unearthed an oblong chest of wood, which, from its perfect
preservation and wonderful hardness, had plainly been subjected
to some mineralizing process—perhaps that of the bi-chloride of
mercury. This box was three feet and a half long, three feet
broad, and two and a half feet deep. It was firmly secured by
bands of wrought iron, riveted, and forming a kind of open
trelliswork over the whole. On each side of the chest, near the
top, were three rings of iron—six in all—by means of which a firm
hold could be obtained by six persons. Our utmost united
endeavors served only to disturb the coffer very slightly in its
bed. We at once saw the impossibility of removing so great a
weight. Luckily, the sole fastenings of the lid consisted of two
sliding bolts. These we drew back—trembling and panting with
anxiety. In an instant, a treasure of incalculable value lay
gleaming before us. As the rays of the lanterns fell within the
pit, there flashed upwards a glow and a glare, from a confused
heap of gold and of jewels, that absolutely dazzled our eyes.
I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with which I gazed.
Amazement was, of course, predominant. Legrand appeared exhausted
with excitement, and spoke very few words. Jupiter’s countenance
wore, for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible, in
nature of things, for any negro’s visage to assume. He seemed
stupefied—thunderstricken. Presently he fell upon his knees in
the pit, and, burying his naked arms up to the elbows in gold,
let them there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At
length, with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy:
“And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! de putty goole-bug! de poor
little goole-bug, what I boosed in dat sabage kind ob style! Aint
you shamed ob yourself, nigger?—answer me dat!”
It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse both master
and valet to the expediency of removing the treasure. It was
growing late, and it behooved us to make exertion, that we might
get every thing housed before daylight. It was difficult to say
what should be done, and much time was spent in deliberation—so
confused were the ideas of all. We, finally, lightened the box by
removing two thirds of its contents, when we were enabled, with
some trouble, to raise it from the hole. The articles taken out
were deposited among the brambles, and the dog left to guard
them, with strict orders from Jupiter neither, upon any pretence,
to stir from the spot, nor to open his mouth until our return. We
then hurriedly made for home with the chest; reaching the hut in
safety, but after excessive toil, at one o’clock in the morning.
Worn out as we were, it was not in human nature to do more
immediately. We rested until two, and had supper; starting for
the hills immediately afterwards, armed with three stout sacks,
which, by good luck, were upon the premises. A little before four
we arrived at the pit, divided the remainder of the booty, as
equally as might be, among us, and, leaving the holes unfilled,
again set out for the hut, at which, for the second time, we
deposited our golden burthens, just as the first faint streaks of
the dawn gleamed from over the tree-tops in the East.
We were now thoroughly broken down; but the intense excitement of
the time denied us repose. After an unquiet slumber of some three
or four hours’ duration, we arose, as if by preconcert, to make
examination of our treasure.
The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent the whole day,
and the greater part of the next night, in a scrutiny of its
contents. There had been nothing like order or arrangement. Every
thing had been heaped in promiscuously. Having assorted all with
care, we found ourselves possessed of even vaster wealth than we
had at first supposed. In coin there was rather more than four
hundred and fifty thousand dollars—estimating the value of the
pieces, as accurately as we could, by the tables of the period.
There was not a particle of silver. All was gold of antique date
and of great variety—French, Spanish, and German money, with a
few English guineas, and some counters, of which we had never
seen specimens before. There were several very large and heavy
coins, so worn that we could make nothing of their inscriptions.
There was no American money. The value of the jewels we found
more difficulty in estimating. There were diamonds—some of them
exceedingly large and fine—a hundred and ten in all, and not one
of them small; eighteen rubies of remarkable brilliancy;—three
hundred and ten emeralds, all very beautiful; and twenty-one
sapphires, with an opal. These stones had all been broken from
their settings and thrown loose in the chest. The settings
themselves, which we picked out from among the other gold,
appeared to have been beaten up with hammers, as if to prevent
identification. Besides all this, there was a vast quantity of
solid gold ornaments; nearly two hundred massive finger and
earrings; rich chains—thirty of these, if I remember;
eighty-three very large and heavy crucifixes; five gold censers
of great value; a prodigious golden punch bowl, ornamented with
richly chased vine-leaves and Bacchanalian figures; with two
sword-handles exquisitely embossed, and many other smaller
articles which I cannot recollect. The weight of these valuables
exceeded three hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois; and in this
estimate I have not included one hundred and ninety-seven superb
gold watches; three of the number being worth each five hundred
dollars, if one. Many of them were very old, and as timekeepers
valueless; the works having suffered, more or less, from
corrosion—but all were richly jewelled and in cases of great
worth. We estimated the entire contents of the chest, that night,
at a million and a half of dollars; and upon the subsequent
disposal of the trinkets and jewels (a few being retained for our
own use), it was found that we had greatly undervalued the
treasure.
When, at length, we had concluded our examination, and the
intense excitement of the time had, in some measure, subsided,
Legrand, who saw that I was dying with impatience for a solution
of this most extraordinary riddle, entered into a full detail of
all the circumstances connected with it.
“You remember;” said he, “the night when I handed you the rough
sketch I had made of the _scarabæus_. You recollect also, that I
became quite vexed at you for insisting that my drawing resembled
a death’s-head. When you first made this assertion I thought you
were jesting; but afterwards I called to mind the peculiar spots
on the back of the insect, and admitted to myself that your
remark had some little foundation in fact. Still, the sneer at my
graphic powers irritated me—for I am considered a good
artist—and, therefore, when you handed me the scrap of parchment,
I was about to crumple it up and throw it angrily into the fire.”
“The scrap of paper, you mean,” said I.
“No; it had much of the appearance of paper, and at first I
supposed it to be such, but when I came to draw upon it, I
discovered it, at once, to be a piece of very thin parchment. It
was quite dirty, you remember. Well, as I was in the very act of
crumpling it up, my glance fell upon the sketch at which you had
been looking, and you may imagine my astonishment when I
perceived, in fact, the figure of a death’s-head just where, it
seemed to me, I had made the drawing of the beetle. For a moment
I was too much amazed to think with accuracy. I knew that my
design was very different in detail from this—although there was
a certain similarity in general outline. Presently I took a
candle, and seating myself at the other end of the room,
proceeded to scrutinize the parchment more closely. Upon turning
it over, I saw my own sketch upon the reverse, just as I had made
it. My first idea, now, was mere surprise at the really
remarkable similarity of outline—at the singular coincidence
involved in the fact, that unknown to me, there should have been
a skull upon the other side of the parchment, immediately beneath
my figure of the _scarabæus_, and that this skull, not only in
outline, but in size, should so closely resemble my drawing. I
say the singularity of this coincidence absolutely stupefied me
for a time. This is the usual effect of such coincidences. The
mind struggles to establish a connexion—a sequence of cause and
effect—and, being unable to do so, suffers a species of temporary
paralysis. But, when I recovered from this stupor, there dawned
upon me gradually a conviction which startled me even far more
than the coincidence. I began distinctly, positively, to remember
that there had been no drawing upon the parchment when I made my
sketch of the _scarabæus_. I became perfectly certain of this;
for I recollected turning up first one side and then the other,
in search of the cleanest spot. Had the skull been then there, of
course I could not have failed to notice it. Here was indeed a
mystery which I felt it impossible to explain; but, even at that
early moment, there seemed to glimmer, faintly, within the most
remote and secret chambers of my intellect, a glow-worm-like
conception of that truth which last night’s adventure brought to
so magnificent a demonstration. I arose at once, and putting the
parchment securely away, dismissed all farther reflection until I
should be alone.
“When you had gone, and when Jupiter was fast asleep, I betook
myself to a more methodical investigation of the affair. In the
first place I considered the manner in which the parchment had
come into my possession. The spot where we discovered the
_scarabæus_ was on the coast of the main land, about a mile
eastward of the island, and but a short distance above high water
mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it gave me a sharp bite, which
caused me to let it drop. Jupiter, with his accustomed caution,
before seizing the insect, which had flown towards him, looked
about him for a leaf, or something of that nature, by which to
take hold of it. It was at this moment that his eyes, and mine
also, fell upon the scrap of parchment, which I then supposed to
be paper. It was lying half buried in the sand, a corner sticking
up. Near the spot where we found it, I observed the remnants of
the hull of what appeared to have been a ship’s long boat. The
wreck seemed to have been there for a very great while; for the
resemblance to boat timbers could scarcely be traced.
“Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped the beetle in it,
and gave it to me. Soon afterwards we turned to go home, and on
the way met Lieutenant G——. I showed him the insect, and he
begged me to let him take it to the fort. Upon my consenting, he
thrust it forthwith into his waistcoat pocket, without the
parchment in which it had been wrapped, and which I had continued
to hold in my hand during his inspection. Perhaps he dreaded my
changing my mind, and thought it best to make sure of the prize
at once—you know how enthusiastic he is on all subjects connected
with Natural History. At the same time, without being conscious
of it, I must have deposited the parchment in my own pocket.
“You remember that when I went to the table, for the purpose of
making a sketch of the beetle, I found no paper where it was
usually kept. I looked in the drawer, and found none there. I
searched my pockets, hoping to find an old letter, when my hand
fell upon the parchment. I thus detail the precise mode in which
it came into my possession; for the circumstances impressed me
with peculiar force.
“No doubt you will think me fanciful—but I had already
established a kind of connexion. I had put together two links of
a great chain. There was a boat lying upon a sea-coast, and not
far from the boat was a parchment—not a paper—with a skull
depicted upon it. You will, of course, ask ‘where is the
connexion?’ I reply that the skull, or death’s-head, is the
well-known emblem of the pirate. The flag of the death’s head is
hoisted in all engagements.
“I have said that the scrap was parchment, and not paper.
Parchment is durable—almost imperishable. Matters of little
moment are rarely consigned to parchment; since, for the mere
ordinary purposes of drawing or writing, it is not nearly so well
adapted as paper. This reflection suggested some meaning—some
relevancy—in the death’s-head. I did not fail to observe, also,
the form of the parchment. Although one of its corners had been,
by some accident, destroyed, it could be seen that the original
form was oblong. It was just such a slip, indeed, as might have
been chosen for a memorandum—for a record of something to be long
remembered and carefully preserved.”
“But,” I interposed, “you say that the skull was not upon the
parchment when you made the drawing of the beetle. How then do
you trace any connexion between the boat and the skull—since this
latter, according to your own admission, must have been designed
(God only knows how or by whom) at some period subsequent to your
sketching the _scarabæus?_”
“Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery; although the secret, at
this point, I had comparatively little difficulty in solving. My
steps were sure, and could afford but a single result. I
reasoned, for example, thus: When I drew the _scarabæus_, there
was no skull apparent upon the parchment. When I had completed
the drawing I gave it to you, and observed you narrowly until you
returned it. You, therefore, did not design the skull, and no one
else was present to do it. Then it was not done by human agency.
And nevertheless it was done.
“At this stage of my reflections I endeavored to remember, and
did remember, with entire distinctness, every incident which
occurred about the period in question. The weather was chilly (oh
rare and happy accident!), and a fire was blazing upon the
hearth. I was heated with exercise and sat near the table. You,
however, had drawn a chair close to the chimney. Just as I placed
the parchment in your hand, and as you were in the act of
inspecting it, Wolf, the Newfoundland, entered, and leaped upon
your shoulders. With your left hand you caressed him and kept him
off, while your right, holding the parchment, was permitted to
fall listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity to the
fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had caught it, and was
about to caution you, but, before I could speak, you had
withdrawn it, and were engaged in its examination. When I
considered all these particulars, I doubted not for a moment that
heat had been the agent in bringing to light, upon the parchment,
the skull which I saw designed upon it. You are well aware that
chemical preparations exist, and have existed time out of mind,
by means of which it is possible to write upon either paper or
vellum, so that the characters shall become visible only when
subjected to the action of fire. Zaffre, digested in aqua regia,
and diluted with four times its weight of water, is sometimes
employed; a green tint results. The regulus of cobalt, dissolved
in spirit of nitre, gives a red. These colors disappear at longer
or shorter intervals after the material written upon cools, but
again become apparent upon the re-application of heat.
“I now scrutinized the death’s-head with care. Its outer
edges—the edges of the drawing nearest the edge of the
vellum—were far more distinct than the others. It was clear that
the action of the caloric had been imperfect or unequal. I
immediately kindled a fire, and subjected every portion of the
parchment to a glowing heat. At first, the only effect was the
strengthening of the faint lines in the skull; but, upon
persevering in the experiment, there became visible, at the
corner of the slip, diagonally opposite to the spot in which the
death’s-head was delineated, the figure of what I at first
supposed to be a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied me
that it was intended for a kid.”
“Ha! ha!” said I, “to be sure I have no right to laugh at you—a
million and a half of money is too serious a matter for mirth—but
you are not about to establish a third link in your chain—you
will not find any especial connexion between your pirates and a
goat—pirates, you know, have nothing to do with goats; they
appertain to the farming interest.”
“But I have just said that the figure was not that of a goat.”
“Well, a kid then—pretty much the same thing.”
“Pretty much, but not altogether,” said Legrand. “You may have
heard of one Captain Kidd. I at once looked upon the figure of
the animal as a kind of punning or hieroglyphical signature. I
say signature; because its position upon the vellum suggested
this idea. The death’s-head at the corner diagonally opposite,
had, in the same manner, the air of a stamp, or seal. But I was
sorely put out by the absence of all else—of the body to my
imagined instrument—of the text for my context.”
“I presume you expected to find a letter between the stamp and
the signature.”
“Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt irresistibly
impressed with a presentiment of some vast good fortune
impending. I can scarcely say why. Perhaps, after all, it was
rather a desire than an actual belief;—but do you know that
Jupiter’s silly words, about the bug being of solid gold, had a
remarkable effect upon my fancy? And then the series of accidents
and coincidences—these were so very extraordinary. Do you observe
how mere an accident it was that these events should have
occurred upon the sole day of all the year in which it has been,
or may be, sufficiently cool for fire, and that without the fire,
or without the intervention of the dog at the precise moment in
which he appeared, I should never have become aware of the
death’s-head, and so never the possessor of the treasure?”
“But proceed—I am all impatience.”
“Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories current—the
thousand vague rumors afloat about money buried, somewhere upon
the Atlantic coast, by Kidd and his associates. These rumors must
have had some foundation in fact. And that the rumors have
existed so long and so continuous, could have resulted, it
appeared to me, only from the circumstance of the buried treasure
still remaining entombed. Had Kidd concealed his plunder for a
time, and afterwards reclaimed it, the rumors would scarcely have
reached us in their present unvarying form. You will observe that
the stories told are all about money-seekers, not about
money-finders. Had the pirate recovered his money, there the
affair would have dropped. It seemed to me that some accident—say
the loss of a memorandum indicating its locality—had deprived him
of the means of recovering it, and that this accident had become
known to his followers, who otherwise might never have heard that
treasure had been concealed at all, and who, busying themselves
in vain, because unguided attempts, to regain it, had given first
birth, and then universal currency, to the reports which are now
so common. Have you ever heard of any important treasure being
unearthed along the coast?”
“Never.”
“But that Kidd’s accumulations were immense, is well known. I
took it for granted, therefore, that the earth still held them;
and you will scarcely be surprised when I tell you that I felt a
hope, nearly amounting to certainty, that the parchment so
strangely found, involved a lost record of the place of deposit.”
“But how did you proceed?”
“I held the vellum again to the fire, after increasing the heat;
but nothing appeared. I now thought it possible that the coating
of dirt might have something to do with the failure; so I
carefully rinsed the parchment by pouring warm water over it,
and, having done this, I placed it in a tin pan, with the skull
downwards, and put the pan upon a furnace of lighted charcoal. In
a few minutes, the pan having become thoroughly heated, I removed
the slip, and, to my inexpressible joy, found it spotted, in
several places, with what appeared to be figures arranged in
lines. Again I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to remain
another minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you see
it now.”
Here Legrand, having re-heated the parchment, submitted it to my
inspection. The following characters were rudely traced, in a red
tint, between the death’s-head and the goat:
“53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡);806*;48†8¶60))85;1‡(;:‡*8†83(88)5*†
;46(;88*96*?;8)*‡(;485);5*†2:*‡(;4956*2(5*—4)8¶8*;4069285);)
6†8)4‡‡;1(‡9;48081;8:8‡1;48†85;4)485†528806*81(‡9;48;(88;4(‡?3
4;48)4‡;161;:188;‡?;”
“But,” said I, returning him the slip, “I am as much in the dark
as ever. Were all the jewels of Golconda awaiting me upon my
solution of this enigma, I am quite sure that I should be unable
to earn them.”
“And yet,” said Legrand, “the solution is by no means so
difficult as you might be lead to imagine from the first hasty
inspection of the characters. These characters, as any one might
readily guess, form a cipher—that is to say, they convey a
meaning; but then, from what is known of Kidd, I could not
suppose him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse
cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, that this was of a
simple species—such, however, as would appear, to the crude
intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key.”
“And you really solved it?”
“Readily; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten thousand
times greater. Circumstances, and a certain bias of mind, have
led me to take interest in such riddles, and it may well be
doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma of the
kind which human ingenuity may not, by proper application,
resolve. In fact, having once established connected and legible
characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere difficulty of
developing their import.
“In the present case—indeed in all cases of secret writing—the
first question regards the language of the cipher; for the
principles of solution, so far, especially, as the more simple
ciphers are concerned, depend upon, and are varied by, the genius
of the particular idiom. In general, there is no alternative but
experiment (directed by probabilities) of every tongue known to
him who attempts the solution, until the true one be attained.
But, with the cipher now before us, all difficulty was removed by
the signature. The pun upon the word ‘Kidd’ is appreciable in no
other language than the English. But for this consideration I
should have begun my attempts with the Spanish and French, as the
tongues in which a secret of this kind would most naturally have
been written by a pirate of the Spanish main. As it was, I
assumed the cryptograph to be English.
“You observe there are no divisions between the words. Had there
been divisions, the task would have been comparatively easy. In
such case I should have commenced with a collation and analysis
of the shorter words, and, had a word of a single letter
occurred, as is most likely, (a or I, for example,) I should have
considered the solution as assured. But, there being no division,
my first step was to ascertain the predominant letters, as well
as the least frequent. Counting all, I constructed a table, thus:
Of the character 8 there are 33.
; “ 26.
4 “ 19.
‡ ) “ 16.
* “ 13.
5 “ 12.
6 “ 11.
† 1 “ 8.
0 “ 6.
9 2 “ 5.
: 3 “ 4.
? “ 3.
¶ “ 2.
-. “ 1.
“Now, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is e.
Afterwards, succession runs thus: _a o i d h n r s t u y c f g l
m w b k p q x z_. _E_ predominates so remarkably that an
individual sentence of any length is rarely seen, in which it is
not the prevailing character.
“Here, then, we leave, in the very beginning, the groundwork for
something more than a mere guess. The general use which may be
made of the table is obvious—but, in this particular cipher, we
shall only very partially require its aid. As our predominant
character is 8, we will commence by assuming it as the _e_ of the
natural alphabet. To verify the supposition, let us observe if
the 8 be seen often in couples—for _e_ is doubled with great
frequency in English—in such words, for example, as ‘meet,’
‘.fleet,’ ‘speed,’ ‘seen,’ been,’ ‘agree,’ &c. In the present
instance we see it doubled no less than five times, although the
cryptograph is brief.
“Let us assume 8, then, as _e_. Now, of all _words_ in the
language, ‘the’ is most usual; let us see, therefore, whether
there are not repetitions of any three characters, in the same
order of collocation, the last of them being 8. If we discover
repetitions of such letters, so arranged, they will most probably
represent the word ‘the.’ Upon inspection, we find no less than
seven such arrangements, the characters being ;48. We may,
therefore, assume that ; represents _t_, 4 represents _h_, and 8
represents _e_—the last being now well confirmed. Thus a great
step has been taken.
“But, having established a single word, we are enabled to
establish a vastly important point; that is to say, several
commencements and terminations of other words. Let us refer, for
example, to the last instance but one, in which the combination
;48 occurs—not far from the end of the cipher. We know that the ;
immediately ensuing is the commencement of a word, and, of the
six characters succeeding this ‘the,’ we are cognizant of no less
than five. Let us set these characters down, thus, by the letters
we know them to represent, leaving a space for the unknown—
t eeth.
“Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the ‘th,’ as forming no
portion of the word commencing with the first t; since, by
experiment of the entire alphabet for a letter adapted to the
vacancy, we perceive that no word can be formed of which this
_th_ can be a part. We are thus narrowed into
t ee,
and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as before, we
arrive at the word ‘tree,’ as the sole possible reading. We thus
gain another letter, _r_, represented by (, with the words ‘the
tree’ in juxtaposition.
“Looking beyond these words, for a short distance, we again see
the combination ;48, and employ it by way of termination to what
immediately precedes. We have thus this arrangement:
the tree ;4(‡?34 the,
or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it reads thus:
the tree thr‡?3h the.
“Now, if, in place of the unknown characters, we leave blank
spaces, or substitute dots, we read thus:
the tree thr...h the,
when the word ‘_through_’ makes itself evident at once. But this
discovery gives us three new letters, _o_, _u_ and _g_,
represented by ‡, ? and 3.
“Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations of
known characters, we find, not very far from the beginning, this
arrangement,
83(88, or egree,
which, plainly, is the conclusion of the word ‘degree,’ and gives
us another letter, _d_, represented by †.
“Four letters beyond the word ‘degree,’ we perceive the
combination
;46(;88.
“Translating the known characters, and representing the unknown
by dots, as before, we read thus:
th.rtee,
an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word ‘thirteen,’ and
again furnishing us with two new characters, _i_ and _n_,
represented by 6 and *.
“Referring, now, to the beginning of the cryptograph, we find the
combination,
53‡‡†.
“Translating as before, we obtain
good,
which assures us that the first letter is _A_, and that the first
two words are ‘A good.’
“It is now time that we arrange our key, as far as discovered, in
a tabular form, to avoid confusion. It will stand thus:
5 represents a
† “ d
8 “ e
3 “ g
4 “ h
6 “ i
* “ n
‡ “ o
( “ r
; “ t
? “ u
“We have, therefore, no less than eleven of the most important
letters represented, and it will be unnecessary to proceed with
the details of the solution. I have said enough to convince you
that ciphers of this nature are readily soluble, and to give you
some insight into the rationale of their development. But be
assured that the specimen before us appertains to the very
simplest species of cryptograph. It now only remains to give you
the full translation of the characters upon the parchment, as
unriddled. Here it is:
“‘_A good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat
forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes northeast and by north
main branch seventh limb east side shoot from the left eye of the
death’s-head a bee line from the tree through the shot fifty feet
out_.’”
“But,” said I, “the enigma seems still in as bad a condition as
ever. How is it possible to extort a meaning from all this jargon
about ‘devil’s seats,’ ‘death’s heads,’ and ‘bishop’s hotels?’”
“I confess,” replied Legrand, “that the matter still wears a
serious aspect, when regarded with a casual glance. My first
endeavor was to divide the sentence into the natural division
intended by the cryptographist.”
“You mean, to punctuate it?”
“Something of that kind.”
“But how was it possible to effect this?”
“I reflected that it had been a point with the writer to run his
words together without division, so as to increase the difficulty
of solution. Now, a not over-acute man, in pursuing such an
object, would be nearly certain to overdo the matter. When, in
the course of his composition, he arrived at a break in his
subject which would naturally require a pause, or a point, he
would be exceedingly apt to run his characters, at this place,
more than usually close together. If you will observe the MS., in
the present instance, you will easily detect five such cases of
unusual crowding. Acting upon this hint, I made the division
thus: ‘A good glass in the Bishop’s hostel in the Devil’s
seat—forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes—northeast and by
north—main branch seventh limb east side—shoot from the left eye
of the death’s-head—a bee-line from the tree through the shot
fifty feet out.’”
“Even this division,” said I, “leaves me still in the dark.”
“It left me also in the dark,” replied Legrand, “for a few days;
during which I made diligent inquiry, in the neighborhood of
Sullivan’s Island, for any building which went by the name of the
‘Bishop’s Hotel;’ for, of course, I dropped the obsolete word
‘hostel.’ Gaining no information on the subject, I was on the
point of extending my sphere of search, and proceeding in a more
systematic manner, when, one morning, it entered into my head,
quite suddenly, that this ‘Bishop’s Hostel’ might have some
reference to an old family, of the name of Bessop, which, time
out of mind, had held possession of an ancient manor-house, about
four miles to the northward of the island. I accordingly went
over to the plantation, and re-instituted my inquiries among the
older negroes of the place. At length one of the most aged of the
women said that she had heard of such a place as Bessop’s Castle,
and thought that she could guide me to it, but that it was not a
castle nor a tavern, but a high rock.
“I offered to pay her well for her trouble, and, after some
demur, she consented to accompany me to the spot. We found it
without much difficulty, when, dismissing her, I proceeded to
examine the place. The ‘castle’ consisted of an irregular
assemblage of cliffs and rocks—one of the latter being quite
remarkable for its height as well as for its insulated and
artificial appearance. I clambered to its apex, and then felt
much at a loss as to what should be next done.
“While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell upon a narrow
ledge in the eastern face of the rock, perhaps a yard below the
summit upon which I stood. This ledge projected about eighteen
inches, and was not more than a foot wide, while a niche in the
cliff just above it gave it a rude resemblance to one of the
hollow-backed chairs used by our ancestors. I made no doubt that
here was the ‘devil’s seat’ alluded to in the MS., and now I
seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle.
“The ‘good glass,’ I knew, could have reference to nothing but a
telescope; for the word ‘glass’ is rarely employed in any other
sense by seamen. Now here, I at once saw, was a telescope to be
used, and a definite point of view, admitting no variation, from
which to use it. Nor did I hesitate to believe that the phrases,
‘forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes,’ and ‘northeast and by
north,’ were intended as directions for the levelling of the
glass. Greatly excited by these discoveries, I hurried home,
procured a telescope, and returned to the rock.
“I let myself down to the ledge, and found that it was impossible
to retain a seat upon it except in one particular position. This
fact confirmed my preconceived idea. I proceeded to use the
glass. Of course, the ‘forty-one degrees and thirteen minutes’
could allude to nothing but elevation above the visible horizon,
since the horizontal direction was clearly indicated by the
words, ‘northeast and by north.’ This latter direction I at once
established by means of a pocket-compass; then, pointing the
glass as nearly at an angle of forty-one degrees of elevation as
I could do it by guess, I moved it cautiously up or down, until
my attention was arrested by a circular rift or opening in the
foliage of a large tree that overtopped its fellows in the
distance. In the centre of this rift I perceived a white spot,
but could not, at first, distinguish what it was. Adjusting the
focus of the telescope, I again looked, and now made it out to be
a human skull.
“Upon this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider the enigma
solved; for the phrase ‘main branch, seventh limb, east side,’
could refer only to the position of the skull upon the tree,
while ‘shoot from the left eye of the death’s head’ admitted,
also, of but one interpretation, in regard to a search for buried
treasure. I perceived that the design was to drop a bullet from
the left eye of the skull, and that a bee-line, or, in other
words, a straight line, drawn from the nearest point of the trunk
through ‘the shot,’ (or the spot where the bullet fell,) and
thence extended to a distance of fifty feet, would indicate a
definite point—and beneath this point I thought it at least
possible that a deposit of value lay concealed.”
“All this,” I said, “is exceedingly clear, and, although
ingenious, still simple and explicit. When you left the Bishop’s
Hotel, what then?”
“Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the tree, I turned
homewards. The instant that I left ‘the devil’s seat,’ however,
the circular rift vanished; nor could I get a glimpse of it
afterwards, turn as I would. What seems to me the chief ingenuity
in this whole business, is the fact (for repeated experiment has
convinced me it is a fact) that the circular opening in question
is visible from no other attainable point of view than that
afforded by the narrow ledge upon the face of the rock.
“In this expedition to the ‘Bishop’s Hotel’ I had been attended
by Jupiter, who had, no doubt, observed, for some weeks past, the
abstraction of my demeanor, and took especial care not to leave
me alone. But, on the next day, getting up very early, I
contrived to give him the slip, and went into the hills in search
of the tree. After much toil I found it. When I came home at
night my valet proposed to give me a flogging. With the rest of
the adventure I believe you are as well acquainted as myself.”
“I suppose,” said I, “you missed the spot, in the first attempt
at digging, through Jupiter’s stupidity in letting the bug fall
through the right instead of through the left eye of the skull.”
“Precisely. This mistake made a difference of about two inches
and a half in the ‘shot’—that is to say, in the position of the
peg nearest the tree; and had the treasure been beneath the
‘shot,’ the error would have been of little moment; but ‘the
shot,’ together with the nearest point of the tree, were merely
two points for the establishment of a line of direction; of
course the error, however trivial in the beginning, increased as
we proceeded with the line, and by the time we had gone fifty
feet, threw us quite off the scent. But for my deep-seated
impressions that treasure was here somewhere actually buried, we
might have had all our labor in vain.”
“But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in swinging the
beetle—how excessively odd! I was sure you were mad. And why did
you insist upon letting fall the bug, instead of a bullet, from
the skull?”
“Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by your evident
suspicions touching my sanity, and so resolved to punish you
quietly, in my own way, by a little bit of sober mystification.
For this reason I swung the beetle, and for this reason I let it
fall it from the tree. An observation of yours about its great
weight suggested the latter idea.”
“Yes, I perceive; and now there is only one point which puzzles
me. What are we to make of the skeletons found in the hole?”
“That is a question I am no more able to answer than yourself.
There seems, however, only one plausible way of accounting for
them—and yet it is dreadful to believe in such atrocity as my
suggestion would imply. It is clear that Kidd—if Kidd indeed
secreted this treasure, which I doubt not—it is clear that he
must have had assistance in the labor. But this labor concluded,
he may have thought it expedient to remove all participants in
his secret. Perhaps a couple of blows with a mattock were
sufficient, while his coadjutors were busy in the pit; perhaps it
required a dozen—who shall tell?”
FOUR BEASTS IN ONE—THE HOMO-CAMELEOPARD
Chacun a ses vertus.
—_Crébillon’s Xerxes._
Antiochus Epiphanes is very generally looked upon as the Gog of
the prophet Ezekiel. This honor is, however, more properly
attributable to Cambyses, the son of Cyrus. And, indeed, the
character of the Syrian monarch does by no means stand in need of
any adventitious embellishment. His accession to the throne, or
rather his usurpation of the sovereignty, a hundred and
seventy-one years before the coming of Christ; his attempt to
plunder the temple of Diana at Ephesus; his implacable hostility
to the Jews; his pollution of the Holy of Holies; and his
miserable death at Taba, after a tumultuous reign of eleven
years, are circumstances of a prominent kind, and therefore more
generally noticed by the historians of his time than the impious,
dastardly, cruel, silly, and whimsical achievements which make up
the sum total of his private life and reputation.
Let us suppose, gentle reader, that it is now the year of the
world three thousand eight hundred and thirty, and let us, for a
few minutes, imagine ourselves at that most grotesque habitation
of man, the remarkable city of Antioch. To be sure there were, in
Syria and other countries, sixteen cities of that appellation,
besides the one to which I more particularly allude. But ours is
that which went by the name of Antiochia Epidaphne, from its
vicinity to the little village of Daphne, where stood a temple to
that divinity. It was built (although about this matter there is
some dispute) by Seleucus Nicanor, the first king of the country
after Alexander the Great, in memory of his father Antiochus, and
became immediately the residence of the Syrian monarchy. In the
flourishing times of the Roman Empire, it was the ordinary
station of the prefect of the eastern provinces; and many of the
emperors of the queen city (among whom may be mentioned,
especially, Verus and Valens) spent here the greater part of
their time. But I perceive we have arrived at the city itself.
Let us ascend this battlement, and throw our eyes upon the town
and neighboring country.
“What broad and rapid river is that which forces its way, with
innumerable falls, through the mountainous wilderness, and
finally through the wilderness of buildings?”
That is the Orontes, and it is the only water in sight, with the
exception of the Mediterranean, which stretches, like a broad
mirror, about twelve miles off to the southward. Every one has
seen the Mediterranean; but let me tell you, there are few who
have had a peep at Antioch. By few, I mean, few who, like you and
me, have had, at the same time, the advantages of a modern
education. Therefore cease to regard that sea, and give your
whole attention to the mass of houses that lie beneath us. You
will remember that it is now the year of the world three thousand
eight hundred and thirty. Were it later—for example, were it the
year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-five, we should be
deprived of this extraordinary spectacle. In the nineteenth
century Antioch is—that is to say, Antioch will be—in a
lamentable state of decay. It will have been, by that time,
totally destroyed, at three different periods, by three
successive earthquakes. Indeed, to say the truth, what little of
its former self may then remain, will be found in so desolate and
ruinous a state that the patriarch shall have removed his
residence to Damascus. This is well. I see you profit by my
advice, and are making the most of your time in inspecting the
premises—in
—satisfying your eyes
With the memorials and the things of fame
That most renown this city.—
I beg pardon; I had forgotten that Shakespeare will not flourish
for seventeen hundred and fifty years to come. But does not the
appearance of Epidaphne justify me in calling it grotesque?
“It is well fortified; and in this respect is as much indebted to
nature as to art.”
Very true.
“There are a prodigious number of stately palaces.”
There are.
“And the numerous temples, sumptuous and magnificent, may bear
comparison with the most lauded of antiquity.”
All this I must acknowledge. Still there is an infinity of mud
huts, and abominable hovels. We cannot help perceiving abundance
of filth in every kennel, and, were it not for the over-powering
fumes of idolatrous incense, I have no doubt we should find a
most intolerable stench. Did you ever behold streets so
insufferably narrow, or houses so miraculously tall? What gloom
their shadows cast upon the ground! It is well the swinging lamps
in those endless colonnades are kept burning throughout the day;
we should otherwise have the darkness of Egypt in the time of her
desolation.
“It is certainly a strange place! What is the meaning of yonder
singular building? See! it towers above all others, and lies to
the eastward of what I take to be the royal palace!”
That is the new Temple of the Sun, who is adored in Syria under
the title of Elah Gabalah. Hereafter a very notorious Roman
Emperor will institute this worship in Rome, and thence derive a
cognomen, Heliogabalus. I dare say you would like to take a peep
at the divinity of the temple. You need not look up at the
heavens; his Sunship is not there—at least not the Sunship adored
by the Syrians. That deity will be found in the interior of
yonder building. He is worshipped under the figure of a large
stone pillar terminating at the summit in a cone or pyramid,
whereby is denoted Fire.
“Hark—behold!—who can those ridiculous beings be, half naked,
with their faces painted, shouting and gesticulating to the
rabble?”
Some few are mountebanks. Others more particularly belong to the
race of philosophers. The greatest portion, however—those
especially who belabor the populace with clubs—are the principal
courtiers of the palace, executing as in duty bound, some
laudable comicality of the king’s.
“But what have we here? Heavens! the town is swarming with wild
beasts! How terrible a spectacle!—how dangerous a peculiarity!”
Terrible, if you please; but not in the least degree dangerous.
Each animal if you will take the pains to observe, is following,
very quietly, in the wake of its master. Some few, to be sure,
are led with a rope about the neck, but these are chiefly the
lesser or timid species. The lion, the tiger, and the leopard are
entirely without restraint. They have been trained without
difficulty to their present profession, and attend upon their
respective owners in the capacity of valets-de-chambre. It is
true, there are occasions when Nature asserts her violated
dominions;—but then the devouring of a man-at-arms, or the
throttling of a consecrated bull, is a circumstance of too little
moment to be more than hinted at in Epidaphne.
“But what extraordinary tumult do I hear? Surely this is a loud
noise even for Antioch! It argues some commotion of unusual
interest.”
Yes—undoubtedly. The king has ordered some novel spectacle—some
gladiatorial exhibition at the hippodrome—or perhaps the massacre
of the Scythian prisoners—or the conflagration of his new
palace—or the tearing down of a handsome temple—or, indeed, a
bonfire of a few Jews. The uproar increases. Shouts of laughter
ascend the skies. The air becomes dissonant with wind
instruments, and horrible with clamor of a million throats. Let
us descend, for the love of fun, and see what is going on! This
way—be careful! Here we are in the principal street, which is
called the street of Timarchus. The sea of people is coming this
way, and we shall find a difficulty in stemming the tide. They
are pouring through the alley of Heraclides, which leads directly
from the palace;—therefore the king is most probably among the
rioters. Yes—I hear the shouts of the herald proclaiming his
approach in the pompous phraseology of the East. We shall have a
glimpse of his person as he passes by the temple of Ashimah. Let
us ensconce ourselves in the vestibule of the sanctuary; he will
be here anon. In the meantime let us survey this image. What is
it? Oh! it is the god Ashimah in proper person. You perceive,
however, that he is neither a lamb, nor a goat, nor a satyr,
neither has he much resemblance to the Pan of the Arcadians. Yet
all these appearances have been given—I beg pardon—will be
given—by the learned of future ages, to the Ashimah of the
Syrians. Put on your spectacles, and tell me what it is. What is
it?
“Bless me! it is an ape!”
True—a baboon; but by no means the less a deity. His name is a
derivation of the Greek Simia—what great fools are antiquarians!
But see!—see!—yonder scampers a ragged little urchin. Where is he
going? What is he bawling about? What does he say? Oh! he says
the king is coming in triumph; that he is dressed in state; that
he has just finished putting to death, with his own hand, a
thousand chained Israelitish prisoners! For this exploit the
ragamuffin is lauding him to the skies! Hark! here comes a troop
of a similar description. They have made a Latin hymn upon the
valor of the king, and are singing it as they go:
Mille, mille, mille,
Mille, mille, mille,
Decollavimus, unus homo!
Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus!
Mille, mille, mille,
Vivat qui mille mille occidit!
Tantum vini habet nemo
Quantum sanguinis effudit!(*1)
Which may be thus paraphrased:
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
We, with one warrior, have slain!
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand.
Sing a thousand over again!
Soho!—let us sing
Long life to our king,
Who knocked over a thousand so fine!
Soho!—let us roar,
He has given us more
Red gallons of gore
Than all Syria can furnish of wine!
“Do you hear that flourish of trumpets?”
Yes—the king is coming! See! the people are aghast with
admiration, and lift up their eyes to the heavens in reverence.
He comes!—he is coming!—there he is!
“Who?—where?—the king?—do not behold him—cannot say that I
perceive him.”
Then you must be blind.
“Very possible. Still I see nothing but a tumultuous mob of
idiots and madmen, who are busy in prostrating themselves before
a gigantic cameleopard, and endeavoring to obtain a kiss of the
animal’s hoofs. See! the beast has very justly kicked one of the
rabble over—and another—and another—and another. Indeed, I cannot
help admiring the animal for the excellent use he is making of
his feet.”
Rabble, indeed!—why these are the noble and free citizens of
Epidaphne! Beasts, did you say?—take care that you are not
overheard. Do you not perceive that the animal has the visage of
a man? Why, my dear sir, that cameleopard is no other than
Antiochus Epiphanes, Antiochus the Illustrious, King of Syria,
and the most potent of all the autocrats of the East! It is true,
that he is entitled, at times, Antiochus Epimanes—Antiochus the
madman—but that is because all people have not the capacity to
appreciate his merits. It is also certain that he is at present
ensconced in the hide of a beast, and is doing his best to play
the part of a cameleopard; but this is done for the better
sustaining his dignity as king. Besides, the monarch is of
gigantic stature, and the dress is therefore neither unbecoming
nor over large. We may, however, presume he would not have
adopted it but for some occasion of especial state. Such, you
will allow, is the massacre of a thousand Jews. With how superior
a dignity the monarch perambulates on all fours! His tail, you
perceive, is held aloft by his two principal concubines, Elline
and Argelais; and his whole appearance would be infinitely
prepossessing, were it not for the protuberance of his eyes,
which will certainly start out of his head, and the queer color
of his face, which has become nondescript from the quantity of
wine he has swallowed. Let us follow him to the hippodrome,
whither he is proceeding, and listen to the song of triumph which
he is commencing:
Who is king but Epiphanes?
Say—do you know?
Who is king but Epiphanes?
Bravo!—bravo!
There is none but Epiphanes,
No—there is none:
So tear down the temples,
And put out the sun!
Well and strenuously sung! The populace are hailing him ‘Prince
of Poets,’ as well as ‘Glory of the East,’ ‘Delight of the
Universe,’ and ‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards.’ They have
encored his effusion, and do you hear?—he is singing it over
again. When he arrives at the hippodrome, he will be crowned with
the poetic wreath, in anticipation of his victory at the
approaching Olympics.
“But, good Jupiter! what is the matter in the crowd behind us?”
Behind us, did you say?—oh! ah!—I perceive. My friend, it is well
that you spoke in time. Let us get into a place of safety as soon
as possible. Here!—let us conceal ourselves in the arch of this
aqueduct, and I will inform you presently of the origin of the
commotion. It has turned out as I have been anticipating. The
singular appearance of the cameleopard and the head of a man,
has, it seems, given offence to the notions of propriety
entertained, in general, by the wild animals domesticated in the
city. A mutiny has been the result; and, as is usual upon such
occasions, all human efforts will be of no avail in quelling the
mob. Several of the Syrians have already been devoured; but the
general voice of the four-footed patriots seems to be for eating
up the cameleopard. ‘The Prince of Poets,’ therefore, is upon his
hinder legs, running for his life. His courtiers have left him in
the lurch, and his concubines have followed so excellent an
example. ‘Delight of the Universe,’ thou art in a sad
predicament! ‘Glory of the East,’ thou art in danger of
mastication! Therefore never regard so piteously thy tail; it
will undoubtedly be draggled in the mud, and for this there is no
help. Look not behind thee, then, at its unavoidable degradation;
but take courage, ply thy legs with vigor, and scud for the
hippodrome! Remember that thou art Antiochus Epiphanes. Antiochus
the Illustrious!—also ‘Prince of Poets,’ ‘Glory of the East,’
‘Delight of the Universe,’ and ‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards!’
Heavens! what a power of speed thou art displaying! What a
capacity for leg-bail thou art developing! Run, Prince!—Bravo,
Epiphanes! Well done, Cameleopard!—Glorious Antiochus!—He
runs!—he leaps!—he flies! Like an arrow from a catapult he
approaches the hippodrome! He leaps!—he shrieks!—he is there!
This is well; for hadst thou, ‘Glory of the East,’ been half a
second longer in reaching the gates of the Amphitheatre, there is
not a bear’s cub in Epidaphne that would not have had a nibble at
thy carcase. Let us be off—let us take our departure!—for we
shall find our delicate modern ears unable to endure the vast
uproar which is about to commence in celebration of the king’s
escape! Listen! it has already commenced. See!—the whole town is
topsy-turvy.
“Surely this is the most populous city of the East! What a
wilderness of people! what a jumble of all ranks and ages! what a
multiplicity of sects and nations! what a variety of costumes!
what a Babel of languages! what a screaming of beasts! what a
tinkling of instruments! what a parcel of philosophers!”
Come let us be off.
“Stay a moment! I see a vast hubbub in the hippodrome; what is
the meaning of it, I beseech you?”
That?—oh, nothing! The noble and free citizens of Epidaphne
being, as they declare, well satisfied of the faith, valor,
wisdom, and divinity of their king, and having, moreover, been
eye-witnesses of his late superhuman agility, do think it no more
than their duty to invest his brows (in addition to the poetic
crown) with the wreath of victory in the footrace—a wreath which
it is evident he must obtain at the celebration of the next
Olympiad, and which, therefore, they now give him in advance.
Footnotes—Four Beasts
(*1) Flavius Vospicus says, that the hymn here introduced was
sung by the rabble upon the occasion of Aurelian, in the Sarmatic
war, having slain, with his own hand, nine hundred and fifty of
the enemy.
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond
_all_ conjecture.
—_Sir Thomas Browne._
The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in
themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate
them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things,
that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately
possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man
exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as
call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that
moral activity which _disentangles._ He derives pleasure from
even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play.
He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics;
exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of _acumen_ which
appears to the ordinary apprehension præternatural. His results,
brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in
truth, the whole air of intuition.
The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by
mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it
which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde
operations, has been called, as if _par excellence_, analysis.
Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for
example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows
that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is
greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but
simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations
very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert
that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more
decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of
draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this
latter, where the pieces have different and _bizarre_ motions,
with various and variable values, what is only complex is
mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The
_attention_ is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for
an instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or
defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute,
the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases
out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more
acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where
the moves are _unique_ and have but little variation, the
probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere
attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages
are obtained by either party are obtained by superior _acumen_.
To be less abstract, let us suppose a game of draughts where the
pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no
oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory
can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some
_recherché_ movement, the result of some strong exertion of the
intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws
himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself
therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole
methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may
seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.
Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed
the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect
have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in
it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is
nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of
analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom _may_ be little
more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist
implies capacity for success in all those more important
undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say
proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
comprehension of _all_ the sources whence legitimate advantage
may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and
lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible
to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to
remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player
will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves
based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and
generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to
proceed by “the book,” are points commonly regarded as the sum
total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of
mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in
silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do
his companions; and the difference in the extent of the
information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the
inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary
knowledge is that of _what_ to observe. Our player confines
himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he
reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines
the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that
of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the
cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by
honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each.
He notes every variation of face as the play progresses,
gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the
expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin.
From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the
person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognises what
is played through feint, by the manner with which it is thrown
upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental
dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or
carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the
tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment,
hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford, to his
apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of
affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is
in full possession of the contents of each hand, and
thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of
purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces
of their own.
The analytical power should not be confounded with ample
ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the
ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. The
constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually
manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe
erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a
primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose
intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted
general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity
and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater,
indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a
character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact,
that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the _truly_
imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in
the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.
Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of
18—, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin.
This young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an
illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had
been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his character
succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the
world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy
of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small
remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this,
he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the
necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its
superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in
Paris these are easily obtained.
Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue
Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the
same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer
communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply
interested in the little family history which he detailed to me
with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere
self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of
his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me
by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination.
Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the
society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and
this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged
that we should live together during my stay in the city; and as
my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his
own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and
furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of
our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long
deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and
tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the
Faubourg St. Germain.
Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the
world, we should have been regarded as madmen—although, perhaps,
as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We
admitted no visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had
been carefully kept a secret from my own former associates; and
it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known
in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone.
It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call
it?) to be enamored of the night for her own sake; and into this
_bizarrerie_, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving
myself up to his wild whims with a perfect _abandon_. The sable
divinity would not herself dwell with us always; but we could
counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we
closed all the messy shutters of our old building; lighting a
couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the
ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then
busied our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, until
warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we
sallied forth into the streets arm in arm, continuing the topics
of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking,
amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that
infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford.
At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although
from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a
peculiar analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an
eager delight in its exercise—if not exactly in its display—and
did not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He boasted
to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to
himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up
such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his
intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was
frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while
his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would
have sounded petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire
distinctness of the enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I
often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part
Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin—the
creative and the resolvent.
Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am
detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have
described in the Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited,
or perhaps of a diseased intelligence. But of the character of
his remarks at the periods in question an example will best
convey the idea.
We were strolling one night down a long dirty street in the
vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied
with thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen
minutes at least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:
“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for
the _Théâtre des Variétés_.”
“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not
at first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection)
the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with
my meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and
my astonishment was profound.
“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do
not hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my
senses. How was it possible you should know I was thinking of
——?” Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really
knew of whom I thought.
“—— of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking
to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”
This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a _quondam_ cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who,
becoming stage-mad, had attempted the _rôle_ of Xerxes, in
Crébillon’s tragedy so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded
for his pains.
“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method
there is—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this
matter.” In fact I was even more startled than I would have been
willing to express.
“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to
the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient
height for Xerxes _et id genus omne_.”
“The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”
“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street—it may
have been fifteen minutes ago.”
I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his
head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by
accident, as we passed from the Rue C—— into the thoroughfare
where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could
not possibly understand.
There was not a particle of _charlatânerie_ about Dupin. “I will
explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we
will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the
moment in which I spoke to you until that of the _rencontre_ with
the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run
thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the
street stones, the fruiterer.”
There are few persons who have not, at some period of their
lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which
particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The
occupation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for
the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable
distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal.
What, then, must have been my amazement when I heard the
Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not
help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued:
“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before
leaving the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As
we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket
upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile
of paving stones collected at a spot where the causeway is
undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments,
slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky,
muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then
proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what
you did; but observation has become with me, of late, a species
of necessity.
“You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing, with a petulant
expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw
you were still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the
little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of
experiment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your
countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I
could not doubt that you murmured the word ‘stereotomy,’ a term
very affectedly applied to this species of pavement. I knew that
you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ without being brought
to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and
since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I
mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the
vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in
the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid
casting your eyes upward to the great _nebula_ in Orion, and I
certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I
was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in
that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared in
yesterday’s ‘_Musée_,’ the satirist, making some disgraceful
allusions to the cobbler’s change of name upon assuming the
buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed.
I mean the line
Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.
“I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly
written Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this
explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It
was clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two
ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I saw by
the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You
thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. So far, you had been
stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw yourself up to your
full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the
diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your
meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very little
fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the _Théâtre des
Variétés_.”
Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of
the “Gazette des Tribunaux,” when the following paragraphs
arrested our attention.
“_Extraordinary Murders_.—This morning, about three o’clock, the
inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a
succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the
fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the
sole occupancy of one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter,
Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by
a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the
gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the
neighbors entered accompanied by two _gendarmes_. By this time
the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first
flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention
were distinguished and seemed to proceed from the upper part of
the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also,
had ceased and everything remained perfectly quiet. The party
spread themselves and hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at
a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door of which,
being found locked, with the key inside, was forced open,) a
spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not
less with horror than with astonishment.
“The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken
and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead;
and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the
middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with
blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of
grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been
pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four
Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three
smaller of _métal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing nearly four
thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a _bureau_, which stood
in one corner were open, and had been, apparently, rifled,
although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe
was discovered under the _bed_ (not under the bedstead). It was
open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond a
few old letters, and other papers of little consequence.
“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual
quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was
made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the
daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been
thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance.
The body was quite warm. Upon examining it, many excoriations
were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it
had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe
scratches, and, upon the throat, dark bruises, and deep
indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been
throttled to death.
“After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house,
without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small
paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of
the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an
attempt to raise her, the head fell off. The body, as well as the
head, was fearfully mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely
to retain any semblance of humanity.
“To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the
slightest clew.”
The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.
“_The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue._—Many individuals have been
examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful
affair” [The word ‘affaire’ has not yet, in France, that levity
of import which it conveys with us], “but nothing whatever has
transpired to throw light upon it. We give below all the material
testimony elicited.
“_Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both
the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that
period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms—very
affectionate towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could
not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed
that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have
money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called
for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no
servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part
of the building except in the fourth story.
“_Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the
habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame
L’Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood,
and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had
occupied the house in which the corpses were found, for more than
six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let
the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property of
Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises
by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let any
portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter
some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an
exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have money. Had heard it
said among the neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes—did not
believe it. Had never seen any person enter the door except the
old lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, and a
physician some eight or ten times.
“Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect.
No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known
whether there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her
daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened.
Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the
large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house—not
very old.
“_Isidore Musèt_, _gendarme_, deposes that he was called to the
house about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty
or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance.
Forced it open, at length, with a bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had
but little difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being
a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom not top.
The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced—and then
suddenly ceased. They seemed to be screams of some person (or
persons) in great agony—were loud and drawn out, not short and
quick. Witness led the way up stairs. Upon reaching the first
landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention—the one a
gruff voice, the other much shriller—a very strange voice. Could
distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a
Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could
distinguish the words ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_diable._’ The shrill voice
was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the
voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said,
but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the room
and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described
them yesterday.
“_Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes
that he was one of the party who first entered the house.
Corroborates the testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they
forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the
crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of
the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an
Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure that it
was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not
acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the
words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was
an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with
both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of
either of the deceased.
“——_Odenheimer, restaurateur._ This witness volunteered his
testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an
interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at
the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several minutes—probably
ten. They were long and loud—very awful and distressing. Was one
of those who entered the building. Corroborated the previous
evidence in every respect but one. Was sure that the shrill voice
was that of a man—of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish the words
uttered. They were loud and quick—unequal—spoken apparently in
fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not so much shrill
as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said
repeatedly ‘_sacré_,’ ‘_diable_,’ and once ‘_mon Dieu._’
“_Jules Mignaud_, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue
Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some
property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the
spring of the year—(eight years previously). Made frequent
deposits in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third
day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of 4000
francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk went home with the
money.
“_Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the
day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to
her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the
door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his
hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the
other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the
street at the time. It is a by-street—very lonely.
“_William Bird_, tailor deposes that he was one of the party who
entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two
years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the
voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.
Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard
distinctly ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_mon Dieu._’ There was a sound at the
moment as if of several persons struggling—a scraping and
scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud—louder than the
gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman.
Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice.
Does not understand German.
“Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that
the door of the chamber in which was found the body of
Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached
it. Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any
kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows, both
of the back and front room, were down and firmly fastened from
within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked.
The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked,
with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the
house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage was open,
the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes,
and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There
was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not
carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys.
The house was a four story one, with garrets (_mansardes._) A
trap-door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not
appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between
the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of
the room door, was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made
it as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was
opened with difficulty.
“_Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue
Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered
the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was
apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices
in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not
distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an
Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English
language, but judges by the intonation.
“_Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the
first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The
gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words.
The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the
words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it
the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an
Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia.
“Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of
all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the
passage of a human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical
sweeping brushes, such as are employed by those who clean
chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in the
house. There is no back passage by which any one could have
descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that
it could not be got down until four or five of the party united
their strength.
“_Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the
bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking
of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found.
The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The
fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently
account for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed.
There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together
with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression
of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls
protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large
bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced,
apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M.
Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by
some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was
horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were
more or less shattered. The left _tibia_ much splintered, as well
as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body dreadfully bruised
and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had
been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron—a
chair—any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced
such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No
woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of
the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from
the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had
evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument—probably with
a razor.
“_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view
the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M.
Dumas.
“Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several
other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so
perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in
Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police
are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence in affairs of this
nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.”
The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest
excitement still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the
premises in question had been carefully re-searched, and fresh
examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A
postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been
arrested and imprisoned—although nothing appeared to criminate
him, beyond the facts already detailed.
Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this
affair—at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no
comments. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been
imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders.
I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an
insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible
to trace the murderer.
“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of
an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for
_acumen_, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their
proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast
parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill
adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur
Jourdain’s calling for his _robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre
la musique._ The results attained by them are not unfrequently
surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple
diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing,
their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a
persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred
continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He
impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might
see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so
doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus
there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always
in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do
believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the
valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where
she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are
well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To
look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by
turning toward it the exterior portions of the _retina_ (more
susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is
to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of
its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn
our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of rays actually
fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there
is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue
profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to
make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny
too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.
“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for
ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An
inquiry will afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term,
so applied, but said nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered
me a service for which I am not ungrateful. We will go and see
the premises with our own eyes. I know G——, the Prefect of
Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary
permission.”
The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue
Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which
intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was
late in the afternoon when we reached it, as this quarter is at a
great distance from that in which we resided. The house was
readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the
closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite
side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a
gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a
sliding panel in the window, indicating a _loge de concierge._
Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley,
and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the
building—Dupin, meanwhile examining the whole neighborhood, as
well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I
could see no possible object.
Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling,
rang, and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the
agents in charge. We went up stairs—into the chamber where the
body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been found, and where both
the deceased still lay. The disorders of the room had, as usual,
been suffered to exist. I saw nothing beyond what had been stated
in the “Gazette des Tribunaux.” Dupin scrutinized every thing—not
excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other
rooms, and into the yard; a _gendarme_ accompanying us
throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took
our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a
moment at the office of one of the daily papers.
I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that
_Je les ménageais_:—for this phrase there is no English
equivalent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on
the subject of the murder, until about noon the next day. He then
asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing _peculiar_ at the
scene of the atrocity.
There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word
“peculiar,” which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.
“No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said; “nothing more, at least, than
we both saw stated in the paper.”
“The ‘Gazette,’” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the
unusual horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of
this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered
insoluble, for the very reason which should cause it to be
regarded as easy of solution—I mean for the _outré_ character of
its features. The police are confounded by the seeming absence of
motive—not for the murder itself—but for the atrocity of the
murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of
reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that
no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle
L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the
notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the
corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the
frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these
considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I
need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by
putting completely at fault the boasted _acumen_, of the
government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common
error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by
these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason
feels its way, if at all, in its search for the true. In
investigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so
much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what has occurred that has
never occurred before.’ In fact, the facility with which I shall
arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in
the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the
police.”
I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.
“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our
apartment—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not
the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some
measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of
the crimes committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope
that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my
expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man
here—in this room—every moment. It is true that he may not
arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it
will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both
know how to use them when occasion demands their use.”
I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing
what I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a
soliloquy. I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such
times. His discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice,
although by no means loud, had that intonation which is commonly
employed in speaking to some one at a great distance. His eyes,
vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.
“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party
upon the stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was
fully proved by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon
the question whether the old lady could have first destroyed the
daughter and afterward have committed suicide. I speak of this
point chiefly for the sake of method; for the strength of Madame
L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of
thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was found;
and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely
preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been
committed by some third party; and the voices of this third party
were those heard in contention. Let me now advert—not to the
whole testimony respecting these voices—but to what was
_peculiar_ in that testimony. Did you observe any thing peculiar
about it?”
I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the
gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much
disagreement in regard to the shrill, or, as one individual
termed it, the harsh voice.
“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the
peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing
distinctive. Yet there _was_ something to be observed. The
witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were
here unanimous. But in regard to the shrill voice, the
peculiarity is—not that they disagreed—but that, while an
Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman
attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that _of a
foreigner_. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his
own countrymen. Each likens it—not to the voice of an individual
of any nation with whose language he is conversant—but the
converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and
‘might have distinguished some words _had he been acquainted with
the Spanish._’ The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a
Frenchman; but we find it stated that ‘_not understanding French
this witness was examined through an interpreter._’ The
Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and ‘_does not
understand German._’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that of
an Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’ altogether, ‘_as he
has no knowledge of the English._’ The Italian believes it the
voice of a Russian, but ‘_has never conversed with a native of
Russia._’ A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first,
and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian; but, _not
being cognizant of that tongue_, is, like the Spaniard,
‘convinced by the intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual must
that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this
_could_ have been elicited!—in whose _tones_, even, denizens of
the five great divisions of Europe could recognise nothing
familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an
Asiatic—of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in
Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will now merely call
your attention to three points. The voice is termed by one
witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It is represented by two
others to have been ‘quick and _unequal._’ No words—no sounds
resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as
distinguishable.
“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made,
so far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say
that legitimate deductions even from this portion of the
testimony—the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are
in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion which should
give direction to all farther progress in the investigation of
the mystery. I said ‘legitimate deductions;’ but my meaning is
not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions
are the _sole_ proper ones, and that the suspicion arises
_inevitably_ from them as the single result. What the suspicion
is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear
in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a
definite form—a certain tendency—to my inquiries in the chamber.
“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What
shall we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the
murderers. It is not too much to say that neither of us believe
in præternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were
not destroyed by spirits. The doers of the deed were material,
and escaped materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one
mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode _must_ lead us to
a definite decision. Let us examine, each by each, the possible
means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the room
where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in the room
adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only
from these two apartments that we have to seek issues. The police
have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the
walls, in every direction. No _secret_ issues could have escaped
their vigilance. But, not trusting to _their_ eyes, I examined
with my own. There were, then, no secret issues. Both doors
leading from the rooms into the passage were securely locked,
with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These,
although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the
hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a
large cat. The impossibility of egress, by means already stated,
being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those
of the front room no one could have escaped without notice from
the crowd in the street. The murderers _must_ have passed, then,
through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion
in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as
reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities.
It is only left for us to prove that these apparent
‘impossibilities’ are, in reality, not such.
“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is
unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower
portion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the
unwieldy bedstead which is thrust close up against it. The former
was found securely fastened from within. It resisted the utmost
force of those who endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet-hole
had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail
was found fitted therein, nearly to the head. Upon examining the
other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and
a vigorous attempt to raise this sash, failed also. The police
were now entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these
directions. And, _therefore_, it was thought a matter of
supererogation to withdraw the nails and open the windows.
“My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for
the reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that
all apparent impossibilities _must_ be proved to be not such in
reality.
“I proceeded to think thus—_a posteriori_. The murderers did
escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not
have refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found
fastened;—the consideration which put a stop, through its
obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter. Yet
the sashes _were_ fastened. They _must_, then, have the power of
fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I
stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some
difficulty and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my
efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now
know, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that
my premises at least, were correct, however mysterious still
appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search
soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and,
satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.
“I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person
passing out through this window might have reclosed it, and the
spring would have caught—but the nail could not have been
replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the
field of my investigations. The assassins _must_ have escaped
through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each
sash to be the same, as was probable, there _must_ be found a
difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of
their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked
over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my
hand down behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the
spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with
its neighbor. I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the
other, and apparently fitted in the same manner—driven in nearly
up to the head.
“You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must
have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a
sporting phrase, I had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had
never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of
the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate result,—and
that result was _the nail._ It had, I say, in every respect, the
appearance of its fellow in the other window; but this fact was
an absolute nullity (conclusive us it might seem to be) when
compared with the consideration that here, at this point,
terminated the clew. ‘There _must_ be something wrong,’ I said,
‘about the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about a
quarter of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest
of the shank was in the gimlet-hole where it had been broken off.
The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with
rust), and had apparently been accomplished by the blow of a
hammer, which had partially imbedded, in the top of the bottom
sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this
head portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the
resemblance to a perfect nail was complete—the fissure was
invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a
few inches; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed.
I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was
again perfect.
“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassin had escaped
through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own
accord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had become
fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring
which had been mistaken by the police for that of the
nail,—farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary.
“The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this
point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the
building. About five feet and a half from the casement in
question there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have
been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say
nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of
the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian
carpenters _ferrades_—a kind rarely employed at the present day,
but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux.
They are in the form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding
door), except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open
trellis—thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the
present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half
broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were
both about half open—that is to say, they stood off at right
angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as
myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in looking
at these _ferrades_ in the line of their breadth (as they must
have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or,
at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact,
having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been
made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very
cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the
shutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed, would, if
swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the
lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very
unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the
window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching
to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the
shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a
firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon
the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and
springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as
to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time,
might even have swung himself into the room.
“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a
_very_ unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so
hazardous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you,
first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished:—but,
secondly and _chiefly_, I wish to impress upon your understanding
the _very extraordinary_—the almost præternatural character of
that agility which could have accomplished it.
“You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to
make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a
full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may
be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My
ultimate object is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to
lead you to place in juxtaposition, that _very unusual_ activity
of which I have just spoken with that _very peculiar_ shrill (or
harsh) and _unequal_ voice, about whose nationality no two
persons could be found to agree, and in whose utterance no
syllabification could be detected.”
At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning
of Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of
comprehension without power to comprehend—as men, at times, find
themselves upon the brink of remembrance without being able, in
the end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse.
“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from
the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey
the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same
point. Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us
survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is
said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still
remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere
guess—a very silly one—and no more. How are we to know that the
articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers had
originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter lived an
exceedingly retired life—saw no company—seldom went out—had
little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were
at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by
these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the
best—why did he not take all? In a word, why did he abandon four
thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of
linen? The gold _was_ abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned
by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon
the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts
the blundering idea of _motive_, engendered in the brains of the
police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money
delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as
remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder
committed within three days upon the party receiving it), happen
to all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even
momentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are great
stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have
been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities—that
theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are
indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the present
instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three
days before would have formed something more than a coincidence.
It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But,
under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose
gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine the
perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold
and his motive together.
“Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn
your attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and
that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly
atrocious as this—let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a
woman strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust up a
chimney, head downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such modes
of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispose of the
murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney,
you will admit that there was something _excessively
outré_—something altogether irreconcilable with our common
notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most
depraved of men. Think, too, how great must have been that
strength which could have thrust the body _up_ such an aperture
so forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found
barely sufficient to drag it _down!_
“Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor
most marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses—very thick
tresses—of grey human hair. These had been torn out by the roots.
You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from
the head even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks
in question as well as myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!)
were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp—sure token
of the prodigious power which had been exerted in uprooting
perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of the old
lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from the
body: the instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look at
the _brutal_ ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the
body of Madame L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his
worthy coadjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were
inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen
are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone
pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the
window which looked in upon the bed. This idea, however simple it
may now seem, escaped the police for the same reason that the
breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by the affair of
the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed against
the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.
“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly
reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so
far as to combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength
superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a
_grotesquerie_ in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a
voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and
devoid of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What
result, then, has ensued? What impression have I made upon your
fancy?”
I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. “A
madman,” I said, “has done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped
from a neighboring _Maison de Santé._”
“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But
the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never
found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs.
Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent
in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification.
Besides, the hair of a madman is not such as I now hold in my
hand. I disentangled this little tuft from the rigidly clutched
fingers of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it.”
“Dupin!” I said, completely unnerved; “this hair is most
unusual—this is no _human_ hair.”
“I have not asserted that it is,” said he; “but, before we decide
this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here
traced upon this paper. It is a _fac-simile_ drawing of what has
been described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises,
and deep indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in another (by Messrs. Dumas and
Etienne,) as a ‘series of livid spots, evidently the impression
of fingers.’
“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper
upon the table before us, “that this drawing gives the idea of a
firm and fixed hold. There is no _slipping_ apparent. Each finger
has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful
grasp by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt, now, to
place all your fingers, at the same time, in the respective
impressions as you see them.”
I made the attempt in vain.
“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said.
“The paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human
throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the
circumference of which is about that of the throat. Wrap the
drawing around it, and try the experiment again.”
I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before.
“This,” I said, “is the mark of no human hand.”
“Read now,” replied Dupin, “this passage from Cuvier.”
It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of
the large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The
gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild
ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are
sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of
the murder at once.
“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of
reading, “is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no
animal but an Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could
have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This
tuft of tawny hair, too, is identical in character with that of
the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the
particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides, there were _two_
voices heard in contention, and one of them was unquestionably
the voice of a Frenchman.”
“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost
unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression,
‘_mon Dieu!_’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly
characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the
confectioner,) as an expression of remonstrance or expostulation.
Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of
a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of the
murder. It is possible—indeed it is far more than probable—that
he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions
which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He
may have traced it to the chamber; but, under the agitating
circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it.
It is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have
no right to call them more—since the shades of reflection upon
which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be
appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to
make them intelligible to the understanding of another. We will
call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the
Frenchman in question is indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this
atrocity, this advertisement which I left last night, upon our
return home, at the office of ‘Le Monde’ (a paper devoted to the
shipping interest, and much sought by sailors), will bring him to
our residence.”
He handed me a paper, and I read thus:
CAUGHT—_In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the
——inst.,_ (the morning of the murder),owner _a very large, tawny
Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner (who is
ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel) may
have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and
paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call
at No. ——, Rue ——, Faubourg St. Germain—au troisième._
“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to
be a sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?”
“I do _not_ know it,” said Dupin. “I am not _sure_ of it. Here,
however, is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and
from its greasy appearance, has evidently been used in tying the
hair in one of those long _queues_ of which sailors are so fond.
Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and
is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of
the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the
deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this
ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese
vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying what I did in the
advertisement. If I am in error, he will merely suppose that I
have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take
the trouble to inquire. But if I am right, a great point is
gained. Cognizant although innocent of the murder, the Frenchman
will naturally hesitate about replying to the advertisement—about
demanding the Ourang-Outang. He will reason thus:—‘I am innocent;
I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of great value—to one in my
circumstances a fortune of itself—why should I lose it through
idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within my grasp. It was
found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the scene
of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast
should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have
failed to procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the
animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the
murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that
cognizance. Above all, _I am known._ The advertiser designates me
as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit his
knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so
great value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the
animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to
attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer
the advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until
this matter has blown over.’”
At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.
“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither use them
nor show them until at a signal from myself.”
The front door of the house had been left open, and the visitor
had entered, without ringing, and advanced several steps upon the
staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we
heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when
we again heard him coming up. He did not turn back a second time,
but stepped up with decision, and rapped at the door of our
chamber.
“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.
A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently,—a tall, stout, and
muscular-looking person, with a certain dare-devil expression of
countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly
sunburnt, was more than half hidden by whisker and _mustachio._
He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise
unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in
French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were
still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.
“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “I suppose you have called
about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the
possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very
valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be?”
The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of
some intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone:
“I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five
years old. Have you got him here?”
“Oh no, we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a
livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the
morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?”
“To be sure I am, sir.”
“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin.
“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing,
sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a
reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, any thing in
reason.”
“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure.
Let me think!—what should I have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward
shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your
power about these murders in the Rue Morgue.”
Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly.
Just as quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it and
put the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom
and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table.
The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were struggling with
suffocation. He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel, but
the next moment he fell back into his seat, trembling violently,
and with the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a word. I
pitied him from the bottom of my heart.
“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming
yourself unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm
whatever. I pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a
Frenchman, that we intend you no injury. I perfectly well know
that you are innocent of the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It
will not do, however, to deny that you are in some measure
implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know
that I have had means of information about this matter—means of
which you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus.
You have done nothing which you could have avoided—nothing,
certainly, which renders you culpable. You were not even guilty
of robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity. You have
nothing to conceal. You have no reason for concealment. On the
other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor to confess
all you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with
that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.”
The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great
measure, while Dupin uttered these words; but his original
boldness of bearing was all gone.
“So help me God!” said he, after a brief pause, “I _will_ tell
you all I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to
believe one half I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still,
I _am_ innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.”
What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a
voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed
one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an
excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the
Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into his own
exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the
intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at
length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in
Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant
curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until
such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received
from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell
it.
Returning home from some sailors’ frolic the night, or rather in
the morning of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own
bed-room, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where
it had been, as was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand,
and fully lathered, it was sitting before a looking-glass,
attempting the operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt
previously watched its master through the key-hole of the closet.
Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession
of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man,
for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been
accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest
moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon
sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of
the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window,
unfortunately open, into the street.
The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand,
occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at its
pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with it. It then
again made off. In this manner the chase continued for a long
time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three
o’clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of
the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was arrested by a light
gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in
the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it
perceived the lightning rod, clambered up with inconceivable
agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against
the wall, and, by its means, swung itself directly upon the
headboard of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The
shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang-Outang as it entered
the room.
The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He
had strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could
scarcely escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except
by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the
other hand, there was much cause for anxiety as to what it might
do in the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to
follow the fugitive. A lightning rod is ascended without
difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had arrived as
high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was
stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over so
as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At this
glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror.
Now it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which
had startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame
L’Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had
apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in the iron
chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle
of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the
floor. The victims must have been sitting with their backs toward
the window; and, from the time elapsing between the ingress of
the beast and the screams, it seems probable that it was not
immediately perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter would
naturally have been attributed to the wind.
As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame
L’Espanaye by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing
it,) and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation
of the motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and
motionless; she had swooned. The screams and struggles of the old
lady (during which the hair was torn from her head) had the
effect of changing the probably pacific purposes of the
Ourang-Outang into those of wrath. With one determined sweep of
its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her body. The
sight of blood inflamed its anger into phrenzy. Gnashing its
teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew upon the body of
the girl, and imbedded its fearful talons in her throat,
retaining its grasp until she expired. Its wandering and wild
glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over which
the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just discernible.
The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the
dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear. Conscious of
having deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its
bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an agony of
nervous agitation; throwing down and breaking the furniture as it
moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it
seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the
chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, which it
immediately hurled through the window headlong.
As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the
sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than
clambering down it, hurried at once home—dreading the
consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his
terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The
words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman’s
exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish
jabberings of the brute.
I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have
escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of
the door. It must have closed the window as it passed through it.
It was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for
it a very large sum at the _Jardin des Plantes._ Le Don was
instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances (with
some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police.
This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not
altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had
taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about the
propriety of every person minding his own business.
“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to
reply. “Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience, I am
satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle.
Nevertheless, that he failed in the solution of this mystery, is
by no means that matter for wonder which he supposes it; for, in
truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be
profound. In his wisdom is no _stamen._ It is all head and no
body, like the pictures of the Goddess Laverna,—or, at best, all
head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature
after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant,
by which he has attained his reputation for ingenuity. I mean the
way he has ‘_de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est
pas._’” (*)
(*) Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloïse.
THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.(*1)
A SEQUEL TO “THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE.”
Es giebt eine Reihe idealischer Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkeit
parallel lauft. Selten fallen sie zusammen. Menschen und zufalle
modificiren gewohulich die idealische Begebenheit, so dass sie
unvollkommen erscheint, und ihre Folgen gleichfalls unvollkommen
sind. So bei der Reformation; statt des Protestantismus kam das
Lutherthum hervor.
There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real
ones. They rarely coincide. Men and circumstances generally
modify the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, and
its consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the
Reformation; instead of Protestantism came
Lutheranism.—_Novalis_.(*2) _Moral Ansichten_.
There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who have
not occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling
half-credence in the supernatural, by coincidences of so
seemingly marvellous a character that, as mere coincidences, the
intellect has been unable to receive them. Such sentiments—for
the half-credences of which I speak have never the full force of
thought—such sentiments are seldom thoroughly stifled unless by
reference to the doctrine of chance, or, as it is technically
termed, the Calculus of Probabilities. Now this Calculus is, in
its essence, purely mathematical; and thus we have the anomaly of
the most rigidly exact in science applied to the shadow and
spirituality of the most intangible in speculation.
The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to make
public, will be found to form, as regards sequence of time, the
primary branch of a series of scarcely intelligible coincidences,
whose secondary or concluding branch will be recognized by all
readers in the late murder of Mary Cecila Rogers, at New York.
When, in an article entitled “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” I
endeavored, about a year ago, to depict some very remarkable
features in the mental character of my friend, the Chevalier C.
Auguste Dupin, it did not occur to me that I should ever resume
the subject. This depicting of character constituted my design;
and this design was thoroughly fulfilled in the wild train of
circumstances brought to instance Dupin’s idiosyncrasy. I might
have adduced other examples, but I should have proven no more.
Late events, however, in their surprising development, have
startled me into some farther details, which will carry with them
the air of extorted confession. Hearing what I have lately heard,
it would be indeed strange should I remain silent in regard to
what I both heard and saw so long ago.
Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of
Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed the
affair at once from his attention, and relapsed into his old
habits of moody reverie. Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I
readily fell in with his humor; and, continuing to occupy our
chambers in the Faubourg Saint Germain, we gave the Future to the
winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull
world around us into dreams.
But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted. It may
readily be supposed that the part played by my friend, in the
drama at the Rue Morgue, had not failed of its impression upon
the fancies of the Parisian police. With its emissaries, the name
of Dupin had grown into a household word. The simple character of
those inductions by which he had disentangled the mystery never
having been explained even to the Prefect, or to any other
individual than myself, of course it is not surprising that the
affair was regarded as little less than miraculous, or that the
Chevalier’s analytical abilities acquired for him the credit of
intuition. His frankness would have led him to disabuse every
inquirer of such prejudice; but his indolent humor forbade all
farther agitation of a topic whose interest to himself had long
ceased. It thus happened that he found himself the cynosure of
the political eyes; and the cases were not few in which attempt
was made to engage his services at the Prefecture. One of the
most remarkable instances was that of the murder of a young girl
named Marie Rogêt.
This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue
Morgue. Marie, whose Christian and family name will at once
arrest attention from their resemblance to those of the
unfortunate “cigar girl,” was the only daughter of the widow
Estelle Rogêt. The father had died during the child’s infancy,
and from the period of his death, until within eighteen months
before the assassination which forms the subject of our
narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue
Pavée Saint Andrée; (*3) Madame there keeping a pension, assisted
by Marie. Affairs went on thus until the latter had attained her
twenty-second year, when her great beauty attracted the notice of
a perfumer, who occupied one of the shops in the basement of the
Palais Royal, and whose custom lay chiefly among the desperate
adventurers infesting that neighborhood. Monsieur Le Blanc (*4)
was not unaware of the advantages to be derived from the
attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal
proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with
somewhat more of hesitation by Madame.
The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms
soon became notorious through the charms of the sprightly
grisette. She had been in his employ about a year, when her
admirers were thrown info confusion by her sudden disappearance
from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for her
absence, and Madame Rogêt was distracted with anxiety and terror.
The public papers immediately took up the theme, and the police
were upon the point of making serious investigations, when, one
fine morning, after the lapse of a week, Marie, in good health,
but with a somewhat saddened air, made her re-appearance at her
usual counter in the perfumery. All inquiry, except that of a
private character, was of course immediately hushed. Monsieur Le
Blanc professed total ignorance, as before. Marie, with Madame,
replied to all questions, that the last week had been spent at
the house of a relation in the country. Thus the affair died
away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl, ostensibly to
relieve herself from the impertinence of curiosity, soon bade a
final adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of her
mother’s residence in the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée.
It was about five months after this return home, that her friends
were alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the second time.
Three days elapsed, and nothing was heard of her. On the fourth
her corpse was found floating in the Seine, * near the shore
which is opposite the Quartier of the Rue Saint Andrée, and at a
point not very far distant from the secluded neighborhood of the
Barrière du Roule. (*6)
The atrocity of this murder, (for it was at once evident that
murder had been committed,) the youth and beauty of the victim,
and, above all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce
intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians. I can
call to mind no similar occurrence producing so general and so
intense an effect. For several weeks, in the discussion of this
one absorbing theme, even the momentous political topics of the
day were forgotten. The Prefect made unusual exertions; and the
powers of the whole Parisian police were, of course, tasked to
the utmost extent.
Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that
the murderer would be able to elude, for more than a very brief
period, the inquisition which was immediately set on foot. It was
not until the expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary
to offer a reward; and even then this reward was limited to a
thousand francs. In the mean time the investigation proceeded
with vigor, if not always with judgment, and numerous individuals
were examined to no purpose; while, owing to the continual
absence of all clue to the mystery, the popular excitement
greatly increased. At the end of the tenth day it was thought
advisable to double the sum originally proposed; and, at length,
the second week having elapsed without leading to any
discoveries, and the prejudice which always exists in Paris
against the Police having given vent to itself in several serious
émeutes, the Prefect took it upon himself to offer the sum of
twenty thousand francs “for the conviction of the assassin,” or,
if more than one should prove to have been implicated, “for the
conviction of any one of the assassins.” In the proclamation
setting forth this reward, a full pardon was promised to any
accomplice who should come forward in evidence against his
fellow; and to the whole was appended, wherever it appeared, the
private placard of a committee of citizens, offering ten thousand
francs, in addition to the amount proposed by the Prefecture. The
entire reward thus stood at no less than thirty thousand francs,
which will be regarded as an extraordinary sum when we consider
the humble condition of the girl, and the great frequency, in
large cities, of such atrocities as the one described.
No one doubted now that the mystery of this murder would be
immediately brought to light. But although, in one or two
instances, arrests were made which promised elucidation, yet
nothing was elicited which could implicate the parties suspected;
and they were discharged forthwith. Strange as it may appear, the
third week from the discovery of the body had passed, and passed
without any light being thrown upon the subject, before even a
rumor of the events which had so agitated the public mind,
reached the ears of Dupin and myself. Engaged in researches which
absorbed our whole attention, it had been nearly a month since
either of us had gone abroad, or received a visitor, or more than
glanced at the leading political articles in one of the daily
papers. The first intelligence of the murder was brought us by
G——, in person. He called upon us early in the afternoon of the
thirteenth of July, 18—, and remained with us until late in the
night. He had been piqued by the failure of all his endeavors to
ferret out the assassins. His reputation—so he said with a
peculiarly Parisian air—was at stake. Even his honor was
concerned. The eyes of the public were upon him; and there was
really no sacrifice which he would not be willing to make for the
development of the mystery. He concluded a somewhat droll speech
with a compliment upon what he was pleased to term the tact of
Dupin, and made him a direct, and certainly a liberal
proposition, the precise nature of which I do not feel myself at
liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon the proper
subject of my narrative.
The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the
proposition he accepted at once, although its advantages were
altogether provisional. This point being settled, the Prefect
broke forth at once into explanations of his own views,
interspersing them with long comments upon the evidence; of which
latter we were not yet in possession. He discoursed much, and
beyond doubt, learnedly; while I hazarded an occasional
suggestion as the night wore drowsily away. Dupin, sitting
steadily in his accustomed arm-chair, was the embodiment of
respectful attention. He wore spectacles, during the whole
interview; and an occasional signal glance beneath their green
glasses, sufficed to convince me that he slept not the less
soundly, because silently, throughout the seven or eight
leaden-footed hours which immediately preceded the departure of
the Prefect.
In the morning, I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of
all the evidence elicited, and, at the various newspaper offices,
a copy of every paper in which, from first to last, had been
published any decisive information in regard to this sad affair.
Freed from all that was positively disproved, this mass of
information stood thus:
Marie Rogêt left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavée
St. Andrée, about nine o’clock in the morning of Sunday, June the
twenty-second, 18—. In going out, she gave notice to a Monsieur
Jacques St. Eustache, (*7) and to him only, of her intent
intention to spend the day with an aunt who resided in the Rue
des Drômes. The Rue des Drômes is a short and narrow but populous
thoroughfare, not far from the banks of the river, and at a
distance of some two miles, in the most direct course possible,
from the pension of Madame Rogêt. St. Eustache was the accepted
suitor of Marie, and lodged, as well as took his meals, at the
pension. He was to have gone for his betrothed at dusk, and to
have escorted her home. In the afternoon, however, it came on to
rain heavily; and, supposing that she would remain all night at
her aunt’s, (as she had done under similar circumstances before,)
he did not think it necessary to keep his promise. As night drew
on, Madame Rogêt (who was an infirm old lady, seventy years of
age,) was heard to express a fear “that she should never see
Marie again;” but this observation attracted little attention at
the time.
On Monday, it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the
Rue des Drômes; and when the day elapsed without tidings of her,
a tardy search was instituted at several points in the city, and
its environs. It was not, however until the fourth day from the
period of disappearance that any thing satisfactory was
ascertained respecting her. On this day, (Wednesday, the
twenty-fifth of June,) a Monsieur Beauvais, (*8) who, with a
friend, had been making inquiries for Marie near the Barrière du
Roule, on the shore of the Seine which is opposite the Rue Pavée
St. Andrée, was informed that a corpse had just been towed ashore
by some fishermen, who had found it floating in the river. Upon
seeing the body, Beauvais, after some hesitation, identified it
as that of the perfumery-girl. His friend recognized it more
promptly.
The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued from
the mouth. No foam was seen, as in the case of the merely
drowned. There was no discoloration in the cellular tissue. About
the throat were bruises and impressions of fingers. The arms were
bent over on the chest and were rigid. The right hand was
clenched; the left partially open. On the left wrist were two
circular excoriations, apparently the effect of ropes, or of a
rope in more than one volution. A part of the right wrist, also,
was much chafed, as well as the back throughout its extent, but
more especially at the shoulder-blades. In bringing the body to
the shore the fishermen had attached to it a rope; but none of
the excoriations had been effected by this. The flesh of the neck
was much swollen. There were no cuts apparent, or bruises which
appeared the effect of blows. A piece of lace was found tied so
tightly around the neck as to be hidden from sight; it was
completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a knot which
lay just under the left ear. This alone would have sufficed to
produce death. The medical testimony spoke confidently of the
virtuous character of the deceased. She had been subjected, it
said, to brutal violence. The corpse was in such condition when
found, that there could have been no difficulty in its
recognition by friends.
The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer
garment, a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the
bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off. It was wound three
times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the
back. The dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine muslin;
and from this a slip eighteen inches wide had been torn entirely
out—torn very evenly and with great care. It was found around her
neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot. Over this
muslin slip and the slip of lace, the strings of a bonnet were
attached; the bonnet being appended. The knot by which the
strings of the bonnet were fastened, was not a lady’s, but a slip
or sailor’s knot.
After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken
to the Morgue, (this formality being superfluous,) but hastily
interred not far from the spot at which it was brought ashore.
Through the exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously
hushed up, as far as possible; and several days had elapsed
before any public emotion resulted. A weekly paper, (*9) however,
at length took up the theme; the corpse was disinterred, and a
re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited beyond what
has been already noted. The clothes, however, were now submitted
to the mother and friends of the deceased, and fully identified
as those worn by the girl upon leaving home.
Meantime, the excitement increased hourly. Several individuals
were arrested and discharged. St. Eustache fell especially under
suspicion; and he failed, at first, to give an intelligible
account of his whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie left
home. Subsequently, however, he submitted to Monsieur G——,
affidavits, accounting satisfactorily for every hour of the day
in question. As time passed and no discovery ensued, a thousand
contradictory rumors were circulated, and journalists busied
themselves in suggestions. Among these, the one which attracted
the most notice, was the idea that Marie Rogêt still lived—that
the corpse found in the Seine was that of some other unfortunate.
It will be proper that I submit to the reader some passages which
embody the suggestion alluded to. These passages are literal
translations from L’Etoile, (*10) a paper conducted, in general,
with much ability.
“Mademoiselle Rogêt left her mother’s house on Sunday morning,
June the twenty-second, 18—, with the ostensible purpose of going
to see her aunt, or some other connexion, in the Rue des Drômes.
From that hour, nobody is proved to have seen her. There is no
trace or tidings of her at all.... There has no person, whatever,
come forward, so far, who saw her at all, on that day, after she
left her mother’s door.... Now, though we have no evidence that
Marie Rogêt was in the land of the living after nine o’clock on
Sunday, June the twenty-second, we have proof that, up to that
hour, she was alive. On Wednesday noon, at twelve, a female body
was discovered afloat on the shore of the Barrière de Roule. This
was, even if we presume that Marie Rogêt was thrown into the
river within three hours after she left her mother’s house, only
three days from the time she left her home—three days to an hour.
But it is folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was
committed on her body, could have been consummated soon enough to
have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the river
before midnight. Those who are guilty of such horrid crimes
choose darkness rather the light.... Thus we see that if the body
found in the river was that of Marie Rogêt, it could only have
been in the water two and a half days, or three at the outside.
All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown
into the water immediately after death by violence, require from
six to ten days for decomposition to take place to bring them to
the top of the water. Even where a cannon is fired over a corpse,
and it rises before at least five or six days’ immersion, it
sinks again, if let alone. Now, we ask, what was there in this
case to cause a departure from the ordinary course of nature?...
If the body had been kept in its mangled state on shore until
Tuesday night, some trace would be found on shore of the
murderers. It is a doubtful point, also, whether the body would
be so soon afloat, even were it thrown in after having been dead
two days. And, furthermore, it is exceedingly improbable that any
villains who had committed such a murder as is here supposed,
would have thrown the body in without weight to sink it, when
such a precaution could have so easily been taken.”
The editor here proceeds to argue that the body must have been in
the water “not three days merely, but, at least, five times three
days,” because it was so far decomposed that Beauvais had great
difficulty in recognizing it. This latter point, however, was
fully disproved. I continue the translation:
“What, then, are the facts on which M. Beauvais says that he has
no doubt the body was that of Marie Rogêt? He ripped up the gown
sleeve, and says he found marks which satisfied him of the
identity. The public generally supposed those marks to have
consisted of some description of scars. He rubbed the arm and
found hair upon it—something as indefinite, we think, as can
readily be imagined—as little conclusive as finding an arm in the
sleeve. M. Beauvais did not return that night, but sent word to
Madame Rogêt, at seven o’clock, on Wednesday evening, that an
investigation was still in progress respecting her daughter. If
we allow that Madame Rogêt, from her age and grief, could not go
over, (which is allowing a great deal,) there certainly must have
been some one who would have thought it worth while to go over
and attend the investigation, if they thought the body was that
of Marie. Nobody went over. There was nothing said or heard about
the matter in the Rue Pavée St. Andrée, that reached even the
occupants of the same building. M. St. Eustache, the lover and
intended husband of Marie, who boarded in her mother’s house,
deposes that he did not hear of the discovery of the body of his
intended until the next morning, when M. Beauvais came into his
chamber and told him of it. For an item of news like this, it
strikes us it was very coolly received.”
In this way the journal endeavored to create the impression of an
apathy on the part of the relatives of Marie, inconsistent with
the supposition that these relatives believed the corpse to be
hers. Its insinuations amount to this: that Marie, with the
connivance of her friends, had absented herself from the city for
reasons involving a charge against her chastity; and that these
friends, upon the discovery of a corpse in the Seine, somewhat
resembling that of the girl, had availed themselves of the
opportunity to impress the public with the belief of her death.
But L’Etoile was again over-hasty. It was distinctly proved that
no apathy, such as was imagined, existed; that the old lady was
exceedingly feeble, and so agitated as to be unable to attend to
any duty; that St. Eustache, so far from receiving the news
coolly, was distracted with grief, and bore himself so
frantically, that M. Beauvais prevailed upon a friend and
relative to take charge of him, and prevent his attending the
examination at the disinterment. Moreover, although it was stated
by L’Etoile, that the corpse was re-interred at the public
expense—that an advantageous offer of private sculpture was
absolutely declined by the family—and that no member of the
family attended the ceremonial;—although, I say, all this was
asserted by L’Etoile in furtherance of the impression it designed
to convey—yet all this was satisfactorily disproved. In a
subsequent number of the paper, an attempt was made to throw
suspicion upon Beauvais himself. The editor says:
“Now, then, a change comes over the matter. We are told that on
one occasion, while a Madame B—— was at Madame Rogêt’s house, M.
Beauvais, who was going out, told her that a gendarme was
expected there, and she, Madame B., must not say anything to the
gendarme until he returned, but let the matter be for him.... In
the present posture of affairs, M. Beauvais appears to have the
whole matter locked up in his head. A single step cannot be taken
without M. Beauvais, for, go which way you will, you run against
him.... For some reason, he determined that nobody shall have any
thing to do with the proceedings but himself, and he has elbowed
the male relatives out of the way, according to their
representations, in a very singular manner. He seems to have been
very much averse to permitting the relatives to see the body.”
By the following fact, some color was given to the suspicion thus
thrown upon Beauvais. A visitor at his office, a few days prior
to the girl’s disappearance, and during the absence of its
occupant, had observed a rose in the key-hole of the door, and
the name “Marie” inscribed upon a slate which hung near at hand.
The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it
from the newspapers, seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim
of a gang of desperadoes—that by these she had been borne across
the river, maltreated and murdered. Le Commerciel, (*11) however,
a print of extensive influence, was earnest in combating this
popular idea. I quote a passage or two from its columns:
“We are persuaded that pursuit has hitherto been on a false
scent, so far as it has been directed to the Barrière du Roule.
It is impossible that a person so well known to thousands as this
young woman was, should have passed three blocks without some one
having seen her; and any one who saw her would have remembered
it, for she interested all who knew her. It was when the streets
were full of people, when she went out.... It is impossible that
she could have gone to the Barrière du Roule, or to the Rue des
Drômes, without being recognized by a dozen persons; yet no one
has come forward who saw her outside of her mother’s door, and
there is no evidence, except the testimony concerning her
expressed intentions, that she did go out at all. Her gown was
torn, bound round her, and tied; and by that the body was carried
as a bundle. If the murder had been committed at the Barrière du
Roule, there would have been no necessity for any such
arrangement. The fact that the body was found floating near the
Barrière, is no proof as to where it was thrown into the
water..... A piece of one of the unfortunate girl’s petticoats,
two feet long and one foot wide, was torn out and tied under her
chin around the back of her head, probably to prevent screams.
This was done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchief.”
A day or two before the Prefect called upon us, however, some
important information reached the police, which seemed to
overthrow, at least, the chief portion of Le Commerciel’s
argument. Two small boys, sons of a Madame Deluc, while roaming
among the woods near the Barrière du Roule, chanced to penetrate
a close thicket, within which were three or four large stones,
forming a kind of seat, with a back and footstool. On the upper
stone lay a white petticoat; on the second a silk scarf. A
parasol, gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found.
The handkerchief bore the name “Marie Rogêt.” Fragments of dress
were discovered on the brambles around. The earth was trampled,
the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a
struggle. Between the thicket and the river, the fences were
found taken down, and the ground bore evidence of some heavy
burthen having been dragged along it.
A weekly paper, Le Soleil,(*12) had the following comments upon
this discovery—comments which merely echoed the sentiment of the
whole Parisian press:
“The things had all evidently been there at least three or four
weeks; they were all mildewed down hard with the action of the
rain and stuck together from mildew. The grass had grown around
and over some of them. The silk on the parasol was strong, but
the threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where
it had been doubled and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and
tore on its being opened..... The pieces of her frock torn out by
the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches long. One
part was the hem of the frock, and it had been mended; the other
piece was part of the skirt, not the hem. They looked like strips
torn off, and were on the thorn bush, about a foot from the
ground..... There can be no doubt, therefore, that the spot of
this appalling outrage has been discovered.”
Consequent upon this discovery, new evidence appeared. Madame
Deluc testified that she keeps a roadside inn not far from the
bank of the river, opposite the Barrière du Roule. The
neighborhood is secluded—particularly so. It is the usual Sunday
resort of blackguards from the city, who cross the river in
boats. About three o’clock, in the afternoon of the Sunday in
question, a young girl arrived at the inn, accompanied by a young
man of dark complexion. The two remained here for some time. On
their departure, they took the road to some thick woods in the
vicinity. Madame Deluc’s attention was called to the dress worn
by the girl, on account of its resemblance to one worn by a
deceased relative. A scarf was particularly noticed. Soon after
the departure of the couple, a gang of miscreants made their
appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without making
payment, followed in the route of the young man and girl,
returned to the inn about dusk, and re-crossed the river as if in
great haste.
It was soon after dark, upon this same evening, that Madame
Deluc, as well as her eldest son, heard the screams of a female
in the vicinity of the inn. The screams were violent but brief.
Madame D. recognized not only the scarf which was found in the
thicket, but the dress which was discovered upon the corpse. An
omnibus driver, Valence, (*13) now also testified that he saw
Marie Rogêt cross a ferry on the Seine, on the Sunday in
question, in company with a young man of dark complexion. He,
Valence, knew Marie, and could not be mistaken in her identity.
The articles found in the thicket were fully identified by the
relatives of Marie.
The items of evidence and information thus collected by myself,
from the newspapers, at the suggestion of Dupin, embraced only
one more point—but this was a point of seemingly vast
consequence. It appears that, immediately after the discovery of
the clothes as above described, the lifeless, or nearly lifeless
body of St. Eustache, Marie’s betrothed, was found in the
vicinity of what all now supposed the scene of the outrage. A
phial labelled “laudanum,” and emptied, was found near him. His
breath gave evidence of the poison. He died without speaking.
Upon his person was found a letter, briefly stating his love for
Marie, with his design of self-destruction.
“I need scarcely tell you,” said Dupin, as he finished the
perusal of my notes, “that this is a far more intricate case than
that of the Rue Morgue; from which it differs in one important
respect. This is an ordinary, although an atrocious instance of
crime. There is nothing peculiarly outré about it. You will
observe that, for this reason, the mystery has been considered
easy, when, for this reason, it should have been considered
difficult, of solution. Thus; at first, it was thought
unnecessary to offer a reward. The myrmidons of G—— were able at
once to comprehend how and why such an atrocity might have been
committed. They could picture to their imaginations a mode—many
modes—and a motive—many motives; and because it was not
impossible that either of these numerous modes and motives could
have been the actual one, they have taken it for granted that one
of them must. But the case with which these variable fancies were
entertained, and the very plausibility which each assumed, should
have been understood as indicative rather of the difficulties
than of the facilities which must attend elucidation. I have
before observed that it is by prominences above the plane of the
ordinary, that reason feels her way, if at all, in her search for
the true, and that the proper question in cases such as this, is
not so much ‘what has occurred?’ as ‘what has occurred that has
never occurred before?’ In the investigations at the house of
Madame L’Espanaye, (*14) the agents of G—— were discouraged and
confounded by that very unusualness which, to a properly
regulated intellect, would have afforded the surest omen of
success; while this same intellect might have been plunged in
despair at the ordinary character of all that met the eye in the
case of the perfumery-girl, and yet told of nothing but easy
triumph to the functionaries of the Prefecture.
“In the case of Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter there was,
even at the beginning of our investigation, no doubt that murder
had been committed. The idea of suicide was excluded at once.
Here, too, we are freed, at the commencement, from all
supposition of self-murder. The body found at the Barrière du
Roule, was found under such circumstances as to leave us no room
for embarrassment upon this important point. But it has been
suggested that the corpse discovered, is not that of the Marie
Rogêt for the conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the
reward is offered, and respecting whom, solely, our agreement has
been arranged with the Prefect. We both know this gentleman well.
It will not do to trust him too far. If, dating our inquiries
from the body found, and thence tracing a murderer, we yet
discover this body to be that of some other individual than
Marie; or, if starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet
find her unassassinated—in either case we lose our labor; since
it is Monsieur G—— with whom we have to deal. For our own
purpose, therefore, if not for the purpose of justice, it is
indispensable that our first step should be the determination of
the identity of the corpse with the Marie Rogêt who is missing.
“With the public the arguments of L’Etoile have had weight; and
that the journal itself is convinced of their importance would
appear from the manner in which it commences one of its essays
upon the subject—‘Several of the morning papers of the day,’ it
says, ‘speak of the _conclusive_ article in Monday’s Etoile.’ To
me, this article appears conclusive of little beyond the zeal of
its inditer. We should bear in mind that, in general, it is the
object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation—to make a
point—than to further the cause of truth. The latter end is only
pursued when it seems coincident with the former. The print which
merely falls in with ordinary opinion (however well founded this
opinion may be) earns for itself no credit with the mob. The mass
of the people regard as profound only him who suggests _pungent
contradictions_ of the general idea. In ratiocination, not less
than in literature, it is the epigram which is the most
immediately and the most universally appreciated. In both, it is
of the lowest order of merit.
“What I mean to say is, that it is the mingled epigram and
melodrame of the idea, that Marie Rogêt still lives, rather than
any true plausibility in this idea, which have suggested it to
L’Etoile, and secured it a favorable reception with the public.
Let us examine the heads of this journal’s argument; endeavoring
to avoid the incoherence with which it is originally set forth.
“The first aim of the writer is to show, from the brevity of the
interval between Marie’s disappearance and the finding of the
floating corpse, that this corpse cannot be that of Marie. The
reduction of this interval to its smallest possible dimension,
becomes thus, at once, an object with the reasoner. In the rash
pursuit of this object, he rushes into mere assumption at the
outset. ‘It is folly to suppose,’ he says, ‘that the murder, if
murder was committed on her body, could have been consummated
soon enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into
the river before midnight.’ We demand at once, and very
naturally, why? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was
committed _within five minutes_ after the girl’s quitting her
mother’s house? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was
committed at any given period of the day? There have been
assassinations at all hours. But, had the murder taken place at
any moment between nine o’clock in the morning of Sunday, and a
quarter before midnight, there would still have been time enough
‘to throw the body into the river before midnight.’ This
assumption, then, amounts precisely to this—that the murder was
not committed on Sunday at all—and, if we allow L’Etoile to
assume this, we may permit it any liberties whatever. The
paragraph beginning ‘It is folly to suppose that the murder,
etc.,’ however it appears as printed in L’Etoile, may be imagined
to have existed actually thus in the brain of its inditer—‘It is
folly to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on the
body, could have been committed soon enough to have enabled her
murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight; it is
folly, we say, to suppose all this, and to suppose at the same
time, (as we are resolved to suppose,) that the body was not
thrown in until after midnight’—a sentence sufficiently
inconsequential in itself, but not so utterly preposterous as the
one printed.
“Were it my purpose,” continued Dupin, “merely to _make out a
case_ against this passage of L’Etoile’s argument, I might safely
leave it where it is. It is not, however, with L’Etoile that we
have to do, but with the truth. The sentence in question has but
one meaning, as it stands; and this meaning I have fairly stated;
but it is material that we go behind the mere words, for an idea
which these words have obviously intended, and failed to convey.
It was the design of the journalist to say that, at whatever
period of the day or night of Sunday this murder was committed,
it was improbable that the assassins would have ventured to bear
the corpse to the river before midnight. And herein lies, really,
the assumption of which I complain. It is assumed that the murder
was committed at such a position, and under such circumstances,
that the bearing it to the river became necessary. Now, the
assassination might have taken place upon the river’s brink, or
on the river itself; and, thus, the throwing the corpse in the
water might have been resorted to, at any period of the day or
night, as the most obvious and most immediate mode of disposal.
You will understand that I suggest nothing here as probable, or
as cöincident with my own opinion. My design, so far, has no
reference to the facts of the case. I wish merely to caution you
against the whole tone of L’Etoile’s suggestion, by calling your
attention to its ex parte character at the outset.
“Having prescribed thus a limit to suit its own preconceived
notions; having assumed that, if this were the body of Marie, it
could have been in the water but a very brief time, the journal
goes on to say:
‘All experience has shown that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown
into the water immediately after death by violence, require from
six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to
bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is fired
over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days’
immersion, it sinks again if let alone.’
“These assertions have been tacitly received by every paper in
Paris, with the exception of Le Moniteur. (*15) This latter print
endeavors to combat that portion of the paragraph which has
reference to ‘drowned bodies’ only, by citing some five or six
instances in which the bodies of individuals known to be drowned
were found floating after the lapse of less time than is insisted
upon by L’Etoile. But there is something excessively
unphilosophical in the attempt on the part of Le Moniteur, to
rebut the general assertion of L’Etoile, by a citation of
particular instances militating against that assertion. Had it
been possible to adduce fifty instead of five examples of bodies
found floating at the end of two or three days, these fifty
examples could still have been properly regarded only as
exceptions to L’Etoile’s rule, until such time as the rule itself
should be confuted. Admitting the rule, (and this Le Moniteur
does not deny, insisting merely upon its exceptions,) the
argument of L’Etoile is suffered to remain in full force; for
this argument does not pretend to involve more than a question of
the probability of the body having risen to the surface in less
than three days; and this probability will be in favor of
L’Etoile’s position until the instances so childishly adduced
shall be sufficient in number to establish an antagonistical
rule.
“You will see at once that all argument upon this head should be
urged, if at all, against the rule itself; and for this end we
must examine the rationale of the rule. Now the human body, in
general, is neither much lighter nor much heavier than the water
of the Seine; that is to say, the specific gravity of the human
body, in its natural condition, is about equal to the bulk of
fresh water which it displaces. The bodies of fat and fleshy
persons, with small bones, and of women generally, are lighter
than those of the lean and large-boned, and of men; and the
specific gravity of the water of a river is somewhat influenced
by the presence of the tide from sea. But, leaving this tide out
of question, it may be said that very few human bodies will sink
at all, even in fresh water, of their own accord. Almost any one,
falling into a river, will be enabled to float, if he suffer the
specific gravity of the water fairly to be adduced in comparison
with his own—that is to say, if he suffer his whole person to be
immersed, with as little exception as possible. The proper
position for one who cannot swim, is the upright position of the
walker on land, with the head thrown fully back, and immersed;
the mouth and nostrils alone remaining above the surface. Thus
circumstanced, we shall find that we float without difficulty and
without exertion. It is evident, however, that the gravities of
the body, and of the bulk of water displaced, are very nicely
balanced, and that a trifle will cause either to preponderate. An
arm, for instance, uplifted from the water, and thus deprived of
its support, is an additional weight sufficient to immerse the
whole head, while the accidental aid of the smallest piece of
timber will enable us to elevate the head so as to look about.
Now, in the struggles of one unused to swimming, the arms are
invariably thrown upwards, while an attempt is made to keep the
head in its usual perpendicular position. The result is the
immersion of the mouth and nostrils, and the inception, during
efforts to breathe while beneath the surface, of water into the
lungs. Much is also received into the stomach, and the whole body
becomes heavier by the difference between the weight of the air
originally distending these cavities, and that of the fluid which
now fills them. This difference is sufficient to cause the body
to sink, as a general rule; but is insufficient in the cases of
individuals with small bones and an abnormal quantity of flaccid
or fatty matter. Such individuals float even after drowning.
“The corpse, being supposed at the bottom of the river, will
there remain until, by some means, its specific gravity again
becomes less than that of the bulk of water which it displaces.
This effect is brought about by decomposition, or otherwise. The
result of decomposition is the generation of gas, distending the
cellular tissues and all the cavities, and giving the puffed
appearance which is so horrible. When this distension has so far
progressed that the bulk of the corpse is materially increased
without a corresponding increase of mass or weight, its specific
gravity becomes less than that of the water displaced, and it
forthwith makes its appearance at the surface. But decomposition
is modified by innumerable circumstances—is hastened or retarded
by innumerable agencies; for example, by the heat or cold of the
season, by the mineral impregnation or purity of the water, by
its depth or shallowness, by its currency or stagnation, by the
temperament of the body, by its infection or freedom from disease
before death. Thus it is evident that we can assign no period,
with any thing like accuracy, at which the corpse shall rise
through decomposition. Under certain conditions this result would
be brought about within an hour; under others, it might not take
place at all. There are chemical infusions by which the animal
frame can be preserved forever from corruption; the bi-chloride
of mercury is one. But, apart from decomposition, there may be,
and very usually is, a generation of gas within the stomach, from
the acetous fermentation of vegetable matter (or within other
cavities from other causes), sufficient to induce a distension
which will bring the body to the surface. The effect produced by
the firing of a cannon is that of simple vibration. This may
either loosen the corpse from the soft mud or ooze in which it is
imbedded, thus permitting it to rise when other agencies have
already prepared it for so doing; or it may overcome the tenacity
of some putrescent portions of the cellular tissue; allowing the
cavities to distend under the influence of the gas.
“Having thus before us the whole philosophy of this subject, we
can easily test by it the assertions of L’Etoile. ‘All experience
shows,’ says this paper, ‘that drowned bodies, or bodies thrown
into the water immediately after death by violence, require from
six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place to
bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is fired
over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days’
immersion, it sinks again if let alone.’
“The whole of this paragraph must now appear a tissue of
inconsequence and incoherence. All experience does not show that
‘drowned bodies’ require from six to ten days for sufficient
decomposition to take place to bring them to the surface. Both
science and experience show that the period of their rising is,
and necessarily must be, indeterminate. If, moreover, a body has
risen to the surface through firing of cannon, it will not ‘sink
again if let alone,’ until decomposition has so far progressed as
to permit the escape of the generated gas. But I wish to call
your attention to the distinction which is made between ‘drowned
bodies,’ and ‘bodies thrown into the water immediately after
death by violence.’ Although the writer admits the distinction,
he yet includes them all in the same category. I have shown how
it is that the body of a drowning man becomes specifically
heavier than its bulk of water, and that he would not sink at
all, except for the struggles by which he elevates his arms above
the surface, and his gasps for breath while beneath the
surface—gasps which supply by water the place of the original air
in the lungs. But these struggles and these gasps would not occur
in the body ‘thrown into the water immediately after death by
violence.’ Thus, in the latter instance, the body, as a general
rule, would not sink at all—a fact of which L’Etoile is evidently
ignorant. When decomposition had proceeded to a very great
extent—when the flesh had in a great measure left the bones—then,
indeed, but not till then, should we lose sight of the corpse.
“And now what are we to make of the argument, that the body found
could not be that of Marie Rogêt, because, three days only having
elapsed, this body was found floating? If drowned, being a woman,
she might never have sunk; or having sunk, might have reappeared
in twenty-four hours, or less. But no one supposes her to have
been drowned; and, dying before being thrown into the river, she
might have been found floating at any period afterwards whatever.
“‘But,’ says L’Etoile, ‘if the body had been kept in its mangled
state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be found on
shore of the murderers.’ Here it is at first difficult to
perceive the intention of the reasoner. He means to anticipate
what he imagines would be an objection to his theory—viz.: that
the body was kept on shore two days, suffering rapid
decomposition—more rapid than if immersed in water. He supposes
that, had this been the case, it might have appeared at the
surface on the Wednesday, and thinks that only under such
circumstances it could so have appeared. He is accordingly in
haste to show that it was not kept on shore; for, if so, ‘some
trace would be found on shore of the murderers.’ I presume you
smile at the sequitur. You cannot be made to see how the mere
duration of the corpse on the shore could operate to multiply
traces of the assassins. Nor can I.
“‘And furthermore it is exceedingly improbable,’ continues our
journal, ‘that any villains who had committed such a murder as is
here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight to
sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been taken.’
Observe, here, the laughable confusion of thought! No one—not
even L’Etoile—disputes the murder committed _on the body found_.
The marks of violence are too obvious. It is our reasoner’s
object merely to show that this body is not Marie’s. He wishes to
prove that Marie is not assassinated—not that the corpse was not.
Yet his observation proves only the latter point. Here is a
corpse without weight attached. Murderers, casting it in, would
not have failed to attach a weight. Therefore it was not thrown
in by murderers. This is all which is proved, if any thing is.
The question of identity is not even approached, and L’Etoile has
been at great pains merely to gainsay now what it has admitted
only a moment before. ‘We are perfectly convinced,’ it says,
‘that the body found was that of a murdered female.’
“Nor is this the sole instance, even in this division of his
subject, where our reasoner unwittingly reasons against himself.
His evident object, I have already said, is to reduce, as much as
possible, the interval between Marie’s disappearance and the
finding of the corpse. Yet we find him urging the point that no
person saw the girl from the moment of her leaving her mother’s
house. ‘We have no evidence,’ he says, ‘that Marie Rogêt was in
the land of the living after nine o’clock on Sunday, June the
twenty-second.’ As his argument is obviously an ex parte one, he
should, at least, have left this matter out of sight; for had any
one been known to see Marie, say on Monday, or on Tuesday, the
interval in question would have been much reduced, and, by his
own ratiocination, the probability much diminished of the corpse
being that of the grisette. It is, nevertheless, amusing to
observe that L’Etoile insists upon its point in the full belief
of its furthering its general argument.
“Reperuse now that portion of this argument which has reference
to the identification of the corpse by Beauvais. In regard to the
hair upon the arm, L’Etoile has been obviously disingenuous. M.
Beauvais, not being an idiot, could never have urged, in
identification of the corpse, simply hair upon its arm. No arm is
without hair. The generality of the expression of L’Etoile is a
mere perversion of the witness’ phraseology. He must have spoken
of some peculiarity in this hair. It must have been a peculiarity
of color, of quantity, of length, or of situation.
“‘Her foot,’ says the journal, ‘was small—so are thousands of
feet. Her garter is no proof whatever—nor is her shoe—for shoes
and garters are sold in packages. The same may be said of the
flowers in her hat. One thing upon which M. Beauvais strongly
insists is, that the clasp on the garter found, had been set back
to take it in. This amounts to nothing; for most women find it
proper to take a pair of garters home and fit them to the size of
the limbs they are to encircle, rather than to try them in the
store where they purchase.’ Here it is difficult to suppose the
reasoner in earnest. Had M. Beauvais, in his search for the body
of Marie, discovered a corpse corresponding in general size and
appearance to the missing girl, he would have been warranted
(without reference to the question of habiliment at all) in
forming an opinion that his search had been successful. If, in
addition to the point of general size and contour, he had found
upon the arm a peculiar hairy appearance which he had observed
upon the living Marie, his opinion might have been justly
strengthened; and the increase of positiveness might well have
been in the ratio of the peculiarity, or unusualness, of the
hairy mark. If, the feet of Marie being small, those of the
corpse were also small, the increase of probability that the body
was that of Marie would not be an increase in a ratio merely
arithmetical, but in one highly geometrical, or accumulative. Add
to all this shoes such as she had been known to wear upon the day
of her disappearance, and, although these shoes may be ‘sold in
packages,’ you so far augment the probability as to verge upon
the certain. What, of itself, would be no evidence of identity,
becomes through its corroborative position, proof most sure. Give
us, then, flowers in the hat corresponding to those worn by the
missing girl, and we seek for nothing farther. If only one
flower, we seek for nothing farther—what then if two or three, or
more? Each successive one is multiple evidence—proof not _added_
to proof, but multiplied by hundreds or thousands. Let us now
discover, upon the deceased, garters such as the living used, and
it is almost folly to proceed. But these garters are found to be
tightened, by the setting back of a clasp, in just such a manner
as her own had been tightened by Marie, shortly previous to her
leaving home. It is now madness or hypocrisy to doubt. What
L’Etoile says in respect to this abbreviation of the garters
being an usual occurrence, shows nothing beyond its own
pertinacity in error. The elastic nature of the clasp-garter is
self-demonstration of the unusualness of the abbreviation. What
is made to adjust itself, must of necessity require foreign
adjustment but rarely. It must have been by an accident, in its
strictest sense, that these garters of Marie needed the
tightening described. They alone would have amply established her
identity. But it is not that the corpse was found to have the
garters of the missing girl, or found to have her shoes, or her
bonnet, or the flowers of her bonnet, or her feet, or a peculiar
mark upon the arm, or her general size and appearance—it is that
the corpse had each, and _all collectively_. Could it be proved
that the editor of L’Etoile _really_ entertained a doubt, under
the circumstances, there would be no need, in his case, of a
commission de lunatico inquirendo. He has thought it sagacious to
echo the small talk of the lawyers, who, for the most part,
content themselves with echoing the rectangular precepts of the
courts. I would here observe that very much of what is rejected
as evidence by a court, is the best of evidence to the intellect.
For the court, guiding itself by the general principles of
evidence—the recognized and _booked_ principles—is averse from
swerving at particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to
principle, with rigorous disregard of the conflicting exception,
is a sure mode of attaining the maximum of attainable truth, in
any long sequence of time. The practice, in mass, is therefore
philosophical; but it is not the less certain that it engenders
vast individual error. (*16)
“In respect to the insinuations levelled at Beauvais, you will be
willing to dismiss them in a breath. You have already fathomed
the true character of this good gentleman. He is a busy-body,
with much of romance and little of wit. Any one so constituted
will readily so conduct himself, upon occasion of real
excitement, as to render himself liable to suspicion on the part
of the over acute, or the ill-disposed. M. Beauvais (as it
appears from your notes) had some personal interviews with the
editor of L’Etoile, and offended him by venturing an opinion that
the corpse, notwithstanding the theory of the editor, was, in
sober fact, that of Marie. ‘He persists,’ says the paper, ‘in
asserting the corpse to be that of Marie, but cannot give a
circumstance, in addition to those which we have commented upon,
to make others believe.’ Now, without re-adverting to the fact
that stronger evidence ‘to make others believe,’ could never have
been adduced, it may be remarked that a man may very well be
understood to believe, in a case of this kind, without the
ability to advance a single reason for the belief of a second
party. Nothing is more vague than impressions of individual
identity. Each man recognizes his neighbor, yet there are few
instances in which any one is prepared to give a reason for his
recognition. The editor of L’Etoile had no right to be offended
at M. Beauvais’ unreasoning belief.
“The suspicious circumstances which invest him, will be found to
tally much better with my hypothesis of romantic busy-bodyism,
than with the reasoner’s suggestion of guilt. Once adopting the
more charitable interpretation, we shall find no difficulty in
comprehending the rose in the key-hole; the ‘Marie’ upon the
slate; the ‘elbowing the male relatives out of the way;’ the
‘aversion to permitting them to see the body;’ the caution given
to Madame B——, that she must hold no conversation with the
gendarme until his return (Beauvais’); and, lastly, his apparent
determination ‘that nobody should have anything to do with the
proceedings except himself.’ It seems to me unquestionable that
Beauvais was a suitor of Marie’s; that she coquetted with him;
and that he was ambitious of being thought to enjoy her fullest
intimacy and confidence. I shall say nothing more upon this
point; and, as the evidence fully rebuts the assertion of
L’Etoile, touching the matter of apathy on the part of the mother
and other relatives—an apathy inconsistent with the supposition
of their believing the corpse to be that of the perfumery-girl—we
shall now proceed as if the question of identity were settled to
our perfect satisfaction.”
“And what,” I here demanded, “do you think of the opinions of Le
Commerciel?”
“That, in spirit, they are far more worthy of attention than any
which have been promulgated upon the subject. The deductions from
the premises are philosophical and acute; but the premises, in
two instances, at least, are founded in imperfect observation. Le
Commerciel wishes to intimate that Marie was seized by some gang
of low ruffians not far from her mother’s door. ‘It is
impossible,’ it urges, ‘that a person so well known to thousands
as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks without
some one having seen her.’ This is the idea of a man long
resident in Paris—a public man—and one whose walks to and fro in
the city, have been mostly limited to the vicinity of the public
offices. He is aware that he seldom passes so far as a dozen
blocks from his own bureau, without being recognized and
accosted. And, knowing the extent of his personal acquaintance
with others, and of others with him, he compares his notoriety
with that of the perfumery-girl, finds no great difference
between them, and reaches at once the conclusion that she, in her
walks, would be equally liable to recognition with himself in
his. This could only be the case were her walks of the same
unvarying, methodical character, and within the same species of
limited region as are his own. He passes to and fro, at regular
intervals, within a confined periphery, abounding in individuals
who are led to observation of his person through interest in the
kindred nature of his occupation with their own. But the walks of
Marie may, in general, be supposed discursive. In this particular
instance, it will be understood as most probable, that she
proceeded upon a route of more than average diversity from her
accustomed ones. The parallel which we imagine to have existed in
the mind of Le Commerciel would only be sustained in the event of
the two individuals traversing the whole city. In this case,
granting the personal acquaintances to be equal, the chances
would be also equal that an equal number of personal rencounters
would be made. For my own part, I should hold it not only as
possible, but as very far more than probable, that Marie might
have proceeded, at any given period, by any one of the many
routes between her own residence and that of her aunt, without
meeting a single individual whom she knew, or by whom she was
known. In viewing this question in its full and proper light, we
must hold steadily in mind the great disproportion between the
personal acquaintances of even the most noted individual in
Paris, and the entire population of Paris itself.
“But whatever force there may still appear to be in the
suggestion of Le Commerciel, will be much diminished when we take
into consideration the hour at which the girl went abroad. ‘It
was when the streets were full of people,’ says Le Commerciel,
‘that she went out.’ But not so. It was at nine o’clock in the
morning. Now at nine o’clock of every morning in the week, _with
the exception of Sunday_, the streets of the city are, it is
true, thronged with people. At nine on Sunday, the populace are
chiefly within doors _preparing for church_. No observing person
can have failed to notice the peculiarly deserted air of the
town, from about eight until ten on the morning of every Sabbath.
Between ten and eleven the streets are thronged, but not at so
early a period as that designated.
“There is another point at which there seems a deficiency of
observation on the part of Le Commerciel. ‘A piece,’ it says, ‘of
one of the unfortunate girl’s petticoats, two feet long, and one
foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the
back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done, by
fellows who had no pocket-handkerchiefs.’ Whether this idea is,
or is not well founded, we will endeavor to see hereafter; but by
‘fellows who have no pocket-handkerchiefs’ the editor intends the
lowest class of ruffians. These, however, are the very
description of people who will always be found to have
handkerchiefs even when destitute of shirts. You must have had
occasion to observe how absolutely indispensable, of late years,
to the thorough blackguard, has become the pocket-handkerchief.”
“And what are we to think,” I asked, “of the article in Le
Soleil?”
“That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot—in
which case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his
race. He has merely repeated the individual items of the already
published opinion; collecting them, with a laudable industry,
from this paper and from that. ‘The things had all evidently been
there,’ he says, ‘at least, three or four weeks, and there can be
_no doubt_ that the spot of this appalling outrage has been
discovered.’ The facts here re-stated by Le Soleil, are very far
indeed from removing my own doubts upon this subject, and we will
examine them more particularly hereafter in connexion with
another division of the theme.
“At present we must occupy ourselves with other investigations.
You cannot fail to have remarked the extreme laxity of the
examination of the corpse. To be sure, the question of identity
was readily determined, or should have been; but there were other
points to be ascertained. Had the body been in any respect
despoiled? Had the deceased any articles of jewelry about her
person upon leaving home? if so, had she any when found? These
are important questions utterly untouched by the evidence; and
there are others of equal moment, which have met with no
attention. We must endeavor to satisfy ourselves by personal
inquiry. The case of St. Eustache must be re-examined. I have no
suspicion of this person; but let us proceed methodically. We
will ascertain beyond a doubt the validity of the affidavits in
regard to his whereabouts on the Sunday. Affidavits of this
character are readily made matter of mystification. Should there
be nothing wrong here, however, we will dismiss St. Eustache from
our investigations. His suicide, however corroborative of
suspicion, were there found to be deceit in the affidavits, is,
without such deceit, in no respect an unaccountable circumstance,
or one which need cause us to deflect from the line of ordinary
analysis.
“In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points
of this tragedy, and concentrate our attention upon its
outskirts. Not the least usual error, in investigations such as
this, is the limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total
disregard of the collateral or circumstantial events. It is the
mal-practice of the courts to confine evidence and discussion to
the bounds of apparent relevancy. Yet experience has shown, and a
true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger
portion of truth, arises from the seemingly irrelevant. It is
through the spirit of this principle, if not precisely through
its letter, that modern science has resolved to calculate upon
the unforeseen. But perhaps you do not comprehend me. The history
of human knowledge has so uninterruptedly shown that to
collateral, or incidental, or accidental events we are indebted
for the most numerous and most valuable discoveries, that it has
at length become necessary, in any prospective view of
improvement, to make not only large, but the largest allowances
for inventions that shall arise by chance, and quite out of the
range of ordinary expectation. It is no longer philosophical to
base, upon what has been, a vision of what is to be. Accident is
admitted as a portion of the substructure. We make chance a
matter of absolute calculation. We subject the unlooked for and
unimagined to the mathematical _formulae_ of the schools.
“I repeat that it is no more than fact, that the larger portion
of all truth has sprung from the collateral; and it is but in
accordance with the spirit of the principle involved in this
fact, that I would divert inquiry, in the present case, from the
trodden and hitherto unfruitful ground of the event itself, to
the contemporary circumstances which surround it. While you
ascertain the validity of the affidavits, I will examine the
newspapers more generally than you have as yet done. So far, we
have only reconnoitred the field of investigation; but it will be
strange indeed if a comprehensive survey, such as I propose, of
the public prints, will not afford us some minute points which
shall establish a direction for inquiry.”
In pursuance of Dupin’s suggestion, I made scrupulous examination
of the affair of the affidavits. The result was a firm conviction
of their validity, and of the consequent innocence of St.
Eustache. In the mean time my friend occupied himself, with what
seemed to me a minuteness altogether objectless, in a scrutiny of
the various newspaper files. At the end of a week he placed
before me the following extracts:
“About three years and a half ago, a disturbance very similar to
the present, was caused by the disappearance of this same Marie
Rogêt, from the parfumerie of Monsieur Le Blanc, in the Palais
Royal. At the end of a week, however, she re-appeared at her
customary comptoir, as well as ever, with the exception of a
slight paleness not altogether usual. It was given out by
Monsieur Le Blanc and her mother, that she had merely been on a
visit to some friend in the country; and the affair was speedily
hushed up. We presume that the present absence is a freak of the
same nature, and that, at the expiration of a week, or perhaps of
a month, we shall have her among us again.”—Evening Paper—Monday,
June 23. (*17)
“An evening journal of yesterday, refers to a former mysterious
disappearance of Mademoiselle Rogêt. It is well known that,
during the week of her absence from Le Blanc’s parfumerie, she
was in the company of a young naval officer, much noted for his
debaucheries. A quarrel, it is supposed, providentially led to
her return home. We have the name of the Lothario in question,
who is, at present, stationed in Paris, but, for obvious reasons,
forbear to make it public.”—Le Mercurie—Tuesday Morning, June 24.
(*18)
“An outrage of the most atrocious character was perpetrated near
this city the day before yesterday. A gentleman, with his wife
and daughter, engaged, about dusk, the services of six young men,
who were idly rowing a boat to and fro near the banks of the
Seine, to convey him across the river. Upon reaching the opposite
shore, the three passengers stepped out, and had proceeded so far
as to be beyond the view of the boat, when the daughter
discovered that she had left in it her parasol. She returned for
it, was seized by the gang, carried out into the stream, gagged,
brutally treated, and finally taken to the shore at a point not
far from that at which she had originally entered the boat with
her parents. The villains have escaped for the time, but the
police are upon their trail, and some of them will soon be
taken.”—Morning Paper—June 25. (*19)
“We have received one or two communications, the object of which
is to fasten the crime of the late atrocity upon Mennais; (*20)
but as this gentleman has been fully exonerated by a loyal
inquiry, and as the arguments of our several correspondents
appear to be more zealous than profound, we do not think it
advisable to make them public.”—Morning Paper—June 28. (*21)
“We have received several forcibly written communications,
apparently from various sources, and which go far to render it a
matter of certainty that the unfortunate Marie Rogêt has become a
victim of one of the numerous bands of blackguards which infest
the vicinity of the city upon Sunday. Our own opinion is
decidedly in favor of this supposition. We shall endeavor to make
room for some of these arguments hereafter.”—Evening
Paper—Tuesday, June 31. (*22)
“On Monday, one of the bargemen connected with the revenue
service, saw a empty boat floating down the Seine. Sails were
lying in the bottom of the boat. The bargeman towed it under the
barge office. The next morning it was taken from thence, without
the knowledge of any of the officers. The rudder is now at the
barge office.”—Le Diligence—Thursday, June 26.
Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to me
irrelevant, but I could perceive no mode in which any one of them
could be brought to bear upon the matter in hand. I waited for
some explanation from Dupin.
“It is not my present design,” he said, “to dwell upon the first
and second of those extracts. I have copied them chiefly to show
you the extreme remissness of the police, who, as far as I can
understand from the Prefect, have not troubled themselves, in any
respect, with an examination of the naval officer alluded to. Yet
it is mere folly to say that between the first and second
disappearance of Marie there is no _supposable_ connection. Let
us admit the first elopement to have resulted in a quarrel
between the lovers, and the return home of the betrayed. We are
now prepared to view a second elopement (if we know that an
elopement has again taken place) as indicating a renewal of the
betrayer’s advances, rather than as the result of new proposals
by a second individual—we are prepared to regard it as a ‘making
up’ of the old amour, rather than as the commencement of a new
one. The chances are ten to one, that he who had once eloped with
Marie, would again propose an elopement, rather than that she to
whom proposals of elopement had been made by one individual,
should have them made to her by another. And here let me call
your attention to the fact, that the time elapsing between the
first ascertained, and the second supposed elopement, is a few
months more than the general period of the cruises of our
men-of-war. Had the lover been interrupted in his first villany
by the necessity of departure to sea, and had he seized the first
moment of his return to renew the base designs not yet altogether
accomplished—or not yet altogether accomplished by _him?_ Of all
these things we know nothing.
“You will say, however, that, in the second instance, there was
no elopement as imagined. Certainly not—but are we prepared to
say that there was not the frustrated design? Beyond St.
Eustache, and perhaps Beauvais, we find no recognized, no open,
no honorable suitors of Marie. Of none other is there any thing
said. Who, then, is the secret lover, of whom the relatives (at
least most of them) know nothing, but whom Marie meets upon the
morning of Sunday, and who is so deeply in her confidence, that
she hesitates not to remain with him until the shades of the
evening descend, amid the solitary groves of the Barrière du
Roule? Who is that secret lover, I ask, of whom, at least, most
of the relatives know nothing? And what means the singular
prophecy of Madame Rogêt on the morning of Marie’s departure?—‘I
fear that I shall never see Marie again.’
“But if we cannot imagine Madame Rogêt privy to the design of
elopement, may we not at least suppose this design entertained by
the girl? Upon quitting home, she gave it to be understood that
she was about to visit her aunt in the Rue des Drômes and St.
Eustache was requested to call for her at dark. Now, at first
glance, this fact strongly militates against my suggestion;—but
let us reflect. That she did meet some companion, and proceed
with him across the river, reaching the Barrière du Roule at so
late an hour as three o’clock in the afternoon, is known. But in
consenting so to accompany this individual, (_for whatever
purpose—to her mother known or unknown,_) she must have thought
of her expressed intention when leaving home, and of the surprise
and suspicion aroused in the bosom of her affianced suitor, St.
Eustache, when, calling for her, at the hour appointed, in the
Rue des Drômes, he should find that she had not been there, and
when, moreover, upon returning to the pension with this alarming
intelligence, he should become aware of her continued absence
from home. She must have thought of these things, I say. She must
have foreseen the chagrin of St. Eustache, the suspicion of all.
She could not have thought of returning to brave this suspicion;
but the suspicion becomes a point of trivial importance to her,
if we suppose her not intending to return.
“We may imagine her thinking thus—‘I am to meet a certain person
for the purpose of elopement, or for certain other purposes known
only to myself. It is necessary that there be no chance of
interruption—there must be sufficient time given us to elude
pursuit—I will give it to be understood that I shall visit and
spend the day with my aunt at the Rue des Drômes—I well tell St.
Eustache not to call for me until dark—in this way, my absence
from home for the longest possible period, without causing
suspicion or anxiety, will be accounted for, and I shall gain
more time than in any other manner. If I bid St. Eustache call
for me at dark, he will be sure not to call before; but, if I
wholly neglect to bid him call, my time for escape will be
diminished, since it will be expected that I return the earlier,
and my absence will the sooner excite anxiety. Now, if it were my
design to return at all—if I had in contemplation merely a stroll
with the individual in question—it would not be my policy to bid
St. Eustache call; for, calling, he will be sure to ascertain
that I have played him false—a fact of which I might keep him for
ever in ignorance, by leaving home without notifying him of my
intention, by returning before dark, and by then stating that I
had been to visit my aunt in the Rue des Drômes. But, as it is my
design never to return—or not for some weeks—or not until certain
concealments are effected—the gaining of time is the only point
about which I need give myself any concern.’
“You have observed, in your notes, that the most general opinion
in relation to this sad affair is, and was from the first, that
the girl had been the victim of a gang of blackguards. Now, the
popular opinion, under certain conditions, is not to be
disregarded. When arising of itself—when manifesting itself in a
strictly spontaneous manner—we should look upon it as analogous
with that _intuition_ which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual
man of genius. In ninety-nine cases from the hundred I would
abide by its decision. But it is important that we find no
palpable traces of _suggestion_. The opinion must be rigorously
_the public’s own_; and the distinction is often exceedingly
difficult to perceive and to maintain. In the present instance,
it appears to me that this ‘public opinion’ in respect to a gang,
has been superinduced by the collateral event which is detailed
in the third of my extracts. All Paris is excited by the
discovered corpse of Marie, a girl young, beautiful and
notorious. This corpse is found, bearing marks of violence, and
floating in the river. But it is now made known that, at the very
period, or about the very period, in which it is supposed that
the girl was assassinated, an outrage similar in nature to that
endured by the deceased, although less in extent, was
perpetuated, by a gang of young ruffians, upon the person of a
second young female. Is it wonderful that the one known atrocity
should influence the popular judgment in regard to the other
unknown? This judgment awaited direction, and the known outrage
seemed so opportunely to afford it! Marie, too, was found in the
river; and upon this very river was this known outrage committed.
The connexion of the two events had about it so much of the
palpable, that the true wonder would have been a failure of the
populace to appreciate and to seize it. But, in fact, the one
atrocity, known to be so committed, is, if any thing, evidence
that the other, committed at a time nearly coincident, was not so
committed. It would have been a miracle indeed, if, while a gang
of ruffians were perpetrating, at a given locality, a most
unheard-of wrong, there should have been another similar gang, in
a similar locality, in the same city, under the same
circumstances, with the same means and appliances, engaged in a
wrong of precisely the same aspect, at precisely the same period
of time! Yet in what, if not in this marvellous train of
coincidence, does the accidentally suggested opinion of the
populace call upon us to believe?
“Before proceeding farther, let us consider the supposed scene of
the assassination, in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule. This
thicket, although dense, was in the close vicinity of a public
road. Within were three or four large stones, forming a kind of
seat with a back and footstool. On the upper stone was discovered
a white petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf. A parasol,
gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief, were also here found. The
handkerchief bore the name, ‘Marie Rogêt.’ Fragments of dress
were seen on the branches around. The earth was trampled, the
bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a violent
struggle.
“Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of this
thicket was received by the press, and the unanimity with which
it was supposed to indicate the precise scene of the outrage, it
must be admitted that there was some very good reason for doubt.
That it was the scene, I may or I may not believe—but there was
excellent reason for doubt. Had the true scene been, as Le
Commerciel suggested, in the neighborhood of the Rue Pavée St.
Andrée, the perpetrators of the crime, supposing them still
resident in Paris, would naturally have been stricken with terror
at the public attention thus acutely directed into the proper
channel; and, in certain classes of minds, there would have
arisen, at once, a sense of the necessity of some exertion to
redivert this attention. And thus, the thicket of the Barrière du
Roule having been already suspected, the idea of placing the
articles where they were found, might have been naturally
entertained. There is no real evidence, although Le Soleil so
supposes, that the articles discovered had been more than a very
few days in the thicket; while there is much circumstantial proof
that they could not have remained there, without attracting
attention, during the twenty days elapsing between the fatal
Sunday and the afternoon upon which they were found by the boys.
‘They were all _mildewed_ down hard,’ says Le Soleil, adopting
the opinions of its predecessors, ‘with the action of the rain,
and stuck together from _mildew_. The grass had grown around and
over some of them. The silk of the parasol was strong, but the
threads of it were run together within. The upper part, where it
had been doubled and folded, was all _mildewed_ and rotten, and
tore on being opened.’ In respect to the grass having ‘grown
around and over some of them,’ it is obvious that the fact could
only have been ascertained from the words, and thus from the
recollections, of two small boys; for these boys removed the
articles and took them home before they had been seen by a third
party. But grass will grow, especially in warm and damp weather,
(such as was that of the period of the murder,) as much as two or
three inches in a single day. A parasol lying upon a newly turfed
ground, might, in a single week, be entirely concealed from sight
by the upspringing grass. And touching that mildew upon which the
editor of Le Soleil so pertinaciously insists, that he employs
the word no less than three times in the brief paragraph just
quoted, is he really unaware of the nature of this mildew? Is he
to be told that it is one of the many classes of fungus, of which
the most ordinary feature is its upspringing and decadence within
twenty-four hours?
“Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly
adduced in support of the idea that the articles had been ‘for at
least three or four weeks’ in the thicket, is most absurdly null
as regards any evidence of that fact. On the other hand, it is
exceedingly difficult to believe that these articles could have
remained in the thicket specified, for a longer period than a
single week—for a longer period than from one Sunday to the next.
Those who know any thing of the vicinity of Paris, know the
extreme difficulty of finding seclusion unless at a great
distance from its suburbs. Such a thing as an unexplored, or even
an unfrequently visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not
for a moment to be imagined. Let any one who, being at heart a
lover of nature, is yet chained by duty to the dust and heat of
this great metropolis—let any such one attempt, even during the
weekdays, to slake his thirst for solitude amid the scenes of
natural loveliness which immediately surround us. At every second
step, he will find the growing charm dispelled by the voice and
personal intrusion of some ruffian or party of carousing
blackguards. He will seek privacy amid the densest foliage, all
in vain. Here are the very nooks where the unwashed most
abound—here are the temples most desecrate. With sickness of the
heart the wanderer will flee back to the polluted Paris as to a
less odious because less incongruous sink of pollution. But if
the vicinity of the city is so beset during the working days of
the week, how much more so on the Sabbath! It is now especially
that, released from the claims of labor, or deprived of the
customary opportunities of crime, the town blackguard seeks the
precincts of the town, not through love of the rural, which in
his heart he despises, but by way of escape from the restraints
and conventionalities of society. He desires less the fresh air
and the green trees, than the utter license of the country. Here,
at the road-side inn, or beneath the foliage of the woods, he
indulges, unchecked by any eye except those of his boon
companions, in all the mad excess of a counterfeit hilarity—the
joint offspring of liberty and of rum. I say nothing more than
what must be obvious to every dispassionate observer, when I
repeat that the circumstance of the articles in question having
remained undiscovered, for a longer period than from one Sunday
to another, in any thicket in the immediate neighborhood of
Paris, is to be looked upon as little less than miraculous.
“But there are not wanting other grounds for the suspicion that
the articles were placed in the thicket with the view of
diverting attention from the real scene of the outrage. And,
first, let me direct your notice to the date of the discovery of
the articles. Collate this with the date of the fifth extract
made by myself from the newspapers. You will find that the
discovery followed, almost immediately, the urgent communications
sent to the evening paper. These communications, although various
and apparently from various sources, tended all to the same
point—viz., the directing of attention to a gang as the
perpetrators of the outrage, and to the neighborhood of the
Barrière du Roule as its scene. Now here, of course, the
suspicion is not that, in consequence of these communications, or
of the public attention by them directed, the articles were found
by the boys; but the suspicion might and may well have been, that
the articles were not before found by the boys, for the reason
that the articles had not before been in the thicket; having been
deposited there only at so late a period as at the date, or
shortly prior to the date of the communication, by the guilty
authors of these communications themselves.
“This thicket was a singular—an exceedingly singular one. It was
unusually dense. Within its naturally walled enclosure were three
extraordinary stones, forming a seat with a back and footstool.
And this thicket, so full of a natural art, was in the immediate
vicinity, within a few rods, of the dwelling of Madame Deluc,
whose boys were in the habit of closely examining the shrubberies
about them in search of the bark of the sassafras. Would it be a
rash wager—a wager of one thousand to one—that a day never passed
over the heads of these boys without finding at least one of them
ensconced in the umbrageous hall, and enthroned upon its natural
throne? Those who would hesitate at such a wager, have either
never been boys themselves, or have forgotten the boyish nature.
I repeat—it is exceedingly hard to comprehend how the articles
could have remained in this thicket undiscovered, for a longer
period than one or two days; and that thus there is good ground
for suspicion, in spite of the dogmatic ignorance of Le Soleil,
that they were, at a comparatively late date, deposited where
found.
“But there are still other and stronger reasons for believing
them so deposited, than any which I have as yet urged. And, now,
let me beg your notice to the highly artificial arrangement of
the articles. On the _upper_ stone lay a white petticoat; on the
_second_, a silk scarf; scattered around, were a parasol, gloves,
and a pocket-handkerchief bearing the name, ‘Marie Rogêt.’ Here
is just such an arrangement as would naturally be made by a not
over-acute person wishing to dispose the articles naturally. But
it is by no means a really natural arrangement. I should rather
have looked to see the things all lying on the ground and
trampled under foot. In the narrow limits of that bower, it would
have been scarcely possible that the petticoat and scarf should
have retained a position upon the stones, when subjected to the
brushing to and fro of many struggling persons. ‘There was
evidence,’ it is said, ‘of a struggle; and the earth was
trampled, the bushes were broken,’—but the petticoat and the
scarf are found deposited as if upon shelves. ‘The pieces of the
frock torn out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six
inches long. One part was the hem of the frock and it had been
mended. They looked like strips torn off.’ Here, inadvertently,
Le Soleil has employed an exceedingly suspicious phrase. The
pieces, as described, do indeed ‘look like strips torn off;’ but
purposely and by hand. It is one of the rarest of accidents that
a piece is ‘torn off,’ from any garment such as is now in
question, by the agency of a thorn. From the very nature of such
fabrics, a thorn or nail becoming entangled in them, tears them
rectangularly—divides them into two longitudinal rents, at right
angles with each other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn
enters—but it is scarcely possible to conceive the piece ‘torn
off.’ I never so knew it, nor did you. To tear a piece off from
such fabric, two distinct forces, in different directions, will
be, in almost every case, required. If there be two edges to the
fabric—if, for example, it be a pocket-handkerchief, and it is
desired to tear from it a slip, then, and then only, will the one
force serve the purpose. But in the present case the question is
of a dress, presenting but one edge. To tear a piece from the
interior, where no edge is presented, could only be effected by a
miracle through the agency of thorns, and no one thorn could
accomplish it. But, even where an edge is presented, two thorns
will be necessary, operating, the one in two distinct directions,
and the other in one. And this in the supposition that the edge
is unhemmed. If hemmed, the matter is nearly out of the question.
We thus see the numerous and great obstacles in the way of pieces
being ‘torn off’ through the simple agency of ‘thorns;’ yet we
are required to believe not only that one piece but that many
have been so torn. ‘And one part,’ too, ‘was the hem of the
frock!’ Another piece was ‘part of the skirt, not the hem,’—that
is to say, was torn completely out through the agency of thorns,
from the uncaged interior of the dress! These, I say, are things
which one may well be pardoned for disbelieving; yet, taken
collectedly, they form, perhaps, less of reasonable ground for
suspicion, than the one startling circumstance of the articles’
having been left in this thicket at all, by any murderers who had
enough precaution to think of removing the corpse. You will not
have apprehended me rightly, however, if you suppose it my design
to deny this thicket as the scene of the outrage. There might
have been a wrong here, or, more possibly, an accident at Madame
Deluc’s. But, in fact, this is a point of minor importance. We
are not engaged in an attempt to discover the scene, but to
produce the perpetrators of the murder. What I have adduced,
notwithstanding the minuteness with which I have adduced it, has
been with the view, first, to show the folly of the positive and
headlong assertions of Le Soleil, but secondly and chiefly, to
bring you, by the most natural route, to a further contemplation
of the doubt whether this assassination has, or has not, been the
work of a gang.
“We will resume this question by mere allusion to the revolting
details of the surgeon examined at the inquest. It is only
necessary to say that his published inferences, in regard to the
number of ruffians, have been properly ridiculed as unjust and
totally baseless, by all the reputable anatomists of Paris. Not
that the matter might not have been as inferred, but that there
was no ground for the inference:—was there not much for another?
“Let us reflect now upon ‘the traces of a struggle;’ and let me
ask what these traces have been supposed to demonstrate. A gang.
But do they not rather demonstrate the absence of a gang? What
struggle could have taken place—what struggle so violent and so
enduring as to have left its ‘traces’ in all directions—between a
weak and defenceless girl and the gang of ruffians imagined? The
silent grasp of a few rough arms and all would have been over.
The victim must have been absolutely passive at their will. You
will here bear in mind that the arguments urged against the
thicket as the scene, are applicable in chief part, only against
it as the scene of an outrage committed by more than a single
individual. If we imagine but one violator, we can conceive, and
thus only conceive, the struggle of so violent and so obstinate a
nature as to have left the ‘traces’ apparent.
“And again. I have already mentioned the suspicion to be excited
by the fact that the articles in question were suffered to remain
at all in the thicket where discovered. It seems almost
impossible that these evidences of guilt should have been
accidentally left where found. There was sufficient presence of
mind (it is supposed) to remove the corpse; and yet a more
positive evidence than the corpse itself (whose features might
have been quickly obliterated by decay,) is allowed to lie
conspicuously in the scene of the outrage—I allude to the
handkerchief with the name of the deceased. If this was accident,
it was not the accident of a gang. We can imagine it only the
accident of an individual. Let us see. An individual has
committed the murder. He is alone with the ghost of the departed.
He is appalled by what lies motionless before him. The fury of
his passion is over, and there is abundant room in his heart for
the natural awe of the deed. His is none of that confidence which
the presence of numbers inevitably inspires. He is alone with the
dead. He trembles and is bewildered. Yet there is a necessity for
disposing of the corpse. He bears it to the river, but leaves
behind him the other evidences of guilt; for it is difficult, if
not impossible to carry all the burthen at once, and it will be
easy to return for what is left. But in his toilsome journey to
the water his fears redouble within him. The sounds of life
encompass his path. A dozen times he hears or fancies the step of
an observer. Even the very lights from the city bewilder him.
Yet, in time and by long and frequent pauses of deep agony, he
reaches the river’s brink, and disposes of his ghastly
charge—perhaps through the medium of a boat. But now what
treasure does the world hold—what threat of vengeance could it
hold out—which would have power to urge the return of that lonely
murderer over that toilsome and perilous path, to the thicket and
its blood chilling recollections? He returns not, let the
consequences be what they may. He could not return if he would.
His sole thought is immediate escape. He turns his back forever
upon those dreadful shrubberies and flees as from the wrath to
come.
“But how with a gang? Their number would have inspired them with
confidence; if, indeed confidence is ever wanting in the breast
of the arrant blackguard; and of arrant blackguards alone are the
supposed gangs ever constituted. Their number, I say, would have
prevented the bewildering and unreasoning terror which I have
imagined to paralyze the single man. Could we suppose an
oversight in one, or two, or three, this oversight would have
been remedied by a fourth. They would have left nothing behind
them; for their number would have enabled them to carry all at
once. There would have been no need of return.
“Consider now the circumstance that in the outer garment of the
corpse when found, ‘a slip, about a foot wide had been torn
upward from the bottom hem to the waist wound three times round
the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back.’ This was
done with the obvious design of affording a handle by which to
carry the body. But would any number of men have dreamed of
resorting to such an expedient? To three or four, the limbs of
the corpse would have afforded not only a sufficient, but the
best possible hold. The device is that of a single individual;
and this brings us to the fact that ‘between the thicket and the
river, the rails of the fences were found taken down, and the
ground bore evident traces of some heavy burden having been
dragged along it!’ But would a number of men have put themselves
to the superfluous trouble of taking down a fence, for the
purpose of dragging through it a corpse which they might have
lifted over any fence in an instant? Would a number of men have
so dragged a corpse at all as to have left evident traces of the
dragging?
“And here we must refer to an observation of Le Commerciel; an
observation upon which I have already, in some measure,
commented. ‘A piece,’ says this journal, ‘of one of the
unfortunate girl’s petticoats was torn out and tied under her
chin, and around the back of her head, probably to prevent
screams. This was done by fellows who had no
pocket-handkerchiefs.’
“I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never
without a pocket-handkerchief. But it is not to this fact that I
now especially advert. That it was not through want of a
handkerchief for the purpose imagined by Le Commerciel, that this
bandage was employed, is rendered apparent by the handkerchief
left in the thicket; and that the object was not ‘to prevent
screams’ appears, also, from the bandage having been employed in
preference to what would so much better have answered the
purpose. But the language of the evidence speaks of the strip in
question as ‘found around the neck, fitting loosely, and secured
with a hard knot.’ These words are sufficiently vague, but differ
materially from those of Le Commerciel. The slip was eighteen
inches wide, and therefore, although of muslin, would form a
strong band when folded or rumpled longitudinally. And thus
rumpled it was discovered. My inference is this. The solitary
murderer, having borne the corpse, for some distance (whether
from the thicket or elsewhere) by means of the bandage hitched
around its middle, found the weight, in this mode of procedure,
too much for his strength. He resolved to drag the burthen—the
evidence goes to show that it was dragged. With this object in
view, it became necessary to attach something like a rope to one
of the extremities. It could be best attached about the neck,
where the head would prevent its slipping off. And, now, the
murderer bethought him, unquestionably, of the bandage about the
loins. He would have used this, but for its volution about the
corpse, the hitch which embarrassed it, and the reflection that
it had not been ‘torn off’ from the garment. It was easier to
tear a new slip from the petticoat. He tore it, made it fast
about the neck, and so dragged his victim to the brink of the
river. That this ‘bandage,’ only attainable with trouble and
delay, and but imperfectly answering its purpose—that this
bandage was employed at all, demonstrates that the necessity for
its employment sprang from circumstances arising at a period when
the handkerchief was no longer attainable—that is to say,
arising, as we have imagined, after quitting the thicket, (if the
thicket it was), and on the road between the thicket and the
river.
“But the evidence, you will say, of Madame Deluc (!) points
especially to the presence of a gang, in the vicinity of the
thicket, at or about the epoch of the murder. This I grant. I
doubt if there were not a dozen gangs, such as described by
Madame Deluc, in and about the vicinity of the Barrière du Roule
at or about the period of this tragedy. But the gang which has
drawn upon itself the pointed animadversion, although the
somewhat tardy and very suspicious evidence of Madame Deluc, is
the only gang which is represented by that honest and scrupulous
old lady as having eaten her cakes and swallowed her brandy,
without putting themselves to the trouble of making her payment.
Et hinc illæ iræ?
“But what is the precise evidence of Madame Deluc? ‘A gang of
miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and
drank without making payment, followed in the route of the young
man and girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and recrossed the
river as if in great haste.’
“Now this ‘great haste’ very possibly seemed greater haste in the
eyes of Madame Deluc, since she dwelt lingeringly and lamentingly
upon her violated cakes and ale—cakes and ale for which she might
still have entertained a faint hope of compensation. Why,
otherwise, since it was about dusk, should she make a point of
the haste? It is no cause for wonder, surely, that even a gang of
blackguards should make haste to get home, when a wide river is
to be crossed in small boats, when storm impends, and when night
approaches.
“I say approaches; for the night had not yet arrived. It was only
about dusk that the indecent haste of these ‘miscreants’ offended
the sober eyes of Madame Deluc. But we are told that it was upon
this very evening that Madame Deluc, as well as her eldest son,
‘heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the inn.’ And
in what words does Madame Deluc designate the period of the
evening at which these screams were heard? ‘It was soon after
dark,’ she says. But ‘soon after dark,’ is, at least, dark; and
‘about dusk’ is as certainly daylight. Thus it is abundantly
clear that the gang quitted the Barrière du Roule prior to the
screams overheard (?) by Madame Deluc. And although, in all the
many reports of the evidence, the relative expressions in
question are distinctly and invariably employed just as I have
employed them in this conversation with yourself, no notice
whatever of the gross discrepancy has, as yet, been taken by any
of the public journals, or by any of the myrmidons of police.
“I shall add but one to the arguments against a gang; but this
one has, to my own understanding at least, a weight altogether
irresistible. Under the circumstances of large reward offered,
and full pardon to any king’s evidence, it is not to be imagined,
for a moment, that some member of a gang of low ruffians, or of
any body of men, would not long ago have betrayed his
accomplices. Each one of a gang so placed, is not so much greedy
of reward, or anxious for escape, as fearful of betrayal. He
betrays eagerly and early that he may not himself be betrayed.
That the secret has not been divulged, is the very best of proof
that it is, in fact, a secret. The horrors of this dark deed are
known only to one, or two, living human beings, and to God.
“Let us sum up now the meagre yet certain fruits of our long
analysis. We have attained the idea either of a fatal accident
under the roof of Madame Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated, in
the thicket at the Barrière du Roule, by a lover, or at least by
an intimate and secret associate of the deceased. This associate
is of swarthy complexion. This complexion, the ‘hitch’ in the
bandage, and the ‘sailor’s knot,’ with which the bonnet-ribbon is
tied, point to a seaman. His companionship with the deceased, a
gay, but not an abject young girl, designates him as above the
grade of the common sailor. Here the well written and urgent
communications to the journals are much in the way of
corroboration. The circumstance of the first elopement, as
mentioned by Le Mercurie, tends to blend the idea of this seaman
with that of the ‘naval officer’ who is first known to have led
the unfortunate into crime.
“And here, most fitly, comes the consideration of the continued
absence of him of the dark complexion. Let me pause to observe
that the complexion of this man is dark and swarthy; it was no
common swarthiness which constituted the sole point of
remembrance, both as regards Valence and Madame Deluc. But why is
this man absent? Was he murdered by the gang? If so, why are
there only traces of the assassinated girl? The scene of the two
outrages will naturally be supposed identical. And where is his
corpse? The assassins would most probably have disposed of both
in the same way. But it may be said that this man lives, and is
deterred from making himself known, through dread of being
charged with the murder. This consideration might be supposed to
operate upon him now—at this late period—since it has been given
in evidence that he was seen with Marie—but it would have had no
force at the period of the deed. The first impulse of an innocent
man would have been to announce the outrage, and to aid in
identifying the ruffians. This policy would have suggested. He
had been seen with the girl. He had crossed the river with her in
an open ferry-boat. The denouncing of the assassins would have
appeared, even to an idiot, the surest and sole means of
relieving himself from suspicion. We cannot suppose him, on the
night of the fatal Sunday, both innocent himself and incognizant
of an outrage committed. Yet only under such circumstances is it
possible to imagine that he would have failed, if alive, in the
denouncement of the assassins.
“And what means are ours, of attaining the truth? We shall find
these means multiplying and gathering distinctness as we proceed.
Let us sift to the bottom this affair of the first elopement. Let
us know the full history of ‘the officer,’ with his present
circumstances, and his whereabouts at the precise period of the
murder. Let us carefully compare with each other the various
communications sent to the evening paper, in which the object was
to inculpate a gang. This done, let us compare these
communications, both as regards style and MS., with those sent to
the morning paper, at a previous period, and insisting so
vehemently upon the guilt of Mennais. And, all this done, let us
again compare these various communications with the known MSS. of
the officer. Let us endeavor to ascertain, by repeated
questionings of Madame Deluc and her boys, as well as of the
omnibus driver, Valence, something more of the personal
appearance and bearing of the ‘man of dark complexion.’ Queries,
skilfully directed, will not fail to elicit, from some of these
parties, information on this particular point (or upon
others)—information which the parties themselves may not even be
aware of possessing. And let us now trace the boat picked up by
the bargeman on the morning of Monday the twenty-third of June,
and which was removed from the barge-office, without the
cognizance of the officer in attendance, and without the rudder,
at some period prior to the discovery of the corpse. With a
proper caution and perseverance we shall infallibly trace this
boat; for not only can the bargeman who picked it up identify it,
but the rudder is at hand. The rudder of a sail-boat would not
have been abandoned, without inquiry, by one altogether at ease
in heart. And here let me pause to insinuate a question. There
was no advertisement of the picking up of this boat. It was
silently taken to the barge-office, and as silently removed. But
its owner or employer—how happened he, at so early a period as
Tuesday morning, to be informed, without the agency of
advertisement, of the locality of the boat taken up on Monday,
unless we imagine some connexion with the navy—some personal
permanent connexion leading to cognizance of its minute in
interests—its petty local news?
“In speaking of the lonely assassin dragging his burden to the
shore, I have already suggested the probability of his availing
himself of a boat. Now we are to understand that Marie Rogêt was
precipitated from a boat. This would naturally have been the
case. The corpse could not have been trusted to the shallow
waters of the shore. The peculiar marks on the back and shoulders
of the victim tell of the bottom ribs of a boat. That the body
was found without weight is also corroborative of the idea. If
thrown from the shore a weight would have been attached. We can
only account for its absence by supposing the murderer to have
neglected the precaution of supplying himself with it before
pushing off. In the act of consigning the corpse to the water, he
would unquestionably have noticed his oversight; but then no
remedy would have been at hand. Any risk would have been
preferred to a return to that accursed shore. Having rid himself
of his ghastly charge, the murderer would have hastened to the
city. There, at some obscure wharf, he would have leaped on land.
But the boat—would he have secured it? He would have been in too
great haste for such things as securing a boat. Moreover, in
fastening it to the wharf, he would have felt as if securing
evidence against himself. His natural thought would have been to
cast from him, as far as possible, all that had held connection
with his crime. He would not only have fled from the wharf, but
he would not have permitted the boat to remain. Assuredly he
would have cast it adrift. Let us pursue our fancies.—In the
morning, the wretch is stricken with unutterable horror at
finding that the boat has been picked up and detained at a
locality which he is in the daily habit of frequenting —at a
locality, perhaps, which his duty compels him to frequent. The
next night, without daring to ask for the rudder, he removes it.
Now where is that rudderless boat? Let it be one of our first
purposes to discover. With the first glimpse we obtain of it, the
dawn of our success shall begin. This boat shall guide us, with a
rapidity which will surprise even ourselves, to him who employed
it in the midnight of the fatal Sabbath. Corroboration will rise
upon corroboration, and the murderer will be traced.”
[For reasons which we shall not specify, but which to many
readers will appear obvious, we have taken the liberty of here
omitting, from the MSS. placed in our hands, such portion as
details the following up of the apparently slight clew obtained
by Dupin. We feel it advisable only to state, in brief, that the
result desired was brought to pass; and that the Prefect
fulfilled punctually, although with reluctance, the terms of his
compact with the Chevalier. Mr. Poe’s article concludes with the
following words.—Eds. (*23)]
It will be understood that I speak of coincidences and no more.
What I have said above upon this topic must suffice. In my own
heart there dwells no faith in præter-nature. That Nature and its
God are two, no man who thinks, will deny. That the latter,
creating the former, can, at will, control or modify it, is also
unquestionable. I say “at will;” for the question is of will, and
not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of power. It is not
that the Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult him in
imagining a possible necessity for modification. In their origin
these laws were fashioned to embrace all contingencies which
could lie in the Future. With God all is Now.
I repeat, then, that I speak of these things only as of
coincidences. And farther: in what I relate it will be seen that
between the fate of the unhappy Mary Cecilia Rogers, so far as
that fate is known, and the fate of one Marie Rogêt up to a
certain epoch in her history, there has existed a parallel in the
contemplation of whose wonderful exactitude the reason becomes
embarrassed. I say all this will be seen. But let it not for a
moment be supposed that, in proceeding with the sad narrative of
Marie from the epoch just mentioned, and in tracing to its
dénouement the mystery which enshrouded her, it is my covert
design to hint at an extension of the parallel, or even to
suggest that the measures adopted in Paris for the discovery of
the assassin of a grisette, or measures founded in any similar
ratiocination, would produce any similar result.
For, in respect to the latter branch of the supposition, it
should be considered that the most trifling variation in the
facts of the two cases might give rise to the most important
miscalculations, by diverting thoroughly the two courses of
events; very much as, in arithmetic, an error which, in its own
individuality, may be inappreciable, produces, at length, by dint
of multiplication at all points of the process, a result
enormously at variance with truth. And, in regard to the former
branch, we must not fail to hold in view that the very Calculus
of Probabilities to which I have referred, forbids all idea of
the extension of the parallel—forbids it with a positiveness
strong and decided just in proportion as this parallel has
already been long-drawn and exact. This is one of those anomalous
propositions which, seemingly appealing to thought altogether
apart from the mathematical, is yet one which only the
mathematician can fully entertain. Nothing, for example, is more
difficult than to convince the merely general reader that the
fact of sixes having been thrown twice in succession by a player
at dice, is sufficient cause for betting the largest odds that
sixes will not be thrown in the third attempt. A suggestion to
this effect is usually rejected by the intellect at once. It does
not appear that the two throws which have been completed, and
which lie now absolutely in the Past, can have influence upon the
throw which exists only in the Future. The chance for throwing
sixes seems to be precisely as it was at any ordinary time—that
is to say, subject only to the influence of the various other
throws which may be made by the dice. And this is a reflection
which appears so exceedingly obvious that attempts to controvert
it are received more frequently with a derisive smile than with
anything like respectful attention. The error here involved—a
gross error redolent of mischief—I cannot pretend to expose
within the limits assigned me at present; and with the
philosophical it needs no exposure. It may be sufficient here to
say that it forms one of an infinite series of mistakes which
arise in the path of Reason through her propensity for seeking
truth in detail.
FOOTNOTES—Marie Rogêt
(*1) Upon the original publication of “Marie Roget,” the
foot-notes now appended were considered unnecessary; but the
lapse of several years since the tragedy upon which the tale is
based, renders it expedient to give them, and also to say a few
words in explanation of the general design. A young girl, Mary
Cecilia Rogers, was murdered in the vicinity of New York; and,
although her death occasioned an intense and long-enduring
excitement, the mystery attending it had remained unsolved at the
period when the present paper was written and published
(November, 1842). Herein, under pretence of relating the fate of
a Parisian grisette, the author has followed in minute detail,
the essential, while merely paralleling the inessential facts of
the real murder of Mary Rogers. Thus all argument founded upon
the fiction is applicable to the truth: and the investigation of
the truth was the object. The “Mystery of Marie Roget” was
composed at a distance from the scene of the atrocity, and with
no other means of investigation than the newspapers afforded.
Thus much escaped the writer of which he could have availed
himself had he been upon the spot, and visited the localities. It
may not be improper to record, nevertheless, that the confessions
of two persons, (one of them the Madame Deluc of the narrative)
made, at different periods, long subsequent to the publication,
confirmed, in full, not only the general conclusion, but
absolutely all the chief hypothetical details by which that
conclusion was attained.
(*2) The nom de plume of Von Hardenburg.
(*3) Nassau Street.
(*4) Anderson.
(*5) The Hudson.
(*6) Weehawken.
(*7) Payne.
(*8) Crommelin.
(*9) The New York “Mercury.”
(*10) The New York “Brother Jonathan,” edited by H. Hastings
Weld, Esq.
(*11) New York “Journal of Commerce.”
(*12) Philadelphia “Saturday Evening Post,” edited by C. I.
Peterson, Esq.
(*13) Adam
(*14) See “Murders in the Rue Morgue.”
(*15) The New York “Commercial Advertiser,” edited by Col. Stone.
(*16) “A theory based on the qualities of an object, will prevent
its being unfolded according to its objects; and he who arranges
topics in reference to their causes, will cease to value them
according to their results. Thus the jurisprudence of every
nation will show that, when law becomes a science and a system,
it ceases to be justice. The errors into which a blind devotion
to principles of classification has led the common law, will be
seen by observing how often the legislature has been obliged to
come forward to restore the equity its scheme had lost.”—Landor.
(*17) New York “Express”
(*18) New York “Herald.”
(*19) New York “Courier and Inquirer.”
(*20) Mennais was one of the parties originally suspected and
arrested, but discharged through total lack of evidence.
(*21) New York “Courier and Inquirer.”
(*22) New York “Evening Post.”
(*23) Of the Magazine in which the article was originally
published.
THE BALLOON-HOAX
[Astounding News by Express, _via_ Norfolk!—The Atlantic crossed in
Three Days! Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason’s Flying
Machine!—Arrival at Sullivan’s Island, near Charlestown, S.C., of Mr.
Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and four
others, in the Steering Balloon, “Victoria,” after a passage of
Seventy-five Hours from Land to Land! Full Particulars of the Voyage!
The subjoined _jeu d’esprit_ with the preceding heading in
magnificent capitals, well interspersed with notes of admiration,
was originally published, as matter of fact, in the “New York Sun,”
a daily newspaper, and therein fully subserved the purpose of
creating indigestible aliment for the _quidnuncs_ during the few
hours intervening between a couple of the Charleston mails. The
rush for the “sole paper which had the news,” was something beyond
even the prodigious; and, in fact, if (as some assert) the
“Victoria” _did_ not absolutely accomplish the voyage recorded, it
will be difficult to assign a reason why she _should_ not have
accomplished it.]
The great problem is at length solved! The air, as well as the
earth and the ocean, has been subdued by science, and will become
a common and convenient highway for mankind. _The Atlantic has
been actually crossed in a Balloon!_ and this too without
difficulty—without any great apparent danger—with thorough
control of the machine—and in the inconceivably brief period of
seventy-five hours from shore to shore! By the energy of an agent
at Charleston, S.C., we are enabled to be the first to furnish
the public with a detailed account of this most extraordinary
voyage, which was performed between Saturday, the 6th instant, at
11, A.M., and 2, P.M., on Tuesday, the 9th instant, by Sir
Everard Bringhurst; Mr. Osborne, a nephew of Lord Bentinck’s; Mr.
Monck Mason and Mr. Robert Holland, the well-known æronauts; Mr.
Harrison Ainsworth, author of “Jack Sheppard,” &c.; and Mr.
Henson, the projector of the late unsuccessful flying
machine—with two seamen from Woolwich—in all, eight persons. The
particulars furnished below may be relied on as authentic and
accurate in every respect, as, with a slight exception, they are
copied _verbatim_ from the joint diaries of Mr. Monck Mason and
Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, to whose politeness our agent is also
indebted for much verbal information respecting the balloon
itself, its construction, and other matters of interest. The only
alteration in the MS. received, has been made for the purpose of
throwing the hurried account of our agent, Mr. Forsyth, into a
connected and intelligible form.
“THE BALLOON.
“Two very decided failures, of late—those of Mr. Henson and Sir
George Cayley—had much weakened the public interest in the
subject of aerial navigation. Mr. Henson’s scheme (which at first
was considered very feasible even by men of science,) was founded
upon the principle of an inclined plane, started from an eminence
by an extrinsic force, applied and continued by the revolution of
impinging vanes, in form and number resembling the vanes of a
windmill. But, in all the experiments made with models at the
Adelaide Gallery, it was found that the operation of these fans
not only did not propel the machine, but actually impeded its
flight. The only propelling force it ever exhibited, was the mere
_impetus_ acquired from the descent of the inclined plane; and
this _impetus_ carried the machine farther when the vanes were at
rest, than when they were in motion—a fact which sufficiently
demonstrates their inutility; and in the absence of the
propelling, which was also the _sustaining_ power, the whole
fabric would necessarily descend. This consideration led Sir
George Cayley to think only of adapting a propeller to some
machine having of itself an independent power of support—in a
word, to a balloon; the idea, however, being novel, or original,
with Sir George, only so far as regards the mode of its
application to practice. He exhibited a model of his invention at
the Polytechnic Institution. The propelling principle, or power,
was here, also, applied to interrupted surfaces, or vanes, put in
revolution. These vanes were four in number, but were found
entirely ineffectual in moving the balloon, or in aiding its
ascending power. The whole project was thus a complete failure.
“It was at this juncture that Mr. Monck Mason (whose voyage from
Dover to Weilburg in the balloon, “Nassau,” occasioned so much
excitement in 1837,) conceived the idea of employing the
principle of the Archimedean screw for the purpose of propulsion
through the air—rightly attributing the failure of Mr. Henson’s
scheme, and of Sir George Cayley’s, to the interruption of
surface in the independent vanes. He made the first public
experiment at Willis’s Rooms, but afterward removed his model to
the Adelaide Gallery.
“Like Sir George Cayley’s balloon, his own was an ellipsoid. Its
length was thirteen feet six inches—height, six feet eight
inches. It contained about three hundred and twenty cubic feet of
gas, which, if pure hydrogen, would support twenty-one pounds
upon its first inflation, before the gas has time to deteriorate
or escape. The weight of the whole machine and apparatus was
seventeen pounds—leaving about four pounds to spare. Beneath the
centre of the balloon, was a frame of light wood, about nine feet
long, and rigged on to the balloon itself with a network in the
customary manner. From this framework was suspended a wicker
basket or car.
“The screw consists of an axis of hollow brass tube, eighteen
inches in length, through which, upon a semi-spiral inclined at
fifteen degrees, pass a series of steel wire radii, two feet
long, and thus projecting a foot on either side. These radii are
connected at the outer extremities by two bands of flattened
wire—the whole in this manner forming the framework of the screw,
which is completed by a covering of oiled silk cut into gores,
and tightened so as to present a tolerably uniform surface. At
each end of its axis this screw is supported by pillars of hollow
brass tube descending from the hoop. In the lower ends of these
tubes are holes in which the pivots of the axis revolve. From the
end of the axis which is next the car, proceeds a shaft of steel,
connecting the screw with the pinion of a piece of spring
machinery fixed in the car. By the operation of this spring, the
screw is made to revolve with great rapidity, communicating a
progressive motion to the whole. By means of the rudder, the
machine was readily turned in any direction. The spring was of
great power, compared with its dimensions, being capable of
raising forty-five pounds upon a barrel of four inches diameter,
after the first turn, and gradually increasing as it was wound
up. It weighed, altogether, eight pounds six ounces. The rudder
was a light frame of cane covered with silk, shaped somewhat like
a battle-door, and was about three feet long, and at the widest,
one foot. Its weight was about two ounces. It could be turned
_flat_, and directed upwards or downwards, as well as to the
right or left; and thus enabled the æronaut to transfer the
resistance of the air which in an inclined position it must
generate in its passage, to any side upon which he might desire
to act; thus determining the balloon in the opposite direction.
“This model (which, through want of time, we have necessarily
described in an imperfect manner,) was put in action at the
Adelaide Gallery, where it accomplished a velocity of five miles
per hour; although, strange to say, it excited very little
interest in comparison with the previous complex machine of Mr.
Henson—so resolute is the world to despise anything which carries
with it an air of simplicity. To accomplish the great desideratum
of ærial navigation, it was very generally supposed that some
exceedingly complicated application must be made of some
unusually profound principle in dynamics.
“So well satisfied, however, was Mr. Mason of the ultimate
success of his invention, that he determined to construct
immediately, if possible, a balloon of sufficient capacity to
test the question by a voyage of some extent—the original design
being to cross the British Channel, as before, in the Nassau
balloon. To carry out his views, he solicited and obtained the
patronage of Sir Everard Bringhurst and Mr. Osborne, two
gentlemen well known for scientific acquirement, and especially
for the interest they have exhibited in the progress of
ærostation. The project, at the desire of Mr. Osborne, was kept a
profound secret from the public—the only persons entrusted with
the design being those actually engaged in the construction of
the machine, which was built (under the superintendence of Mr.
Mason, Mr. Holland, Sir Everard Bringhurst, and Mr. Osborne,) at
the seat of the latter gentleman near Penstruthal, in Wales. Mr.
Henson, accompanied by his friend Mr. Ainsworth, was admitted to
a private view of the balloon, on Saturday last—when the two
gentlemen made final arrangements to be included in the
adventure. We are not informed for what reason the two seamen
were also included in the party—but, in the course of a day or
two, we shall put our readers in possession of the minutest
particulars respecting this extraordinary voyage.
“The balloon is composed of silk, varnished with the liquid gum
caoutchouc. It is of vast dimensions, containing more than 40,000
cubic feet of gas; but as coal gas was employed in place of the
more expensive and inconvenient hydrogen, the supporting power of
the machine, when fully inflated, and immediately after
inflation, is not more than about 2500 pounds. The coal gas is
not only much less costly, but is easily procured and managed.
“For its introduction into common use for purposes of
aerostation, we are indebted to Mr. Charles Green. Up to his
discovery, the process of inflation was not only exceedingly
expensive, but uncertain. Two, and even three days, have
frequently been wasted in futile attempts to procure a
sufficiency of hydrogen to fill a balloon, from which it had
great tendency to escape, owing to its extreme subtlety, and its
affinity for the surrounding atmosphere. In a balloon
sufficiently perfect to retain its contents of coal-gas
unaltered, in quantity or amount, for six months, an equal
quantity of hydrogen could not be maintained in equal purity for
six weeks.
“The supporting power being estimated at 2500 pounds, and the
united weights of the party amounting only to about 1200, there
was left a surplus of 1300, of which again 1200 was exhausted by
ballast, arranged in bags of different sizes, with their
respective weights marked upon them—by cordage, barometers,
telescopes, barrels containing provision for a fortnight,
water-casks, cloaks, carpet-bags, and various other indispensable
matters, including a coffee-warmer, contrived for warming coffee
by means of slack-lime, so as to dispense altogether with fire,
if it should be judged prudent to do so. All these articles, with
the exception of the ballast, and a few trifles, were suspended
from the hoop overhead. The car is much smaller and lighter, in
proportion, than the one appended to the model. It is formed of a
light wicker, and is wonderfully strong, for so frail looking a
machine. Its rim is about four feet deep. The rudder is also very
much larger, in proportion, than that of the model; and the screw
is considerably smaller. The balloon is furnished besides with a
grapnel, and a guide-rope; which latter is of the most
indispensable importance. A few words, in explanation, will here
be necessary for such of our readers as are not conversant with
the details of aerostation.
“As soon as the balloon quits the earth, it is subjected to the
influence of many circumstances tending to create a difference in
its weight; augmenting or diminishing its ascending power. For
example, there may be a deposition of dew upon the silk, to the
extent, even, of several hundred pounds; ballast has then to be
thrown out, or the machine may descend. This ballast being
discarded, and a clear sunshine evaporating the dew, and at the
same time expanding the gas in the silk, the whole will again
rapidly ascend. To check this ascent, the only recourse is, (or
rather _was_, until Mr. Green’s invention of the guide-rope,) the
permission of the escape of gas from the valve; but, in the loss
of gas, is a proportionate general loss of ascending power; so
that, in a comparatively brief period, the best-constructed
balloon must necessarily exhaust all its resources, and come to
the earth. This was the great obstacle to voyages of length.
“The guide-rope remedies the difficulty in the simplest manner
conceivable. It is merely a very long rope which is suffered to
trail from the car, and the effect of which is to prevent the
balloon from changing its level in any material degree. If, for
example, there should be a deposition of moisture upon the silk,
and the machine begins to descend in consequence, there will be
no necessity for discharging ballast to remedy the increase of
weight, for it is remedied, or counteracted, in an exactly just
proportion, by the deposit on the ground of just so much of the
end of the rope as is necessary. If, on the other hand, any
circumstances should cause undue levity, and consequent ascent,
this levity is immediately counteracted by the additional weight
of rope upraised from the earth. Thus, the balloon can neither
ascend or descend, except within very narrow limits, and its
resources, either in gas or ballast, remain comparatively
unimpaired. When passing over an expanse of water, it becomes
necessary to employ small kegs of copper or wood, filled with
liquid ballast of a lighter nature than water. These float, and
serve all the purposes of a mere rope on land. Another most
important office of the guide-rope, is to point out the
_direction_ of the balloon. The rope _drags_, either on land or
sea, while the balloon is free; the latter, consequently, is
always in advance, when any progress whatever is made: a
comparison, therefore, by means of the compass, of the relative
positions of the two objects, will always indicate the _course_.
In the same way, the angle formed by the rope with the vertical
axis of the machine, indicates the _velocity_. When there is _no_
angle—in other words, when the rope hangs perpendicularly, the
whole apparatus is stationary; but the larger the angle, that is
to say, the farther the balloon precedes the end of the rope, the
greater the velocity; and the converse.
“As the original design was to cross the British Channel, and
alight as near Paris as possible, the voyagers had taken the
precaution to prepare themselves with passports directed to all
parts of the Continent, specifying the nature of the expedition,
as in the case of the Nassau voyage, and entitling the
adventurers to exemption from the usual formalities of office:
unexpected events, however, rendered these passports superfluous.
“The inflation was commenced very quietly at daybreak, on
Saturday morning, the 6th instant, in the Court-Yard of Weal-Vor
House, Mr. Osborne’s seat, about a mile from Penstruthal, in
North Wales; and at 7 minutes past 11, every thing being ready
for departure, the balloon was set free, rising gently but
steadily, in a direction nearly South; no use being made, for the
first half hour, of either the screw or the rudder. We proceed
now with the journal, as transcribed by Mr. Forsyth from the
joint MSS. of Mr. Monck Mason, and Mr. Ainsworth. The body of the
journal, as given, is in the hand-writing of Mr. Mason, and a P.
S. is appended, each day, by Mr. Ainsworth, who has in
preparation, and will shortly give the public a more minute, and
no doubt, a thrillingly interesting account of the voyage.
“THE JOURNAL.
“_Saturday, April the 6th_.—Every preparation likely to embarrass
us, having been made over night, we commenced the inflation this
morning at daybreak; but owing to a thick fog, which encumbered
the folds of the silk and rendered it unmanageable, we did not
get through before nearly eleven o’clock. Cut loose, then, in
high spirits, and rose gently but steadily, with a light breeze
at North, which bore us in the direction of the British Channel.
Found the ascending force greater than we had expected; and as we
arose higher and so got clear of the cliffs, and more in the
sun’s rays, our ascent became very rapid. I did not wish,
however, to lose gas at so early a period of the adventure, and
so concluded to ascend for the present. We soon ran out our
guide-rope; but even when we had raised it clear of the earth, we
still went up very rapidly. The balloon was unusually steady, and
looked beautifully. In about ten minutes after starting, the
barometer indicated an altitude of 15,000 feet. The weather was
remarkably fine, and the view of the subjacent country—a most
romantic one when seen from any point,—was now especially
sublime. The numerous deep gorges presented the appearance of
lakes, on account of the dense vapors with which they were
filled, and the pinnacles and crags to the South East, piled in
inextricable confusion, resembling nothing so much as the giant
cities of eastern fable. We were rapidly approaching the
mountains in the South; but our elevation was more than
sufficient to enable us to pass them in safety. In a few minutes
we soared over them in fine style; and Mr. Ainsworth, with the
seamen, was surprised at their apparent want of altitude when
viewed from the car, the tendency of great elevation in a balloon
being to reduce inequalities of the surface below, to nearly a
dead level. At half-past eleven still proceeding nearly South, we
obtained our first view of the Bristol Channel; and, in fifteen
minutes afterward, the line of breakers on the coast appeared
immediately beneath us, and we were fairly out at sea. We now
resolved to let off enough gas to bring our guide-rope, with the
buoys affixed, into the water. This was immediately done, and we
commenced a gradual descent. In about twenty minutes our first
buoy dipped, and at the touch of the second soon afterwards, we
remained stationary as to elevation. We were all now anxious to
test the efficiency of the rudder and screw, and we put them both
into requisition forthwith, for the purpose of altering our
direction more to the eastward, and in a line for Paris. By means
of the rudder we instantly effected the necessary change of
direction, and our course was brought nearly at right angles to
that of the wind; when we set in motion the spring of the screw,
and were rejoiced to find it propel us readily as desired. Upon
this we gave nine hearty cheers, and dropped in the sea a bottle,
enclosing a slip of parchment with a brief account of the
principle of the invention. Hardly, however, had we done with our
rejoicings, when an unforeseen accident occurred which
discouraged us in no little degree. The steel rod connecting the
spring with the propeller was suddenly jerked out of place, at
the car end, (by a swaying of the car through some movement of
one of the two seamen we had taken up,) and in an instant hung
dangling out of reach, from the pivot of the axis of the screw.
While we were endeavoring to regain it, our attention being
completely absorbed, we became involved in a strong current of
wind from the East, which bore us, with rapidly increasing force,
towards the Atlantic. We soon found ourselves driving out to sea
at the rate of not less, certainly, than fifty or sixty miles an
hour, so that we came up with Cape Clear, at some forty miles to
our North, before we had secured the rod, and had time to think
what we were about. It was now that Mr. Ainsworth made an
extraordinary, but to my fancy, a by no means unreasonable or
chimerical proposition, in which he was instantly seconded by Mr.
Holland—viz.: that we should take advantage of the strong gale
which bore us on, and in place of beating back to Paris, make an
attempt to reach the coast of North America. After slight
reflection I gave a willing assent to this bold proposition,
which (strange to say) met with objection from the two seamen
only. As the stronger party, however, we overruled their fears,
and kept resolutely upon our course. We steered due West; but as
the trailing of the buoys materially impeded our progress, and we
had the balloon abundantly at command, either for ascent or
descent, we first threw out fifty pounds of ballast, and then
wound up (by means of a windlass) so much of the rope as brought
it quite clear of the sea. We perceived the effect of this
manoeuvre immediately, in a vastly increased rate of progress;
and, as the gale freshened, we flew with a velocity nearly
inconceivable; the guide-rope flying out behind the car, like a
streamer from a vessel. It is needless to say that a very short
time sufficed us to lose sight of the coast. We passed over
innumerable vessels of all kinds, a few of which were endeavoring
to beat up, but the most of them lying to. We occasioned the
greatest excitement on board all—an excitement greatly relished
by ourselves, and especially by our two men, who, now under the
influence of a dram of Geneva, seemed resolved to give all
scruple, or fear, to the wind. Many of the vessels fired signal
guns; and in all we were saluted with loud cheers (which we heard
with surprising distinctness) and the waving of caps and
handkerchiefs. We kept on in this manner throughout the day, with
no material incident, and, as the shades of night closed around
us, we made a rough estimate of the distance traversed. It could
not have been less than five hundred miles, and was probably much
more. The propeller was kept in constant operation, and, no
doubt, aided our progress materially. As the sun went down, the
gale freshened into an absolute hurricane, and the ocean beneath
was clearly visible on account of its phosphorescence. The wind
was from the East all night, and gave us the brightest omen of
success. We suffered no little from cold, and the dampness of the
atmosphere was most unpleasant; but the ample space in the car
enabled us to lie down, and by means of cloaks and a few
blankets, we did sufficiently well.
“P.S. (by Mr. Ainsworth.) The last nine hours have been
unquestionably the most exciting of my life. I can conceive
nothing more sublimating than the strange peril and novelty of an
adventure such as this. May God grant that we succeed! I ask not
success for mere safety to my insignificant person, but for the
sake of human knowledge and—for the vastness of the triumph. And
yet the feat is only so evidently feasible that the sole wonder
is why men have scrupled to attempt it before. One single gale
such as now befriends us—let such a tempest whirl forward a
balloon for four or five days (these gales often last longer) and
the voyager will be easily borne, in that period, from coast to
coast. In view of such a gale the broad Atlantic becomes a mere
lake. I am more struck, just now, with the supreme silence which
reigns in the sea beneath us, notwithstanding its agitation, than
with any other phenomenon presenting itself. The waters give up
no voice to the heavens. The immense flaming ocean writhes and is
tortured uncomplainingly. The mountainous surges suggest the idea
of innumerable dumb gigantic fiends struggling in impotent agony.
In a night such as is this to me, a man _lives_—lives a whole
century of ordinary life—nor would I forego this rapturous
delight for that of a whole century of ordinary existence.
“_Sunday, the seventh_. [Mr. Mason’s MS.] This morning the gale,
by 10, had subsided to an eight or nine—knot breeze, (for a
vessel at sea,) and bears us, perhaps, thirty miles per hour, or
more. It has veered, however, very considerably to the north; and
now, at sundown, we are holding our course due west, principally
by the screw and rudder, which answer their purposes to
admiration. I regard the project as thoroughly successful, and
the easy navigation of the air in any direction (not exactly in
the teeth of a gale) as no longer problematical. We could not
have made head against the strong wind of yesterday; but, by
ascending, we might have got out of its influence, if requisite.
Against a pretty stiff breeze, I feel convinced, we can make our
way with the propeller. At noon, to-day, ascended to an elevation
of nearly 25,000 feet, by discharging ballast. Did this to search
for a more direct current, but found none so favorable as the one
we are now in. We have an abundance of gas to take us across this
small pond, even should the voyage last three weeks. I have not
the slightest fear for the result. The difficulty has been
strangely exaggerated and misapprehended. I can choose my
current, and should I find _all_ currents against me, I can make
very tolerable headway with the propeller. We have had no
incidents worth recording. The night promises fair.
P.S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] I have little to record, except the fact
(to me quite a surprising one) that, at an elevation equal to
that of Cotopaxi, I experienced neither very intense cold, nor
headache, nor difficulty of breathing; neither, I find, did Mr.
Mason, nor Mr. Holland, nor Sir Everard. Mr. Osborne complained
of constriction of the chest—but this soon wore off. We have
flown at a great rate during the day, and we must be more than
half way across the Atlantic. We have passed over some twenty or
thirty vessels of various kinds, and all seem to be delightfully
astonished. Crossing the ocean in a balloon is not so difficult a
feat after all. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico. Mem:_ at 25,000 feet
elevation the sky appears nearly black, and the stars are
distinctly visible; while the sea does not seem convex (as one
might suppose) but absolutely and most unequivocally
_concave_.(*1)
“_Monday, the 8th_. [Mr. Mason’s MS.] This morning we had again
some little trouble with the rod of the propeller, which must be
entirely remodelled, for fear of serious accident—I mean the
steel rod—not the vanes. The latter could not be improved. The
wind has been blowing steadily and strongly from the north-east
all day and so far fortune seems bent upon favoring us. Just
before day, we were all somewhat alarmed at some odd noises and
concussions in the balloon, accompanied with the apparent rapid
subsidence of the whole machine. These phenomena were occasioned
by the expansion of the gas, through increase of heat in the
atmosphere, and the consequent disruption of the minute particles
of ice with which the network had become encrusted during the
night. Threw down several bottles to the vessels below. Saw one
of them picked up by a large ship—seemingly one of the New York
line packets. Endeavored to make out her name, but could not be
sure of it. Mr. Osborne’s telescope made it out something like
“Atalanta.” It is now 12, at night, and we are still going nearly
west, at a rapid pace. The sea is peculiarly phosphorescent.
“P.S. [By Mr. Ainsworth.] It is now 2, A.M., and nearly calm, as
well as I can judge—but it is very difficult to determine this
point, since we move _with_ the air so completely. I have not
slept since quitting Wheal-Vor, but can stand it no longer, and
must take a nap. We cannot be far from the American coast.
“_Tuesday, the_ 9_th_. [Mr. Ainsworth’s MS.] _One, P.M. We are in
full view of the low coast of South Carolina_. The great problem
is accomplished. We have crossed the Atlantic—fairly and _easily_
crossed it in a balloon! God be praised! Who shall say that
anything is impossible hereafter?”
The Journal here ceases. Some particulars of the descent were
communicated, however, by Mr. Ainsworth to Mr. Forsyth. It was
nearly dead calm when the voyagers first came in view of the
coast, which was immediately recognized by both the seamen, and
by Mr. Osborne. The latter gentleman having acquaintances at Fort
Moultrie, it was immediately resolved to descend in its vicinity.
The balloon was brought over the beach (the tide being out and
the sand hard, smooth, and admirably adapted for a descent,) and
the grapnel let go, which took firm hold at once. The inhabitants
of the island, and of the fort, thronged out, of course, to see
the balloon; but it was with the greatest difficulty that any one
could be made to credit the actual voyage—_the crossing of the
Atlantic_. The grapnel caught at 2, P.M., precisely; and thus the
whole voyage was completed in seventy-five hours; or rather less,
counting from shore to shore. No serious accident occurred. No
real danger was at any time apprehended. The balloon was
exhausted and secured without trouble; and when the MS. from
which this narrative is compiled was despatched from Charleston,
the party were still at Fort Moultrie. Their farther intentions
were not ascertained; but we can safely promise our readers some
additional information either on Monday or in the course of the
next day, at farthest.
This is unquestionably the most stupendous, the most interesting,
and the most important undertaking, ever accomplished or even
attempted by man. What magnificent events may ensue, it would be
useless now to think of determining.
(*1) _Note_.—Mr. Ainsworth has not attempted to account for this
phenomenon, which, however, is quite susceptible of explanation.
A line dropped from an elevation of 25,000 feet, perpendicularly
to the surface of the earth (or sea), would form the
perpendicular of a right-angled triangle, of which the base would
extend from the right angle to the horizon, and the hypothenuse
from the horizon to the balloon. But the 25,000 feet of altitude
is little or nothing, in comparison with the extent of the
prospect. In other words, the base and hypothenuse of the
supposed triangle would be so long when compared with the
perpendicular, that the two former may be regarded as nearly
parallel. In this manner the horizon of the æronaut would appear
to be _on a level_ with the car. But, as the point immediately
beneath him seems, and is, at a great distance below him, it
seems, of course, also, at a great distance below the horizon.
Hence the impression of _concavity_; and this impression must
remain, until the elevation shall bear so great a proportion to
the extent of prospect, that the apparent parallelism of the base
and hypothenuse disappears—when the earth’s real convexity must
become apparent.
MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE
Qui n’a plus qu’un moment a vivre
N’a plus rien a dissimuler.
—Quinault—Atys.
Of my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage
and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me
from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no
common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to
methodize the stores which early study very diligently garnered
up.—Beyond all things, the study of the German moralists gave me
great delight; not from any ill-advised admiration of their
eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid
thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been
reproached with the aridity of my genius; a deficiency of
imagination has been imputed to me as a crime; and the Pyrrhonism
of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a
strong relish for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my
mind with a very common error of this age—I mean the habit of
referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such
reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no
person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the
severe precincts of truth by the ignes fatui of superstition. I
have thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible
tale I have to tell should be considered rather the raving of a
crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to
which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a
nullity.
After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year
18— , from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island
of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I
went as passenger—having no other inducement than a kind of
nervous restlessness which haunted me as a fiend.
Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons,
copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was
freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands.
We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few
cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel
consequently crank.
We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days
stood along the eastern coast of Java, without any other incident
to beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting
with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were
bound.
One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very
singular, isolated cloud, to the N.W. It was remarkable, as well
for its color, as from its being the first we had seen since our
departure from Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset,
when it spread all at once to the eastward and westward, girting
in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapor, and looking like a
long line of low beach. My notice was soon afterwards attracted
by the dusky-red appearance of the moon, and the peculiar
character of the sea. The latter was undergoing a rapid change,
and the water seemed more than usually transparent. Although I
could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found
the ship in fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot,
and was loaded with spiral exhalations similar to those arising
from heat iron. As night came on, every breath of wind died away,
an more entire calm it is impossible to conceive. The flame of a
candle burned upon the poop without the least perceptible motion,
and a long hair, held between the finger and thumb, hung without
the possibility of detecting a vibration. However, as the captain
said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were
drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled,
and the anchor let go. No watch was set, and the crew, consisting
principally of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon
deck. I went below—not without a full presentiment of evil.
Indeed, every appearance warranted me in apprehending a Simoom. I
told the captain my fears; but he paid no attention to what I
said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My
uneasiness, however, prevented me from sleeping, and about
midnight I went upon deck. As I placed my foot upon the upper
step of the companion-ladder, I was startled by a loud, humming
noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolution of a
mill-wheel, and before I could ascertain its meaning, I found the
ship quivering to its centre. In the next instant, a wilderness
of foam hurled us upon our beam-ends, and, rushing over us fore
and aft, swept the entire decks from stem to stern.
The extreme fury of the blast proved, in a great measure, the
salvation of the ship. Although completely water-logged, yet, as
her masts had gone by the board, she rose, after a minute,
heavily from the sea, and, staggering awhile beneath the immense
pressure of the tempest, finally righted.
By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say.
Stunned by the shock of the water, I found myself, upon recovery,
jammed in between the stern-post and rudder. With great
difficulty I gained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was, at
first, struck with the idea of our being among breakers; so
terrific, beyond the wildest imagination, was the whirlpool of
mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed.
After a while, I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped
with us at the moment of our leaving port. I hallooed to him with
all my strength, and presently he came reeling aft. We soon
discovered that we were the sole survivors of the accident. All
on deck, with the exception of ourselves, had been swept
overboard;—the captain and mates must have perished as they
slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without
assistance, we could expect to do little for the security of the
ship, and our exertions were at first paralyzed by the momentary
expectation of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like
pack-thread, at the first breath of the hurricane, or we should
have been instantaneously overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful
velocity before the sea, and the water made clear breaches over
us. The frame-work of our stern was shattered excessively, and,
in almost every respect, we had received considerable injury; but
to our extreme joy we found the pumps unchoked, and that we had
made no great shifting of our ballast. The main fury of the blast
had already blown over, and we apprehended little danger from the
violence of the wind; but we looked forward to its total
cessation with dismay; well believing, that, in our shattered
condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous swell
which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no
means likely to be soon verified. For five entire days and
nights—during which our only subsistence was a small quantity of
jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the forecastle—the
hulk flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly
succeeding flaws of wind, which, without equalling the first
violence of the Simoom, were still more terrific than any tempest
I had before encountered. Our course for the first four days was,
with trifling variations, S.E. and by S.; and we must have run
down the coast of New Holland. On the fifth day the cold became
extreme, although the wind had hauled round a point more to the
northward. The sun arose with a sickly yellow lustre, and
clambered a very few degrees above the horizon—emitting no
decisive light. There were no clouds apparent, yet the wind was
upon the increase, and blew with a fitful and unsteady fury.
About noon, as nearly as we could guess, our attention was again
arrested by the appearance of the sun. It gave out no light,
properly so called, but a dull and sullen glow without
reflection, as if all its rays were polarized. Just before
sinking within the turgid sea, its central fires suddenly went
out, as if hurriedly extinguished by some unaccountable power. It
was a dim, sliver-like rim, alone, as it rushed down the
unfathomable ocean.
We waited in vain for the arrival of the sixth day—that day to me
has not yet arrived—to the Swede, never did arrive. Thenceforward
we were enshrouded in patchy darkness, so that we could not have
seen an object at twenty paces from the ship. Eternal night
continued to envelop us, all unrelieved by the phosphoric
sea-brilliancy to which we had been accustomed in the tropics. We
observed too, that, although the tempest continued to rage with
unabated violence, there was no longer to be discovered the usual
appearance of surf, or foam, which had hitherto attended us. All
around were horror, and thick gloom, and a black sweltering
desert of ebony. Superstitious terror crept by degrees into the
spirit of the old Swede, and my own soul was wrapped up in silent
wonder. We neglected all care of the ship, as worse than useless,
and securing ourselves, as well as possible, to the stump of the
mizen-mast, looked out bitterly into the world of ocean. We had
no means of calculating time, nor could we form any guess of our
situation. We were, however, well aware of having made farther to
the southward than any previous navigators, and felt great
amazement at not meeting with the usual impediments of ice. In
the meantime every moment threatened to be our last—every
mountainous billow hurried to overwhelm us. The swell surpassed
anything I had imagined possible, and that we were not instantly
buried is a miracle. My companion spoke of the lightness of our
cargo, and reminded me of the excellent qualities of our ship;
but I could not help feeling the utter hopelessness of hope
itself, and prepared myself gloomily for that death which I
thought nothing could defer beyond an hour, as, with every knot
of way the ship made, the swelling of the black stupendous seas
became more dismally appalling. At times we gasped for breath at
an elevation beyond the albatross—at times became dizzy with the
velocity of our descent into some watery hell, where the air grew
stagnant, and no sound disturbed the slumbers of the kraken.
We were at the bottom of one of these abysses, when a quick
scream from my companion broke fearfully upon the night. “See!
see!” cried he, shrieking in my ears, “Almighty God! see! see!”
As he spoke, I became aware of a dull, sullen glare of red light
which streamed down the sides of the vast chasm where we lay, and
threw a fitful brilliancy upon our deck. Casting my eyes upwards,
I beheld a spectacle which froze the current of my blood. At a
terrific height directly above us, and upon the very verge of the
precipitous descent, hovered a gigantic ship of, perhaps, four
thousand tons. Although upreared upon the summit of a wave more
than a hundred times her own altitude, her apparent size exceeded
that of any ship of the line or East Indiaman in existence. Her
huge hull was of a deep dingy black, unrelieved by any of the
customary carvings of a ship. A single row of brass cannon
protruded from her open ports, and dashed from their polished
surfaces the fires of innumerable battle-lanterns, which swung to
and fro about her rigging. But what mainly inspired us with
horror and astonishment, was that she bore up under a press of
sail in the very teeth of that supernatural sea, and of that
ungovernable hurricane. When we first discovered her, her bows
were alone to be seen, as she rose slowly from the dim and
horrible gulf beyond her. For a moment of intense terror she
paused upon the giddy pinnacle, as if in contemplation of her own
sublimity, then trembled and tottered, and—came down.
At this instant, I know not what sudden self-possession came over
my spirit. Staggering as far aft as I could, I awaited fearlessly
the ruin that was to overwhelm. Our own vessel was at length
ceasing from her struggles, and sinking with her head to the sea.
The shock of the descending mass struck her, consequently, in
that portion of her frame which was already under water, and the
inevitable result was to hurl me, with irresistible violence,
upon the rigging of the stranger.
As I fell, the ship hove in stays, and went about; and to the
confusion ensuing I attributed my escape from the notice of the
crew. With little difficulty I made my way unperceived to the
main hatchway, which was partially open, and soon found an
opportunity of secreting myself in the hold. Why I did so I can
hardly tell. An indefinite sense of awe, which at first sight of
the navigators of the ship had taken hold of my mind, was perhaps
the principle of my concealment. I was unwilling to trust myself
with a race of people who had offered, to the cursory glance I
had taken, so many points of vague novelty, doubt, and
apprehension. I therefore thought proper to contrive a
hiding-place in the hold. This I did by removing a small portion
of the shifting-boards, in such a manner as to afford me a
convenient retreat between the huge timbers of the ship.
I had scarcely completed my work, when a footstep in the hold
forced me to make use of it. A man passed by my place of
concealment with a feeble and unsteady gait. I could not see his
face, but had an opportunity of observing his general appearance.
There was about it an evidence of great age and infirmity. His
knees tottered beneath a load of years, and his entire frame
quivered under the burthen. He muttered to himself, in a low
broken tone, some words of a language which I could not
understand, and groped in a corner among a pile of
singular-looking instruments, and decayed charts of navigation.
His manner was a wild mixture of the peevishness of second
childhood, and the solemn dignity of a God. He at length went on
deck, and I saw him no more.
A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my
soul —a sensation which will admit of no analysis, to which the
lessons of bygone times are inadequate, and for which I fear
futurity itself will offer me no key. To a mind constituted like
my own, the latter consideration is an evil. I shall never—I know
that I shall never—be satisfied with regard to the nature of my
conceptions. Yet it is not wonderful that these conceptions are
indefinite, since they have their origin in sources so utterly
novel. A new sense—a new entity is added to my soul.
It is long since I first trod the deck of this terrible ship, and
the rays of my destiny are, I think, gathering to a focus.
Incomprehensible men! Wrapped up in meditations of a kind which I
cannot divine, they pass me by unnoticed. Concealment is utter
folly on my part, for the people will not see. It was but just
now that I passed directly before the eyes of the mate; it was no
long while ago that I ventured into the captain’s own private
cabin, and took thence the materials with which I write, and have
written. I shall from time to time continue this journal. It is
true that I may not find an opportunity of transmitting it to the
world, but I will not fall to make the endeavour. At the last
moment I will enclose the MS. in a bottle, and cast it within the
sea.
An incident has occurred which has given me new room for
meditation. Are such things the operation of ungoverned chance? I
had ventured upon deck and thrown myself down, without attracting
any notice, among a pile of ratlin-stuff and old sails in the
bottom of the yawl. While musing upon the singularity of my fate,
I unwittingly daubed with a tar-brush the edges of a
neatly-folded studding-sail which lay near me on a barrel. The
studding-sail is now bent upon the ship, and the thoughtless
touches of the brush are spread out into the word DISCOVERY.
I have made many observations lately upon the structure of the
vessel. Although well armed, she is not, I think, a ship of war.
Her rigging, build, and general equipment, all negative a
supposition of this kind. What she is not, I can easily
perceive—what she is I fear it is impossible to say. I know not
how it is, but in scrutinizing her strange model and singular
cast of spars, her huge size and overgrown suits of canvas, her
severely simple bow and antiquated stern, there will occasionally
flash across my mind a sensation of familiar things, and there is
always mixed up with such indistinct shadows of recollection, an
unaccountable memory of old foreign chronicles and ages long ago.
I have been looking at the timbers of the ship. She is built of a
material to which I am a stranger. There is a peculiar character
about the wood which strikes me as rendering it unfit for the
purpose to which it has been applied. I mean its extreme
porousness, considered independently by the worm-eaten condition
which is a consequence of navigation in these seas, and apart
from the rottenness attendant upon age. It will appear perhaps an
observation somewhat over-curious, but this wood would have every
characteristic of Spanish oak, if Spanish oak were distended by
any unnatural means.
In reading the above sentence a curious apothegm of an old
weather-beaten Dutch navigator comes full upon my recollection.
“It is as sure,” he was wont to say, when any doubt was
entertained of his veracity, “as sure as there is a sea where the
ship itself will grow in bulk like the living body of the
seaman.”
About an hour ago, I made bold to thrust myself among a group of
the crew. They paid me no manner of attention, and, although I
stood in the very midst of them all, seemed utterly unconscious
of my presence. Like the one I had at first seen in the hold,
they all bore about them the marks of a hoary old age. Their
knees trembled with infirmity; their shoulders were bent double
with decrepitude; their shrivelled skins rattled in the wind;
their voices were low, tremulous and broken; their eyes glistened
with the rheum of years; and their gray hairs streamed terribly
in the tempest. Around them, on every part of the deck, lay
scattered mathematical instruments of the most quaint and
obsolete construction.
I mentioned some time ago the bending of a studding-sail. From
that period the ship, being thrown dead off the wind, has
continued her terrific course due south, with every rag of canvas
packed upon her, from her trucks to her lower studding-sail
booms, and rolling every moment her top-gallant yard-arms into
the most appalling hell of water which it can enter into the mind
of a man to imagine. I have just left the deck, where I find it
impossible to maintain a footing, although the crew seem to
experience little inconvenience. It appears to me a miracle of
miracles that our enormous bulk is not swallowed up at once and
forever. We are surely doomed to hover continually upon the brink
of eternity, without taking a final plunge into the abyss. From
billows a thousand times more stupendous than any I have ever
seen, we glide away with the facility of the arrowy sea-gull; and
the colossal waters rear their heads above us like demons of the
deep, but like demons confined to simple threats and forbidden to
destroy. I am led to attribute these frequent escapes to the only
natural cause which can account for such effect. I must suppose
the ship to be within the influence of some strong current, or
impetuous under-tow.
I have seen the captain face to face, and in his own cabin—but,
as I expected, he paid me no attention. Although in his
appearance there is, to a casual observer, nothing which might
bespeak him more or less than man, still, a feeling of
irrepressible reverence and awe mingled with the sensation of
wonder with which I regarded him. In stature he is nearly my own
height; that is, about five feet eight inches. He is of a
well-knit and compact frame of body, neither robust nor
remarkably otherwise. But it is the singularity of the expression
which reigns upon the face—it is the intense, the wonderful, the
thrilling evidence of old age, so utter, so extreme, which
excites within my spirit a sense—a sentiment ineffable. His
forehead, although little wrinkled, seems to bear upon it the
stamp of a myriad of years. His gray hairs are records of the
past, and his grayer eyes are sibyls of the future. The cabin
floor was thickly strewn with strange, iron-clasped folios, and
mouldering instruments of science, and obsolete long-forgotten
charts. His head was bowed down upon his hands, and he pored,
with a fiery unquiet eye, over a paper which I took to be a
commission, and which, at all events, bore the signature of a
monarch. He muttered to himself, as did the first seaman whom I
saw in the hold, some low peevish syllables of a foreign tongue,
and although the speaker was close at my elbow, his voice seemed
to reach my ears from the distance of a mile.
The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The
crew glide to and fro like the ghosts of buried centuries; their
eyes have an eager and uneasy meaning; and when their fingers
fall athwart my path in the wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I
feel as I have never felt before, although I have been all my
life a dealer in antiquities, and have imbibed the shadows of
fallen columns at Balbec, and Tadmor, and Persepolis, until my
very soul has become a ruin.
When I look around me I feel ashamed of my former apprehensions.
If I trembled at the blast which has hitherto attended us, shall
I not stand aghast at a warring of wind and ocean, to convey any
idea of which the words tornado and simoom are trivial and
ineffective? All in the immediate vicinity of the ship is the
blackness of eternal night, and a chaos of foamless water; but,
about a league on either side of us, may be seen, indistinctly
and at intervals, stupendous ramparts of ice, towering away into
the desolate sky, and looking like the walls of the universe.
As I imagined, the ship proves to be in a current—if that
appellation can properly be given to a tide which, howling and
shrieking by the white ice, thunders on to the southward with a
velocity like the headlong dashing of a cataract.
To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly
impossible; yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these
awful regions, predominates even over my despair, and will
reconcile me to the most hideous aspect of death. It is evident
that we are hurrying onwards to some exciting knowledge—some
never-to-be-imparted secret, whose attainment is destruction.
Perhaps this current leads us to the southern pole itself. It
must be confessed that a supposition apparently so wild has every
probability in its favor.
The crew pace the deck with unquiet and tremulous step; but there
is upon their countenances an expression more of the eagerness of
hope than of the apathy of despair.
In the meantime the wind is still in our poop, and, as we carry a
crowd of canvas, the ship is at times lifted bodily from out the
sea! Oh, horror upon horror!—the ice opens suddenly to the right,
and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily, in immense
concentric circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic
amphitheatre, the summit of whose walls is lost in the darkness
and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder upon
my destiny! The circles rapidly grow small—we are plunging madly
within the grasp of the whirlpool—and amid a roaring, and
bellowing, and thundering of ocean and of tempest, the ship is
quivering—oh God! and—going down.
NOTE.—The “MS. Found in a Bottle,” was originally published in
1831, and it was not until many years afterwards that I became
acquainted with the maps of Mercator, in which the ocean is
represented as rushing, by four mouths, into the (northern) Polar
Gulf, to be absorbed into the bowels of the earth; the Pole
itself being represented by a black rock, towering to a
prodigious height.
THE OVAL PORTRAIT
The château into which my valet had ventured to make forcible
entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded
condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those
piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned
among the Appennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs.
Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very
lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest
and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote
turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered
and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with
manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an
unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in
frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which
depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in
very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the château
rendered necessary—in these paintings my incipient delirium,
perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade
Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room—since it was
already night—to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which
stood by the head of my bed, and to throw open far and wide the
fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself.
I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to
sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these
pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found
upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe
them.
Long, long I read—and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and
gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The
position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my
hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I
placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.
But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The
rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell
within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into
deep shade by one of the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a
picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl
just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting
hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at
first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids
remained thus shut, I ran over in my mind my reason for so
shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for
thought—to make sure that my vision had not deceived me—to calm
and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a
very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.
That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the
first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to
dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses,
and to startle me at once into waking life.
The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It
was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed
a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of
Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair
melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed
the back-ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded
and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be
more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been
neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the
countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me.
Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its
half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person.
I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the
vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such
idea—must have prevented even its momentary entertainment.
Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour
perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted
upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of
its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of
the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which,
at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me.
With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its
former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut
from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the
paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which
designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint
words which follow:
“She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full
of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and
wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having
already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and
not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and
frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things;
hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet
and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of
the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for
this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even
his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly
for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light
dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the
painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour,
and from day to day. And he was a passionate, and wild, and moody
man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that
the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the
health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but
him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she
saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and
burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict
her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and
weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its
resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not
less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her
whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the
labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none
into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of
his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard
the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints
which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her
who sate beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but
little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint
upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the
flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was
given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the
painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but
in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very
pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, ‘This is indeed
Life itself!’ turned suddenly to regard his beloved:—She was
dead!”
VOLUME 2.
[Redactor’s Note—Some endnotes are by Poe and some were added by
Griswold. In this volume the notes are at the end.]
THE PURLOINED LETTER
Nil sapientiæ odiosius acumine nimio.—_Seneca_.
At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-,
I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum,
in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back
library, or book-closet, _au troisième_, No. 33, _Rue Dunôt,
Faubourg St. Germain_. For one hour at least we had maintained a
profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have
seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies
of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For
myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which
had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier
period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and
the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt. I looked upon
it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the door of
our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance,
Monsieur G——, the Prefect of the Parisian police.
We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much
of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we
had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the
dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but
sat down again, without doing so, upon G.‘s saying that he had
called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend,
about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of
trouble.
“If it is any point requiring reflection,” observed Dupin, as he
forebore to enkindle the wick, “we shall examine it to better
purpose in the dark.”
“That is another of your odd notions,” said the Prefect, who had
a fashion of calling every thing “odd” that was beyond his
comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of
“oddities.”
“Very true,” said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe,
and rolled towards him a comfortable chair.
“And what is the difficulty now?” I asked. “Nothing more in the
assassination way, I hope?”
“Oh no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very
simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it
sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like
to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd.”
“Simple and odd,” said Dupin.
“Why, yes; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all
been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet
baffles us altogether.”
“Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at
fault,” said my friend.
“What nonsense you do talk!” replied the Prefect, laughing
heartily.
“Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain,” said Dupin.
“Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?”
“A little too self-evident.”
“Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!” roared our visitor,
profoundly amused, “oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!”
“And what, after all, is the matter on hand?” I asked.
“Why, I will tell you,” replied the Prefect, as he gave a long,
steady and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair.
“I will tell you in a few words; but, before I begin, let me
caution you that this is an affair demanding the greatest
secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the position I now
hold, were it known that I confided it to any one.”
“Proceed,” said I.
“Or not,” said Dupin.
“Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very
high quarter, that a certain document of the last importance has
been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual who
purloined it is known; this beyond a doubt; he was seen to take
it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possession.”
“How is this known?” asked Dupin.
“It is clearly inferred,” replied the Prefect, “from the nature
of the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results
which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber’s
possession; that is to say, from his employing it as he must
design in the end to employ it.”
“Be a little more explicit,” I said.
“Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its
holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is
immensely valuable.” The Prefect was fond of the cant of
diplomacy.
“Still I do not quite understand,” said Dupin.
“No? Well; the disclosure of the document to a third person, who
shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a
personage of most exalted station; and this fact gives the holder
of the document an ascendancy over the illustrious personage
whose honor and peace are so jeopardized.”
“But this ascendancy,” I interposed, “would depend upon the
robber’s knowledge of the loser’s knowledge of the robber. Who
would dare—”
“The thief,” said G., “is the Minister D——, who dares all things,
those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The method of
the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The document in
question—a letter, to be frank—had been received by the personage
robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. During its perusal she
was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted
personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it.
After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she
was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The
address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus
unexposed, the letter escaped notice. At this juncture enters the
Minister D——. His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper,
recognises the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion
of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some
business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he
produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in question, opens
it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close
juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some fifteen
minutes, upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he
takes also from the table the letter to which he had no claim.
Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention
to the act, in the presence of the third personage who stood at
her elbow. The minister decamped; leaving his own letter—one of
no importance—upon the table.”
“Here, then,” said Dupin to me, “you have precisely what you
demand to make the ascendancy complete—the robber’s knowledge of
the loser’s knowledge of the robber.”
“Yes,” replied the Prefect; “and the power thus attained has, for
some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very
dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly
convinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter.
But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven to
despair, she has committed the matter to me.”
“Than whom,” said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, “no
more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even
imagined.”
“You flatter me,” replied the Prefect; “but it is possible that
some such opinion may have been entertained.”
“It is clear,” said I, “as you observe, that the letter is still
in possession of the minister; since it is this possession, and
not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With
the employment the power departs.”
“True,” said G.; “and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first
care was to make thorough search of the minister’s hotel; and
here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching
without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been warned of
the danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect
our design.”
“But,” said I, “you are quite au fait in these investigations.
The Parisian police have done this thing often before.”
“Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of
the minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently
absent from home all night. His servants are by no means
numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master’s apartment,
and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I have
keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet
in Paris. For three months a night has not passed, during the
greater part of which I have not been engaged, personally, in
ransacking the D—— Hotel. My honor is interested, and, to mention
a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the
search until I had become fully satisfied that the thief is a
more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have investigated
every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible
that the paper can be concealed.”
“But is it not possible,” I suggested, “that although the letter
may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he
may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises?”
“This is barely possible,” said Dupin. “The present peculiar
condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues
in which D—— is known to be involved, would render the instant
availability of the document—its susceptibility of being produced
at a moment’s notice—a point of nearly equal importance with its
possession.”
“Its susceptibility of being produced?” said I.
“That is to say, of being destroyed,” said Dupin.
“True,” I observed; “the paper is clearly then upon the premises.
As for its being upon the person of the minister, we may consider
that as out of the question.”
“Entirely,” said the Prefect. “He has been twice waylaid, as if
by footpads, and his person rigorously searched under my own
inspection.”
“You might have spared yourself this trouble,” said Dupin. “D——,
I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have
anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course.”
“Not altogether a fool,” said G., “but then he’s a poet, which I
take to be only one remove from a fool.”
“True,” said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his
meerschaum, “although I have been guilty of certain doggrel
myself.”
“Suppose you detail,” said I, “the particulars of your search.”
“Why the fact is, we took our time, and we searched _everywhere_.
I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire
building, room by room; devoting the nights of a whole week to
each. We examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. We
opened every possible drawer; and I presume you know that, to a
properly trained police agent, such a thing as a secret drawer is
impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a ‘secret’ drawer to
escape him in a search of this kind. The thing is so plain. There
is a certain amount of bulk—of space—to be accounted for in every
cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line
could not escape us. After the cabinets we took the chairs. The
cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have seen me
employ. From the tables we removed the tops.”
“Why so?”
“Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece
of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an
article; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within
the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of
bedposts are employed in the same way.”
“But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?” I asked.
“By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient
wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we
were obliged to proceed without noise.”
“But you could not have removed—you could not have taken to
pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been
possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter
may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in
shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it
might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did
not take to pieces all the chairs?”
“Certainly not; but we did better—we examined the rungs of every
chair in the hotel, and, indeed the jointings of every
description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful
microscope. Had there been any traces of recent disturbance we
should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of
gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple.
Any disorder in the glueing—any unusual gaping in the
joints—would have sufficed to insure detection.”
“I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the
plates, and you probed the beds and the bed-clothes, as well as
the curtains and carpets.”
“That of course; and when we had absolutely completed every
particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house
itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, which we
numbered, so that none might be missed; then we scrutinized each
individual square inch throughout the premises, including the two
houses immediately adjoining, with the microscope, as before.”
“The two houses adjoining!” I exclaimed; “you must have had a
great deal of trouble.”
“We had; but the reward offered is prodigious!”
“You include the grounds about the houses?”
“All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively
little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and
found it undisturbed.”
“You looked among D——‘s papers, of course, and into the books of
the library?”
“Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only
opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume,
not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the
fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured the
thickness of every book-cover, with the most accurate
admeasurement, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of
the microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled
with, it would have been utterly impossible that the fact should
have escaped observation. Some five or six volumes, just from the
hands of the binder, we carefully probed, longitudinally, with
the needles.”
“You explored the floors beneath the carpets?”
“Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards
with the microscope.”
“And the paper on the walls?”
“Yes.”
“You looked into the cellars?”
“We did.”
“Then,” I said, “you have been making a miscalculation, and the
letter is not upon the premises, as you suppose.”
“I fear you are right there,” said the Prefect. “And now, Dupin,
what would you advise me to do?”
“To make a thorough re-search of the premises.”
“That is absolutely needless,” replied G——. “I am not more sure
that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the Hotel.”
“I have no better advice to give you,” said Dupin. “You have, of
course, an accurate description of the letter?”
“Oh yes!”—And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum-book,
proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and
especially of the external appearance of the missing document.
Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his
departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever
known the good gentleman before.
In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and found
us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair and
entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said,—
“Well, but G——, what of the purloined letter? I presume you have
at last made up your mind that there is no such thing as
overreaching the Minister?”
“Confound him, say I—yes; I made the re-examination, however, as
Dupin suggested—but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would
be.”
“How much was the reward offered, did you say?” asked Dupin.
“Why, a very great deal—a very liberal reward—I don’t like to say
how much, precisely; but one thing I will say, that I wouldn’t
mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to any
one who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming
of more and more importance every day; and the reward has been
lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more
than I have done.”
“Why, yes,” said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of his
meerschaum, “I really—think, G——, you have not exerted
yourself—to the utmost in this matter. You might—do a little
more, I think, eh?”
“How?—in what way?”
“Why—puff, puff—you might—puff, puff—employ counsel in the
matter, eh?—puff, puff, puff. Do you remember the story they tell
of Abernethy?”
“No; hang Abernethy!”
“To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, a
certain rich miser conceived the design of spunging upon this
Abernethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an
ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his
case to the physician, as that of an imaginary individual.
“‘We will suppose,’ said the miser, ‘that his symptoms are such
and such; now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take?’
“‘Take!’ said Abernethy, ‘why, take advice, to be sure.’”
“But,” said the Prefect, a little discomposed, “I am perfectly
willing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give
fifty thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter.”
“In that case,” replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a
check-book, “you may as well fill me up a check for the amount
mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter.”
I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely
thunder-stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and
motionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth,
and eyes that seemed starting from their sockets; then,
apparently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen,
and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and
signed a check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across
the table to Dupin. The latter examined it carefully and
deposited it in his pocket-book; then, unlocking an escritoire,
took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. This functionary
grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling
hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling
and struggling to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from
the room and from the house, without having uttered a syllable
since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check.
When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.
“The Parisian police,” he said, “are exceedingly able in their
way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly
versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to
demand. Thus, when G—— detailed to us his mode of searching the
premises at the Hotel D——, I felt entire confidence in his having
made a satisfactory investigation—so far as his labors extended.”
“So far as his labors extended?” said I.
“Yes,” said Dupin. “The measures adopted were not only the best
of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the
letter been deposited within the range of their search, these
fellows would, beyond a question, have found it.”
I merely laughed—but he seemed quite serious in all that he said.
“The measures, then,” he continued, “were good in their kind, and
well executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to
the case, and to the man. A certain set of highly ingenious
resources are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to
which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs by
being too deep or too shallow for the matter in hand; and many a
schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew one about eight
years of age, whose success at guessing in the game of ‘even and
odd’ attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is
played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of
these toys, and demands of another whether that number is even or
odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one; if wrong, he
loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the
school. Of course he had some principle of guessing; and this lay
in mere observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of his
opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and,
holding up his closed hand, asks, ‘are they even or odd?’ Our
schoolboy replies, ‘odd,’ and loses; but upon the second trial he
wins, for he then says to himself, ‘the simpleton had them even
upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just
sufficient to make him have them odd upon the second; I will
therefore guess odd;’—he guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a
simpleton a degree above the first, he would have reasoned thus:
‘This fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and,
in the second, he will propose to himself, upon the first
impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first
simpleton; but then a second thought will suggest that this is
too simple a variation, and finally he will decide upon putting
it even as before. I will therefore guess even;’—he guesses even,
and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his
fellows termed ‘lucky,’—what, in its last analysis, is it?”
“It is merely,” I said, “an identification of the reasoner’s
intellect with that of his opponent.”
“It is,” said Dupin; “and, upon inquiring of the boy by what
means he effected the thorough identification in which his
success consisted, I received answer as follows: ‘When I wish to
find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is
any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the
expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance
with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or
sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or
correspond with the expression.’ This response of the schoolboy
lies at the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been
attributed to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, to Machiavelli, and
to Campanella.”
“And the identification,” I said, “of the reasoner’s intellect
with that of his opponent, depends, if I understand you aright,
upon the accuracy with which the opponent’s intellect is
admeasured.”
“For its practical value it depends upon this,” replied Dupin;
“and the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by
default of this identification, and, secondly, by
ill-admeasurement, or rather through non-admeasurement, of the
intellect with which they are engaged. They consider only their
own ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden,
advert only to the modes in which they would have hidden it. They
are right in this much—that their own ingenuity is a faithful
representative of that of the mass; but when the cunning of the
individual felon is diverse in character from their own, the
felon foils them, of course. This always happens when it is above
their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no
variation of principle in their investigations; at best, when
urged by some unusual emergency—by some extraordinary reward—they
extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice, without
touching their principles. What, for example, in this case of
D——, has been done to vary the principle of action? What is all
this boring, and probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the
microscope and dividing the surface of the building into
registered square inches—what is it all but an exaggeration of
the application of the one principle or set of principles of
search, which are based upon the one set of notions regarding
human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long routine of his
duty, has been accustomed? Do you not see he has taken it for
granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter,—not exactly in
a gimlet hole bored in a chair-leg—but, at least, in some
out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of
thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter in a
gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg? And do you not see also, that
such recherchés nooks for concealment are adapted only for
ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only by ordinary
intellects; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the
article concealed—a disposal of it in this recherché manner,—is,
in the very first instance, presumable and presumed; and thus its
discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether
upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the seekers;
and where the case is of importance—or, what amounts to the same
thing in the political eyes, when the reward is of magnitude,—the
qualities in question have never been known to fail. You will now
understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined
letter been hidden any where within the limits of the Prefect’s
examination—in other words, had the principle of its concealment
been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect—its
discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond question.
This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified; and the
remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the
Minister is a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All
fools are poets; this the Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty
of a non distributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are
fools.”
“But is this really the poet?” I asked. “There are two brothers,
I know; and both have attained reputation in letters. The
Minister I believe has written learnedly on the Differential
Calculus. He is a mathematician, and no poet.”
“You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and
mathematician, he would reason well; as mere mathematician, he
could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the
mercy of the Prefect.”
“You surprise me,” I said, “by these opinions, which have been
contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at
naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical
reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence.”
“‘Il y a à parièr,’” replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, “‘que
toute idée publique, toute convention reçue est une sottise, car
elle a convenue au plus grand nombre.’ The mathematicians, I
grant you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error
to which you allude, and which is none the less an error for its
promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a better cause, for
example, they have insinuated the term ‘analysis’ into
application to algebra. The French are the originators of this
particular deception; but if a term is of any importance—if words
derive any value from applicability—then ‘analysis’ conveys
‘algebra’ about as much as, in Latin, ‘ambitus’ implies
‘ambition,’ ‘_religio_’ ‘religion,’ or ‘_homines honesti_’ a set
of _honorable_ men.”
“You have a quarrel on hand, I see,” said I, “with some of the
algebraists of Paris; but proceed.”
“I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason
which is cultivated in any especial form other than the
abstractly logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed
by mathematical study. The mathematics are the science of form
and quantity; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to
observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies in
supposing that even the truths of what is called pure algebra,
are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious
that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been
received. Mathematical axioms are not axioms of general truth.
What is true of relation—of form and quantity—is often grossly
false in regard to morals, for example. In this latter science it
is very usually untrue that the aggregated parts are equal to the
whole. In chemistry also the axiom fails. In the consideration of
motive it fails; for two motives, each of a given value, have
not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the sum of their
values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which
are only truths within the limits of relation. But the
mathematician argues, from his finite truths, through habit, as
if they were of an absolutely general applicability—as the world
indeed imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned
‘Mythology,’ mentions an analogous source of error, when he says
that ‘although the Pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget
ourselves continually, and make inferences from them as existing
realities.’ With the algebraists, however, who are Pagans
themselves, the ‘Pagan fables’ are believed, and the inferences
are made, not so much through lapse of memory, as through an
unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet
encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of
equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point
of his faith that x2+px was absolutely and unconditionally equal
to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you
please, that you believe occasions may occur where x2+px is not
altogether equal to q, and, having made him understand what you
mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond
doubt, he will endeavor to knock you down.
“I mean to say,” continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his
last observations, “that if the Minister had been no more than a
mathematician, the Prefect would have been under no necessity of
giving me this check. I know him, however, as both mathematician
and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity, with
reference to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. I knew
him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I
considered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary policial
modes of action. He could not have failed to anticipate—and
events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate—the
waylayings to which he was subjected. He must have foreseen, I
reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. His
frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the
Prefect as certain aids to his success, I regarded only as ruses,
to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and thus
the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which G——, in
fact, did finally arrive—the conviction that the letter was not
upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought,
which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now,
concerning the invariable principle of policial action in
searches for articles concealed—I felt that this whole train of
thought would necessarily pass through the mind of the Minister.
It would imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks
of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to
see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would
be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes,
to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in
fine, that he would be driven, as a matter of course, to
simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of
choice. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect
laughed when I suggested, upon our first interview, that it was
just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of its
being so very self-evident.”
“Yes,” said I, “I remember his merriment well. I really thought
he would have fallen into convulsions.”
“The material world,” continued Dupin, “abounds with very strict
analogies to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has
been given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may
be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a
description. The principle of the vis inertiæ, for example, seems
to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true
in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in
motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is
commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter,
that intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more
constant, and more eventful in their movements than those of
inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more
embarrassed and full of hesitation in the first few steps of
their progress. Again: have you ever noticed which of the street
signs, over the shop-doors, are the most attractive of
attention?”
“I have never given the matter a thought,” I said.
“There is a game of puzzles,” he resumed, “which is played upon a
map. One party playing requires another to find a given word—the
name of town, river, state or empire—any word, in short, upon the
motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game
generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the
most minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as
stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the
other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs and placards
of the street, escape observation by dint of being excessively
obvious; and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous
with the moral inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to
pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and
too palpably self-evident. But this is a point, it appears,
somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the Prefect. He
never once thought it probable, or possible, that the Minister
had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the
whole world, by way of best preventing any portion of that world
from perceiving it.
“But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and
discriminating ingenuity of D——; upon the fact that the document
must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to good
purpose; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect,
that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary’s
ordinary search—the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this
letter, the Minister had resorted to the comprehensive and
sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all.
“Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green
spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at
the Ministerial hotel. I found D—— at home, yawning, lounging,
and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last
extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really energetic
human being now alive—but that is only when nobody sees him.
“To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented
the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I
cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while
seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host.
“I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he
sat, and upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous letters
and other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few
books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny,
I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion.
“At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a
trumpery fillagree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by
a dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the
middle of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three or four
compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary
letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn
nearly in two, across the middle—as if a design, in the first
instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had been altered,
or stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, bearing the
D—— cipher _very_ conspicuously, and was addressed, in a
diminutive female hand, to D——, the minister, himself. It was
thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into
one of the uppermost divisions of the rack.
“No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I concluded it to
be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all
appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect
had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large and
black, with the D—— cipher; there it was small and red, with the
ducal arms of the S—— family. Here, the address, to the Minister,
diminutive and feminine; there the superscription, to a certain
royal personage, was markedly bold and decided; the size alone
formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of
these differences, which was excessive; the dirt; the soiled and
torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the true
methodical habits of D——, and so suggestive of a design to delude
the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the
document—these things, together with the hyper-obtrusive
situation of this document, full in the view of every visitor,
and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I
had previously arrived; these things, I say, were strongly
corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to
suspect.
“I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I
maintained a most animated discussion with the Minister upon a
topic which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite
him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this
examination, I committed to memory its external appearance and
arrangement in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a
discovery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have
entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed
them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the
broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having
been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a
reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed
the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to
me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside out,
re-directed, and re-sealed. I bade the Minister good morning, and
took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the
table.
“The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed,
quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus
engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard
immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded
by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a terrified
mob. D—— rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In
the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it
in my pocket, and replaced it by a fac-simile, (so far as regards
externals,) which I had carefully prepared at my
lodgings—imitating the D—— cipher, very readily, by means of a
seal formed of bread.
“The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic
behavior of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of
women and children. It proved, however, to have been without
ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a
drunkard. When he had gone, D—— came from the window, whither I
had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view.
Soon afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a
man in my own pay.”
“But what purpose had you,” I asked, “in replacing the letter by
a fac-simile? Would it not have been better, at the first visit,
to have seized it openly, and departed?”
“D——,” replied Dupin, “is a desperate man, and a man of nerve.
His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his
interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never
have left the Ministerial presence alive. The good people of
Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart
from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions.
In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For
eighteen months the Minister has had her in his power. She has
now him in hers—since, being unaware that the letter is not in
his possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was.
Thus will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political
destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than
awkward. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus
Averni; but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of
singing, it is far more easy to get up than to come down. In the
present instance I have no sympathy—at least no pity—for him who
descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled man of
genius. I confess, however, that I should like very well to know
the precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by her
whom the Prefect terms ‘a certain personage’ he is reduced to
opening the letter which I left for him in the card-rack.”
“How? did you put any thing particular in it?”
“Why—it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior
blank—that would have been insulting. D——, at Vienna once, did me
an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I
should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in
regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I
thought it a pity not to give him a clue. He is well acquainted
with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet
the words—
“‘— — Un dessein si funeste,
S’il n’est digne d’Atrée, est digne de Thyeste.
They are to be found in Crébillon’s ‘Atrée.’”
THE THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE
Truth is stranger than fiction.—_Old Saying_
Having had occasion, lately, in the course of some Oriental
investigations, to consult the Tellmenow Isitsöornot, a work
which (like the Zohar of Simeon Jochaides) is scarcely known at
all, even in Europe; and which has never been quoted, to my
knowledge, by any American—if we except, perhaps, the author of
the “Curiosities of American Literature”;—having had occasion, I
say, to turn over some pages of the first-mentioned very
remarkable work, I was not a little astonished to discover that
the literary world has hitherto been strangely in error
respecting the fate of the vizier’s daughter, Scheherazade, as
that fate is depicted in the “Arabian Nights”; and that the
_dénouement_ there given, if not altogether inaccurate, as far as
it goes, is at least to blame in not having gone very much
farther.
For full information on this interesting topic, I must refer the
inquisitive reader to the “Isitsöornot” itself; but in the
meantime, I shall be pardoned for giving a summary of what I
there discovered.
It will be remembered, that, in the usual version of the tales, a
certain monarch having good cause to be jealous of his queen, not
only puts her to death, but makes a vow, by his beard and the
prophet, to espouse each night the most beautiful maiden in his
dominions, and the next morning to deliver her up to the
executioner.
Having fulfilled this vow for many years to the letter, and with
a religious punctuality and method that conferred great credit
upon him as a man of devout feeling and excellent sense, he was
interrupted one afternoon (no doubt at his prayers) by a visit
from his grand vizier, to whose daughter, it appears, there had
occurred an idea.
Her name was Scheherazade, and her idea was, that she would
either redeem the land from the depopulating tax upon its beauty,
or perish, after the approved fashion of all heroines, in the
attempt.
Accordingly, and although we do not find it to be leap-year
(which makes the sacrifice more meritorious), she deputes her
father, the grand vizier, to make an offer to the king of her
hand. This hand the king eagerly accepts—(he had intended to take
it at all events, and had put off the matter from day to day,
only through fear of the vizier),—but, in accepting it now, he
gives all parties very distinctly to understand, that, grand
vizier or no grand vizier, he has not the slightest design of
giving up one iota of his vow or of his privileges. When,
therefore, the fair Scheherazade insisted upon marrying the king,
and did actually marry him despite her father’s excellent advice
not to do any thing of the kind—when she would and did marry him,
I say, will I, nill I, it was with her beautiful black eyes as
thoroughly open as the nature of the case would allow.
It seems, however, that this politic damsel (who had been reading
Machiavelli, beyond doubt), had a very ingenious little plot in
her mind. On the night of the wedding, she contrived, upon I
forget what specious pretence, to have her sister occupy a couch
sufficiently near that of the royal pair to admit of easy
conversation from bed to bed; and, a little before cock-crowing,
she took care to awaken the good monarch, her husband (who bore
her none the worse will because he intended to wring her neck on
the morrow),—she managed to awaken him, I say, (although on
account of a capital conscience and an easy digestion, he slept
well) by the profound interest of a story (about a rat and a
black cat, I think) which she was narrating (all in an undertone,
of course) to her sister. When the day broke, it so happened that
this history was not altogether finished, and that Scheherazade,
in the nature of things could not finish it just then, since it
was high time for her to get up and be bowstrung—a thing very
little more pleasant than hanging, only a trifle more genteel!
The king’s curiosity, however, prevailing, I am sorry to say,
even over his sound religious principles, induced him for this
once to postpone the fulfilment of his vow until next morning,
for the purpose and with the hope of hearing that night how it
fared in the end with the black cat (a black cat, I think it was)
and the rat.
The night having arrived, however, the lady Scheherazade not only
put the finishing stroke to the black cat and the rat (the rat
was blue) but before she well knew what she was about, found
herself deep in the intricacies of a narration, having reference
(if I am not altogether mistaken) to a pink horse (with green
wings) that went, in a violent manner, by clockwork, and was
wound up with an indigo key. With this history the king was even
more profoundly interested than with the other—and, as the day
broke before its conclusion (notwithstanding all the queen’s
endeavors to get through with it in time for the bowstringing),
there was again no resource but to postpone that ceremony as
before, for twenty-four hours. The next night there happened a
similar accident with a similar result; and then the next—and
then again the next; so that, in the end, the good monarch,
having been unavoidably deprived of all opportunity to keep his
vow during a period of no less than one thousand and one nights,
either forgets it altogether by the expiration of this time, or
gets himself absolved of it in the regular way, or (what is more
probable) breaks it outright, as well as the head of his father
confessor. At all events, Scheherazade, who, being lineally
descended from Eve, fell heir, perhaps, to the whole seven
baskets of talk, which the latter lady, we all know, picked up
from under the trees in the garden of Eden; Scheherazade, I say,
finally triumphed, and the tariff upon beauty was repealed.
Now, this conclusion (which is that of the story as we have it
upon record) is, no doubt, excessively proper and pleasant—but
alas! like a great many pleasant things, is more pleasant than
true, and I am indebted altogether to the “Isitsöornot” for the
means of correcting the error. “Le mieux,” says a French proverb,
“est l’ennemi du bien,” and, in mentioning that Scheherazade had
inherited the seven baskets of talk, I should have added that she
put them out at compound interest until they amounted to
seventy-seven.
“My dear sister,” said she, on the thousand-and-second night, (I
quote the language of the “Isitsöornot” at this point, verbatim)
“my dear sister,” said she, “now that all this little difficulty
about the bowstring has blown over, and that this odious tax is
so happily repealed, I feel that I have been guilty of great
indiscretion in withholding from you and the king (who I am sorry
to say, snores—a thing no gentleman would do) the full conclusion
of Sinbad the sailor. This person went through numerous other and
more interesting adventures than those which I related; but the
truth is, I felt sleepy on the particular night of their
narration, and so was seduced into cutting them short—a grievous
piece of misconduct, for which I only trust that Allah will
forgive me. But even yet it is not too late to remedy my great
neglect—and as soon as I have given the king a pinch or two in
order to wake him up so far that he may stop making that horrible
noise, I will forthwith entertain you (and him if he pleases)
with the sequel of this very remarkable story.”
Hereupon the sister of Scheherazade, as I have it from the
“Isitsöornot,” expressed no very particular intensity of
gratification; but the king, having been sufficiently pinched, at
length ceased snoring, and finally said, “Hum!” and then “Hoo!”
when the queen, understanding these words (which are no doubt
Arabic) to signify that he was all attention, and would do his
best not to snore any more—the queen, I say, having arranged
these matters to her satisfaction, re-entered thus, at once, into
the history of Sinbad the sailor:
“‘At length, in my old age,’ [these are the words of Sinbad
himself, as retailed by Scheherazade]—‘at length, in my old age,
and after enjoying many years of tranquillity at home, I became
once more possessed of a desire of visiting foreign countries;
and one day, without acquainting any of my family with my design,
I packed up some bundles of such merchandise as was most precious
and least bulky, and, engaging a porter to carry them, went with
him down to the sea-shore, to await the arrival of any chance
vessel that might convey me out of the kingdom into some region
which I had not as yet explored.
“‘Having deposited the packages upon the sands, we sat down
beneath some trees, and looked out into the ocean in the hope of
perceiving a ship, but during several hours we saw none whatever.
At length I fancied that I could hear a singular buzzing or
humming sound; and the porter, after listening awhile, declared
that he also could distinguish it. Presently it grew louder, and
then still louder, so that we could have no doubt that the object
which caused it was approaching us. At length, on the edge of the
horizon, we discovered a black speck, which rapidly increased in
size until we made it out to be a vast monster, swimming with a
great part of its body above the surface of the sea. It came
toward us with inconceivable swiftness, throwing up huge waves of
foam around its breast, and illuminating all that part of the sea
through which it passed, with a long line of fire that extended
far off into the distance.
“‘As the thing drew near we saw it very distinctly. Its length
was equal to that of three of the loftiest trees that grow, and
it was as wide as the great hall of audience in your palace, O
most sublime and munificent of the Caliphs. Its body, which was
unlike that of ordinary fishes, was as solid as a rock, and of a
jetty blackness throughout all that portion of it which floated
above the water, with the exception of a narrow blood-red streak
that completely begirdled it. The belly, which floated beneath
the surface, and of which we could get only a glimpse now and
then as the monster rose and fell with the billows, was entirely
covered with metallic scales, of a color like that of the moon in
misty weather. The back was flat and nearly white, and from it
there extended upwards of six spines, about half the length of
the whole body.
“‘This horrible creature had no mouth that we could perceive;
but, as if to make up for this deficiency, it was provided with
at least four score of eyes, that protruded from their sockets
like those of the green dragon-fly, and were arranged all around
the body in two rows, one above the other, and parallel to the
blood-red streak, which seemed to answer the purpose of an
eyebrow. Two or three of these dreadful eyes were much larger
than the others, and had the appearance of solid gold.
“‘Although this beast approached us, as I have before said, with
the greatest rapidity, it must have been moved altogether by
necromancy—for it had neither fins like a fish nor web-feet like
a duck, nor wings like the seashell which is blown along in the
manner of a vessel; nor yet did it writhe itself forward as do
the eels. Its head and its tail were shaped precisely alike,
only, not far from the latter, were two small holes that served
for nostrils, and through which the monster puffed out its thick
breath with prodigious violence, and with a shrieking,
disagreeable noise.
“‘Our terror at beholding this hideous thing was very great, but
it was even surpassed by our astonishment, when upon getting a
nearer look, we perceived upon the creature’s back a vast number
of animals about the size and shape of men, and altogether much
resembling them, except that they wore no garments (as men do),
being supplied (by nature, no doubt) with an ugly uncomfortable
covering, a good deal like cloth, but fitting so tight to the
skin, as to render the poor wretches laughably awkward, and put
them apparently to severe pain. On the very tips of their heads
were certain square-looking boxes, which, at first sight, I
thought might have been intended to answer as turbans, but I soon
discovered that they were excessively heavy and solid, and I
therefore concluded they were contrivances designed, by their
great weight, to keep the heads of the animals steady and safe
upon their shoulders. Around the necks of the creatures were
fastened black collars, (badges of servitude, no doubt,) such as
we keep on our dogs, only much wider and infinitely stiffer, so
that it was quite impossible for these poor victims to move their
heads in any direction without moving the body at the same time;
and thus they were doomed to perpetual contemplation of their
noses—a view puggish and snubby in a wonderful, if not positively
in an awful degree.
“‘When the monster had nearly reached the shore where we stood,
it suddenly pushed out one of its eyes to a great extent, and
emitted from it a terrible flash of fire, accompanied by a dense
cloud of smoke, and a noise that I can compare to nothing but
thunder. As the smoke cleared away, we saw one of the odd
man-animals standing near the head of the large beast with a
trumpet in his hand, through which (putting it to his mouth) he
presently addressed us in loud, harsh, and disagreeable accents,
that, perhaps, we should have mistaken for language, had they not
come altogether through the nose.
“‘Being thus evidently spoken to, I was at a loss how to reply,
as I could in no manner understand what was said; and in this
difficulty I turned to the porter, who was near swooning through
affright, and demanded of him his opinion as to what species of
monster it was, what it wanted, and what kind of creatures those
were that so swarmed upon its back. To this the porter replied,
as well as he could for trepidation, that he had once before
heard of this sea-beast; that it was a cruel demon, with bowels
of sulphur and blood of fire, created by evil genii as the means
of inflicting misery upon mankind; that the things upon its back
were vermin, such as sometimes infest cats and dogs, only a
little larger and more savage; and that these vermin had their
uses, however evil—for, through the torture they caused the beast
by their nibbling and stingings, it was goaded into that degree
of wrath which was requisite to make it roar and commit ill, and
so fulfil the vengeful and malicious designs of the wicked genii.
“This account determined me to take to my heels, and, without
once even looking behind me, I ran at full speed up into the
hills, while the porter ran equally fast, although nearly in an
opposite direction, so that, by these means, he finally made his
escape with my bundles, of which I have no doubt he took
excellent care—although this is a point I cannot determine, as I
do not remember that I ever beheld him again.
“‘For myself, I was so hotly pursued by a swarm of the men-vermin
(who had come to the shore in boats) that I was very soon
overtaken, bound hand and foot, and conveyed to the beast, which
immediately swam out again into the middle of the sea.
“‘I now bitterly repented my folly in quitting a comfortable home
to peril my life in such adventures as this; but regret being
useless, I made the best of my condition, and exerted myself to
secure the goodwill of the man-animal that owned the trumpet, and
who appeared to exercise authority over his fellows. I succeeded
so well in this endeavor that, in a few days, the creature
bestowed upon me various tokens of his favor, and in the end even
went to the trouble of teaching me the rudiments of what it was
vain enough to denominate its language; so that, at length, I was
enabled to converse with it readily, and came to make it
comprehend the ardent desire I had of seeing the world.
“‘Washish squashish squeak, Sinbad, hey-diddle diddle, grunt unt
grumble, hiss, fiss, whiss,’ said he to me, one day after
dinner—but I beg a thousand pardons, I had forgotten that your
majesty is not conversant with the dialect of the Cock-neighs (so
the man-animals were called; I presume because their language
formed the connecting link between that of the horse and that of
the rooster). With your permission, I will translate. ‘Washish
squashish,’ and so forth:—that is to say, ‘I am happy to find, my
dear Sinbad, that you are really a very excellent fellow; we are
now about doing a thing which is called circumnavigating the
globe; and since you are so desirous of seeing the world, I will
strain a point and give you a free passage upon back of the
beast.’”
When the Lady Scheherazade had proceeded thus far, relates the
“Isitsöornot,” the king turned over from his left side to his
right, and said:
“It is, in fact, very surprising, my dear queen, that you
omitted, hitherto, these latter adventures of Sinbad. Do you know
I think them exceedingly entertaining and strange?”
The king having thus expressed himself, we are told, the fair
Scheherazade resumed her history in the following words:
“Sinbad went on in this manner with his narrative—‘I thanked the
man-animal for its kindness, and soon found myself very much at
home on the beast, which swam at a prodigious rate through the
ocean; although the surface of the latter is, in that part of the
world, by no means flat, but round like a pomegranate, so that we
went—so to say—either up hill or down hill all the time.’
“That I think, was very singular,” interrupted the king.
“Nevertheless, it is quite true,” replied Scheherazade.
“I have my doubts,” rejoined the king; “but, pray, be so good as
to go on with the story.”
“I will,” said the queen. “‘The beast,’ continued Sinbad to the
caliph, ‘swam, as I have related, up hill and down hill until, at
length, we arrived at an island, many hundreds of miles in
circumference, but which, nevertheless, had been built in the
middle of the sea by a colony of little things like
caterpillars.’” (*1)
“Hum!” said the king.
“‘Leaving this island,’ said Sinbad—(for Scheherazade, it must be
understood, took no notice of her husband’s ill-mannered
ejaculation) ‘leaving this island, we came to another where the
forests were of solid stone, and so hard that they shivered to
pieces the finest-tempered axes with which we endeavoured to cut
them down.’” (*2)
“Hum!” said the king, again; but Scheherazade, paying him no
attention, continued in the language of Sinbad.
“‘Passing beyond this last island, we reached a country where
there was a cave that ran to the distance of thirty or forty
miles within the bowels of the earth, and that contained a
greater number of far more spacious and more magnificent palaces
than are to be found in all Damascus and Bagdad. From the roofs
of these palaces there hung myriads of gems, like diamonds, but
larger than men; and in among the streets of towers and pyramids
and temples, there flowed immense rivers as black as ebony, and
swarming with fish that had no eyes.’” (*3)
“Hum!” said the king.
“‘We then swam into a region of the sea where we found a lofty
mountain, down whose sides there streamed torrents of melted
metal, some of which were twelve miles wide and sixty miles long
(*4); while from an abyss on the summit, issued so vast a
quantity of ashes that the sun was entirely blotted out from the
heavens, and it became darker than the darkest midnight; so that
when we were even at the distance of a hundred and fifty miles
from the mountain, it was impossible to see the whitest object,
however close we held it to our eyes.’” (*5)
“Hum!” said the king.
“‘After quitting this coast, the beast continued his voyage until
we met with a land in which the nature of things seemed
reversed—for we here saw a great lake, at the bottom of which,
more than a hundred feet beneath the surface of the water, there
flourished in full leaf a forest of tall and luxuriant trees.’”
(*6)
“Hoo!” said the king.
“Some hundred miles farther on brought us to a climate where the
atmosphere was so dense as to sustain iron or steel, just as our
own does feather.’” (*7)
“Fiddle de dee,” said the king.
“Proceeding still in the same direction, we presently arrived at
the most magnificent region in the whole world. Through it there
meandered a glorious river for several thousands of miles. This
river was of unspeakable depth, and of a transparency richer than
that of amber. It was from three to six miles in width; and its
banks which arose on either side to twelve hundred feet in
perpendicular height, were crowned with ever-blossoming trees and
perpetual sweet-scented flowers, that made the whole territory
one gorgeous garden; but the name of this luxuriant land was the
Kingdom of Horror, and to enter it was inevitable death.’” (*8)
“Humph!” said the king.
“‘We left this kingdom in great haste, and, after some days, came
to another, where we were astonished to perceive myriads of
monstrous animals with horns resembling scythes upon their heads.
These hideous beasts dig for themselves vast caverns in the soil,
of a funnel shape, and line the sides of them with rocks, so
disposed one upon the other that they fall instantly, when
trodden upon by other animals, thus precipitating them into the
monster’s dens, where their blood is immediately sucked, and
their carcasses afterwards hurled contemptuously out to an
immense distance from “the caverns of death."’” (*9)
“Pooh!” said the king.
“‘Continuing our progress, we perceived a district with
vegetables that grew not upon any soil but in the air. (*10)
There were others that sprang from the substance of other
vegetables; (*11) others that derived their substance from the
bodies of living animals; (*12) and then again, there were others
that glowed all over with intense fire; (*13) others that moved
from place to place at pleasure, (*14) and what was still more
wonderful, we discovered flowers that lived and breathed and
moved their limbs at will and had, moreover, the detestable
passion of mankind for enslaving other creatures, and confining
them in horrid and solitary prisons until the fulfillment of
appointed tasks.’” (*15)
“Pshaw!” said the king.
“‘Quitting this land, we soon arrived at another in which the
bees and the birds are mathematicians of such genius and
erudition, that they give daily instructions in the science of
geometry to the wise men of the empire. The king of the place
having offered a reward for the solution of two very difficult
problems, they were solved upon the spot—the one by the bees, and
the other by the birds; but the king keeping their solution a
secret, it was only after the most profound researches and labor,
and the writing of an infinity of big books, during a long series
of years, that the men-mathematicians at length arrived at the
identical solutions which had been given upon the spot by the
bees and by the birds.’” (*16)
“Oh my!” said the king.
“‘We had scarcely lost sight of this empire when we found
ourselves close upon another, from whose shores there flew over
our heads a flock of fowls a mile in breadth, and two hundred and
forty miles long; so that, although they flew a mile during every
minute, it required no less than four hours for the whole flock
to pass over us—in which there were several millions of millions
of fowl.’” (*17)
“Oh fy!” said the king.
“‘No sooner had we got rid of these birds, which occasioned us
great annoyance, than we were terrified by the appearance of a
fowl of another kind, and infinitely larger than even the rocs
which I met in my former voyages; for it was bigger than the
biggest of the domes on your seraglio, oh, most Munificent of
Caliphs. This terrible fowl had no head that we could perceive,
but was fashioned entirely of belly, which was of a prodigious
fatness and roundness, of a soft-looking substance, smooth,
shining and striped with various colors. In its talons, the
monster was bearing away to his eyrie in the heavens, a house
from which it had knocked off the roof, and in the interior of
which we distinctly saw human beings, who, beyond doubt, were in
a state of frightful despair at the horrible fate which awaited
them. We shouted with all our might, in the hope of frightening
the bird into letting go of its prey, but it merely gave a snort
or puff, as if of rage and then let fall upon our heads a heavy
sack which proved to be filled with sand!’”
“Stuff!” said the king.
“‘It was just after this adventure that we encountered a
continent of immense extent and prodigious solidity, but which,
nevertheless, was supported entirely upon the back of a sky-blue
cow that had no fewer than four hundred horns.’” (*18)
“That, now, I believe,” said the king, “because I have read
something of the kind before, in a book.”
“‘We passed immediately beneath this continent, (swimming in
between the legs of the cow), and, after some hours, found
ourselves in a wonderful country indeed, which, I was informed by
the man-animal, was his own native land, inhabited by things of
his own species. This elevated the man-animal very much in my
esteem, and in fact, I now began to feel ashamed of the
contemptuous familiarity with which I had treated him; for I
found that the man-animals in general were a nation of the most
powerful magicians, who lived with worms in their brain, (*19)
which, no doubt, served to stimulate them by their painful
writhings and wrigglings to the most miraculous efforts of
imagination!’”
“Nonsense!” said the king.
“‘Among the magicians, were domesticated several animals of very
singular kinds; for example, there was a huge horse whose bones
were iron and whose blood was boiling water. In place of corn, he
had black stones for his usual food; and yet, in spite of so hard
a diet, he was so strong and swift that he would drag a load more
weighty than the grandest temple in this city, at a rate
surpassing that of the flight of most birds.’” (*20)
“Twattle!” said the king.
“‘I saw, also, among these people a hen without feathers, but
bigger than a camel; instead of flesh and bone she had iron and
brick; her blood, like that of the horse, (to whom, in fact, she
was nearly related,) was boiling water; and like him she ate
nothing but wood or black stones. This hen brought forth very
frequently, a hundred chickens in the day; and, after birth, they
took up their residence for several weeks within the stomach of
their mother.’” (*21)
“Fal lal!” said the king.
“‘One of this nation of mighty conjurors created a man out of
brass and wood, and leather, and endowed him with such ingenuity
that he would have beaten at chess, all the race of mankind with
the exception of the great Caliph, Haroun Alraschid. (*22)
Another of these magi constructed (of like material) a creature
that put to shame even the genius of him who made it; for so
great were its reasoning powers that, in a second, it performed
calculations of so vast an extent that they would have required
the united labor of fifty thousand fleshy men for a year. (*23)
But a still more wonderful conjuror fashioned for himself a
mighty thing that was neither man nor beast, but which had brains
of lead, intermixed with a black matter like pitch, and fingers
that it employed with such incredible speed and dexterity that it
would have had no trouble in writing out twenty thousand copies
of the Koran in an hour, and this with so exquisite a precision,
that in all the copies there should not be found one to vary from
another by the breadth of the finest hair. This thing was of
prodigious strength, so that it erected or overthrew the
mightiest empires at a breath; but its powers were exercised
equally for evil and for good.’”
“Ridiculous!” said the king.
“‘Among this nation of necromancers there was also one who had in
his veins the blood of the salamanders; for he made no scruple of
sitting down to smoke his chibouc in a red-hot oven until his
dinner was thoroughly roasted upon its floor. (*24) Another had
the faculty of converting the common metals into gold, without
even looking at them during the process. (*25) Another had such a
delicacy of touch that he made a wire so fine as to be invisible.
(*26) Another had such quickness of perception that he counted
all the separate motions of an elastic body, while it was
springing backward and forward at the rate of nine hundred
millions of times in a second.’” (*27)
“Absurd!” said the king.
“‘Another of these magicians, by means of a fluid that nobody
ever yet saw, could make the corpses of his friends brandish
their arms, kick out their legs, fight, or even get up and dance
at his will. (*28) Another had cultivated his voice to so great
an extent that he could have made himself heard from one end of
the world to the other. (*29) Another had so long an arm that he
could sit down in Damascus and indite a letter at Bagdad—or
indeed at any distance whatsoever. (*30) Another commanded the
lightning to come down to him out of the heavens, and it came at
his call; and served him for a plaything when it came. Another
took two loud sounds and out of them made a silence. Another
constructed a deep darkness out of two brilliant lights. (*31)
Another made ice in a red-hot furnace. (*32) Another directed the
sun to paint his portrait, and the sun did. (*33) Another took
this luminary with the moon and the planets, and having first
weighed them with scrupulous accuracy, probed into their depths
and found out the solidity of the substance of which they were
made. But the whole nation is, indeed, of so surprising a
necromantic ability, that not even their infants, nor their
commonest cats and dogs have any difficulty in seeing objects
that do not exist at all, or that for twenty millions of years
before the birth of the nation itself had been blotted out from
the face of creation.’” (*34)
“Preposterous!” said the king.
“‘The wives and daughters of these incomparably great and wise
magi,’” continued Scheherazade, without being in any manner
disturbed by these frequent and most ungentlemanly interruptions
on the part of her husband—“‘the wives and daughters of these
eminent conjurers are every thing that is accomplished and
refined; and would be every thing that is interesting and
beautiful, but for an unhappy fatality that besets them, and from
which not even the miraculous powers of their husbands and
fathers has, hitherto, been adequate to save. Some fatalities
come in certain shapes, and some in others—but this of which I
speak has come in the shape of a crotchet.’”
“A what?” said the king.
“‘A crotchet’” said Scheherazade. “‘One of the evil genii, who
are perpetually upon the watch to inflict ill, has put it into
the heads of these accomplished ladies that the thing which we
describe as personal beauty consists altogether in the
protuberance of the region which lies not very far below the
small of the back. Perfection of loveliness, they say, is in the
direct ratio of the extent of this lump. Having been long
possessed of this idea, and bolsters being cheap in that country,
the days have long gone by since it was possible to distinguish a
woman from a dromedary—’”
“Stop!” said the king—“I can’t stand that, and I won’t. You have
already given me a dreadful headache with your lies. The day,
too, I perceive, is beginning to break. How long have we been
married?—my conscience is getting to be troublesome again. And
then that dromedary touch—do you take me for a fool? Upon the
whole, you might as well get up and be throttled.”
These words, as I learn from the “Isitsöornot,” both grieved and
astonished Scheherazade; but, as she knew the king to be a man of
scrupulous integrity, and quite unlikely to forfeit his word, she
submitted to her fate with a good grace. She derived, however,
great consolation, (during the tightening of the bowstring,) from
the reflection that much of the history remained still untold,
and that the petulance of her brute of a husband had reaped for
him a most righteous reward, in depriving him of many
inconceivable adventures.
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM.
The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways;
nor are the models that we frame any way commensurate to the
vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, _which have
a depth in them greater than the well of Democritus_.
—_Joseph Glanville_.
We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some
minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak.
“Not long ago,” said he at length, “and I could have guided you
on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about
three years past, there happened to me an event such as never
happened to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived
to tell of—and the six hours of deadly terror which I then
endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a _very_
old man—but I am not. It took less than a single day to change
these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and
to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion,
and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look
over this little cliff without getting giddy?”
The “little cliff,” upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown
himself down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung
over it, while he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his
elbow on its extreme and slippery edge—this “little cliff” arose,
a sheer unobstructed precipice of black shining rock, some
fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath
us. Nothing would have tempted me to within half a dozen yards of
its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous
position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the
ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance
upward at the sky—while I struggled in vain to divest myself of
the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger
from the fury of the winds. It was long before I could reason
myself into sufficient courage to sit up and look out into the
distance.
“You must get over these fancies,” said the guide, “for I have
brought you here that you might have the best possible view of
the scene of that event I mentioned—and to tell you the whole
story with the spot just under your eye.”
“We are now,” he continued, in that particularizing manner which
distinguished him—“we are now close upon the Norwegian coast—in
the sixty-eighth degree of latitude—in the great province of
Nordland—and in the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon
whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up
a little higher—hold on to the grass if you feel giddy—so—and
look out, beyond the belt of vapor beneath us, into the sea.”
I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose
waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the
Nubian geographer’s account of the _Mare Tenebrarum_. A panorama
more deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To
the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay
outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black
and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more
forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against its
white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. Just
opposite the promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a
distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there was visible
a small, bleak-looking island; or, more properly, its position
was discernible through the wilderness of surge in which it was
enveloped. About two miles nearer the land, arose another of
smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed at
various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks.
The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more
distant island and the shore, had something very unusual about
it. Although, at the time, so strong a gale was blowing landward
that a brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed
trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out of sight,
still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a
short, quick, angry cross dashing of water in every direction—as
well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was
little except in the immediate vicinity of the rocks.
“The island in the distance,” resumed the old man, “is called by
the Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to
the northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Hotholm,
Keildhelm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off—between Moskoe and
Vurrgh—are Otterholm, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These
are the true names of the places—but why it has been thought
necessary to name them at all, is more than either you or I can
understand. Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the
water?”
We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to
which we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we
had caught no glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from
the summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a loud and
gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of
buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at the same moment I
perceived that what seamen term the _chopping_ character of the
ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current which set
to the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a
monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed—to its
headlong impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea, as far as
Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable fury; but it was between
Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the
vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand
conflicting channels, burst suddenly into phrensied
convulsion—heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating in gigantic and
innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the
eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes
except in precipitous descents.
In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical
alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and
the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks
of foam became apparent where none had been seen before. These
streaks, at length, spreading out to a great distance, and
entering into combination, took unto themselves the gyratory
motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of
another more vast. Suddenly—very suddenly—this assumed a distinct
and definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in
diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt
of gleaming spray; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth
of the terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could
fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water,
inclined to the horizon at an angle of some forty-five degrees,
speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering
motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half
shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of
Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven.
The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I
threw myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an
excess of nervous agitation.
“This,” said I at length, to the old man—“this _can_ be nothing
else than the great whirlpool of the Maelström.”
“So it is sometimes termed,” said he. “We Norwegians call it the
Moskoe-ström, from the island of Moskoe in the midway.”
The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me
for what I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which is perhaps the most
circumstantial of any, cannot impart the faintest conception
either of the magnificence, or of the horror of the scene—or of
the wild bewildering sense of _the novel_ which confounds the
beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the writer in
question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could neither have
been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are
some passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be
quoted for their details, although their effect is exceedingly
feeble in conveying an impression of the spectacle.
“Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” he says, “the depth of the water is
between thirty-six and forty fathoms; but on the other side,
toward Ver (Vurrgh) this depth decreases so as not to afford a
convenient passage for a vessel, without the risk of splitting on
the rocks, which happens even in the calmest weather. When it is
flood, the stream runs up the country between Lofoden and Moskoe
with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its impetuous ebb to
the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful
cataracts; the noise being heard several leagues off, and the
vortices or pits are of such an extent and depth, that if a ship
comes within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and
carried down to the bottom, and there beat to pieces against the
rocks; and when the water relaxes, the fragments thereof are
thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquility are only at
the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last but
a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When the
stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it
is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts,
and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it
before they were within its reach. It likewise happens
frequently, that whales come too near the stream, and are
overpowered by its violence; and then it is impossible to
describe their howlings and bellowings in their fruitless
struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempting to
swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne
down, while he roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore. Large
stocks of firs and pine trees, after being absorbed by the
current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if
bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist
of craggy rocks, among which they are whirled to and fro. This
stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of the sea—it being
constantly high and low water every six hours. In the year 1645,
early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such
noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on the
coast fell to the ground.”
In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this
could have been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of
the vortex. The “forty fathoms” must have reference only to
portions of the channel close upon the shore either of Moskoe or
Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the Moskoe-ström must be
immeasurably greater; and no better proof of this fact is
necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into
the abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of
Helseggen. Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling
Phlegethon below, I could not help smiling at the simplicity with
which the honest Jonas Ramus records, as a matter difficult of
belief, the anecdotes of the whales and the bears; for it
appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing, that the largest
ship of the line in existence, coming within the influence of
that deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a feather
the hurricane, and must disappear bodily and at once.
The attempts to account for the phenomenon—some of which, I
remember, seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal—now wore
a very different and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally
received is that this, as well as three smaller vortices among
the Ferroe islands, “have no other cause than the collision of
waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux, against a ridge of
rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it
precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the
flood rises, the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result
of all is a whirlpool or vortex, the prodigious suction of which
is sufficiently known by lesser experiments.”—These are the words
of the Encyclopædia Britannica. Kircher and others imagine that
in the centre of the channel of the Maelström is an abyss
penetrating the globe, and issuing in some very remote part—the
Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat decidedly named in one instance.
This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed,
my imagination most readily assented; and, mentioning it to the
guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it
was the view almost universally entertained of the subject by the
Norwegians, it nevertheless was not his own. As to the former
notion he confessed his inability to comprehend it; and here I
agreed with him—for, however conclusive on paper, it becomes
altogether unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the thunder of
the abyss.
“You have had a good look at the whirl now,” said the old man,
“and if you will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee,
and deaden the roar of the water, I will tell you a story that
will convince you I ought to know something of the Moskoe-ström.”
I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded.
“Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged smack of
about seventy tons burthen, with which we were in the habit of
fishing among the islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all
violent eddies at sea there is good fishing, at proper
opportunities, if one has only the courage to attempt it; but
among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen, we three were the only
ones who made a regular business of going out to the islands, as
I tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the
southward. There fish can be got at all hours, without much risk,
and therefore these places are preferred. The choice spots over
here among the rocks, however, not only yield the finest variety,
but in far greater abundance; so that we often got in a single
day, what the more timid of the craft could not scrape together
in a week. In fact, we made it a matter of desperate
speculation—the risk of life standing instead of labor, and
courage answering for capital.
“We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast
than this; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take
advantage of the fifteen minutes’ slack to push across the main
channel of the Moskoe-ström, far above the pool, and then drop
down upon anchorage somewhere near Otterholm, or Sandflesen,
where the eddies are not so violent as elsewhere. Here we used to
remain until nearly time for slack-water again, when we weighed
and made for home. We never set out upon this expedition without
a steady side wind for going and coming—one that we felt sure
would not fail us before our return—and we seldom made a
mis-calculation upon this point. Twice, during six years, we were
forced to stay all night at anchor on account of a dead calm,
which is a rare thing indeed just about here; and once we had to
remain on the grounds nearly a week, starving to death, owing to
a gale which blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the
channel too boisterous to be thought of. Upon this occasion we
should have been driven out to sea in spite of everything, (for
the whirlpools threw us round and round so violently, that, at
length, we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had not been
that we drifted into one of the innumerable cross currents—here
to-day and gone to-morrow—which drove us under the lee of Flimen,
where, by good luck, we brought up.
“I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we
encountered ‘on the grounds’—it is a bad spot to be in, even in
good weather—but we made shift always to run the gauntlet of the
Moskoe-ström itself without accident; although at times my heart
has been in my mouth when we happened to be a minute or so behind
or before the slack. The wind sometimes was not as strong as we
thought it at starting, and then we made rather less way than we
could wish, while the current rendered the smack unmanageable. My
eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout
boys of my own. These would have been of great assistance at such
times, in using the sweeps, as well as afterward in fishing—but,
somehow, although we ran the risk ourselves, we had not the heart
to let the young ones get into the danger—for, after all is said
and done, it _was_ a horrible danger, and that is the truth.
“It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going
to tell you occurred. It was on the tenth day of July, 18—, a day
which the people of this part of the world will never forget—for
it was one in which blew the most terrible hurricane that ever
came out of the heavens. And yet all the morning, and indeed
until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and steady breeze
from the south-west, while the sun shone brightly, so that the
oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to
follow.
“The three of us—my two brothers and myself—had crossed over to
the islands about two o’clock P. M., and had soon nearly loaded
the smack with fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more
plenty that day than we had ever known them. It was just seven,
_by my watch_, when we weighed and started for home, so as to
make the worst of the Ström at slack water, which we knew would
be at eight.
“We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for
some time spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of
danger, for indeed we saw not the slightest reason to apprehend
it. All at once we were taken aback by a breeze from over
Helseggen. This was most unusual—something that had never
happened to us before—and I began to feel a little uneasy,
without exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but
could make no headway at all for the eddies, and I was upon the
point of proposing to return to the anchorage, when, looking
astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with a singular
copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity.
“In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and
we were dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This
state of things, however, did not last long enough to give us
time to think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon
us—in less than two the sky was entirely overcast—and what with
this and the driving spray, it became suddenly so dark that we
could not see each other in the smack.
“Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing.
The oldest seaman in Norway never experienced any thing like it.
We had let our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us;
but, at the first puff, both our masts went by the board as if
they had been sawed off—the mainmast taking with it my youngest
brother, who had lashed himself to it for safety.
“Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon
water. It had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near
the bow, and this hatch it had always been our custom to batten
down when about to cross the Ström, by way of precaution against
the chopping seas. But for this circumstance we should have
foundered at once—for we lay entirely buried for some moments.
How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I
never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as
I had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my
feet against the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands
grasping a ring-bolt near the foot of the fore-mast. It was mere
instinct that prompted me to do this—which was undoubtedly the
very best thing I could have done—for I was too much flurried to
think.
“For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all
this time I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could
stand it no longer I raised myself upon my knees, still keeping
hold with my hands, and thus got my head clear. Presently our
little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming
out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some measure, of the
seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had
come over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to
be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder
brother, and my heart leaped for joy, for I had made sure that he
was overboard—but the next moment all this joy was turned into
horror—for he put his mouth close to my ear, and screamed out the
word ‘_Moskoe-ström!_’
“No one ever will know what my feelings were at that moment. I
shook from head to foot as if I had had the most violent fit of
the ague. I knew what he meant by that one word well enough—I
knew what he wished to make me understand. With the wind that now
drove us on, we were bound for the whirl of the Ström, and
nothing could save us!
“You perceive that in crossing the Ström _channel_, we always
went a long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather,
and then had to wait and watch carefully for the slack—but now we
were driving right upon the pool itself, and in such a hurricane
as this! ‘To be sure,’ I thought, ‘we shall get there just about
the slack—there is some little hope in that’—but in the next
moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of
hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we been
ten times a ninety-gun ship.
“By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or
perhaps we did not feel it so much, as we scudded before it, but
at all events the seas, which at first had been kept down by the
wind, and lay flat and frothing, now got up into absolute
mountains. A singular change, too, had come over the heavens.
Around in every direction it was still as black as pitch, but
nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of
clear sky—as clear as I ever saw—and of a deep bright blue—and
through it there blazed forth the full moon with a lustre that I
never before knew her to wear. She lit up every thing about us
with the greatest distinctness—but, oh God, what a scene it was
to light up!
“I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother—but, in
some manner which I could not understand, the din had so
increased that I could not make him hear a single word, although
I screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook
his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his
fingers, as if to say _‘listen! ‘_
“At first I could not make out what he meant—but soon a hideous
thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was
not going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst
into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. _It had run
down at seven o’clock! We were behind the time of the slack, and
the whirl of the Ström was in full fury!_
“When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden,
the waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always
to slip from beneath her—which appears very strange to a
landsman—and this is what is called _riding_, in sea phrase.
“Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but
presently a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the
counter, and bore us with it as it rose—up—up—as if into the sky.
I would not have believed that any wave could rise so high. And
then down we came with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge, that made
me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty
mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a
quick glance around—and that one glance was all sufficient. I saw
our exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-Ström whirlpool was
about a quarter of a mile dead ahead—but no more like the
every-day Moskoe-Ström than the whirl as you now see it, is like
a mill-race. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to
expect, I should not have recognised the place at all. As it was,
I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. The lids clenched
themselves together as if in a spasm.
“It could not have been more than two minutes afterward until we
suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The
boat made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its
new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring
noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill
shriek—such a sound as you might imagine given out by the
waste-pipes of many thousand steam-vessels, letting off their
steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always
surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that another
moment would plunge us into the abyss, down which we could only
see indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we
wore borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at
all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon the surface of the
surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and on the larboard
arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge
writhing wall between us and the horizon.
“It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of
the gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approaching
it. Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great
deal of that terror which unmanned me at first. I suppose it was
despair that strung my nerves.
“It may look like boasting—but what I tell you is truth—I began
to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a
manner, and how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a
consideration as my own individual life, in view of so wonderful
a manifestation of God’s power. I do believe that I blushed with
shame when this idea crossed my mind. After a little while I
became possessed with the keenest curiosity about the whirl
itself. I positively felt a _wish_ to explore its depths, even at
the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief was
that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore
about the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular
fancies to occupy a man’s mind in such extremity—and I have often
thought since, that the revolutions of the boat around the pool
might have rendered me a little light-headed.
“There was another circumstance which tended to restore my
self-possession; and this was the cessation of the wind, which
could not reach us in our present situation—for, as you saw
yourself, the belt of surf is considerably lower than the general
bed of the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high,
black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in a
heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind
occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen,
and strangle you, and take away all power of action or
reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these
annoyances—just as death-condemned felons in prison are allowed
petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is yet
uncertain.
“How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to
say. We careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying
rather than floating, getting gradually more and more into the
middle of the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its horrible
inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the ring-bolt. My
brother was at the stern, holding on to a small empty water-cask
which had been securely lashed under the coop of the counter, and
was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when
the gale first took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he
let go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in
the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it
was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never
felt deeper grief than when I saw him attempt this act—although I
knew he was a madman when he did it—a raving maniac through sheer
fright. I did not care, however, to contest the point with him. I
knew it could make no difference whether either of us held on at
all; so I let him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask.
This there was no great difficulty in doing; for the smack flew
round steadily enough, and upon an even keel—only swaying to and
fro, with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely
had I secured myself in my new position, when we gave a wild
lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I
muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over.
“As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had
instinctively tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my
eyes. For some seconds I dared not open them—while I expected
instant destruction, and wondered that I was not already in my
death-struggles with the water. But moment after moment elapsed.
I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased; and the motion of
the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the belt
of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took
courage, and looked once again upon the scene.
“Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and
admiration with which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be
hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon the interior surface
of a funnel vast in circumference, prodigious in depth, and whose
perfectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony, but
for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun around, and for
the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of
the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which I
have already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along
the black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of
the abyss.
“At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately.
The general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld.
When I recovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell
instinctively downward. In this direction I was able to obtain an
unobstructed view, from the manner in which the smack hung on the
inclined surface of the pool. She was quite upon an even
keel—that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with that
of the water—but this latter sloped at an angle of more than
forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our
beam-ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had
scarcely more difficulty in maintaining my hold and footing in
this situation, than if we had been upon a dead level; and this,
I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we revolved.
“The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the
profound gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on
account of a thick mist in which everything there was enveloped,
and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow
and tottering bridge which Mussulmen say is the only pathway
between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt
occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as
they all met together at the bottom—but the yell that went up to
the Heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to
describe.
“Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam
above, had carried us a great distance down the slope; but our
farther descent was by no means proportionate. Round and round we
swept—not with any uniform movement—but in dizzying swings and
jerks, that sent us sometimes only a few hundred yards—sometimes
nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress downward,
at each revolution, was slow, but very perceptible.
“Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we
were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only
object in the embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were
visible fragments of vessels, large masses of building timber and
trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of
house furniture, broken boxes, barrels and staves. I have already
described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of my
original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer
and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a
strange interest, the numerous things that floated in our
company. I _must_ have been delirious, for I even sought
_amusement_ in speculating upon the relative velocities of their
several descents toward the foam below. ‘This fir tree,’ I found
myself at one time saying, ‘will certainly be the next thing that
takes the awful plunge and disappears,’—and then I was
disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship
overtook it and went down before. At length, after making several
guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all—this fact—the
fact of my invariable miscalculation, set me upon a train of
reflection that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat
heavily once more.
“It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a
more exciting _hope_. This hope arose partly from memory, and
partly from present observation. I called to mind the great
variety of buoyant matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden,
having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-ström.
By far the greater number of the articles were shattered in the
most extraordinary way—so chafed and roughened as to have the
appearance of being stuck full of splinters—but then I distinctly
recollected that there were _some_ of them which were not
disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this difference
except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the only
ones which had been _completely absorbed_—that the others had
entered the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or, for some
reason, had descended so slowly after entering, that they did not
reach the bottom before the turn of the flood came, or of the
ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in either
instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level
of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been
drawn in more early, or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also,
three important observations. The first was, that, as a general
rule, the larger the bodies were, the more rapid their
descent—the second, that, between two masses of equal extent, the
one spherical, and the other _of any other shape_, the
superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere—the third,
that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and
the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more
slowly. Since my escape, I have had several conversations on this
subject with an old school-master of the district; and it was
from him that I learned the use of the words ‘cylinder’ and
‘sphere.’ He explained to me—although I have forgotten the
explanation—how what I observed was, in fact, the natural
consequence of the forms of the floating fragments—and showed me
how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered
more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater
difficulty than an equally bulky body, of any form whatever. (*1)
“There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in
enforcing these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn
them to account, and this was that, at every revolution, we
passed something like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a
vessel, while many of these things, which had been on our level
when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the whirlpool,
were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little
from their original station.
“I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself
securely to the water cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose
from the counter, and to throw myself with it into the water. I
attracted my brother’s attention by signs, pointed to the
floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my
power to make him understand what I was about to do. I thought at
length that he comprehended my design—but, whether this was the
case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move
from his station by the ring-bolt. It was impossible to reach
him; the emergency admitted of no delay; and so, with a bitter
struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask
by means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and
precipitated myself with it into the sea, without another
moment’s hesitation.
“The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is
myself who now tell you this tale—as you see that I _did_
escape—and as you are already in possession of the mode in which
this escape was effected, and must therefore anticipate all that
I have farther to say—I will bring my story quickly to
conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout, after my
quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance
beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid
succession, and, bearing my loved brother with it, plunged
headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of foam below. The
barrel to which I was attached sunk very little farther than half
the distance between the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which
I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in the
character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast
funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the
whirl grew, gradually, less and less violent. By degrees, the
froth and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf
seemed slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone
down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I
found myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view of the
shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the
Moskoe-ström _had been_. It was the hour of the slack—but the sea
still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the
hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Ström,
and in a few minutes was hurried down the coast into the
‘grounds’ of the fishermen. A boat picked me up—exhausted from
fatigue—and (now that the danger was removed) speechless from the
memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were my old
mates and daily companions—but they knew me no more than they
would have known a traveller from the spirit-land. My hair which
had been raven-black the day before, was as white as you see it
now. They say too that the whole expression of my countenance had
changed. I told them my story—they did not believe it. I now tell
it to _you_—and I can scarcely expect you to put more faith in it
than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden.”
VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY
After the very minute and elaborate paper by Arago, to say
nothing of the summary in ‘Silliman’s Journal,’ with the detailed
statement just published by Lieutenant Maury, it will not be
supposed, of course, that in offering a few hurried remarks in
reference to Von Kempelen’s discovery, I have any design to look
at the subject in a scientific point of view. My object is
simply, in the first place, to say a few words of Von Kempelen
himself (with whom, some years ago, I had the honor of a slight
personal acquaintance), since every thing which concerns him must
necessarily, at this moment, be of interest; and, in the second
place, to look in a general way, and speculatively, at the
results of the discovery.
It may be as well, however, to premise the cursory observations
which I have to offer, by denying, very decidedly, what seems to
be a general impression (gleaned, as usual in a case of this
kind, from the newspapers), viz.: that this discovery, astounding
as it unquestionably is, is unanticipated.
By reference to the ‘Diary of Sir Humphrey Davy’ (Cottle and
Munroe, London, pp. 150), it will be seen at pp. 53 and 82, that
this illustrious chemist had not only conceived the idea now in
question, but had actually made no inconsiderable progress,
experimentally, in the very identical analysis now so
triumphantly brought to an issue by Von Kempelen, who although he
makes not the slightest allusion to it, is, without doubt (I say
it unhesitatingly, and can prove it, if required), indebted to
the ‘Diary’ for at least the first hint of his own undertaking.
The paragraph from the ‘Courier and Enquirer,’ which is now going
the rounds of the press, and which purports to claim the
invention for a Mr. Kissam, of Brunswick, Maine, appears to me, I
confess, a little apocryphal, for several reasons; although there
is nothing either impossible or very improbable in the statement
made. I need not go into details. My opinion of the paragraph is
founded principally upon its manner. It does not look true.
Persons who are narrating facts, are seldom so particular as Mr.
Kissam seems to be, about day and date and precise location.
Besides, if Mr. Kissam actually did come upon the discovery he
says he did, at the period designated—nearly eight years ago—how
happens it that he took no steps, on the instant, to reap the
immense benefits which the merest bumpkin must have known would
have resulted to him individually, if not to the world at large,
from the discovery? It seems to me quite incredible that any man
of common understanding could have discovered what Mr. Kissam
says he did, and yet have subsequently acted so like a baby—so
like an owl—as Mr. Kissam admits that he did. By-the-way, who is
Mr. Kissam? and is not the whole paragraph in the ‘Courier and
Enquirer’ a fabrication got up to ‘make a talk’? It must be
confessed that it has an amazingly moon-hoaxy-air. Very little
dependence is to be placed upon it, in my humble opinion; and if
I were not well aware, from experience, how very easily men of
science are mystified, on points out of their usual range of
inquiry, I should be profoundly astonished at finding so eminent
a chemist as Professor Draper, discussing Mr. Kissam’s (or is it
Mr. Quizzem’s?) pretensions to the discovery, in so serious a
tone.
But to return to the ‘Diary’ of Sir Humphrey Davy. This pamphlet
was not designed for the public eye, even upon the decease of the
writer, as any person at all conversant with authorship may
satisfy himself at once by the slightest inspection of the style.
At page 13, for example, near the middle, we read, in reference
to his researches about the protoxide of azote: ‘In less than
half a minute the respiration being continued, diminished
gradually and were succeeded by analogous to gentle pressure on
all the muscles.’ That the respiration was not ‘diminished,’ is
not only clear by the subsequent context, but by the use of the
plural, ‘were.’ The sentence, no doubt, was thus intended: ‘In
less than half a minute, the respiration [being continued, these
feelings] diminished gradually, and were succeeded by [a
sensation] analogous to gentle pressure on all the muscles.’ A
hundred similar instances go to show that the MS. so
inconsiderately published, was merely a rough note-book, meant
only for the writer’s own eye, but an inspection of the pamphlet
will convince almost any thinking person of the truth of my
suggestion. The fact is, Sir Humphrey Davy was about the last man
in the world to commit himself on scientific topics. Not only had
he a more than ordinary dislike to quackery, but he was morbidly
afraid of appearing empirical; so that, however fully he might
have been convinced that he was on the right track in the matter
now in question, he would never have spoken out, until he had
every thing ready for the most practical demonstration. I verily
believe that his last moments would have been rendered wretched,
could he have suspected that his wishes in regard to burning this
‘Diary’ (full of crude speculations) would have been unattended
to; as, it seems, they were. I say ‘his wishes,’ for that he
meant to include this note-book among the miscellaneous papers
directed ‘to be burnt,’ I think there can be no manner of doubt.
Whether it escaped the flames by good fortune or by bad, yet
remains to be seen. That the passages quoted above, with the
other similar ones referred to, gave Von Kempelen the hint, I do
not in the slightest degree question; but I repeat, it yet
remains to be seen whether this momentous discovery itself
(momentous under any circumstances) will be of service or
disservice to mankind at large. That Von Kempelen and his
immediate friends will reap a rich harvest, it would be folly to
doubt for a moment. They will scarcely be so weak as not to
‘realize,’ in time, by large purchases of houses and land, with
other property of intrinsic value.
In the brief account of Von Kempelen which appeared in the ‘Home
Journal,’ and has since been extensively copied, several
misapprehensions of the German original seem to have been made by
the translator, who professes to have taken the passage from a
late number of the Presburg ‘Schnellpost.’ ‘Viele’ has evidently
been misconceived (as it often is), and what the translator
renders by ‘sorrows,’ is probably ‘lieden,’ which, in its true
version, ‘sufferings,’ would give a totally different complexion
to the whole account; but, of course, much of this is merely
guess, on my part.
Von Kempelen, however, is by no means ‘a misanthrope,’ in
appearance, at least, whatever he may be in fact. My acquaintance
with him was casual altogether; and I am scarcely warranted in
saying that I know him at all; but to have seen and conversed
with a man of so _prodigious_ a notoriety as he has attained, or
_will_ attain in a few days, is not a small matter, as times go.
“The Literary World” speaks of him, confidently, as a native of
Presburg (misled, perhaps, by the account in “The Home Journal”)
but I am pleased in being able to state _positively_, since I
have it from his own lips, that he was born in Utica, in the
State of New York, although both his parents, I believe, are of
Presburg descent. The family is connected, in some way, with
Mäelzel, of Automaton-chess-player memory. In person, he is short
and stout, with large, _fat_, blue eyes, sandy hair and whiskers,
a wide but pleasing mouth, fine teeth, and I think a Roman nose.
There is some defect in one of his feet. His address is frank,
and his whole manner noticeable for bonhomie. Altogether, he
looks, speaks, and acts as little like ‘a misanthrope’ as any man
I ever saw. We were fellow-sojourners for a week about six years
ago, at Earl’s Hotel, in Providence, Rhode Island; and I presume
that I conversed with him, at various times, for some three or
four hours altogether. His principal topics were those of the
day; and nothing that fell from him led me to suspect his
scientific attainments. He left the hotel before me, intending to
go to New York, and thence to Bremen; it was in the latter city
that his great discovery was first made public; or, rather, it
was there that he was first suspected of having made it. This is
about all that I personally know of the now immortal Von
Kempelen; but I have thought that even these few details would
have interest for the public.
There can be little question that most of the marvellous rumors
afloat about this affair are pure inventions, entitled to about
as much credit as the story of Aladdin’s lamp; and yet, in a case
of this kind, as in the case of the discoveries in California, it
is clear that the truth may be stranger than fiction. The
following anecdote, at least, is so well authenticated, that we
may receive it implicitly.
Von Kempelen had never been even tolerably well off during his
residence at Bremen; and often, it was well known, he had been
put to extreme shifts in order to raise trifling sums. When the
great excitement occurred about the forgery on the house of
Gutsmuth & Co., suspicion was directed toward Von Kempelen, on
account of his having purchased a considerable property in
Gasperitch Lane, and his refusing, when questioned, to explain
how he became possessed of the purchase money. He was at length
arrested, but nothing decisive appearing against him, was in the
end set at liberty. The police, however, kept a strict watch upon
his movements, and thus discovered that he left home frequently,
taking always the same road, and invariably giving his watchers
the slip in the neighborhood of that labyrinth of narrow and
crooked passages known by the flash name of the ‘Dondergat.’
Finally, by dint of great perseverance, they traced him to a
garret in an old house of seven stories, in an alley called
Flatzplatz,—and, coming upon him suddenly, found him, as they
imagined, in the midst of his counterfeiting operations. His
agitation is represented as so excessive that the officers had
not the slightest doubt of his guilt. After hand-cuffing him,
they searched his room, or rather rooms, for it appears he
occupied all the mansarde.
Opening into the garret where they caught him, was a closet, ten
feet by eight, fitted up with some chemical apparatus, of which
the object has not yet been ascertained. In one corner of the
closet was a very small furnace, with a glowing fire in it, and
on the fire a kind of duplicate crucible—two crucibles connected
by a tube. One of these crucibles was nearly full of lead in a
state of fusion, but not reaching up to the aperture of the tube,
which was close to the brim. The other crucible had some liquid
in it, which, as the officers entered, seemed to be furiously
dissipating in vapor. They relate that, on finding himself taken,
Kempelen seized the crucibles with both hands (which were encased
in gloves that afterwards turned out to be asbestic), and threw
the contents on the tiled floor. It was now that they hand-cuffed
him; and before proceeding to ransack the premises they searched
his person, but nothing unusual was found about him, excepting a
paper parcel, in his coat-pocket, containing what was afterward
ascertained to be a mixture of antimony and some unknown
substance, in nearly, but not quite, equal proportions. All
attempts at analyzing the unknown substance have, so far, failed,
but that it will ultimately be analyzed, is not to be doubted.
Passing out of the closet with their prisoner, the officers went
through a sort of ante-chamber, in which nothing material was
found, to the chemist’s sleeping-room. They here rummaged some
drawers and boxes, but discovered only a few papers, of no
importance, and some good coin, silver and gold. At length,
looking under the bed, they saw a large, common hair trunk,
without hinges, hasp, or lock, and with the top lying carelessly
across the bottom portion. Upon attempting to draw this trunk out
from under the bed, they found that, with their united strength
(there were three of them, all powerful men), they ‘could not
stir it one inch.’ Much astonished at this, one of them crawled
under the bed, and looking into the trunk, said:
‘No wonder we couldn’t move it—why it’s full to the brim of old
bits of brass!’
Putting his feet, now, against the wall so as to get a good
purchase, and pushing with all his force, while his companions
pulled with all theirs, the trunk, with much difficulty, was slid
out from under the bed, and its contents examined. The supposed
brass with which it was filled was all in small, smooth pieces,
varying from the size of a pea to that of a dollar; but the
pieces were irregular in shape, although more or less
flat-looking, upon the whole, “very much as lead looks when
thrown upon the ground in a molten state, and there suffered to
grow cool.” Now, not one of these officers for a moment suspected
this metal to be anything _but_ brass. The idea of its being
_gold_ never entered their brains, of course; how _could_ such a
wild fancy have entered it? And their astonishment may be well
conceived, when the next day it became known, all over Bremen,
that the “lot of brass” which they had carted so contemptuously
to the police office, without putting themselves to the trouble
of pocketing the smallest scrap, was not only gold—real gold—but
gold far finer than any employed in coinage—gold, in fact,
absolutely pure, virgin, without the slightest appreciable alloy.
I need not go over the details of Von Kempelen’s confession (as
far as it went) and release, for these are familiar to the
public. That he has actually realized, in spirit and in effect,
if not to the letter, the old chimaera of the philosopher’s
stone, no sane person is at liberty to doubt. The opinions of
Arago are, of course, entitled to the greatest consideration; but
he is by no means infallible; and what he says of bismuth, in his
report to the Academy, must be taken _cum grano salis_. The
simple truth is, that up to this period all analysis has failed;
and until Von Kempelen chooses to let us have the key to his own
published enigma, it is more than probable that the matter will
remain, for years, in statu quo. All that as yet can fairly be
said to be known is, that ‘Pure gold can be made at will, and
very readily from lead in connection with certain other
substances, in kind and in proportions, unknown.’
Speculation, of course, is busy as to the immediate and ultimate
results of this discovery—a discovery which few thinking persons
will hesitate in referring to an increased interest in the matter
of gold generally, by the late developments in California; and
this reflection brings us inevitably to another—the exceeding
inopportuneness of Von Kempelen’s analysis. If many were
prevented from adventuring to California, by the mere
apprehension that gold would so materially diminish in value, on
account of its plentifulness in the mines there, as to render the
speculation of going so far in search of it a doubtful one—what
impression will be wrought now, upon the minds of those about to
emigrate, and especially upon the minds of those actually in the
mineral region, by the announcement of this astounding discovery
of Von Kempelen? a discovery which declares, in so many words,
that beyond its intrinsic worth for manufacturing purposes
(whatever that worth may be), gold now is, or at least soon will
be (for it cannot be supposed that Von Kempelen can long retain
his secret), of no greater value than lead, and of far inferior
value to silver. It is, indeed, exceedingly difficult to
speculate prospectively upon the consequences of the discovery,
but one thing may be positively maintained—that the announcement
of the discovery six months ago would have had material influence
in regard to the settlement of California.
In Europe, as yet, the most noticeable results have been a rise
of two hundred per cent. in the price of lead, and nearly
twenty-five per cent. that of silver.
MESMERIC REVELATION
Whatever doubt may still envelop the _rationale_ of mesmerism, its
startling _facts_ are now almost universally admitted. Of these latter,
those who doubt, are your mere doubters by profession—an unprofitable
and disreputable tribe. There can be no more absolute waste of time
than the attempt to _prove_, at the present day, that man, by mere
exercise of will, can so impress his fellow, as to cast him into an
abnormal condition, of which the phenomena resemble very closely those
of _death_, or at least resemble them more nearly than they do the
phenomena of any other normal condition within our cognizance; that,
while in this state, the person so impressed employs only with effort,
and then feebly, the external organs of sense, yet perceives, with
keenly refined perception, and through channels supposed unknown,
matters beyond the scope of the physical organs; that, moreover, his
intellectual faculties are wonderfully exalted and invigorated; that
his sympathies with the person so impressing him are profound; and,
finally, that his susceptibility to the impression increases with its
frequency, while, in the same proportion, the peculiar phenomena
elicited are more extended and more _pronounced_.
I say that these—which are the laws of mesmerism in its general
features—it would be supererogation to demonstrate; nor shall I inflict
upon my readers so needless a demonstration; to-day. My purpose at
present is a very different one indeed. I am impelled, even in the
teeth of a world of prejudice, to detail without comment the very
remarkable substance of a colloquy, occurring between a sleep-waker and
myself.
I had been long in the habit of mesmerizing the person in question (Mr.
Vankirk), and the usual acute susceptibility and exaltation of the
mesmeric perception had supervened. For many months he had been
laboring under confirmed phthisis, the more distressing effects of
which had been relieved by my manipulations; and on the night of
Wednesday, the fifteenth instant, I was summoned to his bedside.
The invalid was suffering with acute pain in the region of the heart,
and breathed with great difficulty, having all the ordinary symptoms of
asthma. In spasms such as these he had usually found relief from the
application of mustard to the nervous centres, but to-night this had
been attempted in vain.
As I entered his room he greeted me with a cheerful smile, and although
evidently in much bodily pain, appeared to be, mentally, quite at ease.
“I sent for you to-night,” he said, “not so much to administer to my
bodily ailment, as to satisfy me concerning certain psychal impressions
which, of late, have occasioned me much anxiety and surprise. I need
not tell you how sceptical I have hitherto been on the topic of the
soul’s immortality. I cannot deny that there has always existed, as if
in that very soul which I have been denying, a vague half-sentiment of
its own existence. But this half-sentiment at no time amounted to
conviction. With it my reason had nothing to do. All attempts at
logical inquiry resulted, indeed, in leaving me more sceptical than
before. I had been advised to study Cousin. I studied him in his own
works as well as in those of his European and American echoes. The
‘Charles Elwood’ of Mr. Brownson, for example, was placed in my hands.
I read it with profound attention. Throughout I found it logical, but
the portions which were not _merely_ logical were unhappily the initial
arguments of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his summing up it
seemed evident to me that the reasoner had not even succeeded in
convincing himself. His end had plainly forgotten his beginning, like
the government of Trinculo. In short, I was not long in perceiving that
if man is to be intellectually convinced of his own immortality, he
will never be so convinced by the mere abstractions which have been so
long the fashion of the moralists of England, of France, and of
Germany. Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the
mind. Here upon earth, at least, philosophy, I am persuaded, will
always in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as things. The will
may assent—the soul—the intellect, never.
“I repeat, then, that I only half felt, and never intellectually
believed. But latterly there has been a certain deepening of the
feeling, until it has come so nearly to resemble the acquiescence of
reason, that I find it difficult to distinguish between the two. I am
enabled, too, plainly to trace this effect to the mesmeric influence. I
cannot better explain my meaning than by the hypothesis that the
mesmeric exaltation enables me to perceive a train of ratiocination
which, in my abnormal existence, convinces, but which, in full
accordance with the mesmeric phenomena, does not extend, except through
its _effect_, into my normal condition. In sleep-waking, the reasoning
and its conclusion—the cause and its effect—are present together. In my
natural state, the cause vanishing, the effect only, and perhaps only
partially, remains.
“These considerations have led me to think that some good results might
ensue from a series of well-directed questions propounded to me while
mesmerized. You have often observed the profound self-cognizance
evinced by the sleep-waker—the extensive knowledge he displays upon all
points relating to the mesmeric condition itself; and from this
self-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of a
catechism.”
I consented of course to make this experiment. A few passes threw Mr.
Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep. His breathing became immediately more
easy, and he seemed to suffer no physical uneasiness. The following
conversation then ensued:—V. in the dialogue representing the patient,
and P. myself.
_P._ Are you asleep?
_V._ Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly.
_P._ [_After a few more passes._] Do you sleep now?
_V._ Yes.
_P._ How do you think your present illness will result?
_V._ [_After a long hesitation and speaking as if with effort_.]
I must die.
_P._ Does the idea of death afflict you?
_V._ [_Very quickly_.] No—no!
_P._ Are you pleased with the prospect?
_V._ If I were awake I should like to die, but now it is no
matter. The mesmeric condition is so near death as to content me.
_P._ I wish you would explain yourself, Mr. Vankirk.
_V._ I am willing to do so, but it requires more effort than I
feel able to make. You do not question me properly.
_P._ What then shall I ask?
_V._ You must begin at the beginning.
_P._ The beginning! But where is the beginning?
_V._ You know that the beginning is GOD. [_This was said in a
low, fluctuating tone, and with every sign of the most profound
veneration_.]
_P._ What then, is God?
_V._ [_Hesitating for many minutes._] I cannot tell.
_P._ Is not God spirit?
_V._ While I was awake I knew what you meant by “spirit,” but now
it seems only a word—such, for instance, as truth, beauty—a
quality, I mean.
_P._ Is not God immaterial?
_V._ There is no immateriality—it is a mere word. That which is
not matter, is not at all—unless qualities are things.
_P._ Is God, then, material?
_V._ No. [_This reply startled me very much._]
_P._ What, then, is he?
_V._ [_After a long pause, and mutteringly._] I see—but it is a
thing difficult to tell. [_Another long pause._] He is not
spirit, for he exists. Nor is he matter, as _you understand it_.
But there are _gradations_ of matter of which man knows nothing;
the grosser impelling the finer, the finer pervading the grosser.
The atmosphere, for example, impels the electric principle, while
the electric principle permeates the atmosphere. These gradations
of matter increase in rarity or fineness, until we arrive at a
matter _unparticled_—without particles—indivisible—_one;_ and
here the law of impulsion and permeation is modified. The
ultimate, or unparticled matter, not only permeates all things
but impels all things; and thus _is_ all things within itself.
This matter is God. What men attempt to embody in the word
“thought,” is this matter in motion.
_P._ The metaphysicians maintain that all action is reducible to
motion and thinking, and that the latter is the origin of the
former.
_V._ Yes; and I now see the confusion of idea. Motion is the
action of _mind_, not of _thinking_. The unparticled matter, or
God, in quiescence, is (as nearly as we can conceive it) what men
call mind. And the power of self-movement (equivalent in effect
to human volition) is, in the unparticled matter, the result of
its unity and omniprevalence; _how_ I know not, and now clearly
see that I shall never know. But the unparticled matter, set in
motion by a law, or quality, existing within itself, is thinking.
_P._ Can you give me no more precise idea of what you term the
unparticled matter?
_V._ The matters of which man is cognizant escape the senses in
gradation. We have, for example, a metal, a piece of wood, a drop
of water, the atmosphere, a gas, caloric, electricity, the
luminiferous ether. Now we call all these things matter, and
embrace all matter in one general definition; but in spite of
this, there can be no two ideas more essentially distinct than
that which we attach to a metal, and that which we attach to the
luminiferous ether. When we reach the latter, we feel an almost
irresistible inclination to class it with spirit, or with
nihility. The only consideration which restrains us is our
conception of its atomic constitution; and here, even, we have to
seek aid from our notion of an atom, as something possessing in
infinite minuteness, solidity, palpability, weight. Destroy the
idea of the atomic constitution and we should no longer be able
to regard the ether as an entity, or at least as matter. For want
of a better word we might term it spirit. Take, now, a step
beyond the luminiferous ether—conceive a matter as much more rare
than the ether, as this ether is more rare than the metal, and we
arrive at once (in spite of all the school dogmas) at a unique
mass—an unparticled matter. For although we may admit infinite
littleness in the atoms themselves, the infinitude of littleness
in the spaces between them is an absurdity. There will be a
point—there will be a degree of rarity, at which, if the atoms
are sufficiently numerous, the interspaces must vanish, and the
mass absolutely coalesce. But the consideration of the atomic
constitution being now taken away, the nature of the mass
inevitably glides into what we conceive of spirit. It is clear,
however, that it is as fully matter as before. The truth is, it
is impossible to conceive spirit, since it is impossible to
imagine what is not. When we flatter ourselves that we have
formed its conception, we have merely deceived our understanding
by the consideration of infinitely rarified matter.
_P._ There seems to me an insurmountable objection to the idea of
absolute coalescence;—and that is the very slight resistance
experienced by the heavenly bodies in their revolutions through
space—a resistance now ascertained, it is true, to exist in
_some_ degree, but which is, nevertheless, so slight as to have
been quite overlooked by the sagacity even of Newton. We know
that the resistance of bodies is, chiefly, in proportion to their
density. Absolute coalescence is absolute density. Where there
are no interspaces, there can be no yielding. An ether,
absolutely dense, would put an infinitely more effectual stop to
the progress of a star than would an ether of adamant or of iron.
_V._ Your objection is answered with an ease which is nearly in
the ratio of its apparent unanswerability.—As regards the
progress of the star, it can make no difference whether the star
passes through the ether _or the ether through it_. There is no
astronomical error more unaccountable than that which reconciles
the known retardation of the comets with the idea of their
passage through an ether: for, however rare this ether be
supposed, it would put a stop to all sidereal revolution in a
very far briefer period than has been admitted by those
astronomers who have endeavored to slur over a point which they
found it impossible to comprehend. The retardation actually
experienced is, on the other hand, about that which might be
expected from the _friction_ of the ether in the instantaneous
passage through the orb. In the one case, the retarding force is
momentary and complete within itself—in the other it is endlessly
accumulative.
_P._ But in all this—in this identification of mere matter with
God—is there nothing of irreverence? [_I was forced to repeat
this question before the sleep-waker fully comprehended my
meaning_.]
_V._ Can you say _why_ matter should be less reverenced than
mind? But you forget that the matter of which I speak is, in all
respects, the very “mind” or “spirit” of the schools, so far as
regards its high capacities, and is, moreover, the “matter” of
these schools at the same time. God, with all the powers
attributed to spirit, is but the perfection of matter.
_P._ You assert, then, that the unparticled matter, in motion, is
thought?
_V._ In general, this motion is the universal thought of the
universal mind. This thought creates. All created things are but
the thoughts of God.
_P._ You say, “in general.”
_V._ Yes. The universal mind is God. For new individualities,
_matter_ is necessary.
_P._ But you now speak of “mind” and “matter” as do the
metaphysicians.
_V._ Yes—to avoid confusion. When I say “mind,” I mean the
unparticled or ultimate matter; by “matter,” I intend all else.
_P._ You were saying that “for new individualities matter is
necessary.”
_V._ Yes; for mind, existing unincorporate, is merely God. To
create individual, thinking beings, it was necessary to incarnate
portions of the divine mind. Thus man is individualized. Divested
of corporate investiture, he were God. Now, the particular motion
of the incarnated portions of the unparticled matter is the
thought of man; as the motion of the whole is that of God.
_P._ You say that divested of the body man will be God?
_V._ [_After much hesitation._] I could not have said this; it is
an absurdity.
_P._ [_Referring to my notes._] You _did_ say that “divested of
corporate investiture man were God.”
_V._ And this is true. Man thus divested _would be_ God—would be
unindividualized. But he can never be thus divested—at least
never _will be_—else we must imagine an action of God returning
upon itself—a purposeless and futile action. Man is a creature.
Creatures are thoughts of God. It is the nature of thought to be
irrevocable.
_P._ I do not comprehend. You say that man will never put off the
body?
_V._ I say that he will never be bodiless.
_P._ Explain.
_V._ There are two bodies—the rudimental and the complete;
corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the
butterfly. What we call “death,” is but the painful
metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive,
preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate,
immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.
_P._ But of the worm’s metamorphosis we are palpably cognizant.
_V._ _We_, certainly—but not the worm. The matter of which our
rudimental body is composed, is within the ken of the organs of
that body; or, more distinctly, our rudimental organs are adapted
to the matter of which is formed the rudimental body; but not to
that of which the ultimate is composed. The ultimate body thus
escapes our rudimental senses, and we perceive only the shell
which falls, in decaying, from the inner form; not that inner
form itself; but this inner form, as well as the shell, is
appreciable by those who have already acquired the ultimate life.
_P._ You have often said that the mesmeric state very nearly
resembles death. How is this?
_V._ When I say that it resembles death, I mean that it resembles
the ultimate life; for when I am entranced the senses of my
rudimental life are in abeyance, and I perceive external things
directly, without organs, through a medium which I shall employ
in the ultimate, unorganized life.
_P._ Unorganized?
_V._ Yes; organs are contrivances by which the individual is
brought into sensible relation with particular classes and forms
of matter, to the exclusion of other classes and forms. The
organs of man are adapted to his rudimental condition, and to
that only; his ultimate condition, being unorganized, is of
unlimited comprehension in all points but one—the nature of the
volition of God—that is to say, the motion of the unparticled
matter. You will have a distinct idea of the ultimate body by
conceiving it to be entire brain. This it is _not_; but a
conception of this nature will bring you near a comprehension of
what it _is_. A luminous body imparts vibration to the
luminiferous ether. The vibrations generate similar ones within
the retina; these again communicate similar ones to the optic
nerve. The nerve conveys similar ones to the brain; the brain,
also, similar ones to the unparticled matter which permeates it.
The motion of this latter is thought, of which perception is the
first undulation. This is the mode by which the mind of the
rudimental life communicates with the external world; and this
external world is, to the rudimental life, limited, through the
idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in the ultimate, unorganized
life, the external world reaches the whole body, (which is of a
substance having affinity to brain, as I have said,) with no
other intervention than that of an infinitely rarer ether than
even the luminiferous; and to this ether—in unison with it—the
whole body vibrates, setting in motion the unparticled matter
which permeates it. It is to the absence of idiosyncratic organs,
therefore, that we must attribute the nearly unlimited perception
of the ultimate life. To rudimental beings, organs are the cages
necessary to confine them until fledged.
_P._ You speak of rudimental “beings.” Are there other rudimental
thinking beings than man?
_V._ The multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into nebulæ,
planets, suns, and other bodies which are neither nebulæ, suns,
nor planets, is for the sole purpose of supplying _pabulum_ for
the idiosyncrasy of the organs of an infinity of rudimental
beings. But for the necessity of the rudimental, prior to the
ultimate life, there would have been no bodies such as these.
Each of these is tenanted by a distinct variety of organic,
rudimental, thinking creatures. In all, the organs vary with the
features of the place tenanted. At death, or metamorphosis, these
creatures, enjoying the ultimate life—immortality—and cognizant
of all secrets but _the one_, act all things and pass everywhere
by mere volition:—indwelling, not the stars, which to us seem the
sole palpabilities, and for the accommodation of which we blindly
deem space created—but that SPACE itself—that infinity of which
the truly substantive vastness swallows up the
star-shadows—blotting them out as non-entities from the
perception of the angels.
_P._ You say that “but for the _necessity_ of the rudimental
life” there would have been no stars. But why this necessity?
_V._ In the inorganic life, as well as in the inorganic matter
generally, there is nothing to impede the action of one simple
_unique_ law—the Divine Volition. With the view of producing
impediment, the organic life and matter, (complex, substantial,
and law-encumbered,) were contrived.
_P._ But again—why need this impediment have been produced?
_V._ The result of law inviolate is perfection—right—negative
happiness. The result of law violate is imperfection, wrong,
positive pain. Through the impediments afforded by the number,
complexity, and substantiality of the laws of organic life and
matter, the violation of law is rendered, to a certain extent,
practicable. Thus pain, which in the inorganic life is
impossible, is possible in the organic.
_P._ But to what good end is pain thus rendered possible?
_V._ All things are either good or bad by comparison. A
sufficient analysis will show that pleasure, in all cases, is but
the contrast of pain. _Positive_ pleasure is a mere idea. To be
happy at any one point we must have suffered at the same. Never
to suffer would have been never to have been blessed. But it has
been shown that, in the inorganic life, pain cannot be thus the
necessity for the organic. The pain of the primitive life of
Earth, is the sole basis of the bliss of the ultimate life in
Heaven.
_P._ Still, there is one of your expressions which I find it
impossible to comprehend—“the truly _substantive_ vastness of
infinity.”
_V._ This, probably, is because you have no sufficiently generic
conception of the term “_substance_” itself. We must not regard
it as a quality, but as a sentiment:—it is the perception, in
thinking beings, of the adaptation of matter to their
organization. There are many things on the Earth, which would be
nihility to the inhabitants of Venus—many things visible and
tangible in Venus, which we could not be brought to appreciate as
existing at all. But to the inorganic beings—to the angels—the
whole of the unparticled matter is substance—that is to say, the
whole of what we term “space” is to them the truest
substantiality;—the stars, meantime, through what we consider
their materiality, escaping the angelic sense, just in proportion
as the unparticled matter, through what we consider its
immateriality, eludes the organic.
As the sleep-waker pronounced these latter words, in a feeble
tone, I observed on his countenance a singular expression, which
somewhat alarmed me, and induced me to awake him at once. No
sooner had I done this, than, with a bright smile irradiating all
his features, he fell back upon his pillow and expired. I noticed
that in less than a minute afterward his corpse had all the stern
rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldness of ice. Thus,
ordinarily, should it have appeared, only after long pressure
from Azrael’s hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, during the
latter portion of his discourse, been addressing me from out the
region of the shadows?
THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR
Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for
wonder, that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited
discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not—especially
under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties
concerned, to keep the affair from the public, at least for the
present, or until we had farther opportunities for
investigation—through our endeavors to effect this—a garbled or
exaggerated account made its way into society, and became the
source of many unpleasant misrepresentations; and, very
naturally, of a great deal of disbelief.
It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts—as far as I
comprehend them myself. They are, succinctly, these:
My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn
to the subject of Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago it
occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in the series of experiments
made hitherto, there had been a very remarkable and most
unaccountable omission:—no person had as yet been mesmerized in
articulo mortis. It remained to be seen, first, whether, in such
condition, there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the
magnetic influence; secondly, whether, if any existed, it was
impaired or increased by the condition; thirdly, to what extent,
or for how long a period, the encroachments of Death might be
arrested by the process. There were other points to be
ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity—the last in
especial, from the immensely important character of its
consequences.
In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test
these particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest
Valdemar, the well-known compiler of the “Bibliotheca Forensica,”
and author (under the nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the
Polish versions of “Wallenstein” and “Gargantua.” M. Valdemar,
who has resided principally at Harlem, N.Y., since the year 1839,
is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extreme spareness of
his person—his lower limbs much resembling those of John
Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in
violent contrast to the blackness of his hair—the latter, in
consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig. His
temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject
for mesmeric experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him
to sleep with little difficulty, but was disappointed in other
results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me to
anticipate. His will was at no period positively, or thoroughly,
under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance, I could
accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always
attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of
his health. For some months previous to my becoming acquainted
with him, his physicians had declared him in a confirmed
phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his
approaching dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor
regretted.
When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it
was of course very natural that I should think of M. Valdemar. I
knew the steady philosophy of the man too well to apprehend any
scruples from him; and he had no relatives in America who would
be likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject;
and, to my surprise, his interest seemed vividly excited. I say
to my surprise, for, although he had always yielded his person
freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens
of sympathy with what I did. His disease was of that character
which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of
its termination in death; and it was finally arranged between us
that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the
period announced by his physicians as that of his decease.
It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M.
Valdemar himself, the subjoined note:
MY DEAR P——,
You may as well come now. D—— and F—— are agreed that I cannot
hold out beyond to-morrow midnight; and I think they have hit the
time very nearly.
VALDEMAR
I received this note within half an hour after it was written,
and in fifteen minutes more I was in the dying man’s chamber. I
had not seen him for ten days, and was appalled by the fearful
alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face
wore a leaden hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless; and the
emaciation was so extreme that the skin had been broken through
by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse
was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very
remarkable manner, both his mental power and a certain degree of
physical strength. He spoke with distinctness—took some
palliative medicines without aid—and, when I entered the room,
was occupied in penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was
propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D—— and F—— were in
attendance.
After pressing Valdemar’s hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and
obtained from them a minute account of the patient’s condition.
The left lung had been for eighteen months in a semi-osseous or
cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely useless for all
purposes of vitality. The right, in its upper portion, was also
partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, while the lower region
was merely a mass of purulent tubercles, running one into
another. Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one
point, permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These
appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date.
The ossification had proceeded with very unusual rapidity; no
sign of it had been discovered a month before, and the adhesion
had only been observed during the three previous days.
Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of
aneurism of the aorta; but on this point the osseous symptoms
rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of
both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the
morrow (Sunday). It was then seven o’clock on Saturday evening.
On quitting the invalid’s bed-side to hold conversation with
myself, Doctors D—— and F—— had bidden him a final farewell. It
had not been their intention to return; but, at my request, they
agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night.
When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the
subject of his approaching dissolution, as well as, more
particularly, of the experiment proposed. He still professed
himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged
me to commence it at once. A male and a female nurse were in
attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty to
engage in a task of this character with no more reliable
witnesses than these people, in case of sudden accident, might
prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the
next night, when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had
some acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L—l,) relieved me from farther
embarrassment. It had been my design, originally, to wait for the
physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by the urgent
entreaties of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I
had not a moment to lose, as he was evidently sinking fast.
Mr. L—l was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take
notes of all that occurred, and it is from his memoranda that
what I now have to relate is, for the most part, either condensed
or copied verbatim.
It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient’s
hand, I begged him to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr.
L—l, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entirely willing that I should
make the experiment of mesmerizing him in his then condition.
He replied feebly, yet quite audibly, “Yes, I wish to be. I fear
you have mesmerized”—adding immediately afterwards: “I fear you
have deferred it too long.”
While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already
found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced
with the first lateral stroke of my hand across his forehead; but
although I exerted all my powers, no further perceptible effect
was induced until some minutes after ten o’clock, when Doctors
D—— and F—— called, according to appointment. I explained to
them, in a few words, what I designed, and as they opposed no
objection, saying that the patient was already in the death
agony, I proceeded without hesitation—exchanging, however, the
lateral passes for downward ones, and directing my gaze entirely
into the right eye of the sufferer.
By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was
stertorous, and at intervals of half a minute.
This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At
the expiration of this period, however, a natural although a very
deep sigh escaped the bosom of the dying man, and the stertorous
breathing ceased—that is to say, its stertorousness was no longer
apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient’s
extremities were of an icy coldness.
At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of
the mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed
for that expression of uneasy inward examination which is never
seen except in cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite
impossible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the
lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and with a few more I closed
them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but
continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest
exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs
of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy
position. The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so,
and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loin. The
head was very slightly elevated.
When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I
requested the gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar’s
condition. After a few experiments, they admitted him to be an
unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both
the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D—— resolved at once to
remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F—— took leave with
a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L—l and the nurses remained.
We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three
o’clock in the morning, when I approached him and found him in
precisely the same condition as when Dr. F—— went away—that is to
say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible;
the breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, unless through the
application of a mirror to the lips); the eyes were closed
naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble.
Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death.
As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to
influence his right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the
latter gently to and fro above his person. In such experiments
with this patient, I had never perfectly succeeded before, and
assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but to my
astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, followed
every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a
few words of conversation.
“M. Valdemar,” I said, “are you asleep?” He made no answer, but I
perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat
the question, again and again. At its third repetition, his whole
frame was agitated by a very slight shivering; the eyelids
unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of the
ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a
barely audible whisper, issued the words:
“Yes;—asleep now. Do not wake me!—let me die so!”
I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right
arm, as before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the
sleep-waker again:
“Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?”
The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before:
“No pain—I am dying.”
I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then,
and nothing more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F——,
who came a little before sunrise, and expressed unbounded
astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling
the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips, he requested me to
speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying:
“M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?”
As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during
the interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies
to speak. At my fourth repetition of the question, he said very
faintly, almost inaudibly:
“Yes; still asleep—dying.”
It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians,
that M. Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his
present apparently tranquil condition, until death should
supervene—and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place
within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once
more, and merely repeated my previous question.
While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of
the sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the
pupils disappearing upwardly; the skin generally assumed a
cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper;
and the circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly
defined in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use this
expression, because the suddenness of their departure put me in
mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a
puff of the breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed
itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered
completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk,
leaving the mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view
the swollen and blackened tongue. I presume that no member of the
party then present had been unaccustomed to death-bed horrors;
but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M.
Valdemar at this moment, that there was a general shrinking back
from the region of the bed.
I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which
every reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my
business, however, simply to proceed.
There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar;
and concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the
charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was
observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At
the expiration of this period, there issued from the distended
and motionless jaws a voice—such as it would be madness in me to
attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets
which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might
say, for example, that the sound was harsh, and broken and
hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, for the simple
reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of
humanity. There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I
thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as
characteristic of the intonation—as well adapted to convey some
idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice
seemed to reach our ears—at least mine—from a vast distance, or
from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place, it
impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make
myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress
the sense of touch.
I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that
the sound was one of distinct—of even wonderfully, thrillingly
distinct—syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke—obviously in reply to
the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had
asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said:
“Yes;—no;—I have been sleeping—and now—now—I am dead.”
No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress,
the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus
uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L—l (the student)
swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not
be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to
render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied
ourselves, silently—without the utterance of a word—in endeavors
to revive Mr. L—l. When he came to himself, we addressed
ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar’s condition.
It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the
exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of
respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I
should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my
will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my
hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric
influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue,
whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be
making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition.
To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed
utterly insensible—although I endeavored to place each member of
the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have
now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the
sleep-waker’s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured;
and at ten o’clock I left the house in company with the two
physicians and Mr. L—l.
In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His
condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion
as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had
little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be
served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what
is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric
process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar
would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy,
dissolution.
From this period until the close of last week—an interval of
nearly seven months—we continued to make daily calls at M.
Valdemar’s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other
friends. All this time the sleeper-waker remained _exactly_ as I
have last described him. The nurses’ attentions were continual.
It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the
experiment of awakening, or attempting to awaken him; and it is
the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which
has given rise to so much discussion in private circles—to so
much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.
For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric
trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time,
were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded
by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially
remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by
the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the
lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.
It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the
patient’s arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr.
F—— then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so,
as follows:
“M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or
wishes now?”
There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks;
the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth
(although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before), and at
length the same hideous voice which I have already described,
broke forth:
“For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!—put me to sleep—or, quick!—waken
me!—quick!—I say to you that I am dead!”
I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided
what to do. At first I made an endeavor to recompose the patient;
but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I
retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In
this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful—or at least I
soon fancied that my success would be complete—and I am sure that
all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.
For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that
any human being could have been prepared.
As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of
“dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from
the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the
space of a single minute, or even less,
shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the
bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of
loathsome—of detestable putrescence.
THE BLACK CAT.
For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to
pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be
to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own
evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream. But
to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My
immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly,
succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household
events. In their consequences, these events have terrified—have
tortured—have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound
them. To me, they have presented little but horror—to many they
will seem less terrible than _barroques_. Hereafter, perhaps,
some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the
common-place—some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less
excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances
I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of
very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my
disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to
make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of
animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of
pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy
as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character
grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of
my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an
affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at
the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the
gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish
and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the
heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry
friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere _Man_.
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition
not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic
pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most
agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a
small monkey, and _a cat_.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely
black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his
intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured
with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular
notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not
that she was ever _serious_ upon this point—and I mention the
matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just
now, to be remembered.
Pluto—this was the cat’s name—was my favorite pet and playmate. I
alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the
house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from
following me through the streets.
Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during
which my general temperament and character—through the
instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance—had (I blush to confess
it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day
by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the
feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language
to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My
pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition.
I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I
still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating
him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey,
or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they
came in my way. But my disease grew upon me—for what disease is
like Alcohol!—and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old,
and consequently somewhat peevish—even Pluto began to experience
the effects of my ill temper.
One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my
haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I
seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a
slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon
instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul
seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than
fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my
frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it,
grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of
its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen
the damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning—when I had slept off the
fumes of the night’s debauch—I experienced a sentiment half of
horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been
guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and
the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and
soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost
eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no
longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as
usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my
approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first
grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which
had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to
irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable
overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy
takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than
I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the
human heart—one of the indivisible primary faculties, or
sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has
not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly
action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not?
Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best
judgment, to violate that which is _Law_, merely because we
understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say,
came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of
the soul _to vex itself_—to offer violence to its own nature—to
do wrong for the wrong’s sake only—that urged me to continue and
finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the
unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose
about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree;—hung it with
the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse
at my heart;—hung it _because_ I knew that it had loved me, and
_because_ I felt it had given me no reason of offence;—hung it
_because_ I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin—a deadly
sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it—if
such a thing wore possible—even beyond the reach of the infinite
mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was
aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed
were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great
difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape
from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire
worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself
thenceforward to despair.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of
cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am
detailing a chain of facts—and wish not to leave even a possible
link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the
ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This
exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which
stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested
the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure,
resisted the action of the fire—a fact which I attributed to its
having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were
collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular
portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words
“strange!” “singular!” and other similar expressions, excited my
curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in _bas relief_
upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic _cat_. The
impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was
a rope about the animal’s neck.
When I first beheld this apparition—for I could scarcely regard
it as less—my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length
reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung
in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this
garden had been immediately filled by the crowd—by some one of
whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown,
through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been
done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of
other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the
substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with
the flames, and the _ammonia_ from the carcass, had then
accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether
to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did
not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For
months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and,
during this period, there came back into my spirit a
half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far
as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among
the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another
pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with
which to supply its place.
One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy,
my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing
upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of gin, or of rum,
which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had
been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some
minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had
not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and
touched it with my hand. It was a black cat—a very large
one—fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every
respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of
his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch
of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast. Upon my
touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against
my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was
the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to
purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to
it—knew nothing of it—had never seen it before.
I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the
animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to
do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When
it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became
immediately a great favorite with my wife.
For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me.
This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but—I know
not how or why it was—its evident fondness for myself rather
disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust
and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the
creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my
former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it.
I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use
it; but gradually—very gradually—I came to look upon it with
unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious
presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.
What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the
discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like
Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This
circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I
have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of
feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the
source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.
With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself
seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity
which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend.
Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon
my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to
walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down,
or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in
this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to
destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly
by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly—let me confess it at
once—by absolute dread of the beast.
This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil—and yet I
should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost
ashamed to own—yes, even in this felon’s cell, I am almost
ashamed to own—that the terror and horror with which the animal
inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras
it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my
attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white
hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole
visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had
destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although
large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow
degrees—degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time
my reason struggled to reject as fanciful—it had, at length,
assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the
representation of an object that I shudder to name—and for this,
above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of
the monster _had I dared_—it was now, I say, the image of a
hideous—of a ghastly thing—of the GALLOWS!—oh, mournful and
terrible engine of Horror and of Crime—of Agony and of Death!
And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere
Humanity. And _a brute beast _—whose fellow I had contemptuously
destroyed—_a brute beast_ to work out for _me_—for me a man,
fashioned in the image of the High God—so much of insufferable
woe! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of
rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment
alone, and in the latter I started hourly from dreams of
unutterable fear to find the hot breath of _the thing_ upon my
face, and its vast weight—an incarnate nightmare that I had no
power to shake off—incumbent eternally upon my _heart!_
Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble
remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my
sole intimates—the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The
moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things
and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and
ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned
myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas, was the most usual and the
most patient of sufferers.
One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the
cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to
inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly
throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an
axe, and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had
hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of
course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I
wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife.
Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I
withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain.
She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.
This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and
with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I
knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or
by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors.
Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting
the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At
another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the
cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the
yard—about packing it in a box, as if merchandise, with the usual
arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house.
Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than
either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar—as the
monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their
victims.
For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls
were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered
throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the
atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the
walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace,
that had been filled up, and made to resemble the red of the
cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks
at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as
before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in
this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I
easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the
body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position,
while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it
originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with
every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not
be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully
went over the new brickwork. When I had finished, I felt
satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the
slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the
floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around
triumphantly, and said to myself: “Here at least, then, my labor
has not been in vain.”
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause
of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to
put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment,
there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that
the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous
anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is
impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful
sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature
occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the
night; and thus for one night at least, since its introduction
into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even
with the burden of murder upon my soul!
The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came
not. Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror,
had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My
happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but
little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been
readily answered. Even a search had been instituted—but of course
nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as
secured.
Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police
came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to
make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in
the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no
embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in
their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length,
for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I
quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who
slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I
folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The
police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee
at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if
but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their
assurance of my guiltlessness.
“Gentlemen,” I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, “I
delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health,
and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this—this is a
very well-constructed house.” (In the rabid desire to say
something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.)—“I may
say an _excellently_ well-constructed house. These walls—are you
going, gentlemen?—these walls are solidly put together;” and
here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with
a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the
brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the
Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into
silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb!—by
a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child,
and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous
scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman—a howl—a wailing shriek,
half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen
only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the damned in
their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.
Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to
the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs
remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In
the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell
bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with
gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its
head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the
hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose
informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the
monster up within the tomb!
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
Son cœur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu’on le touche il résonne..
—_De Béranger_.
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn
of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the
heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a
singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself,
as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the
melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was—but, with the
first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom
pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was
unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic,
sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest
natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the
scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape
features of the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant
eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—and upon a few white
trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which I
can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the
after-dream of the reveller upon opium—the bitter lapse into
everyday life—the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an
iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed
dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could
torture into aught of the sublime. What was it—I paused to
think—what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the
House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I
grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I
pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory
conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there _are_ combinations of
very simple natural objects which have the power of thus
affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among
considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected,
that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the
scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to
modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful
impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the
precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled
lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down—but with a shudder even
more thrilling than before—upon the remodelled and inverted
images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the
vacant and eye-like windows.
Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself a
sojourn of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been
one of my boon companions in boyhood; but many years had elapsed
since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately reached me
in a distant part of the country—a letter from him—which, in its
wildly importunate nature, had admitted of no other than a
personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The
writer spoke of acute bodily illness—of a mental disorder which
oppressed him—and of an earnest desire to see me, as his best,
and indeed his only personal friend, with a view of attempting,
by the cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his
malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much more, was
said—it was the apparent _heart_ that went with his request—which
allowed me no room for hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed
forthwith what I still considered a very singular summons.
Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet I
really knew little of my friend. His reserve had been always
excessive and habitual. I was aware, however, that his very
ancient family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar
sensibility of temperament, displaying itself, through long ages,
in many works of exalted art, and manifested, of late, in
repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as
in a passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps even more
than to the orthodox and easily recognisable beauties, of musical
science. I had learned, too, the very remarkable fact, that the
stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it was, had put
forth, at no period, any enduring branch; in other words, that
the entire family lay in the direct line of descent, and had
always, with very trifling and very temporary variation, so lain.
It was this deficiency, I considered, while running over in
thought the perfect keeping of the character of the premises with
the accredited character of the people, and while speculating
upon the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse of
centuries, might have exercised upon the other—it was this
deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and the consequent
undeviating transmission, from sire to son, of the patrimony with
the name, which had, at length, so identified the two as to merge
the original title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal
appellation of the “House of Usher”—an appellation which seemed
to include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, both the
family and the family mansion.
I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish
experiment—that of looking down within the tarn—had been to
deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt that
the consciousness of the rapid increase of my superstition—for
why should I not so term it?—served mainly to accelerate the
increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law
of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might have
been for this reason only, that, when I again uplifted my eyes to
the house itself, from its image in the pool, there grew in my
mind a strange fancy—a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but
mention it to show the vivid force of the sensations which
oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination as really to
believe that about the whole mansion and domain there hung an
atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity—an
atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but
which had reeked up from the decayed trees, and the gray wall,
and the silent tarn—a pestilent and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish,
faintly discernible, and leaden-hued.
Shaking off from my spirit what _must_ have been a dream, I
scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its
principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity.
The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread
the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the
eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary
dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there
appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect
adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the
individual stones. In this there was much that reminded me of the
specious totality of old wood-work which has rotted for long
years in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the
breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of extensive
decay, however, the fabric gave little token of instability.
Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered
a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of
the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag
direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.
Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house.
A servant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the Gothic
archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted
me, in silence, through many dark and intricate passages in my
progress to the _studio_ of his master. Much that I encountered
on the way contributed, I know not how, to heighten the vague
sentiments of which I have already spoken. While the objects
around me—while the carvings of the ceilings, the sombre
tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and
the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which rattled as I strode,
were but matters to which, or to such as which, I had been
accustomed from my infancy—while I hesitated not to acknowledge
how familiar was all this—I still wondered to find how unfamiliar
were the fancies which ordinary images were stirring up. On one
of the staircases, I met the physician of the family. His
countenance, I thought, wore a mingled expression of low cunning
and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation and passed on.
The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the presence
of his master.
The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The
windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance
from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from
within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way through
the trellissed panes, and served to render sufficiently distinct
the more prominent objects around; the eye, however, struggled in
vain to reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or the recesses
of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the
walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique,
and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered
about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that
I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and
irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all.
Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been
lying at full length, and greeted me with a vivacious warmth
which had much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone
cordiality—of the constrained effort of the _ennuyé_ man of the
world. A glance, however, at his countenance, convinced me of his
perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for some moments, while he
spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of pity, half of
awe. Surely, man had never before so terribly altered, in so
brief a period, as had Roderick Usher! It was with difficulty
that I could bring myself to admit the identity of the wan being
before me with the companion of my early boyhood. Yet the
character of his face had been at all times remarkable. A
cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous
beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a
surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew model,
but with a breadth of nostril unusual in similar formations; a
finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a
want of moral energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and
tenuity; these features, with an inordinate expansion above the
regions of the temple, made up altogether a countenance not
easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere exaggeration of the
prevailing character of these features, and of the expression
they were wont to convey, lay so much of change that I doubted to
whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now
miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things startled and even
awed me. The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all
unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated rather
than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, connect
its Arabesque expression with any idea of simple humanity.
In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an
incoherence—an inconsistency; and I soon found this to arise from
a series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome an habitual
trepidancy—an excessive nervous agitation. For something of this
nature I had indeed been prepared, no less by his letter, than by
reminiscences of certain boyish traits, and by conclusions
deduced from his peculiar physical conformation and temperament.
His action was alternately vivacious and sullen. His voice varied
rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the animal spirits
seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species of energetic
concision—that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and hollow-sounding
enunciation—that leaden, self-balanced and perfectly modulated
guttural utterance, which may be observed in the lost drunkard,
or the irreclaimable eater of opium, during the periods of his
most intense excitement.
It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his
earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he expected me to
afford him. He entered, at some length, into what he conceived to
be the nature of his malady. It was, he said, a constitutional
and a family evil, and one for which he despaired to find a
remedy—a mere nervous affection, he immediately added, which
would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a host of
unnatural sensations. Some of these, as he detailed them,
interested and bewildered me; although, perhaps, the terms, and
the general manner of the narration had their weight. He suffered
much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; the most insipid food
was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of certain
texture; the odors of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were
tortured by even a faint light; and there were but peculiar
sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did not
inspire him with horror.
To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden slave. “I
shall perish,” said he, “I must perish in this deplorable folly.
Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the
events of the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I
shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident,
which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I
have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute
effect—in terror. In this unnerved—in this pitiable condition—I
feel that the period will sooner or later arrive when I must
abandon life and reason together, in some struggle with the grim
phantasm, FEAR.”
I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and
equivocal hints, another singular feature of his mental
condition. He was enchained by certain superstitious impressions
in regard to the dwelling which he tenanted, and whence, for many
years, he had never ventured forth—in regard to an influence
whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here
to be re-stated—an influence which some peculiarities in the mere
form and substance of his family mansion, had, by dint of long
sufferance, he said, obtained over his spirit—an effect which the
_physique_ of the gray walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn
into which they all looked down, had, at length, brought about
upon the _morale_ of his existence.
He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the
peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to a more
natural and far more palpable origin—to the severe and
long-continued illness—indeed to the evidently approaching
dissolution—of a tenderly beloved sister—his sole companion for
long years—his last and only relative on earth. “Her decease,” he
said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, “would leave
him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last of the ancient race
of the Ushers.” While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she
called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the apartment,
and, without having noticed my presence, disappeared. I regarded
her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread—and yet I
found it impossible to account for such feelings. A sensation of
stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her retreating steps.
When a door, at length, closed upon her, my glance sought
instinctively and eagerly the countenance of the brother—but he
had buried his face in his hands, and I could only perceive that
a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the emaciated
fingers through which trickled many passionate tears.
The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of
her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of the
person, and frequent although transient affections of a partially
cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she
had steadily borne up against the pressure of her malady, and had
not betaken herself finally to bed; but, on the closing in of the
evening of my arrival at the house, she succumbed (as her brother
told me at night with inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating
power of the destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I had
obtained of her person would thus probably be the last I should
obtain—that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me
no more.
For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either
Usher or myself; and during this period I was busied in earnest
endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We painted
and read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild
improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a closer and
still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into the
recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the
futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which darkness,
as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon all objects
of the moral and physical universe, in one unceasing radiation of
gloom.
I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours I
thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I
should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact
character of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he
involved me, or led me the way. An excited and highly distempered
ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His long improvised
dirges will ring forever in my ears. Among other things, I hold
painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification
of the wild air of the last waltz of Von Weber. From the
paintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew,
touch by touch, into vaguenesses at which I shuddered the more
thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not why—from these
paintings (vivid as their images now are before me) I would in
vain endeavor to educe more than a small portion which should lie
within the compass of merely written words. By the utter
simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and
overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea, that mortal
was Roderick Usher. For me at least—in the circumstances then
surrounding me—there arose out of the pure abstractions which the
hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his canvass, an intensity
of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the
contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries
of Fuseli.
One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not
so rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be shadowed forth,
although feebly, in words. A small picture presented the interior
of an immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low
walls, smooth, white, and without interruption or device. Certain
accessory points of the design served well to convey the idea
that this excavation lay at an exceeding depth below the surface
of the earth. No outlet was observed in any portion of its vast
extent, and no torch, or other artificial source of light was
discernible; yet a flood of intense rays rolled throughout, and
bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappropriate splendor.
I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve
which rendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, with the
exception of certain effects of stringed instruments. It was,
perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself upon
the guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the fantastic
character of his performances. But the fervid _facility_ of his
_impromptus_ could not be so accounted for. They must have been,
and were, in the notes, as well as in the words of his wild
fantasias (for he not unfrequently accompanied himself with
rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that intense mental
collectedness and concentration to which I have previously
alluded as observable only in particular moments of the highest
artificial excitement. The words of one of these rhapsodies I
have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly
impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under or mystic
current of its meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the
first time, a full consciousness on the part of Usher of the
tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, which
were entitled “The Haunted Palace,” ran very nearly, if not
accurately, thus:
I.
In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
II.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
III.
Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute’s well-tunéd law,
Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
IV.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
V.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And, round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
VI.
And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door,
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh—but smile no more.
I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad, led us
into a train of thought wherein there became manifest an opinion
of Usher’s which I mention not so much on account of its novelty,
(for other men * have thought thus,) as on account of the
pertinacity with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its
general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable things.
But, in his disordered fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring
character, and trespassed, under certain conditions, upon the
kingdom of inorganization. I lack words to express the full
extent, or the earnest _abandon_ of his persuasion. The belief,
however, was connected (as I have previously hinted) with the
gray stones of the home of his forefathers. The conditions of the
sentience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in the method of
collocation of these stones—in the order of their arrangement, as
well as in that of the many _fungi_ which overspread them, and of
the decayed trees which stood around—above all, in the long
undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and in its
reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence—the
evidence of the sentience—was to be seen, he said, (and I here
started as he spoke,) in the gradual yet certain condensation of
an atmosphere of their own about the waters and the walls. The
result was discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet
importunate and terrible influence which for centuries had
moulded the destinies of his family, and which made _him_ what I
now saw him—what he was. Such opinions need no comment, and I
will make none.
* Watson, Dr. Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop of
Landaff.—See “Chemical Essays,” vol v.
Our books—the books which, for years, had formed no small portion
of the mental existence of the invalid—were, as might be
supposed, in strict keeping with this character of phantasm. We
pored together over such works as the Ververt et Chartreuse of
Gresset; the Belphegor of Machiavelli; the Heaven and Hell of
Swedenborg; the Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas Klimm by Holberg;
the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean D’Indaginé, and of De la
Chambre; the Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck; and the
City of the Sun of Campanella. One favorite volume was a small
octavo edition of the _Directorium Inquisitorium_, by the
Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; and there were passages in
Pomponius Mela, about the old African Satyrs and OEgipans, over
which Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight,
however, was found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and
curious book in quarto Gothic—the manual of a forgotten
church—the _Vigiliae Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesiae
Maguntinae_.
I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of
its probable influence upon the hypochondriac, when, one evening,
having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no more,
he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight,
(previously to its final interment,) in one of the numerous
vaults within the main walls of the building. The worldly reason,
however, assigned for this singular proceeding, was one which I
did not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother had been led to
his resolution (so he told me) by consideration of the unusual
character of the malady of the deceased, of certain obtrusive and
eager inquiries on the part of her medical men, and of the remote
and exposed situation of the burial-ground of the family. I will
not deny that when I called to mind the sinister countenance of
the person whom I met upon the staircase, on the day of my
arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose what I regarded
as at best but a harmless, and by no means an unnatural,
precaution.
At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the
arrangements for the temporary entombment. The body having been
encoffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. The vault in which
we placed it (and which had been so long unopened that our
torches, half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave us
little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, and
entirely without means of admission for light; lying, at great
depth, immediately beneath that portion of the building in which
was my own sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in
remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of a donjon-keep,
and, in later days, as a place of deposit for powder, or some
other highly combustible substance, as a portion of its floor,
and the whole interior of a long archway through which we reached
it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of massive
iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight
caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it moved upon its
hinges.
Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this
region of horror, we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed lid
of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the tenant. A striking
similitude between the brother and sister now first arrested my
attention; and Usher, divining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured
out some few words from which I learned that the deceased and
himself had been twins, and that sympathies of a scarcely
intelligible nature had always existed between them. Our glances,
however, rested not long upon the dead—for we could not regard
her unawed. The disease which had thus entombed the lady in the
maturity of youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a
strictly cataleptical character, the mockery of a faint blush
upon the bosom and the face, and that suspiciously lingering
smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death. We replaced and
screwed down the lid, and, having secured the door of iron, made
our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy apartments of
the upper portion of the house.
And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable
change came over the features of the mental disorder of my
friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary
occupations were neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber
to chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless step. The pallor
of his countenance had assumed, if possible, a more ghastly
hue—but the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone out. The
once occasional huskiness of his tone was heard no more; and a
tremulous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually
characterized his utterance. There were times, indeed, when I
thought his unceasingly agitated mind was laboring with some
oppressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the
necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to resolve all
into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him
gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the
profoundest attention, as if listening to some imaginary sound.
It was no wonder that his condition terrified—that it infected
me. I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the
wild influences of his own fantastic yet impressive
superstitions.
It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the
seventh or eighth day after the placing of the lady Madeline
within the donjon, that I experienced the full power of such
feelings. Sleep came not near my couch—while the hours waned and
waned away. I struggled to reason off the nervousness which had
dominion over me. I endeavored to believe that much, if not all
of what I felt, was due to the bewildering influence of the
gloomy furniture of the room—of the dark and tattered draperies,
which, tortured into motion by the breath of a rising tempest,
swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled uneasily
about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were fruitless.
An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded my frame; and, at
length, there sat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly
causeless alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, I
uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within
the intense darkness of the chamber, harkened—I know not why,
except that an instinctive spirit prompted me—to certain low and
indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at
long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense
sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my
clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no more during
the night), and endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable
condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro
through the apartment.
I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an
adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently recognised
it as that of Usher. In an instant afterward he rapped, with a
gentle touch, at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His
countenance was, as usual, cadaverously wan—but, moreover, there
was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes—an evidently restrained
_hysteria_ in his whole demeanor. His air appalled me—but
anything was preferable to the solitude which I had so long
endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief.
“And you have not seen it?” he said abruptly, after having stared
about him for some moments in silence—“you have not then seen
it?—but, stay! you shall.” Thus speaking, and having carefully
shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the casements, and threw it
freely open to the storm.
The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our
feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night,
and one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind
had apparently collected its force in our vicinity; for there
were frequent and violent alterations in the direction of the
wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which hung so low
as to press upon the turrets of the house) did not prevent our
perceiving the life-like velocity with which they flew careering
from all points against each other, without passing away into the
distance. I say that even their exceeding density did not prevent
our perceiving this—yet we had no glimpse of the moon or
stars—nor was there any flashing forth of the lightning. But the
under surfaces of the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as
all terrestrial objects immediately around us, were glowing in
the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible
gaseous exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the mansion.
“You must not—you shall not behold this!” said I, shudderingly,
to Usher, as I led him, with a gentle violence, from the window
to a seat. “These appearances, which bewilder you, are merely
electrical phenomena not uncommon—or it may be that they have
their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close
this casement;—the air is chilling and dangerous to your frame.
Here is one of your favorite romances. I will read, and you shall
listen;—and so we will pass away this terrible night together.”
The antique volume which I had taken up was the “Mad Trist” of
Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favorite of Usher’s
more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little
in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have had
interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. It
was, however, the only book immediately at hand; and I indulged a
vague hope that the excitement which now agitated the
hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history of mental
disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of
the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by
the wild overstrained air of vivacity with which he harkened, or
apparently harkened, to the words of the tale, I might well have
congratulated myself upon the success of my design.
I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where
Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for
peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to
make good an entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the
words of the narrative run thus:
“And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was
now mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine
which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the
hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn,
but, feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the rising
of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows, made
quickly room in the plankings of the door for his gauntleted
hand; and now pulling therewith sturdily, he so cracked, and
ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and
hollow-sounding wood alarummed and reverberated throughout the
forest.”
At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment,
paused; for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that
my excited fancy had deceived me)—it appeared to me that, from
some very remote portion of the mansion, there came,
indistinctly, to my ears, what might have been, in its exact
similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one
certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir
Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, beyond doubt,
the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid
the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary
commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the sound, in
itself, had nothing, surely, which should have interested or
disturbed me. I continued the story:
“But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door,
was sore enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the
maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly
and prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in
guard before a palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and upon
the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend
enwritten—
Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win;
And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the
dragon, which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with
a shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that
Ethelred had fain to close his ears with his hands against the
dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was never before heard.”
Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild
amazement—for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this
instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it
proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently
distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or
grating sound—the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already
conjured up for the dragon’s unnatural shriek as described by the
romancer.
Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second
and most extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand conflicting
sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror were predominant,
I still retained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting,
by any observation, the sensitive nervousness of my companion. I
was by no means certain that he had noticed the sounds in
question; although, assuredly, a strange alteration had, during
the last few minutes, taken place in his demeanor. From a
position fronting my own, he had gradually brought round his
chair, so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber; and
thus I could but partially perceive his features, although I saw
that his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly. His
head had dropped upon his breast—yet I knew that he was not
asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a
glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at
variance with this idea—for he rocked from side to side with a
gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice
of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus
proceeded:
“And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of
the dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the
breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, removed the
carcass from out of the way before him, and approached valorously
over the silver pavement of the castle to where the shield was
upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his full coming,
but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty
great and terrible ringing sound.”
No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than—as if a shield
of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor
of silver—I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and
clangorous, yet apparently muffled reverberation. Completely
unnerved, I leaped to my feet; but the measured rocking movement
of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he sat.
His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole
countenance there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my
hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong shudder over his
whole person; a sickly smile quivered about his lips; and I saw
that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if
unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over him, I at length
drank in the hideous import of his words.
“Not hear it?—yes, I hear it, and _have_ heard it.
Long—long—long—many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard
it—yet I dared not—oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am!—I
dared not—I _dared_ not speak! _We have put her living in the
tomb!_ Said I not that my senses were acute? I _now_ tell you
that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I
heard them—many, many days ago—yet I dared not—_I dared not
speak!_ And now—to-night—Ethelred—ha! ha!—the breaking of the
hermit’s door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor
of the shield!—say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and the
grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her struggles
within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh whither shall I fly?
Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for
my haste? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not
distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart?
Madman!”—here he sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked out
his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his
soul—“_Madman! I tell you that she now stands without the door!_”
As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been
found the potency of a spell—the huge antique pannels to which
the speaker pointed, threw slowly back, upon the instant, their
ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust—but
then without those doors there _did_ stand the lofty and
enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood
upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle
upon every portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she
remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the
threshold—then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon
the person of her brother, and in her violent and now final
death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to
the terrors he had anticipated.
From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The
storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself
crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a
wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could
have issued; for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind
me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red
moon, which now shone vividly through that once
barely-discernible fissure, of which I have before spoken as
extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction,
to the base. While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened—there
came a fierce breath of the whirlwind—the entire orb of the
satellite burst at once upon my sight—my brain reeled as I saw
the mighty walls rushing asunder—there was a long tumultuous
shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters—and the deep
and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the
fragments of the “_House of Usher_.”
SILENCE—A FABLE
“The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags and caves _are
silent_.”
“Listen to me,” said the Demon as he placed his hand upon my
head. “The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya,
by the borders of the river Zaire. And there is no quiet there,
nor silence.
“The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they
flow not onwards to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever
beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive
motion. For many miles on either side of the river’s oozy bed is
a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the
other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long
and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads.
And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among
them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh one unto
the other.
“But there is a boundary to their realm—the boundary of the dark,
horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides,
the low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind
throughout the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally
hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from
their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the
roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed
slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray
clouds rush westwardly forever, until they roll, a cataract, over
the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout
the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither
quiet nor silence.
“It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but,
having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the
tall and the rain fell upon my head—and the lilies sighed one
unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.
“And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist,
and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray
rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was lighted by
the light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, and
tall,—and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters
engraven in the stone; and I walked through the morass of
water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might
read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decypher
them. And I was going back into the morass, when the moon shone
with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock,
and upon the characters, and the characters were DESOLATION.
“And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of
the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might
discover the actions of the man. And the man was tall and stately
in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the
toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were
indistinct—but his features were the features of a deity; for the
mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the
dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow
was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and, in the
few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and
weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after
solitude.
“And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his
hand, and looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the
low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and
up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And
I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the
actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;—but the
night waned, and he sat upon the rock.
“And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out
upon the dreary river Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters,
and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man
listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to the murmur that
came up from among them. And I lay close within my covert and
observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the
solitude;—but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.
“Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar
in among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the
hippopotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the
morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the
behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and
fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close within my covert and
observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the
solitude;—but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.
“Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a
frightful tempest gathered in the heaven where, before, there had
been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the violence of
the tempest—and the rain beat upon the head of the man—and the
floods of the river came down—and the river was tormented into
foam—and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds—and the
forest crumbled before the wind—and the thunder rolled—and the
lightning fell—and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay
close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And
the man trembled in the solitude;—but the night waned and he sat
upon the rock.
“Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the
river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the
heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And
they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ceased to
totter up its pathway to heaven—and the thunder died away—and the
lightning did not flash—and the clouds hung motionless—and the
waters sunk to their level and remained—and the trees ceased to
rock—and the water-lilies sighed no more—and the murmur was heard
no longer from among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the
vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the characters of the
rock, and they were changed; and the characters were SILENCE.
“And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his
countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his
head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened.
But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert,
and the characters upon the rock were SILENCE. And the man
shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled afar off, in haste,
so that I beheld him no more.”
Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi—in the
iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are
glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the
mighty sea—and of the Genii that over-ruled the sea, and the
earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much lore too in the
sayings which were said by the Sybils; and holy, holy things were
heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona—but,
as Allah liveth, that fable which the Demon told me as he sat by
my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he
fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could
not laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not
laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out
therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and looked at
him steadily in the face.
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH.
The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence
had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and
its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp
pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the
pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and
especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which
shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his
fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of
the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.
But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious.
When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his
presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the
knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the
deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an
extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s
own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled
it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having
entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.
They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the
sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey
was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might
bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of
itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The
prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were
buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers,
there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these
and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”
It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his
seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad,
that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a
masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.
It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell
of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven—an imperial
suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and
straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the
walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is
scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have
been expected from the duke’s love of the bizarre. The apartments
were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little
more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty
or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right
and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic
window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the
windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose
color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the
decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the
eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue—and vividly blue
were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments
and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was
green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was
furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth
with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black
velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the
walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material
and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows
failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were
scarlet—a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments
was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden
ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the
roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or
candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that
followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy
tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that projected its rays through
the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus
were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But
in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that
streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes,
was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the
countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the
company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.
It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the
western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to
and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the
minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be
stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound
which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of
so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour,
the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause,
momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and
thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was
a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the
chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest
grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over
their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the
echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the
assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at
their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each
to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce
in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty
minutes (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of
the Time that flies), there came yet another chiming of the
clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and
meditation as before.
But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent
revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye
for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere
fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions
glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have
thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was
necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was
not.
He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of
the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fête; and it was
his own guiding taste which had given character to the
masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare
and glitter and piquancy and phantasm—much of what has been since
seen in “Hernani.” There were arabesque figures with unsuited
limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the
madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the
wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a
little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in
the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams.
And these—the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the
rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the
echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock
which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment,
all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The
dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the
chime die away—they have endured but an instant—and a light,
half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now
again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and
fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted
windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to
the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are
now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning
away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored
panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him
whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near
clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any
which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties
of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat
feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on,
until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the
clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the
evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy
cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve
strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it
happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time,
into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled.
And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes
of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many
individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of
the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention
of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new
presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at
length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of
disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror,
and of disgust.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well
be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such
sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was
nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded
Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince’s indefinite
decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless
which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly
lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters
of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed
now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the
stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall
and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of
the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly
to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the
closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat.
And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the
mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume
the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and
his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was
besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image
(which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to
sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was
seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder
either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened
with rage.
“Who dares?” he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near
him—“who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him
and unmask him—that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise,
from the battlements!”
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince
Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the
seven rooms loudly and clearly—for the prince was a bold and
robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his
hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of
pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a
slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the
intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with
deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker.
But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of
the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none
who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed
within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while the vast
assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the
rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the
same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from
the first, through the blue chamber to the purple—through the
purple to the green—through the green to the orange—through this
again to the white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided
movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that
the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own
momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers,
while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had
seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had
approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of
the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the
extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted
his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped
gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards,
fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the
wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw
themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer,
whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of
the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the
grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so
violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had
come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the
revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died
each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the
ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the
flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red
Death held illimitable dominion over all.
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO.
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could;
but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so
well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that
I gave utterance to a threat. _At length_ I would be avenged;
this was a point definitively settled—but the very definitiveness
with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must
not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed
when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally
unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such
to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given
Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my
wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile
_now_ was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in other regards he
was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on
his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso
spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the
time and opportunity—to practise imposture upon the British and
Austrian _millionaires_. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like
his countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines he was
sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I
was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely
whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the
carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me
with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man
wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and
his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so
pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done
wringing his hand.
I said to him: “My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How
remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a
pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”
“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the
middle of the carnival!”
“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the
full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You
were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.”
“Amontillado!”
“I have my doubts.”
“Amontillado!”
“And I must satisfy them.”
“Amontillado!”
“As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a
critical turn, it is he. He will tell me—”
“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”
“And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for
your own.”
“Come, let us go.”
“Whither?”
“To your vaults.”
“My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I
perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi—”
“I have no engagement;—come.”
“My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold
with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are
insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.”
“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing.
Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he
cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.”
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on
a mask of black silk, and drawing a _roquelaire_ closely about my
person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make
merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not
return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not
to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well
knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as
soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to
Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the
archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and
winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed.
We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together
on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap
jingled as he strode.
“The pipe,” said he.
“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white web-work which
gleams from these cavern walls.”
He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs
that distilled the rheum of intoxication.
“Nitre?” he asked, at length.
“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?”
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh!
ugh! ugh!”
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
“It is nothing,” he said, at last.
“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is
precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are
happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no
matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be
responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi—”
“Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill
me. I shall not die of a cough.”
“True—true,” I replied; “and, indeed, I had no intention of
alarming you unnecessarily—but you should use all proper caution.
A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long
row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me
familiarly, while his bells jingled.
“I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.”
“And I to your long life.”
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”
“The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”
“I forget your arms.”
“A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a
serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.”
“And the motto?”
“_Nemo me impune lacessit_.”
“Good!” he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy
grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled
bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost
recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made
bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
“The nitre!” I said: “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon
the vaults. We are below the river’s bed. The drops of moisture
trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too
late. Your cough—”
“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another
draught of the Medoc.”
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a
breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and
threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not
understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement—a grotesque
one.
“You do not comprehend?” he said.
“Not I,” I replied.
“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”
“How?”
“You are not of the masons.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, “yes, yes.”
“You? Impossible! A mason?”
“A mason,” I replied.
“A sign,” he said.
“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the
folds of my _roquelaire_.
“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us
proceed to the Amontillado.”
“Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and
again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We
continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed
through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and
descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness
of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less
spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to
the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of
Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented
in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down,
and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a
mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the
displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in
depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It
seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself,
but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal
supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of
their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch,
endeavored to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination
the feeble light did not enable us to see.
“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi—”
“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped
unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In
an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding
his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A
moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface
were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet,
horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the
other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but
the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded
to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling
the nitre. Indeed it is _very_ damp. Once more let me _implore_
you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must
first render you all the little attentions in my power.”
“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from
his astonishment.
“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of
which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered
a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and
with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the
entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I
discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great
measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low
moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was _not_ the cry of
a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I
laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I
heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for
several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with
the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the
bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel,
and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the
seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my
breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the
mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from
the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently
back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I trembled. Unsheathing my
rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the
thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the
solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached
the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I
re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I
did this, and the clamorer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had
completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had
finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained
but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled
with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position.
But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected
the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I
had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The
voice said—
“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest.
We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo—he! he!
he!—over our wine—he! he! he!”
“The Amontillado!” I said.
“He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontillado. But is it not
getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the
Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”
“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”
“_For the love of God, Montressor!_”
“Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew
impatient. I called aloud—
“Fortunato!”
No answer. I called again—
“Fortunato!”
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture
and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a
jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick—on account of the
dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor.
I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up.
Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones.
For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. _In pace
requiescat!_
THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE
In the consideration of the faculties and impulses—of the prima
mobilia of the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make
room for a propensity which, although obviously existing as a
radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally
overlooked by all the moralists who have preceded them. In the
pure arrogance of the reason, we have all overlooked it. We have
suffered its existence to escape our senses, solely through want
of belief—of faith;—whether it be faith in Revelation, or faith
in the Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurred to us, simply
because of its supererogation. We saw no need of the impulse—for
the propensity. We could not perceive its necessity. We could not
understand, that is to say, we could not have understood, had the
notion of this primum mobile ever obtruded itself;—we could not
have understood in what manner it might be made to further the
objects of humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be
denied that phrenology and, in great measure, all
metaphysicianism have been concocted a priori. The intellectual
or logical man, rather than the understanding or observant man,
set himself to imagine designs—to dictate purposes to God. Having
thus fathomed, to his satisfaction, the intentions of Jehovah,
out of these intentions he built his innumerable systems of mind.
In the matter of phrenology, for example, we first determined,
naturally enough, that it was the design of the Deity that man
should eat. We then assigned to man an organ of alimentiveness,
and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity compels man,
will-I nill-I, into eating. Secondly, having settled it to be
God’s will that man should continue his species, we discovered an
organ of amativeness, forthwith. And so with combativeness, with
ideality, with causality, with constructiveness,—so, in short,
with every organ, whether representing a propensity, a moral
sentiment, or a faculty of the pure intellect. And in these
arrangements of the Principia of human action, the Spurzheimites,
whether right or wrong, in part, or upon the whole, have but
followed, in principle, the footsteps of their predecessors;
deducing and establishing every thing from the preconceived
destiny of man, and upon the ground of the objects of his
Creator.
It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify
(if classify we must) upon the basis of what man usually or
occasionally did, and was always occasionally doing, rather than
upon the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended
him to do. If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how
then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into
being? If we cannot understand him in his objective creatures,
how then in his substantive moods and phases of creation?
Induction, _a posteriori_, would have brought phrenology to
admit, as an innate and primitive principle of human action, a
paradoxical something, which we may call _perverseness_, for want
of a more characteristic term. In the sense I intend, it is, in
fact, a _mobile_ without motive, a motive not _motivirt_. Through
its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, if this
shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far
modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we
act, for the reason that we should _not_. In theory, no reason
can be more unreasonable, but, in fact, there is none more
strong. With certain minds, under certain conditions, it becomes
absolutely irresistible. I am not more certain that I breathe,
than that the assurance of the wrong or error of any action is
often the one unconquerable _force_ which impels us, and alone
impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming tendency
to do wrong for the wrong’s sake, admit of analysis, or
resolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a primitive
impulse—elementary. It will be said, I am aware, that when we
persist in acts because we feel we should not persist in them,
our conduct is but a modification of that which ordinarily
springs from the combativeness of phrenology. But a glance will
show the fallacy of this idea. The phrenological combativeness
has for its essence, the necessity of self-defence. It is our
safeguard against injury. Its principle regards our well-being;
and thus the desire to be well is excited simultaneously with its
development. It follows, that the desire to be well must be
excited simultaneously with any principle which shall be merely a
modification of combativeness, but in the case of that something
which I term perverseness, the desire to be well is not only not
aroused, but a strongly antagonistical sentiment exists.
An appeal to one’s own heart is, after all, the best reply to the
sophistry just noticed. No one who trustingly consults and
thoroughly questions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the
entire radicalness of the propensity in question. It is not more
incomprehensible than distinctive. There lives no man who at some
period has not been tormented, for example, by an earnest desire
to tantalize a listener by circumlocution. The speaker is aware
that he displeases; he has every intention to please, he is
usually curt, precise, and clear; the most laconic and luminous
language is struggling for utterance upon his tongue; it is only
with difficulty that he restrains himself from giving it flow; he
dreads and deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses; yet,
the thought strikes him, that by certain involutions and
parentheses this anger may be engendered. That single thought is
enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire,
the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the
deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of
all consequences) is indulged.
We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We
know that it will be ruinous to make delay. The most important
crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy
and action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence
the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our
whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be undertaken to-day,
and yet we put it off until to-morrow; and why? There is no
answer, except that we feel perverse, using the word with no
comprehension of the principle. To-morrow arrives, and with it a
more impatient anxiety to do our duty, but with this very
increase of anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a positively
fearful, because unfathomable, craving for delay. This craving
gathers strength as the moments fly. The last hour for action is
at hand. We tremble with the violence of the conflict within
us,—of the definite with the indefinite—of the substance with the
shadow. But, if the contest have proceeded thus far, it is the
shadow which prevails,—we struggle in vain. The clock strikes,
and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is the
chanticleer-note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It
flies—it disappears—we are free. The old energy returns. We will
labor now. Alas, it is too late!
We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we
grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the
danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and
dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable
feeling. By gradations, still more imperceptible, this cloud
assumes shape, as did the vapor from the bottle out of which
arose the genius in the Arabian Nights. But out of this our cloud
upon the precipice’s edge, there grows into palpability, a shape,
far more terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and yet
it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one which chills
the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the delight
of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our
sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a
height. And this fall—this rushing annihilation—for the very
reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of
all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering
which have ever presented themselves to our imagination—for this
very cause do we now the most vividly desire it. And because our
reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore do we the
most impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so
demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the
edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge, for a
moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for
reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say,
that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we
fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the
abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed.
Examine these similar actions as we will, we shall find them
resulting solely from the spirit of the Perverse. We perpetrate
them because we feel that we should not. Beyond or behind this
there is no intelligible principle; and we might, indeed, deem
this perverseness a direct instigation of the Arch-Fiend, were it
not occasionally known to operate in furtherance of good.
I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your
question—that I may explain to you why I am here—that I may
assign to you something that shall have at least the faint aspect
of a cause for my wearing these fetters, and for my tenanting
this cell of the condemned. Had I not been thus prolix, you might
either have misunderstood me altogether, or, with the rabble,
have fancied me mad. As it is, you will easily perceive that I am
one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp of the Perverse.
It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a
more thorough deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered
upon the means of the murder. I rejected a thousand schemes,
because their accomplishment involved a _chance_ of detection. At
length, in reading some French memoirs, I found an account of a
nearly fatal illness that occurred to Madame Pilau, through the
agency of a candle accidentally poisoned. The idea struck my
fancy at once. I knew my victim’s habit of reading in bed. I
knew, too, that his apartment was narrow and ill-ventilated. But
I need not vex you with impertinent details. I need not describe
the easy artifices by which I substituted, in his bed-room
candle-stand, a wax-light of my own making for the one which I
there found. The next morning he was discovered dead in his bed,
and the coroner’s verdict was—“Death by the visitation of God.”
Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The
idea of detection never once entered my brain. Of the remains of
the fatal taper I had myself carefully disposed. I had left no
shadow of a clew by which it would be possible to convict, or
even to suspect me of the crime. It is inconceivable how rich a
sentiment of satisfaction arose in my bosom as I reflected upon
my absolute security. For a very long period of time I was
accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It afforded me more real
delight than all the mere worldly advantages accruing from my
sin. But there arrived at length an epoch, from which the
pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations,
into a haunting and harassing thought. It harassed because it
haunted. I could scarcely get rid of it for an instant. It is
quite a common thing to be thus annoyed with the ringing in our
ears, or rather in our memories, of the burthen of some ordinary
song, or some unimpressive snatches from an opera. Nor will we be
the less tormented if the song in itself be good, or the opera
air meritorious. In this manner, at last, I would perpetually
catch myself pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a low
undertone, the phrase, “I am safe.”
One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself
in the act of murmuring, half aloud, these customary syllables.
In a fit of petulance, I remodelled them thus: “I am safe—I am
safe—yes—if I be not fool enough to make open confession!”
No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill
creep to my heart. I had had some experience in these fits of
perversity (whose nature I have been at some trouble to explain),
and I remembered well that in no instance I had successfully
resisted their attacks. And now my own casual self-suggestion
that I might possibly be fool enough to confess the murder of
which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of
him whom I had murdered—and beckoned me on to death.
At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the
soul. I walked vigorously—faster—still faster—at length I ran. I
felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every succeeding wave of
thought overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too
well understood that to think, in my situation, was to be lost. I
still quickened my pace. I bounded like a madman through the
crowded thoroughfares. At length, the populace took the alarm,
and pursued me. I felt then the consummation of my fate. Could I
have torn out my tongue, I would have done it, but a rough voice
resounded in my ears—a rougher grasp seized me by the shoulder. I
turned—I gasped for breath. For a moment I experienced all the
pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and giddy; and
then some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad
palm upon the back. The long imprisoned secret burst forth from
my soul.
They say that I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with
marked emphasis and passionate hurry, as if in dread of
interruption before concluding the brief but pregnant sentences
that consigned me to the hangman and to hell.
Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicial
conviction, I fell prostrate in a swoon.
But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am
_here!_ To-morrow I shall be fetterless!—_but where?_
THE ISLAND OF THE FAY
Nullus enim locus sine genio est.—_Servius_.
“La musique,” says Marmontel, in those “Contes Moraux” (*1) which
in all our translations, we have insisted upon calling “Moral
Tales,” as if in mockery of their spirit—“la musique est le seul
des talents qui jouissent de lui-même; tous les autres veulent
des temoins.” He here confounds the pleasure derivable from sweet
sounds with the capacity for creating them. No more than any
other talent, is that for music susceptible of complete
enjoyment, where there is no second party to appreciate its
exercise. And it is only in common with other talents that it
produces effects which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea
which the raconteur has either failed to entertain clearly, or
has sacrificed in its expression to his national love of point,
is, doubtless, the very tenable one that the higher order of
music is the most thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively
alone. The proposition, in this form, will be admitted at once by
those who love the lyre for its own sake, and for its spiritual
uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach of fallen
mortality and perhaps only one—which owes even more than does
music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the
happiness experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In
truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of God upon
earth must in solitude behold that glory. To me, at least, the
presence—not of human life only, but of life in any other form
than that of the green things which grow upon the soil and are
voiceless—is a stain upon the landscape—is at war with the genius
of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark valleys, and the
gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the forests
that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains
that look down upon all,—I love to regard these as themselves but
the colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole—a
whole whose form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and
most inclusive of all; whose path is among associate planets;
whose meek handmaiden is the moon, whose mediate sovereign is the
sun; whose life is eternity, whose thought is that of a God;
whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies are lost in
immensity, whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our own
cognizance of the animalculae which infest the brain—a being
which we, in consequence, regard as purely inanimate and material
much in the same manner as these animalculae must thus regard us.
Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on
every hand—notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the
priesthood—that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important
consideration in the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which
the stars move are those best adapted for the evolution, without
collision, of the greatest possible number of bodies. The forms
of those bodies are accurately such as, within a given surface,
to include the greatest possible amount of matter;—while the
surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate a denser
population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an
object with God, that space itself is infinite; for there may be
an infinity of matter to fill it. And since we see clearly that
the endowment of matter with vitality is a principle—indeed, as
far as our judgments extend, the leading principle in the
operations of Deity,—it is scarcely logical to imagine it
confined to the regions of the minute, where we daily trace it,
and not extending to those of the august. As we find cycle within
cycle without end,—yet all revolving around one far-distant
centre which is the God-head, may we not analogically suppose in
the same manner, life within life, the less within the greater,
and all within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring,
through self-esteem, in believing man, in either his temporal or
future destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that
vast “clod of the valley” which he tills and contemns, and to
which he denies a soul for no more profound reason than that he
does not behold it in operation. (*2)
These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my
meditations among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers
and the ocean, a tinge of what the everyday world would not fail
to term fantastic. My wanderings amid such scenes have been many,
and far-searching, and often solitary; and the interest with
which I have strayed through many a dim, deep valley, or gazed
into the reflected Heaven of many a bright lake, has been an
interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have strayed and
gazed alone. What flippant Frenchman was it who said in allusion
to the well-known work of Zimmerman, that, “la solitude est une
belle chose; mais il faut quelqu’un pour vous dire que la
solitude est une belle chose?” The epigram cannot be gainsayed;
but the necessity is a thing that does not exist.
It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant
region of mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and
melancholy tarn writhing or sleeping within all—that I chanced
upon a certain rivulet and island. I came upon them suddenly in
the leafy June, and threw myself upon the turf, beneath the
branches of an unknown odorous shrub, that I might doze as I
contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only should I look upon
it—such was the character of phantasm which it wore.
On all sides—save to the west, where the sun was about
sinking—arose the verdant walls of the forest. The little river
which turned sharply in its course, and was thus immediately lost
to sight, seemed to have no exit from its prison, but to be
absorbed by the deep green foliage of the trees to the east—while
in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to me as I lay at length
and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly and
continuously into the valley, a rich golden and crimson waterfall
from the sunset fountains of the sky.
About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in,
one small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the
bosom of the stream.
So blended bank and shadow there
That each seemed pendulous in air—
so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely
possible to say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf
its crystal dominion began.
My position enabled me to include in a single view both the
eastern and western extremities of the islet; and I observed a
singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all
one radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed
beneath the eyes of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with
flowers. The grass was short, springy, sweet-scented, and
asphodel-interspersed. The trees were lithe, mirthful,
erect—bright, slender, and graceful,—of Eastern figure and
foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There
seemed a deep sense of life and joy about all; and although no
airs blew from out the heavens, yet every thing had motion
through the gentle sweepings to and fro of innumerable
butterflies, that might have been mistaken for tulips with wings.
(*4)
The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest
shade. A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded
all things. The trees were dark in color, and mournful in form
and attitude, wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral
shapes that conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death.
The grass wore the deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its
blades hung droopingly, and hither and thither among it were many
small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that
had the aspect of graves, but were not; although over and all
about them the rue and the rosemary clambered. The shade of the
trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself
therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness. I
fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower and lower,
separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth, and
thus became absorbed by the stream; while other shadows issued
momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors
thus entombed.
This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it,
and I lost myself forthwith in revery. “If ever island were
enchanted,” said I to myself, “this is it. This is the haunt of
the few gentle Fays who remain from the wreck of the race. Are
these green tombs theirs?—or do they yield up their sweet lives
as mankind yield up their own? In dying, do they not rather waste
away mournfully, rendering unto God, little by little, their
existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting
tree is to the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker
by what it preys upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the
death which engulfs it?”
As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly
to rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the
island, bearing upon their bosom large, dazzling, white flakes of
the bark of the sycamore—flakes which, in their multiform
positions upon the water, a quick imagination might have
converted into anything it pleased—while I thus mused, it
appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays about whom
I had been pondering made its way slowly into the darkness from
out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect
in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom
of an oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams,
her attitude seemed indicative of joy—but sorrow deformed it as
she passed within the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at
length rounded the islet and re-entered the region of light. “The
revolution which has just been made by the Fay,” continued I,
musingly, “is the cycle of the brief year of her life. She has
floated through her winter and through her summer. She is a year
nearer unto Death; for I did not fail to see that, as she came
into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in
the dark water, making its blackness more black.”
And again the boat appeared and the Fay; but about the attitude
of the latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of
elastic joy. She floated again from out the light and into the
gloom (which deepened momently) and again her shadow fell from
her into the ebony water, and became absorbed into its blackness.
And again and again she made the circuit of the island, (while
the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at each issuing into
the light there was more sorrow about her person, while it grew
feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each passage
into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length when the sun had
utterly departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self,
went disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony
flood—and that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for
darkness fell over all things and I beheld her magical figure no
more.
THE ASSIGNATION
Stay for me there! I will not fail.
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
(_Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop of
Chichester_.)
Ill-fated and mysterious man!—bewildered in the brilliancy of
thine own imagination, and fallen in the flames of thine own
youth! Again in fancy I behold thee! Once more thy form hath
risen before me!—not—oh! not as thou art—in the cold valley and
shadow—but as thou _shouldst be_—squandering away a life of
magnificent meditation in that city of dim visions, thine own
Venice—which is a star-beloved Elysium of the sea, and the wide
windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a deep and
bitter meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes! I
repeat it—as thou _shouldst be_. There are surely other worlds
than this—other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude—other
speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall
call thy conduct into question? who blame thee for thy visionary
hours, or denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life,
which were but the overflowings of thine everlasting energies?
It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the
_Ponte di Sospiri_, that I met for the third or fourth time the
person of whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that I
bring to mind the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I
remember—ah! how should I forget?—the deep midnight, the Bridge
of Sighs, the beauty of woman, and the Genius of Romance that
stalked up and down the narrow canal.
It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazza
had sounded the fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of
the Campanile lay silent and deserted, and the lights in the old
Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the
Piazetta, by way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived
opposite the mouth of the canal San Marco, a female voice from
its recesses broke suddenly upon the night, in one wild,
hysterical, and long continued shriek. Startled at the sound, I
sprang upon my feet: while the gondolier, letting slip his single
oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness beyond a chance of recovery,
and we were consequently left to the guidance of the current
which here sets from the greater into the smaller channel. Like
some huge and sable-feathered condor, we were slowly drifting
down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a thousand flambeaux
flashing from the windows, and down the staircases of the Ducal
Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom into a livid and
preternatural day.
A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had fallen
from an upper window of the lofty structure into the deep and dim
canal. The quiet waters had closed placidly over their victim;
and, although my own gondola was the only one in sight, many a
stout swimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon
the surface, the treasure which was to be found, alas! only
within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble flagstones at the
entrance of the palace, and a few steps above the water, stood a
figure which none who then saw can have ever since forgotten. It
was the Marchesa Aphrodite—the adoration of all Venice—the gayest
of the gay—the most lovely where all were beautiful—but still the
young wife of the old and intriguing Mentoni, and the mother of
that fair child, her first and only one, who now, deep beneath
the murky water, was thinking in bitterness of heart upon her
sweet caresses, and exhausting its little life in struggles to
call upon her name.
She stood alone. Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the
black mirror of marble beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more
than half loosened for the night from its ball-room array,
clustered, amid a shower of diamonds, round and round her
classical head, in curls like those of the young hyacinth. A
snowy-white and gauze-like drapery seemed to be nearly the sole
covering to her delicate form; but the mid-summer and midnight
air was hot, sullen, and still, and no motion in the statue-like
form itself, stirred even the folds of that raiment of very vapor
which hung around it as the heavy marble hangs around the Niobe.
Yet—strange to say!—her large lustrous eyes were not turned
downwards upon that grave wherein her brightest hope lay
buried—but riveted in a widely different direction! The prison of
the Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest building in all
Venice—but how could that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when
beneath her lay stifling her only child? Yon dark, gloomy niche,
too, yawns right opposite her chamber window—what, then, _could_
there be in its shadows—in its architecture—in its ivy-wreathed
and solemn cornices—that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered
at a thousand times before? Nonsense!—Who does not remember that,
at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror,
multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable
far-off places, the woe which is close at hand?
Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the
water-gate, stood, in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of
Mentoni himself. He was occasionally occupied in thrumming a
guitar, and seemed _ennuye_ to the very death, as at intervals he
gave directions for the recovery of his child. Stupefied and
aghast, I had myself no power to move from the upright position I
had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and must have
presented to the eyes of the agitated group a spectral and
ominous appearance, as with pale countenance and rigid limbs, I
floated down among them in that funereal gondola.
All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the
search were relaxing their exertions, and yielding to a gloomy
sorrow. There seemed but little hope for the child; (how much
less than for the mother!) but now, from the interior of that
dark niche which has been already mentioned as forming a part of
the Old Republican prison, and as fronting the lattice of the
Marchesa, a figure muffled in a cloak, stepped out within reach
of the light, and, pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy
descent, plunged headlong into the canal. As, in an instant
afterwards, he stood with the still living and breathing child
within his grasp, upon the marble flagstones by the side of the
Marchesa, his cloak, heavy with the drenching water, became
unfastened, and, falling in folds about his feet, discovered to
the wonder-stricken spectators the graceful person of a very
young man, with the sound of whose name the greater part of
Europe was then ringing.
No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now
receive her child—she will press it to her heart—she will cling
to its little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas!
_another’s_ arms have taken it from the stranger—_another’s_ arms
have taken it away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the
palace! And the Marchesa! Her lip—her beautiful lip trembles;
tears are gathering in her eyes—those eyes which, like Pliny’s
acanthus, are “soft and almost liquid.” Yes! tears are gathering
in those eyes—and see! the entire woman thrills throughout the
soul, and the statue has started into life! The pallor of the
marble countenance, the swelling of the marble bosom, the very
purity of the marble feet, we behold suddenly flushed over with a
tide of ungovernable crimson; and a slight shudder quivers about
her delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich
silver lilies in the grass.
Why _should_ that lady blush! To this demand there is no
answer—except that, having left, in the eager haste and terror of
a mother’s heart, the privacy of her own _boudoir_, she has
neglected to enthral her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly
forgotten to throw over her Venetian shoulders that drapery which
is their due. What other possible reason could there have been
for her so blushing?—for the glance of those wild appealing
eyes?—for the unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom?—for the
convulsive pressure of that trembling hand?—that hand which fell,
as Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally, upon the hand of
the stranger. What reason could there have been for the low—the
singularly low tone of those unmeaning words which the lady
uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu? “Thou hast conquered,”
she said, or the murmurs of the water deceived me; “thou hast
conquered—one hour after sunrise—we shall meet—so let it be!”
The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away within the
palace, and the stranger, whom I now recognized, stood alone upon
the flags. He shook with inconceivable agitation, and his eye
glanced around in search of a gondola. I could not do less than
offer him the service of my own; and he accepted the civility.
Having obtained an oar at the water-gate, we proceeded together
to his residence, while he rapidly recovered his self-possession,
and spoke of our former slight acquaintance in terms of great
apparent cordiality.
There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being
minute. The person of the stranger—let me call him by this title,
who to all the world was still a stranger—the person of the
stranger is one of these subjects. In height he might have been
below rather than above the medium size: although there were
moments of intense passion when his frame actually _expanded_ and
belied the assertion. The light, almost slender symmetry of his
figure, promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at
the Bridge of Sighs, than of that Herculean strength which he has
been known to wield without an effort, upon occasions of more
dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity—singular,
wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to
intense and brilliant jet—and a profusion of curling, black hair,
from which a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed forth at
intervals all light and ivory—his were features than which I have
seen none more classically regular, except, perhaps, the marble
ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his countenance was,
nevertheless, one of those which all men have seen at some period
of their lives, and have never afterwards seen again. It had no
peculiar, it had no settled predominant expression to be fastened
upon the memory; a countenance seen and instantly forgotten, but
forgotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of recalling it
to mind. Not that the spirit of each rapid passion failed, at any
time, to throw its own distinct image upon the mirror of that
face—but that the mirror, mirror-like, retained no vestige of the
passion, when the passion had departed.
Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me,
in what I thought an urgent manner, to call upon him _very_ early
the next morning. Shortly after sunrise, I found myself
accordingly at his Palazzo, one of those huge structures of
gloomy, yet fantastic pomp, which tower above the waters of the
Grand Canal in the vicinity of the Rialto. I was shown up a broad
winding staircase of mosaics, into an apartment whose
unparalleled splendor burst through the opening door with an
actual glare, making me blind and dizzy with luxuriousness.
I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of his
possessions in terms which I had even ventured to call terms of
ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not
bring myself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe
could have supplied the princely magnificence which burned and
blazed around.
Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still
brilliantly lighted up. I judge from this circumstance, as well
as from an air of exhaustion in the countenance of my friend,
that he had not retired to bed during the whole of the preceding
night. In the architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the
evident design had been to dazzle and astound. Little attention
had been paid to the _decora_ of what is technically called
_keeping_, or to the proprieties of nationality. The eye wandered
from object to object, and rested upon none—neither the
_grotesques_ of the Greek painters, nor the sculptures of the
best Italian days, nor the huge carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich
draperies in every part of the room trembled to the vibration of
low, melancholy music, whose origin was not to be discovered. The
senses were oppressed by mingled and conflicting perfumes,
reeking up from strange convolute censers, together with
multitudinous flaring and flickering tongues of emerald and
violet fire. The rays of the newly risen sun poured in upon the
whole, through windows, formed each of a single pane of
crimson-tinted glass. Glancing to and fro, in a thousand
reflections, from curtains which rolled from their cornices like
cataracts of molten silver, the beams of natural glory mingled at
length fitfully with the artificial light, and lay weltering in
subdued masses upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking cloth of
Chili gold.
“Ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!”—laughed the proprietor, motioning me to
a seat as I entered the room, and throwing himself back at
full-length upon an ottoman. “I see,” said he, perceiving that I
could not immediately reconcile myself to the _bienseance_ of so
singular a welcome—“I see you are astonished at my apartment—at
my statues—my pictures—my originality of conception in
architecture and upholstery! absolutely drunk, eh, with my
magnificence? But pardon me, my dear sir, (here his tone of voice
dropped to the very spirit of cordiality,) pardon me for my
uncharitable laughter. You appeared so _utterly_ astonished.
Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous, that a man
_must_ laugh or die. To die laughing, must be the most glorious
of all glorious deaths! Sir Thomas More—a very fine man was Sir
Thomas More—Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. Also in
the _Absurdities_ of Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of
characters who came to the same magnificent end. Do you know,
however,” continued he musingly, “that at Sparta (which is now
Palæochori,) at Sparta, I say, to the west of the citadel, among
a chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is a kind of _socle_, upon
which are still legible the letters ΛΑΞΜ. They are undoubtedly
part of ΓΕΛΑΞΜΑ. Now, at Sparta were a thousand temples and
shrines to a thousand different divinities. How exceedingly
strange that the altar of Laughter should have survived all the
others! But in the present instance,” he resumed, with a singular
alteration of voice and manner, “I have no right to be merry at
your expense. You might well have been amazed. Europe cannot
produce anything so fine as this, my little regal cabinet. My
other apartments are by no means of the same order—mere _ultras_
of fashionable insipidity. This is better than fashion—is it not?
Yet this has but to be seen to become the rage—that is, with
those who could afford it at the cost of their entire patrimony.
I have guarded, however, against any such profanation. With one
exception, you are the only human being besides myself and my
_valet_, who has been admitted within the mysteries of these
imperial precincts, since they have been bedizened as you see!”
I bowed in acknowledgment—for the overpowering sense of splendor
and perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity
of his address and manner, prevented me from expressing, in
words, my appreciation of what I might have construed into a
compliment.
“Here,” he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered
around the apartment, “here are paintings from the Greeks to
Cimabue, and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen,
as you see, with little deference to the opinions of Virtu. They
are all, however, fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this.
Here, too, are some _chefs d’oeuvre_ of the unknown great; and
here, unfinished designs by men, celebrated in their day, whose
very names the perspicacity of the academies has left to silence
and to me. What think you,” said he, turning abruptly as he
spoke—“what think you of this Madonna della Pieta?”
“It is Guido’s own!” I said, with all the enthusiasm of my
nature, for I had been poring intently over its surpassing
loveliness. “It is Guido’s own!—how _could_ you have obtained
it?—she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus is in
sculpture.”
“Ha!” said he thoughtfully, “the Venus—the beautiful Venus?—the
Venus of the Medici?—she of the diminutive head and the gilded
hair? Part of the left arm (here his voice dropped so as to be
heard with difficulty,) and all the right, are restorations; and
in the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence
of all affectation. Give _me_ the Canova! The Apollo, too, is a
copy—there can be no doubt of it—blind fool that I am, who cannot
behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot help—pity
me!—I cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates
who said that the statuary found his statue in the block of
marble? Then Michael Angelo was by no means original in his
couplet—
‘Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto
Che un marmo solo in se non circunscriva.’”
It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the
true gentleman, we are always aware of a difference from the
bearing of the vulgar, without being at once precisely able to
determine in what such difference consists. Allowing the remark
to have applied in its full force to the outward demeanor of my
acquaintance, I felt it, on that eventful morning, still more
fully applicable to his moral temperament and character. Nor can
I better define that peculiarity of spirit which seemed to place
him so essentially apart from all other human beings, than by
calling it a _habit_ of intense and continual thought, pervading
even his most trivial actions—intruding upon his moments of
dalliance—and interweaving itself with his very flashes of
merriment—like adders which writhe from out the eyes of the
grinning masks in the cornices around the temples of Persepolis.
I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the
mingled tone of levity and solemnity with which he rapidly
descanted upon matters of little importance, a certain air of
trepidation—a degree of nervous _unction_ in action and in
speech—an unquiet excitability of manner which appeared to me at
all times unaccountable, and upon some occasions even filled me
with alarm. Frequently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence
whose commencement he had apparently forgotten, he seemed to be
listening in the deepest attention, as if either in momentary
expectation of a visitor, or to sounds which must have had
existence in his imagination alone.
It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent
abstraction, that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholar
Politian’s beautiful tragedy “The Orfeo,” (the first native
Italian tragedy,) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered
a passage underlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end
of the third act—a passage of the most heart-stirring
excitement—a passage which, although tainted with impurity, no
man shall read without a thrill of novel emotion—no woman without
a sigh. The whole page was blotted with fresh tears; and, upon
the opposite interleaf, were the following English lines, written
in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my
acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in recognising it as his
own:—
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers;
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“Onward!”—but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies,
Mute—motionless—aghast!
For alas! alas! with me
The light of life is o’er.
“No more—no more—no more,”
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore,)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
Now all my hours are trances;
And all my nightly dreams
Are where the dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams,
In what ethereal dances,
By what Italian streams.
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o’er the billow,
From Love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow!—
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow!
That these lines were written in English—a language with which I
had not believed their author acquainted—afforded me little
matter for surprise. I was too well aware of the extent of his
acquirements, and of the singular pleasure he took in concealing
them from observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery;
but the place of date, I must confess, occasioned me no little
amazement. It had been originally written _London_, and
afterwards carefully overscored—not, however, so effectually as
to conceal the word from a scrutinizing eye. I say, this
occasioned me no little amazement; for I well remember that, in a
former conversation with a friend, I particularly inquired if he
had at any time met in London the Marchesa di Mentoni, (who for
some years previous to her marriage had resided in that city,)
when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to understand that he
had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as
well here mention, that I have more than once heard, (without, of
course, giving credit to a report involving so many
improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak, was not only
by birth, but in education, an _Englishman_.
“There is one painting,” said he, without being aware of my notice of
the tragedy—“there is still one painting which you have not seen.” And
throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full-length portrait of the
Marchesa Aphrodite.
Human art could have done no more in the delineation of her superhuman
beauty. The same ethereal figure which stood before me the preceding
night upon the steps of the Ducal Palace, stood before me once again.
But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over
with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!) that fitful
stain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the
perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her bosom.
With her left she pointed downward to a curiously fashioned vase. One
small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely touched the earth; and,
scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which seemed to
encircle and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair of the most
delicately imagined wings. My glance fell from the painting to the
figure of my friend, and the vigorous words of Chapman’s _Bussy
D’Ambois_, quivered instinctively upon my lips:
“He is up
There like a Roman statue! He will stand
Till Death hath made him marble!”
“Come,” he said at length, turning towards a table of richly
enamelled and massive silver, upon which were a few goblets
fantastically stained, together with two large Etruscan vases,
fashioned in the same extraordinary model as that in the
foreground of the portrait, and filled with what I supposed to be
Johannisberger. “Come,” he said, abruptly, “let us drink! It is
early—but let us drink. It is _indeed_ early,” he continued,
musingly, as a cherub with a heavy golden hammer made the
apartment ring with the first hour after sunrise: “It is _indeed_
early—but what matters it? let us drink! Let us pour out an
offering to yon solemn sun which these gaudy lamps and censers
are so eager to subdue!” And, having made me pledge him in a
bumper, he swallowed in rapid succession several goblets of the
wine.
“To dream,” he continued, resuming the tone of his desultory
conversation, as he held up to the rich light of a censer one of
the magnificent vases—“to dream has been the business of my life.
I have therefore framed for myself, as you see, a bower of
dreams. In the heart of Venice could I have erected a better? You
behold around you, it is true, a medley of architectural
embellishments. The chastity of Ionia is offended by antediluvian
devices, and the sphynxes of Egypt are outstretched upon carpets
of gold. Yet the effect is incongruous to the timid alone.
Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the bugbears
which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent.
Once I was myself a decorist; but that sublimation of folly has
palled upon my soul. All this is now the fitter for my purpose.
Like these arabesque censers, my spirit is writhing in fire, and
the delirium of this scene is fashioning me for the wilder
visions of that land of real dreams whither I am now rapidly
departing.” He here paused abruptly, bent his head to his bosom,
and seemed to listen to a sound which I could not hear. At
length, erecting his frame, he looked upwards, and ejaculated the
lines of the Bishop of Chichester:
_“Stay for me there! I will not fail_
_To meet thee in that hollow vale.”_
In the next instant, confessing the power of the wine, he threw
himself at full-length upon an ottoman.
A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock
at the door rapidly succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a
second disturbance, when a page of Mentoni’s household burst into
the room, and faltered out, in a voice choking with emotion, the
incoherent words, “My mistress!—my mistress!—Poisoned!—poisoned!
Oh, beautiful—oh, beautiful Aphrodite!”
Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse the
sleeper to a sense of the startling intelligence. But his limbs
were rigid—his lips were livid—his lately beaming eyes were
riveted in _death_. I staggered back towards the table—my hand
fell upon a cracked and blackened goblet—and a consciousness of
the entire and terrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul.
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
Impia tortorum longos hic turba furores
Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.
[_Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to be erected upon the
site of the Jacobin Club House at Paris_.]
I was sick—sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at
length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my
senses were leaving me. The sentence—the dread sentence of
death—was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my
ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed
merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my soul
the idea of _revolution_—perhaps from its association in fancy
with the burr of a mill wheel. This only for a brief period, for
presently I heard no more. Yet, for a while, I saw—but with how
terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the black-robed
judges. They appeared to me white—whiter than the sheet upon
which I trace these words—and thin even to grotesqueness; thin
with the intensity of their expression of firmness—of immoveable
resolution—of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the
decrees of what to me was Fate, were still issuing from those
lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them
fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no
sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious
horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable
draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my
vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first
they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white and slender
angels who would save me; but then, all at once, there came a
most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my
frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery,
while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of
flame, and I saw that from them there would be no help. And then
there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought
of what sweet rest there must be in the grave. The thought came
gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained full
appreciation; but just as my spirit came at length properly to
feel and entertain it, the figures of the judges vanished, as if
magically, from before me; the tall candles sank into
nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the blackness of
darkness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a
mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and
stillness, night were the universe.
I had swooned; but still will not say that all of consciousness
was lost. What of it there remained I will not attempt to define,
or even to describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest
slumber—no! In delirium—no! In a swoon—no! In death—no! even in
the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man.
Arousing from the most profound of slumbers, we break the
gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail
may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed. In
the return to life from the swoon there are two stages; first,
that of the sense of mental or spiritual; secondly, that of the
sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upon
reaching the second stage, we could recall the impressions of the
first, we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of
the gulf beyond. And that gulf is—what? How at least shall we
distinguish its shadows from those of the tomb? But if the
impressions of what I have termed the first stage are not, at
will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not come
unbidden, while we marvel whence they come? He who has never
swooned, is not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar
faces in coals that glow; is not he who beholds floating in
mid-air the sad visions that the many may not view; is not he who
ponders over the perfume of some novel flower; is not he whose
brain grows bewildered with the meaning of some musical cadence
which has never before arrested his attention.
Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest
struggles to regather some token of the state of seeming
nothingness into which my soul had lapsed, there have been
moments when I have dreamed of success; there have been brief,
very brief periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the
lucid reason of a later epoch assures me could have had reference
only to that condition of seeming unconsciousness. These shadows
of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and
bore me in silence down—down—still down—till a hideous dizziness
oppressed me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the
descent. They tell also of a vague horror at my heart, on account
of that heart’s unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden
motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me (a
ghastly train!) had outrun, in their descent, the limits of the
limitless, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After
this I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is
madness—the madness of a memory which busies itself among
forbidden things.
Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound—the
tumultuous motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its
beating. Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again sound,
and motion, and touch—a tingling sensation pervading my frame.
Then the mere consciousness of existence, without thought—a
condition which lasted long. Then, very suddenly, thought, and
shuddering terror, and earnest endeavor to comprehend my true
state. Then a strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a
rushing revival of soul and a successful effort to move. And now
a full memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable
draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then
entire forgetfulness of all that followed; of all that a later
day and much earnestness of endeavor have enabled me vaguely to
recall.
So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back,
unbound. I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon
something damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain for many
minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what I could be. I
longed, yet dared not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first
glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look
upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be
nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I
quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst thoughts, then, were
confirmed. The blackness of eternal night encompassed me. I
struggled for breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to
oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably close. I
still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise my reason. I
brought to mind the inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from
that point to deduce my real condition. The sentence had passed;
and it appeared to me that a very long interval of time had since
elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself actually dead.
Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is
altogether inconsistent with real existence;—but where and in
what state was I? The condemned to death, I knew, perished
usually at the autos-da-fe, and one of these had been held on the
very night of the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to my
dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not take place
for many months? This I at once saw could not be. Victims had
been in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all
the condemned cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was
not altogether excluded.
A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my
heart, and for a brief period, I once more relapsed into
insensibility. Upon recovering, I at once started to my feet,
trembling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly
above and around me in all directions. I felt nothing; yet
dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of
a tomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big
beads upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew at length
intolerable, and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms
extended, and my eyes straining from their sockets, in the hope
of catching some faint ray of light. I proceeded for many paces;
but still all was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely.
It seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the most hideous
of fates.
And now, as I still continued to step cautiously onward, there
came thronging upon my recollection a thousand vague rumors of
the horrors of Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange
things narrated—fables I had always deemed them—but yet strange,
and too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. Was I left to
perish of starvation in this subterranean world of darkness; or
what fate, perhaps even more fearful, awaited me? That the result
would be death, and a death of more than customary bitterness, I
knew too well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode and
the hour were all that occupied or distracted me.
My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid
obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly of stone masonry—very
smooth, slimy, and cold. I followed it up; stepping with all the
careful distrust with which certain antique narratives had
inspired me. This process, however, afforded me no means of
ascertaining the dimensions of my dungeon; as I might make its
circuit, and return to the point whence I set out, without being
aware of the fact; so perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I
therefore sought the knife which had been in my pocket, when led
into the inquisitorial chamber; but it was gone; my clothes had
been exchanged for a wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought of
forcing the blade in some minute crevice of the masonry, so as to
identify my point of departure. The difficulty, nevertheless, was
but trivial; although, in the disorder of my fancy, it seemed at
first insuperable. I tore a part of the hem from the robe and
placed the fragment at full length, and at right angles to the
wall. In groping my way around the prison, I could not fail to
encounter this rag upon completing the circuit. So, at least I
thought: but I had not counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or
upon my own weakness. The ground was moist and slippery. I
staggered onward for some time, when I stumbled and fell. My
excessive fatigue induced me to remain prostrate; and sleep soon
overtook me as I lay.
Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I found beside me a
loaf and a pitcher with water. I was too much exhausted to
reflect upon this circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity.
Shortly afterward, I resumed my tour around the prison, and with
much toil came at last upon the fragment of the serge. Up to the
period when I fell I had counted fifty-two paces, and upon
resuming my walk, I had counted forty-eight more—when I arrived
at the rag. There were in all, then, a hundred paces; and,
admitting two paces to the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be
fifty yards in circuit. I had met, however, with many angles in
the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the shape of the
vault, for vault I could not help supposing it to be.
I had little object—certainly no hope—in these researches; but a
vague curiosity prompted me to continue them. Quitting the wall,
I resolved to cross the area of the enclosure. At first I
proceeded with extreme caution, for the floor, although seemingly
of solid material, was treacherous with slime. At length,
however, I took courage, and did not hesitate to step firmly;
endeavoring to cross in as direct a line as possible. I had
advanced some ten or twelve paces in this manner, when the
remnant of the torn hem of my robe became entangled between my
legs. I stepped on it, and fell violently on my face.
In the confusion attending my fall, I did not immediately
apprehend a somewhat startling circumstance, which yet, in a few
seconds afterward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my
attention. It was this: my chin rested upon the floor of the
prison, but my lips and the upper portion of my head, although
seemingly at a less elevation than the chin, touched nothing. At
the same time my forehead seemed bathed in a clammy vapor, and
the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put
forward my arm, and shuddered to find that I had fallen at the
very brink of a circular pit, whose extent, of course, I had no
means of ascertaining at the moment. Groping about the masonry
just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging a small
fragment, and let it fall into the abyss. For many seconds I
hearkened to its reverberations as it dashed against the sides of
the chasm in its descent; at length there was a sullen plunge
into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the same moment there
came a sound resembling the quick opening, and as rapid closing
of a door overhead, while a faint gleam of light flashed suddenly
through the gloom, and as suddenly faded away.
I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared for me, and
congratulated myself upon the timely accident by which I had
escaped. Another step before my fall, and the world had seen me
no more. And the death just avoided, was of that very character
which I had regarded as fabulous and frivolous in the tales
respecting the Inquisition. To the victims of its tyranny, there
was the choice of death with its direst physical agonies, or
death with its most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved
for the latter. By long suffering my nerves had been unstrung,
until I trembled at the sound of my own voice, and had become in
every respect a fitting subject for the species of torture which
awaited me.
Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to the wall—resolving
there to perish rather than risk the terrors of the wells, of
which my imagination now pictured many in various positions about
the dungeon. In other conditions of mind I might have had courage
to end my misery at once by a plunge into one of these abysses;
but now I was the veriest of cowards. Neither could I forget what
I had read of these pits—that the sudden extinction of life
formed no part of their most horrible plan.
Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long hours, but at
length I again slumbered. Upon arousing, I found by my side, as
before, a loaf and a pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed
me, and I emptied the vessel at a draught. It must have been
drugged—for scarcely had I drunk, before I became irresistibly
drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me—a sleep like that of death. How
long it lasted of course, I know not; but when, once again, I
unclosed my eyes, the objects around me were visible. By a wild
sulphurous lustre, the origin of which I could not at first
determine, I was enabled to see the extent and aspect of the
prison.
In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The whole circuit of its
walls did not exceed twenty-five yards. For some minutes this
fact occasioned me a world of vain trouble; vain indeed! for what
could be of less importance, under the terrible circumstances
which environed me, then the mere dimensions of my dungeon? But
my soul took a wild interest in trifles, and I busied myself in
endeavors to account for the error I had committed in my
measurement. The truth at length flashed upon me. In my first
attempt at exploration I had counted fifty-two paces, up to the
period when I fell; I must then have been within a pace or two of
the fragment of serge; in fact, I had nearly performed the
circuit of the vault. I then slept—and, upon awaking, I must have
returned upon my steps—thus supposing the circuit nearly double
what it actually was. My confusion of mind prevented me from
observing that I began my tour with the wall to the left, and
ended it with the wall to the right.
I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of the
enclosure. In feeling my way I had found many angles, and thus
deduced an idea of great irregularity; so potent is the effect of
total darkness upon one arousing from lethargy or sleep! The
angles were simply those of a few slight depressions, or niches,
at odd intervals. The general shape of the prison was square.
What I had taken for masonry seemed now to be iron, or some other
metal, in huge plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned the
depression. The entire surface of this metallic enclosure was
rudely daubed in all the hideous and repulsive devices to which
the charnel superstition of the monks has given rise. The figures
of fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton forms, and other
more really fearful images, overspread and disfigured the walls.
I observed that the outlines of these monstrosities were
sufficiently distinct, but that the colors seemed faded and
blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmosphere. I now
noticed the floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned
the circular pit from whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the
only one in the dungeon.
All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort—for my personal
condition had been greatly changed during slumber. I now lay upon
my back, and at full length, on a species of low framework of
wood. To this I was securely bound by a long strap resembling a
surcingle. It passed in many convolutions about my limbs and
body, leaving at liberty only my head, and my left arm to such
extent that I could, by dint of much exertion, supply myself with
food from an earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor. I
saw, to my horror, that the pitcher had been removed. I say to my
horror—for I was consumed with intolerable thirst. This thirst it
appeared to be the design of my persecutors to stimulate—for the
food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned.
Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. It was some
thirty or forty feet overhead, and constructed much as the side
walls. In one of its panels a very singular figure riveted my
whole attention. It was the painted figure of Time as he is
commonly represented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, he held
what, at a casual glance, I supposed to be the pictured image of
a huge pendulum such as we see on antique clocks. There was
something, however, in the appearance of this machine which
caused me to regard it more attentively. While I gazed directly
upward at it (for its position was immediately over my own) I
fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant afterward the
fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I
watched it for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but more in
wonder. Wearied at length with observing its dull movement, I
turned my eyes upon the other objects in the cell.
A slight noise attracted my notice, and, looking to the floor, I
saw several enormous rats traversing it. They had issued from the
well, which lay just within view to my right. Even then, while I
gazed, they came up in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes,
allured by the scent of the meat. From this it required much
effort and attention to scare them away.
It might have been half an hour, perhaps even an hour, (for I
could take but imperfect note of time) before I again cast my
eyes upward. What I then saw confounded and amazed me. The sweep
of the pendulum had increased in extent by nearly a yard. As a
natural consequence, its velocity was also much greater. But what
mainly disturbed me was the idea that had perceptibly descended.
I now observed—with what horror it is needless to say—that its
nether extremity was formed of a crescent of glittering steel,
about a foot in length from horn to horn; the horns upward, and
the under edge evidently as keen as that of a razor. Like a razor
also, it seemed massy and heavy, tapering from the edge into a
solid and broad structure above. It was appended to a weighty rod
of brass, and the whole hissed as it swung through the air.
I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me by monkish
ingenuity in torture. My cognizance of the pit had become known
to the inquisitorial agents—_the pit_, whose horrors had been
destined for so bold a recusant as myself—the pit, typical of
hell, and regarded by rumor as the Ultima Thule of all their
punishments. The plunge into this pit I had avoided by the merest
of accidents, I knew that surprise, or entrapment into torment,
formed an important portion of all the grotesquerie of these
dungeon deaths. Having failed to fall, it was no part of the
demon plan to hurl me into the abyss; and thus (there being no
alternative) a different and a milder destruction awaited me.
Milder! I half smiled in my agony as I thought of such
application of such a term.
What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than
mortal, during which I counted the rushing vibrations of the
steel! Inch by inch—line by line—with a descent only appreciable
at intervals that seemed ages—down and still down it came! Days
passed—it might have been that many days passed—ere it swept so
closely over me as to fan me with its acrid breath. The odor of
the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed—I
wearied heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew
frantically mad, and struggled to force myself upward against the
sweep of the fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly calm, and
lay smiling at the glittering death, as a child at some rare
bauble.
There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief;
for, upon again lapsing into life there had been no perceptible
descent in the pendulum. But it might have been long; for I knew
there were demons who took note of my swoon, and who could have
arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt
very—oh! inexpressibly—sick and weak, as if through long
inanition. Even amid the agonies of that period, the human nature
craved food. With painful effort I outstretched my left arm as
far as my bonds permitted, and took possession of the small
remnant which had been spared me by the rats. As I put a portion
of it within my lips, there rushed to my mind a half formed
thought of joy—of hope. Yet what business had _I_ with hope? It
was, as I say, a half formed thought—man has many such, which are
never completed. I felt that it was of joy—of hope; but felt also
that it had perished in its formation. In vain I struggled to
perfect—to regain it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated all
my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile—an idiot.
The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles to my length. I
saw that the crescent was designed to cross the region of the
heart. It would fray the serge of my robe—it would return and
repeat its operations—again—and again. Notwithstanding its
terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more) and the
hissing vigor of its descent, sufficient to sunder these very
walls of iron, still the fraying of my robe would be all that,
for several minutes, it would accomplish. And at this thought I
paused. I dared not go farther than this reflection. I dwelt upon
it with a pertinacity of attention—as if, in so dwelling, I could
arrest here the descent of the steel. I forced myself to ponder
upon the sound of the crescent as it should pass across the
garment—upon the peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction
of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered upon all this
frivolity until my teeth were on edge.
Down—steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied pleasure in
contrasting its downward with its lateral velocity. To the
right—to the left—far and wide—with the shriek of a damned
spirit! to my heart with the stealthy pace of the tiger! I
alternately laughed and howled as the one or the other idea grew
predominant.
Down—certainly, relentlessly down! It vibrated within three
inches of my bosom! I struggled violently, furiously, to free my
left arm. This was free only from the elbow to the hand. I could
reach the latter, from the platter beside me, to my mouth, with
great effort, but no farther. Could I have broken the fastenings
above the elbow, I would have seized and attempted to arrest the
pendulum. I might as well have attempted to arrest an avalanche!
Down—still unceasingly—still inevitably down! I gasped and
struggled at each vibration. I shrunk convulsively at its every
sweep. My eyes followed its outward or upward whirls with the
eagerness of the most unmeaning despair; they closed themselves
spasmodically at the descent, although death would have been a
relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I quivered in every nerve to
think how slight a sinking of the machinery would precipitate
that keen, glistening axe upon my bosom. It was hope that
prompted the nerve to quiver—the frame to shrink. It was hope—the
hope that triumphs on the rack—that whispers to the
death-condemned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition.
I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would bring the steel in
actual contact with my robe, and with this observation there
suddenly came over my spirit all the keen, collected calmness of
despair. For the first time during many hours—or perhaps days—I
thought. It now occurred to me that the bandage, or surcingle,
which enveloped me, was unique. I was tied by no separate cord.
The first stroke of the razorlike crescent athwart any portion of
the band, would so detach it that it might be unwound from my
person by means of my left hand. But how fearful, in that case,
the proximity of the steel! The result of the slightest struggle
how deadly! Was it likely, moreover, that the minions of the
torturer had not foreseen and provided for this possibility? Was
it probable that the bandage crossed my bosom in the track of the
pendulum? Dreading to find my faint, and, as it seemed, my last
hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as to obtain a
distinct view of my breast. The surcingle enveloped my limbs and
body close in all directions—save in the path of the destroying
crescent.
Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its original position,
when there flashed upon my mind what I cannot better describe
than as the unformed half of that idea of deliverance to which I
have previously alluded, and of which a moiety only floated
indeterminately through my brain when I raised food to my burning
lips. The whole thought was now present—feeble, scarcely sane,
scarcely definite,—but still entire. I proceeded at once, with
the nervous energy of despair, to attempt its execution.
For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low framework upon
which I lay had been literally swarming with rats. They were
wild, bold, ravenous—their red eyes glaring upon me as if they
waited but for motionlessness on my part to make me their prey.
“To what food,” I thought, “have they been accustomed in the
well?”
They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to prevent them,
all but a small remnant of the contents of the dish. I had fallen
into an habitual see-saw, or wave of the hand about the platter;
and, at length, the unconscious uniformity of the movement
deprived it of effect. In their voracity the vermin frequently
fastened their sharp fangs in my fingers. With the particles of
the oily and spicy viand which now remained, I thoroughly rubbed
the bandage wherever I could reach it; then, raising my hand from
the floor, I lay breathlessly still.
At first the ravenous animals were startled and terrified at the
change—at the cessation of movement. They shrank alarmedly back;
many sought the well. But this was only for a moment. I had not
counted in vain upon their voracity. Observing that I remained
without motion, one or two of the boldest leaped upon the
frame-work, and smelt at the surcingle. This seemed the signal
for a general rush. Forth from the well they hurried in fresh
troops. They clung to the wood—they overran it, and leaped in
hundreds upon my person. The measured movement of the pendulum
disturbed them not at all. Avoiding its strokes they busied
themselves with the anointed bandage. They pressed—they swarmed
upon me in ever accumulating heaps. They writhed upon my throat;
their cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by their
thronging pressure; disgust, for which the world has no name,
swelled my bosom, and chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart.
Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle would be over.
Plainly I perceived the loosening of the bandage. I knew that in
more than one place it must be already severed. With a more than
human resolution I lay still.
Nor had I erred in my calculations—nor had I endured in vain. I
at length felt that I was free. The surcingle hung in ribands
from my body. But the stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon
my bosom. It had divided the serge of the robe. It had cut
through the linen beneath. Twice again it swung, and a sharp
sense of pain shot through every nerve. But the moment of escape
had arrived. At a wave of my hand my deliverers hurried
tumultuously away. With a steady movement—cautious, sidelong,
shrinking, and slow—I slid from the embrace of the bandage and
beyond the reach of the scimitar. For the moment, at least, I was
free.
Free!—and in the grasp of the Inquisition! I had scarcely stepped
from my wooden bed of horror upon the stone floor of the prison,
when the motion of the hellish machine ceased and I beheld it
drawn up, by some invisible force, through the ceiling. This was
a lesson which I took desperately to heart. My every motion was
undoubtedly watched. Free!—I had but escaped death in one form of
agony, to be delivered unto worse than death in some other. With
that thought I rolled my eves nervously around on the barriers of
iron that hemmed me in. Something unusual—some change which, at
first, I could not appreciate distinctly—it was obvious, had
taken place in the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy and
trembling abstraction, I busied myself in vain, unconnected
conjecture. During this period, I became aware, for the first
time, of the origin of the sulphurous light which illumined the
cell. It proceeded from a fissure, about half an inch in width,
extending entirely around the prison at the base of the walls,
which thus appeared, and were, completely separated from the
floor. I endeavored, but of course in vain, to look through the
aperture.
As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the alteration in the
chamber broke at once upon my understanding. I have observed
that, although the outlines of the figures upon the walls were
sufficiently distinct, yet the colors seemed blurred and
indefinite. These colors had now assumed, and were momentarily
assuming, a startling and most intense brilliancy, that gave to
the spectral and fiendish portraitures an aspect that might have
thrilled even firmer nerves than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild
and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand directions,
where none had been visible before, and gleamed with the lurid
lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagination to regard
as unreal.
_Unreal!_—Even while I breathed there came to my nostrils the
breath of the vapour of heated iron! A suffocating odour pervaded
the prison! A deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes that
glared at my agonies! A richer tint of crimson diffused itself
over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I gasped for
breath! There could be no doubt of the design of my
tormentors—oh! most unrelenting! oh! most demoniac of men! I
shrank from the glowing metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the
thought of the fiery destruction that impended, the idea of the
coolness of the well came over my soul like balm. I rushed to its
deadly brink. I threw my straining vision below. The glare from
the enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild
moment, did my spirit refuse to comprehend the meaning of what I
saw. At length it forced—it wrestled its way into my soul—it
burned itself in upon my shuddering reason. Oh! for a voice to
speak!—oh! horror!—oh! any horror but this! With a shriek, I
rushed from the margin, and buried my face in my hands—weeping
bitterly.
The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up,
shuddering as with a fit of the ague. There had been a second
change in the cell—and now the change was obviously in the form.
As before, it was in vain that I, at first, endeavoured to
appreciate or understand what was taking place. But not long was
I left in doubt. The Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried by
my two-fold escape, and there was to be no more dallying with the
King of Terrors. The room had been square. I saw that two of its
iron angles were now acute—two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful
difference quickly increased with a low rumbling or moaning
sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted its form into that
of a lozenge. But the alteration stopped not here—I neither hoped
nor desired it to stop. I could have clasped the red walls to my
bosom as a garment of eternal peace. “Death,” I said, “any death
but that of the pit!” Fool! might I have not known that into the
pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me? Could I
resist its glow? or, if even that, could I withstand its
pressure? And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a
rapidity that left me no time for contemplation. Its centre, and
of course, its greatest width, came just over the yawning gulf. I
shrank back—but the closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward.
At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an
inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no
more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and
final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink—I
averted my eyes—
There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud
blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a
thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched
arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was
that of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The
Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.
THE PREMATURE BURIAL
There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing,
but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of
legitimate fiction. These the mere romanticist must eschew, if he
do not wish to offend or to disgust. They are with propriety
handled only when the severity and majesty of Truth sanctify and
sustain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense of
“pleasurable pain” over the accounts of the Passage of the
Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague at London,
of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the stifling of the
hundred and twenty-three prisoners in the Black Hole at Calcutta.
But in these accounts it is the fact——it is the reality——it is
the history which excites. As inventions, we should regard them
with simple abhorrence.
I have mentioned some few of the more prominent and august
calamities on record; but in these it is the extent, not less
than the character of the calamity, which so vividly impresses
the fancy. I need not remind the reader that, from the long and
weird catalogue of human miseries, I might have selected many
individual instances more replete with essential suffering than
any of these vast generalities of disaster. The true
wretchedness, indeed—the ultimate woe——is particular, not
diffuse. That the ghastly extremes of agony are endured by man
the unit, and never by man the mass——for this let us thank a
merciful God!
To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most terrific
of these extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of mere
mortality. That it has frequently, very frequently, so fallen
will scarcely be denied by those who think. The boundaries which
divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall
say where the one ends, and where the other begins? We know that
there are diseases in which occur total cessations of all the
apparent functions of vitality, and yet in which these cessations
are merely suspensions, properly so called. They are only
temporary pauses in the incomprehensible mechanism. A certain
period elapses, and some unseen mysterious principle again sets
in motion the magic pinions and the wizard wheels. The silver
cord was not for ever loosed, nor the golden bowl irreparably
broken. But where, meantime, was the soul?
Apart, however, from the inevitable conclusion, _a priori_ that
such causes must produce such effects——that the well-known
occurrence of such cases of suspended animation must naturally
give rise, now and then, to premature interments—apart from this
consideration, we have the direct testimony of medical and
ordinary experience to prove that a vast number of such
interments have actually taken place. I might refer at once, if
necessary, to a hundred well-authenticated instances. One of very
remarkable character, and of which the circumstances may be fresh
in the memory of some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago,
in the neighboring city of Baltimore, where it occasioned a
painful, intense, and widely-extended excitement. The wife of one
of the most respectable citizens—a lawyer of eminence and a
member of Congress—was seized with a sudden and unaccountable
illness, which completely baffled the skill of her physicians.
After much suffering she died, or was supposed to die. No one
suspected, indeed, or had reason to suspect, that she was not
actually dead. She presented all the ordinary appearances of
death. The face assumed the usual pinched and sunken outline. The
lips were of the usual marble pallor. The eyes were lustreless.
There was no warmth. Pulsation had ceased. For three days the
body was preserved unburied, during which it had acquired a stony
rigidity. The funeral, in short, was hastened, on account of the
rapid advance of what was supposed to be decomposition.
The lady was deposited in her family vault, which, for three
subsequent years, was undisturbed. At the expiration of this term
it was opened for the reception of a sarcophagus; but, alas! how
fearful a shock awaited the husband, who, personally, threw open
the door! As its portals swung outwardly back, some
white-apparelled object fell rattling within his arms. It was the
skeleton of his wife in her yet unmoulded shroud.
A careful investigation rendered it evident that she had revived
within two days after her entombment; that her struggles within
the coffin had caused it to fall from a ledge, or shelf to the
floor, where it was so broken as to permit her escape. A lamp
which had been accidentally left, full of oil, within the tomb,
was found empty; it might have been exhausted, however, by
evaporation. On the uttermost of the steps which led down into
the dread chamber was a large fragment of the coffin, with which,
it seemed, that she had endeavored to arrest attention by
striking the iron door. While thus occupied, she probably
swooned, or possibly died, through sheer terror; and, in failing,
her shroud became entangled in some iron-work which projected
interiorly. Thus she remained, and thus she rotted, erect.
In the year 1810, a case of living inhumation happened in France,
attended with circumstances which go far to warrant the assertion
that truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction. The heroine of the
story was a Mademoiselle Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl of
illustrious family, of wealth, and of great personal beauty.
Among her numerous suitors was Julien Bossuet, a poor
_litterateur_, or journalist of Paris. His talents and general
amiability had recommended him to the notice of the heiress, by
whom he seems to have been truly beloved; but her pride of birth
decided her, finally, to reject him, and to wed a Monsieur
Renelle, a banker and a diplomatist of some eminence. After
marriage, however, this gentleman neglected, and, perhaps, even
more positively ill-treated her. Having passed with him some
wretched years, she died—at least her condition so closely
resembled death as to deceive every one who saw her. She was
buried——not in a vault, but in an ordinary grave in the village
of her nativity. Filled with despair, and still inflamed by the
memory of a profound attachment, the lover journeys from the
capital to the remote province in which the village lies, with
the romantic purpose of disinterring the corpse, and possessing
himself of its luxuriant tresses. He reaches the grave. At
midnight he unearths the coffin, opens it, and is in the act of
detaching the hair, when he is arrested by the unclosing of the
beloved eyes. In fact, the lady had been buried alive. Vitality
had not altogether departed, and she was aroused by the caresses
of her lover from the lethargy which had been mistaken for death.
He bore her frantically to his lodgings in the village. He
employed certain powerful restoratives suggested by no little
medical learning. In fine, she revived. She recognized her
preserver. She remained with him until, by slow degrees, she
fully recovered her original health. Her woman’s heart was not
adamant, and this last lesson of love sufficed to soften it. She
bestowed it upon Bossuet. She returned no more to her husband,
but, concealing from him her resurrection, fled with her lover to
America. Twenty years afterward, the two returned to France, in
the persuasion that time had so greatly altered the lady’s
appearance that her friends would be unable to recognize her.
They were mistaken, however, for, at the first meeting, Monsieur
Renelle did actually recognize and make claim to his wife. This
claim she resisted, and a judicial tribunal sustained her in her
resistance, deciding that the peculiar circumstances, with the
long lapse of years, had extinguished, not only equitably, but
legally, the authority of the husband.
The “Chirurgical Journal” of Leipsic, a periodical of high
authority and merit, which some American bookseller would do well
to translate and republish, records in a late number a very
distressing event of the character in question.
An officer of artillery, a man of gigantic stature and of robust
health, being thrown from an unmanageable horse, received a very
severe contusion upon the head, which rendered him insensible at
once; the skull was slightly fractured, but no immediate danger
was apprehended. Trepanning was accomplished successfully. He was
bled, and many other of the ordinary means of relief were
adopted. Gradually, however, he fell into a more and more
hopeless state of stupor, and, finally, it was thought that he
died.
The weather was warm, and he was buried with indecent haste in
one of the public cemeteries. His funeral took place on Thursday.
On the Sunday following, the grounds of the cemetery were, as
usual, much thronged with visitors, and about noon an intense
excitement was created by the declaration of a peasant that,
while sitting upon the grave of the officer, he had distinctly
felt a commotion of the earth, as if occasioned by some one
struggling beneath. At first little attention was paid to the
man’s asseveration; but his evident terror, and the dogged
obstinacy with which he persisted in his story, had at length
their natural effect upon the crowd. Spades were hurriedly
procured, and the grave, which was shamefully shallow, was in a
few minutes so far thrown open that the head of its occupant
appeared. He was then seemingly dead; but he sat nearly erect
within his coffin, the lid of which, in his furious struggles, he
had partially uplifted.
He was forthwith conveyed to the nearest hospital, and there
pronounced to be still living, although in an asphytic condition.
After some hours he revived, recognized individuals of his
acquaintance, and, in broken sentences spoke of his agonies in
the grave.
From what he related, it was clear that he must have been
conscious of life for more than an hour, while inhumed, before
lapsing into insensibility. The grave was carelessly and loosely
filled with an exceedingly porous soil; and thus some air was
necessarily admitted. He heard the footsteps of the crowd
overhead, and endeavored to make himself heard in turn. It was
the tumult within the grounds of the cemetery, he said, which
appeared to awaken him from a deep sleep, but no sooner was he
awake than he became fully aware of the awful horrors of his
position.
This patient, it is recorded, was doing well and seemed to be in
a fair way of ultimate recovery, but fell a victim to the
quackeries of medical experiment. The galvanic battery was
applied, and he suddenly expired in one of those ecstatic
paroxysms which, occasionally, it superinduces.
The mention of the galvanic battery, nevertheless, recalls to my
memory a well known and very extraordinary case in point, where
its action proved the means of restoring to animation a young
attorney of London, who had been interred for two days. This
occurred in 1831, and created, at the time, a very profound
sensation wherever it was made the subject of converse.
The patient, Mr. Edward Stapleton, had died, apparently of typhus
fever, accompanied with some anomalous symptoms which had excited
the curiosity of his medical attendants. Upon his seeming
decease, his friends were requested to sanction a post-mortem
examination, but declined to permit it. As often happens, when
such refusals are made, the practitioners resolved to disinter
the body and dissect it at leisure, in private. Arrangements were
easily effected with some of the numerous corps of
body-snatchers, with which London abounds; and, upon the third
night after the funeral, the supposed corpse was unearthed from a
grave eight feet deep, and deposited in the opening chamber of
one of the private hospitals.
An incision of some extent had been actually made in the abdomen,
when the fresh and undecayed appearance of the subject suggested
an application of the battery. One experiment succeeded another,
and the customary effects supervened, with nothing to
characterize them in any respect, except, upon one or two
occasions, a more than ordinary degree of life-likeness in the
convulsive action.
It grew late. The day was about to dawn; and it was thought
expedient, at length, to proceed at once to the dissection. A
student, however, was especially desirous of testing a theory of
his own, and insisted upon applying the battery to one of the
pectoral muscles. A rough gash was made, and a wire hastily
brought in contact, when the patient, with a hurried but quite
unconvulsive movement, arose from the table, stepped into the
middle of the floor, gazed about him uneasily for a few seconds,
and then—spoke. What he said was unintelligible, but words were
uttered; the syllabification was distinct. Having spoken, he fell
heavily to the floor.
For some moments all were paralyzed with awe—but the urgency of
the case soon restored them their presence of mind. It was seen
that Mr. Stapleton was alive, although in a swoon. Upon
exhibition of ether he revived and was rapidly restored to
health, and to the society of his friends—from whom, however, all
knowledge of his resuscitation was withheld, until a relapse was
no longer to be apprehended. Their wonder—their rapturous
astonishment—may be conceived.
The most thrilling peculiarity of this incident, nevertheless, is
involved in what Mr. S. himself asserts. He declares that at no
period was he altogether insensible—that, dully and confusedly,
he was aware of everything which happened to him, from the moment
in which he was pronounced dead by his physicians, to that in
which he fell swooning to the floor of the hospital. “I am
alive,” were the uncomprehended words which, upon recognizing the
locality of the dissecting-room, he had endeavored, in his
extremity, to utter.
It were an easy matter to multiply such histories as these—but I
forbear—for, indeed, we have no need of such to establish the
fact that premature interments occur. When we reflect how very
rarely, from the nature of the case, we have it in our power to
detect them, we must admit that they may frequently occur without
our cognizance. Scarcely, in truth, is a graveyard ever
encroached upon, for any purpose, to any great extent, that
skeletons are not found in postures which suggest the most
fearful of suspicions.
Fearful indeed the suspicion—but more fearful the doom! It may be
asserted, without hesitation, that no event is so terribly well
adapted to inspire the supremeness of bodily and of mental
distress, as is burial before death. The unendurable oppression
of the lungs—the stifling fumes from the damp earth—the clinging
to the death garments—the rigid embrace of the narrow house—the
blackness of the absolute Night—the silence like a sea that
overwhelms—the unseen but palpable presence of the Conqueror
Worm—these things, with the thoughts of the air and grass above,
with memory of dear friends who would fly to save us if but
informed of our fate, and with consciousness that of this fate
they can never be informed—that our hopeless portion is that of
the really dead—these considerations, I say, carry into the
heart, which still palpitates, a degree of appalling and
intolerable horror from which the most daring imagination must
recoil. We know of nothing so agonizing upon Earth—we can dream
of nothing half so hideous in the realms of the nethermost Hell.
And thus all narratives upon this topic have an interest
profound; an interest, nevertheless, which, through the sacred
awe of the topic itself, very properly and very peculiarly
depends upon our conviction of the truth of the matter narrated.
What I have now to tell is of my own actual knowledge—of my own
positive and personal experience.
For several years I had been subject to attacks of the singular
disorder which physicians have agreed to term catalepsy, in
default of a more definitive title. Although both the immediate
and the predisposing causes, and even the actual diagnosis, of
this disease are still mysterious, its obvious and apparent
character is sufficiently well understood. Its variations seem to
be chiefly of degree. Sometimes the patient lies, for a day only,
or even for a shorter period, in a species of exaggerated
lethargy. He is senseless and externally motionless; but the
pulsation of the heart is still faintly perceptible; some traces
of warmth remain; a slight color lingers within the centre of the
cheek; and, upon application of a mirror to the lips, we can
detect a torpid, unequal, and vacillating action of the lungs.
Then again the duration of the trance is for weeks—even for
months; while the closest scrutiny, and the most rigorous medical
tests, fail to establish any material distinction between the
state of the sufferer and what we conceive of absolute death.
Very usually he is saved from premature interment solely by the
knowledge of his friends that he has been previously subject to
catalepsy, by the consequent suspicion excited, and, above all,
by the non-appearance of decay. The advances of the malady are,
luckily, gradual. The first manifestations, although marked, are
unequivocal. The fits grow successively more and more
distinctive, and endure each for a longer term than the
preceding. In this lies the principal security from inhumation.
The unfortunate whose first attack should be of the extreme
character which is occasionally seen, would almost inevitably be
consigned alive to the tomb.
My own case differed in no important particular from those
mentioned in medical books. Sometimes, without any apparent
cause, I sank, little by little, into a condition of
semi-syncope, or half swoon; and, in this condition, without
pain, without ability to stir, or, strictly speaking, to think,
but with a dull lethargic consciousness of life and of the
presence of those who surrounded my bed, I remained, until the
crisis of the disease restored me, suddenly, to perfect
sensation. At other times I was quickly and impetuously smitten.
I grew sick, and numb, and chilly, and dizzy, and so fell
prostrate at once. Then, for weeks, all was void, and black, and
silent, and Nothing became the universe. Total annihilation could
be no more. From these latter attacks I awoke, however, with a
gradation slow in proportion to the suddenness of the seizure.
Just as the day dawns to the friendless and houseless beggar who
roams the streets throughout the long desolate winter night—just
so tardily—just so wearily—just so cheerily came back the light
of the Soul to me.
Apart from the tendency to trance, however, my general health
appeared to be good; nor could I perceive that it was at all
affected by the one prevalent malady—unless, indeed, an
idiosyncrasy in my ordinary sleep may be looked upon as
superinduced. Upon awaking from slumber, I could never gain, at
once, thorough possession of my senses, and always remained, for
many minutes, in much bewilderment and perplexity—the mental
faculties in general, but the memory in especial, being in a
condition of absolute abeyance.
In all that I endured there was no physical suffering but of
moral distress an infinitude. My fancy grew charnel, I talked “of
worms, of tombs, and epitaphs.” I was lost in reveries of death,
and the idea of premature burial held continual possession of my
brain. The ghastly Danger to which I was subjected haunted me day
and night. In the former, the torture of meditation was
excessive—in the latter, supreme. When the grim Darkness
overspread the Earth, then, with every horror of thought, I
shook—shook as the quivering plumes upon the hearse. When Nature
could endure wakefulness no longer, it was with a struggle that I
consented to sleep—for I shuddered to reflect that, upon awaking,
I might find myself the tenant of a grave. And when, finally, I
sank into slumber, it was only to rush at once into a world of
phantasms, above which, with vast, sable, overshadowing wing,
hovered, predominant, the one sepulchral Idea.
From the innumerable images of gloom which thus oppressed me in
dreams, I select for record but a solitary vision. Methought I
was immersed in a cataleptic trance of more than usual duration
and profundity. Suddenly there came an icy hand upon my forehead,
and an impatient, gibbering voice whispered the word “Arise!”
within my ear.
I sat erect. The darkness was total. I could not see the figure
of him who had aroused me. I could call to mind neither the
period at which I had fallen into the trance, nor the locality in
which I then lay. While I remained motionless, and busied in
endeavors to collect my thought, the cold hand grasped me
fiercely by the wrist, shaking it petulantly, while the gibbering
voice said again:
“Arise! did I not bid thee arise?”
“And who,” I demanded, “art thou?”
“I have no name in the regions which I inhabit,” replied the
voice, mournfully; “I was mortal, but am fiend. I was merciless,
but am pitiful. Thou dost feel that I shudder. My teeth chatter
as I speak, yet it is not with the chilliness of the night—of the
night without end. But this hideousness is insufferable. How
canst thou tranquilly sleep? I cannot rest for the cry of these
great agonies. These sights are more than I can bear. Get thee
up! Come with me into the outer Night, and let me unfold to thee
the graves. Is not this a spectacle of woe?—Behold!”
I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the
wrist, had caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind;
and from each issued the faint phosphoric radiance of decay; so
that I could see into the innermost recesses, and there view the
shrouded bodies in their sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.
But alas! the real sleepers were fewer, by many millions, than
those who slumbered not at all; and there was a feeble
struggling; and there was a general sad unrest; and from out the
depths of the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling
from the garments of the buried. And of those who seemed
tranquilly to repose, I saw that a vast number had changed, in a
greater or less degree, the rigid and uneasy position in which
they had originally been entombed. And the voice again said to me
as I gazed:
“Is it not—oh! is it _not_ a pitiful sight?” But, before I could
find words to reply, the figure had ceased to grasp my wrist, the
phosphoric lights expired, and the graves were closed with a
sudden violence, while from out them arose a tumult of despairing
cries, saying again: “Is it not—O, God, is it _not_ a very
pitiful sight?”
Phantasies such as these, presenting themselves at night,
extended their terrific influence far into my waking hours. My
nerves became thoroughly unstrung, and I fell a prey to perpetual
horror. I hesitated to ride, or to walk, or to indulge in any
exercise that would carry me from home. In fact, I no longer
dared trust myself out of the immediate presence of those who
were aware of my proneness to catalepsy, lest, falling into one
of my usual fits, I should be buried before my real condition
could be ascertained. I doubted the care, the fidelity of my
dearest friends. I dreaded that, in some trance of more than
customary duration, they might be prevailed upon to regard me as
irrecoverable. I even went so far as to fear that, as I
occasioned much trouble, they might be glad to consider any very
protracted attack as sufficient excuse for getting rid of me
altogether. It was in vain they endeavored to reassure me by the
most solemn promises. I exacted the most sacred oaths, that under
no circumstances they would bury me until decomposition had so
materially advanced as to render farther preservation impossible.
And, even then, my mortal terrors would listen to no reason—would
accept no consolation. I entered into a series of elaborate
precautions. Among other things, I had the family vault so
remodelled as to admit of being readily opened from within. The
slightest pressure upon a long lever that extended far into the
tomb would cause the iron portal to fly back. There were
arrangements also for the free admission of air and light, and
convenient receptacles for food and water, within immediate reach
of the coffin intended for my reception. This coffin was warmly
and softly padded, and was provided with a lid, fashioned upon
the principle of the vault-door, with the addition of springs so
contrived that the feeblest movement of the body would be
sufficient to set it at liberty. Besides all this, there was
suspended from the roof of the tomb, a large bell, the rope of
which, it was designed, should extend through a hole in the
coffin, and so be fastened to one of the hands of the corpse.
But, alas? what avails the vigilance against the Destiny of man?
Not even these well-contrived securities sufficed to save from
the uttermost agonies of living inhumation, a wretch to these
agonies foredoomed!
There arrived an epoch—as often before there had arrived—in which
I found myself emerging from total unconsciousness into the first
feeble and indefinite sense of existence. Slowly—with a tortoise
gradation—approached the faint gray dawn of the psychal day. A
torpid uneasiness. An apathetic endurance of dull pain. No
care—no hope—no effort. Then, after a long interval, a ringing in
the ears; then, after a lapse still longer, a prickling or
tingling sensation in the extremities; then a seemingly eternal
period of pleasurable quiescence, during which the awakening
feelings are struggling into thought; then a brief re-sinking
into non-entity; then a sudden recovery. At length the slight
quivering of an eyelid, and immediately thereupon, an electric
shock of a terror, deadly and indefinite, which sends the blood
in torrents from the temples to the heart. And now the first
positive effort to think. And now the first endeavor to remember.
And now a partial and evanescent success. And now the memory has
so far regained its dominion, that, in some measure, I am
cognizant of my state. I feel that I am not awaking from ordinary
sleep. I recollect that I have been subject to catalepsy. And
now, at last, as if by the rush of an ocean, my shuddering spirit
is overwhelmed by the one grim Danger—by the one spectral and
ever-prevalent idea.
For some minutes after this fancy possessed me, I remained
without motion. And why? I could not summon courage to move. I
dared not make the effort which was to satisfy me of my fate—and
yet there was something at my heart which whispered me it was
sure. Despair—such as no other species of wretchedness ever calls
into being—despair alone urged me, after long irresolution, to
uplift the heavy lids of my eyes. I uplifted them. It was
dark—all dark. I knew that the fit was over. I knew that the
crisis of my disorder had long passed. I knew that I had now
fully recovered the use of my visual faculties—and yet it was
dark—all dark—the intense and utter raylessness of the Night that
endureth for evermore.
I endeavored to shriek; and my lips and my parched tongue moved
convulsively together in the attempt—but no voice issued from the
cavernous lungs, which oppressed as if by the weight of some
incumbent mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the heart, at
every elaborate and struggling inspiration.
The movement of the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me
that they were bound up, as is usual with the dead. I felt, too,
that I lay upon some hard substance; and by something similar my
sides were, also, closely compressed. So far, I had not ventured
to stir any of my limbs—but now I violently threw up my arms,
which had been lying at length, with the wrists crossed. They
struck a solid wooden substance, which extended above my person
at an elevation of not more than six inches from my face. I could
no longer doubt that I reposed within a coffin at last.
And now, amid all my infinite miseries, came sweetly the cherub
Hope—for I thought of my precautions. I writhed, and made
spasmodic exertions to force open the lid: it would not move. I
felt my wrists for the bell-rope: it was not to be found. And now
the Comforter fled for ever, and a still sterner Despair reigned
triumphant; for I could not help perceiving the absence of the
paddings which I had so carefully prepared—and then, too, there
came suddenly to my nostrils the strong peculiar odor of moist
earth. The conclusion was irresistible. I was not within the
vault. I had fallen into a trance while absent from home—while
among strangers—when, or how, I could not remember—and it was
they who had buried me as a dog—nailed up in some common
coffin—and thrust deep, deep, and for ever, into some ordinary
and nameless grave.
As this awful conviction forced itself, thus, into the innermost
chambers of my soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in
this second endeavor I succeeded. A long, wild, and continuous
shriek, or yell of agony, resounded through the realms of the
subterranean Night.
“Hillo! hillo, there!” said a gruff voice, in reply.
“What the devil’s the matter now!” said a second.
“Get out o’ that!” said a third.
“What do you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a
cattymount?” said a fourth; and hereupon I was seized and shaken
without ceremony, for several minutes, by a junto of very
rough-looking individuals. They did not arouse me from my
slumber—for I was wide awake when I screamed—but they restored me
to the full possession of my memory.
This adventure occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied
by a friend, I had proceeded, upon a gunning expedition, some
miles down the banks of the James River. Night approached, and we
were overtaken by a storm. The cabin of a small sloop lying at
anchor in the stream, and laden with garden mould, afforded us
the only available shelter. We made the best of it, and passed
the night on board. I slept in one of the only two berths in the
vessel—and the berths of a sloop of sixty or twenty tons need
scarcely be described. That which I occupied had no bedding of
any kind. Its extreme width was eighteen inches. The distance of
its bottom from the deck overhead was precisely the same. I found
it a matter of exceeding difficulty to squeeze myself in.
Nevertheless, I slept soundly, and the whole of my vision—for it
was no dream, and no nightmare—arose naturally from the
circumstances of my position—from my ordinary bias of thought—and
from the difficulty, to which I have alluded, of collecting my
senses, and especially of regaining my memory, for a long time
after awaking from slumber. The men who shook me were the crew of
the sloop, and some laborers engaged to unload it. From the load
itself came the earthly smell. The bandage about the jaws was a
silk handkerchief in which I had bound up my head, in default of
my customary nightcap.
The tortures endured, however, were indubitably quite equal for
the time, to those of actual sepulture. They were fearfully—they
were inconceivably hideous; but out of Evil proceeded Good; for
their very excess wrought in my spirit an inevitable revulsion.
My soul acquired tone—acquired temper. I went abroad. I took
vigorous exercise. I breathed the free air of Heaven. I thought
upon other subjects than Death. I discarded my medical books.
“Buchan” I burned. I read no “Night Thoughts”—no fustian about
churchyards—no bugaboo tales—such as this. In short, I became a
new man, and lived a man’s life. From that memorable night, I
dismissed forever my charnel apprehensions, and with them
vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which, perhaps, they had
been less the consequence than the cause.
There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the
world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell—but
the imagination of man is no Carathis, to explore with impunity
its every cavern. Alas! the grim legion of sepulchral terrors
cannot be regarded as altogether fanciful—but, like the Demons in
whose company Afrasiab made his voyage down the Oxus, they must
sleep, or they will devour us—they must be suffered to slumber,
or we perish.
THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM
The garden like a lady fair was cut,
That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut.
The azure fields of Heaven were ’sembled right
In a large round, set with the flowers of light.
The flowers de luce, and the round sparks of dew
That hung upon their azure leaves did shew
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the evening blue.
—_Giles Fletcher_.
From his cradle to his grave a gale of prosperity bore my friend
Ellison along. Nor do I use the word prosperity in its mere
worldly sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person
of whom I speak seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the
doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of
exemplifying by individual instance what has been deemed the
chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of Ellison
I fancy that I have seen refuted the dogma, that in man’s very
nature lies some hidden principle, the antagonist of bliss. An
anxious examination of his career has given me to understand that
in general, from the violation of a few simple laws of humanity
arises the wretchedness of mankind—that as a species we have in
our possession the as yet unwrought elements of content—and that,
even now, in the present darkness and madness of all thought on
the great question of the social condition, it is not impossible
that man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly
fortuitous conditions, may be happy.
With opinions such as these my young friend, too, was fully
imbued, and thus it is worthy of observation that the
uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was, in
great measure, the result of preconcert. It is indeed evident
that with less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then,
stands so well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have
found himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary success of
his life, into the common vortex of unhappiness which yawns for
those of pre-eminent endowments. But it is by no means my object
to pen an essay on happiness. The ideas of my friend may be
summed up in a few words. He admitted but four elementary
principles, or more strictly, conditions of bliss. That which he
considered chief was (strange to say!) the simple and purely
physical one of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he
said, “attainable by other means is scarcely worth the name.” He
instanced the ecstasies of the fox-hunter, and pointed to the
tillers of the earth, the only people who, as a class, can be
fairly considered happier than others. His second condition was
the love of woman. His third, and most difficult of realization,
was the contempt of ambition. His fourth was an object of
unceasing pursuit; and he held that, other things being equal,
the extent of attainable happiness was in proportion to the
spirituality of this object.
Ellison was remarkable in the continuous profusion of good gifts
lavished upon him by fortune. In personal grace and beauty he
exceeded all men. His intellect was of that order to which the
acquisition of knowledge is less a labor than an intuition and a
necessity. His family was one of the most illustrious of the
empire. His bride was the loveliest and most devoted of women.
His possessions had been always ample; but on the attainment of
his majority, it was discovered that one of those extraordinary
freaks of fate had been played in his behalf which startle the
whole social world amid which they occur, and seldom fail
radically to alter the moral constitution of those who are their
objects.
It appears that about a hundred years before Mr. Ellison’s coming
of age, there had died, in a remote province, one Mr. Seabright
Ellison. This gentleman had amassed a princely fortune, and,
having no immediate connections, conceived the whim of suffering
his wealth to accumulate for a century after his decease.
Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes of
investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest of
blood, bearing the name of Ellison, who should be alive at the
end of the hundred years. Many attempts had been made to set
aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character
rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government
was aroused, and a legislative act finally obtained, forbidding
all similar accumulations. This act, however, did not prevent
young Ellison from entering into possession, on his twenty-first
birthday, as the heir of his ancestor Seabright, of a fortune of
four hundred and fifty millions of dollars. (*1)
When it had become known that such was the enormous wealth
inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to the
mode of its disposal. The magnitude and the immediate
availability of the sum bewildered all who thought on the topic.
The possessor of any appreciable amount of money might have been
imagined to perform any one of a thousand things. With riches
merely surpassing those of any citizen, it would have been easy
to suppose him engaging to supreme excess in the fashionable
extravagances of his time—or busying himself with political
intrigue—or aiming at ministerial power—or purchasing increase of
nobility—or collecting large museums of virtu—or playing the
munificent patron of letters, of science, of art—or endowing, and
bestowing his name upon extensive institutions of charity. But
for the inconceivable wealth in the actual possession of the
heir, these objects and all ordinary objects were felt to afford
too limited a field. Recourse was had to figures, and these but
sufficed to confound. It was seen that, even at three per cent.,
the annual income of the inheritance amounted to no less than
thirteen millions and five hundred thousand dollars; which was
one million and one hundred and twenty-five thousand per month;
or thirty-six thousand nine hundred and eighty-six per day; or
one thousand five hundred and forty-one per hour; or six and
twenty dollars for every minute that flew. Thus the usual track
of supposition was thoroughly broken up. Men knew not what to
imagine. There were some who even conceived that Mr. Ellison
would divest himself of at least one-half of his fortune, as of
utterly superfluous opulence—enriching whole troops of his
relatives by division of his superabundance. To the nearest of
these he did, in fact, abandon the very unusual wealth which was
his own before the inheritance.
I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made
up his mind on a point which had occasioned so much discussion to
his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at the nature of his
decision. In regard to individual charities he had satisfied his
conscience. In the possibility of any improvement, properly so
called, being effected by man himself in the general condition of
man, he had (I am sorry to confess it) little faith. Upon the
whole, whether happily or unhappily, he was thrown back, in very
great measure, upon self.
In the widest and noblest sense he was a poet. He comprehended,
moreover, the true character, the august aims, the supreme
majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment. The fullest, if not
the sole proper satisfaction of this sentiment he instinctively
felt to lie in the creation of novel forms of beauty. Some
peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the nature of
his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism all his
ethical speculations; and it was this bias, perhaps, which led
him to believe that the most advantageous at least, if not the
sole legitimate field for the poetic exercise, lies in the
creation of novel moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it
happened he became neither musician nor poet—if we use this
latter term in its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been
that he neglected to become either, merely in pursuance of his
idea that in contempt of ambition is to be found one of the
essential principles of happiness on earth. Is it not indeed,
possible that, while a high order of genius is necessarily
ambitious, the highest is above that which is termed ambition?
And may it not thus happen that many far greater than Milton have
contentedly remained “mute and inglorious?” I believe that the
world has never seen—and that, unless through some series of
accidents goading the noblest order of mind into distasteful
exertion, the world will never see—that full extent of triumphant
execution, in the richer domains of art, of which the human
nature is absolutely capable.
Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived
more profoundly enamored of music and poetry. Under other
circumstances than those which invested him, it is not impossible
that he would have become a painter. Sculpture, although in its
nature rigorously poetical was too limited in its extent and
consequences, to have occupied, at any time, much of his
attention. And I have now mentioned all the provinces in which
the common understanding of the poetic sentiment has declared it
capable of expatiating. But Ellison maintained that the richest,
the truest, and most natural, if not altogether the most
extensive province, had been unaccountably neglected. No
definition had spoken of the landscape-gardener as of the poet;
yet it seemed to my friend that the creation of the
landscape-garden offered to the proper Muse the most magnificent
of opportunities. Here, indeed, was the fairest field for the
display of imagination in the endless combining of forms of novel
beauty; the elements to enter into combination being, by a vast
superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In
the multiform and multicolor of the flowers and the trees, he
recognised the most direct and energetic efforts of Nature at
physical loveliness. And in the direction or concentration of
this effort—or, more properly, in its adaptation to the eyes
which were to behold it on earth—he perceived that he should be
employing the best means—laboring to the greatest advantage—in
the fulfilment, not only of his own destiny as poet, but of the
august purposes for which the Deity had implanted the poetic
sentiment in man.
“Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth.” In
his explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much toward
solving what has always seemed to me an enigma:—I mean the fact
(which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such combination of
scenery exists in nature as the painter of genius may produce. No
such paradises are to be found in reality as have glowed on the
canvas of Claude. In the most enchanting of natural landscapes,
there will always be found a defect or an excess—many excesses
and defects. While the component parts may defy, individually,
the highest skill of the artist, the arrangement of these parts
will always be susceptible of improvement. In short, no position
can be attained on the wide surface of the natural earth, from
which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will not find matter
of offence in what is termed the “composition” of the landscape.
And yet how unintelligible is this! In all other matters we are
justly instructed to regard nature as supreme. With her details
we shrink from competition. Who shall presume to imitate the
colors of the tulip, or to improve the proportions of the lily of
the valley? The criticism which says, of sculpture or
portraiture, that here nature is to be exalted or idealized
rather than imitated, is in error. No pictorial or sculptural
combinations of points of human liveliness do more than approach
the living and breathing beauty. In landscape alone is the
principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it
is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has led him to
pronounce it true throughout all the domains of art. Having, I
say, felt its truth here; for the feeling is no affectation or
chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute demonstrations
than the sentiments of his art yields the artist. He not only
believes, but positively knows, that such and such apparently
arbitrary arrangements of matter constitute and alone constitute
the true beauty. His reasons, however, have not yet been matured
into expression. It remains for a more profound analysis than the
world has yet seen, fully to investigate and express them.
Nevertheless he is confirmed in his instinctive opinions by the
voice of all his brethren. Let a “composition” be defective; let
an emendation be wrought in its mere arrangement of form; let
this emendation be submitted to every artist in the world; by
each will its necessity be admitted. And even far more than this;
in remedy of the defective composition, each insulated member of
the fraternity would have suggested the identical emendation.
I repeat that in landscape arrangements alone is the physical
nature susceptible of exaltation, and that, therefore, her
susceptibility of improvement at this one point, was a mystery I
had been unable to solve. My own thoughts on the subject had
rested in the idea that the primitive intention of nature would
have so arranged the earth’s surface as to have fulfilled at all
points man’s sense of perfection in the beautiful, the sublime,
or the picturesque; but that this primitive intention had been
frustrated by the known geological disturbances—disturbances of
form and color—grouping, in the correction or allaying of which
lies the soul of art. The force of this idea was much weakened,
however, by the necessity which it involved of considering the
disturbances abnormal and unadapted to any purpose. It was
Ellison who suggested that they were prognostic of death. He thus
explained:—Admit the earthly immortality of man to have been the
first intention. We have then the primitive arrangement of the
earth’s surface adapted to his blissful estate, as not existent
but designed. The disturbances were the preparations for his
subsequently conceived deathful condition.
“Now,” said my friend, “what we regard as exaltation of the
landscape may be really such, as respects only the moral or human
point of view. Each alteration of the natural scenery may
possibly effect a blemish in the picture, if we can suppose this
picture viewed at large—in mass—from some point distant from the
earth’s surface, although not beyond the limits of its
atmosphere. It is easily understood that what might improve a
closely scrutinized detail, may at the same time injure a general
or more distantly observed effect. There may be a class of
beings, human once, but now invisible to humanity, to whom, from
afar, our disorder may seem order—our unpicturesqueness
picturesque; in a word, the earth-angels, for whose scrutiny more
especially than our own, and for whose death-refined appreciation
of the beautiful, may have been set in array by God the wide
landscape-gardens of the hemispheres.”
In the course of discussion, my friend quoted some passages from
a writer on landscape-gardening who has been supposed to have
well treated his theme:
“There are properly but two styles of landscape-gardening, the
natural and the artificial. One seeks to recall the original
beauty of the country, by adapting its means to the surrounding
scenery, cultivating trees in harmony with the hills or plain of
the neighboring land; detecting and bringing into practice those
nice relations of size, proportion, and color which, hid from the
common observer, are revealed everywhere to the experienced
student of nature. The result of the natural style of gardening,
is seen rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities—in
the prevalence of a healthy harmony and order—than in the
creation of any special wonders or miracles. The artificial style
has as many varieties as there are different tastes to gratify.
It has a certain general relation to the various styles of
building. There are the stately avenues and retirements of
Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed old English
style, which bears some relation to the domestic Gothic or
English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said against
the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a mixture of
pure art in a garden scene adds to it a great beauty. This is
partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and design, and
partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered balustrade,
calls up at once to the eye the fair forms that have passed there
in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an evidence of
care and human interest.”
“From what I have already observed,” said Ellison, “you will
understand that I reject the idea, here expressed, of recalling
the original beauty of the country. The original beauty is never
so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, every thing
depends on the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is
said about detecting and bringing into practice nice relations of
size, proportion, and color, is one of those mere vaguenesses of
speech which serve to veil inaccuracy of thought. The phrase
quoted may mean any thing, or nothing, and guides in no degree.
That the true result of the natural style of gardening is seen
rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities than in
the creation of any special wonders or miracles, is a proposition
better suited to the grovelling apprehension of the herd than to
the fervid dreams of the man of genius. The negative merit
suggested appertains to that hobbling criticism which, in
letters, would elevate Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while
that virtue which consists in the mere avoidance of vice appeals
directly to the understanding, and can thus be circumscribed in
rule, the loftier virtue, which flames in creation, can be
apprehended in its results alone. Rule applies but to the merits
of denial—to the excellencies which refrain. Beyond these, the
critical art can but suggest. We may be instructed to build a
“Cato,” but we are in vain told how to conceive a Parthenon or an
“Inferno.” The thing done, however; the wonder accomplished; and
the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists of
the negative school who, through inability to create, have
scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What,
in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure
reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort
admiration from their instinct of beauty.
“The author’s observations on the artificial style,” continued
Ellison, “are less objectionable. A mixture of pure art in a
garden scene adds to it a great beauty. This is just; as also is
the reference to the sense of human interest. The principle
expressed is incontrovertible—but there may be something beyond
it. There may be an object in keeping with the principle—an
object unattainable by the means ordinarily possessed by
individuals, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm to the
landscape-garden far surpassing that which a sense of merely
human interest could bestow. A poet, having very unusual
pecuniary resources, might, while retaining the necessary idea of
art or culture, or, as our author expresses it, of interest, so
imbue his designs at once with extent and novelty of beauty, as
to convey the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be
seen that, in bringing about such result, he secures all the
advantages of interest or design, while relieving his work of the
harshness or technicality of the worldly art. In the most rugged
of wildernesses—in the most savage of the scenes of pure
nature—there is apparent the art of a creator; yet this art is
apparent to reflection only; in no respect has it the obvious
force of a feeling. Now let us suppose this sense of the Almighty
design to be one step depressed—to be brought into something like
harmony or consistency with the sense of human art—to form an
intermedium between the two:—let us imagine, for example, a
landscape whose combined vastness and definitiveness—whose united
beauty, magnificence, and strangeness, shall convey the idea of
care, or culture, or superintendence, on the part of beings
superior, yet akin to humanity—then the sentiment of interest is
preserved, while the art intervolved is made to assume the air of
an intermediate or secondary nature—a nature which is not God,
nor an emanation from God, but which still is nature in the sense
of the handiwork of the angels that hover between man and God.”
It was in devoting his enormous wealth to the embodiment of a
vision such as this—in the free exercise in the open air ensured
by the personal superintendence of his plans—in the unceasing
object which these plans afforded—in the high spirituality of the
object—in the contempt of ambition which it enabled him truly to
feel—in the perennial springs with which it gratified, without
possibility of satiating, that one master passion of his soul,
the thirst for beauty, above all, it was in the sympathy of a
woman, not unwomanly, whose loveliness and love enveloped his
existence in the purple atmosphere of Paradise, that Ellison
thought to find, and found, exemption from the ordinary cares of
humanity, with a far greater amount of positive happiness than
ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De Staël.
I despair of conveying to the reader any distinct conception of
the marvels which my friend did actually accomplish. I wish to
describe, but am disheartened by the difficulty of description,
and hesitate between detail and generality. Perhaps the better
course will be to unite the two in their extremes.
Mr. Ellison’s first step regarded, of course, the choice of a
locality, and scarcely had he commenced thinking on this point,
when the luxuriant nature of the Pacific Islands arrested his
attention. In fact, he had made up his mind for a voyage to the
South Seas, when a night’s reflection induced him to abandon the
idea. “Were I misanthropic,” he said, “such a locale would suit
me. The thoroughness of its insulation and seclusion, and the
difficulty of ingress and egress, would in such case be the charm
of charms; but as yet I am not Timon. I wish the composure but
not the depression of solitude. There must remain with me a
certain control over the extent and duration of my repose. There
will be frequent hours in which I shall need, too, the sympathy
of the poetic in what I have done. Let me seek, then, a spot not
far from a populous city—whose vicinity, also, will best enable
me to execute my plans.”
In search of a suitable place so situated, Ellison travelled for
several years, and I was permitted to accompany him. A thousand
spots with which I was enraptured he rejected without hesitation,
for reasons which satisfied me, in the end, that he was right. We
came at length to an elevated table-land of wonderful fertility
and beauty, affording a panoramic prospect very little less in
extent than that of Aetna, and, in Ellison’s opinion as well as
my own, surpassing the far-famed view from that mountain in all
the true elements of the picturesque.
“I am aware,” said the traveller, as he drew a sigh of deep
delight after gazing on this scene, entranced, for nearly an
hour, “I know that here, in my circumstances, nine-tenths of the
most fastidious of men would rest content. This panorama is
indeed glorious, and I should rejoice in it but for the excess of
its glory. The taste of all the architects I have ever known
leads them, for the sake of ‘prospect,’ to put up buildings on
hill-tops. The error is obvious. Grandeur in any of its moods,
but especially in that of extent, startles, excites—and then
fatigues, depresses. For the occasional scene nothing can be
better—for the constant view nothing worse. And, in the constant
view, the most objectionable phase of grandeur is that of extent;
the worst phase of extent, that of distance. It is at war with
the sentiment and with the sense of seclusion—the sentiment and
sense which we seek to humor in ‘retiring to the country.’ In
looking from the summit of a mountain we cannot help feeling
abroad in the world. The heart-sick avoid distant prospects as a
pestilence.”
It was not until toward the close of the fourth year of our
search that we found a locality with which Ellison professed
himself satisfied. It is, of course, needless to say where was
the locality. The late death of my friend, in causing his domain
to be thrown open to certain classes of visitors, has given to
Arnheim a species of secret and subdued if not solemn celebrity,
similar in kind, although infinitely superior in degree, to that
which so long distinguished Fonthill.
The usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visitor left
the city in the early morning. During the forenoon he passed
between shores of a tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed
innumerable sheep, their white fleeces spotting the vivid green
of rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of cultivation subsided
into that of merely pastoral care. This slowly became merged in a
sense of retirement—this again in a consciousness of solitude. As
the evening approached, the channel grew more narrow; the banks
more and more precipitous; and these latter were clothed in rich,
more profuse, and more sombre foliage. The water increased in
transparency. The stream took a thousand turns, so that at no
moment could its gleaming surface be seen for a greater distance
than a furlong. At every instant the vessel seemed imprisoned
within an enchanted circle, having insuperable and impenetrable
walls of foliage, a roof of ultramarine satin, and no floor—the
keel balancing itself with admirable nicety on that of a phantom
bark which, by some accident having been turned upside down,
floated in constant company with the substantial one, for the
purpose of sustaining it. The channel now became a gorge—although
the term is somewhat inapplicable, and I employ it merely because
the language has no word which better represents the most
striking—not the most distinctive—feature of the scene. The
character of gorge was maintained only in the height and
parallelism of the shores; it was lost altogether in their other
traits. The walls of the ravine (through which the clear water
still tranquilly flowed) arose to an elevation of a hundred and
occasionally of a hundred and fifty feet, and inclined so much
toward each other as, in a great measure, to shut out the light
of day; while the long plume-like moss which depended densely
from the intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm
an air of funereal gloom. The windings became more frequent and
intricate, and seemed often as if returning in upon themselves,
so that the voyager had long lost all idea of direction. He was,
moreover, enwrapt in an exquisite sense of the strange. The
thought of nature still remained, but her character seemed to
have undergone modification, there was a weird symmetry, a
thrilling uniformity, a wizard propriety in these her works. Not
a dead branch—not a withered leaf—not a stray pebble—not a patch
of the brown earth was anywhere visible. The crystal water welled
up against the clean granite, or the unblemished moss, with a
sharpness of outline that delighted while it bewildered the eye.
Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the
gloom deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the
vessel brought it suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a
circular basin of very considerable extent when compared with the
width of the gorge. It was about two hundred yards in diameter,
and girt in at all points but one—that immediately fronting the
vessel as it entered—by hills equal in general height to the
walls of the chasm, although of a thoroughly different character.
Their sides sloped from the water’s edge at an angle of some
forty-five degrees, and they were clothed from base to summit—not
a perceptible point escaping—in a drapery of the most gorgeous
flower-blossoms; scarcely a green leaf being visible among the
sea of odorous and fluctuating color. This basin was of great
depth, but so transparent was the water that the bottom, which
seemed to consist of a thick mass of small round alabaster
pebbles, was distinctly visible by glimpses—that is to say,
whenever the eye could permit itself not to see, far down in the
inverted heaven, the duplicate blooming of the hills. On these
latter there were no trees, nor even shrubs of any size. The
impressions wrought on the observer were those of richness,
warmth, color, quietude, uniformity, softness, delicacy,
daintiness, voluptuousness, and a miraculous extremeness of
culture that suggested dreams of a new race of fairies,
laborious, tasteful, magnificent, and fastidious; but as the eye
traced upward the myriad-tinted slope, from its sharp junction
with the water to its vague termination amid the folds of
overhanging cloud, it became, indeed, difficult not to fancy a
panoramic cataract of rubies, sapphires, opals, and golden
onyxes, rolling silently out of the sky.
The visitor, shooting suddenly into this bay from out the gloom
of the ravine, is delighted but astounded by the full orb of the
declining sun, which he had supposed to be already far below the
horizon, but which now confronts him, and forms the sole
termination of an otherwise limitless vista seen through another
chasm-like rift in the hills.
But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far,
and descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque
devices in vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and
beak of this boat arise high above the water, with sharp points,
so that the general form is that of an irregular crescent. It
lies on the surface of the bay with the proud grace of a swan. On
its ermined floor reposes a single feathery paddle of satin-wood;
but no oarsmen or attendant is to be seen. The guest is bidden to
be of good cheer—that the fates will take care of him. The larger
vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which lies
apparently motionless in the middle of the lake. While he
considers what course to pursue, however, he becomes aware of a
gentle movement in the fairy bark. It slowly swings itself around
until its prow points toward the sun. It advances with a gentle
but gradually accelerated velocity, while the slight ripples it
creates seem to break about the ivory side in divinest
melody—seem to offer the only possible explanation of the
soothing yet melancholy music for whose unseen origin the
bewildered voyager looks around him in vain.
The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is
approached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen. To
the right arise a chain of lofty hills rudely and luxuriantly
wooded. It is observed, however, that the trait of exquisite
cleanness where the bank dips into the water, still prevails.
There is not one token of the usual river _débris_. To the left
the character of the scene is softer and more obviously
artificial. Here the bank slopes upward from the stream in a very
gentle ascent, forming a broad sward of grass of a texture
resembling nothing so much as velvet, and of a brilliancy of
green which would bear comparison with the tint of the purest
emerald. This plateau varies in width from ten to three hundred
yards; reaching from the river-bank to a wall, fifty feet high,
which extends, in an infinity of curves, but following the
general direction of the river, until lost in the distance to the
westward. This wall is of one continuous rock, and has been
formed by cutting perpendicularly the once rugged precipice of
the stream’s southern bank, but no trace of the labor has been
suffered to remain. The chiselled stone has the hue of ages, and
is profusely overhung and overspread with the ivy, the coral
honeysuckle, the eglantine, and the clematis. The uniformity of
the top and bottom lines of the wall is fully relieved by
occasional trees of gigantic height, growing singly or in small
groups, both along the plateau and in the domain behind the wall,
but in close proximity to it; so that frequent limbs (of the
black walnut especially) reach over and dip their pendent
extremities into the water. Farther back within the domain, the
vision is impeded by an impenetrable screen of foliage.
These things are observed during the canoe’s gradual approach to
what I have called the gate of the vista. On drawing nearer to
this, however, its chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet
from the bay is discovered to the left—in which direction the
wall is also seen to sweep, still following the general course of
the stream. Down this new opening the eye cannot penetrate very
far; for the stream, accompanied by the wall, still bends to the
left, until both are swallowed up by the leaves.
The boat, nevertheless, glides magically into the winding
channel; and here the shore opposite the wall is found to
resemble that opposite the wall in the straight vista. Lofty
hills, rising occasionally into mountains, and covered with
vegetation in wild luxuriance, still shut in the scene.
Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented,
the voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress
apparently barred by a gigantic gate or rather door of burnished
gold, elaborately carved and fretted, and reflecting the direct
rays of the now fast-sinking sun with an effulgence that seems to
wreath the whole surrounding forest in flames. This gate is
inserted in the lofty wall; which here appears to cross the river
at right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the
main body of the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive
curve to the left, the wall following it as before, while a
stream of considerable volume, diverging from the principal one,
makes its way, with a slight ripple, under the door, and is thus
hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and
approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically
expanded. The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid
descent into a vast amphitheatre entirely begirt with purple
mountains, whose bases are laved by a gleaming river throughout
the full extent of their circuit. Meantime the whole Paradise of
Arnheim bursts upon the view. There is a gush of entrancing
melody; there is an oppressive sense of strange sweet odor;—there
is a dream-like intermingling to the eye of tall slender Eastern
trees—bosky shrubberies—flocks of golden and crimson
birds—lily-fringed lakes—meadows of violets, tulips, poppies,
hyacinths, and tuberoses—long intertangled lines of silver
streamlets—and, upspringing confusedly from amid all, a mass of
semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic architecture sustaining itself by
miracle in mid-air, glittering in the red sunlight with a hundred
oriels, minarets, and pinnacles; and seeming the phantom
handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the
Genii and of the Gnomes.
LANDOR’S COTTAGE
A Pendant to “The Domain of Arnheim”
During A pedestrian trip last summer, through one or two of the
river counties of New York, I found myself, as the day declined,
somewhat embarrassed about the road I was pursuing. The land
undulated very remarkably; and my path, for the last hour, had
wound about and about so confusedly, in its effort to keep in the
valleys, that I no longer knew in what direction lay the sweet
village of B——, where I had determined to stop for the night. The
sun had scarcely shone—strictly speaking—during the day, which
nevertheless, had been unpleasantly warm. A smoky mist,
resembling that of the Indian summer, enveloped all things, and
of course, added to my uncertainty. Not that I cared much about
the matter. If I did not hit upon the village before sunset, or
even before dark, it was more than possible that a little Dutch
farmhouse, or something of that kind, would soon make its
appearance—although, in fact, the neighborhood (perhaps on
account of being more picturesque than fertile) was very sparsely
inhabited. At all events, with my knapsack for a pillow, and my
hound as a sentry, a bivouac in the open air was just the thing
which would have amused me. I sauntered on, therefore, quite at
ease—Ponto taking charge of my gun—until at length, just as I had
begun to consider whether the numerous little glades that led
hither and thither, were intended to be paths at all, I was
conducted by one of them into an unquestionable carriage track.
There could be no mistaking it. The traces of light wheels were
evident; and although the tall shrubberies and overgrown
undergrowth met overhead, there was no obstruction whatever
below, even to the passage of a Virginian mountain wagon—the most
aspiring vehicle, I take it, of its kind. The road, however,
except in being open through the wood—if wood be not too weighty
a name for such an assemblage of light trees—and except in the
particulars of evident wheel-tracks—bore no resemblance to any
road I had before seen. The tracks of which I speak were but
faintly perceptible—having been impressed upon the firm, yet
pleasantly moist surface of—what looked more like green Genoese
velvet than any thing else. It was grass, clearly—but grass such
as we seldom see out of England—so short, so thick, so even, and
so vivid in color. Not a single impediment lay in the
wheel-route—not even a chip or dead twig. The stones that once
obstructed the way had been carefully _placed_—not thrown—along
the sides of the lane, so as to define its boundaries at bottom
with a kind of half-precise, half-negligent, and wholly
picturesque definition. Clumps of wild flowers grew everywhere,
luxuriantly, in the interspaces.
What to make of all this, of course I knew not. Here was art
undoubtedly—that did not surprise me—all roads, in the ordinary
sense, are works of art; nor can I say that there was much to
wonder at in the mere excess of art manifested; all that seemed
to have been done, might have been done here—with such natural
“capabilities” (as they have it in the books on Landscape
Gardening)—with very little labor and expense. No; it was not the
amount but the character of the art which caused me to take a
seat on one of the blossomy stones and gaze up and down this
fairy-like avenue for half an hour or more in bewildered
admiration. One thing became more and more evident the longer I
gazed: an artist, and one with a most scrupulous eye for form,
had superintended all these arrangements. The greatest care had
been taken to preserve a due medium between the neat and graceful
on the one hand, and the pittoresque, in the true sense of the
Italian term, on the other. There were few straight, and no long
uninterrupted lines. The same effect of curvature or of color
appeared twice, usually, but not oftener, at any one point of
view. Everywhere was variety in uniformity. It was a piece of
“composition,” in which the most fastidiously critical taste
could scarcely have suggested an emendation.
I had turned to the right as I entered this road, and now,
arising, I continued in the same direction. The path was so
serpentine, that at no moment could I trace its course for more
than two or three paces in advance. Its character did not undergo
any material change.
Presently the murmur of water fell gently upon my ear—and in a
few moments afterward, as I turned with the road somewhat more
abruptly than hitherto, I became aware that a building of some
kind lay at the foot of a gentle declivity just before me. I
could see nothing distinctly on account of the mist which
occupied all the little valley below. A gentle breeze, however,
now arose, as the sun was about descending; and while I remained
standing on the brow of the slope, the fog gradually became
dissipated into wreaths, and so floated over the scene.
As it came fully into view—thus gradually as I describe it—piece
by piece, here a tree, there a glimpse of water, and here again
the summit of a chimney, I could scarcely help fancying that the
whole was one of the ingenious illusions sometimes exhibited
under the name of “vanishing pictures.”
By the time, however, that the fog had thoroughly disappeared,
the sun had made its way down behind the gentle hills, and
thence, as if with a slight chassez to the south, had come again
fully into sight, glaring with a purplish lustre through a chasm
that entered the valley from the west. Suddenly, therefore—and as
if by the hand of magic—this whole valley and every thing in it
became brilliantly visible.
The first _coup d’œil_, as the sun slid into the position
described, impressed me very much as I have been impressed, when
a boy, by the concluding scene of some well-arranged theatrical
spectacle or melodrama. Not even the monstrosity of color was
wanting; for the sunlight came out through the chasm, tinted all
orange and purple; while the vivid green of the grass in the
valley was reflected more or less upon all objects from the
curtain of vapor that still hung overhead, as if loth to take its
total departure from a scene so enchantingly beautiful.
The little vale into which I thus peered down from under the fog
canopy could not have been more than four hundred yards long;
while in breadth it varied from fifty to one hundred and fifty or
perhaps two hundred. It was most narrow at its northern
extremity, opening out as it tended southwardly, but with no very
precise regularity. The widest portion was within eighty yards of
the southern extreme. The slopes which encompassed the vale could
not fairly be called hills, unless at their northern face. Here a
precipitous ledge of granite arose to a height of some ninety
feet; and, as I have mentioned, the valley at this point was not
more than fifty feet wide; but as the visitor proceeded
southwardly from the cliff, he found on his right hand and on his
left, declivities at once less high, less precipitous, and less
rocky. All, in a word, sloped and softened to the south; and yet
the whole vale was engirdled by eminences, more or less high,
except at two points. One of these I have already spoken of. It
lay considerably to the north of west, and was where the setting
sun made its way, as I have before described, into the
amphitheatre, through a cleanly cut natural cleft in the granite
embankment; this fissure might have been ten yards wide at its
widest point, so far as the eye could trace it. It seemed to lead
up, up like a natural causeway, into the recesses of unexplored
mountains and forests. The other opening was directly at the
southern end of the vale. Here, generally, the slopes were
nothing more than gentle inclinations, extending from east to
west about one hundred and fifty yards. In the middle of this
extent was a depression, level with the ordinary floor of the
valley. As regards vegetation, as well as in respect to every
thing else, the scene softened and sloped to the south. To the
north—on the craggy precipice—a few paces from the verge—up
sprang the magnificent trunks of numerous hickories, black
walnuts, and chestnuts, interspersed with occasional oak; and the
strong lateral branches thrown out by the walnuts especially,
spread far over the edge of the cliff. Proceeding southwardly,
the explorer saw, at first, the same class of trees, but less and
less lofty and Salvatorish in character; then he saw the gentler
elm, succeeded by the sassafras and locust—these again by the
softer linden, red-bud, catalpa, and maple—these yet again by
still more graceful and more modest varieties. The whole face of
the southern declivity was covered with wild shrubbery alone—an
occasional silver willow or white poplar excepted. In the bottom
of the valley itself—(for it must be borne in mind that the
vegetation hitherto mentioned grew only on the cliffs or
hillsides)—were to be seen three insulated trees. One was an elm
of fine size and exquisite form: it stood guard over the southern
gate of the vale. Another was a hickory, much larger than the
elm, and altogether a much finer tree, although both were
exceedingly beautiful: it seemed to have taken charge of the
northwestern entrance, springing from a group of rocks in the
very jaws of the ravine, and throwing its graceful body, at an
angle of nearly forty-five degrees, far out into the sunshine of
the amphitheatre. About thirty yards east of this tree stood,
however, the pride of the valley, and beyond all question the
most magnificent tree I have ever seen, unless, perhaps, among
the cypresses of the Itchiatuckanee. It was a triple-stemmed
tulip-tree—the Liriodendron Tulipiferum—one of the natural order
of magnolias. Its three trunks separated from the parent at about
three feet from the soil, and diverging very slightly and
gradually, were not more than four feet apart at the point where
the largest stem shot out into foliage: this was at an elevation
of about eighty feet. The whole height of the principal division
was one hundred and twenty feet. Nothing can surpass in beauty
the form, or the glossy, vivid green of the leaves of the
tulip-tree. In the present instance they were fully eight inches
wide; but their glory was altogether eclipsed by the gorgeous
splendor of the profuse blossoms. Conceive, closely congregated,
a million of the largest and most resplendent tulips! Only thus
can the reader get any idea of the picture I would convey. And
then the stately grace of the clean, delicately-granulated
columnar stems, the largest four feet in diameter, at twenty from
the ground. The innumerable blossoms, mingling with those of
other trees scarcely less beautiful, although infinitely less
majestic, filled the valley with more than Arabian perfumes.
The general floor of the amphitheatre was grass of the same
character as that I had found in the road; if anything, more
deliciously soft, thick, velvety, and miraculously green. It was
hard to conceive how all this beauty had been attained.
I have spoken of two openings into the vale. From the one to the
northwest issued a rivulet, which came, gently murmuring and
slightly foaming, down the ravine, until it dashed against the
group of rocks out of which sprang the insulated hickory. Here,
after encircling the tree, it passed on a little to the north of
east, leaving the tulip tree some twenty feet to the south, and
making no decided alteration in its course until it came near the
midway between the eastern and western boundaries of the valley.
At this point, after a series of sweeps, it turned off at right
angles and pursued a generally southern direction meandering as
it went—until it became lost in a small lake of irregular figure
(although roughly oval), that lay gleaming near the lower
extremity of the vale. This lakelet was, perhaps, a hundred yards
in diameter at its widest part. No crystal could be clearer than
its waters. Its bottom, which could be distinctly seen, consisted
altogether, of pebbles brilliantly white. Its banks, of the
emerald grass already described, rounded, rather than sloped, off
into the clear heaven below; and so clear was this heaven, so
perfectly, at times, did it reflect all objects above it, that
where the true bank ended and where the mimic one commenced, it
was a point of no little difficulty to determine. The trout, and
some other varieties of fish, with which this pond seemed to be
almost inconveniently crowded, had all the appearance of
veritable flying-fish. It was almost impossible to believe that
they were not absolutely suspended in the air. A light birch
canoe that lay placidly on the water, was reflected in its
minutest fibres with a fidelity unsurpassed by the most
exquisitely polished mirror. A small island, fairly laughing with
flowers in full bloom, and affording little more space than just
enough for a picturesque little building, seemingly a
fowl-house—arose from the lake not far from its northern shore—to
which it was connected by means of an inconceivably light-looking
and yet very primitive bridge. It was formed of a single, broad
and thick plank of the tulip wood. This was forty feet long, and
spanned the interval between shore and shore with a slight but
very perceptible arch, preventing all oscillation. From the
southern extreme of the lake issued a continuation of the
rivulet, which, after meandering for, perhaps, thirty yards,
finally passed through the “depression” (already described) in
the middle of the southern declivity, and tumbling down a sheer
precipice of a hundred feet, made its devious and unnoticed way
to the Hudson.
The lake was deep—at some points thirty feet—but the rivulet
seldom exceeded three, while its greatest width was about eight.
Its bottom and banks were as those of the pond—if a defect could
have been attributed, in point of picturesqueness, it was that of
excessive neatness.
The expanse of the green turf was relieved, here and there, by an
occasional showy shrub, such as the hydrangea, or the common
snowball, or the aromatic seringa; or, more frequently, by a
clump of geraniums blossoming gorgeously in great varieties.
These latter grew in pots which were carefully buried in the
soil, so as to give the plants the appearance of being
indigenous. Besides all this, the lawn’s velvet was exquisitely
spotted with sheep—a considerable flock of which roamed about the
vale, in company with three tamed deer, and a vast number of
brilliantly-plumed ducks. A very large mastiff seemed to be in
vigilant attendance upon these animals, each and all.
Along the eastern and western cliffs—where, toward the upper
portion of the amphitheatre, the boundaries were more or less
precipitous—grew ivy in great profusion—so that only here and
there could even a glimpse of the naked rock be obtained. The
northern precipice, in like manner, was almost entirely clothed
by grape-vines of rare luxuriance; some springing from the soil
at the base of the cliff, and others from ledges on its face.
The slight elevation which formed the lower boundary of this
little domain, was crowned by a neat stone wall, of sufficient
height to prevent the escape of the deer. Nothing of the fence
kind was observable elsewhere; for nowhere else was an artificial
enclosure needed:—any stray sheep, for example, which should
attempt to make its way out of the vale by means of the ravine,
would find its progress arrested, after a few yards’ advance, by
the precipitous ledge of rock over which tumbled the cascade that
had arrested my attention as I first drew near the domain. In
short, the only ingress or egress was through a gate occupying a
rocky pass in the road, a few paces below the point at which I
stopped to reconnoitre the scene.
I have described the brook as meandering very irregularly through
the whole of its course. Its two general directions, as I have
said, were first from west to east, and then from north to south.
At the turn, the stream, sweeping backward, made an almost
circular loop, so as to form a peninsula which was very nearly an
island, and which included about the sixteenth of an acre. On
this peninsula stood a dwelling-house—and when I say that this
house, like the infernal terrace seen by Vathek, “etait d’une
architecture inconnue dans les annales de la terre,” I mean,
merely, that its tout ensemble struck me with the keenest sense
of combined novelty and propriety—in a word, of poetry—(for, than
in the words just employed, I could scarcely give, of poetry in
the abstract, a more rigorous definition)—and I do not mean that
merely outre was perceptible in any respect.
In fact nothing could well be more simple—more utterly
unpretending than this cottage. Its marvellous effect lay
altogether in its artistic arrangement as a picture. I could have
fancied, while I looked at it, that some eminent
landscape-painter had built it with his brush.
The point of view from which I first saw the valley, was not
altogether, although it was nearly, the best point from which to
survey the house. I will therefore describe it as I afterwards
saw it—from a position on the stone wall at the southern extreme
of the amphitheatre.
The main building was about twenty-four feet long and sixteen
broad—certainly not more. Its total height, from the ground to
the apex of the roof, could not have exceeded eighteen feet. To
the west end of this structure was attached one about a third
smaller in all its proportions:—the line of its front standing
back about two yards from that of the larger house, and the line
of its roof, of course, being considerably depressed below that
of the roof adjoining. At right angles to these buildings, and
from the rear of the main one—not exactly in the middle—extended
a third compartment, very small—being, in general, one-third less
than the western wing. The roofs of the two larger were very
steep—sweeping down from the ridge-beam with a long concave
curve, and extending at least four feet beyond the walls in
front, so as to form the roofs of two piazzas. These latter
roofs, of course, needed no support; but as they had the air of
needing it, slight and perfectly plain pillars were inserted at
the corners alone. The roof of the northern wing was merely an
extension of a portion of the main roof. Between the chief
building and western wing arose a very tall and rather slender
square chimney of hard Dutch bricks, alternately black and red:—a
slight cornice of projecting bricks at the top. Over the gables
the roofs also projected very much:—in the main building about
four feet to the east and two to the west. The principal door was
not exactly in the main division, being a little to the
east—while the two windows were to the west. These latter did not
extend to the floor, but were much longer and narrower than
usual—they had single shutters like doors—the panes were of
lozenge form, but quite large. The door itself had its upper half
of glass, also in lozenge panes—a movable shutter secured it at
night. The door to the west wing was in its gable, and quite
simple—a single window looked out to the south. There was no
external door to the north wing, and it also had only one window
to the east.
The blank wall of the eastern gable was relieved by stairs (with
a balustrade) running diagonally across it—the ascent being from
the south. Under cover of the widely projecting eave these steps
gave access to a door leading to the garret, or rather loft—for
it was lighted only by a single window to the north, and seemed
to have been intended as a store-room.
The piazzas of the main building and western wing had no floors,
as is usual; but at the doors and at each window, large, flat
irregular slabs of granite lay imbedded in the delicious turf,
affording comfortable footing in all weather. Excellent paths of
the same material—not nicely adapted, but with the velvety sod
filling frequent intervals between the stones, led hither and
thither from the house, to a crystal spring about five paces off,
to the road, or to one or two out-houses that lay to the north,
beyond the brook, and were thoroughly concealed by a few locusts
and catalpas.
Not more than six steps from the main door of the cottage stood
the dead trunk of a fantastic pear-tree, so clothed from head to
foot in the gorgeous bignonia blossoms that one required no
little scrutiny to determine what manner of sweet thing it could
be. From various arms of this tree hung cages of different kinds.
In one, a large wicker cylinder with a ring at top, revelled a
mocking bird; in another an oriole; in a third the impudent
bobolink—while three or four more delicate prisons were loudly
vocal with canaries.
The pillars of the piazza were enwreathed in jasmine and sweet
honeysuckle; while from the angle formed by the main structure
and its west wing, in front, sprang a grape-vine of unexampled
luxuriance. Scorning all restraint, it had clambered first to the
lower roof—then to the higher; and along the ridge of this latter
it continued to writhe on, throwing out tendrils to the right and
left, until at length it fairly attained the east gable, and fell
trailing over the stairs.
The whole house, with its wings, was constructed of the
old-fashioned Dutch shingles—broad, and with unrounded corners.
It is a peculiarity of this material to give houses built of it
the appearance of being wider at bottom than at top—after the
manner of Egyptian architecture; and in the present instance,
this exceedingly picturesque effect was aided by numerous pots of
gorgeous flowers that almost encompassed the base of the
buildings.
The shingles were painted a dull gray; and the happiness with
which this neutral tint melted into the vivid green of the tulip
tree leaves that partially overshadowed the cottage, can readily
be conceived by an artist.
From the position near the stone wall, as described, the
buildings were seen at great advantage—for the southeastern angle
was thrown forward—so that the eye took in at once the whole of
the two fronts, with the picturesque eastern gable, and at the
same time obtained just a sufficient glimpse of the northern
wing, with parts of a pretty roof to the spring-house, and nearly
half of a light bridge that spanned the brook in the near
vicinity of the main buildings.
I did not remain very long on the brow of the hill, although long
enough to make a thorough survey of the scene at my feet. It was
clear that I had wandered from the road to the village, and I had
thus good traveller’s excuse to open the gate before me, and
inquire my way, at all events; so, without more ado, I proceeded.
The road, after passing the gate, seemed to lie upon a natural
ledge, sloping gradually down along the face of the north-eastern
cliffs. It led me on to the foot of the northern precipice, and
thence over the bridge, round by the eastern gable to the front
door. In this progress, I took notice that no sight of the
out-houses could be obtained.
As I turned the corner of the gable, the mastiff bounded towards
me in stern silence, but with the eye and the whole air of a
tiger. I held him out my hand, however, in token of amity—and I
never yet knew the dog who was proof against such an appeal to
his courtesy. He not only shut his mouth and wagged his tail, but
absolutely offered me his paw—afterward extending his civilities
to Ponto.
As no bell was discernible, I rapped with my stick against the
door, which stood half open. Instantly a figure advanced to the
threshold—that of a young woman about twenty-eight years of
age—slender, or rather slight, and somewhat above the medium
height. As she approached, with a certain modest decision of step
altogether indescribable. I said to myself, “Surely here I have
found the perfection of natural, in contradistinction from
artificial grace.” The second impression which she made on me,
but by far the more vivid of the two, was that of enthusiasm. So
intense an expression of romance, perhaps I should call it, or of
unworldliness, as that which gleamed from her deep-set eyes, had
never so sunk into my heart of hearts before. I know not how it
is, but this peculiar expression of the eye, wreathing itself
occasionally into the lips, is the most powerful, if not
absolutely the sole spell, which rivets my interest in woman.
“Romance,” provided my readers fully comprehended what I would
here imply by the word—“romance” and “womanliness” seem to me
convertible terms: and, after all, what man truly loves in woman,
is simply her womanhood. The eyes of Annie (I heard some one from
the interior call her “Annie, darling!”) were “spiritual grey;”
her hair, a light chestnut: this is all I had time to observe of
her.
At her most courteous of invitations, I entered—passing first
into a tolerably wide vestibule. Having come mainly to observe, I
took notice that to my right as I stepped in, was a window, such
as those in front of the house; to the left, a door leading into
the principal room; while, opposite me, an open door enabled me
to see a small apartment, just the size of the vestibule,
arranged as a study, and having a large bow window looking out to
the north.
Passing into the parlor, I found myself with Mr. Landor—for this,
I afterwards found, was his name. He was civil, even cordial in
his manner, but just then, I was more intent on observing the
arrangements of the dwelling which had so much interested me,
than the personal appearance of the tenant.
The north wing, I now saw, was a bed-chamber, its door opened
into the parlor. West of this door was a single window, looking
toward the brook. At the west end of the parlor, were a
fireplace, and a door leading into the west wing—probably a
kitchen.
Nothing could be more rigorously simple than the furniture of the
parlor. On the floor was an ingrain carpet, of excellent
texture—a white ground, spotted with small circular green
figures. At the windows were curtains of snowy white jaconet
muslin: they were tolerably full, and hung decisively, perhaps
rather formally in sharp, parallel plaits to the floor—just to
the floor. The walls were prepared with a French paper of great
delicacy, a silver ground, with a faint green cord running
zig-zag throughout. Its expanse was relieved merely by three of
Julien’s exquisite lithographs a trois crayons, fastened to the
wall without frames. One of these drawings was a scene of
Oriental luxury, or rather voluptuousness; another was a
“carnival piece,” spirited beyond compare; the third was a Greek
female head—a face so divinely beautiful, and yet of an
expression so provokingly indeterminate, never before arrested my
attention.
The more substantial furniture consisted of a round table, a few
chairs (including a large rocking-chair), and a sofa, or rather
“settee;” its material was plain maple painted a creamy white,
slightly interstriped with green; the seat of cane. The chairs
and table were “to match,” but the forms of all had evidently
been designed by the same brain which planned “the grounds;” it
is impossible to conceive anything more graceful.
On the table were a few books; a large, square, crystal bottle of
some novel perfume; a plain ground glass _astral_ (not solar)
lamp with an Italian shade; and a large vase of
resplendently-blooming flowers. Flowers, indeed, of gorgeous
colours and delicate odour formed the sole mere decoration of the
apartment. The fire-place was nearly filled with a vase of
brilliant geranium. On a triangular shelf in each angle of the
room stood also a similar vase, varied only as to its lovely
contents. One or two smaller bouquets adorned the mantel, and
late violets clustered about the open windows.
It is not the purpose of this work to do more than give in
detail, a picture of Mr. Landor’s residence—as I found it. How he
made it what it was—and why—with some particulars of Mr. Landor
himself—may, possibly form the subject of another article.
WILLIAM WILSON
What say of it? what say of CONSCIENCE grim,
That spectre in my path?
—_Chamberlayne’s Pharronida._
Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair
page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real
appellation. This has been already too much an object for the
scorn—for the horror—for the detestation of my race. To the
uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds
bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most
abandoned!—to the earth art thou not forever dead? to its honors,
to its flowers, to its golden aspirations?—and a cloud, dense,
dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy
hopes and heaven?
I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my
later years of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. This
epoch—these later years—took unto themselves a sudden elevation
in turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to
assign. Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an instant,
all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From comparatively trivial
wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than
the enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance—what one event
brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate.
Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a
softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through
the dim valley, for the sympathy—I had nearly said for the
pity—of my fellow men. I would fain have them believe that I have
been, in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human
control. I would wish them to seek out for me, in the details I
am about to give, some little oasis of fatality amid a wilderness
of error. I would have them allow—what they cannot refrain from
allowing—that, although temptation may have erewhile existed as
great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before—certainly,
never thus fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus
suffered? Have I not indeed been living in a dream? And am I not
now dying a victim to the horror and the mystery of the wildest
of all sublunary visions?
I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily
excitable temperament has at all times rendered them remarkable;
and, in my earliest infancy, I gave evidence of having fully
inherited the family character. As I advanced in years it was
more strongly developed; becoming, for many reasons, a cause of
serious disquietude to my friends, and of positive injury to
myself. I grew self-willed, addicted to the wildest caprices, and
a prey to the most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and beset
with constitutional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could
do but little to check the evil propensities which distinguished
me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts resulted in complete
failure on their part, and, of course, in total triumph on mine.
Thenceforward my voice was a household law; and at an age when
few children have abandoned their leading-strings, I was left to
the guidance of my own will, and became, in all but name, the
master of my own actions.
My earliest recollections of a school-life, are connected with a
large, rambling, Elizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of
England, where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees,
and where all the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it
was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that venerable old
town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness
of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its
thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight,
at the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking, each hour,
with sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky
atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay imbedded and
asleep.
It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any
manner experience, to dwell upon minute recollections of the
school and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am—misery, alas!
only too real—I shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however
slight and temporary, in the weakness of a few rambling details.
These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in
themselves, assume, to my fancy, adventitious importance, as
connected with a period and a locality when and where I recognise
the first ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so
fully overshadowed me. Let me then remember.
The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were
extensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of
mortar and broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prison-like
rampart formed the limit of our domain; beyond it we saw but
thrice a week—once every Saturday afternoon, when, attended by
two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks in a body
through some of the neighbouring fields—and twice during Sunday,
when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the morning and
evening service in the one church of the village. Of this church
the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of
wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote
pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he ascended
the pulpit! This reverend man, with countenance so demurely
benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig
so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast,—-could this be he
who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy habiliments,
administered, ferule in hand, the Draconian laws of the academy?
Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution!
At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate.
It was riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted with
jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe did it inspire!
It was never opened save for the three periodical egressions and
ingressions already mentioned; then, in every creak of its mighty
hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery—a world of matter for
solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation.
The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many
capacious recesses. Of these, three or four of the largest
constituted the play-ground. It was level, and covered with fine
hard gravel. I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor
anything similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the
house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other
shrubs, but through this sacred division we passed only upon rare
occasions indeed—such as a first advent to school or final
departure thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend having
called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or
Midsummer holidays.
But the house!—how quaint an old building was this!—to me how
veritably a palace of enchantment! There was really no end to its
windings—to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult,
at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of its two
stories one happened to be. From each room to every other there
were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or
descent. Then the lateral branches were
innumerable—inconceivable—and so returning in upon themselves,
that our most exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not
very far different from those with which we pondered upon
infinity. During the five years of my residence here, I was never
able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality lay the
little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or
twenty other scholars.
The school-room was the largest in the house—I could not help
thinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow, and dismally
low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a
remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight
or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, “during hours,” of our
principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure,
with massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the
“Dominie,” we would all have willingly perished by the _peine
forte et dure_. In other angles were two other similar boxes, far
less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of
these was the pulpit of the “classical” usher, one of the
“English and mathematical.” Interspersed about the room, crossing
and recrossing in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches
and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with
much-bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters, names
at full length, grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts
of the knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original
form might have been their portion in days long departed. A huge
bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock
of stupendous dimensions at the other.
Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I
passed, yet not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third
lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no
external world of incident to occupy or amuse it; and the
apparently dismal monotony of a school was replete with more
intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury,
or my full manhood from crime. Yet I must believe that my first
mental development had in it much of the uncommon—even much of
the _outré_. Upon mankind at large the events of very early
existence rarely leave in mature age any definite impression. All
is gray shadow—a weak and irregular remembrance—an indistinct
regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me
this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the energy of
a man what I now find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as
deep, and as durable as the _exergues_ of the Carthaginian
medals.
Yet in fact—in the fact of the world’s view—how little was there
to remember! The morning’s awakening, the nightly summons to bed;
the connings, the recitations; the periodical half-holidays, and
perambulations; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes,
its intrigues;—these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were
made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich
incident, an universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most
passionate and spirit-stirring. “_Oh, le bon temps, que ce siècle
de fer!_”
In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my
disposition, soon rendered me a marked character among my
schoolmates, and by slow, but natural gradations, gave me an
ascendancy over all not greatly older than myself;—over all with
a single exception. This exception was found in the person of a
scholar, who, although no relation, bore the same Christian and
surname as myself;—a circumstance, in fact, little remarkable;
for, notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was one of those
everyday appellations which seem, by prescriptive right, to have
been, time out of mind, the common property of the mob. In this
narrative I have therefore designated myself as William Wilson,—a
fictitious title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake
alone, of those who in school phraseology constituted “our set,”
presumed to compete with me in the studies of the class—in the
sports and broils of the play-ground—to refuse implicit belief in
my assertions, and submission to my will—indeed, to interfere
with my arbitrary dictation in any respect whatsoever. If there
is on earth a supreme and unqualified despotism, it is the
despotism of a master-mind in boyhood over the less energetic
spirits of its companions.
Wilson’s rebellion was to me a source of the greatest
embarrassment; the more so as, in spite of the bravado with which
in public I made a point of treating him and his pretensions, I
secretly felt that I feared him, and could not help thinking the
equality which he maintained so easily with myself, a proof of
his true superiority; since not to be overcome cost me a
perpetual struggle. Yet this superiority—even this equality—was
in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our associates, by
some unaccountable blindness, seemed not even to suspect it.
Indeed, his competition, his resistance, and especially his
impertinent and dogged interference with my purposes, were not
more pointed than private. He appeared to be destitute alike of
the ambition which urged, and of the passionate energy of mind
which enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he might have been
supposed actuated solely by a whimsical desire to thwart,
astonish, or mortify myself; although there were times when I
could not help observing, with a feeling made up of wonder,
abasement, and pique, that he mingled with his injuries, his
insults, or his contradictions, a certain most inappropriate, and
assuredly most unwelcome affectionateness of manner. I could only
conceive this singular behavior to arise from a consummate
self-conceit assuming the vulgar airs of patronage and
protection.
Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson’s conduct, conjoined
with our identity of name, and the mere accident of our having
entered the school upon the same day, which set afloat the notion
that we were brothers, among the senior classes in the academy.
These do not usually inquire with much strictness into the
affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have
said, that Wilson was not, in the most remote degree, connected
with my family. But assuredly if we had been brothers we must
have been twins; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby’s, I casually
learned that my namesake was born on the nineteenth of January,
1813—and this is a somewhat remarkable coincidence; for the day
is precisely that of my own nativity.
It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety
occasioned me by the rivalry of Wilson, and his intolerable
spirit of contradiction, I could not bring myself to hate him
altogether. We had, to be sure, nearly every day a quarrel in
which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory, he, in some
manner, contrived to make me feel that it was he who had deserved
it; yet a sense of pride on my part, and a veritable dignity on
his own, kept us always upon what are called “speaking terms,”
while there were many points of strong congeniality in our
tempers, operating to awake me in a sentiment which our position
alone, perhaps, prevented from ripening into friendship. It is
difficult, indeed, to define, or even to describe, my real
feelings towards him. They formed a motley and heterogeneous
admixture;—some petulant animosity, which was not yet hatred,
some esteem, more respect, much fear, with a world of uneasy
curiosity. To the moralist it will be unnecessary to say, in
addition, that Wilson and myself were the most inseparable of
companions.
It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing between
us, which turned all my attacks upon him, (and they were many,
either open or covert) into the channel of banter or practical
joke (giving pain while assuming the aspect of mere fun) rather
than into a more serious and determined hostility. But my
endeavours on this head were by no means uniformly successful,
even when my plans were the most wittily concocted; for my
namesake had much about him, in character, of that unassuming and
quiet austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy of its own
jokes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, and absolutely refuses
to be laughed at. I could find, indeed, but one vulnerable point,
and that, lying in a personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from
constitutional disease, would have been spared by any antagonist
less at his wit’s end than myself;—my rival had a weakness in the
faucal or guttural organs, which precluded him from raising his
voice at any time above a very low whisper. Of this defect I did
not fail to take what poor advantage lay in my power.
Wilson’s retaliations in kind were many; and there was one form
of his practical wit that disturbed me beyond measure. How his
sagacity first discovered at all that so petty a thing would vex
me, is a question I never could solve; but, having discovered, he
habitually practised the annoyance. I had always felt aversion to
my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if not plebeian
praenomen. The words were venom in my ears; and when, upon the
day of my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to the
academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name, and doubly
disgusted with the name because a stranger bore it, who would be
the cause of its twofold repetition, who would be constantly in
my presence, and whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of the
school business, must inevitably, on account of the detestable
coincidence, be often confounded with my own.
The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every
circumstance tending to show resemblance, moral or physical,
between my rival and myself. I had not then discovered the
remarkable fact that we were of the same age; but I saw that we
were of the same height, and I perceived that we were even
singularly alike in general contour of person and outline of
feature. I was galled, too, by the rumor touching a relationship,
which had grown current in the upper forms. In a word, nothing
could more seriously disturb me, (although I scrupulously
concealed such disturbance,) than any allusion to a similarity of
mind, person, or condition existing between us. But, in truth, I
had no reason to believe that (with the exception of the matter
of relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself,) this
similarity had ever been made a subject of comment, or even
observed at all by our schoolfellows. That he observed it in all
its bearings, and as fixedly as I, was apparent; but that he
could discover in such circumstances so fruitful a field of
annoyance, can only be attributed, as I said before, to his more
than ordinary penetration.
His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in
words and in actions; and most admirably did he play his part. My
dress it was an easy matter to copy; my gait and general manner
were, without difficulty, appropriated; in spite of his
constitutional defect, even my voice did not escape him. My
louder tones were, of course, unattempted, but then the key—it
was identical; _and his singular whisper, it grew the very echo
of my own_.
How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me, (for it
could not justly be termed a caricature,) I will not now venture
to describe. I had but one consolation—in the fact that the
imitation, apparently, was noticed by myself alone, and that I
had to endure only the knowing and strangely sarcastic smiles of
my namesake himself. Satisfied with having produced in my bosom
the intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret over the
sting he had inflicted, and was characteristically disregardful
of the public applause which the success of his witty endeavours
might have so easily elicited. That the school, indeed, did not
feel his design, perceive its accomplishment, and participate in
his sneer, was, for many anxious months, a riddle I could not
resolve. Perhaps the gradation of his copy rendered it not so
readily perceptible; or, more possibly, I owed my security to the
master air of the copyist, who, disdaining the letter, (which in
a painting is all the obtuse can see,) gave but the full spirit
of his original for my individual contemplation and chagrin.
I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of
patronage which he assumed toward me, and of his frequent
officious interference with my will. This interference often took
the ungracious character of advice; advice not openly given, but
hinted or insinuated. I received it with a repugnance which
gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let
me do him the simple justice to acknowledge that I can recall no
occasion when the suggestions of my rival were on the side of
those errors or follies so usual to his immature age and seeming
inexperience; that his moral sense, at least, if not his general
talents and worldly wisdom, was far keener than my own; and that
I might, to-day, have been a better, and thus a happier man, had
I less frequently rejected the counsels embodied in those meaning
whispers which I then but too cordially hated and too bitterly
despised.
As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme under his
distasteful supervision, and daily resented more and more openly
what I considered his intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in
the first years of our connexion as schoolmates, my feelings in
regard to him might have been easily ripened into friendship;
but, in the latter months of my residence at the academy,
although the intrusion of his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt,
in some measure, abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar
proportion, partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one
occasion he saw this, I think, and afterwards avoided, or made a
show of avoiding me.
It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an
altercation of violence with him, in which he was more than
usually thrown off his guard, and spoke and acted with an
openness of demeanor rather foreign to his nature, I discovered,
or fancied I discovered, in his accent, his air, and general
appearance, a something which first startled, and then deeply
interested me, by bringing to mind dim visions of my earliest
infancy—wild, confused and thronging memories of a time when
memory herself was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the
sensation which oppressed me than by saying that I could with
difficulty shake off the belief of my having been acquainted with
the being who stood before me, at some epoch very long ago—some
point of the past even infinitely remote. The delusion, however,
faded rapidly as it came; and I mention it at all but to define
the day of the last conversation I there held with my singular
namesake.
The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had several
large chambers communicating with each other, where slept the
greater number of the students. There were, however, (as must
necessarily happen in a building so awkwardly planned,) many
little nooks or recesses, the odds and ends of the structure; and
these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted up as
dormitories; although, being the merest closets, they were
capable of accommodating but a single individual. One of these
small apartments was occupied by Wilson.
One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and
immediately after the altercation just mentioned, finding every
one wrapped in sleep, I arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole
through a wilderness of narrow passages from my own bedroom to
that of my rival. I had long been plotting one of those
ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I had
hitherto been so uniformly unsuccessful. It was my intention,
now, to put my scheme in operation, and I resolved to make him
feel the whole extent of the malice with which I was imbued.
Having reached his closet, I noiselessly entered, leaving the
lamp, with a shade over it, on the outside. I advanced a step,
and listened to the sound of his tranquil breathing. Assured of
his being asleep, I returned, took the light, and with it again
approached the bed. Close curtains were around it, which, in the
prosecution of my plan, I slowly and quietly withdrew, when the
bright rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my eyes, at the
same moment, upon his countenance. I looked;—and a numbness, an
iciness of feeling instantly pervaded my frame. My breast heaved,
my knees tottered, my whole spirit became possessed with an
objectless yet intolerable horror. Gasping for breath, I lowered
the lamp in still nearer proximity to the face. Were these—these
the lineaments of William Wilson? I saw, indeed, that they were
his, but I shook as if with a fit of the ague in fancying they
were not. What was there about them to confound me in this
manner? I gazed;—while my brain reeled with a multitude of
incoherent thoughts. Not thus he appeared—assuredly not thus—in
the vivacity of his waking hours. The same name! the same contour
of person! the same day of arrival at the academy! And then his
dogged and meaningless imitation of my gait, my voice, my habits,
and my manner! Was it, in truth, within the bounds of human
possibility, that what I now saw was the result, merely, of the
habitual practice of this sarcastic imitation? Awe-stricken, and
with a creeping shudder, I extinguished the lamp, passed silently
from the chamber, and left, at once, the halls of that old
academy, never to enter them again.
After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I
found myself a student at Eton. The brief interval had been
sufficient to enfeeble my remembrance of the events at Dr.
Bransby’s, or at least to effect a material change in the nature
of the feelings with which I remembered them. The truth—the
tragedy—of the drama was no more. I could now find room to doubt
the evidence of my senses; and seldom called up the subject at
all but with wonder at extent of human credulity, and a smile at
the vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily
possessed. Neither was this species of scepticism likely to be
diminished by the character of the life I led at Eton. The vortex
of thoughtless folly into which I there so immediately and so
recklessly plunged, washed away all but the froth of my past
hours, engulfed at once every solid or serious impression, and
left to memory only the veriest levities of a former existence.
I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable
profligacy here—a profligacy which set at defiance the laws,
while it eluded the vigilance of the institution. Three years of
folly, passed without profit, had but given me rooted habits of
vice, and added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to my bodily
stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a
small party of the most dissolute students to a secret carousal
in my chambers. We met at a late hour of the night; for our
debaucheries were to be faithfully protracted until morning. The
wine flowed freely, and there were not wanting other and perhaps
more dangerous seductions; so that the gray dawn had already
faintly appeared in the east, while our delirious extravagance
was at its height. Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I
was in the act of insisting upon a toast of more than wonted
profanity, when my attention was suddenly diverted by the
violent, although partial unclosing of the door of the apartment,
and by the eager voice of a servant from without. He said that
some person, apparently in great haste, demanded to speak with me
in the hall.
Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interruption rather
delighted than surprised me. I staggered forward at once, and a
few steps brought me to the vestibule of the building. In this
low and small room there hung no lamp; and now no light at all
was admitted, save that of the exceedingly feeble dawn which made
its way through the semi-circular window. As I put my foot over
the threshold, I became aware of the figure of a youth about my
own height, and habited in a white kerseymere morning frock, cut
in the novel fashion of the one I myself wore at the moment. This
the faint light enabled me to perceive; but the features of his
face I could not distinguish. Upon my entering he strode
hurriedly up to me, and, seizing me by the arm with a gesture of
petulant impatience, whispered the words “William Wilson!” in my
ear.
I grew perfectly sober in an instant.
There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the
tremulous shake of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my
eyes and the light, which filled me with unqualified amazement;
but it was not this which had so violently moved me. It was the
pregnancy of solemn admonition in the singular, low, hissing
utterance; and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the
key, of those few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered syllables,
which came with a thousand thronging memories of bygone days, and
struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I
could recover the use of my senses he was gone.
Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my
disordered imagination, yet was it evanescent as vivid. For some
weeks, indeed, I busied myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped
in a cloud of morbid speculation. I did not pretend to disguise
from my perception the identity of the singular individual who
thus perseveringly interfered with my affairs, and harassed me
with his insinuated counsel. But who and what was this
Wilson?—and whence came he?—and what were his purposes? Upon
neither of these points could I be satisfied; merely
ascertaining, in regard to him, that a sudden accident in his
family had caused his removal from Dr. Bransby’s academy on the
afternoon of the day in which I myself had eloped. But in a brief
period I ceased to think upon the subject; my attention being all
absorbed in a contemplated departure for Oxford. Thither I soon
went; the uncalculating vanity of my parents furnishing me with
an outfit and annual establishment, which would enable me to
indulge at will in the luxury already so dear to my heart,—to vie
in profuseness of expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of the
wealthiest earldoms in Great Britain.
Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional temperament
broke forth with redoubled ardor, and I spurned even the common
restraints of decency in the mad infatuation of my revels. But it
were absurd to pause in the detail of my extravagance. Let it
suffice, that among spendthrifts I out-Heroded Herod, and that,
giving name to a multitude of novel follies, I added no brief
appendix to the long catalogue of vices then usual in the most
dissolute university of Europe.
It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so
utterly fallen from the gentlemanly estate, as to seek
acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession,
and, having become an adept in his despicable science, to
practise it habitually as a means of increasing my already
enormous income at the expense of the weak-minded among my
fellow-collegians. Such, nevertheless, was the fact. And the very
enormity of this offence against all manly and honourable
sentiment proved, beyond doubt, the main if not the sole reason
of the impunity with which it was committed. Who, indeed, among
my most abandoned associates, would not rather have disputed the
clearest evidence of his senses, than have suspected of such
courses, the gay, the frank, the generous William Wilson—the
noblest and most liberal commoner at Oxford—him whose follies
(said his parasites) were but the follies of youth and unbridled
fancy—whose errors but inimitable whim—whose darkest vice but a
careless and dashing extravagance?
I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when
there came to the university a young parvenu nobleman,
Glendinning—rich, said report, as Herodes Atticus—his riches,
too, as easily acquired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and,
of course, marked him as a fitting subject for my skill. I
frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with the gambler’s
usual art, to let him win considerable sums, the more effectually
to entangle him in my snares. At length, my schemes being ripe, I
met him (with the full intention that this meeting should be
final and decisive) at the chambers of a fellow-commoner, (Mr.
Preston,) equally intimate with both, but who, to do him justice,
entertained not even a remote suspicion of my design. To give to
this a better coloring, I had contrived to have assembled a party
of some eight or ten, and was solicitously careful that the
introduction of cards should appear accidental, and originate in
the proposal of my contemplated dupe himself. To be brief upon a
vile topic, none of the low finesse was omitted, so customary
upon similar occasions that it is a just matter for wonder how
any are still found so besotted as to fall its victim.
We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at
length effected the manoeuvre of getting Glendinning as my sole
antagonist. The game, too, was my favorite _écarté!_ The rest of
the company, interested in the extent of our play, had abandoned
their own cards, and were standing around us as spectators. The
_parvenu_, who had been induced by my artifices in the early part
of the evening, to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played,
with a wild nervousness of manner for which his intoxication, I
thought, might partially, but could not altogether account. In a
very short period he had become my debtor to a large amount,
when, having taken a long draught of port, he did precisely what
I had been coolly anticipating—he proposed to double our already
extravagant stakes. With a well-feigned show of reluctance, and
not until after my repeated refusal had seduced him into some
angry words which gave a color of pique to my compliance, did I
finally comply. The result, of course, did but prove how entirely
the prey was in my toils: in less than an hour he had quadrupled
his debt. For some time his countenance had been losing the
florid tinge lent it by the wine; but now, to my astonishment, I
perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say to
my astonishment. Glendinning had been represented to my eager
inquiries as immeasurably wealthy; and the sums which he had as
yet lost, although in themselves vast, could not, I supposed,
very seriously annoy, much less so violently affect him. That he
was overcome by the wine just swallowed, was the idea which most
readily presented itself; and, rather with a view to the
preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates,
than from any less interested motive, I was about to insist,
peremptorily, upon a discontinuance of the play, when some
expressions at my elbow from among the company, and an
ejaculation evincing utter despair on the part of Glendinning,
gave me to understand that I had effected his total ruin under
circumstances which, rendering him an object for the pity of all,
should have protected him from the ill offices even of a fiend.
What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The
pitiable condition of my dupe had thrown an air of embarrassed
gloom over all; and, for some moments, a profound silence was
maintained, during which I could not help feeling my cheeks
tingle with the many burning glances of scorn or reproach cast
upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even own that
an intolerable weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted
from my bosom by the sudden and extraordinary interruption which
ensued. The wide, heavy folding doors of the apartment were all
at once thrown open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and
rushing impetuosity that extinguished, as if by magic, every
candle in the room. Their light, in dying, enabled us just to
perceive that a stranger had entered, about my own height, and
closely muffled in a cloak. The darkness, however, was now total;
and we could only feel that he was standing in our midst. Before
any one of us could recover from the extreme astonishment into
which this rudeness had thrown all, we heard the voice of the
intruder.
“Gentlemen,” he said, in a low, distinct, and
never-to-be-forgotten whisper which thrilled to the very marrow
of my bones, “Gentlemen, I make no apology for this behaviour,
because in thus behaving, I am but fulfilling a duty. You are,
beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character of the person who
has to-night won at _écarté_ a large sum of money from Lord
Glendinning. I will therefore put you upon an expeditious and
decisive plan of obtaining this very necessary information.
Please to examine, at your leisure, the inner linings of the cuff
of his left sleeve, and the several little packages which may be
found in the somewhat capacious pockets of his embroidered
morning wrapper.”
While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have
heard a pin drop upon the floor. In ceasing, he departed at once,
and as abruptly as he had entered. Can I—shall I describe my
sensations? Must I say that I felt all the horrors of the damned?
Most assuredly I had little time given for reflection. Many hands
roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were immediately
reprocured. A search ensued. In the lining of my sleeve were
found all the court cards essential in _écarté_, and, in the
pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs, facsimiles of those
used at our sittings, with the single exception that mine were of
the species called, technically, arrondees; the honours being
slightly convex at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex at
the sides. In this disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary,
at the length of the pack, will invariably find that he cuts his
antagonist an honor; while the gambler, cutting at the breadth,
will, as certainly, cut nothing for his victim which may count in
the records of the game.
Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have affected
me less than the silent contempt, or the sarcastic composure,
with which it was received.
“Mr. Wilson,” said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his
feet an exceedingly luxurious cloak of rare furs, “Mr. Wilson,
this is your property.” (The weather was cold; and, upon quitting
my own room, I had thrown a cloak over my dressing wrapper,
putting it off upon reaching the scene of play.) “I presume it is
supererogatory to seek here (eyeing the folds of the garment with
a bitter smile) for any farther evidence of your skill. Indeed,
we have had enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of
quitting Oxford—at all events, of quitting instantly my
chambers.”
Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I
should have resented this galling language by immediate personal
violence, had not my whole attention been at the moment arrested
by a fact of the most startling character. The cloak which I had
worn was of a rare description of fur; how rare, how
extravagantly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion,
too, was of my own fantastic invention; for I was fastidious to
an absurd degree of coxcombry, in matters of this frivolous
nature. When, therefore, Mr. Preston reached me that which he had
picked up upon the floor, and near the folding doors of the
apartment, it was with an astonishment nearly bordering upon
terror, that I perceived my own already hanging on my arm, (where
I had no doubt unwittingly placed it,) and that the one presented
me was but its exact counterpart in every, in even the minutest
possible particular. The singular being who had so disastrously
exposed me, had been muffled, I remembered, in a cloak; and none
had been worn at all by any of the members of our party with the
exception of myself. Retaining some presence of mind, I took the
one offered me by Preston; placed it, unnoticed, over my own;
left the apartment with a resolute scowl of defiance; and, next
morning ere dawn of day, commenced a hurried journey from Oxford
to the continent, in a perfect agony of horror and of shame.
I fled in vain. My evil destiny pursued me as if in exultation,
and proved, indeed, that the exercise of its mysterious dominion
had as yet only begun. Scarcely had I set foot in Paris ere I had
fresh evidence of the detestable interest taken by this Wilson in
my concerns. Years flew, while I experienced no relief.
Villain!—at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an
officiousness, stepped he in between me and my ambition! At
Vienna, too—at Berlin—and at Moscow! Where, in truth, had I not
bitter cause to curse him within my heart? From his inscrutable
tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a
pestilence; and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain.
And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit,
would I demand the questions “Who is he?—whence came he?—and what
are his objects?” But no answer was there found. And then I
scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods,
and the leading traits of his impertinent supervision. But even
here there was very little upon which to base a conjecture. It
was noticeable, indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied
instances in which he had of late crossed my path, had he so
crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those
actions, which, if fully carried out, might have resulted in
bitter mischief. Poor justification this, in truth, for an
authority so imperiously assumed! Poor indemnity for natural
rights of self-agency so pertinaciously, so insultingly denied!
I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very
long period of time, (while scrupulously and with miraculous
dexterity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with
myself,) had so contrived it, in the execution of his varied
interference with my will, that I saw not, at any moment, the
features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least,
was but the veriest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an
instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton—in the
destroyer of my honor at Oxford,—in him who thwarted my ambition
at Rome, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or
what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt,—that in this, my
arch-enemy and evil genius, could fail to recognise the William
Wilson of my school boy days,—the namesake, the companion, the
rival,—the hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby’s?
Impossible!—But let me hasten to the last eventful scene of the
drama.
Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domination.
The sentiment of deep awe with which I habitually regarded the
elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent
omnipresence and omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of
even terror, with which certain other traits in his nature and
assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me
with an idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to
suggest an implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to
his arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up
entirely to wine; and its maddening influence upon my hereditary
temper rendered me more and more impatient of control. I began to
murmur,—to hesitate,—to resist. And was it only fancy which
induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own firmness,
that of my tormentor underwent a proportional diminution? Be this
as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope,
and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and
desperate resolution that I would submit no longer to be
enslaved.
It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18—, that I attended a
masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I
had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the
wine-table; and now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded
rooms irritated me beyond endurance. The difficulty, too, of
forcing my way through the mazes of the company contributed not a
little to the ruffling of my temper; for I was anxiously seeking,
(let me not say with what unworthy motive) the young, the gay,
the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too
unscrupulous confidence she had previously communicated to me the
secret of the costume in which she would be habited, and now,
having caught a glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my
way into her presence. At this moment I felt a light hand placed
upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low, damnable
_whisper_ within my ear.
In an absolute phrenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who
had thus interrupted me, and seized him violently by the collar.
He was attired, as I had expected, in a costume altogether
similar to my own; wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt
about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A mask
of black silk entirely covered his face.
“Scoundrel!” I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every
syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury, “scoundrel!
impostor! accursed villain! you shall not—you shall not dog me
unto death! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand!”—and I
broke my way from the ball-room into a small ante-chamber
adjoining, dragging him unresistingly with me as I went.
Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered
against the wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and
commanded him to draw. He hesitated but for an instant; then,
with a slight sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon his
defence.
The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of
wild excitement, and felt within my single arm the energy and
power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer
strength against the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy,
plunged my sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly through and
through his bosom.
At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I
hastened to prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned
to my dying antagonist. But what human language can adequately
portray that astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the
spectacle then presented to view? The brief moment in which I
averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a
material change in the arrangements at the upper or farther end
of the room. A large mirror,—so at first it seemed to me in my
confusion—now stood where none had been perceptible before; and,
as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but
with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to meet me
with a feeble and tottering gait.
Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist—it was
Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of his
dissolution. His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them,
upon the floor. Not a thread in all his raiment—not a line in all
the marked and singular lineaments of his face which was not,
even in the most absolute identity, mine own!
It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could
have fancied that I myself was speaking while he said:
_“You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou
also dead—dead to the World, to Heaven and to Hope! In me didst
thou exist—and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine
own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.”_
THE TELL-TALE HEART.
True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am;
but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my
senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of
hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.
I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and
observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but
once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was
none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never
wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no
desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye
of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it
fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very
gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and
thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But
you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I
proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what
dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man
than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night,
about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh,
so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my
head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light
shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have
laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it
slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old
man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the
opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed.
Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my
head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so
cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so
much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I
did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I
found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the
work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye.
And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the
chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a
hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you
see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to
suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him
while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening
the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine.
Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of
my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To
think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and
he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly
chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on
the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew
back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick
darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of
robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the
door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my
thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up
in bed, crying out—“Who’s there?”
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not
move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down.
He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have
done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the
wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of
mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it
was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul
when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night,
just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from
my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that
distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man
felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that
he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when
he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing
upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could
not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in
the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is
merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been
trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had
found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him
had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the
victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived
shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor
heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing
him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little
crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how
stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray, like
the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full
upon the vulture eye.
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon
it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a
hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones;
but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for
I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the
damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but
over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there came to my ears a
low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in
cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the
old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum
stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I
held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could
maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the
heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and
louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been
extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark
me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at
the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old
house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable
terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still.
But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must
burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard
by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I
threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked
once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and
pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the
deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a
muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be
heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was
dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was
stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it
there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead.
His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I
describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the
body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.
First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the
arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and
deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards
so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could
have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no
stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for
that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still
dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a
knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light
heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who
introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the
police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night;
suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been
lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been
deputed to search the premises.
I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome.
The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I
mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over
the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length,
to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed.
In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the
room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I
myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own
seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the
victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was
singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they
chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting
pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing
in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing
became more distinct:—it continued and became more distinct: I
talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued
and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise
was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew _very_ pale;—but I talked more fluently, and
with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I
do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch
makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the
officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but
the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles,
in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise
steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor
to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the
observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God!
what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon
which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the
noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew
louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and
smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no!
They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery
of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was
better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this
derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I
felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder!
louder! louder! _louder!_
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the
deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—It is the beating of his
hideous heart!”
BERENICE
Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas
aliquar tulum fore levatas.—_Ebn Zaiat_.
Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform.
Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as
various as the hues of that arch—as distinct too, yet as
intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow!
How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of
unloveliness?—from the covenant of peace, a simile of sorrow? But
as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of
joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the
anguish of to-day, or the agonies which _are_, have their origin
in the ecstasies which _might have been_.
My baptismal name is Egaeus; that of my family I will not
mention. Yet there are no towers in the land more time-honored
than my gloomy, gray, hereditary halls. Our line has been called
a race of visionaries; and in many striking particulars—in the
character of the family mansion—in the frescos of the chief
saloon—in the tapestries of the dormitories—in the chiselling of
some buttresses in the armory—but more especially in the gallery
of antique paintings—in the fashion of the library chamber—and,
lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the library’s
contents—there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the
belief.
The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that
chamber, and with its volumes—of which latter I will say no more.
Here died my mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness
to say that I had not lived before—that the soul has no previous
existence. You deny it?—let us not argue the matter. Convinced
myself, I seek not to convince. There is, however, a remembrance
of aerial forms—of spiritual and meaning eyes—of sounds, musical
yet sad—a remembrance which will not be excluded; a memory like a
shadow—vague, variable, indefinite, unsteady; and like a shadow,
too, in the impossibility of my getting rid of it while the
sunlight of my reason shall exist.
In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking from the long night of
what seemed, but was not, nonentity, at once into the very
regions of fairy land—into a palace of imagination—into the wild
dominions of monastic thought and erudition—it is not singular
that I gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye—that I
loitered away my boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in
reverie; but it _is_ singular that as years rolled away, and the
noon of manhood found me still in the mansion of my fathers—it
_is_ wonderful what stagnation there fell upon the springs of my
life—wonderful how total an inversion took place in the character
of my commonest thought. The realities of the world affected me
as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land
of dreams became, in turn, not the material of my every-day
existence, but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in
itself.
Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my
paternal halls. Yet differently we grew—I, ill of health, and
buried in gloom—she, agile, graceful, and overflowing with
energy; hers, the ramble on the hill-side—mine the studies of the
cloister; I, living within my own heart, and addicted, body and
soul, to the most intense and painful meditation—she, roaming
carelessly through life, with no thought of the shadows in her
path, or the silent flight of the raven-winged hours. Berenice!—I
call upon her name—Berenice!—and from the gray ruins of memory a
thousand tumultuous recollections are startled at the sound! Ah,
vividly is her image before me now, as in the early days of her
light-heartedness and joy! Oh, gorgeous yet fantastic beauty! Oh,
sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim! Oh, Naiad among its
fountains! And then—then all is mystery and terror, and a tale
which should not be told. Disease—a fatal disease, fell like the
simoon upon her frame; and, even while I gazed upon her, the
spirit of change swept over her, pervading her mind, her habits,
and her character, and, in a manner the most subtle and terrible,
disturbing even the identity of her person! Alas! the destroyer
came and went!—and the victim—where is she? I knew her not—or
knew her no longer as Berenice.
Among the numerous train of maladies superinduced by that fatal
and primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind
in the moral and physical being of my cousin, may be mentioned as
the most distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of
epilepsy not unfrequently terminating in _trance_ itself—trance
very nearly resembling positive dissolution, and from which her
manner of recovery was in most instances, startlingly abrupt. In
the mean time my own disease—for I have been told that I should
call it by no other appellation—my own disease, then, grew
rapidly upon me, and assumed finally a monomaniac character of a
novel and extraordinary form—hourly and momently gaining
vigor—and at length obtaining over me the most incomprehensible
ascendancy. This monomania, if I must so term it, consisted in a
morbid irritability of those properties of the mind in
metaphysical science termed the _attentive_. It is more than
probable that I am not understood; but I fear, indeed, that it is
in no manner possible to convey to the mind of the merely general
reader, an adequate idea of that nervous _intensity of interest_
with which, in my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak
technically) busied and buried themselves, in the contemplation
of even the most ordinary objects of the universe.
To muse for long unwearied hours, with my attention riveted to
some frivolous device on the margin, or in the typography of a
book; to become absorbed, for the better part of a summer’s day,
in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry or upon the
floor; to lose myself, for an entire night, in watching the
steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire; to dream away
whole days over the perfume of a flower; to repeat, monotonously,
some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent
repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind; to
lose all sense of motion or physical existence, by means of
absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in:
such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries
induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed,
altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to
anything like analysis or explanation.
Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, earnest, and morbid
attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous,
must not be confounded in character with that ruminating
propensity common to all mankind, and more especially indulged in
by persons of ardent imagination. It was not even, as might be at
first supposed, an extreme condition, or exaggeration of such
propensity, but primarily and essentially distinct and different.
In the one instance, the dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested
by an object usually _not_ frivolous, imperceptibly loses sight
of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions
issuing therefrom, until, at the conclusion of a day-dream _often
replete with luxury_, he finds the _incitamentum_, or first cause
of his musings, entirely vanished and forgotten. In my case, the
primary object was _invariably frivolous_, although assuming,
through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and
unreal importance. Few deductions, if any, were made; and those
few pertinaciously returning in upon the original object as a
centre. The meditations were _never_ pleasurable; and, at the
termination of the reverie, the first cause, so far from being
out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated
interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a
word, the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with
me, as I have said before, the _attentive_, and are, with the
day-dreamer, the _speculative_.
My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to
irritate the disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in
their imaginative and inconsequential nature, of the
characteristic qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember,
among others, the treatise of the noble Italian, Coelius Secundus
Curio, “_De Amplitudine Beati Regni Dei;_” St. Austin’s great
work, the “City of God;” and Tertullian’s “_De Carne Christi_,”
in which the paradoxical sentence “_Mortuus est Dei filius;
credible est quia ineptum est: et sepultus resurrexit; certum est
quia impossibile est,_” occupied my undivided time, for many
weeks of laborious and fruitless investigation.
Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial
things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of
by Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of
human violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds,
trembled only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And
although, to a careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond
doubt, that the alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the
_moral_ condition of Berenice, would afford me many objects for
the exercise of that intense and abnormal meditation whose nature
I have been at some trouble in explaining, yet such was not in
any degree the case. In the lucid intervals of my infirmity, her
calamity, indeed, gave me pain, and, taking deeply to heart that
total wreck of her fair and gentle life, I did not fail to
ponder, frequently and bitterly, upon the wonder-working means by
which so strange a revolution had been so suddenly brought to
pass. But these reflections partook not of the idiosyncrasy of my
disease, and were such as would have occurred, under similar
circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to its own
character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more
startling changes wrought in the _physical_ frame of Berenice—in
the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal
identity.
During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely
I had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence,
feelings with me, _had never been_ of the heart, and my passions
_always were_ of the mind. Through the gray of the early
morning—among the trellised shadows of the forest at noonday—and
in the silence of my library at night—she had flitted by my eyes,
and I had seen her—not as the living and breathing Berenice, but
as the Berenice of a dream; not as a being of the earth, earthy,
but as the abstraction of such a being; not as a thing to admire,
but to analyze; not as an object of love, but as the theme of the
most abstruse although desultory speculation. And _now_—now I
shuddered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach; yet,
bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I called to
mind that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke
to her of marriage.
And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when,
upon an afternoon in the winter of the year—one of those
unseasonably warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of
the beautiful Halcyon (*1),—I sat, (and sat, as I thought,
alone,) in the inner apartment of the library. But, uplifting my
eyes, I saw that Berenice stood before me.
Was it my own excited imagination—or the misty influence of the
atmosphere—or the uncertain twilight of the chamber—or the gray
draperies which fell around her figure—that caused in it so
vacillating and indistinct an outline? I could not tell. She
spoke no word; and I—not for worlds could I have uttered a
syllable. An icy chill ran through my frame; a sense of
insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity pervaded
my soul; and sinking back upon the chair, I remained for some
time breathless and motionless, with my eyes riveted upon her
person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige
of the former being lurked in any single line of the contour. My
burning glances at length fell upon the face.
The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and
the once jetty hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the
hollow temples with innumerable ringlets, now of a vivid yellow,
and jarring discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the
reigning melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless,
and lustreless, and seemingly pupilless, and I shrank
involuntarily from their glassy stare to the contemplation of the
thin and shrunken lips. They parted; and in a smile of peculiar
meaning, _the teeth_ of the changed Berenice disclosed themselves
slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld them, or
that, having done so, I had died!
The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found
that my cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the
disordered chamber of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and
would not be driven away, the white and ghastly _spectrum_ of the
teeth. Not a speck on their surface—not a shade on their
enamel—not an indenture in their edges—but what that period of
her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I saw them
_now_ even more unequivocally than I beheld them _then_. The
teeth!—the teeth!—they were here, and there, and everywhere, and
visibly and palpably before me; long, narrow, and excessively
white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very
moment of their first terrible development. Then came the full
fury of my _monomania_, and I struggled in vain against its
strange and irresistible influence. In the multiplied objects of
the external world I had no thoughts but for the teeth. For these
I longed with a phrenzied desire. All other matters and all
different interests became absorbed in their single
contemplation. They—they alone were present to the mental eye,
and they, in their sole individuality, became the essence of my
mental life. I held them in every light. I turned them in every
attitude. I surveyed their characteristics. I dwelt upon their
peculiarities. I pondered upon their conformation. I mused upon
the alteration in their nature. I shuddered as I assigned to them
in imagination a sensitive and sentient power, and even when
unassisted by the lips, a capability of moral expression. Of
Mademoiselle Salle it has been well said, “_Que tous ses pas
etaient des sentiments_,” and of Berenice I more seriously
believed _que toutes ses dents etaient des idées_. _Des
idées!_—ah here was the idiotic thought that destroyed me! _Des
idées!_—ah, _therefore_ it was that I coveted them so madly! I
felt that their possession could alone ever restore me to peace,
in giving me back to reason.
And the evening closed in upon me thus—and then the darkness
came, and tarried, and went—and the day again dawned—and the
mists of a second night were now gathering around—and still I sat
motionless in that solitary room—and still I sat buried in
meditation—and still the _phantasma_ of the teeth maintained its
terrible ascendancy, as, with the most vivid hideous
distinctness, it floated about amid the changing lights and
shadows of the chamber. At length there broke in upon my dreams a
cry as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a pause,
succeeded the sound of troubled voices, intermingled with many
low moanings of sorrow or of pain. I arose from my seat, and
throwing open one of the doors of the library, saw standing out
in the ante-chamber a servant maiden, all in tears, who told me
that Berenice was—no more! She had been seized with epilepsy in
the early morning, and now, at the closing in of the night, the
grave was ready for its tenant, and all the preparations for the
burial were completed.
I found myself sitting in the library, and again sitting there
alone. It seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and
exciting dream. I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well
aware, that since the setting of the sun, Berenice had been
interred. But of that dreary period which intervened I had no
positive, at least no definite comprehension. Yet its memory was
replete with horror—horror more horrible from being vague, and
terror more terrible from ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the
record my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous, and
unintelligible recollections. I strived to decypher them, but in
vain; while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound,
the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be
ringing in my ears. I had done a deed—what was it? I asked myself
the question aloud, and the whispering echoes of the chamber
answered me,—“_What was it?_”
On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little
box. It was of no remarkable character, and I had seen it
frequently before, for it was the property of the family
physician; but how came it _there_, upon my table, and why did I
shudder in regarding it? These things were in no manner to be
accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the open pages of
a book, and to a sentence underscored therein. The words were the
singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn Zaiat:—“_Dicebant mihi
sodales si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum
fore levatas_.” Why then, as I perused them, did the hairs of my
head erect themselves on end, and the blood of my body become
congealed within my veins?
There came a light tap at the library door—and, pale as the
tenant of a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were
wild with terror, and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky,
and very low. What said he?—some broken sentences I heard. He
told of a wild cry disturbing the silence of the night—of the
gathering together of the household—of a search in the direction
of the sound; and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct as he
whispered me of a violated grave—of a disfigured body enshrouded,
yet still breathing—still palpitating—_still alive_!
He pointed to garments;—they were muddy and clotted with gore. I
spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand: it was indented
with the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some
object against the wall. I looked at it for some minutes: it was
a spade. With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the
box that lay upon it. But I could not force it open; and in my
tremor, it slipped from my hands, and fell heavily, and burst
into pieces; and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out
some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with thirty-two
small, white and ivory-looking substances that were scattered to
and fro about the floor.
ELEONORA
Sub conservatione formæ specificæ salva anima.
—_Raymond Lully_.
I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of
passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet
settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest
intelligence—whether much that is glorious—whether all that is
profound—does not spring from disease of thought—from moods of
mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who
dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who
dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses
of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have
been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn
something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere
knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless
or compassless into the vast ocean of the “light ineffable,” and
again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, “agressi
sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi.”
We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there
are two distinct conditions of my mental existence—the condition
of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the
memory of events forming the first epoch of my life—and a
condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present, and
to the recollection of what constitutes the second great era of
my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period,
believe; and to what I may relate of the later time, give only
such credit as may seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if doubt
it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.
She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and
distinctly these remembrances, was the sole daughter of the only
sister of my mother long departed. Eleonora was the name of my
cousin. We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun,
in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. No unguided footstep
ever came upon that vale; for it lay away up among a range of
giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out the
sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its
vicinity; and, to reach our happy home, there was need of putting
back, with force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees,
and of crushing to death the glories of many millions of fragrant
flowers. Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of
the world without the valley—I, and my cousin, and her mother.
From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our
encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river,
brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding
stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length,
through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those
whence it had issued. We called it the “River of Silence”; for
there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur
arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the
pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its
bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each
in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.
The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that
glided through devious ways into its channel, as well as the
spaces that extended from the margins away down into the depths
of the streams until they reached the bed of pebbles at the
bottom,—these spots, not less than the whole surface of the
valley, from the river to the mountains that girdled it in, were
carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, short, perfectly even,
and vanilla-perfumed, but so besprinkled throughout with the
yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the
ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to our hearts
in loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God.
And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like
wildernesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall
slender stems stood not upright, but slanted gracefully toward
the light that peered at noon-day into the centre of the valley.
Their mark was speckled with the vivid alternate splendor of
ebony and silver, and was smoother than all save the cheeks of
Eleonora; so that, but for the brilliant green of the huge leaves
that spread from their summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying
with the Zephyrs, one might have fancied them giant serpents of
Syria doing homage to their sovereign the Sun.
Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I with
Eleonora before Love entered within our hearts. It was one
evening at the close of the third lustrum of her life, and of the
fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in each other’s embrace,
beneath the serpent-like trees, and looked down within the water
of the River of Silence at our images therein. We spoke no words
during the rest of that sweet day, and our words even upon the
morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the God Eros from
that wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us the
fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had for
centuries distinguished our race, came thronging with the fancies
for which they had been equally noted, and together breathed a
delirious bliss over the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. A
change fell upon all things. Strange, brilliant flowers,
star-shaped, burn out upon the trees where no flowers had been
known before. The tints of the green carpet deepened; and when,
one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up in
place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life
arose in our paths; for the tall flamingo, hitherto unseen, with
all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us.
The golden and silver fish haunted the river, out of the bosom of
which issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled, at length,
into a lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of
Æolus—sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. And now, too,
a voluminous cloud, which we had long watched in the regions of
Hesper, floated out thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and
settling in peace above us, sank, day by day, lower and lower,
until its edges rested upon the tops of the mountains, turning
all their dimness into magnificence, and shutting us up, as if
forever, within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory.
The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was
a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among
the flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated
her heart, and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we
walked together in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and
discoursed of the mighty changes which had lately taken place
therein.
At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad
change which must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only
upon this one sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our
converse, as, in the songs of the bard of Schiraz, the same
images are found occurring, again and again, in every impressive
variation of phrase.
She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom—that,
like the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only
to die; but the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a
consideration which she revealed to me, one evening at twilight,
by the banks of the River of Silence. She grieved to think that,
having entombed her in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, I
would quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love
which now was so passionately her own to some maiden of the outer
and everyday world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly
at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to herself and to
Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any
daughter of Earth—that I would in no manner prove recreant to her
dear memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which
she had blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe
to witness the pious solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I
invoked of Him and of her, a saint in Helusion should I prove
traitorous to that promise, involved a penalty the exceeding
great horror of which will not permit me to make record of it
here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my words;
and she sighed as if a deadly burthen had been taken from her
breast; and she trembled and very bitterly wept; but she made
acceptance of the vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it
made easy to her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not
many days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, because of what I
had done for the comfort of her spirit she would watch over me in
that spirit when departed, and, if so it were permitted her
return to me visibly in the watches of the night; but, if this
thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise,
that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her
presence, sighing upon me in the evening winds, or filling the
air which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels.
And, with these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent
life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own.
Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in
Time’s path, formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with
the second era of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over
my brain, and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But
let me on.—Years dragged themselves along heavily, and still I
dwelled within the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass; but a second
change had come upon all things. The star-shaped flowers shrank
into the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints of
the green carpet faded; and, one by one, the ruby-red asphodels
withered away; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten,
dark, eye-like violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever
encumbered with dew. And Life departed from our paths; for the
tall flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us,
but flew sadly from the vale into the hills, with all the gay
glowing birds that had arrived in his company. And the golden and
silver fish swam down through the gorge at the lower end of our
domain and bedecked the sweet river never again. And the lulling
melody that had been softer than the wind-harp of Æolus, and more
divine than all save the voice of Eleonora, it died little by
little away, in murmurs growing lower and lower, until the stream
returned, at length, utterly, into the solemnity of its original
silence. And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and,
abandoning the tops of the mountains to the dimness of old, fell
back into the regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold
golden and gorgeous glories from the Valley of the Many-Colored
Grass.
Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the
sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams
of a holy perfume floated ever and ever about the valley; and at
lone hours, when my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed my
brow came unto me laden with soft sighs; and indistinct murmurs
filled often the night air, and once—oh, but once only! I was
awakened from a slumber, like the slumber of death, by the
pressing of spiritual lips upon my own.
But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I
longed for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At
length the valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and
I left it for ever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of
the world.
I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have
served to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed
so long in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. The pomps and
pageantries of a stately court, and the mad clangor of arms, and
the radiant loveliness of women, bewildered and intoxicated my
brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, and the
indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in
the silent hours of the night. Suddenly these manifestations they
ceased, and the world grew dark before mine eyes, and I stood
aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed, at the terrible
temptations which beset me; for there came from some far, far
distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I
served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded
at once—at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in
the most ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What,
indeed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley in
comparison with the fervor, and the delirium, and the
spirit-lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my
whole soul in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde?—Oh,
bright was the seraph Ermengarde! and in that knowledge I had
room for none other. Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as
I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought
only of them—and of her.
I wedded—nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness
was not visited upon me. And once—but once again in the silence
of the night; there came through my lattice the soft sighs which
had forsaken me; and they modelled themselves into familiar and
sweet voice, saying:
“Sleep in peace! for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and,
in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art
absolved, for reasons which shall be made known to thee in
Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora.”
NOTES TO THE SECOND VOLUME
Notes — Scheherazade
(*1) The coralites.
(*2) “One of the most remarkable natural curiosities in Texas is
a petrified forest, near the head of Pasigno river. It consists
of several hundred trees, in an erect position, all turned to
stone. Some trees, now growing, are partly petrified. This is a
startling fact for natural philosophers, and must cause them to
modify the existing theory of petrification.—_Kennedy_.
This account, at first discredited, has since been corroborated
by the discovery of a completely petrified forest, near the head
waters of the Cheyenne, or Chienne river, which has its source in
the Black Hills of the rocky chain.
There is scarcely, perhaps, a spectacle on the surface of the
globe more remarkable, either in a geological or picturesque
point of view than that presented by the petrified forest, near
Cairo. The traveller, having passed the tombs of the caliphs,
just beyond the gates of the city, proceeds to the southward,
nearly at right angles to the road across the desert to Suez, and
after having travelled some ten miles up a low barren valley,
covered with sand, gravel, and sea shells, fresh as if the tide
had retired but yesterday, crosses a low range of sandhills,
which has for some distance run parallel to his path. The scene
now presented to him is beyond conception singular and desolate.
A mass of fragments of trees, all converted into stone, and when
struck by his horse’s hoof ringing like cast iron, is seen to
extend itself for miles and miles around him, in the form of a
decayed and prostrate forest. The wood is of a dark brown hue,
but retains its form in perfection, the pieces being from one to
fifteen feet in length, and from half a foot to three feet in
thickness, strewed so closely together, as far as the eye can
reach, that an Egyptian donkey can scarcely thread its way
through amongst them, and so natural that, were it in Scotland or
Ireland, it might pass without remark for some enormous drained
bog, on which the exhumed trees lay rotting in the sun. The roots
and rudiments of the branches are, in many cases, nearly perfect,
and in some the worm-holes eaten under the bark are readily
recognizable. The most delicate of the sap vessels, and all the
finer portions of the centre of the wood, are perfectly entire,
and bear to be examined with the strongest magnifiers. The whole
are so thoroughly silicified as to scratch glass and are capable
of receiving the highest polish.— _Asiatic Magazine_.
(*3) The Mammoth Cave of Kentucky.
(*4) In Iceland, 1783.
(*5) “During the eruption of Hecla, in 1766, clouds of this kind
produced such a degree of darkness that, at Glaumba, which is
more than fifty leagues from the mountain, people could only find
their way by groping. During the eruption of Vesuvius, in 1794,
at Caserta, four leagues distant, people could only walk by the
light of torches. On the first of May, 1812, a cloud of volcanic
ashes and sand, coming from a volcano in the island of St.
Vincent, covered the whole of Barbadoes, spreading over it so
intense a darkness that, at mid-day, in the open air, one could
not perceive the trees or other objects near him, or even a white
handkerchief placed at the distance of six inches from the
eye._“—Murray, p. 215, Phil. edit._
(*6) In the year 1790, in the Caraccas during an earthquake a
portion of the granite soil sank and left a lake eight hundred
yards in diameter, and from eighty to a hundred feet deep. It was
a part of the forest of Aripao which sank, and the trees remained
green for several months under the water.”—_Murray_, p. 221
(*7) The hardest steel ever manufactured may, under the action of
a blowpipe, be reduced to an impalpable powder, which will float
readily in the atmospheric air.
(*8) The region of the Niger. See Simmona’s _Colonial Magazine_.
(*9) The _Myrmeleon_—lion-ant. The term “monster” is equally
applicable to small abnormal things and to great, while such
epithets as “vast” are merely comparative. The cavern of the
myrmeleon is vast in comparison with the hole of the common red
ant. A grain of silex is also a “rock.”
(*10) The _Epidendron, Flos Aeris,_ of the family of the
_Orchideae_, grows with merely the surface of its roots attached
to a tree or other object, from which it derives no
nutriment—subsisting altogether upon air.
(*11) The _Parasites,_ such as the wonderful _Rafflesia
Arnaldii_.
(*12) _Schouw_ advocates a class of plants that grow upon living
animals—the _Plantae_ _Epizoae_. Of this class are the _Fuci_ and
_Algae_.
_Mr. J. B. Williams, of Salem, Mass._, presented the “National
Institute” with an insect from New Zealand, with the following
description: “‘_The Hotte_, a decided caterpillar, or worm, is
found gnawing at the root of the _Rota_ tree, with a plant
growing out of its head. This most peculiar and extraordinary
insect travels up both the _Rota_ and _Ferriri_ trees, and
entering into the top, eats its way, perforating the trunk of the
trees until it reaches the root, and dies, or remains dormant,
and the plant propagates out of its head; the body remains
perfect and entire, of a harder substance than when alive. From
this insect the natives make a coloring for tattooing.
(*13) In mines and natural caves we find a species of
cryptogamous _fungus_ that emits an intense phosphorescence.
(*14) The orchis, scabius and valisneria.
(*15) The corolla of this flower (_Aristolochia Clematitis_),
which is tubular, but terminating upwards in a ligulate limb, is
inflated into a globular figure at the base. The tubular part is
internally beset with stiff hairs, pointing downwards. The
globular part contains the pistil, which consists merely of a
germen and stigma, together with the surrounding stamens. But the
stamens, being shorter than the germen, cannot discharge the
pollen so as to throw it upon the stigma, as the flower stands
always upright till after impregnation. And hence, without some
additional and peculiar aid, the pollen must necessarily fan down
to the bottom of the flower. Now, the aid that nature has
furnished in this case, is that of the _Tiputa Pennicornis_, a
small insect, which entering the tube of the corrolla in quest of
honey, descends to the bottom, and rummages about till it becomes
quite covered with pollen; but not being able to force its way
out again, owing to the downward position of the hairs, which
converge to a point like the wires of a mouse-trap, and being
somewhat impatient of its confinement it brushes backwards and
forwards, trying every corner, till, after repeatedly traversing
the stigma, it covers it with pollen sufficient for its
impregnation, in consequence of which the flower soon begins to
droop, and the hairs to shrink to the sides of the tube,
effecting an easy passage for the escape of the insect.”—_Rev. P.
Keith-System of Physiological Botany_.
(*16) The bees—ever since bees were—have been constructing their
cells with just such sides, in just such number, and at just such
inclinations, as it has been demonstrated (in a problem involving
the profoundest mathematical principles) are the very sides, in
the very number, and at the very angles, which will afford the
creatures the most room that is compatible with the greatest
stability of structure.
During the latter part of the last century, the question arose
among mathematicians—“to determine the best form that can be
given to the sails of a windmill, according to their varying
distances from the revolving vanes, and likewise from the centres
of the revolution.” This is an excessively complex problem, for
it is, in other words, to find the best possible position at an
infinity of varied distances and at an infinity of points on the
arm. There were a thousand futile attempts to answer the query on
the part of the most illustrious mathematicians, and when at
length, an undeniable solution was discovered, men found that the
wings of a bird had given it with absolute precision ever since
the first bird had traversed the air.
(*17) He observed a flock of pigeons passing betwixt Frankfort
and the Indian territory, one mile at least in breadth; it took
up four hours in passing, which, at the rate of one mile per
minute, gives a length of 240 miles; and, supposing three pigeons
to each square yard, gives 2,230,272,000 Pigeons.—“_Travels in
Canada and the United States,” by Lieut. F. Hall._
(*18) The earth is upheld by a cow of a blue color, having horns
four hundred in number.”—_Sale’s Koran_.
(*19) “The _Entozoa_, or intestinal worms, have repeatedly been
observed in the muscles, and in the cerebral substance of
men.”—See Wyatt’s Physiology, p. 143.
(*20) On the Great Western Railway, between London and Exeter, a
speed of 71 miles per hour has been attained. A train weighing 90
tons was whirled from Paddington to Didcot (53 miles) in 51
minutes.
(*21) The _Eccalobeion_
(*22) Mäelzel’s Automaton Chess-player.
(*23) Babbage’s Calculating Machine.
(*24) _Chabert_, and since him, a hundred others.
(*25) The Electrotype.
(*26) _Wollaston_ made of platinum for the field of views in a
telescope a wire one eighteen-thousandth part of an inch in
thickness. It could be seen only by means of the microscope.
(*27) Newton demonstrated that the retina beneath the influence
of the violet ray of the spectrum, vibrated 900,000,000 of times
in a second.
(*28) Voltaic pile.
(*29) The Electro Telegraph Printing Apparatus.
(*30) The Electro telegraph transmits intelligence
instantaneously—at least at so far as regards any distance upon
the earth.
(*31) Common experiments in Natural Philosophy. If two red rays
from two luminous points be admitted into a dark chamber so as to
fall on a white surface, and differ in their length by 0.0000258
of an inch, their intensity is doubled. So also if the difference
in length be any whole-number multiple of that fraction. A
multiple by 2 1/4, 3 1/4, &c., gives an intensity equal to one
ray only; but a multiple by 2 1/2, 3 1/2, &c., gives the result
of total darkness. In violet rays similar effects arise when the
difference in length is 0.000157 of an inch; and with all other
rays the results are the same—the difference varying with a
uniform increase from the violet to the red.
“Analogous experiments in respect to sound produce analogous
results.”
(*32) Place a platina crucible over a spirit lamp, and keep it a
red heat; pour in some sulphuric acid, which, though the most
volatile of bodies at a common temperature, will be found to
become completely fixed in a hot crucible, and not a drop
evaporates—being surrounded by an atmosphere of its own, it does
not, in fact, touch the sides. A few drops of water are now
introduced, when the acid, immediately coming in contact with the
heated sides of the crucible, flies off in sulphurous acid vapor,
and so rapid is its progress, that the caloric of the water
passes off with it, which falls a lump of ice to the bottom; by
taking advantage of the moment before it is allowed to remelt, it
may be turned out a lump of ice from a red-hot vessel.
(*33) The Daguerreotype.
(*34) Although light travels 167,000 miles in a second, the
distance of 61 Cygni (the only star whose distance is
ascertained) is so inconceivably great, that its rays would
require more than ten years to reach the earth. For stars beyond
this, 20—or even 1000 years—would be a moderate estimate. Thus,
if they had been annihilated 20, or 1000 years ago, we might
still see them to-day by the light which started from their
surfaces 20 or 1000 years in the past time. That many which we
see daily are really extinct, is not impossible—not even
improbable.
Notes—Maelstrom
(*1) See Archimedes, “_De Incidentibus in Fluido_.”—lib. 2.
Notes—Island of the Fay
(*1) Moraux is here derived from moeurs, and its meaning is
“fashionable” or more strictly “of manners.”
(*2) Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise “De
Situ Orbis,” says “either the world is a great animal, or” etc
(*3) Balzac—in substance—I do not remember the words
(*4) Florem putares nare per liquidum aethera.—P. Commire.
Notes — Domain of Arnheim
(*1) An incident, similar in outline to the one here imagined,
occurred, not very long ago, in England. The name of the
fortunate heir was Thelluson. I first saw an account of this
matter in the “Tour” of Prince Puckler Muskau, who makes the sum
inherited _ninety millions of pounds_, and justly observes that
“in the contemplation of so vast a sum, and of the services to
which it might be applied, there is something even of the
sublime.” To suit the views of this article I have followed the
Prince’s statement, although a grossly exaggerated one. The germ,
and in fact, the commencement of the present paper was published
many years ago—previous to the issue of the first number of Sue’s
admirable _Juif Errant_, which may possibly have been suggested
to him by Muskau’s account.
Notes—Berenice
(*1) For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven
days of warmth, men have called this element and temperate time
the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon—_Simonides_
VOLUME 3.
NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Upon my return to the United States a few months ago, after the
extraordinary series of adventure in the South Seas and
elsewhere, of which an account is given in the following pages,
accident threw me into the society of several gentlemen in
Richmond, Va., who felt deep interest in all matters relating to
the regions I had visited, and who were constantly urging it upon
me, as a duty, to give my narrative to the public. I had several
reasons, however, for declining to do so, some of which were of a
nature altogether private, and concern no person but myself;
others not so much so. One consideration which deterred me was
that, having kept no journal during a greater portion of the time
in which I was absent, I feared I should not be able to write,
from mere memory, a statement so minute and connected as to have
the _appearance_of that truth it would really possess, barring
only the natural and unavoidable exaggeration to which all of us
are prone when detailing events which have had powerful influence
in exciting the imaginative faculties. Another reason was, that
the incidents to be narrated were of a nature so positively
marvellous that, unsupported as my assertions must necessarily be
(except by the evidence of a single individual, and he a
half-breed Indian), I could only hope for belief among my family,
and those of my friends who have had reason, through life, to put
faith in my veracity—the probability being that the public at
large would regard what I should put forth as merely an impudent
and ingenious fiction. A distrust in my own abilities as a writer
was, nevertheless, one of the principal causes which prevented me
from complying with the suggestions of my advisers.
Among those gentlemen in Virginia who expressed the greatest
interest in my statement, more particularly in regard to that
portion of it which related to the Antarctic Ocean, was Mr. Poe,
lately editor of the “Southern Literary Messenger,” a monthly
magazine, published by Mr. Thomas W. White, in the city of
Richmond. He strongly advised me, among others, to prepare at
once a full account of what I had seen and undergone, and trust
to the shrewdness and common-sense of the public—insisting, with
great plausibility, that however roughly, as regards mere
authorship, my book should be got up, its very uncouthness, if
there were any, would give it all the better chance of being
received as truth.
Notwithstanding this representation, I did not make up my mind to
do as he suggested. He afterward proposed (finding that I would
not stir in the matter) that I should allow him to draw up, in
his own words, a narrative of the earlier portion of my
adventures, from facts afforded by myself, publishing it in the
“Southern Messenger” _under the garb of fiction. _To this,
perceiving no objection, I consented, stipulating only that my
real name should be retained. Two numbers of the pretended
fiction appeared, consequently, in the “Messenger” for January
and February (1837), and, in order that it might certainly be
regarded as fiction, the name of Mr. Poe was affixed to the
articles in the table of contents of the magazine.
The manner in which this ruse was received has induced me at
length to undertake a regular compilation and publication of the
adventures in question; for I found that, in spite of the air of
fable which had been so ingeniously thrown around that portion of
my statement which appeared in the “Messenger” (without altering
or distorting a single fact), the public were still not at all
disposed to receive it as fable, and several letters were sent to
Mr. P.’s address, distinctly expressing a conviction to the
contrary. I thence concluded that the facts of my narrative would
prove of such a nature as to carry with them sufficient evidence
of their own authenticity, and that I had consequently little to
fear on the score of popular incredulity.
This _exposé_being made, it will be seen at once how much of what
follows I claim to be my own writing; and it will also be
understood that no fact is misrepresented in the first few pages
which were written by Mr. Poe. Even to those readers who have not
seen the “Messenger,” it will be unnecessary to point out where
his portion ends and my own commences; the difference in point of
style will be readily perceived.
A. G. PYM.
CHAPTER 1
My name is Arthur Gordon Pym. My father was a respectable trader
in sea-stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal
grandfather was an attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in
every thing, and had speculated very successfully in stocks of
the Edgarton New Bank, as it was formerly called. By these and
other means he had managed to lay by a tolerable sum of money. He
was more attached to myself, I believe, than to any other person
in the world, and I expected to inherit the most of his property
at his death. He sent me, at six years of age, to the school of
old Mr. Ricketts, a gentleman with only one arm and of eccentric
manners—he is well known to almost every person who has visited
New Bedford. I stayed at his school until I was sixteen, when I
left him for Mr. E. Ronald’s academy on the hill. Here I became
intimate with the son of Mr. Barnard, a sea-captain, who
generally sailed in the employ of Lloyd and Vredenburgh—Mr.
Barnard is also very well known in New Bedford, and has many
relations, I am certain, in Edgarton. His son was named Augustus,
and he was nearly two years older than myself. He had been on a
whaling voyage with his father in the John Donaldson, and was
always talking to me of his adventures in the South Pacific
Ocean. I used frequently to go home with him, and remain all day,
and sometimes all night. We occupied the same bed, and he would
be sure to keep me awake until almost light, telling me stories
of the natives of the Island of Tinian, and other places he had
visited in his travels. At last I could not help being interested
in what he said, and by degrees I felt the greatest desire to go
to sea. I owned a sailboat called the Ariel, and worth about
seventy-five dollars. She had a half-deck or cuddy, and was
rigged sloop-fashion—I forget her tonnage, but she would hold ten
persons without much crowding. In this boat we were in the habit
of going on some of the maddest freaks in the world; and, when I
now think of them, it appears to me a thousand wonders that I am
alive to-day.
I will relate one of these adventures by way of introduction to a
longer and more momentous narrative. One night there was a party
at Mr. Barnard’s, and both Augustus and myself were not a little
intoxicated toward the close of it. As usual, in such cases, I
took part of his bed in preference to going home. He went to
sleep, as I thought, very quietly (it being near one when the
party broke up), and without saying a word on his favorite topic.
It might have been half an hour from the time of our getting in
bed, and I was just about falling into a doze, when he suddenly
started up, and swore with a terrible oath that he would not go
to sleep for any Arthur Pym in Christendom, when there was so
glorious a breeze from the southwest. I never was so astonished
in my life, not knowing what he intended, and thinking that the
wines and liquors he had drunk had set him entirely beside
himself. He proceeded to talk very coolly, however, saying he
knew that I supposed him intoxicated, but that he was never more
sober in his life. He was only tired, he added, of lying in bed
on such a fine night like a dog, and was determined to get up and
dress, and go out on a frolic with the boat. I can hardly tell
what possessed me, but the words were no sooner out of his mouth
than I felt a thrill of the greatest excitement and pleasure, and
thought his mad idea one of the most delightful and most
reasonable things in the world. It was blowing almost a gale, and
the weather was very cold—it being late in October. I sprang out
of bed, nevertheless, in a kind of ecstasy, and told him I was
quite as brave as himself, and quite as tired as he was of lying
in bed like a dog, and quite as ready for any fun or frolic as
any Augustus Barnard in Nantucket.
We lost no time in getting on our clothes and hurrying down to
the boat. She was lying at the old decayed wharf by the
lumber-yard of Pankey & Co., and almost thumping her side out
against the rough logs. Augustus got into her and bailed her, for
she was nearly half full of water. This being done, we hoisted
jib and mainsail, kept full, and started boldly out to sea.
The wind, as I before said, blew freshly from the southwest. The
night was very clear and cold. Augustus had taken the helm, and I
stationed myself by the mast, on the deck of the cuddy. We flew
along at a great rate—neither of us having said a word since
casting loose from the wharf. I now asked my companion what
course he intended to steer, and what time he thought it probable
we should get back. He whistled for a few minutes, and then said
crustily: “_I_ am going to sea—_you_ may go home if you think
proper.” Turning my eyes upon him, I perceived at once that, in
spite of his assumed _nonchalance_, he was greatly agitated. I
could see him distinctly by the light of the moon—his face was
paler than any marble, and his hand shook so excessively that he
could scarcely retain hold of the tiller. I found that something
had gone wrong, and became seriously alarmed. At this period I
knew little about the management of a boat, and was now depending
entirely upon the nautical skill of my friend. The wind, too, had
suddenly increased, as we were fast getting out of the lee of the
land—still I was ashamed to betray any trepidation, and for
almost half an hour maintained a resolute silence. I could stand
it no longer, however, and spoke to Augustus about the propriety
of turning back. As before, it was nearly a minute before he made
answer, or took any notice of my suggestion. “By-and-by,” said he
at length—“time enough—home by-and-by.” I had expected a similar
reply, but there was something in the tone of these words which
filled me with an indescribable feeling of dread. I again looked
at the speaker attentively. His lips were perfectly livid, and
his knees shook so violently together that he seemed scarcely
able to stand. “For God’s sake, Augustus,” I screamed, now
heartily frightened, “what ails you?—what is the matter?—what
_are_ you going to do?” “Matter!” he stammered, in the greatest
apparent surprise, letting go the tiller at the same moment, and
falling forward into the bottom of the boat—“matter—why, nothing
is the—matter—going home—d—d—don’t you see?” The whole truth now
flashed upon me. I flew to him and raised him up. He was
drunk—beastly drunk—he could no longer either stand, speak, or
see. His eyes were perfectly glazed; and as I let him go in the
extremity of my despair, he rolled like a mere log into the
bilge-water, from which I had lifted him. It was evident that,
during the evening, he had drunk far more than I suspected, and
that his conduct in bed had been the result of a
highly-concentrated state of intoxication—a state which, like
madness, frequently enables the victim to imitate the outward
demeanour of one in perfect possession of his senses. The
coolness of the night air, however, had had its usual effect—the
mental energy began to yield before its influence—and the
confused perception which he no doubt then had of his perilous
situation had assisted in hastening the catastrophe. He was now
thoroughly insensible, and there was no probability that he would
be otherwise for many hours.
It is hardly possible to conceive the extremity of my terror. The
fumes of the wine lately taken had evaporated, leaving me doubly
timid and irresolute. I knew that I was altogether incapable of
managing the boat, and that a fierce wind and strong ebb tide
were hurrying us to destruction. A storm was evidently gathering
behind us; we had neither compass nor provisions; and it was
clear that, if we held our present course, we should be out of
sight of land before daybreak. These thoughts, with a crowd of
others equally fearful, flashed through my mind with a
bewildering rapidity, and for some moments paralyzed me beyond
the possibility of making any exertion. The boat was going
through the water at a terrible rate—full before the wind—no reef
in either jib or mainsail—running her bows completely under the
foam. It was a thousand wonders she did not broach to—Augustus
having let go the tiller, as I said before, and I being too much
agitated to think of taking it myself. By good luck, however, she
kept steady, and gradually I recovered some degree of presence of
mind. Still the wind was increasing fearfully, and whenever we
rose from a plunge forward, the sea behind fell combing over our
counter, and deluged us with water. I was so utterly benumbed,
too, in every limb, as to be nearly unconscious of sensation. At
length I summoned up the resolution of despair, and rushing to
the mainsail let it go by the run. As might have been expected,
it flew over the bows, and, getting drenched with water, carried
away the mast short off by the board. This latter accident alone
saved me from instant destruction. Under the jib only, I now
boomed along before the wind, shipping heavy seas occasionally
over the counter, but relieved from the terror of immediate
death. I took the helm, and breathed with greater freedom as I
found that there yet remained to us a chance of ultimate escape.
Augustus still lay senseless in the bottom of the boat; and as
there was imminent danger of his drowning (the water being nearly
a foot deep just where he fell), I contrived to raise him
partially up, and keep him in a sitting position, by passing a
rope round his waist, and lashing it to a ringbolt in the deck of
the cuddy. Having thus arranged every thing as well as I could in
my chilled and agitated condition, I recommended myself to God,
and made up my mind to bear whatever might happen with all the
fortitude in my power.
Hardly had I come to this resolution, when, suddenly, a loud and
long scream or yell, as if from the throats of a thousand demons,
seemed to pervade the whole atmosphere around and above the boat.
Never while I live shall I forget the intense agony of terror I
experienced at that moment. My hair stood erect on my head—I felt
the blood congealing in my veins—my heart ceased utterly to beat,
and without having once raised my eyes to learn the source of my
alarm, I tumbled headlong and insensible upon the body of my
fallen companion.
I found myself, upon reviving, in the cabin of a large
whaling-ship (the Penguin) bound to Nantucket. Several persons
were standing over me, and Augustus, paler than death, was busily
occupied in chafing my hands. Upon seeing me open my eyes, his
exclamations of gratitude and joy excited alternate laughter and
tears from the rough-looking personages who were present. The
mystery of our being in existence was now soon explained. We had
been run down by the whaling-ship, which was close-hauled,
beating up to Nantucket with every sail she could venture to set,
and consequently running almost at right angles to our own
course. Several men were on the look-out forward, but did not
perceive our boat until it was an impossibility to avoid coming
in contact—their shouts of warning upon seeing us were what so
terribly alarmed me. The huge ship, I was told, rode immediately
over us with as much ease as our own little vessel would have
passed over a feather, and without the least perceptible
impediment to her progress. Not a scream arose from the deck of
the victim—there was a slight grating sound to be heard mingling
with the roar of wind and water, as the frail bark which was
swallowed up rubbed for a moment along the keel of her
destroyer—but this was all. Thinking our boat (which it will be
remembered was dismasted) some mere shell cut adrift as useless,
the captain (Captain E. T. V. Block, of New London) was for
proceeding on his course without troubling himself further about
the matter. Luckily, there were two of the look-out who swore
positively to having seen some person at our helm, and
represented the possibility of yet saving him. A discussion
ensued, when Block grew angry, and, after a while, said that “it
was no business of his to be eternally watching for egg-shells;
that the ship should not put about for any such nonsense; and if
there was a man run down, it was nobody’s fault but his own, he
might drown and be dammed” or some language to that effect.
Henderson, the first mate, now took the matter up, being justly
indignant, as well as the whole ship’s crew, at a speech evincing
so base a degree of heartless atrocity. He spoke plainly, seeing
himself upheld by the men, told the captain he considered him a
fit subject for the gallows, and that he would disobey his orders
if he were hanged for it the moment he set his foot on shore. He
strode aft, jostling Block (who turned pale and made no answer)
on one side, and seizing the helm, gave the word, in a firm
voice, Hard-a-lee! The men flew to their posts, and the ship went
cleverly about. All this had occupied nearly five minutes, and it
was supposed to be hardly within the bounds of possibility that
any individual could be saved—allowing any to have been on board
the boat. Yet, as the reader has seen, both Augustus and myself
were rescued; and our deliverance seemed to have been brought
about by two of those almost inconceivable pieces of good fortune
which are attributed by the wise and pious to the special
interference of Providence.
While the ship was yet in stays, the mate lowered the jolly-boat
and jumped into her with the very two men, I believe, who spoke
up as having seen me at the helm. They had just left the lee of
the vessel (the moon still shining brightly) when she made a long
and heavy roll to windward, and Henderson, at the same moment,
starting up in his seat bawled out to his crew to back water. He
would say nothing else—repeating his cry impatiently, back water!
back water! The men put back as speedily as possible, but by this
time the ship had gone round, and gotten fully under headway,
although all hands on board were making great exertions to take
in sail. In despite of the danger of the attempt, the mate clung
to the main-chains as soon as they came within his reach. Another
huge lurch now brought the starboard side of the vessel out of
water nearly as far as her keel, when the cause of his anxiety
was rendered obvious enough. The body of a man was seen to be
affixed in the most singular manner to the smooth and shining
bottom (the Penguin was coppered and copper-fastened), and
beating violently against it with every movement of the hull.
After several ineffectual efforts, made during the lurches of the
ship, and at the imminent risk of swamping the boat I was finally
disengaged from my perilous situation and taken on board—for the
body proved to be my own. It appeared that one of the
timber-bolts having started and broken a passage through the
copper, it had arrested my progress as I passed under the ship,
and fastened me in so extraordinary a manner to her bottom. The
head of the bolt had made its way through the collar of the green
baize jacket I had on, and through the back part of my neck,
forcing itself out between two sinews and just below the right
ear. I was immediately put to bed—although life seemed to be
totally extinct. There was no surgeon on board. The captain,
however, treated me with every attention—to make amends, I
presume, in the eyes of his crew, for his atrocious behaviour in
the previous portion of the adventure.
In the meantime, Henderson had again put off from the ship,
although the wind was now blowing almost a hurricane. He had not
been gone many minutes when he fell in with some fragments of our
boat, and shortly afterward one of the men with him asserted that
he could distinguish a cry for help at intervals amid the roaring
of the tempest. This induced the hardy seamen to persevere in
their search for more than half an hour, although repeated
signals to return were made them by Captain Block, and although
every moment on the water in so frail a boat was fraught to them
with the most imminent and deadly peril. Indeed, it is nearly
impossible to conceive how the small jolly they were in could
have escaped destruction for a single instant. She was built,
however, for the whaling service, and was fitted, as I have since
had reason to believe, with air-boxes, in the manner of some
life-boats used on the coast of Wales.
After searching in vain for about the period of time just
mentioned, it was determined to get back to the ship. They had
scarcely made this resolve when a feeble cry arose from a dark
object that floated rapidly by. They pursued and soon overtook
it. It proved to be the entire deck of the Ariel’s cuddy.
Augustus was struggling near it, apparently in the last agonies.
Upon getting hold of him it was found that he was attached by a
rope to the floating timber. This rope, it will be remembered, I
had myself tied around his waist, and made fast to a ringbolt,
for the purpose of keeping him in an upright position, and my so
doing, it appeared, had been ultimately the means of preserving
his life. The Ariel was slightly put together, and in going down
her frame naturally went to pieces; the deck of the cuddy, as
might have been expected, was lifted, by the force of the water
rushing in, entirely from the main timbers, and floated (with
other fragments, no doubt) to the surface—Augustus was buoyed up
with it, and thus escaped a terrible death.
It was more than an hour after being taken on board the Penguin
before he could give any account of himself, or be made to
comprehend the nature of the accident which had befallen our
boat. At length he became thoroughly aroused, and spoke much of
his sensations while in the water. Upon his first attaining any
degree of consciousness, he found himself beneath the surface,
whirling round and round with inconceivable rapidity, and with a
rope wrapped in three or four folds tightly about his neck. In an
instant afterward he felt himself going rapidly upward, when, his
head striking violently against a hard substance, he again
relapsed into insensibility. Upon once more reviving he was in
fuller possession of his reason—this was still, however, in the
greatest degree clouded and confused. He now knew that some
accident had occurred, and that he was in the water, although his
mouth was above the surface, and he could breathe with some
freedom. Possibly, at this period the deck was drifting rapidly
before the wind, and drawing him after it, as he floated upon his
back. Of course, as long as he could have retained this position,
it would have been nearly impossible that he should be drowned.
Presently a surge threw him directly athwart the deck, and this
post he endeavored to maintain, screaming at intervals for help.
Just before he was discovered by Mr. Henderson, he had been
obliged to relax his hold through exhaustion, and, falling into
the sea, had given himself up for lost. During the whole period
of his struggles he had not the faintest recollection of the
Ariel, nor of the matters in connexion with the source of his
disaster. A vague feeling of terror and despair had taken entire
possession of his faculties. When he was finally picked up, every
power of his mind had failed him; and, as before said, it was
nearly an hour after getting on board the Penguin before he
became fully aware of his condition. In regard to myself—I was
resuscitated from a state bordering very nearly upon death (and
after every other means had been tried in vain for three hours
and a half) by vigorous friction with flannels bathed in hot
oil—a proceeding suggested by Augustus. The wound in my neck,
although of an ugly appearance, proved of little real
consequence, and I soon recovered from its effects.
The Penguin got into port about nine o’clock in the morning,
after encountering one of the severest gales ever experienced off
Nantucket. Both Augustus and myself managed to appear at Mr.
Barnard’s in time for breakfast—which, luckily, was somewhat
late, owing to the party over night. I suppose all at the table
were too much fatigued themselves to notice our jaded
appearance—of course, it would not have borne a very rigid
scrutiny. Schoolboys, however, can accomplish wonders in the way
of deception, and I verily believe not one of our friends in
Nantucket had the slightest suspicion that the terrible story
told by some sailors in town of their having run down a vessel at
sea and drowned some thirty or forty poor devils, had reference
either to the Ariel, my companion, or myself. We two have since
very frequently talked the matter over—but never without a
shudder. In one of our conversations Augustus frankly confessed
to me, that in his whole life he had at no time experienced so
excruciating a sense of dismay, as when on board our little boat
he first discovered the extent of his intoxication, and felt
himself sinking beneath its influence.
CHAPTER 2
In no affairs of mere prejudice, pro or con, do we deduce
inferences with entire certainty, even from the most simple data.
It might be supposed that a catastrophe such as I have just
related would have effectually cooled my incipient passion for
the sea. On the contrary, I never experienced a more ardent
longing for the wild adventures incident to the life of a
navigator than within a week after our miraculous deliverance.
This short period proved amply long enough to erase from my
memory the shadows, and bring out in vivid light all the
pleasurably exciting points of color, all the picturesqueness, of
the late perilous accident. My conversations with Augustus grew
daily more frequent and more intensely full of interest. He had a
manner of relating his stories of the ocean (more than one half
of which I now suspect to have been sheer fabrications) well
adapted to have weight with one of my enthusiastic temperament
and somewhat gloomy although glowing imagination. It is strange,
too, that he most strongly enlisted my feelings in behalf of the
life of a seaman, when he depicted his more terrible moments of
suffering and despair. For the bright side of the painting I had
a limited sympathy. My visions were of shipwreck and famine; of
death or captivity among barbarian hordes; of a lifetime dragged
out in sorrow and tears, upon some gray and desolate rock, in an
ocean unapproachable and unknown. Such visions or desires—for
they amounted to desires—are common, I have since been assured,
to the whole numerous race of the melancholy among men—at the
time of which I speak I regarded them only as prophetic glimpses
of a destiny which I felt myself in a measure bound to fulfil.
Augustus thoroughly entered into my state of mind. It is
probable, indeed, that our intimate communion had resulted in a
partial interchange of character.
About eighteen months after the period of the Ariel’s disaster,
the firm of Lloyd and Vredenburgh (a house connected in some
manner with the Messieurs Enderby, I believe, of Liverpool) were
engaged in repairing and fitting out the brig Grampus for a
whaling voyage. She was an old hulk, and scarcely seaworthy when
all was done to her that could be done. I hardly know why she was
chosen in preference to other good vessels belonging to the same
owners—but so it was. Mr. Barnard was appointed to command her,
and Augustus was going with him. While the brig was getting
ready, he frequently urged upon me the excellency of the
opportunity now offered for indulging my desire of travel. He
found me by no means an unwilling listener—yet the matter could
not be so easily arranged. My father made no direct opposition;
but my mother went into hysterics at the bare mention of the
design; and, more than all, my grandfather, from whom I expected
much, vowed to cut me off with a shilling if I should ever broach
the subject to him again. These difficulties, however, so far
from abating my desire, only added fuel to the flame. I
determined to go at all hazards; and, having made known my
intentions to Augustus, we set about arranging a plan by which it
might be accomplished. In the meantime I forbore speaking to any
of my relations in regard to the voyage, and, as I busied myself
ostensibly with my usual studies, it was supposed that I had
abandoned the design. I have since frequently examined my conduct
on this occasion with sentiments of displeasure as well as of
surprise. The intense hypocrisy I made use of for the furtherance
of my project—an hypocrisy pervading every word and action of my
life for so long a period of time—could only have been rendered
tolerable to myself by the wild and burning expectation with
which I looked forward to the fulfilment of my long-cherished
visions of travel.
In pursuance of my scheme of deception, I was necessarily obliged
to leave much to the management of Augustus, who was employed for
the greater part of every day on board the Grampus, attending to
some arrangements for his father in the cabin and cabin hold. At
night, however, we were sure to have a conference and talk over
our hopes. After nearly a month passed in this manner, without
our hitting upon any plan we thought likely to succeed, he told
me at last that he had determined upon everything necessary. I
had a relation living in New Bedford, a Mr. Ross, at whose house
I was in the habit of spending occasionally two or three weeks at
a time. The brig was to sail about the middle of June (June,
1827), and it was agreed that, a day or two before her putting to
sea, my father was to receive a note, as usual, from Mr. Ross,
asking me to come over and spend a fortnight with Robert and
Emmet (his sons). Augustus charged himself with the inditing of
this note and getting it delivered. Having set out as supposed,
for New Bedford, I was then to report myself to my companion, who
would contrive a hiding-place for me in the Grampus. This
hiding-place, he assured me, would be rendered sufficiently
comfortable for a residence of many days, during which I was not
to make my appearance. When the brig had proceeded so far on her
course as to make any turning back a matter out of question, I
should then, he said, be formally installed in all the comforts
of the cabin; and as to his father, he would only laugh heartily
at the joke. Vessels enough would be met with by which a letter
might be sent home explaining the adventure to my parents.
The middle of June at length arrived, and every thing had been
matured. The note was written and delivered, and on a Monday
morning I left the house for the New Bedford packet, as supposed.
I went, however, straight to Augustus, who was waiting for me at
the corner of a street. It had been our original plan that I
should keep out of the way until dark, and then slip on board the
brig; but, as there was now a thick fog in our favor, it was
agreed to lose no time in secreting me. Augustus led the way to
the wharf, and I followed at a little distance, enveloped in a
thick seaman’s cloak, which he had brought with him, so that my
person might not be easily recognized. Just as we turned the
second corner, after passing Mr. Edmund’s well, who should
appear, standing right in front of me, and looking me full in the
face, but old Mr. Peterson, my grandfather. “Why, bless my soul,
Gordon,” said he, after a long pause, “why, why,—whose dirty
cloak is that you have on?” “Sir!” I replied, assuming, as well
as I could, in the exigency of the moment, an air of offended
surprise, and talking in the gruffest of all imaginable
tones—“sir! you are a sum’mat mistaken—my name, in the first
place, bee’nt nothing at all like Goddin, and I’d want you for to
know better, you blackguard, than to call my new obercoat a darty
one.” For my life I could hardly refrain from screaming with
laughter at the odd manner in which the old gentleman received
this handsome rebuke. He started back two or three steps, turned
first pale and then excessively red, threw up his spectacles,
then, putting them down, ran full tilt at me, with his umbrella
uplifted. He stopped short, however, in his career, as if struck
with a sudden recollection; and presently, turning round, hobbled
off down the street, shaking all the while with rage, and
muttering between his teeth: “Won’t do—new glasses—thought it was
Gordon—d—d good-for-nothing salt water Long Tom.”
After this narrow escape we proceeded with greater caution, and
arrived at our point of destination in safety. There were only
one or two of the hands on board, and these were busy forward,
doing something to the forecastle combings. Captain Barnard, we
knew very well, was engaged at Lloyd and Vredenburgh’s, and would
remain there until late in the evening, so we had little to
apprehend on his account. Augustus went first up the vessel’s
side, and in a short while I followed him, without being noticed
by the men at work. We proceeded at once into the cabin, and
found no person there. It was fitted up in the most comfortable
style—a thing somewhat unusual in a whaling-vessel. There were
four very excellent staterooms, with wide and convenient berths.
There was also a large stove, I took notice, and a remarkably
thick and valuable carpet covering the floor of both the cabin
and staterooms. The ceiling was full seven feet high, and, in
short, every thing appeared of a more roomy and agreeable nature
than I had anticipated. Augustus, however, would allow me but
little time for observation, insisting upon the necessity of my
concealing myself as soon as possible. He led the way into his
own stateroom, which was on the starboard side of the brig, and
next to the bulkheads. Upon entering, he closed the door and
bolted it. I thought I had never seen a nicer little room than
the one in which I now found myself. It was about ten feet long,
and had only one berth, which, as I said before, was wide and
convenient. In that portion of the closet nearest the bulkheads
there was a space of four feet square, containing a table, a
chair, and a set of hanging shelves full of books, chiefly books
of voyages and travels. There were many other little comforts in
the room, among which I ought not to forget a kind of safe or
refrigerator, in which Augustus pointed out to me a host of
delicacies, both in the eating and drinking department.
He now pressed with his knuckles upon a certain spot of the
carpet in one corner of the space just mentioned, letting me know
that a portion of the flooring, about sixteen inches square, had
been neatly cut out and again adjusted. As he pressed, this
portion rose up at one end sufficiently to allow the passage of
his finger beneath. In this manner he raised the mouth of the
trap (to which the carpet was still fastened by tacks), and I
found that it led into the after hold. He next lit a small taper
by means of a phosphorous match, and, placing the light in a dark
lantern, descended with it through the opening, bidding me
follow. I did so, and he then pulled the cover upon the hole, by
means of a nail driven into the under side—the carpet, of course,
resuming its original position on the floor of the stateroom, and
all traces of the aperture being concealed.
The taper gave out so feeble a ray that it was with the greatest
difficulty I could grope my way through the confused mass of
lumber among which I now found myself. By degrees, however, my
eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and I proceeded with less
trouble, holding on to the skirts of my friend’s coat. He brought
me, at length, after creeping and winding through innumerable
narrow passages, to an iron-bound box, such as is used sometimes
for packing fine earthenware. It was nearly four feet high, and
full six long, but very narrow. Two large empty oil-casks lay on
the top of it, and above these, again, a vast quantity of straw
matting, piled up as high as the floor of the cabin. In every
other direction around was wedged as closely as possible, even up
to the ceiling, a complete chaos of almost every species of
ship-furniture, together with a heterogeneous medley of crates,
hampers, barrels, and bales, so that it seemed a matter no less
than miraculous that we had discovered any passage at all to the
box. I afterward found that Augustus had purposely arranged the
stowage in this hold with a view to affording me a thorough
concealment, having had only one assistant in the labour, a man
not going out in the brig.
My companion now showed me that one of the ends of the box could
be removed at pleasure. He slipped it aside and displayed the
interior, at which I was excessively amused. A mattress from one
of the cabin berths covered the whole of its bottom, and it
contained almost every article of mere comfort which could be
crowded into so small a space, allowing me, at the same time,
sufficient room for my accommodation, either in a sitting
position or lying at full length. Among other things, there were
some books, pen, ink, and paper, three blankets, a large jug full
of water, a keg of sea-biscuit, three or four immense Bologna
sausages, an enormous ham, a cold leg of roast mutton, and half a
dozen bottles of cordials and liqueurs. I proceeded immediately
to take possession of my little apartment, and this with feelings
of higher satisfaction, I am sure, than any monarch ever
experienced upon entering a new palace. Augustus now pointed out
to me the method of fastening the open end of the box, and then,
holding the taper close to the deck, showed me a piece of dark
whipcord lying along it. This, he said, extended from my
hiding-place throughout all the necessary windings among the
lumber, to a nail which was driven into the deck of the hold,
immediately beneath the trap-door leading into his stateroom. By
means of this cord I should be enabled readily to trace my way
out without his guidance, provided any unlooked-for accident
should render such a step necessary. He now took his departure,
leaving with me the lantern, together with a copious supply of
tapers and phosphorous, and promising to pay me a visit as often
as he could contrive to do so without observation. This was on
the seventeenth of June.
I remained three days and nights (as nearly as I could guess) in
my hiding-place without getting out of it at all, except twice
for the purpose of stretching my limbs by standing erect between
two crates just opposite the opening. During the whole period I
saw nothing of Augustus; but this occasioned me little
uneasiness, as I knew the brig was expected to put to sea every
hour, and in the bustle he would not easily find opportunities of
coming down to me. At length I heard the trap open and shut, and
presently he called in a low voice, asking if all was well, and
if there was any thing I wanted. “Nothing,” I replied; “I am as
comfortable as can be; when will the brig sail?” “She will be
under weigh in less than half an hour,” he answered. “I came to
let you know, and for fear you should be uneasy at my absence. I
shall not have a chance of coming down again for some
time—perhaps for three or four days more. All is going on right
aboveboard. After I go up and close the trap, do you creep along
by the whipcord to where the nail is driven in. You will find my
watch there—it may be useful to you, as you have no daylight to
keep time by. I suppose you can’t tell how long you have been
buried—only three days—this is the twentieth. I would bring the
watch to your box, but am afraid of being missed.” With this he
went up.
In about an hour after he had gone I distinctly felt the brig in
motion, and congratulated myself upon having at length fairly
commenced a voyage. Satisfied with this idea, I determined to
make my mind as easy as possible, and await the course of events
until I should be permitted to exchange the box for the more
roomy, although hardly more comfortable, accommodations of the
cabin. My first care was to get the watch. Leaving the taper
burning, I groped along in the dark, following the cord through
windings innumerable, in some of which I discovered that, after
toiling a long distance, I was brought back within a foot or two
of a former position. At length I reached the nail, and securing
the object of my journey, returned with it in safety. I now
looked over the books which had been so thoughtfully provided,
and selected the expedition of Lewis and Clarke to the mouth of
the Columbia. With this I amused myself for some time, when,
growing sleepy, I extinguished the light with great care, and
soon fell into a sound slumber.
Upon awakening I felt strangely confused in mind, and some time
elapsed before I could bring to recollection all the various
circumstances of my situation. By degrees, however, I remembered
all. Striking a light, I looked at the watch; but it was run
down, and there were, consequently, no means of determining how
long I slept. My limbs were greatly cramped, and I was forced to
relieve them by standing between the crates. Presently feeling an
almost ravenous appetite, I bethought myself of the cold mutton,
some of which I had eaten just before going to sleep, and found
excellent. What was my astonishment in discovering it to be in a
state of absolute putrefaction! This circumstance occasioned me
great disquietude; for, connecting it with the disorder of mind I
experienced upon awakening, I began to suppose that I must have
slept for an inordinately long period of time. The close
atmosphere of the hold might have had something to do with this,
and might, in the end, be productive of the most serious results.
My head ached excessively; I fancied that I drew every breath
with difficulty; and, in short, I was oppressed with a multitude
of gloomy feelings. Still I could not venture to make any
disturbance by opening the trap or otherwise, and, having wound
up the watch, contented myself as well as possible.
Throughout the whole of the next tedious twenty-four hours no
person came to my relief, and I could not help accusing Augustus
of the grossest inattention. What alarmed me chiefly was, that
the water in my jug was reduced to about half a pint, and I was
suffering much from thirst, having eaten freely of the Bologna
sausages after the loss of my mutton. I became very uneasy, and
could no longer take any interest in my books. I was overpowered,
too, with a desire to sleep, yet trembled at the thought of
indulging it, lest there might exist some pernicious influence,
like that of burning charcoal, in the confined air of the hold.
In the meantime the roll of the brig told me that we were far in
the main ocean, and a dull humming sound, which reached my ears
as if from an immense distance, convinced me no ordinary gale was
blowing. I could not imagine a reason for the absence of
Augustus. We were surely far enough advanced on our voyage to
allow of my going up. Some accident might have happened to
him—but I could think of none which would account for his
suffering me to remain so long a prisoner, except, indeed, his
having suddenly died or fallen overboard, and upon this idea I
could not dwell with any degree of patience. It was possible that
we had been baffled by head winds, and were still in the near
vicinity of Nantucket. This notion, however, I was forced to
abandon; for such being the case, the brig must have frequently
gone about; and I was entirely satisfied, from her continual
inclination to the larboard, that she had been sailing all along
with a steady breeze on her starboard quarter. Besides, granting
that we were still in the neighborhood of the island, why should
not Augustus have visited me and informed me of the circumstance?
Pondering in this manner upon the difficulties of my solitary and
cheerless condition, I resolved to wait yet another twenty-four
hours, when, if no relief were obtained, I would make my way to
the trap, and endeavour either to hold a parley with my friend,
or get at least a little fresh air through the opening, and a
further supply of water from the stateroom. While occupied with
this thought, however, I fell in spite of every exertion to the
contrary, into a state of profound sleep, or rather stupor. My
dreams were of the most terrific description. Every species of
calamity and horror befell me. Among other miseries I was
smothered to death between huge pillows, by demons of the most
ghastly and ferocious aspect. Immense serpents held me in their
embrace, and looked earnestly in my face with their fearfully
shining eyes. Then deserts, limitless, and of the most forlorn
and awe-inspiring character, spread themselves out before me.
Immensely tall trunks of trees, gray and leafless, rose up in
endless succession as far as the eye could reach. Their roots
were concealed in wide-spreading morasses, whose dreary water lay
intensely black, still, and altogether terrible, beneath. And the
strange trees seemed endowed with a human vitality, and waving to
and fro their skeleton arms, were crying to the silent waters for
mercy, in the shrill and piercing accents of the most acute agony
and despair. The scene changed; and I stood, naked and alone,
amidst the burning sand-plains of Sahara. At my feet lay crouched
a fierce lion of the tropics. Suddenly his wild eyes opened and
fell upon me. With a conclusive bound he sprang to his feet, and
laid bare his horrible teeth. In another instant there burst from
his red throat a roar like the thunder of the firmament, and I
fell impetuously to the earth. Stifling in a paroxysm of terror,
I at last found myself partially awake. My dream, then, was not
all a dream. Now, at least, I was in possession of my senses. The
paws of some huge and real monster were pressing heavily upon my
bosom—his hot breath was in my ear—and his white and ghastly
fangs were gleaming upon me through the gloom.
Had a thousand lives hung upon the movement of a limb or the
utterance of a syllable, I could have neither stirred nor spoken.
The beast, whatever it was, retained his position without
attempting any immediate violence, while I lay in an utterly
helpless, and, I fancied, a dying condition beneath him. I felt
that my powers of body and mind were fast leaving me—in a word,
that I was perishing, and perishing of sheer fright. My brain
swam—I grew deadly sick—my vision failed—even the glaring
eyeballs above me grew dim. Making a last strong effort, I at
length breathed a faint ejaculation to God, and resigned myself
to die. The sound of my voice seemed to arouse all the latent
fury of the animal. He precipitated himself at full length upon
my body; but what was my astonishment, when, with a long and low
whine, he commenced licking my face and hands with the greatest
eagerness, and with the most extravagant demonstration of
affection and joy! I was bewildered, utterly lost in
amazement—but I could not forget the peculiar whine of my
Newfoundland dog Tiger, and the odd manner of his caresses I well
knew. It was he. I experienced a sudden rush of blood to my
temples—a giddy and overpowering sense of deliverance and
reanimation. I rose hurriedly from the mattress upon which I had
been lying, and, throwing myself upon the neck of my faithful
follower and friend, relieved the long oppression of my bosom in
a flood of the most passionate tears.
As upon a former occasion my conceptions were in a state of the
greatest indistinctness and confusion after leaving the mattress.
For a long time I found it nearly impossible to connect any
ideas; but, by very slow degrees, my thinking faculties returned,
and I again called to memory the several incidents of my
condition. For the presence of Tiger I tried in vain to account;
and after busying myself with a thousand different conjectures
respecting him, was forced to content myself with rejoicing that
he was with me to share my dreary solitude, and render me comfort
by his caresses. Most people love their dogs—but for Tiger I had
an affection far more ardent than common; and never, certainly,
did any creature more truly deserve it. For seven years he had
been my inseparable companion, and in a multitude of instances
had given evidence of all the noble qualities for which we value
the animal. I had rescued him, when a puppy, from the clutches of
a malignant little villain in Nantucket who was leading him, with
a rope around his neck, to the water; and the grown dog repaid
the obligation, about three years afterward, by saving me from
the bludgeon of a street robber.
Getting now hold of the watch, I found, upon applying it to my
ear, that it had again run down; but at this I was not at all
surprised, being convinced, from the peculiar state of my
feelings, that I had slept, as before, for a very long period of
time, how long, it was of course impossible to say. I was burning
up with fever, and my thirst was almost intolerable. I felt about
the box for my little remaining supply of water, for I had no
light, the taper having burnt to the socket of the lantern, and
the phosphorus-box not coming readily to hand. Upon finding the
jug, however, I discovered it to be empty—Tiger, no doubt, having
been tempted to drink it, as well as to devour the remnant of
mutton, the bone of which lay, well picked, by the opening of the
box. The spoiled meat I could well spare, but my heart sank as I
thought of the water. I was feeble in the extreme—so much so that
I shook all over, as with an ague, at the slightest movement or
exertion. To add to my troubles, the brig was pitching and
rolling with great violence, and the oil-casks which lay upon my
box were in momentary danger of falling down, so as to block up
the only way of ingress or egress. I felt, also, terrible
sufferings from sea-sickness. These considerations determined me
to make my way, at all hazards, to the trap, and obtain immediate
relief, before I should be incapacitated from doing so
altogether. Having come to this resolve, I again felt about for
the phosphorus-box and tapers. The former I found after some
little trouble; but, not discovering the tapers as soon as I had
expected (for I remembered very nearly the spot in which I had
placed them), I gave up the search for the present, and bidding
Tiger lie quiet, began at once my journey toward the trap.
In this attempt my great feebleness became more than ever
apparent. It was with the utmost difficulty I could crawl along
at all, and very frequently my limbs sank suddenly from beneath
me; when, falling prostrate on my face, I would remain for some
minutes in a state bordering on insensibility. Still I struggled
forward by slow degrees, dreading every moment that I should
swoon amid the narrow and intricate windings of the lumber, in
which event I had nothing but death to expect as the result. At
length, upon making a push forward with all the energy I could
command, I struck my forehead violently against the sharp corner
of an iron-bound crate. The accident only stunned me for a few
moments; but I found, to my inexpressible grief, that the quick
and violent roll of the vessel had thrown the crate entirely
across my path, so as effectually to block up the passage. With
my utmost exertions I could not move it a single inch from its
position, it being closely wedged in among the surrounding boxes
and ship-furniture. It became necessary, therefore, enfeebled as
I was, either to leave the guidance of the whipcord and seek out
a new passage, or to climb over the obstacle, and resume the path
on the other side. The former alternative presented too many
difficulties and dangers to be thought of without a shudder. In
my present weak state of both mind and body, I should infallibly
lose my way if I attempted it, and perish miserably amid the
dismal and disgusting labyrinths of the hold. I proceeded,
therefore, without hesitation, to summon up all my remaining
strength and fortitude, and endeavour, as I best might, to
clamber over the crate.
Upon standing erect, with this end in view, I found the
undertaking even a more serious task than my fears had led me to
imagine. On each side of the narrow passage arose a complete wall
of various heavy lumber, which the least blunder on my part might
be the means of bringing down upon my head; or, if this accident
did not occur, the path might be effectually blocked up against
my return by the descending mass, as it was in front by the
obstacle there. The crate itself was a long and unwieldy box,
upon which no foothold could be obtained. In vain I attempted, by
every means in my power, to reach the top, with the hope of being
thus enabled to draw myself up. Had I succeeded in reaching it,
it is certain that my strength would have proved utterly
inadequate to the task of getting over, and it was better in
every respect that I failed. At length, in a desperate effort to
force the crate from its ground, I felt a strong vibration in the
side next me. I thrust my hand eagerly to the edge of the planks,
and found that a very large one was loose. With my pocket-knife,
which, luckily, I had with me, I succeeded, after great labour,
in prying it entirely off; and getting it through the aperture,
discovered, to my exceeding joy, that there were no boards on the
opposite side—in other words, that the top was wanting, it being
the bottom through which I had forced my way. I now met with no
important difficulty in proceeding along the line until I finally
reached the nail. With a beating heart I stood erect, and with a
gentle touch pressed against the cover of the trap. It did not
rise as soon as I had expected, and I pressed it with somewhat
more determination, still dreading lest some other person than
Augustus might be in his state-room. The door, however, to my
astonishment, remained steady, and I became somewhat uneasy, for
I knew that it had formerly required but little or no effort to
remove it. I pushed it strongly—it was nevertheless firm: with
all my strength—it still did not give way: with rage, with fury,
with despair—it set at defiance my utmost efforts; and it was
evident, from the unyielding nature of the resistance, that the
hole had either been discovered and effectually nailed up, or
that some immense weight had been placed upon it, which it was
useless to think of removing.
My sensations were those of extreme horror and dismay. In vain I
attempted to reason on the probable cause of my being thus
entombed. I could summon up no connected chain of reflection,
and, sinking on the floor, gave way, unresistingly, to the most
gloomy imaginings, in which the dreadful deaths of thirst,
famine, suffocation, and premature interment crowded upon me as
the prominent disasters to be encountered. At length there
returned to me some portion of presence of mind. I arose, and
felt with my fingers for the seams or cracks of the aperture.
Having found them, I examined them closely to ascertain if they
emitted any light from the state-room; but none was visible. I
then forced the blade of my pen-knife through them, until I met
with some hard obstacle. Scraping against it, I discovered it to
be a solid mass of iron, which, from its peculiar wavy feel as I
passed the blade along it, I concluded to be a chain-cable. The
only course now left me was to retrace my way to the box, and
there either yield to my sad fate, or try so to tranquilize my
mind as to admit of my arranging some plan of escape. I
immediately set about the attempt, and succeeded, after
innumerable difficulties, in getting back. As I sank, utterly
exhausted, upon the mattress, Tiger threw himself at full length
by my side, and seemed as if desirous, by his caresses, of
consoling me in my troubles, and urging me to bear them with
fortitude.
The singularity of his behavior at length forcibly arrested my
attention. After licking my face and hands for some minutes, he
would suddenly cease doing so, and utter a low whine. Upon
reaching out my hand toward him, I then invariably found him
lying on his back, with his paws uplifted. This conduct, so
frequently repeated, appeared strange, and I could in no manner
account for it. As the dog seemed distressed, I concluded that he
had received some injury; and, taking his paws in my hands, I
examined them one by one, but found no sign of any hurt. I then
supposed him hungry, and gave him a large piece of ham, which he
devoured with avidity—afterward, however, resuming his
extraordinary manoeuvres. I now imagined that he was suffering,
like myself, the torments of thirst, and was about adopting this
conclusion as the true one, when the idea occurred to me that I
had as yet only examined his paws, and that there might possibly
be a wound upon some portion of his body or head. The latter I
felt carefully over, but found nothing. On passing my hand,
however, along his back, I perceived a slight erection of the
hair extending completely across it. Probing this with my finger,
I discovered a string, and tracing it up, found that it encircled
the whole body. Upon a closer scrutiny, I came across a small
slip of what had the feeling of letter paper, through which the
string had been fastened in such a manner as to bring it
immediately beneath the left shoulder of the animal.
CHAPTER 3
The thought instantly occurred to me that the paper was a note
from Augustus, and that some unaccountable accident having
happened to prevent his relieving me from my dungeon, he had
devised this method of acquainting me with the true state of
affairs. Trembling with eagerness, I now commenced another search
for my phosphorus matches and tapers. I had a confused
recollection of having put them carefully away just before
falling asleep; and, indeed, previously to my last journey to the
trap, I had been able to remember the exact spot where I had
deposited them. But now I endeavored in vain to call it to mind,
and busied myself for a full hour in a fruitless and vexatious
search for the missing articles; never, surely, was there a more
tantalizing state of anxiety and suspense. At length, while
groping about, with my head close to the ballast, near the
opening of the box, and outside of it, I perceived a faint
glimmering of light in the direction of the steerage. Greatly
surprised, I endeavored to make my way toward it, as it appeared
to be but a few feet from my position. Scarcely had I moved with
this intention, when I lost sight of the glimmer entirely, and,
before I could bring it into view again, was obliged to feel
along by the box until I had exactly resumed my original
situation. Now, moving my head with caution to and fro, I found
that, by proceeding slowly, with great care, in an opposite
direction to that in which I had at first started, I was enabled
to draw near the light, still keeping it in view. Presently I
came directly upon it (having squeezed my way through innumerable
narrow windings), and found that it proceeded from some fragments
of my matches lying in an empty barrel turned upon its side. I
was wondering how they came in such a place, when my hand fell
upon two or three pieces of taper wax, which had been evidently
mumbled by the dog. I concluded at once that he had devoured the
whole of my supply of candles, and I felt hopeless of being ever
able to read the note of Augustus. The small remnants of the wax
were so mashed up among other rubbish in the barrel, that I
despaired of deriving any service from them, and left them as
they were. The phosphorus, of which there was only a speck or
two, I gathered up as well as I could, and returned with it,
after much difficulty, to my box, where Tiger had all the while
remained.
What to do next I could not tell. The hold was so intensely dark
that I could not see my hand, however close I would hold it to my
face. The white slip of paper could barely be discerned, and not
even that when I looked at it directly; by turning the exterior
portions of the retina toward it—that is to say, by surveying it
slightly askance, I found that it became in some measure
perceptible. Thus the gloom of my prison may be imagined, and the
note of my friend, if indeed it were a note from him, seemed only
likely to throw me into further trouble, by disquieting to no
purpose my already enfeebled and agitated mind. In vain I
revolved in my brain a multitude of absurd expedients for
procuring light—such expedients precisely as a man in the
perturbed sleep occasioned by opium would be apt to fall upon for
a similar purpose—each and all of which appear by turns to the
dreamer the most reasonable and the most preposterous of
conceptions, just as the reasoning or imaginative faculties
flicker, alternately, one above the other. At last an idea
occurred to me which seemed rational, and which gave me cause to
wonder, very justly, that I had not entertained it before. I
placed the slip of paper on the back of a book, and, collecting
the fragments of the phosphorus matches which I had brought from
the barrel, laid them together upon the paper. I then, with the
palm of my hand, rubbed the whole over quickly, yet steadily. A
clear light diffused itself immediately throughout the whole
surface; and had there been any writing upon it, I should not
have experienced the least difficulty, I am sure, in reading it.
Not a syllable was there, however—nothing but a dreary and
unsatisfactory blank; the illumination died away in a few
seconds, and my heart died away within me as it went.
I have before stated more than once that my intellect, for some
period prior to this, had been in a condition nearly bordering on
idiocy. There were, to be sure, momentary intervals of perfect
sanity, and, now and then, even of energy; but these were few. It
must be remembered that I had been, for many days certainly,
inhaling the almost pestilential atmosphere of a close hold in a
whaling vessel, and for a long portion of that time but scantily
supplied with water. For the last fourteen or fifteen hours I had
none—nor had I slept during that time. Salt provisions of the
most exciting kind had been my chief, and, indeed, since the loss
of the mutton, my only supply of food, with the exception of the
sea-biscuit; and these latter were utterly useless to me, as they
were too dry and hard to be swallowed in the swollen and parched
condition of my throat. I was now in a high state of fever, and
in every respect exceedingly ill. This will account for the fact
that many miserable hours of despondency elapsed after my last
adventure with the phosphorus, before the thought suggested
itself that I had examined only one side of the paper. I shall
not attempt to describe my feelings of rage (for I believe I was
more angry than any thing else) when the egregious oversight I
had committed flashed suddenly upon my perception. The blunder
itself would have been unimportant, had not my own folly and
impetuosity rendered it otherwise—in my disappointment at not
finding some words upon the slip, I had childishly torn it in
pieces and thrown it away, it was impossible to say where.
From the worst part of this dilemma I was relieved by the
sagacity of Tiger. Having got, after a long search, a small piece
of the note, I put it to the dog’s nose, and endeavored to make
him understand that he must bring me the rest of it. To my
astonishment, (for I had taught him none of the usual tricks for
which his breed are famous,) he seemed to enter at once into my
meaning, and, rummaging about for a few moments, soon found
another considerable portion. Bringing me this, he paused awhile,
and, rubbing his nose against my hand, appeared to be waiting for
my approval of what he had done. I patted him on the head, when
he immediately made off again. It was now some minutes before he
came back—but when he did come, he brought with him a large slip,
which proved to be all the paper missing—it having been torn, it
seems, only into three pieces. Luckily, I had no trouble in
finding what few fragments of the phosphorus were left—being
guided by the indistinct glow one or two of the particles still
emitted. My difficulties had taught me the necessity of caution,
and I now took time to reflect upon what I was about to do. It
was very probable, I considered, that some words were written
upon that side of the paper which had not been examined—but which
side was that? Fitting the pieces together gave me no clew in
this respect, although it assured me that the words (if there
were any) would be found all on one side, and connected in a
proper manner, as written. There was the greater necessity of
ascertaining the point in question beyond a doubt, as the
phosphorus remaining would be altogether insufficient for a third
attempt, should I fail in the one I was now about to make. I
placed the paper on a book as before, and sat for some minutes
thoughtfully revolving the matter over in my mind. At last I
thought it barely possible that the written side might have some
unevenness on its surface, which a delicate sense of feeling
might enable me to detect. I determined to make the experiment
and passed my finger very carefully over the side which first
presented itself. Nothing, however, was perceptible, and I turned
the paper, adjusting it on the book. I now again carried my
forefinger cautiously along, when I was aware of an exceedingly
slight, but still discernable glow, which followed as it
proceeded. This, I knew, must arise from some very minute
remaining particles of the phosphorus with which I had covered
the paper in my previous attempt. The other, or under side, then,
was that on which lay the writing, if writing there should
finally prove to be. Again I turned the note, and went to work as
I had previously done. Having rubbed in the phosphorus, a
brilliancy ensued as before—but this time several lines of MS. in
a large hand, and apparently in red ink, became distinctly
visible. The glimmer, although sufficiently bright, was but
momentary. Still, had I not been too greatly excited, there would
have been ample time enough for me to peruse the whole three
sentences before me—for I saw there were three. In my anxiety,
however, to read all at once, I succeeded only in reading the
seven concluding words, which thus appeared—“blood—your life
depends upon lying close.”
Had I been able to ascertain the entire contents of the note—the
full meaning of the admonition which my friend had thus attempted
to convey, that admonition, even although it should have revealed
a story of disaster the most unspeakable, could not, I am firmly
convinced, have imbued my mind with one tithe of the harrowing
and yet indefinable horror with which I was inspired by the
fragmentary warning thus received. And “blood,” too, that word of
all words—so rife at all times with mystery, and suffering, and
terror—how trebly full of import did it now appear—how chilly and
heavily (disjointed, as it thus was, from any foregoing words to
qualify or render it distinct) did its vague syllables fall, amid
the deep gloom of my prison, into the innermost recesses of my
soul!
Augustus had, undoubtedly, good reasons for wishing me to remain
concealed, and I formed a thousand surmises as to what they could
be—but I could think of nothing affording a satisfactory solution
of the mystery. Just after returning from my last journey to the
trap, and before my attention had been otherwise directed by the
singular conduct of Tiger, I had come to the resolution of making
myself heard at all events by those on board, or, if I could not
succeed in this directly, of trying to cut my way through the
orlop deck. The half certainty which I felt of being able to
accomplish one of these two purposes in the last emergency, had
given me courage (which I should not otherwise have had) to
endure the evils of my situation. The few words I had been able
to read, however, had cut me off from these final resources, and
I now, for the first time, felt all the misery of my fate. In a
paroxysm of despair I threw myself again upon the mattress,
where, for about the period of a day and night, I lay in a kind
of stupor, relieved only by momentary intervals of reason and
recollection.
At length I once more arose, and busied myself in reflection upon
the horrors which encompassed me. For another twenty-four hours
it was barely possible that I might exist without water—for a
longer time I could not do so. During the first portion of my
imprisonment I had made free use of the cordials with which
Augustus had supplied me, but they only served to excite fever,
without in the least degree assuaging thirst. I had now only
about a gill left, and this was of a species of strong peach
liqueur at which my stomach revolted. The sausages were entirely
consumed; of the ham nothing remained but a small piece of the
skin; and all the biscuit, except a few fragments of one, had
been eaten by Tiger. To add to my troubles, I found that my
headache was increasing momentarily, and with it the species of
delirium which had distressed me more or less since my first
falling asleep. For some hours past it had been with the greatest
difficulty I could breathe at all, and now each attempt at so
doing was attended with the most depressing spasmodic action of
the chest. But there was still another and very different source
of disquietude, and one, indeed, whose harassing terrors had been
the chief means of arousing me to exertion from my stupor on the
mattress. It arose from the demeanor of the dog.
I first observed an alteration in his conduct while rubbing in
the phosphorus on the paper in my last attempt. As I rubbed, he
ran his nose against my hand with a slight snarl; but I was too
greatly excited at the time to pay much attention to the
circumstance. Soon afterward, it will be remembered, I threw
myself on the mattress, and fell into a species of lethargy.
Presently I became aware of a singular hissing sound close at my
ears, and discovered it to proceed from Tiger, who was panting
and wheezing in a state of the greatest apparent excitement, his
eyeballs flashing fiercely through the gloom. I spoke to him,
when he replied with a low growl, and then remained quiet.
Presently I relapsed into my stupor, from which I was again
awakened in a similar manner. This was repeated three or four
times, until finally his behaviour inspired me with so great a
degree of fear, that I became fully aroused. He was now lying
close by the door of the box, snarling fearfully, although in a
kind of undertone, and grinding his teeth as if strongly
convulsed. I had no doubt whatever that the want of water or the
confined atmosphere of the hold had driven him mad, and I was at
a loss what course to pursue. I could not endure the thought of
killing him, yet it seemed absolutely necessary for my own
safety. I could distinctly perceive his eyes fastened upon me
with an expression of the most deadly animosity, and I expected
every instant that he would attack me. At last I could endure my
terrible situation no longer, and determined to make my way from
the box at all hazards, and dispatch him, if his opposition
should render it necessary for me to do so. To get out, I had to
pass directly over his body, and he already seemed to anticipate
my design—missing himself upon his fore-legs (as I perceived by
the altered position of his eyes), and displayed the whole of his
white fangs, which were easily discernible. I took the remains of
the ham-skin, and the bottle containing the liqueur, and secured
them about my person, together with a large carving-knife which
Augustus had left me—then, folding my cloak around me as closely
as possible, I made a movement toward the mouth of the box. No
sooner did I do this, than the dog sprang with a loud growl
toward my throat. The whole weight of his body struck me on the
right shoulder, and I fell violently to the left, while the
enraged animal passed entirely over me. I had fallen upon my
knees, with my head buried among the blankets, and these
protected me from a second furious assault, during which I felt
the sharp teeth pressing vigorously upon the woollen which
enveloped my neck—yet, luckily, without being able to penetrate
all the folds. I was now beneath the dog, and a few moments would
place me completely in his power. Despair gave me strength, and I
rose boldly up, shaking him from me by main force, and dragging
with me the blankets from the mattress. These I now threw over
him, and before he could extricate himself, I had got through the
door and closed it effectually against his pursuit. In this
struggle, however, I had been forced to drop the morsel of
ham-skin, and I now found my whole stock of provisions reduced to
a single gill of liqueur. As this reflection crossed my mind, I
felt myself actuated by one of those fits of perverseness which
might be supposed to influence a spoiled child in similar
circumstances, and, raising the bottle to my lips, I drained it
to the last drop, and dashed it furiously upon the floor.
Scarcely had the echo of the crash died away, when I heard my
name pronounced in an eager but subdued voice, issuing from the
direction of the steerage. So unexpected was anything of the
kind, and so intense was the emotion excited within me by the
sound, that I endeavoured in vain to reply. My powers of speech
totally failed, and in an agony of terror lest my friend should
conclude me dead, and return without attempting to reach me, I
stood up between the crates near the door of the box, trembling
convulsively, and gasping and struggling for utterance. Had a
thousand words depended upon a syllable, I could not have spoken
it. There was a slight movement now audible among the lumber
somewhere forward of my station. The sound presently grew less
distinct, then again less so, and still less. Shall I ever forget
my feelings at this moment? He was going—my friend, my companion,
from whom I had a right to expect so much—he was going—he would
abandon me—he was gone! He would leave me to perish miserably, to
expire in the most horrible and loathesome of dungeons—and one
word, one little syllable, would save me—yet that single syllable
I could not utter! I felt, I am sure, more than ten thousand
times the agonies of death itself. My brain reeled, and I fell,
deadly sick, against the end of the box.
As I fell the carving-knife was shaken out from the waist-band of
my pantaloons, and dropped with a rattling sound to the floor.
Never did any strain of the richest melody come so sweetly to my
ears! With the intensest anxiety I listened to ascertain the
effect of the noise upon Augustus—for I knew that the person who
called my name could be no one but himself. All was silent for
some moments. At length I again heard the word “Arthur!” repeated
in a low tone, and one full of hesitation. Reviving hope loosened
at once my powers of speech, and I now screamed at the top of my
voice, “Augustus! oh, Augustus!” “Hush! for God’s sake be
silent!” he replied, in a voice trembling with agitation; “I will
be with you immediately—as soon as I can make my way through the
hold.” For a long time I heard him moving among the lumber, and
every moment seemed to me an age. At length I felt his hand upon
my shoulder, and he placed, at the same moment, a bottle of water
to my lips. Those only who have been suddenly redeemed from the
jaws of the tomb, or who have known the insufferable torments of
thirst under circumstances as aggravated as those which
encompassed me in my dreary prison, can form any idea of the
unutterable transports which that one long draught of the richest
of all physical luxuries afforded.
When I had in some degree satisfied my thirst, Augustus produced
from his pocket three or four boiled potatoes, which I devoured
with the greatest avidity. He had brought with him a light in a
dark lantern, and the grateful rays afforded me scarcely less
comfort than the food and drink. But I was impatient to learn the
cause of his protracted absence, and he proceeded to recount what
had happened on board during my incarceration.
CHAPTER 4
The brig put to sea, as I had supposed, in about an hour after he
had left the watch. This was on the twentieth of June. It will be
remembered that I had then been in the hold for three days; and,
during this period, there was so constant a bustle on board, and
so much running to and fro, especially in the cabin and
staterooms, that he had had no chance of visiting me without the
risk of having the secret of the trap discovered. When at length
he did come, I had assured him that I was doing as well as
possible; and, therefore, for the two next days he felt but
little uneasiness on my account—still, however, watching an
opportunity of going down. It was not until the fourth day that
he found one. Several times during this interval he had made up
his mind to let his father know of the adventure, and have me
come up at once; but we were still within reaching distance of
Nantucket, and it was doubtful, from some expressions which had
escaped Captain Barnard, whether he would not immediately put
back if he discovered me to be on board. Besides, upon thinking
the matter over, Augustus, so he told me, could not imagine that
I was in immediate want, or that I would hesitate, in such case,
to make myself heard at the trap. When, therefore, he considered
everything he concluded to let me stay until he could meet with
an opportunity of visiting me unobserved. This, as I said before,
did not occur until the fourth day after his bringing me the
watch, and the seventh since I had first entered the hold. He
then went down without taking with him any water or provisions,
intending in the first place merely to call my attention, and get
me to come from the box to the trap,—when he would go up to the
stateroom and thence hand me down a supply. When he descended for
this purpose he found that I was asleep, for it seems that I was
snoring very loudly. From all the calculations I can make on the
subject, this must have been the slumber into which I fell just
after my return from the trap with the watch, and which,
consequently, must have lasted for more than three entire days
and nights at the very least. Latterly, I have had reason both
from my own experience and the assurance of others, to be
acquainted with the strong soporific effects of the stench
arising from old fish-oil when closely confined; and when I think
of the condition of the hold in which I was imprisoned, and the
long period during which the brig had been used as a whaling
vessel, I am more inclined to wonder that I awoke at all, after
once falling asleep, than that I should have slept
uninterruptedly for the period specified above.
Augustus called to me at first in a low voice and without closing
the trap—but I made him no reply. He then shut the trap, and
spoke to me in a louder, and finally in a very loud tone—still I
continued to snore. He was now at a loss what to do. It would
take him some time to make his way through the lumber to my box,
and in the meanwhile his absence would be noticed by Captain
Barnard, who had occasion for his services every minute, in
arranging and copying papers connected with the business of the
voyage. He determined, therefore, upon reflection, to ascend, and
await another opportunity of visiting me. He was the more easily
induced to this resolve, as my slumber appeared to be of the most
tranquil nature, and he could not suppose that I had undergone
any inconvenience from my incarceration. He had just made up his
mind on these points when his attention was arrested by an
unusual bustle, the sound of which proceeded apparently from the
cabin. He sprang through the trap as quickly as possible, closed
it, and threw open the door of his stateroom. No sooner had he
put his foot over the threshold than a pistol flashed in his
face, and he was knocked down, at the same moment, by a blow from
a handspike.
A strong hand held him on the cabin floor, with a tight grasp
upon his throat; still he was able to see what was going on
around him. His father was tied hand and foot, and lying along
the steps of the companion-way, with his head down, and a deep
wound in the forehead, from which the blood was flowing in a
continued stream. He spoke not a word, and was apparently dying.
Over him stood the first mate, eyeing him with an expression of
fiendish derision, and deliberately searching his pockets, from
which he presently drew forth a large wallet and a chronometer.
Seven of the crew (among whom was the cook, a negro) were
rummaging the staterooms on the larboard for arms, where they
soon equipped themselves with muskets and ammunition. Besides
Augustus and Captain Barnard, there were nine men altogether in
the cabin, and these among the most ruffianly of the brig’s
company. The villains now went upon deck, taking my friend with
them after having secured his arms behind his back. They
proceeded straight to the forecastle, which was fastened down—two
of the mutineers standing by it with axes—two also at the main
hatch. The mate called out in a loud voice: “Do you hear there
below? tumble up with you, one by one—now, mark that—and no
grumbling!” It was some minutes before any one appeared:—at last
an Englishman, who had shipped as a raw hand, came up, weeping
piteously, and entreating the mate, in the most humble manner, to
spare his life. The only reply was a blow on the forehead from an
axe. The poor fellow fell to the deck without a groan, and the
black cook lifted him up in his arms as he would a child, and
tossed him deliberately into the sea. Hearing the blow and the
plunge of the body, the men below could now be induced to venture
on deck neither by threats nor promises, until a proposition was
made to smoke them out. A general rush then ensued, and for a
moment it seemed possible that the brig might be retaken. The
mutineers, however, succeeded at last in closing the forecastle
effectually before more than six of their opponents could get up.
These six, finding themselves so greatly outnumbered and without
arms, submitted after a brief struggle. The mate gave them fair
words—no doubt with a view of inducing those below to yield, for
they had no difficulty in hearing all that was said on deck. The
result proved his sagacity, no less than his diabolical villainy.
All in the forecastle presently signified their intention of
submitting, and, ascending one by one, were pinioned and then
thrown on their backs, together with the first six—there being in
all, of the crew who were not concerned in the mutiny,
twenty-seven.
A scene of the most horrible butchery ensued. The bound seamen
were dragged to the gangway. Here the cook stood with an axe,
striking each victim on the head as he was forced over the side
of the vessel by the other mutineers. In this manner twenty-two
perished, and Augustus had given himself up for lost, expecting
every moment his own turn to come next. But it seemed that the
villains were now either weary, or in some measure disgusted with
their bloody labour; for the four remaining prisoners, together
with my friend, who had been thrown on the deck with the rest,
were respited while the mate sent below for rum, and the whole
murderous party held a drunken carouse, which lasted until
sunset. They now fell to disputing in regard to the fate of the
survivors, who lay not more than four paces off, and could
distinguish every word said. Upon some of the mutineers the
liquor appeared to have a softening effect, for several voices
were heard in favor of releasing the captives altogether, on
condition of joining the mutiny and sharing the profits. The
black cook, however (who in all respects was a perfect demon, and
who seemed to exert as much influence, if not more, than the mate
himself), would listen to no proposition of the kind, and rose
repeatedly for the purpose of resuming his work at the gangway.
Fortunately he was so far overcome by intoxication as to be
easily restrained by the less bloodthirsty of the party, among
whom was a line-manager, who went by the name of Dirk Peters.
This man was the son of an Indian squaw of the tribe of
Upsarokas, who live among the fastnesses of the Black Hills, near
the source of the Missouri. His father was a fur-trader, I
believe, or at least connected in some manner with the Indian
trading-posts on Lewis river. Peters himself was one of the most
ferocious-looking men I ever beheld. He was short in stature, not
more than four feet eight inches high, but his limbs were of
Herculean mould. His hands, especially, were so enormously thick
and broad as hardly to retain a human shape. His arms, as well as
legs, were bowed in the most singular manner, and appeared to
possess no flexibility whatever. His head was equally deformed,
being of immense size, with an indentation on the crown (like
that on the head of most negroes), and entirely bald. To conceal
this latter deficiency, which did not proceed from old age, he
usually wore a wig formed of any hair-like material which
presented itself—occasionally the skin of a Spanish dog or
American grizzly bear. At the time spoken of, he had on a portion
of one of these bearskins; and it added no little to the natural
ferocity of his countenance, which betook of the Upsaroka
character. The mouth extended nearly from ear to ear, the lips
were thin, and seemed, like some other portions of his frame, to
be devoid of natural pliancy, so that the ruling expression never
varied under the influence of any emotion whatever. This ruling
expression may be conceived when it is considered that the teeth
were exceedingly long and protruding, and never even partially
covered, in any instance, by the lips. To pass this man with a
casual glance, one might imagine him to be convulsed with
laughter, but a second look would induce a shuddering
acknowledgment, that if such an expression were indicative of
merriment, the merriment must be that of a demon. Of this
singular being many anecdotes were prevalent among the seafaring
men of Nantucket. These anecdotes went to prove his prodigious
strength when under excitement, and some of them had given rise
to a doubt of his sanity. But on board the Grampus, it seems, he
was regarded, at the time of the mutiny, with feelings more of
derision than of anything else. I have been thus particular in
speaking of Dirk Peters, because, ferocious as he appeared, he
proved the main instrument in preserving the life of Augustus,
and because I shall have frequent occasion to mention him
hereafter in the course of my narrative—a narrative, let me here
say, which, in its latter portions, will be found to include
incidents of a nature so entirely out of the range of human
experience, and for this reason so far beyond the limits of human
credulity, that I proceed in utter hopelessness of obtaining
credence for all that I shall tell, yet confidently trusting in
time and progressing science to verify some of the most important
and most improbable of my statements.
After much indecision and two or three violent quarrels, it was
determined at last that all the prisoners (with the exception of
Augustus, whom Peters insisted in a jocular manner upon keeping
as his clerk) should be set adrift in one of the smallest
whaleboats. The mate went down into the cabin to see if Captain
Barnard was still living—for, it will be remembered, he was left
below when the mutineers came up. Presently the two made their
appearance, the captain pale as death, but somewhat recovered
from the effects of his wound. He spoke to the men in a voice
hardly articulate, entreated them not to set him adrift, but to
return to their duty, and promising to land them wherever they
chose, and to take no steps for bringing them to justice. He
might as well have spoken to the winds. Two of the ruffians
seized him by the arms and hurled him over the brig’s side into
the boat, which had been lowered while the mate went below. The
four men who were lying on the deck were then untied and ordered
to follow, which they did without attempting any
resistance—Augustus being still left in his painful position,
although he struggled and prayed only for the poor satisfaction
of being permitted to bid his father farewell. A handful of
sea-biscuit and a jug of water were now handed down; but neither
mast, sail, oar, nor compass. The boat was towed astern for a few
minutes, during which the mutineers held another consultation—it
was then finally cut adrift. By this time night had come on—there
were neither moon nor stars visible—and a short and ugly sea was
running, although there was no great deal of wind. The boat was
instantly out of sight, and little hope could be entertained for
the unfortunate sufferers who were in it. This event happened,
however, in latitude 35 degrees 30’ north, longitude 61 degrees
20’ west, and consequently at no very great distance from the
Bermuda Islands. Augustus therefore endeavored to console himself
with the idea that the boat might either succeed in reaching the
land, or come sufficiently near to be fallen in with by vessels
off the coast.
All sail was now put upon the brig, and she continued her
original course to the southwest—the mutineers being bent upon
some piratical expedition, in which, from all that could be
understood, a ship was to be intercepted on her way from the Cape
Verd Islands to Porto Rico. No attention was paid to Augustus,
who was untied and suffered to go about anywhere forward of the
cabin companion-way. Dirk Peters treated him with some degree of
kindness, and on one occasion saved him from the brutality of the
cook. His situation was still one of the most precarious, as the
men were continually intoxicated, and there was no relying upon
their continued good-humor or carelessness in regard to himself.
His anxiety on my account he represented, however, as the most
distressing result of his condition; and, indeed, I had never
reason to doubt the sincerity of his friendship. More than once
he had resolved to acquaint the mutineers with the secret of my
being on board, but was restrained from so doing, partly through
recollection of the atrocities he had already beheld, and partly
through a hope of being able soon to bring me relief. For the
latter purpose he was constantly on the watch; but, in spite of
the most constant vigilance, three days elapsed after the boat
was cut adrift before any chance occurred. At length, on the
night of the third day, there came on a heavy blow from the
eastward, and all hands were called up to take in sail. During
the confusion which ensued, he made his way below unobserved, and
into the stateroom. What was his grief and horror in discovering
that the latter had been rendered a place of deposit for a
variety of sea-stores and ship-furniture, and that several
fathoms of old chain-cable, which had been stowed away beneath
the companion-ladder, had been dragged thence to make room for a
chest, and were now lying immediately upon the trap! To remove it
without discovery was impossible, and he returned on deck as
quickly as he could. As he came up, the mate seized him by the
throat, and demanding what he had been doing in the cabin, was
about flinging him over the larboard bulwark, when his life was
again preserved through the interference of Dirk Peters. Augustus
was now put in handcuffs (of which there were several pairs on
board), and his feet lashed tightly together. He was then taken
into the steerage, and thrown into a lower berth next to the
forecastle bulkheads, with the assurance that he should never put
his foot on deck again “until the brig was no longer a brig.”
This was the expression of the cook, who threw him into the
berth—it is hardly possible to say what precise meaning intended
by the phrase. The whole affair, however, proved the ultimate
means of my relief, as will presently appear.
CHAPTER 5
For some minutes after the cook had left the forecastle, Augustus
abandoned himself to despair, never hoping to leave the berth
alive. He now came to the resolution of acquainting the first of
the men who should come down with my situation, thinking it
better to let me take my chance with the mutineers than perish of
thirst in the hold,—for it had been ten days since I was first
imprisoned, and my jug of water was not a plentiful supply even
for four. As he was thinking on this subject, the idea came all
at once into his head that it might be possible to communicate
with me by the way of the main hold. In any other circumstances,
the difficulty and hazard of the undertaking would have prevented
him from attempting it; but now he had, at all events, little
prospect of life, and consequently little to lose, he bent his
whole mind, therefore, upon the task.
His handcuffs were the first consideration. At first he saw no
method of removing them, and feared that he should thus be
baffled in the very outset; but upon a closer scrutiny he
discovered that the irons could be slipped off and on at
pleasure, with very little effort or inconvenience, merely by
squeezing his hands through them,—this species of manacle being
altogether ineffectual in confining young persons, in whom the
smaller bones readily yield to pressure. He now untied his feet,
and, leaving the cord in such a manner that it could easily be
readjusted in the event of any person’s coming down, proceeded to
examine the bulkhead where it joined the berth. The partition
here was of soft pine board, an inch thick, and he saw that he
should have little trouble in cutting his way through. A voice
was now heard at the forecastle companion-way, and he had just
time to put his right hand into its handcuff (the left had not
been removed) and to draw the rope in a slipknot around his
ankle, when Dirk Peters came below, followed by Tiger, who
immediately leaped into the berth and lay down. The dog had been
brought on board by Augustus, who knew my attachment to the
animal, and thought it would give me pleasure to have him with me
during the voyage. He went up to our house for him immediately
after first taking me into the hold, but did not think of
mentioning the circumstance upon his bringing the watch. Since
the mutiny, Augustus had not seen him before his appearance with
Dirk Peters, and had given him up for lost, supposing him to have
been thrown overboard by some of the malignant villains belonging
to the mate’s gang. It appeared afterward that he had crawled
into a hole beneath a whale-boat, from which, not having room to
turn round, he could not extricate himself. Peters at last let
him out, and, with a species of good feeling which my friend knew
well how to appreciate, had now brought him to him in the
forecastle as a companion, leaving at the same time some salt
junk and potatoes, with a can of water, he then went on deck,
promising to come down with something more to eat on the next
day.
When he had gone, Augustus freed both hands from the manacles and
unfastened his feet. He then turned down the head of the mattress
on which he had been lying, and with his penknife (for the
ruffians had not thought it worth while to search him) commenced
cutting vigorously across one of the partition planks, as closely
as possible to the floor of the berth. He chose to cut here,
because, if suddenly interrupted, he would be able to conceal
what had been done by letting the head of the mattress fall into
its proper position. For the remainder of the day, however, no
disturbance occurred, and by night he had completely divided the
plank. It should here be observed that none of the crew occupied
the forecastle as a sleeping-place, living altogether in the
cabin since the mutiny, drinking the wines and feasting on the
sea-stores of Captain Barnard, and giving no more heed than was
absolutely necessary to the navigation of the brig. These
circumstances proved fortunate both for myself and Augustus; for,
had matters been otherwise, he would have found it impossible to
reach me. As it was, he proceeded with confidence in his design.
It was near daybreak, however, before he completed the second
division of the board (which was about a foot above the first
cut), thus making an aperture quite large enough to admit his
passage through with facility to the main orlop deck. Having got
here, he made his way with but little trouble to the lower main
hatch, although in so doing he had to scramble over tiers of
oil-casks piled nearly as high as the upper deck, there being
barely room enough left for his body. Upon reaching the hatch he
found that Tiger had followed him below, squeezing between two
rows of the casks. It was now too late, however, to attempt
getting to me before dawn, as the chief difficulty lay in passing
through the close stowage in the lower hold. He therefore
resolved to return, and wait till the next night. With this
design, he proceeded to loosen the hatch, so that he might have
as little detention as possible when he should come again. No
sooner had he loosened it than Tiger sprang eagerly to the small
opening produced, snuffed for a moment, and then uttered a long
whine, scratching at the same time, as if anxious to remove the
covering with his paws. There could be no doubt, from his
behaviour, that he was aware of my being in the hold, and
Augustus thought it possible that he would be able to get to me
if he put him down. He now hit upon the expedient of sending the
note, as it was especially desirable that I should make no
attempt at forcing my way out at least under existing
circumstances, and there could be no certainty of his getting to
me himself on the morrow as he intended. After-events proved how
fortunate it was that the idea occurred to him as it did; for,
had it not been for the receipt of the note, I should undoubtedly
have fallen upon some plan, however desperate, of alarming the
crew, and both our lives would most probably have been sacrificed
in consequence.
Having concluded to write, the difficulty was now to procure the
materials for so doing. An old toothpick was soon made into a
pen; and this by means of feeling altogether, for the
between-decks was as dark as pitch. Paper enough was obtained
from the back of a letter—a duplicate of the forged letter from
Mr. Ross. This had been the original draught; but the handwriting
not being sufficiently well imitated, Augustus had written
another, thrusting the first, by good fortune, into his
coat-pocket, where it was now most opportunely discovered. Ink
alone was thus wanting, and a substitute was immediately found
for this by means of a slight incision with the pen-knife on the
back of a finger just above the nail—a copious flow of blood
ensuing, as usual, from wounds in that vicinity. The note was now
written, as well as it could be in the dark and under the
circumstances. It briefly explained that a mutiny had taken
place; that Captain Barnard was set adrift; and that I might
expect immediate relief as far as provisions were concerned, but
must not venture upon making any disturbance. It concluded with
these words: “_I have scrawled this with blood—your life depends
upon lying close._”
This slip of paper being tied upon the dog, he was now put down
the hatchway, and Augustus made the best of his way back to the
forecastle, where he found no reason to believe that any of the
crew had been in his absence. To conceal the hole in the
partition, he drove his knife in just above it, and hung up a
pea-jacket which he found in the berth. His handcuffs were then
replaced, and also the rope around his ankles.
These arrangements were scarcely completed when Dirk Peters came
below, very drunk, but in excellent humour, and bringing with him
my friend’s allowance of provision for the day. This consisted of
a dozen large Irish potatoes roasted, and a pitcher of water. He
sat for some time on a chest by the berth, and talked freely
about the mate and the general concerns of the brig. His
demeanour was exceedingly capricious, and even grotesque. At one
time Augustus was much alarmed by odd conduct. At last, however,
he went on deck, muttering a promise to bring his prisoner a good
dinner on the morrow. During the day two of the crew (harpooners)
came down, accompanied by the cook, all three in nearly the last
stage of intoxication. Like Peters, they made no scruple of
talking unreservedly about their plans. It appeared that they
were much divided among themselves as to their ultimate course,
agreeing in no point, except the attack on the ship from the Cape
Verd Islands, with which they were in hourly expectation of
meeting. As far as could be ascertained, the mutiny had not been
brought about altogether for the sake of booty; a private pique
of the chief mate’s against Captain Barnard having been the main
instigation. There now seemed to be two principal factions among
the crew—one headed by the mate, the other by the cook. The
former party were for seizing the first suitable vessel which
should present itself, and equipping it at some of the West India
Islands for a piratical cruise. The latter division, however,
which was the stronger, and included Dirk Peters among its
partisans, were bent upon pursuing the course originally laid out
for the brig into the South Pacific; there either to take whale,
or act otherwise, as circumstances should suggest. The
representations of Peters, who had frequently visited these
regions, had great weight, apparently, with the mutineers,
wavering, as they were, between half-engendered notions of profit
and pleasure. He dwelt on the world of novelty and amusement to
be found among the innumerable islands of the Pacific, on the
perfect security and freedom from all restraint to be enjoyed,
but, more particularly, on the deliciousness of the climate, on
the abundant means of good living, and on the voluptuous beauty
of the women. As yet, nothing had been absolutely determined
upon; but the pictures of the hybrid line-manager were taking
strong hold upon the ardent imaginations of the seamen, and there
was every possibility that his intentions would be finally
carried into effect.
The three men went away in about an hour, and no one else entered
the forecastle all day. Augustus lay quiet until nearly night. He
then freed himself from the rope and irons, and prepared for his
attempt. A bottle was found in one of the berths, and this he
filled with water from the pitcher left by Peters, storing his
pockets at the same time with cold potatoes. To his great joy he
also came across a lantern, with a small piece of tallow candle
in it. This he could light at any moment, as he had in his
possession a box of phosphorus matches. When it was quite dark,
he got through the hole in the bulkhead, having taken the
precaution to arrange the bedclothes in the berth so as to convey
the idea of a person covered up. When through, he hung up the
pea-jacket on his knife, as before, to conceal the aperture—this
manoeuvre being easily effected, as he did not readjust the piece
of plank taken out until afterward. He was now on the main orlop
deck, and proceeded to make his way, as before, between the upper
deck and the oil-casks to the main hatchway. Having reached this,
he lit the piece of candle, and descended, groping with extreme
difficulty among the compact stowage of the hold. In a few
moments he became alarmed at the insufferable stench and the
closeness of the atmosphere. He could not think it possible that
I had survived my confinement for so long a period breathing so
oppressive an air. He called my name repeatedly, but I made him
no reply, and his apprehensions seemed thus to be confirmed. The
brig was rolling violently, and there was so much noise in
consequence, that it was useless to listen for any weak sound,
such as those of my breathing or snoring. He threw open the
lantern, and held it as high as possible, whenever an opportunity
occurred, in order that, by observing the light, I might, if
alive, be aware that succor was approaching. Still nothing was
heard from me, and the supposition of my death began to assume
the character of certainty. He determined, nevertheless, to force
a passage, if possible, to the box, and at least ascertain beyond
a doubt the truth of his surmises. He pushed on for some time in
a most pitiable state of anxiety, until, at length, he found the
pathway utterly blocked up, and that there was no possibility of
making any farther way by the course in which he had set out.
Overcome now by his feelings, he threw himself among the lumber
in despair, and wept like a child. It was at this period that he
heard the crash occasioned by the bottle which I had thrown down.
Fortunate, indeed, was it that the incident occurred—for, upon
this incident, trivial as it appears, the thread of my destiny
depended. Many years elapsed, however, before I was aware of this
fact. A natural shame and regret for his weakness and indecision
prevented Augustus from confiding to me at once what a more
intimate and unreserved communion afterward induced him to
reveal. Upon finding his further progress in the hold impeded by
obstacles which he could not overcome, he had resolved to abandon
his attempt at reaching me, and return at once to the forecastle.
Before condemning him entirely on this head, the harassing
circumstances which embarrassed him should be taken into
consideration. The night was fast wearing away, and his absence
from the forecastle might be discovered; and indeed would
necessarily be so, if he should fail to get back to the berth by
daybreak. His candle was expiring in the socket, and there would
be the greatest difficulty in retracing his way to the hatchway
in the dark. It must be allowed, too, that he had every good
reason to believe me dead; in which event no benefit could result
to me from his reaching the box, and a world of danger would be
encountered to no purpose by himself. He had repeatedly called,
and I had made him no answer. I had been now eleven days and
nights with no more water than that contained in the jug which he
had left with me—a supply which it was not at all probable I had
hoarded in the beginning of my confinement, as I had every cause
to expect a speedy release. The atmosphere of the hold, too, must
have appeared to him, coming from the comparatively open air of
the steerage, of a nature absolutely poisonous, and by far more
intolerable than it had seemed to me upon my first taking up my
quarters in the box—the hatchways at that time having been
constantly open for many months previous. Add to these
considerations that of the scene of bloodshed and terror so
lately witnessed by my friend; his confinement, privations, and
narrow escapes from death, together with the frail and equivocal
tenure by which he still existed—circumstances all so well
calculated to prostrate every energy of mind—and the reader will
be easily brought, as I have been, to regard his apparent falling
off in friendship and in faith with sentiments rather of sorrow
than of anger.
The crash of the bottle was distinctly heard, yet Augustus was
not sure that it proceeded from the hold. The doubt, however, was
sufficient inducement to persevere. He clambered up nearly to the
orlop deck by means of the stowage, and then, watching for a lull
in the pitchings of the vessel, he called out to me in as loud a
tone as he could command, regardless, for the moment, of being
overheard by the crew. It will be remembered that on this
occasion the voice reached me, but I was so entirely overcome by
violent agitation as to be incapable of reply. Confident, now,
that his worst apprehensions were well founded, he descended,
with a view of getting back to the forecastle without loss of
time. In his haste some small boxes were thrown down, the noise
occasioned by which I heard, as will be recollected. He had made
considerable progress on his return when the fall of the knife
again caused him to hesitate. He retraced his steps immediately,
and, clambering up the stowage a second time, called out my name,
loudly as before, having watched for a lull. This time I found
voice to answer. Overjoyed at discovering me to be still alive,
he now resolved to brave every difficulty and danger in reaching
me. Having extricated himself as quickly as possible from the
labyrinth of lumber by which he was hemmed in, he at length
struck into an opening which promised better, and finally, after
a series of struggles, arrived at the box in a state of utter
exhaustion.
CHAPTER 6
The leading particulars of this narration were all that Augustus
communicated to me while we remained near the box. It was not
until afterward that he entered fully into all the details. He
was apprehensive of being missed, and I was wild with impatience
to leave my detested place of confinement. We resolved to make
our way at once to the hole in the bulkhead, near which I was to
remain for the present, while he went through to reconnoiter. To
leave Tiger in the box was what neither of us could endure to
think of, yet, how to act otherwise was the question. He now
seemed to be perfectly quiet, and we could not even distinguish
the sound of his breathing upon applying our ears closely to the
box. I was convinced that he was dead, and determined to open the
door. We found him lying at full length, apparently in a deep
stupor, yet still alive. No time was to be lost, yet I could not
bring myself to abandon an animal who had now been twice
instrumental in saving my life, without some attempt at
preserving him. We therefore dragged him along with us as well as
we could, although with the greatest difficulty and fatigue;
Augustus, during part of the time, being forced to clamber over
the impediments in our way with the huge dog in his arms—a feat
to which the feebleness of my frame rendered me totally
inadequate. At length we succeeded in reaching the hole, when
Augustus got through, and Tiger was pushed in afterward. All was
found to be safe, and we did not fail to return sincere thanks to
God for our deliverance from the imminent danger we had escaped.
For the present, it was agreed that I should remain near the
opening, through which my companion could readily supply me with
a part of his daily provision, and where I could have the
advantages of breathing an atmosphere comparatively pure.
In explanation of some portions of this narrative, wherein I have
spoken of the stowage of the brig, and which may appear ambiguous
to some of my readers who may have seen a proper or regular
stowage, I must here state that the manner in which this most
important duty had been performed on board the Grampus was a most
shameful piece of neglect on the part of Captain Barnard, who was
by no means as careful or as experienced a seaman as the
hazardous nature of the service on which he was employed would
seem necessarily to demand. A proper stowage cannot be
accomplished in a careless manner, and many most disastrous
accidents, even within the limits of my own experience, have
arisen from neglect or ignorance in this particular. Coasting
vessels, in the frequent hurry and bustle attendant upon taking
in or discharging cargo, are the most liable to mishap from the
want of a proper attention to stowage. The great point is to
allow no possibility of the cargo or ballast shifting position
even in the most violent rollings of the vessel. With this end,
great attention must be paid, not only to the bulk taken in, but
to the nature of the bulk, and whether there be a full or only a
partial cargo. In most kinds of freight the stowage is
accomplished by means of a screw. Thus, in a load of tobacco or
flour, the whole is screwed so tightly into the hold of the
vessel that the barrels or hogsheads, upon discharging, are found
to be completely flattened, and take some time to regain their
original shape. This screwing, however, is resorted to
principally with a view of obtaining more room in the hold; for
in a full load of any such commodities as flour or tobacco, there
can be no danger of any shifting whatever, at least none from
which inconvenience can result. There have been instances,
indeed, where this method of screwing has resulted in the most
lamentable consequences, arising from a cause altogether distinct
from the danger attendant upon a shifting of cargo. A load of
cotton, for example, tightly screwed while in certain conditions,
has been known, through the expansion of its bulk, to rend a
vessel asunder at sea. There can be no doubt either that the same
result would ensue in the case of tobacco, while undergoing its
usual course of fermentation, were it not for the interstices
consequent upon the rotundity of the hogsheads.
It is when a partial cargo is received that danger is chiefly to
be apprehended from shifting, and that precautions should be
always taken to guard against such misfortune. Only those who
have encountered a violent gale of wind, or rather who have
experienced the rolling of a vessel in a sudden calm after the
gale, can form an idea of the tremendous force of the plunges,
and of the consequent terrible impetus given to all loose
articles in the vessel. It is then that the necessity of a
cautious stowage, when there is a partial cargo, becomes obvious.
When lying-to (especially with a small head sail), a vessel which
is not properly modelled in the bows is frequently thrown upon
her beam-ends; this occurring even every fifteen or twenty
minutes upon an average, yet without any serious consequences
resulting, provided there be a proper stowage. If this, however,
has not been strictly attended to, in the first of these heavy
lurches the whole of the cargo tumbles over to the side of the
vessel which lies upon the water, and, being thus prevented from
regaining her equilibrium, as she would otherwise necessarily do,
she is certain to fill in a few seconds and go down. It is not
too much to say that at least one-half of the instances in which
vessels have foundered in heavy gales at sea may be attributed to
a shifting of cargo or of ballast.
When a partial cargo of any kind is taken on board, the whole,
after being first stowed as compactly as may be, should be
covered with a layer of stout shifting-boards, extending
completely across the vessel. Upon these boards strong temporary
stanchions should be erected, reaching to the timbers above, and
thus securing every thing in its place. In cargoes consisting of
grain, or any similar matter, additional precautions are
requisite. A hold filled entirely with grain upon leaving port
will be found not more than three fourths full upon reaching its
destination—this, too, although the freight, when measured bushel
by bushel by the consignee, will overrun by a vast deal (on
account of the swelling of the grain) the quantity consigned.
This result is occasioned by settling during the voyage, and is
the more perceptible in proportion to the roughness of the
weather experienced. If grain loosely thrown in a vessel, then,
is ever so well secured by shifting-boards and stanchions, it
will be liable to shift in a long passage so greatly as to bring
about the most distressing calamities. To prevent these, every
method should be employed before leaving port to settle the cargo
as much as possible; and for this there are many contrivances,
among which may be mentioned the driving of wedges into the
grain. Even after all this is done, and unusual pains taken to
secure the shifting-boards, no seaman who knows what he is about
will feel altogether secure in a gale of any violence with a
cargo of grain on board, and, least of all, with a partial cargo.
Yet there are hundreds of our coasting vessels, and, it is
likely, many more from the ports of Europe, which sail daily with
partial cargoes, even of the most dangerous species, and without
any precaution whatever. The wonder is that no more accidents
occur than do actually happen. A lamentable instance of this
heedlessness occurred to my knowledge in the case of Captain Joel
Rice of the schooner Firefly, which sailed from Richmond,
Virginia, to Madeira, with a cargo of corn, in the year 1825. The
captain had gone many voyages without serious accident, although
he was in the habit of paying no attention whatever to his
stowage, more than to secure it in the ordinary manner. He had
never before sailed with a cargo of grain, and on this occasion
had the corn thrown on board loosely, when it did not much more
than half fill the vessel. For the first portion of the voyage he
met with nothing more than light breezes; but when within a day’s
sail of Madeira there came on a strong gale from the N. N. E.
which forced him to lie-to. He brought the schooner to the wind
under a double-reefed foresail alone, when she rode as well as
any vessel could be expected to do, and shipped not a drop of
water. Toward night the gale somewhat abated, and she rolled with
more unsteadiness than before, but still did very well, until a
heavy lurch threw her upon her beam-ends to starboard. The corn
was then heard to shift bodily, the force of the movement
bursting open the main hatchway. The vessel went down like a
shot. This happened within hail of a small sloop from Madeira,
which picked up one of the crew (the only person saved), and
which rode out the gale in perfect security, as indeed a jolly
boat might have done under proper management.
The stowage on board the Grampus was most clumsily done, if
stowage that could be called which was little better than a
promiscuous huddling together of oil-casks {*1} and ship
furniture. I have already spoken of the condition of articles in
the hold. On the orlop deck there was space enough for my body
(as I have stated) between the oil-casks and the upper deck; a
space was left open around the main hatchway; and several other
large spaces were left in the stowage. Near the hole cut through
the bulkhead by Augustus there was room enough for an entire
cask, and in this space I found myself comfortably situated for
the present.
By the time my friend had got safely into the berth, and
readjusted his handcuffs and the rope, it was broad daylight. We
had made a narrow escape indeed; for scarcely had he arranged all
matters, when the mate came below, with Dirk Peters and the cook.
They talked for some time about the vessel from the Cape Verds,
and seemed to be excessively anxious for her appearance. At
length the cook came to the berth in which Augustus was lying,
and seated himself in it near the head. I could see and hear
every thing from my hiding-place, for the piece cut out had not
been put back, and I was in momentary expectation that the negro
would fall against the pea-jacket, which was hung up to conceal
the aperture, in which case all would have been discovered, and
our lives would, no doubt, have been instantly sacrificed. Our
good fortune prevailed, however; and although he frequently
touched it as the vessel rolled, he never pressed against it
sufficiently to bring about a discovery. The bottom of the jacket
had been carefully fastened to the bulkhead, so that the hole
might not be seen by its swinging to one side. All this time
Tiger was lying in the foot of the berth, and appeared to have
recovered in some measure his faculties, for I could see him
occasionally open his eyes and draw a long breath.
After a few minutes the mate and cook went above, leaving Dirk
Peters behind, who, as soon as they were gone, came and sat
himself down in the place just occupied by the mate. He began to
talk very sociably with Augustus, and we could now see that the
greater part of his apparent intoxication, while the two others
were with him, was a feint. He answered all my companion’s
questions with perfect freedom; told him that he had no doubt of
his father’s having been picked up, as there were no less than
five sail in sight just before sundown on the day he was cut
adrift; and used other language of a consolatory nature, which
occasioned me no less surprise than pleasure. Indeed, I began to
entertain hopes, that through the instrumentality of Peters we
might be finally enabled to regain possession of the brig, and
this idea I mentioned to Augustus as soon as I found an
opportunity. He thought the matter possible, but urged the
necessity of the greatest caution in making the attempt, as the
conduct of the hybrid appeared to be instigated by the most
arbitrary caprice alone; and, indeed, it was difficult to say if
he was at any moment of sound mind. Peters went upon deck in
about an hour, and did not return again until noon, when he
brought Augustus a plentiful supply of junk beef and pudding. Of
this, when we were left alone, I partook heartily, without
returning through the hole. No one else came down into the
forecastle during the day, and at night, I got into Augustus’
berth, where I slept soundly and sweetly until nearly daybreak,
when he awakened me upon hearing a stir upon deck, and I regained
my hiding-place as quickly as possible. When the day was fully
broke, we found that Tiger had recovered his strength almost
entirely, and gave no indications of hydrophobia, drinking a
little water that was offered him with great apparent eagerness.
During the day he regained all his former vigour and appetite.
His strange conduct had been brought on, no doubt, by the
deleterious quality of the air of the hold, and had no connexion
with canine madness. I could not sufficiently rejoice that I had
persisted in bringing him with me from the box. This day was the
thirtieth of June, and the thirteenth since the Grampus made sail
from Nantucket.
On the second of July the mate came below drunk as usual, and in
an excessively good-humor. He came to Augustus’s berth, and,
giving him a slap on the back, asked him if he thought he could
behave himself if he let him loose, and whether he would promise
not to be going into the cabin again. To this, of course, my
friend answered in the affirmative, when the ruffian set him at
liberty, after making him drink from a flask of rum which he drew
from his coat-pocket. Both now went on deck, and I did not see
Augustus for about three hours. He then came below with the good
news that he had obtained permission to go about the brig as he
pleased anywhere forward of the mainmast, and that he had been
ordered to sleep, as usual, in the forecastle. He brought me,
too, a good dinner, and a plentiful supply of water. The brig was
still cruising for the vessel from the Cape Verds, and a sail was
now in sight, which was thought to be the one in question. As the
events of the ensuing eight days were of little importance, and
had no direct bearing upon the main incidents of my narrative, I
will here throw them into the form of a journal, as I do not wish
to omit them altogether.
July 3. Augustus furnished me with three blankets, with which I
contrived a comfortable bed in my hiding-place. No one came
below, except my companion, during the day. Tiger took his
station in the berth just by the aperture, and slept heavily, as
if not yet entirely recovered from the effects of his sickness.
Toward night a flaw of wind struck the brig before sail could be
taken in, and very nearly capsized her. The puff died away
immediately, however, and no damage was done beyond the splitting
of the foretopsail. Dirk Peters treated Augustus all this day
with great kindness and entered into a long conversation with him
respecting the Pacific Ocean, and the islands he had visited in
that region. He asked him whether he would not like to go with
the mutineers on a kind of exploring and pleasure voyage in those
quarters, and said that the men were gradually coming over to the
mate’s views. To this Augustus thought it best to reply that he
would be glad to go on such an adventure, since nothing better
could be done, and that any thing was preferable to a piratical
life.
July 4th. The vessel in sight proved to be a small brig from
Liverpool, and was allowed to pass unmolested. Augustus spent
most of his time on deck, with a view of obtaining all the
information in his power respecting the intentions of the
mutineers. They had frequent and violent quarrels among
themselves, in one of which a harpooner, Jim Bonner, was thrown
overboard. The party of the mate was gaining ground. Jim Bonner
belonged to the cook’s gang, of which Peters was a partisan.
July 5th. About daybreak there came on a stiff breeze from the
west, which at noon freshened into a gale, so that the brig could
carry nothing more than her trysail and foresail. In taking in
the foretopsail, Simms, one of the common hands, and belonging
also to the cook’s gang, fell overboard, being very much in
liquor, and was drowned—no attempt being made to save him. The
whole number of persons on board was now thirteen, to wit: Dirk
Peters; Seymour, the black cook; Jones, Greely, Hartman Rogers
and William Allen, all of the cook’s party; the mate, whose name
I never learned; Absalom Hicks, Wilson, John Hunty Richard
Parker, of the mate’s party;—besides Augustus and myself.
July 6th. The gale lasted all this day, blowing in heavy squalls,
accompanied with rain. The brig took in a good deal of water
through her seams, and one of the pumps was kept continually
going, Augustus being forced to take his turn. Just at twilight a
large ship passed close by us, without having been discovered
until within hail. The ship was supposed to be the one for which
the mutineers were on the lookout. The mate hailed her, but the
reply was drowned in the roaring of the gale. At eleven, a sea
was shipped amidships, which tore away a great portion of the
larboard bulwarks, and did some other slight damage. Toward
morning the weather moderated, and at sunrise there was very
little wind.
July 7th. There was a heavy swell running all this day, during
which the brig, being light, rolled excessively, and many
articles broke loose in the hold, as I could hear distinctly from
my hiding-place. I suffered a great deal from sea-sickness.
Peters had a long conversation this day with Augustus, and told
him that two of his gang, Greely and Allen, had gone over to the
mate, and were resolved to turn pirates. He put several questions
to Augustus which he did not then exactly understand. During a
part of this evening the leak gained upon the vessel; and little
could be done to remedy it, as it was occasioned by the brig's
straining, and taking in the water through her seams. A sail was
thrummed, and got under the bows, which aided us in some measure,
so that we began to gain upon the leak.
July 8th. A light breeze sprang up at sunrise from the eastward,
when the mate headed the brig to the southwest, with the
intention of making some of the West India islands in pursuance
of his piratical designs. No opposition was made by Peters or the
cook—at least none in the hearing of Augustus. All idea of taking
the vessel from the Cape Verds was abandoned. The leak was now
easily kept under by one pump going every three quarters of an
hour. The sail was drawn from beneath the bows. Spoke two small
schooners during the day.
July 9th. Fine weather. All hands employed in repairing bulwarks.
Peters had again a long conversation with Augustus, and spoke
more plainly than he had done heretofore. He said nothing should
induce him to come into the mate’s views, and even hinted his
intention of taking the brig out of his hands. He asked my friend
if he could depend upon his aid in such case, to which Augustus
said, “Yes,” without hesitation. Peters then said he would sound
the others of his party upon the subject, and went away. During
the remainder of the day Augustus had no opportunity of speaking
with him privately.
CHAPTER 7
July 10. Spoke a brig from Rio, bound to Norfolk. Weather hazy,
with a light baffling wind from the eastward. To-day Hartman
Rogers died, having been attacked on the eighth with spasms after
drinking a glass of grog. This man was of the cook’s party, and
one upon whom Peters placed his main reliance. He told Augustus
that he believed the mate had poisoned him, and that he expected,
if he did not be on the look-out, his own turn would come
shortly. There were now only himself, Jones, and the cook
belonging to his own gang—on the other side there were five. He
had spoken to Jones about taking the command from the mate; but
the project having been coolly received, he had been deterred
from pressing the matter any further, or from saying any thing to
the cook. It was well, as it happened, that he was so prudent,
for in the afternoon the cook expressed his determination of
siding with the mate, and went over formally to that party; while
Jones took an opportunity of quarrelling with Peters, and hinted
that he would let the mate know of the plan in agitation. There
was now, evidently, no time to be lost, and Peters expressed his
determination of attempting to take the vessel at all hazards,
provided Augustus would lend him his aid. My friend at once
assured him of his willingness to enter into any plan for that
purpose, and, thinking the opportunity a favourable one, made
known the fact of my being on board. At this the hybrid was not
more astonished than delighted, as he had no reliance whatever
upon Jones, whom he already considered as belonging to the party
of the mate. They went below immediately, when Augustus called to
me by name, and Peters and myself were soon made acquainted. It
was agreed that we should attempt to retake the vessel upon the
first good opportunity, leaving Jones altogether out of our
councils. In the event of success, we were to run the brig into
the first port that offered, and deliver her up. The desertion of
his party had frustrated Peters’ design of going into the
Pacific—an adventure which could not be accomplished without a
crew, and he depended upon either getting acquitted upon trial,
on the score of insanity (which he solemnly avowed had actuated
him in lending his aid to the mutiny), or upon obtaining a
pardon, if found guilty, through the representations of Augustus
and myself. Our deliberations were interrupted for the present by
the cry of, “All hands take in sail,” and Peters and Augustus ran
up on deck.
As usual, the crew were nearly all drunk; and, before sail could
be properly taken in, a violent squall laid the brig on her
beam-ends. By keeping her away, however, she righted, having
shipped a good deal of water. Scarcely was everything secure,
when another squall took the vessel, and immediately afterward
another—no damage being done. There was every appearance of a
gale of wind, which, indeed, shortly came on, with great fury,
from the northward and westward. All was made as snug as
possible, and we laid-to, as usual, under a close-reefed
foresail. As night drew on, the wind increased in violence, with
a remarkably heavy sea. Peters now came into the forecastle with
Augustus, and we resumed our deliberations.
We agreed that no opportunity could be more favourable than the
present for carrying our designs into effect, as an attempt at
such a moment would never be anticipated. As the brig was snugly
laid-to, there would be no necessity of manoeuvring her until
good weather, when, if we succeeded in our attempt, we might
liberate one, or perhaps two of the men, to aid us in taking her
into port. The main difficulty was the great disproportion in our
forces. There were only three of us, and in the cabin there were
nine. All the arms on board, too, were in their possession, with
the exception of a pair of small pistols which Peters had
concealed about his person, and the large seaman’s knife which he
always wore in the waistband of his pantaloons. From certain
indications, too—such, for example, as there being no such thing
as an axe or a handspike lying in their customary places—we began
to fear that the mate had his suspicions, at least in regard to
Peters, and that he would let slip no opportunity of getting rid
of him. It was clear, indeed, that what we should determine to do
could not be done too soon. Still the odds were too much against
us to allow of our proceeding without the greatest caution.
Peters proposed that he should go up on deck, and enter into
conversation with the watch (Allen), when he would be able to
throw him into the sea without trouble, and without making any
disturbance, by seizing a good opportunity, that Augustus and
myself should then come up, and endeavour to provide ourselves
with some kind of weapons from the deck, and that we should then
make a rush together, and secure the companion-way before any
opposition could be offered. I objected to this, because I could
not believe that the mate (who was a cunning fellow in all
matters which did not affect his superstitious prejudices) would
suffer himself to be so easily entrapped. The very fact of there
being a watch on deck at all was sufficient proof that he was
upon the alert,—it not being usual except in vessels where
discipline is most rigidly enforced, to station a watch on deck
when a vessel is lying-to in a gale of wind. As I address myself
principally, if not altogether, to persons who have never been to
sea, it may be as well to state the exact condition of a vessel
under such circumstances. Lying-to, or, in sea-parlance,
“laying-to,” is a measure resorted to for various purposes, and
effected in various manners. In moderate weather it is frequently
done with a view of merely bringing the vessel to a stand-still,
to wait for another vessel or any similar object. If the vessel
which lies-to is under full sail, the manoeuvre is usually
accomplished by throwing round some portion of her sails, so as
to let the wind take them aback, when she becomes stationary. But
we are now speaking of lying-to in a gale of wind. This is done
when the wind is ahead, and too violent to admit of carrying sail
without danger of capsizing; and sometimes even when the wind is
fair, but the sea too heavy for the vessel to be put before it.
If a vessel be suffered to scud before the wind in a very heavy
sea, much damage is usually done her by the shipping of water
over her stern, and sometimes by the violent plunges she makes
forward. This manoeuvre, then, is seldom resorted to in such
case, unless through necessity. When the vessel is in a leaky
condition she is often put before the wind even in the heaviest
seas; for, when lying-to, her seams are sure to be greatly opened
by her violent straining, and it is not so much the case when
scudding. Often, too, it becomes necessary to scud a vessel,
either when the blast is so exceedingly furious as to tear in
pieces the sail which is employed with a view of bringing her
head to the wind, or when, through the false modelling of the
frame or other causes, this main object cannot be effected.
Vessels in a gale of wind are laid-to in different manners,
according to their peculiar construction. Some lie-to best under
a foresail, and this, I believe, is the sail most usually
employed. Large square-rigged vessels have sails for the express
purpose, called storm-staysails. But the jib is occasionally
employed by itself,—sometimes the jib and foresail, or a
double-reefed foresail, and not unfrequently the after-sails, are
made use of. Foretopsails are very often found to answer the
purpose better than any other species of sail. The Grampus was
generally laid-to under a close-reefed foresail.
When a vessel is to be laid-to, her head is brought up to the
wind just so nearly as to fill the sail under which she lies when
hauled flat aft, that is, when brought diagonally across the
vessel. This being done, the bows point within a few degrees of
the direction from which the wind issues, and the windward bow of
course receives the shock of the waves. In this situation a good
vessel will ride out a very heavy gale of wind without shipping a
drop of water, and without any further attention being requisite
on the part of the crew. The helm is usually lashed down, but
this is altogether unnecessary (except on account of the noise it
makes when loose), for the rudder has no effect upon the vessel
when lying-to. Indeed, the helm had far better be left loose than
lashed very fast, for the rudder is apt to be torn off by heavy
seas if there be no room for the helm to play. As long as the
sail holds, a well modelled vessel will maintain her situation,
and ride every sea, as if instinct with life and reason. If the
violence of the wind, however, should tear the sail into pieces
(a feat which it requires a perfect hurricane to accomplish under
ordinary circumstances), there is then imminent danger. The
vessel falls off from the wind, and, coming broadside to the sea,
is completely at its mercy: the only resource in this case is to
put her quietly before the wind, letting her scud until some
other sail can be set. Some vessels will lie-to under no sail
whatever, but such are not to be trusted at sea.
But to return from this digression. It had never been customary
with the mate to have any watch on deck when lying-to in a gale
of wind, and the fact that he had now one, coupled with the
circumstance of the missing axes and handspikes, fully convinced
us that the crew were too well on the watch to be taken by
surprise in the manner Peters had suggested. Something, however,
was to be done, and that with as little delay as practicable, for
there could be no doubt that a suspicion having been once
entertained against Peters, he would be sacrificed upon the
earliest occasion, and one would certainly be either found or
made upon the breaking of the gale.
Augustus now suggested that if Peters could contrive to remove,
under any pretext, the piece of chain-cable which lay over the
trap in the stateroom, we might possibly be able to come upon
them unawares by means of the hold; but a little reflection
convinced us that the vessel rolled and pitched too violently for
any attempt of that nature.
By good fortune I at length hit upon the idea of working upon the
superstitious terrors and guilty conscience of the mate. It will
be remembered that one of the crew, Hartman Rogers, had died
during the morning, having been attacked two days before with
spasms after drinking some spirits and water. Peters had
expressed to us his opinion that this man had been poisoned by
the mate, and for this belief he had reasons, so he said, which
were incontrovertible, but which he could not be prevailed upon
to explain to us—this wayward refusal being only in keeping with
other points of his singular character. But whether or not he had
any better grounds for suspecting the mate than we had ourselves,
we were easily led to fall in with his suspicion, and determined
to act accordingly.
Rogers had died about eleven in the forenoon, in violent
convulsions; and the corpse presented in a few minutes after
death one of the most horrid and loathsome spectacles I ever
remember to have seen. The stomach was swollen immensely, like
that of a man who has been drowned and lain under water for many
weeks. The hands were in the same condition, while the face was
shrunken, shrivelled, and of a chalky whiteness, except where
relieved by two or three glaring red blotches like those
occasioned by the erysipelas: one of these blotches extended
diagonally across the face, completely covering up an eye as if
with a band of red velvet. In this disgusting condition the body
had been brought up from the cabin at noon to be thrown
overboard, when the mate getting a glimpse of it (for he now saw
it for the first time), and being either touched with remorse for
his crime or struck with terror at so horrible a sight, ordered
the men to sew the body up in its hammock, and allow it the usual
rites of sea-burial. Having given these directions, he went
below, as if to avoid any further sight of his victim. While
preparations were making to obey his orders, the gale came on
with great fury, and the design was abandoned for the present.
The corpse, left to itself, was washed into the larboard
scuppers, where it still lay at the time of which I speak,
floundering about with the furious lurches of the brig.
Having arranged our plan, we set about putting it in execution as
speedily as possible. Peters went upon deck, and, as he had
anticipated, was immediately accosted by Allen, who appeared to
be stationed more as a watch upon the forecastle than for any
other purpose. The fate of this villain, however, was speedily
and silently decided; for Peters, approaching him in a careless
manner, as if about to address him, seized him by the throat,
and, before he could utter a single cry, tossed him over the
bulwarks. He then called to us, and we came up. Our first
precaution was to look about for something with which to arm
ourselves, and in doing this we had to proceed with great care,
for it was impossible to stand on deck an instant without holding
fast, and violent seas broke over the vessel at every plunge
forward. It was indispensable, too, that we should be quick in
our operations, for every minute we expected the mate to be up to
set the pumps going, as it was evident the brig must be taking in
water very fast. After searching about for some time, we could
find nothing more fit for our purpose than the two pump-handles,
one of which Augustus took, and I the other. Having secured
these, we stripped off the shirt of the corpse and dropped the
body overboard. Peters and myself then went below, leaving
Augustus to watch upon deck, where he took his station just where
Allen had been placed, and with his back to the cabin
companionway, so that, if any of the mate's gang should come up,
he might suppose it was the watch.
As soon as I got below I commenced disguising myself so as to
represent the corpse of Rogers. The shirt which we had taken from
the body aided us very much, for it was of singular form and
character, and easily recognizable—a kind of smock, which the
deceased wore over his other clothing. It was a blue stockinett,
with large white stripes running across. Having put this on, I
proceeded to equip myself with a false stomach, in imitation of
the horrible deformity of the swollen corpse. This was soon
effected by means of stuffing with some bedclothes. I then gave
the same appearance to my hands by drawing on a pair of white
woollen mittens, and filling them in with any kind of rags that
offered themselves. Peters then arranged my face, first rubbing
it well over with white chalk, and afterward blotching it with
blood, which he took from a cut in his finger. The streak across
the eye was not forgotten and presented a most shocking
appearance.
CHAPTER 8
As I viewed myself in a fragment of looking-glass which hung up
in the cabin, and by the dim light of a kind of battle-lantern, I
was so impressed with a sense of vague awe at my appearance, and
at the recollection of the terrific reality which I was thus
representing, that I was seized with a violent tremour, and could
scarcely summon resolution to go on with my part. It was
necessary, however, to act with decision, and Peters and myself
went upon deck.
We there found everything safe, and, keeping close to the
bulwarks, the three of us crept to the cabin companion-way. It
was only partially closed, precautions having been taken to
prevent its being suddenly pushed to from without, by means of
placing billets of wood on the upper step so as to interfere with
the shutting. We found no difficulty in getting a full view of
the interior of the cabin through the cracks where the hinges
were placed. It now proved to have been very fortunate for us
that we had not attempted to take them by surprise, for they were
evidently on the alert. Only one was asleep, and he lying just at
the foot of the companion-ladder, with a musket by his side. The
rest were seated on several mattresses, which had been taken from
the berths and thrown on the floor. They were engaged in earnest
conversation; and although they had been carousing, as appeared
from two empty jugs, with some tin tumblers which lay about, they
were not as much intoxicated as usual. All had knives, one or two
of them pistols, and a great many muskets were lying in a berth
close at hand.
We listened to their conversation for some time before we could
make up our minds how to act, having as yet resolved on nothing
determinate, except that we would attempt to paralyze their
exertions, when we should attack them, by means of the apparition
of Rogers. They were discussing their piratical plans, in which
all we could hear distinctly was, that they would unite with the
crew of a schooner _Hornet_, and, if possible, get the schooner
herself into their possession preparatory to some attempt on a
large scale, the particulars of which could not be made out by
either of us.
One of the men spoke of Peters, when the mate replied to him in a
low voice which could not be distinguished, and afterward added
more loudly, that “he could not understand his being so much
forward with the captain’s brat in the forecastle, and he thought
the sooner both of them were overboard the better.” To this no
answer was made, but we could easily perceive that the hint was
well received by the whole party, and more particularly by Jones.
At this period I was excessively agitated, the more so as I could
see that neither Augustus nor Peters could determine how to act.
I made up my mind, however, to sell my life as dearly as
possible, and not to suffer myself to be overcome by any feelings
of trepidation.
The tremendous noise made by the roaring of the wind in the
rigging, and the washing of the sea over the deck, prevented us
from hearing what was said, except during momentary lulls. In one
of these, we all distinctly heard the mate tell one of the men to
“go forward, have an eye upon them, for he wanted no such secret
doings on board the brig.” It was well for us that the pitching
of the vessel at this moment was so violent as to prevent this
order from being carried into instant execution. The cook got up
from his mattress to go for us, when a tremendous lurch, which I
thought would carry away the masts, threw him headlong against
one of the larboard stateroom doors, bursting it open, and
creating a good deal of other confusion. Luckily, neither of our
party was thrown from his position, and we had time to make a
precipitate retreat to the forecastle, and arrange a hurried plan
of action before the messenger made his appearance, or rather
before he put his head out of the companion-hatch, for he did not
come on deck. From this station he could not notice the absence
of Allen, and he accordingly bawled out, as if to him, repeating
the orders of the mate. Peters cried out, “Ay, ay,” in a
disguised voice, and the cook immediately went below, without
entertaining a suspicion that all was not right.
My two companions now proceeded boldly aft and down into the
cabin, Peters closing the door after him in the same manner he
had found it. The mate received them with feigned cordiality, and
told Augustus that, since he had behaved himself so well of late,
he might take up his quarters in the cabin and be one of them for
the future. He then poured him out a tumbler half full of rum,
and made him drink it. All this I saw and heard, for I followed
my friends to the cabin as soon as the door was shut, and took up
my old point of observation. I had brought with me the two
pump-handles, one of which I secured near the companion-way, to
be ready for use when required.
I now steadied myself as well as possible so as to have a good
view of all that was passing within, and endeavoured to nerve
myself to the task of descending among the mutineers when Peters
should make a signal to me, as agreed upon. Presently he
contrived to turn the conversation upon the bloody deeds of the
mutiny, and by degrees led the men to talk of the thousand
superstitions which are so universally current among seamen. I
could not make out all that was said, but I could plainly see the
effects of the conversation in the countenances of those present.
The mate was evidently much agitated, and presently, when some
one mentioned the terrific appearance of Rogers’ corpse, I
thought he was upon the point of swooning. Peters now asked him
if he did not think it would be better to have the body thrown
overboard at once as it was too horrible a sight to see it
floundering about in the scuppers. At this the villain absolutely
gasped for breath, and turned his head slowly round upon his
companions, as if imploring some one to go up and perform the
task. No one, however, stirred, and it was quite evident that the
whole party were wound up to the highest pitch of nervous
excitement. Peters now made me the signal. I immediately threw
open the door of the companion-way, and, descending, without
uttering a syllable, stood erect in the midst of the party.
The intense effect produced by this sudden apparition is not at
all to be wondered at when the various circumstances are taken
into consideration. Usually, in cases of a similar nature, there
is left in the mind of the spectator some glimmering of doubt as
to the reality of the vision before his eyes; a degree of hope,
however feeble, that he is the victim of chicanery, and that the
apparition is not actually a visitant from the old world of
shadows. It is not too much to say that such remnants of doubt
have been at the bottom of almost every such visitation, and that
the appalling horror which has sometimes been brought about, is
to be attributed, even in the cases most in point, and where most
suffering has been experienced, more to a kind of anticipative
horror, lest the apparition might possibly be real, than to an
unwavering belief in its reality. But, in the present instance,
it will be seen immediately, that in the minds of the mutineers
there was not even the shadow of a basis upon which to rest a
doubt that the apparition of Rogers was indeed a revivification
of his disgusting corpse, or at least its spiritual image. The
isolated situation of the brig, with its entire inaccessibility
on account of the gale, confined the apparently possible means of
deception within such narrow and definite limits, that they must
have thought themselves enabled to survey them all at a glance.
They had now been at sea twenty-four days, without holding more
than a speaking communication with any vessel whatever. The whole
of the crew, too—at least all whom they had the most remote
reason for suspecting to be on board—were assembled in the cabin,
with the exception of Allen, the watch; and his gigantic stature
(he was six feet six inches high) was too familiar in their eyes
to permit the notion that he was the apparition before them to
enter their minds even for an instant. Add to these
considerations the awe-inspiring nature of the tempest, and that
of the conversation brought about by Peters; the deep impression
which the loathsomeness of the actual corpse had made in the
morning upon the imaginations of the men; the excellence of the
imitation in my person, and the uncertain and wavering light in
which they beheld me, as the glare of the cabin lantern, swinging
violently to and fro, fell dubiously and fitfully upon my figure,
and there will be no reason to wonder that the deception had even
more than the entire effect which we had anticipated. The mate
sprang up from the mattress on which he was lying, and, without
uttering a syllable, fell back, stone dead, upon the cabin floor,
and was hurled to the leeward like a log by a heavy roll of the
brig. Of the remaining seven, there were but three who had at
first any degree of presence of mind. The four others sat for
some time rooted apparently to the floor, the most pitiable
objects of horror and utter despair my eyes ever encountered. The
only opposition we experienced at all was from the cook, John
Hunt, and Richard Parker; but they made but a feeble and
irresolute defence. The two former were shot instantly by Peters,
and I felled Parker with a blow on the head from the pump-handle
which I had brought with me. In the meantime, Augustus seized one
of the muskets lying on the floor and shot another mutineer
Wilson through the breast. There were now but three remaining;
but by this time they had become aroused from their lethargy, and
perhaps began to see that a deception had been practised upon
them, for they fought with great resolution and fury, and, but
for the immense muscular strength of Peters, might have
ultimately got the better of us. These three men were—Jones,
Greely, and Absolom Hicks. Jones had thrown Augustus to the
floor, stabbed him in several places along the right arm, and
would no doubt have soon dispatched him (as neither Peters nor
myself could immediately get rid of our own antagonists), had it
not been for the timely aid of a friend, upon whose assistance
we, surely, had never depended. This friend was no other than
Tiger. With a low growl, he bounded into the cabin, at a most
critical moment for Augustus, and throwing himself upon Jones,
pinned him to the floor in an instant. My friend, however, was
now too much injured to render us any aid whatever, and I was so
encumbered with my disguise that I could do but little. The dog
would not leave his hold upon the throat of Jones—Peters,
nevertheless, was far more than a match for the two men who
remained, and would, no doubt, have dispatched them sooner, had
it not been for the narrow space in which he had to act, and the
tremendous lurches of the vessel. Presently he was enabled to get
hold of a heavy stool, several of which lay about the floor. With
this he beat out the brains of Greely as he was in the act of
discharging a musket at me, and immediately afterward a roll of
the brig throwing him in contact with Hicks, he seized him by the
throat, and, by dint of sheer strength, strangled him
instantaneously. Thus, in far less time than I have taken to tell
it, we found ourselves masters of the brig.
The only person of our opponents who was left alive was Richard
Parker. This man, it will be remembered, I had knocked down with
a blow from the pump-handle at the commencement of the attack. He
now lay motionless by the door of the shattered stateroom; but,
upon Peters touching him with his foot, he spoke, and entreated
for mercy. His head was only slightly cut, and otherwise he had
received no injury, having been merely stunned by the blow. He
now got up, and, for the present, we secured his hands behind his
back. The dog was still growling over Jones; but, upon
examination, we found him completely dead, the blood issuing in a
stream from a deep wound in the throat, inflicted, no doubt, by
the sharp teeth of the animal.
It was now about one o’clock in the morning, and the wind was
still blowing tremendously. The brig evidently laboured much more
than usual, and it became absolutely necessary that something
should be done with a view of easing her in some measure. At
almost every roll to leeward she shipped a sea, several of which
came partially down into the cabin during our scuffle, the
hatchway having been left open by myself when I descended. The
entire range of bulwarks to larboard had been swept away, as well
as the caboose, together with the jollyboat from the counter. The
creaking and working of the mainmast, too, gave indication that
it was nearly sprung. To make room for more stowage in the
afterhold, the heel of this mast had been stepped between decks
(a very reprehensible practice, occasionally resorted to by
ignorant ship-builders), so that it was in imminent danger of
working from its step. But, to crown all our difficulties, we
plummed the well, and found no less than seven feet of water.
Leaving the bodies of the crew lying in the cabin, we got to work
immediately at the pumps—Parker, of course, being set at liberty
to assist us in the labour. Augustus’s arm was bound up as well
as we could effect it, and he did what he could, but that was not
much. However, we found that we could just manage to keep the
leak from gaining upon us by having one pump constantly going. As
there were only four of us, this was severe labour; but we
endeavoured to keep up our spirits, and looked anxiously for
daybreak, when we hoped to lighten the brig by cutting away the
mainmast.
In this manner we passed a night of terrible anxiety and fatigue,
and, when the day at length broke, the gale had neither abated in
the least, nor were there any signs of its abating. We now
dragged the bodies on deck and threw them overboard. Our next
care was to get rid of the mainmast. The necessary preparations
having been made, Peters cut away at the mast (having found axes
in the cabin), while the rest of us stood by the stays and
lanyards. As the brig gave a tremendous lee-lurch, the word was
given to cut away the weather-lanyards, which being done, the
whole mass of wood and rigging plunged into the sea, clear of the
brig, and without doing any material injury. We now found that
the vessel did not labour quite as much as before, but our
situation was still exceedingly precarious, and in spite of the
utmost exertions, we could not gain upon the leak without the aid
of both pumps. The little assistance which Augustus could render
us was not really of any importance. To add to our distress, a
heavy sea, striking the brig to the windward, threw her off
several points from the wind, and, before she could regain her
position, another broke completely over her, and hurled her full
upon her beam-ends. The ballast now shifted in a mass to leeward
(the stowage had been knocking about perfectly at random for some
time), and for a few moments we thought nothing could save us
from capsizing. Presently, however, we partially righted; but the
ballast still retaining its place to larboard, we lay so much
along that it was useless to think of working the pumps, which
indeed we could not have done much longer in any case, as our
hands were entirely raw with the excessive labour we had
undergone, and were bleeding in the most horrible manner.
Contrary to Parker’s advice, we now proceeded to cut away the
foremast, and at length accomplished it after much difficulty,
owing to the position in which we lay. In going overboard the
wreck took with it the bowsprit, and left us a complete hulk.
So far we had had reason to rejoice in the escape of our
longboat, which had received no damage from any of the huge seas
which had come on board. But we had not long to congratulate
ourselves; for the foremast having gone, and, of course, the
foresail with it, by which the brig had been steadied, every sea
now made a complete breach over us, and in five minutes our deck
was swept from stem to stern, the longboat and starboard bulwarks
torn off, and even the windlass shattered into fragments. It was,
indeed, hardly possible for us to be in a more pitiable
condition.
At noon there seemed to be some slight appearance of the gale’s
abating, but in this we were sadly disappointed, for it only
lulled for a few minutes to blow with redoubled fury. About four
in the afternoon it was utterly impossible to stand up against
the violence of the blast; and, as the night closed in upon us, I
had not a shadow of hope that the vessel would hold together
until morning.
By midnight we had settled very deep in the water, which was now
up to the orlop deck. The rudder went soon afterward, the sea
which tore it away lifting the after portion of the brig entirely
from the water, against which she thumped in her descent with
such a concussion as would be occasioned by going ashore. We had
all calculated that the rudder would hold its own to the last, as
it was unusually strong, being rigged as I have never seen one
rigged either before or since. Down its main timber there ran a
succession of stout iron hooks, and others in the same manner
down the stern-post. Through these hooks there extended a very
thick wrought-iron rod, the rudder being thus held to the
stern-post and swinging freely on the rod. The tremendous force
of the sea which tore it off may be estimated by the fact, that
the hooks in the stern-post, which ran entirely through it, being
clinched on the inside, were drawn every one of them completely
out of the solid wood.
We had scarcely time to draw breath after the violence of this
shock, when one of the most tremendous waves I had then ever
known broke right on board of us, sweeping the companion-way
clear off, bursting in the hatchways, and filling every inch of
the vessel with water.
CHAPTER 9
Luckily, just before night, all four of us had lashed ourselves
firmly to the fragments of the windlass, lying in this manner as
flat upon the deck as possible. This precaution alone saved us
from destruction. As it was, we were all more or less stunned by
the immense weight of water which tumbled upon us, and which did
not roll from above us until we were nearly exhausted. As soon as
I could recover breath, I called aloud to my companions. Augustus
alone replied, saying: “It is all over with us, and may God have
mercy upon our souls!” By-and-by both the others were enabled to
speak, when they exhorted us to take courage, as there was still
hope; it being impossible, from the nature of the cargo, that the
brig could go down, and there being every chance that the gale
would blow over by the morning. These words inspired me with new
life; for, strange as it may seem, although it was obvious that a
vessel with a cargo of empty oil-casks would not sink, I had been
hitherto so confused in mind as to have overlooked this
consideration altogether; and the danger which I had for some
time regarded as the most imminent was that of foundering. As
hope revived within me, I made use of every opportunity to
strengthen the lashings which held me to the remains of the
windlass, and in this occupation I soon discovered that my
companions were also busy. The night was as dark as it could
possibly be, and the horrible shrieking din and confusion which
surrounded us it is useless to attempt describing. Our deck lay
level with the sea, or rather we were encircled with a towering
ridge of foam, a portion of which swept over us every instant. It
is not too much to say that our heads were not fairly out of the
water more than one second in three. Although we lay close
together, no one of us could see the other, or, indeed, any
portion of the brig itself, upon which we were so tempestuously
hurled about. At intervals we called one to the other, thus
endeavouring to keep alive hope, and render consolation and
encouragement to such of us as stood most in need of it. The
feeble condition of Augustus made him an object of solicitude
with us all; and as, from the lacerated condition of his right
arm, it must have been impossible for him to secure his lashings
with any degree of firmness, we were in momentary expectation of
finding that he had gone overboard—yet to render him aid was a
thing altogether out of the question. Fortunately, his station
was more secure than that of any of the rest of us; for the upper
part of his body lying just beneath a portion of the shattered
windlass, the seas, as they tumbled in upon him, were greatly
broken in their violence. In any other situation than this (into
which he had been accidentally thrown after having lashed himself
in a very exposed spot) he must inevitably have perished before
morning. Owing to the brig’s lying so much along, we were all
less liable to be washed off than otherwise would have been the
case. The heel, as I have before stated, was to larboard, about
one half of the deck being constantly under water. The seas,
therefore, which struck us to starboard were much broken, by the
vessel’s side, only reaching us in fragments as we lay flat on
our faces; while those which came from larboard being what are
called back-water seas, and obtaining little hold upon us on
account of our posture, had not sufficient force to drag us from
our fastenings.
In this frightful situation we lay until the day broke so as to
show us more fully the horrors which surrounded us. The brig was
a mere log, rolling about at the mercy of every wave; the gale
was upon the increase, if any thing, blowing indeed a complete
hurricane, and there appeared to us no earthly prospect of
deliverance. For several hours we held on in silence, expecting
every moment that our lashings would either give way, that the
remains of the windlass would go by the board, or that some of
the huge seas, which roared in every direction around us and
above us, would drive the hulk so far beneath the water that we
should be drowned before it could regain the surface. By the
mercy of God, however, we were preserved from these imminent
dangers, and about midday were cheered by the light of the
blessed sun. Shortly afterward we could perceive a sensible
diminution in the force of the wind, when, now for the first time
since the latter part of the evening before, Augustus spoke,
asking Peters, who lay closest to him, if he thought there was
any possibility of our being saved. As no reply was at first made
to this question, we all concluded that the hybrid had been
drowned where he lay; but presently, to our great joy, he spoke,
although very feebly, saying that he was in great pain, being so
cut by the tightness of his lashings across the stomach, that he
must either find means of loosening them or perish, as it was
impossible that he could endure his misery much longer. This
occasioned us great distress, as it was altogether useless to
think of aiding him in any manner while the sea continued washing
over us as it did. We exhorted him to bear his sufferings with
fortitude, and promised to seize the first opportunity which
should offer itself to relieve him. He replied that it would soon
be too late; that it would be all over with him before we could
help him; and then, after moaning for some minutes, lay silent,
when we concluded that he had perished.
As the evening drew on, the sea had fallen so much that scarcely
more than one wave broke over the hulk from windward in the
course of five minutes, and the wind had abated a great deal,
although still blowing a severe gale. I had not heard any of my
companions speak for hours, and now called to Augustus. He
replied, although very feebly, so that I could not distinguish
what he said. I then spoke to Peters and to Parker, neither of
whom returned any answer.
Shortly after this period I fell into a state of partial
insensibility, during which the most pleasing images floated in
my imagination; such as green trees, waving meadows of ripe
grain, processions of dancing girls, troops of cavalry, and other
phantasies. I now remember that, in all which passed before my
mind’s eye, motion was a predominant idea. Thus, I never fancied
any stationary object, such as a house, a mountain, or any thing
of that kind; but windmills, ships, large birds, balloons, people
on horseback, carriages driving furiously, and similar moving
objects, presented themselves in endless succession. When I
recovered from this state, the sun was, as near as I could guess,
an hour high. I had the greatest difficulty in bringing to
recollection the various circumstances connected with my
situation, and for some time remained firmly convinced that I was
still in the hold of the brig, near the box, and that the body of
Parker was that of Tiger.
When I at length completely came to my senses, I found that the
wind blew no more than a moderate breeze, and that the sea was
comparatively calm; so much so that it only washed over the brig
amidships. My left arm had broken loose from its lashings, and
was much cut about the elbow; my right was entirely benumbed, and
the hand and wrist swollen prodigiously by the pressure of the
rope, which had worked from the shoulder downward. I was also in
great pain from another rope which went about my waist, and had
been drawn to an insufferable degree of tightness. Looking round
upon my companions, I saw that Peters still lived, although a
thick line was pulled so forcibly around his loins as to give him
the appearance of being cut nearly in two; as I stirred, he made
a feeble motion to me with his hand, pointing to the rope.
Augustus gave no indication of life whatever, and was bent nearly
double across a splinter of the windlass. Parker spoke to me when
he saw me moving, and asked me if I had not sufficient strength
to release him from his situation, saying that if I would summon
up what spirits I could, and contrive to untie him, we might yet
save our lives; but that otherwise we must all perish. I told him
to take courage, and I would endeavor to free him. Feeling in my
pantaloons’ pocket, I got hold of my penknife, and, after several
ineffectual attempts, at length succeeded in opening it. I then,
with my left hand, managed to free my right from its fastenings,
and afterward cut the other ropes which held me. Upon attempting,
however, to move from my position, I found that my legs failed me
altogether, and that I could not get up; neither could I move my
right arm in any direction. Upon mentioning this to Parker, he
advised me to lie quiet for a few minutes, holding on to the
windlass with my left hand, so as to allow time for the blood to
circulate. Doing this, the numbness presently began to die away
so that I could move first one of my legs, and then the other,
and, shortly afterward I regained the partial use of my right
arm. I now crawled with great caution toward Parker, without
getting on my legs, and soon cut loose all the lashings about
him, when, after a short delay, he also recovered the partial use
of his limbs. We now lost no time in getting loose the rope from
Peters. It had cut a deep gash through the waistband of his
woollen pantaloons, and through two shirts, and made its way into
his groin, from which the blood flowed out copiously as we
removed the cordage. No sooner had we removed it, however, than
he spoke, and seemed to experience instant relief—being able to
move with much greater ease than either Parker or myself—this was
no doubt owing to the discharge of blood.
We had little hopes that Augustus would recover, as he evinced no
signs of life; but, upon getting to him, we discovered that he
had merely swooned from the loss of blood, the bandages we had
placed around his wounded arm having been torn off by the water;
none of the ropes which held him to the windlass were drawn
sufficiently tight to occasion his death. Having relieved him
from the fastenings, and got him clear of the broken wood about
the windlass, we secured him in a dry place to windward, with his
head somewhat lower than his body, and all three of us busied
ourselves in chafing his limbs. In about half an hour he came to
himself, although it was not until the next morning that he gave
signs of recognizing any of us, or had sufficient strength to
speak. By the time we had thus got clear of our lashings it was
quite dark, and it began to cloud up, so that we were again in
the greatest agony lest it should come on to blow hard, in which
event nothing could have saved us from perishing, exhausted as we
were. By good fortune it continued very moderate during the
night, the sea subsiding every minute, which gave us great hopes
of ultimate preservation. A gentle breeze still blew from the N.
W., but the weather was not at all cold. Augustus was lashed
carefully to windward in such a manner as to prevent him from
slipping overboard with the rolls of the vessel, as he was still
too weak to hold on at all. For ourselves there was no such
necessity. We sat close together, supporting each other with the
aid of the broken ropes about the windlass, and devising methods
of escape from our frightful situation. We derived much comfort
from taking off our clothes and wringing the water from them.
When we put them on after this, they felt remarkably warm and
pleasant, and served to invigorate us in no little degree. We
helped Augustus off with his, and wrung them for him, when he
experienced the same comfort.
Our chief sufferings were now those of hunger and thirst, and
when we looked forward to the means of relief in this respect,
our hearts sunk within us, and we were induced to regret that we
had escaped the less dreadful perils of the sea. We endeavoured,
however, to console ourselves with the hope of being speedily
picked up by some vessel and encouraged each other to bear with
fortitude the evils that might happen.
The morning of the fourteenth at length dawned, and the weather
still continued clear and pleasant, with a steady but very light
breeze from the N. W. The sea was now quite smooth, and as, from
some cause which we could not determine, the brig did not lie so
much along as she had done before, the deck was comparatively
dry, and we could move about with freedom. We had now been better
than three entire days and nights without either food or drink,
and it became absolutely necessary that we should make an attempt
to get up something from below. As the brig was completely full
of water, we went to this work despondently, and with but little
expectation of being able to obtain anything. We made a kind of
drag by driving some nails which we broke out from the remains of
the companion-hatch into two pieces of wood. Tying these across
each other, and fastening them to the end of a rope, we threw
them into the cabin, and dragged them to and fro, in the faint
hope of being thus able to entangle some article which might be
of use to us for food, or which might at least render us
assistance in getting it. We spent the greater part of the
morning in this labour without effect, fishing up nothing more
than a few bedclothes, which were readily caught by the nails.
Indeed, our contrivance was so very clumsy that any greater
success was hardly to be anticipated.
We now tried the forecastle, but equally in vain, and were upon
the brink of despair, when Peters proposed that we should fasten
a rope to his body, and let him make an attempt to get up
something by diving into the cabin. This proposition we hailed
with all the delight which reviving hope could inspire. He
proceeded immediately to strip off his clothes with the exception
of his pantaloons; and a strong rope was then carefully fastened
around his middle, being brought up over his shoulders in such a
manner that there was no possibility of its slipping. The
undertaking was one of great difficulty and danger; for, as we
could hardly expect to find much, if any, provision in the cabin
itself, it was necessary that the diver, after letting himself
down, should make a turn to the right, and proceed under water a
distance of ten or twelve feet, in a narrow passage, to the
storeroom, and return, without drawing breath.
Everything being ready, Peters now descended in the cabin, going
down the companion-ladder until the water reached his chin. He
then plunged in, head first, turning to the right as he plunged,
and endeavouring to make his way to the storeroom. In this first
attempt, however, he was altogether unsuccessful. In less than
half a minute after his going down we felt the rope jerked
violently (the signal we had agreed upon when he desired to be
drawn up). We accordingly drew him up instantly, but so
incautiously as to bruise him badly against the ladder. He had
brought nothing with him, and had been unable to penetrate more
than a very little way into the passage, owing to the constant
exertions he found it necessary to make in order to keep himself
from floating up against the deck. Upon getting out he was very
much exhausted, and had to rest full fifteen minutes before he
could again venture to descend.
The second attempt met with even worse success; for he remained
so long under water without giving the signal, that, becoming
alarmed for his safety, we drew him out without it, and found
that he was almost at the last gasp, having, as he said,
repeatedly jerked at the rope without our feeling it. This was
probably owing to a portion of it having become entangled in the
balustrade at the foot of the ladder. This balustrade was,
indeed, so much in the way, that we determined to remove it, if
possible, before proceeding with our design. As we had no means
of getting it away except by main force, we all descended into
the water as far as we could on the ladder, and giving a pull
against it with our united strength, succeeded in breaking it
down.
The third attempt was equally unsuccessful with the two first,
and it now became evident that nothing could be done in this
manner without the aid of some weight with which the diver might
steady himself, and keep to the floor of the cabin while making
his search. For a long time we looked about in vain for something
which might answer this purpose; but at length, to our great joy,
we discovered one of the weather-forechains so loose that we had
not the least difficulty in wrenching it off. Having fastened
this securely to one of his ankles, Peters now made his fourth
descent into the cabin, and this time succeeded in making his way
to the door of the steward’s room. To his inexpressible grief,
however, he found it locked, and was obliged to return without
effecting an entrance, as, with the greatest exertion, he could
remain under water not more, at the utmost extent, than a single
minute. Our affairs now looked gloomy indeed, and neither
Augustus nor myself could refrain from bursting into tears, as we
thought of the host of difficulties which encompassed us, and the
slight probability which existed of our finally making an escape.
But this weakness was not of long duration. Throwing ourselves on
our knees to God, we implored His aid in the many dangers which
beset us; and arose with renewed hope and vigor to think what
could yet be done by mortal means toward accomplishing our
deliverance.
CHAPTER 10
Shortly afterward an incident occurred which I am induced to look
upon as more intensely productive of emotion, as far more replete
with the extremes first of delight and then of horror, than even
any of the thousand chances which afterward befell me in nine
long years, crowded with events of the most startling and, in
many cases, of the most unconceived and unconceivable character.
We were lying on the deck near the companion-way, and debating
the possibility of yet making our way into the storeroom, when,
looking toward Augustus, who lay fronting myself, I perceived
that he had become all at once deadly pale, and that his lips
were quivering in the most singular and unaccountable manner.
Greatly alarmed, I spoke to him, but he made me no reply, and I
was beginning to think that he was suddenly taken ill, when I
took notice of his eyes, which were glaring apparently at some
object behind me. I turned my head, and shall never forget the
ecstatic joy which thrilled through every particle of my frame,
when I perceived a large brig bearing down upon us, and not more
than a couple of miles off. I sprung to my feet as if a musket
bullet had suddenly struck me to the heart; and, stretching out
my arms in the direction of the vessel, stood in this manner,
motionless, and unable to articulate a syllable. Peters and
Parker were equally affected, although in different ways. The
former danced about the deck like a madman, uttering the most
extravagant rhodomontades, intermingled with howls and
imprecations, while the latter burst into tears, and continued
for many minutes weeping like a child.
The vessel in sight was a large hermaphrodite brig, of a Dutch
build, and painted black, with a tawdry gilt figure-head. She had
evidently seen a good deal of rough weather, and, we supposed,
had suffered much in the gale which had proved so disastrous to
ourselves; for her foretopmast was gone, and some of her
starboard bulwarks. When we first saw her, she was, as I have
already said, about two miles off and to windward, bearing down
upon us. The breeze was very gentle, and what astonished us
chiefly was, that she had no other sails set than her foremast
and mainsail, with a flying jib—of course she came down but
slowly, and our impatience amounted nearly to phrensy. The
awkward manner in which she steered, too, was remarked by all of
us, even excited as we were. She yawed about so considerably,
that once or twice we thought it impossible she could see us, or
imagined that, having seen us, and discovered no person on board,
she was about to tack and make off in another direction. Upon
each of these occasions we screamed and shouted at the top of our
voices, when the stranger would appear to change for a moment her
intention, and again hold on toward us—this singular conduct
being repeated two or three times, so that at last we could think
of no other manner of accounting for it than by supposing the
helmsman to be in liquor.
No person was seen upon her decks until she arrived within about
a quarter of a mile of us. We then saw three seamen, whom by
their dress we took to be Hollanders. Two of these were lying on
some old sails near the forecastle, and the third, who appeared
to be looking at us with great curiosity, was leaning over the
starboard bow near the bowsprit. This last was a stout and tall
man, with a very dark skin. He seemed by his manner to be
encouraging us to have patience, nodding to us in a cheerful
although rather odd way, and smiling constantly, so as to display
a set of the most brilliantly white teeth. As his vessel drew
nearer, we saw a red flannel cap which he had on fall from his
head into the water; but of this he took little or no notice,
continuing his odd smiles and gesticulations. I relate these
things and circumstances minutely, and I relate them, it must be
understood, precisely as they _appeared_to us.
The brig came on slowly, and now more steadily than before, and—I
cannot speak calmly of this event—our hearts leaped up wildly
within us, and we poured out our whole souls in shouts and
thanksgiving to God for the complete, unexpected, and glorious
deliverance that was so palpably at hand. Of a sudden, and all at
once, there came wafted over the ocean from the strange vessel
(which was now close upon us) a smell, a stench, such as the
whole world has no name for—no conception of—hellish—utterly
suffocating—insufferable, inconceivable. I gasped for breath, and
turning to my companions, perceived that they were paler than
marble. But we had now no time left for question or surmise—the
brig was within fifty feet of us, and it seemed to be her
intention to run under our counter, that we might board her
without putting out a boat. We rushed aft, when, suddenly, a wide
yaw threw her off full five or six points from the course she had
been running, and, as she passed under our stern at the distance
of about twenty feet, we had a full view of her decks. Shall I
ever forget the triple horror of that spectacle? Twenty-five or
thirty human bodies, among whom were several females, lay
scattered about between the counter and the galley in the last
and most loathsome state of putrefaction. We plainly saw that not
a soul lived in that fated vessel! Yet we could not help shouting
to the dead for help! Yes, long and loudly did we beg, in the
agony of the moment, that those silent and disgusting images
would stay for us, would not abandon us to become like them,
would receive us among their goodly company! We were raving with
horror and despair—thoroughly mad through the anguish of our
grievous disappointment.
As our first loud yell of terror broke forth, it was replied to
by something, from near the bowsprit of the stranger, so closely
resembling the scream of a human voice that the nicest ear might
have been startled and deceived. At this instant another sudden
yaw brought the region of the forecastle for a moment into view,
and we beheld at once the origin of the sound. We saw the tall
stout figure still leaning on the bulwark, and still nodding his
head to and fro, but his face was now turned from us so that we
could not behold it. His arms were extended over the rail, and
the palms of his hands fell outward. His knees were lodged upon a
stout rope, tightly stretched, and reaching from the heel of the
bowsprit to a cathead. On his back, from which a portion of the
shirt had been torn, leaving it bare, there sat a huge sea-gull,
busily gorging itself with the horrible flesh, its bill and
talons deep buried, and its white plumage spattered all over with
blood. As the brig moved farther round so as to bring us close in
view, the bird, with much apparent difficulty, drew out its
crimsoned head, and, after eyeing us for a moment as if
stupefied, arose lazily from the body upon which it had been
feasting, and, flying directly above our deck, hovered there a
while with a portion of clotted and liver-like substance in its
beak. The horrid morsel dropped at length with a sullen splash
immediately at the feet of Parker. May God forgive me, but now,
for the first time, there flashed through my mind a thought, a
thought which I will not mention, and I felt myself making a step
toward the ensanguined spot. I looked upward, and the eyes of
Augustus met my own with a degree of intense and eager meaning
which immediately brought me to my senses. I sprang forward
quickly, and, with a deep shudder, threw the frightful thing into
the sea.
The body from which it had been taken, resting as it did upon the
rope, had been easily swayed to and fro by the exertions of the
carnivorous bird, and it was this motion which had at first
impressed us with the belief of its being alive. As the gull
relieved it of its weight, it swung round and fell partially
over, so that the face was fully discovered. Never, surely, was
any object so terribly full of awe! The eyes were gone, and the
whole flesh around the mouth, leaving the teeth utterly naked.
This, then, was the smile which had cheered us on to hope! this
the—but I forbear. The brig, as I have already told, passed under
our stern, and made its way slowly but steadily to leeward. With
her and with her terrible crew went all our gay visions of
deliverance and joy. Deliberately as she went by, we might
possibly have found means of boarding her, had not our sudden
disappointment and the appalling nature of the discovery which
accompanied it laid entirely prostrate every active faculty of
mind and body. We had seen and felt, but we could neither think
nor act, until, alas! too late. How much our intellects had been
weakened by this incident may be estimated by the fact, that when
the vessel had proceeded so far that we could perceive no more
than the half of her hull, the proposition was seriously
entertained of attempting to overtake her by swimming!
I have, since this period, vainly endeavoured to obtain some clew
to the hideous uncertainty which enveloped the fate of the
stranger. Her build and general appearance, as I have before
stated, led us to the belief that she was a Dutch trader, and the
dresses of the crew also sustained this opinion. We might have
easily seen the name upon her stern, and, indeed, taken other
observations, which would have guided us in making out her
character; but the intense excitement of the moment blinded us to
every thing of that nature. From the saffron-like hue of such of
the corpses as were not entirely decayed, we concluded that the
whole of her company had perished by the yellow fever, or some
other virulent disease of the same fearful kind. If such were the
case (and I know not what else to imagine), death, to judge from
the positions of the bodies, must have come upon them in a manner
awfully sudden and overwhelming, in a way totally distinct from
that which generally characterizes even the most deadly
pestilences with which mankind are acquainted. It is possible,
indeed, that poison, accidentally introduced into some of their
sea-stores, may have brought about the disaster, or that the
eating of some unknown venomous species of fish, or other marine
animal, or oceanic bird, might have induced it—but it is utterly
useless to form conjectures where all is involved, and will, no
doubt, remain for ever involved, in the most appalling and
unfathomable mystery.
CHAPTER 11
We spent the remainder of the day in a condition of stupid
lethargy, gazing after the retreating vessel until the darkness,
hiding her from our sight, recalled us in some measure to our
senses. The pangs of hunger and thirst then returned, absorbing
all other cares and considerations. Nothing, however, could be
done until the morning, and, securing ourselves as well as
possible, we endeavoured to snatch a little repose. In this I
succeeded beyond my expectations, sleeping until my companions,
who had not been so fortunate, aroused me at daybreak to renew
our attempts at getting up provisions from the hull.
It was now a dead calm, with the sea as smooth as I have ever
known it,—the weather warm and pleasant. The brig was out of
sight. We commenced our operations by wrenching off, with some
trouble, another of the forechains; and having fastened both to
Peters’ feet, he again made an endeavour to reach the door of the
storeroom, thinking it possible that he might be able to force it
open, provided he could get at it in sufficient time; and this he
hoped to do, as the hulk lay much more steadily than before.
He succeeded very quickly in reaching the door, when, loosening
one of the chains from his ankle, he made every exertion to force
the passage with it, but in vain, the framework of the room being
far stronger than was anticipated. He was quite exhausted with
his long stay under water, and it became absolutely necessary
that some other one of us should take his place. For this service
Parker immediately volunteered; but, after making three
ineffectual efforts, found that he could never even succeed in
getting near the door. The condition of Augustus’s wounded arm
rendered it useless for him to attempt going down, as he would be
unable to force the room open should he reach it, and it
accordingly now devolved upon me to exert myself for our common
deliverance.
Peters had left one of the chains in the passage, and I found,
upon plunging in, that I had not sufficient balance to keep me
firmly down. I determined, therefore, to attempt no more, in my
first effort, than merely to recover the other chain. In groping
along the floor of the passage for this, I felt a hard substance,
which I immediately grasped, not having time to ascertain what it
was, but returning and ascending instantly to the surface. The
prize proved to be a bottle, and our joy may be conceived when I
say that it was found to be full of port wine. Giving thanks to
God for this timely and cheering assistance, we immediately drew
the cork with my penknife, and, each taking a moderate sup, felt
the most indescribable comfort from the warmth, strength, and
spirits with which it inspired us. We then carefully recorked the
bottle, and, by means of a handkerchief, swung it in such a
manner that there was no possibility of its getting broken.
Having rested a while after this fortunate discovery, I again
descended, and now recovered the chain, with which I instantly
came up. I then fastened it on and went down for the third time,
when I became fully satisfied that no exertions whatever, in that
situation, would enable me to force open the door of the
storeroom. I therefore returned in despair.
There seemed now to be no longer any room for hope, and I could
perceive in the countenances of my companions that they had made
up their minds to perish. The wine had evidently produced in them
a species of delirium, which, perhaps, I had been prevented from
feeling by the immersion I had undergone since drinking it. They
talked incoherently, and about matters unconnected with our
condition, Peters repeatedly asking me questions about Nantucket.
Augustus, too, I remember, approached me with a serious air, and
requested me to lend him a pocket-comb, as his hair was full of
fish-scales, and he wished to get them out before going on shore.
Parker appeared somewhat less affected, and urged me to dive at
random into the cabin, and bring up any article which might come
to hand. To this I consented, and, in the first attempt, after
staying under a full minute, brought up a small leather trunk
belonging to Captain Barnard. This was immediately opened in the
faint hope that it might contain something to eat or drink. We
found nothing, however, except a box of razors and two linen
shirts. I now went down again, and returned without any success.
As my head came above water I heard a crash on deck, and, upon
getting up, saw that my companions had ungratefully taken
advantage of my absence to drink the remainder of the wine,
having let the bottle fall in the endeavour to replace it before
I saw them. I remonstrated with them on the heartlessness of
their conduct, when Augustus burst into tears. The other two
endeavoured to laugh the matter off as a joke, but I hope never
again to behold laughter of such a species: the distortion of
countenance was absolutely frightful. Indeed, it was apparent
that the stimulus, in the empty state of their stomachs, had
taken instant and violent effect, and that they were all
exceedingly intoxicated. With great difficulty I prevailed upon
them to lie down, when they fell very soon into a heavy slumber,
accompanied with loud stertorous breathing.
I now found myself, as it were, alone in the brig, and my
reflections, to be sure, were of the most fearful and gloomy
nature. No prospect offered itself to my view but a lingering
death by famine, or, at the best, by being overwhelmed in the
first gale which should spring up, for in our present exhausted
condition we could have no hope of living through another.
The gnawing hunger which I now experienced was nearly
insupportable, and I felt myself capable of going to any lengths
in order to appease it. With my knife I cut off a small portion
of the leather trunk, and endeavoured to eat it, but found it
utterly impossible to swallow a single morsel, although I fancied
that some little alleviation of my suffering was obtained by
chewing small pieces of it and spitting them out. Toward night my
companions awoke, one by one, each in an indescribable state of
weakness and horror, brought on by the wine, whose fumes had now
evaporated. They shook as if with a violent ague, and uttered the
most lamentable cries for water. Their condition affected me in
the most lively degree, at the same time causing me to rejoice in
the fortunate train of circumstances which had prevented me from
indulging in the wine, and consequently from sharing their
melancholy and most distressing sensations. Their conduct,
however, gave me great uneasiness and alarm; for it was evident
that, unless some favourable change took place, they could afford
me no assistance in providing for our common safety. I had not
yet abandoned all idea of being able to get up something from
below; but the attempt could not possibly be resumed until some
one of them was sufficiently master of himself to aid me by
holding the end of the rope while I went down. Parker appeared to
be somewhat more in possession of his senses than the others, and
I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to rouse him. Thinking
that a plunge in the sea-water might have a beneficial effect, I
contrived to fasten the end of a rope around his body, and then,
leading him to the companion-way (he remaining quite passive all
the while), pushed him in, and immediately drew him out. I had
good reason to congratulate myself upon having made this
experiment; for he appeared much revived and invigorated, and,
upon getting out, asked me, in a rational manner, why I had so
served him. Having explained my object, he expressed himself
indebted to me, and said that he felt greatly better from the
immersion, afterward conversing sensibly upon our situation. We
then resolved to treat Augustus and Peters in the same way, which
we immediately did, when they both experienced much benefit from
the shock. This idea of sudden immersion had been suggested to me
by reading in some medical work the good effect of the
shower-bath in a case where the patient was suffering from _mania
a potu_.
Finding that I could now trust my companions to hold the end of
the rope, I again made three or four plunges into the cabin,
although it was now quite dark, and a gentle but long swell from
the northward rendered the hulk somewhat unsteady. In the course
of these attempts I succeeded in bringing up two case-knives, a
three-gallon jug, empty, and a blanket, but nothing which could
serve us for food. I continued my efforts, after getting these
articles, until I was completely exhausted, but brought up
nothing else. During the night Parker and Peters occupied
themselves by turns in the same manner; but nothing coming to
hand, we now gave up this attempt in despair, concluding that we
were exhausting ourselves in vain.
We passed the remainder of this night in a state of the most
intense mental and bodily anguish that can possibly be imagined.
The morning of the sixteenth at length dawned, and we looked
eagerly around the horizon for relief, but to no purpose. The sea
was still smooth, with only a long swell from the northward, as
on yesterday. This was the sixth day since we had tasted either
food or drink, with the exception of the bottle of port wine, and
it was clear that we could hold out but a very little while
longer unless something could be obtained. I never saw before,
nor wish to see again, human beings so utterly emaciated as
Peters and Augustus. Had I met them on shore in their present
condition I should not have had the slightest suspicion that I
had ever beheld them. Their countenances were totally changed in
character, so that I could not bring myself to believe them
really the same individuals with whom I had been in company but a
few days before. Parker, although sadly reduced, and so feeble
that he could not raise his head from his bosom, was not so far
gone as the other two. He suffered with great patience, making no
complaint, and endeavouring to inspire us with hope in every
manner he could devise. For myself, although at the commencement
of the voyage I had been in bad health, and was at all times of a
delicate constitution, I suffered less than any of us, being much
less reduced in frame, and retaining my powers of mind in a
surprising degree, while the rest were completely prostrated in
intellect, and seemed to be brought to a species of second
childhood, generally simpering in their expressions, with idiotic
smiles, and uttering the most absurd platitudes. At intervals,
however, they would appear to revive suddenly, as if inspired all
at once with a consciousness of their condition, when they would
spring upon their feet in a momentary flash of vigour, and speak,
for a short period, of their prospects, in a manner altogether
rational, although full of the most intense despair. It is
possible, however, that my companions may have entertained the
same opinion of their own condition as I did of mine, and that I
may have unwittingly been guilty of the same extravagances and
imbecilities as themselves—this is a matter which cannot be
determined.
About noon Parker declared that he saw land off the larboard
quarter, and it was with the utmost difficulty I could restrain
him from plunging into the sea with the view of swimming toward
it. Peters and Augustus took little notice of what he said, being
apparently wrapped up in moody contemplation. Upon looking in the
direction pointed out, I could not perceive the faintest
appearance of the shore—indeed, I was too well aware that we were
far from any land to indulge in a hope of that nature. It was a
long time, nevertheless, before I could convince Parker of his
mistake. He then burst into a flood of tears, weeping like a
child, with loud cries and sobs, for two or three hours, when
becoming exhausted, he fell asleep.
Peters and Augustus now made several ineffectual efforts to
swallow portions of the leather. I advised them to chew it and
spit it out; but they were too excessively debilitated to be able
to follow my advice. I continued to chew pieces of it at
intervals, and found some relief from so doing; my chief distress
was for water, and I was only prevented from taking a draught
from the sea by remembering the horrible consequences which thus
have resulted to others who were similarly situated with
ourselves.
The day wore on in this manner, when I suddenly discovered a sail
to the eastward, and on our larboard bow. She appeared to be a
large ship, and was coming nearly athwart us, being probably
twelve or fifteen miles distant. None of my companions had as yet
discovered her, and I forbore to tell them of her for the
present, lest we might again be disappointed of relief. At length
upon her getting nearer, I saw distinctly that she was heading
immediately for us, with her light sails filled. I could now
contain myself no longer, and pointed her out to my
fellow-sufferers. They immediately sprang to their feet, again
indulging in the most extravagant demonstrations of joy, weeping,
laughing in an idiotic manner, jumping, stamping upon the deck,
tearing their hair, and praying and cursing by turns. I was so
affected by their conduct, as well as by what I considered a sure
prospect of deliverance, that I could not refrain from joining in
with their madness, and gave way to the impulses of my gratitude
and ecstasy by lying and rolling on the deck, clapping my hands,
shouting, and other similar acts, until I was suddenly called to
my recollection, and once more to the extreme human misery and
despair, by perceiving the ship all at once with her stern fully
presented toward us, and steering in a direction nearly opposite
to that in which I had at first perceived her.
It was some time before I could induce my poor companions to
believe that this sad reverse in our prospects had actually taken
place. They replied to all my assertions with a stare and a
gesture implying that they were not to be deceived by such
misrepresentations. The conduct of Augustus most sensibly
affected me. In spite of all I could say or do to the contrary,
he persisted in saying that the ship was rapidly nearing us, and
in making preparations to go on board of her. Some seaweed
floating by the brig, he maintained that it was the ship’s boat,
and endeavoured to throw himself upon it, howling and shrieking
in the most heartrending manner, when I forcibly restrained him
from thus casting himself into the sea.
Having become in some degree pacified, we continued to watch the
ship until we finally lost sight of her, the weather becoming
hazy, with a light breeze springing up. As soon as she was
entirely gone, Parker turned suddenly toward me with an
expression of countenance which made me shudder. There was about
him an air of self-possession which I had not noticed in him
until now, and before he opened his lips my heart told me what he
would say. He proposed, in a few words, that one of us should die
to preserve the existence of the others.
CHAPTER 12
I had for some time past, dwelt upon the prospect of our being
reduced to this last horrible extremity, and had secretly made up
my mind to suffer death in any shape or under any circumstances
rather than resort to such a course. Nor was this resolution in
any degree weakened by the present intensity of hunger under
which I laboured. The proposition had not been heard by either
Peters or Augustus. I therefore took Parker aside; and mentally
praying to God for power to dissuade him from the horrible
purpose he entertained, I expostulated with him for a long time,
and in the most supplicating manner, begging him in the name of
every thing which he held sacred, and urging him by every species
of argument which the extremity of the case suggested, to abandon
the idea, and not to mention it to either of the other two.
He heard all I said without attempting to controvert any of my
arguments, and I had begun to hope that he would be prevailed
upon to do as I desired. But when I had ceased speaking, he said
that he knew very well all I had said was true, and that to
resort to such a course was the most horrible alternative which
could enter into the mind of man; but that he had now held out as
long as human nature could be sustained; that it was unnecessary
for all to perish, when, by the death of one, it was possible,
and even probable, that the rest might be finally preserved;
adding that I might save myself the trouble of trying to turn him
from his purpose, his mind having been thoroughly made up on the
subject even before the appearance of the ship, and that only her
heaving in sight had prevented him from mentioning his intention
at an earlier period.
I now begged him, if he would not be prevailed upon to abandon
his design, at least to defer it for another day, when some
vessel might come to our relief; again reiterating every argument
I could devise, and which I thought likely to have influence with
one of his rough nature. He said, in reply, that he had not
spoken until the very last possible moment, that he could exist
no longer without sustenance of some kind, and that therefore in
another day his suggestion would be too late, as regarded himself
at least.
Finding that he was not to be moved by anything I could say in a
mild tone, I now assumed a different demeanor, and told him that
he must be aware I had suffered less than any of us from our
calamities; that my health and strength, consequently, were at
that moment far better than his own, or than that either of
Peters or Augustus; in short, that I was in a condition to have
my own way by force if I found it necessary; and that if he
attempted in any manner to acquaint the others with his bloody
and cannibal designs, I would not hesitate to throw him into the
sea. Upon this he immediately seized me by the throat, and
drawing a knife, made several ineffectual efforts to stab me in
the stomach; an atrocity which his excessive debility alone
prevented him from accomplishing. In the meantime, being roused
to a high pitch of anger, I forced him to the vessel’s side, with
the full intention of throwing him overboard. He was saved from
his fate, however, by the interference of Peters, who now
approached and separated us, asking the cause of the disturbance.
This Parker told before I could find means in any manner to
prevent him.
The effect of his words was even more terrible than what I had
anticipated. Both Augustus and Peters, who, it seems, had long
secretly entertained the same fearful idea which Parker had been
merely the first to broach, joined with him in his design and
insisted upon its immediately being carried into effect. I had
calculated that one at least of the two former would be found
still possessed of sufficient strength of mind to side with
myself in resisting any attempt to execute so dreadful a purpose,
and, with the aid of either one of them, I had no fear of being
able to prevent its accomplishment. Being disappointed in this
expectation, it became absolutely necessary that I should attend
to my own safety, as a further resistance on my part might
possibly be considered by men in their frightful condition a
sufficient excuse for refusing me fair play in the tragedy that I
knew would speedily be enacted.
I now told them I was willing to submit to the proposal, merely
requesting a delay of about one hour, in order that the fog which
had gathered around us might have an opportunity of lifting, when
it was possible that the ship we had seen might be again in
sight. After great difficulty I obtained from them a promise to
wait thus long; and, as I had anticipated (a breeze rapidly
coming in), the fog lifted before the hour had expired, when, no
vessel appearing in sight, we prepared to draw lots.
It is with extreme reluctance that I dwell upon the appalling
scene which ensued; a scene which, with its minutest details, no
after events have been able to efface in the slightest degree
from my memory, and whose stern recollection will embitter every
future moment of my existence. Let me run over this portion of my
narrative with as much haste as the nature of the events to be
spoken of will permit. The only method we could devise for the
terrific lottery, in which we were to take each a chance, was
that of drawing straws. Small splinters of wood were made to
answer our purpose, and it was agreed that I should be the
holder. I retired to one end of the hulk, while my poor
companions silently took up their station in the other with their
backs turned toward me. The bitterest anxiety which I endured at
any period of this fearful drama was while I occupied myself in
the arrangement of the lots. There are few conditions into which
man can possibly fall where he will not feel a deep interest in
the preservation of his existence; an interest momentarily
increasing with the frailness of the tenure by which that
existence may be held. But now that the silent, definite, and
stern nature of the business in which I was engaged (so different
from the tumultuous dangers of the storm or the gradually
approaching horrors of famine) allowed me to reflect on the few
chances I had of escaping the most appalling of deaths—a death
for the most appalling of purposes—every particle of that energy
which had so long buoyed me up departed like feathers before the
wind, leaving me a helpless prey to the most abject and pitiable
terror. I could not, at first, even summon up sufficient strength
to tear and fit together the small splinters of wood, my fingers
absolutely refusing their office, and my knees knocking violently
against each other. My mind ran over rapidly a thousand absurd
projects by which to avoid becoming a partner in the awful
speculation. I thought of falling on my knees to my companions,
and entreating them to let me escape this necessity; of suddenly
rushing upon them, and, by putting one of them to death, of
rendering the decision by lot useless—in short, of every thing
but of going through with the matter I had in hand. At last,
after wasting a long time in this imbecile conduct, I was
recalled to my senses by the voice of Parker, who urged me to
relieve them at once from the terrible anxiety they were
enduring. Even then I could not bring myself to arrange the
splinters upon the spot, but thought over every species of
finesse by which I could trick some one of my fellow-sufferers to
draw the short straw, as it had been agreed that whoever drew the
shortest of four splinters from my hand was to die for the
preservation of the rest. Before any one condemn me for this
apparent heartlessness, let him be placed in a situation
precisely similar to my own.
At length delay was no longer possible, and, with a heart almost
bursting from my bosom, I advanced to the region of the
forecastle, where my companions were awaiting me. I held out my
hand with the splinters, and Peters immediately drew. He was
free—his, at least, was not the shortest; and there was now
another chance against my escape. I summoned up all my strength,
and passed the lots to Augustus. He also drew immediately, and he
also was free; and now, whether I should live or die, the chances
were no more than precisely even. At this moment all the
fierceness of the tiger possessed my bosom, and I felt toward my
poor fellow-creature, Parker, the most intense, the most
diabolical hatred. But the feeling did not last; and, at length,
with a convulsive shudder and closed eyes, I held out the two
remaining splinters toward him. It was fully five minutes before
he could summon resolution to draw, during which period of
heartrending suspense I never once opened my eyes. Presently one
of the two lots was quickly drawn from my hand. The decision was
then over, yet I knew not whether it was for me or against me. No
one spoke, and still I dared not satisfy myself by looking at the
splinter I held. Peters at length took me by the hand, and I
forced myself to look up, when I immediately saw by the
countenance of Parker that I was safe, and that he it was who had
been doomed to suffer. Gasping for breath, I fell senseless to
the deck.
I recovered from my swoon in time to behold the consummation of
the tragedy in the death of him who had been chiefly instrumental
in bringing it about. He made no resistance whatever, and was
stabbed in the back by Peters, when he fell instantly dead. I
must not dwell upon the fearful repast which immediately ensued.
Such things may be imagined, but words have no power to impress
the mind with the exquisite horror of their reality. Let it
suffice to say that, having in some measure appeased the raging
thirst which consumed us by the blood of the victim, and having
by common consent taken off the hands, feet, and head, throwing
them together with the entrails, into the sea, we devoured the
rest of the body, piecemeal, during the four ever memorable days
of the seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth of the
month.
On the nineteenth, there coming on a smart shower which lasted
fifteen or twenty minutes, we contrived to catch some water by
means of a sheet which had been fished up from the cabin by our
drag just after the gale. The quantity we took in all did not
amount to more than half a gallon; but even this scanty allowance
supplied us with comparative strength and hope.
On the twenty-first we were again reduced to the last necessity.
The weather still remained warm and pleasant, with occasional
fogs and light breezes, most usually from N. to W.
On the twenty-second, as we were sitting close huddled together,
gloomily revolving over our lamentable condition, there flashed
through my mind all at once an idea which inspired me with a
bright gleam of hope. I remembered that, when the foremast had
been cut away, Peters, being in the windward chains, passed one
of the axes into my hand, requesting me to put it, if possible,
in a place of security, and that a few minutes before the last
heavy sea struck the brig and filled her I had taken this axe
into the forecastle and laid it in one of the larboard berths. I
now thought it possible that, by getting at this axe, we might
cut through the deck over the storeroom, and thus readily supply
ourselves with provisions.
When I communicated this object to my companions, they uttered a
feeble shout of joy, and we all proceeded forthwith to the
forecastle. The difficulty of descending here was greater than
that of going down in the cabin, the opening being much smaller,
for it will be remembered that the whole framework about the
cabin companion-hatch had been carried away, whereas the
forecastle-way, being a simple hatch of only about three feet
square, had remained uninjured. I did not hesitate, however, to
attempt the descent; and a rope being fastened round my body as
before, I plunged boldly in, feet foremost, made my way quickly
to the berth, and at the first attempt brought up the axe. It was
hailed with the most ecstatic joy and triumph, and the ease with
which it had been obtained was regarded as an omen of our
ultimate preservation.
We now commenced cutting at the deck with all the energy of
rekindled hope, Peters and myself taking the axe by turns,
Augustus’s wounded arm not permitting him to aid us in any
degree. As we were still so feeble as to be scarcely able to
stand unsupported, and could consequently work but a minute or
two without resting, it soon became evident that many long hours
would be necessary to accomplish our task—that is, to cut an
opening sufficiently large to admit of a free access to the
storeroom. This consideration, however, did not discourage us;
and, working all night by the light of the moon, we succeeded in
effecting our purpose by daybreak on the morning of the
twenty-third.
Peters now volunteered to go down; and, having made all
arrangements as before, he descended, and soon returned bringing
up with him a small jar, which, to our great joy, proved to be
full of olives. Having shared these among us, and devoured them
with the greatest avidity, we proceeded to let him down again.
This time he succeeded beyond our utmost expectations, returning
instantly with a large ham and a bottle of Madeira wine. Of the
latter we each took a moderate sup, having learned by experience
the pernicious consequences of indulging too freely. The ham,
except about two pounds near the bone, was not in a condition to
be eaten, having been entirely spoiled by the salt water. The
sound part was divided among us. Peters and Augustus, not being
able to restrain their appetite, swallowed theirs upon the
instant; but I was more cautious, and ate but a small portion of
mine, dreading the thirst which I knew would ensue. We now rested
a while from our labors, which had been intolerably severe.
By noon, feeling somewhat strengthened and refreshed, we again
renewed our attempt at getting up provisions, Peters and myself
going down alternately, and always with more or less success,
until sundown. During this interval we had the good fortune to
bring up, altogether, four more small jars of olives, another
ham, a carboy containing nearly three gallons of excellent Cape
Madeira wine, and, what gave us still more delight, a small
tortoise of the Gallipago breed, several of which had been taken
on board by Captain Barnard, as the _Grampus_ was leaving port,
from the schooner _Mary Pitts_, just returned from a sealing
voyage in the Pacific.
In a subsequent portion of this narrative I shall have frequent
occasion to mention this species of tortoise. It is found
principally, as most of my readers may know, in the group of
islands called the Gallipagos, which, indeed, derive their name
from the animal—the Spanish word Gallipago meaning a fresh-water
terrapin. From the peculiarity of their shape and action they
have been sometimes called the elephant tortoise. They are
frequently found of an enormous size. I have myself seen several
which would weigh from twelve to fifteen hundred pounds, although
I do not remember that any navigator speaks of having seen them
weighing more than eight hundred. Their appearance is singular,
and even disgusting. Their steps are very slow, measured, and
heavy, their bodies being carried about a foot from the ground.
Their neck is long, and exceedingly slender, from eighteen inches
to two feet is a very common length, and I killed one, where the
distance from the shoulder to the extremity of the head was no
less than three feet ten inches. The head has a striking
resemblance to that of a serpent. They can exist without food for
an almost incredible length of time, instances having been known
where they have been thrown into the hold of a vessel and lain
two years without nourishment of any kind—being as fat, and, in
every respect, in as good order at the expiration of the time as
when they were first put in. In one particular these
extraordinary animals bear a resemblance to the dromedary, or
camel of the desert. In a bag at the root of the neck they carry
with them a constant supply of water. In some instances, upon
killing them after a full year’s deprivation of all nourishment,
as much as three gallons of perfectly sweet and fresh water have
been found in their bags. Their food is chiefly wild parsley and
celery, with purslain, sea-kelp, and prickly pears, upon which
latter vegetable they thrive wonderfully, a great quantity of it
being usually found on the hillsides near the shore wherever the
animal itself is discovered. They are excellent and highly
nutritious food, and have, no doubt, been the means of preserving
the lives of thousands of seamen employed in the whale-fishery
and other pursuits in the Pacific.
The one which we had the good fortune to bring up from the
storeroom was not of a large size, weighing probably sixty-five
or seventy pounds. It was a female, and in excellent condition,
being exceedingly fat, and having more than a quart of limpid and
sweet water in its bag. This was indeed a treasure; and, falling
on our knees with one accord, we returned fervent thanks to God
for so seasonable a relief.
We had great difficulty in getting the animal up through the
opening, as its struggles were fierce and its strength
prodigious. It was upon the point of making its escape from
Peter’s grasp, and slipping back into the water, when Augustus,
throwing a rope with a slipknot around its throat, held it up in
this manner until I jumped into the hole by the side of Peters,
and assisted him in lifting it out.
The water we drew carefully from the bag into the jug; which, it
will be remembered, had been brought up before from the cabin.
Having done this, we broke off the neck of a bottle so as to
form, with the cork, a kind of glass, holding not quite half a
gill. We then each drank one of these measures full, and resolved
to limit ourselves to this quantity per day as long as it should
hold out.
During the last two or three days, the weather having been dry
and pleasant, the bedding we had obtained from the cabin, as well
as our clothing, had become thoroughly dry, so that we passed
this night (that of the twenty-third) in comparative comfort,
enjoying a tranquil repose, after having supped plentifully on
olives and ham, with a small allowance of the wine. Being afraid
of losing some of our stores overboard during the night, in the
event of a breeze springing up, we secured them as well as
possible with cordage to the fragments of the windlass. Our
tortoise, which we were anxious to preserve alive as long as we
could, we threw on its back, and otherwise carefully fastened.
CHAPTER 13
July 24. This morning saw us wonderfully recruited in spirits and
strength. Notwithstanding the perilous situation in which we were
still placed, ignorant of our position, although certainly at a
great distance from land, without more food than would last us
for a fortnight even with great care, almost entirely without
water, and floating about at the mercy of every wind and wave on
the merest wreck in the world, still the infinitely more terrible
distresses and dangers from which we had so lately and so
providentially been delivered caused us to regard what we now
endured as but little more than an ordinary evil—so strictly
comparative is either good or ill.
At sunrise we were preparing to renew our attempts at getting up
something from the storeroom, when, a smart shower coming on,
with some lightning, we turn our attention to the catching of
water by means of the sheet we had used before for this purpose.
We had no other means of collecting the rain than by holding the
sheet spread out with one of the forechain-plates in the middle
of it. The water, thus conducted to the centre, was drained
through into our jug. We had nearly filled it in this manner,
when, a heavy squall coming on from the northward, obliged us to
desist, as the hulk began once more to roll so violently that we
could no longer keep our feet. We now went forward, and, lashing
ourselves securely to the remnant of the windlass as before,
awaited the event with far more calmness than could have been
anticipated or would have been imagined possible under the
circumstances. At noon the wind had freshened into a two-reef
breeze, and by night into a stiff gale, accompanied with a
tremendously heavy swell. Experience having taught us, however,
the best method of arranging our lashings, we weathered this
dreary night in tolerable security, although thoroughly drenched
at almost every instant by the sea, and in momentary dread of
being washed off. Fortunately, the weather was so warm as to
render the water rather grateful than otherwise.
July 25. This morning the gale had diminished to a mere ten-knot
breeze, and the sea had gone down with it so considerably that we
were able to keep ourselves dry upon the deck. To our great
grief, however, we found that two jars of our olives, as well as
the whole of our ham, had been washed overboard, in spite of the
careful manner in which they had been fastened. We determined not
to kill the tortoise as yet, and contented ourselves for the
present with a breakfast on a few of the olives, and a measure of
water each, which latter we mixed half and half, with wine,
finding great relief and strength from the mixture, without the
distressing intoxication which had ensued upon drinking the port.
The sea was still far too rough for the renewal of our efforts at
getting up provision from the storeroom. Several articles, of no
importance to us in our present situation, floated up through the
opening during the day, and were immediately washed overboard. We
also now observed that the hulk lay more along than ever, so that
we could not stand an instant without lashing ourselves. On this
account we passed a gloomy and uncomfortable day. At noon the sun
appeared to be nearly vertical, and we had no doubt that we had
been driven down by the long succession of northward and
northwesterly winds into the near vicinity of the equator. Toward
evening we saw several sharks, and were somewhat alarmed by the
audacious manner in which an enormously large one approached us.
At one time, a lurch throwing the deck very far beneath the
water, the monster actually swam in upon us, floundering for some
moments just over the companion-hatch, and striking Peters
violently with his tail. A heavy sea at length hurled him
overboard, much to our relief. In moderate weather we might have
easily captured him.
July 26. This morning, the wind having greatly abated, and the
sea not being very rough, we determined to renew our exertions in
the storeroom. After a great deal of hard labor during the whole
day, we found that nothing further was to be expected from this
quarter, the partitions of the room having been stove during the
night, and its contents swept into the hold. This discovery, as
may be supposed, filled us with despair.
July 27. The sea nearly smooth, with a light wind, and still from
the northward and westward. The sun coming out hotly in the
afternoon, we occupied ourselves in drying our clothes. Found
great relief from thirst, and much comfort otherwise, by bathing
in the sea; in this, however, we were forced to use great
caution, being afraid of sharks, several of which were seen
swimming around the brig during the day.
July 28. Good weather still. The brig now began to lie along so
alarmingly that we feared she would eventually roll bottom up.
Prepared ourselves as well as we could for this emergency,
lashing our tortoise, waterjug, and two remaining jars of olives
as far as possible over to the windward, placing them outside the
hull below the main-chains. The sea very smooth all day, with
little or no wind.
July 29. A continuance of the same weather. Augustus’s wounded
arm began to evince symptoms of mortification. He complained of
drowsiness and excessive thirst, but no acute pain. Nothing could
be done for his relief beyond rubbing his wounds with a little of
the vinegar from the olives, and from this no benefit seemed to
be experienced. We did every thing in our power for his comfort,
and trebled his allowance of water.
July 30. An excessively hot day, with no wind. An enormous shark
kept close by the hulk during the whole of the forenoon. We made
several unsuccessful attempts to capture him by means of a noose.
Augustus much worse, and evidently sinking as much from want of
proper nourishment as from the effect of his wounds. He
constantly prayed to be relieved from his sufferings, wishing for
nothing but death. This evening we ate the last of our olives,
and found the water in our jug so putrid that we could not
swallow it at all without the addition of wine. Determined to
kill our tortoise in the morning.
July 31. After a night of excessive anxiety and fatigue, owing to
the position of the hulk, we set about killing and cutting up our
tortoise. He proved to be much smaller than we had supposed,
although in good condition,—the whole meat about him not
amounting to more than ten pounds. With a view of preserving a
portion of this as long as possible, we cut it into fine pieces,
and filled with them our three remaining olive jars and the
wine-bottle (all of which had been kept), pouring in afterward
the vinegar from the olives. In this manner we put away about
three pounds of the tortoise, intending not to touch it until we
had consumed the rest. We concluded to restrict ourselves to
about four ounces of the meat per day; the whole would thus last
us thirteen days. A brisk shower, with severe thunder and
lightning, came on about dusk, but lasted so short a time that we
only succeeded in catching about half a pint of water. The whole
of this, by common consent, was given to Augustus, who now
appeared to be in the last extremity. He drank the water from the
sheet as we caught it (we holding it above him as he lay so as to
let it run into his mouth), for we had now nothing left capable
of holding water, unless we had chosen to empty out our wine from
the carboy, or the stale water from the jug. Either of these
expedients would have been resorted to had the shower lasted.
The sufferer seemed to derive but little benefit from the
draught. His arm was completely black from the wrist to the
shoulder, and his feet were like ice. We expected every moment to
see him breathe his last. He was frightfully emaciated; so much
so that, although he weighed a hundred and twenty-seven pounds
upon his leaving Nantucket, he now did not weigh more than forty
or fifty at the farthest. His eyes were sunk far in his head,
being scarcely perceptible, and the skin of his cheeks hung so
loosely as to prevent his masticating any food, or even
swallowing any liquid, without great difficulty.
August 1. A continuance of the same calm weather, with an
oppressively hot sun. Suffered exceedingly from thirst, the water
in the jug being absolutely putrid and swarming with vermin. We
contrived, nevertheless, to swallow a portion of it by mixing it
with wine; our thirst, however, was but little abated. We found
more relief by bathing in the sea, but could not avail ourselves
of this expedient except at long intervals, on account of the
continual presence of sharks. We now saw clearly that Augustus
could not be saved; that he was evidently dying. We could do
nothing to relieve his sufferings, which appeared to be great.
About twelve o’clock he expired in strong convulsions, and
without having spoken for several hours. His death filled us with
the most gloomy forebodings, and had so great an effect upon our
spirits that we sat motionless by the corpse during the whole
day, and never addressed each other except in a whisper. It was
not until some time after dark that we took courage to get up and
throw the body overboard. It was then loathsome beyond
expression, and so far decayed that, as Peters attempted to lift
it, an entire leg came off in his grasp. As the mass of
putrefaction slipped over the vessel’s side into the water, the
glare of phosphoric light with which it was surrounded plainly
discovered to us seven or eight large sharks, the clashing of
whose horrible teeth, as their prey was torn to pieces among
them, might have been heard at the distance of a mile. We shrunk
within ourselves in the extremity of horror at the sound.
August 2. The same fearfully calm and hot weather. The dawn found
us in a state of pitiable dejection as well as bodily exhaustion.
The water in the jug was now absolutely useless, being a thick
gelatinous mass; nothing but frightful-looking worms mingled with
slime. We threw it out, and washed the jug well in the sea,
afterward pouring a little vinegar in it from our bottles of
pickled tortoise. Our thirst could now scarcely be endured, and
we tried in vain to relieve it by wine, which seemed only to add
fuel to the flame, and excited us to a high degree of
intoxication. We afterward endeavoured to relieve our sufferings
by mixing the wine with seawater; but this instantly brought
about the most violent retchings, so that we never again
attempted it. During the whole day we anxiously sought an
opportunity of bathing, but to no purpose; for the hulk was now
entirely besieged on all sides with sharks—no doubt the identical
monsters who had devoured our poor companion on the evening
before, and who were in momentary expectation of another similar
feast. This circumstance occasioned us the most bitter regret and
filled us with the most depressing and melancholy forebodings. We
had experienced indescribable relief in bathing, and to have this
resource cut off in so frightful a manner was more than we could
bear. Nor, indeed, were we altogether free from the apprehension
of immediate danger, for the least slip or false movement would
have thrown us at once within reach of those voracious fish, who
frequently thrust themselves directly upon us, swimming up to
leeward. No shouts or exertions on our part seemed to alarm them.
Even when one of the largest was struck with an axe by Peters and
much wounded, he persisted in his attempts to push in where we
were. A cloud came up at dusk, but, to our extreme anguish,
passed over without discharging itself. It is quite impossible to
conceive our sufferings from thirst at this period. We passed a
sleepless night, both on this account and through dread of the
sharks.
August 3. No prospect of relief, and the brig lying still more
and more along, so that now we could not maintain a footing upon
deck at all. Busied ourselves in securing our wine and
tortoise-meat, so that we might not lose them in the event of our
rolling over. Got out two stout spikes from the forechains, and,
by means of the axe, drove them into the hull to windward within
a couple of feet of the water, this not being very far from the
keel, as we were nearly upon our beam-ends. To these spikes we
now lashed our provisions, as being more secure than their former
position beneath the chains. Suffered great agony from thirst
during the whole day—no chance of bathing on account of the
sharks, which never left us for a moment. Found it impossible to
sleep.
August 4. A little before daybreak we perceived that the hulk was
heeling over, and aroused ourselves to prevent being thrown off
by the movement. At first the roll was slow and gradual, and we
contrived to clamber over to windward very well, having taken the
precaution to leave ropes hanging from the spikes we had driven
in for the provision. But we had not calculated sufficiently upon
the acceleration of the impetus; for, presently the heel became
too violent to allow of our keeping pace with it; and, before
either of us knew what was to happen, we found ourselves hurled
furiously into the sea, and struggling several fathoms beneath
the surface, with the huge hull immediately above us.
In going under the water I had been obliged to let go my hold
upon the rope; and finding that I was completely beneath the
vessel, and my strength nearly exhausted, I scarcely made a
struggle for life, and resigned myself, in a few seconds, to die.
But here again I was deceived, not having taken into
consideration the natural rebound of the hull to windward. The
whirl of the water upward, which the vessel occasioned in rolling
partially back, brought me to the surface still more violently
than I had been plunged beneath. Upon coming up I found myself
about twenty yards from the hulk, as near as I could judge. She
was lying keel up, rocking furiously from side to side, and the
sea in all directions around was much agitated, and full of
strong whirlpools. I could see nothing of Peters. An oil-cask was
floating within a few feet of me, and various other articles from
the brig were scattered about.
My principal terror was now on account of the sharks, which I
knew to be in my vicinity. In order to deter these, if possible,
from approaching me, I splashed the water vigorously with both
hands and feet as I swam towards the hulk, creating a body of
foam. I have no doubt that to this expedient, simple as it was, I
was indebted for my preservation; for the sea all round the brig,
just before her rolling over, was so crowded with these monsters,
that I must have been, and really was, in actual contact with
some of them during my progress. By great good fortune, however,
I reached the side of the vessel in safety, although so utterly
weakened by the violent exertion I had used that I should never
have been able to get upon it but for the timely assistance of
Peters, who, now, to my great joy, made his appearance (having
scrambled up to the keel from the opposite side of the hull), and
threw me the end of a rope—one of those which had been attached
to the spikes.
Having barely escaped this danger, our attention was now directed
to the dreadful imminency of another—that of absolute starvation.
Our whole stock of provision had been swept overboard in spite of
all our care in securing it; and seeing no longer the remotest
possibility of obtaining more, we gave way both of us to despair,
weeping aloud like children, and neither of us attempting to
offer consolation to the other. Such weakness can scarcely be
conceived, and to those who have never been similarly situated
will, no doubt, appear unnatural; but it must be remembered that
our intellects were so entirely disordered by the long course of
privation and terror to which we had been subjected, that we
could not justly be considered, at that period, in the light of
rational beings. In subsequent perils, nearly as great, if not
greater, I bore up with fortitude against all the evils of my
situation, and Peters, it will be seen, evinced a stoical
philosophy nearly as incredible as his present childlike
supineness and imbecility—the mental condition made the
difference.
The overturning of the brig, even with the consequent loss of the
wine and turtle, would not, in fact, have rendered our situation
more deplorable than before, except for the disappearance of the
bedclothes by which we had been hitherto enabled to catch
rainwater, and of the jug in which we had kept it when caught;
for we found the whole bottom, from within two or three feet of
the bends as far as the keel, together with the keel itself,
thickly covered with large barnacles, which proved to be
excellent and highly nutritious food. Thus, in two important
respects, the accident we had so greatly dreaded proved to be a
benefit rather than an injury; it had opened to us a supply of
provisions which we could not have exhausted, using it
moderately, in a month; and it had greatly contributed to our
comfort as regards position, we being much more at ease, and in
infinitely less danger, than before.
The difficulty, however, of now obtaining water blinded us to all
the benefits of the change in our condition. That we might be
ready to avail ourselves, as far as possible, of any shower which
might fall we took off our shirts, to make use of them as we had
of the sheets—not hoping, of course, to get more in this way,
even under the most favorable circumstances, than half a gill at
a time. No signs of a cloud appeared during the day, and the
agonies of our thirst were nearly intolerable. At night, Peters
obtained about an hour’s disturbed sleep, but my intense
sufferings would not permit me to close my eyes for a single
moment.
August 5. To-day, a gentle breeze springing up carried us through
a vast quantity of seaweed, among which we were so fortunate as
to find eleven small crabs, which afforded us several delicious
meals. Their shells being quite soft, we ate them entire, and
found that they irritated our thirst far less than the barnacles.
Seeing no trace of sharks among the seaweed, we also ventured to
bathe, and remained in the water for four or five hours, during
which we experienced a very sensible diminution of our thirst.
Were greatly refreshed, and spent the night somewhat more
comfortably than before, both of us snatching a little sleep.
August 6. This day we were blessed by a brisk and continual rain,
lasting from about noon until after dark. Bitterly did we now
regret the loss of our jug and carboy; for, in spite of the
little means we had of catching the water, we might have filled
one, if not both of them. As it was, we contrived to satisfy the
cravings of thirst by suffering the shirts to become saturated,
and then wringing them so as to let the grateful fluid trickle
into our mouths. In this occupation we passed the entire day.
August 7. Just at daybreak we both at the same instant descried a
sail to the eastward, and _evidently coming towards us!_ We
hailed the glorious sight with a long, although feeble shout of
rapture; and began instantly to make every signal in our power,
by flaring the shirts in the air, leaping as high as our weak
condition would permit, and even by hallooing with all the
strength of our lungs, although the vessel could not have been
less than fifteen miles distant. However, she still continued to
near our hulk, and we felt that, if she but held her present
course, she must eventually come so close as to perceive us. In
about an hour after we first discovered her, we could clearly see
the people on her decks. She was a long, low, and rakish-looking
topsail schooner, with a black ball in her foretopsail, and had,
apparently, a full crew. We now became alarmed, for we could
hardly imagine it possible that she did not observe us, and were
apprehensive that she meant to leave us to perish as we were—an
act of fiendish barbarity, which, however incredible it may
appear, has been repeatedly perpetuated at sea, under
circumstances very nearly similar, and by beings who were
regarded as belonging to the human species. {*2} In this
instance, however, by the mercy of God, we were destined to be
most happily deceived; for, presently we were aware of a sudden
commotion on the deck of the stranger, who immediately afterward
ran up a British flag, and, hauling her wind, bore up directly
upon us. In half an hour more we found ourselves in her cabin.
She proved to be the Jane Guy, of Liverpool, Captain Guy, bound
on a sealing and trading voyage to the South Seas and Pacific.
CHAPTER 14
The _Jane Guy_ was a fine-looking topsail schooner of a hundred
and eighty tons burden. She was unusually sharp in the bows, and
on a wind, in moderate weather, the fastest sailer I have ever
seen. Her qualities, however, as a rough sea-boat, were not so
good, and her draught of water was by far too great for the trade
to which she was destined. For this peculiar service, a larger
vessel, and one of a light proportionate draught, is
desirable—say a vessel of from three hundred to three hundred and
fifty tons. She should be bark-rigged, and in other respects of a
different construction from the usual South Sea ships. It is
absolutely necessary that she should be well armed. She should
have, say ten or twelve twelve-pound carronades, and two or three
long twelves, with brass blunderbusses, and water-tight
arm-chests for each top. Her anchors and cables should be of far
greater strength than is required for any other species of trade,
and, above all, her crew should be numerous and efficient—not
less, for such a vessel as I have described, than fifty or sixty
able-bodied men. The Jane Guy had a crew of thirty-five, all able
seamen, besides the captain and mate, but she was not altogether
as well armed or otherwise equipped, as a navigator acquainted
with the difficulties and dangers of the trade could have
desired.
Captain Guy was a gentleman of great urbanity of manner, and of
considerable experience in the southern traffic, to which he had
devoted a great portion of his life. He was deficient, however,
in energy, and, consequently, in that spirit of enterprise which
is here so absolutely requisite. He was part owner of the vessel
in which he sailed, and was invested with discretionary powers to
cruise in the South Seas for any cargo which might come most
readily to hand. He had on board, as usual in such voyages,
beads, looking-glasses, tinder-works, axes, hatchets, saws,
adzes, planes, chisels, gouges, gimlets, files, spokeshaves,
rasps, hammers, nails, knives, scissors, razors, needles, thread,
crockery-ware, calico, trinkets, and other similar articles.
The schooner sailed from Liverpool on the tenth of July, crossed
the Tropic of Cancer on the twenty-fifth, in longitude twenty
degrees west, and reached Sal, one of the Cape Verd islands, on
the twenty-ninth, where she took in salt and other necessaries
for the voyage. On the third of August, she left the Cape Verds
and steered southwest, stretching over toward the coast of
Brazil, so as to cross the equator between the meridians of
twenty-eight and thirty degrees west longitude. This is the
course usually taken by vessels bound from Europe to the Cape of
Good Hope, or by that route to the East Indies. By proceeding
thus they avoid the calms and strong contrary currents which
continually prevail on the coast of Guinea, while, in the end, it
is found to be the shortest track, as westerly winds are never
wanting afterward by which to reach the Cape. It was Captain
Guy’s intention to make his first stoppage at Kerguelen’s Land—I
hardly know for what reason. On the day we were picked up the
schooner was off Cape St. Roque, in longitude thirty-one degrees
west; so that, when found, we had drifted probably, from north to
south, _not less than five-and-twenty degrees!_
On board the Jane Guy we were treated with all the kindness our
distressed situation demanded. In about a fortnight, during which
time we continued steering to the southeast, with gentle breezes
and fine weather, both Peters and myself recovered entirely from
the effects of our late privation and dreadful sufferings, and we
began to remember what had passed rather as a frightful dream
from which we had been happily awakened, than as events which had
taken place in sober and naked reality. I have since found that
this species of partial oblivion is usually brought about by
sudden transition, whether from joy to sorrow or from sorrow to
joy—the degree of forgetfulness being proportioned to the degree
of difference in the exchange. Thus, in my own case, I now feel
it impossible to realize the full extent of the misery which I
endured during the days spent upon the hulk. The incidents are
remembered, but not the feelings which the incidents elicited at
the time of their occurrence. I only know, that when they did
occur, I then thought human nature could sustain nothing more of
agony.
We continued our voyage for some weeks without any incidents of
greater moment than the occasional meeting with whaling-ships,
and more frequently with the black or right whale, so called in
contradistinction to the spermaceti. These, however, were chiefly
found south of the twenty-fifth parallel. On the sixteenth of
September, being in the vicinity of the Cape of Good Hope, the
schooner encountered her first gale of any violence since leaving
Liverpool. In this neighborhood, but more frequently to the south
and east of the promontory (we were to the westward), navigators
have often to contend with storms from the northward, which rage
with great fury. They always bring with them a heavy sea, and one
of their most dangerous features is the instantaneous chopping
round of the wind, an occurrence almost certain to take place
during the greatest force of the gale. A perfect hurricane will
be blowing at one moment from the northward or northeast, and in
the next not a breath of wind will be felt in that direction,
while from the southwest it will come out all at once with a
violence almost inconceivable. A bright spot to the southward is
the sure forerunner of the change, and vessels are thus enabled
to take the proper precautions.
It was about six in the morning when the blow came on with a
white squall, and, as usual, from the northward. By eight it had
increased very much, and brought down upon us one of the most
tremendous seas I had then ever beheld. Every thing had been made
as snug as possible, but the schooner laboured excessively, and
gave evidence of her bad qualities as a seaboat, pitching her
forecastle under at every plunge and with the greatest difficulty
struggling up from one wave before she was buried in another.
Just before sunset the bright spot for which we had been on the
look-out made its appearance in the southwest, and in an hour
afterward we perceived the little headsail we carried flapping
listlessly against the mast. In two minutes more, in spite of
every preparation, we were hurled on our beam-ends, as if by
magic, and a perfect wilderness of foam made a clear breach over
us as we lay. The blow from the southwest, however, luckily
proved to be nothing more than a squall, and we had the good
fortune to right the vessel without the loss of a spar. A heavy
cross sea gave us great trouble for a few hours after this, but
toward morning we found ourselves in nearly as good condition as
before the gale. Captain Guy considered that he had made an
escape little less than miraculous.
On the thirteenth of October we came in sight of Prince Edward’s
Island, in latitude 46 degrees 53’ S., longitude 37 degrees 46’
E. Two days afterward we found ourselves near Possession Island,
and presently passed the islands of Crozet, in latitude 42
degrees 59’ S., longitude 48 degrees E. On the eighteenth we made
Kerguelen’s or Desolation Island, in the Southern Indian Ocean,
and came to anchor in Christmas Harbour, having four fathoms of
water.
This island, or rather group of islands, bears southeast from the
Cape of Good Hope, and is distant therefrom nearly eight hundred
leagues. It was first discovered in 1772, by the Baron de
Kergulen, or Kerguelen, a Frenchman, who, thinking the land to
form a portion of an extensive southern continent carried home
information to that effect, which produced much excitement at the
time. The government, taking the matter up, sent the baron back
in the following year for the purpose of giving his new discovery
a critical examination, when the mistake was discovered. In 1777,
Captain Cook fell in with the same group, and gave to the
principal one the name of Desolation Island, a title which it
certainly well deserves. Upon approaching the land, however, the
navigator might be induced to suppose otherwise, as the sides of
most of the hills, from September to March, are clothed with very
brilliant verdure. This deceitful appearance is caused by a small
plant resembling saxifrage, which is abundant, growing in large
patches on a species of crumbling moss. Besides this plant there
is scarcely a sign of vegetation on the island, if we except some
coarse rank grass near the harbor, some lichen, and a shrub which
bears resemblance to a cabbage shooting into seed, and which has
a bitter and acrid taste.
The face of the country is hilly, although none of the hills can
be called lofty. Their tops are perpetually covered with snow.
There are several harbors, of which Christmas Harbour is the most
convenient. It is the first to be met with on the northeast side
of the island after passing Cape Francois, which forms the
northern shore, and, by its peculiar shape, serves to distinguish
the harbour. Its projecting point terminates in a high rock,
through which is a large hole, forming a natural arch. The
entrance is in latitude 48 degrees 40’ S., longitude 69 degrees
6’ E. Passing in here, good anchorage may be found under the
shelter of several small islands, which form a sufficient
protection from all easterly winds. Proceeding on eastwardly from
this anchorage you come to Wasp Bay, at the head of the harbour.
This is a small basin, completely landlocked, into which you can
go with four fathoms, and find anchorage in from ten to three,
hard clay bottom. A ship might lie here with her best bower ahead
all the year round without risk. To the westward, at the head of
Wasp Bay, is a small stream of excellent water, easily procured.
Some seal of the fur and hair species are still to be found on
Kerguelen’s Island, and sea elephants abound. The feathered
tribes are discovered in great numbers. Penguins are very plenty,
and of these there are four different kinds. The royal penguin,
so called from its size and beautiful plumage, is the largest.
The upper part of the body is usually gray, sometimes of a lilac
tint; the under portion of the purest white imaginable. The head
is of a glossy and most brilliant black, the feet also. The chief
beauty of plumage, however, consists in two broad stripes of a
gold color, which pass along from the head to the breast. The
bill is long, and either pink or bright scarlet. These birds walk
erect; with a stately carriage. They carry their heads high with
their wings drooping like two arms, and, as their tails project
from their body in a line with the legs, the resemblance to a
human figure is very striking, and would be apt to deceive the
spectator at a casual glance or in the gloom of the evening. The
royal penguins which we met with on Kerguelen’s Land were rather
larger than a goose. The other kinds are the macaroni, the
jackass, and the rookery penguin. These are much smaller, less
beautiful in plumage, and different in other respects.
Besides the penguin many other birds are here to be found, among
which may be mentioned sea-hens, blue peterels, teal, ducks, Port
Egmont hens, shags, Cape pigeons, the nelly, sea swallows, terns,
sea gulls, Mother Carey’s chickens, Mother Carey’s geese, or the
great peterel, and, lastly, the albatross.
The great peterel is as large as the common albatross, and is
carnivorous. It is frequently called the break-bones, or osprey
peterel. They are not at all shy, and, when properly cooked, are
palatable food. In flying they sometimes sail very close to the
surface of the water, with the wings expanded, without appearing
to move them in the least degree, or make any exertion with them
whatever.
The albatross is one of the largest and fiercest of the South Sea
birds. It is of the gull species, and takes its prey on the wing,
never coming on land except for the purpose of breeding. Between
this bird and the penguin the most singular friendship exists.
Their nests are constructed with great uniformity upon a plan
concerted between the two species—that of the albatross being
placed in the centre of a little square formed by the nests of
four penguins. Navigators have agreed in calling an assemblage of
such encampments a rookery. These rookeries have been often
described, but as my readers may not all have seen these
descriptions, and as I shall have occasion hereafter to speak of
the penguin and albatross, it will not be amiss to say something
here of their mode of building and living.
When the season for incubation arrives, the birds assemble in
vast numbers, and for some days appear to be deliberating upon
the proper course to be pursued. At length they proceed to
action. A level piece of ground is selected, of suitable extent,
usually comprising three or four acres, and situated as near the
sea as possible, being still beyond its reach. The spot is chosen
with reference to its evenness of surface, and that is preferred
which is the least encumbered with stones. This matter being
arranged, the birds proceed, with one accord, and actuated
apparently by one mind, to trace out, with mathematical accuracy,
either a square or other parallelogram, as may best suit the
nature of the ground, and of just sufficient size to accommodate
easily all the birds assembled, and no more—in this particular
seeming determined upon preventing the access of future
stragglers who have not participated in the labor of the
encampment. One side of the place thus marked out runs parallel
with the water’s edge, and is left open for ingress or egress.
Having defined the limits of the rookery, the colony now begin to
clear it of every species of rubbish, picking up stone by stone,
and carrying them outside of the lines, and close by them, so as
to form a wall on the three inland sides. Just within this wall a
perfectly level and smooth walk is formed, from six to eight feet
wide, and extending around the encampment—thus serving the
purpose of a general promenade.
The next process is to partition out the whole area into small
squares exactly equal in size. This is done by forming narrow
paths, very smooth, and crossing each other at right angles
throughout the entire extent of the rookery. At each intersection
of these paths the nest of an albatross is constructed, and a
penguin’s nest in the centre of each square—thus every penguin is
surrounded by four albatrosses, and each albatross by a like
number of penguins. The penguin’s nest consists of a hole in the
earth, very shallow, being only just of sufficient depth to keep
her single egg from rolling. The albatross is somewhat less
simple in her arrangements, erecting a hillock about a foot high
and two in diameter. This is made of earth, seaweed, and shells.
On its summit she builds her nest.
The birds take especial care never to leave their nests
unoccupied for an instant during the period of incubation, or,
indeed, until the young progeny are sufficiently strong to take
care of themselves. While the male is absent at sea in search of
food, the female remains on duty, and it is only upon the return
of her partner that she ventures abroad. The eggs are never left
uncovered at all—while one bird leaves the nest the other
nestling in by its side. This precaution is rendered necessary by
the thieving propensities prevalent in the rookery, the
inhabitants making no scruple to purloin each other’s eggs at
every good opportunity.
Although there are some rookeries in which the penguin and
albatross are the sole population, yet in most of them a variety
of oceanic birds are to be met with, enjoying all the privileges
of citizenship, and scattering their nests here and there,
wherever they can find room, never interfering, however, with the
stations of the larger species. The appearance of such
encampments, when seen from a distance, is exceedingly singular.
The whole atmosphere just above the settlement is darkened with
the immense number of the albatross (mingled with the smaller
tribes) which are continually hovering over it, either going to
the ocean or returning home. At the same time a crowd of penguins
are to be observed, some passing to and fro in the narrow alleys,
and some marching with the military strut so peculiar to them,
around the general promenade ground which encircles the rookery.
In short, survey it as we will, nothing can be more astonishing
than the spirit of reflection evinced by these feathered beings,
and nothing surely can be better calculated to elicit reflection
in every well-regulated human intellect.
On the morning after our arrival in Christmas Harbour the chief
mate, Mr. Patterson, took the boats, and (although it was
somewhat early in the season) went in search of seal, leaving the
captain and a young relation of his on a point of barren land to
the westward, they having some business, whose nature I could not
ascertain, to transact in the interior of the island. Captain Guy
took with him a bottle, in which was a sealed letter, and made
his way from the point on which he was set on shore toward one of
the highest peaks in the place. It is probable that his design
was to leave the letter on that height for some vessel which he
expected to come after him. As soon as we lost sight of him we
proceeded (Peters and myself being in the mate’s boat) on our
cruise around the coast, looking for seal. In this business we
were occupied about three weeks, examining with great care every
nook and corner, not only of Kerguelen’s Land, but of the several
small islands in the vicinity. Our labours, however, were not
crowned with any important success. We saw a great many fur seal,
but they were exceedingly shy, and with the greatest exertions,
we could only procure three hundred and fifty skins in all. Sea
elephants were abundant, especially on the western coast of the
mainland, but of these we killed only twenty, and this with great
difficulty. On the smaller islands we discovered a good many of
the hair seal, but did not molest them. We returned to the
schooner on the eleventh, where we found Captain Guy and his
nephew, who gave a very bad account of the interior, representing
it as one of the most dreary and utterly barren countries in the
world. They had remained two nights on the island, owing to some
misunderstanding, on the part of the second mate, in regard to
the sending a jollyboat from the schooner to take them off.
CHAPTER 15
On the twelfth we made sail from Christmas Harbour retracing our
way to the westward, and leaving Marion’s Island, one of Crozet’s
group, on the larboard. We afterward passed Prince Edward’s
Island, leaving it also on our left, then, steering more to the
northward, made, in fifteen days, the islands of Tristan
d’Acunha, in latitude 37 degrees 8’ S, longitude 12 degrees 8’ W.
This group, now so well known, and which consists of three
circular islands, was first discovered by the Portuguese, and was
visited afterward by the Dutch in 1643, and by the French in
1767. The three islands together form a triangle, and are distant
from each other about ten miles, there being fine open passages
between. The land in all of them is very high, especially in
Tristan d’Acunha, properly so called. This is the largest of the
group, being fifteen miles in circumference, and so elevated that
it can be seen in clear weather at the distance of eighty or
ninety miles. A part of the land toward the north rises more than
a thousand feet perpendicularly from the sea. A tableland at this
height extends back nearly to the centre of the island, and from
this tableland arises a lofty cone like that of Teneriffe. The
lower half of this cone is clothed with trees of good size, but
the upper region is barren rock, usually hidden among the clouds,
and covered with snow during the greater part of the year. There
are no shoals or other dangers about the island, the shores being
remarkably bold and the water deep. On the northwestern coast is
a bay, with a beach of black sand where a landing with boats can
be easily effected, provided there be a southerly wind. Plenty of
excellent water may here be readily procured; also cod and other
fish may be taken with hook and line.
The next island in point of size, and the most westwardly of the
group, is that called the Inaccessible. Its precise situation is
37 degrees 17’ S. latitude, longitude 12 degrees 24’ W. It is
seven or eight miles in circumference, and on all sides presents
a forbidding and precipitous aspect. Its top is perfectly flat,
and the whole region is sterile, nothing growing upon it except a
few stunted shrubs.
Nightingale Island, the smallest and most southerly, is in
latitude 37 degrees 26’ S., longitude 12 degrees 12’ W. Off its
southern extremity is a high ledge of rocky islets; a few also of
a similar appearance are seen to the northeast. The ground is
irregular and sterile, and a deep valley partially separates it.
The shores of these islands abound, in the proper season, with
sea lions, sea elephants, the hair and fur seal, together with a
great variety of oceanic birds. Whales are also plenty in their
vicinity. Owing to the ease with which these various animals were
here formerly taken, the group has been much visited since its
discovery. The Dutch and French frequented it at a very early
period. In 1790, Captain Patten, of the ship Industry, of
Philadelphia, made Tristan d’Acunha, where he remained seven
months (from August, 1790, to April, 1791) for the purpose of
collecting sealskins. In this time he gathered no less than five
thousand six hundred, and says that he would have had no
difficulty in loading a large ship with oil in three weeks. Upon
his arrival he found no quadrupeds, with the exception of a few
wild goats; the island now abounds with all our most valuable
domestic animals, which have been introduced by subsequent
navigators.
I believe it was not long after Captain Patten’s visit that
Captain Colquhoun, of the American brig Betsey, touched at the
largest of the islands for the purpose of refreshment. He planted
onions, potatoes, cabbages, and a great many other vegetables, an
abundance of all which is now to be met with.
In 1811, a Captain Haywood, in the Nereus, visited Tristan. He
found there three Americans, who were residing upon the island to
prepare sealskins and oil. One of these men was named Jonathan
Lambert, and he called himself the sovereign of the country. He
had cleared and cultivated about sixty acres of land, and turned
his attention to raising the coffee-plant and sugar-cane, with
which he had been furnished by the American Minister at Rio
Janeiro. This settlement, however, was finally abandoned, and in
1817 the islands were taken possession of by the British
Government, who sent a detachment for that purpose from the Cape
of Good Hope. They did not, however, retain them long; but, upon
the evacuation of the country as a British possession, two or
three English families took up their residence there
independently of the Government. On the twenty-fifth of March,
1824, the Berwick, Captain Jeffrey, from London to Van Diemen’s
Land, arrived at the place, where they found an Englishman of the
name of Glass, formerly a corporal in the British artillery. He
claimed to be supreme governor of the islands, and had under his
control twenty-one men and three women. He gave a very favourable
account of the salubrity of the climate and of the productiveness
of the soil. The population occupied themselves chiefly in
collecting sealskins and sea elephant oil, with which they traded
to the Cape of Good Hope, Glass owning a small schooner. At the
period of our arrival the governor was still a resident, but his
little community had multiplied, there being fifty-six persons
upon Tristan, besides a smaller settlement of seven on
Nightingale Island. We had no difficulty in procuring almost
every kind of refreshment which we required—sheep, hogs,
bullocks, rabbits, poultry, goats, fish in great variety, and
vegetables were abundant. Having come to anchor close in with the
large island, in eighteen fathoms, we took all we wanted on board
very conveniently. Captain Guy also purchased of Glass five
hundred sealskins and some ivory. We remained here a week, during
which the prevailing winds were from the northward and westward,
and the weather somewhat hazy. On the fifth of November we made
sail to the southward and westward, with the intention of having
a thorough search for a group of islands called the Auroras,
respecting whose existence a great diversity of opinion has
existed.
These islands are said to have been discovered as early as 1762,
by the commander of the ship Aurora. In 1790, Captain Manuel de
Oyarvido, in the ship Princess, belonging to the Royal Philippine
Company, sailed, as he asserts, directly among them. In 1794, the
Spanish corvette Atrevida went with the determination of
ascertaining their precise situation, and, in a paper published
by the Royal Hydrographical Society of Madrid in the year 1809,
the following language is used respecting this expedition: “The
corvette Atrevida practised, in their immediate vicinity, from
the twenty-first to the twenty-seventh of January, all the
necessary observations, and measured by chronometers the
difference of longitude between these islands and the port of
Soledad in the Manillas. The islands are three, they are very
nearly in the same meridian; the centre one is rather low, and
the other two may be seen at nine leagues’ distance.” The
observations made on board the Atrevida give the following
results as the precise situation of each island. The most
northern is in latitude 52 degrees 37’ 24” S., longitude 47
degrees, 43’ 15” W.; the middle one in latitude 53 degrees 2’ 40”
S., longitude 47 degrees 55’ 15” W.; and the most southern in
latitude 53 degrees 15’ 22” S., longitude 47 degrees 57’ 15” W.
On the twenty-seventh of January, 1820, Captain James Weddel, of
the British navy, sailed from Staten Land also in search of the
Auroras. He reports that, having made the most diligent search
and passed not only immediately over the spots indicated by the
commander of the Atrevida, but in every direction throughout the
vicinity of these spots, he could discover no indication of land.
These conflicting statements have induced other navigators to
look out for the islands; and, strange to say, while some have
sailed through every inch of sea where they are supposed to lie
without finding them, there have been not a few who declare
positively that they have seen them; and even been close in with
their shores. It was Captain Guy’s intention to make every
exertion within his power to settle the question so oddly in
dispute. {*3}
We kept on our course, between the south and west, with variable
weather, until the twentieth of the month, when we found
ourselves on the debated ground, being in latitude 53 degrees 15’
S., longitude 47 degrees 58’ W.—that is to say, very nearly upon
the spot indicated as the situation of the most southern of the
group. Not perceiving any sign of land, we continued to the
westward of the parallel of fifty-three degrees south, as far as
the meridian of fifty degrees west. We then stood to the north as
far as the parallel of fifty-two degrees south, when we turned to
the eastward, and kept our parallel by double altitudes, morning
and evening, and meridian altitudes of the planets and moon.
Having thus gone eastwardly to the meridian of the western coast
of Georgia, we kept that meridian until we were in the latitude
from which we set out. We then took diagonal courses throughout
the entire extent of sea circumscribed, keeping a lookout
constantly at the masthead, and repeating our examination with
the greatest care for a period of three weeks, during which the
weather was remarkably pleasant and fair, with no haze
whatsoever. Of course we were thoroughly satisfied that, whatever
islands might have existed in this vicinity at any former period,
no vestige of them remained at the present day. Since my return
home I find that the same ground was traced over, with equal
care, in 1822, by Captain Johnson, of the American schooner
Henry, and by Captain Morrell in the American schooner Wasp—in
both cases with the same result as in our own.
CHAPTER 16
It had been Captain Guy’s original intention, after satisfying
himself about the Auroras, to proceed through the Strait of
Magellan, and up along the western coast of Patagonia; but
information received at Tristan d’Acunha induced him to steer to
the southward, in the hope of falling in with some small islands
said to lie about the parallel of 60 degrees S., longitude 41
degrees 20’ W. In the event of his not discovering these lands,
he designed, should the season prove favourable, to push on
toward the pole. Accordingly, on the twelfth of December, we made
sail in that direction. On the eighteenth we found ourselves
about the station indicated by Glass, and cruised for three days
in that neighborhood without finding any traces of the islands he
had mentioned. On the twenty-first, the weather being unusually
pleasant, we again made sail to the southward, with the
resolution of penetrating in that course as far as possible.
Before entering upon this portion of my narrative, it may be as
well, for the information of those readers who have paid little
attention to the progress of discovery in these regions, to give
some brief account of the very few attempts at reaching the
southern pole which have hitherto been made.
That of Captain Cook was the first of which we have any distinct
account. In 1772 he sailed to the south in the Resolution,
accompanied by Lieutenant Furneaux in the Adventure. In December
he found himself as far as the fifty-eighth parallel of south
latitude, and in longitude 26 degrees 57’ E. Here he met with
narrow fields of ice, about eight or ten inches thick, and
running northwest and southeast. This ice was in large cakes, and
usually it was packed so closely that the vessel had great
difficulty in forcing a passage. At this period Captain Cook
supposed, from the vast number of birds to be seen, and from
other indications, that he was in the near vicinity of land. He
kept on to the southward, the weather being exceedingly cold,
until he reached the sixty-fourth parallel, in longitude 38
degrees 14’ E. Here he had mild weather, with gentle breezes, for
five days, the thermometer being at thirty-six. In January, 1773,
the vessels crossed the Antarctic circle, but did not succeed in
penetrating much farther; for upon reaching latitude 67 degrees
15’ they found all farther progress impeded by an immense body of
ice, extending all along the southern horizon as far as the eye
could reach. This ice was of every variety—and some large floes
of it, miles in extent, formed a compact mass, rising eighteen or
twenty feet above the water. It being late in the season, and no
hope entertained of rounding these obstructions, Captain Cook now
reluctantly turned to the northward.
In the November following he renewed his search in the Antarctic.
In latitude 59 degrees 40’ he met with a strong current setting
to the southward. In December, when the vessels were in latitude
67 degrees 31’, longitude 142 degrees 54’ W., the cold was
excessive, with heavy gales and fog. Here also birds were
abundant; the albatross, the penguin, and the peterel especially.
In latitude 70 degrees 23’ some large islands of ice were
encountered, and shortly afterward the clouds to the southward
were observed to be of a snowy whiteness, indicating the vicinity
of field ice. In latitude 71 degrees 10’, longitude 106 degrees
54’ W., the navigators were stopped, as before, by an immense
frozen expanse, which filled the whole area of the southern
horizon. The northern edge of this expanse was ragged and broken,
so firmly wedged together as to be utterly impassible, and
extending about a mile to the southward. Behind it the frozen
surface was comparatively smooth for some distance, until
terminated in the extreme background by gigantic ranges of ice
mountains, the one towering above the other. Captain Cook
concluded that this vast field reached the southern pole or was
joined to a continent. Mr. J. N. Reynolds, whose great exertions
and perseverance have at length succeeded in getting set on foot
a national expedition, partly for the purpose of exploring these
regions, thus speaks of the attempt of the Resolution. “We are
not surprised that Captain Cook was unable to go beyond 71
degrees 10’, but we are astonished that he did attain that point
on the meridian of 106 degrees 54’ west longitude. Palmer’s Land
lies south of the Shetland, latitude sixty-four degrees, and
tends to the southward and westward farther than any navigator
has yet penetrated. Cook was standing for this land when his
progress was arrested by the ice; which, we apprehend, must
always be the case in that point, and so early in the season as
the sixth of January—and we should not be surprised if a portion
of the icy mountains described was attached to the main body of
Palmer’s Land, or to some other portions of land lying farther to
the southward and westward.”
In 1803, Captains Kreutzenstern and Lisiausky were dispatched by
Alexander of Russia for the purpose of circumnavigating the
globe. In endeavouring to get south, they made no farther than 59
degrees 58’, in longitude 70 degrees 15’ W. They here met with
strong currents setting eastwardly. Whales were abundant, but
they saw no ice. In regard to this voyage, Mr. Reynolds observes
that, if Kreutzenstern had arrived where he did earlier in the
season, he must have encountered ice—it was March when he reached
the latitude specified. The winds, prevailing, as they do, from
the southward and westward, had carried the floes, aided by
currents, into that icy region bounded on the north by Georgia,
east by Sandwich Land and the South Orkneys, and west by the
South Shetland islands.
In 1822, Captain James Weddell, of the British navy, with two
very small vessels, penetrated farther to the south than any
previous navigator, and this, too, without encountering
extraordinary difficulties. He states that although he was
frequently hemmed in by ice before reaching the seventy-second
parallel, yet, upon attaining it, not a particle was to be
discovered, and that, upon arriving at the latitude of 74 degrees
15’, no fields, and only three islands of ice were visible. It is
somewhat remarkable that, although vast flocks of birds were
seen, and other usual indications of land, and although, south of
the Shetlands, unknown coasts were observed from the masthead
tending southwardly, Weddell discourages the idea of land
existing in the polar regions of the south.
On the 11th of January, 1823, Captain Benjamin Morrell, of the
American schooner Wasp, sailed from Kerguelen’s Land with a view
of penetrating as far south as possible. On the first of February
he found himself in latitude 64 degrees 52’ S., longitude 118
degrees 27’ E. The following passage is extracted from his
journal of that date. “The wind soon freshened to an eleven-knot
breeze, and we embraced this opportunity of making to the west;
being however convinced that the farther we went south beyond
latitude sixty-four degrees, the less ice was to be apprehended,
we steered a little to the southward, until we crossed the
Antarctic circle, and were in latitude 69 degrees 15’ E. In this
latitude there was no field ice, and very few ice islands in
sight.”
Under the date of March fourteenth I find also this entry. “The
sea was now entirely free of field ice, and there were not more
than a dozen ice islands in sight. At the same time the
temperature of the air and water was at least thirteen degrees
higher (more mild) than we had ever found it between the
parallels of sixty and sixty-two south. We were now in latitude
70 degrees 14’ S., and the temperature of the air was
forty-seven, and that of the water forty-four. In this situation
I found the variation to be 14 degrees 27’ easterly, per
azimuth.... I have several times passed within the Antarctic
circle, on different meridians, and have uniformly found the
temperature, both of the air and the water, to become more and
more mild the farther I advanced beyond the sixty-fifth degree of
south latitude, and that the variation decreases in the same
proportion. While north of this latitude, say between sixty and
sixty-five south, we frequently had great difficulty in finding a
passage for the vessel between the immense and almost innumerable
ice islands, some of which were from one to two miles in
circumference, and more than five hundred feet above the surface
of the water.”
Being nearly destitute of fuel and water, and without proper
instruments, it being also late in the season, Captain Morrell
was now obliged to put back, without attempting any further
progress to the westward, although an entirely open, sea lay
before him. He expresses the opinion that, had not these
overruling considerations obliged him to retreat, he could have
penetrated, if not to the pole itself, at least to the
eighty-fifth parallel. I have given his ideas respecting these
matters somewhat at length, that the reader may have an
opportunity of seeing how far they were borne out by my own
subsequent experience.
In 1831, Captain Briscoe, in the employ of the Messieurs Enderby,
whale-ship owners of London, sailed in the brig Lively for the
South Seas, accompanied by the cutter Tula. On the twenty-eighth
of February, being in latitude 66 degrees 30’ S., longitude 47
degrees 31’ E., he descried land, and “clearly discovered through
the snow the black peaks of a range of mountains running E. S.
E.” He remained in this neighbourhood during the whole of the
following month, but was unable to approach the coast nearer than
within ten leagues, owing to the boisterous state of the weather.
Finding it impossible to make further discovery during this
season, he returned northward to winter in Van Diemen’s Land.
In the beginning of 1832 he again proceeded southwardly, and on
the fourth of February land was seen to the southeast in latitude
67 degrees 15’ longitude 69 degrees 29’ W. This was soon found to
be an island near the headland of the country he had first
discovered. On the twenty-first of the month he succeeded in
landing on the latter, and took possession of it in the name of
William IV, calling it Adelaide’s Island, in honour of the
English queen. These particulars being made known to the Royal
Geographical Society of London, the conclusion was drawn by that
body “that there is a continuous tract of land extending from 47
degrees 30’ E. to 69 degrees 29’ W. longitude, running the
parallel of from sixty-six to sixty-seven degrees south
latitude.” In respect to this conclusion Mr. Reynolds observes:
“In the correctness of it we by no means concur; nor do the
discoveries of Briscoe warrant any such indifference. It was
within these limits that Weddel proceeded south on a meridian to
the east of Georgia, Sandwich Land, and the South Orkney and
Shetland islands.” My own experience will be found to testify
most directly to the falsity of the conclusion arrived at by the
society.
These are the principal attempts which have been made at
penetrating to a high southern latitude, and it will now be seen
that there remained, previous to the voyage of the Jane, nearly
three hundred degrees of longitude in which the Antarctic circle
had not been crossed at all. Of course a wide field lay before us
for discovery, and it was with feelings of most intense interest
that I heard Captain Guy express his resolution of pushing boldly
to the southward.
CHAPTER 17
We kept our course southwardly for four days after giving up the
search for Glass’s islands, without meeting with any ice at all.
On the twenty-sixth, at noon, we were in latitude 63 degrees 23’
S., longitude 41 degrees 25’ W. We now saw several large ice
islands, and a floe of field ice, not, however, of any great
extent. The winds generally blew from the southeast, or the
northeast, but were very light. Whenever we had a westerly wind,
which was seldom, it was invariably attended with a rain squall.
Every day we had more or less snow. The thermometer, on the
twenty-seventh stood at thirty-five.
January 1, 1828.—This day we found ourselves completely hemmed in
by the ice, and our prospects looked cheerless indeed. A strong
gale blew, during the whole forenoon, from the northeast, and
drove large cakes of the drift against the rudder and counter
with such violence that we all trembled for the consequences.
Toward evening, the gale still blowing with fury, a large field
in front separated, and we were enabled, by carrying a press of
sail to force a passage through the smaller flakes into some open
water beyond. As we approached this space we took in sail by
degrees, and having at length got clear, lay-to under a single
reefed foresail.
January 2.—We had now tolerably pleasant weather. At noon we
found ourselves in latitude 69 degrees 10’ S, longitude 42
degrees 20’ W, having crossed the Antarctic circle. Very little
ice was to be seen to the southward, although large fields of it
lay behind us. This day we rigged some sounding gear, using a
large iron pot capable of holding twenty gallons, and a line of
two hundred fathoms. We found the current setting to the north,
about a quarter of a mile per hour. The temperature of the air
was now about thirty-three. Here we found the variation to be 14
degrees 28’ easterly, per azimuth.
January 5.—We had still held on to the southward without any very
great impediments. On this morning, however, being in latitude 73
degrees 15’ E., longitude 42 degrees 10’ W, we were again brought
to a stand by an immense expanse of firm ice. We saw,
nevertheless, much open water to the southward, and felt no doubt
of being able to reach it eventually. Standing to the eastward
along the edge of the floe, we at length came to a passage of
about a mile in width, through which we warped our way by
sundown. The sea in which we now were was thickly covered with
ice islands, but had no field ice, and we pushed on boldly as
before. The cold did not seem to increase, although we had snow
very frequently, and now and then hail squalls of great violence.
Immense flocks of the albatross flew over the schooner this day,
going from southeast to northwest.
January 7.—The sea still remained pretty well open, so that we
had no difficulty in holding on our course. To the westward we
saw some icebergs of incredible size, and in the afternoon passed
very near one whose summit could not have been less than four
hundred fathoms from the surface of the ocean. Its girth was
probably, at the base, three-quarters of a league, and several
streams of water were running from crevices in its sides. We
remained in sight of this island two days, and then only lost it
in a fog.
January 10.—Early this morning we had the misfortune to lose a
man overboard. He was an American named Peter Vredenburgh, a
native of New York, and was one of the most valuable hands on
board the schooner. In going over the bows his foot slipped, and
he fell between two cakes of ice, never rising again. At noon of
this day we were in latitude 78 degrees 30’, longitude 40 degrees
15’ W. The cold was now excessive, and we had hail squalls
continually from the northward and eastward. In this direction
also we saw several more immense icebergs, and the whole horizon
to the eastward appeared to be blocked up with field ice, rising
in tiers, one mass above the other. Some driftwood floated by
during the evening, and a great quantity of birds flew over,
among which were nellies, peterels, albatrosses, and a large bird
of a brilliant blue plumage. The variation here, per azimuth, was
less than it had been previously to our passing the Antarctic
circle.
January 12.—Our passage to the south again looked doubtful, as
nothing was to be seen in the direction of the pole but one
apparently limitless floe, backed by absolute mountains of ragged
ice, one precipice of which arose frowningly above the other. We
stood to the westward until the fourteenth, in the hope of
finding an entrance.
January 14.—This morning we reached the western extremity of the
field which had impeded us, and, weathering it, came to an open
sea, without a particle of ice. Upon sounding with two hundred
fathoms, we here found a current setting southwardly at the rate
of half a mile per hour. The temperature of the air was
forty-seven, that of the water thirty-four. We now sailed to the
southward without meeting any interruption of moment until the
sixteenth, when, at noon, we were in latitude 81 degrees 21’,
longitude 42 degrees W. We here again sounded, and found a
current setting still southwardly, and at the rate of three
quarters of a mile per hour. The variation per azimuth had
diminished, and the temperature of the air was mild and pleasant,
the thermometer being as high as fifty-one. At this period not a
particle of ice was to be discovered. All hands on board now felt
certain of attaining the pole.
January 17.—This day was full of incident. Innumerable flights of
birds flew over us from the southward, and several were shot from
the deck, one of them, a species of pelican, proved to be
excellent eating. About midday a small floe of ice was seen from
the masthead off the larboard bow, and upon it there appeared to
be some large animal. As the weather was good and nearly calm,
Captain Guy ordered out two of the boats to see what it was. Dirk
Peters and myself accompanied the mate in the larger boat. Upon
coming up with the floe, we perceived that it was in the
possession of a gigantic creature of the race of the Arctic bear,
but far exceeding in size the largest of these animals. Being
well armed, we made no scruple of attacking it at once. Several
shots were fired in quick succession, the most of which took
effect, apparently, in the head and body. Nothing discouraged,
however, the monster threw himself from the ice, and swam with
open jaws, to the boat in which were Peters and myself. Owing to
the confusion which ensued among us at this unexpected turn of
the adventure, no person was ready immediately with a second
shot, and the bear had actually succeeded in getting half his
vast bulk across our gunwale, and seizing one of the men by the
small of his back, before any efficient means were taken to repel
him. In this extremity nothing but the promptness and agility of
Peters saved us from destruction. Leaping upon the back of the
huge beast, he plunged the blade of a knife behind the neck,
reaching the spinal marrow at a blow. The brute tumbled into the
sea lifeless, and without a struggle, rolling over Peters as he
fell. The latter soon recovered himself, and a rope being thrown
him, he secured the carcass before entering the boat. We then
returned in triumph to the schooner, towing our trophy behind us.
This bear, upon admeasurement, proved to be full fifteen feet in
his greatest length. His wool was perfectly white, and very
coarse, curling tightly. The eyes were of a blood red, and larger
than those of the Arctic bear, the snout also more rounded,
rather resembling the snout of the bulldog. The meat was tender,
but excessively rank and fishy, although the men devoured it with
avidity, and declared it excellent eating.
Scarcely had we got our prize alongside, when the man at the
masthead gave the joyful shout of “land on the starboard bow!”
All hands were now upon the alert, and, a breeze springing up
very opportunely from the northward and eastward, we were soon
close in with the coast. It proved to be a low rocky islet, of
about a league in circumference, and altogether destitute of
vegetation, if we except a species of prickly pear. In
approaching it from the northward, a singular ledge of rock is
seen projecting into the sea, and bearing a strong resemblance to
corded bales of cotton. Around this ledge to the westward is a
small bay, at the bottom of which our boats effected a convenient
landing.
It did not take us long to explore every portion of the island,
but, with one exception, we found nothing worthy of our
observation. In the southern extremity, we picked up near the
shore, half buried in a pile of loose stones, a piece of wood,
which seemed to have formed the prow of a canoe. There had been
evidently some attempt at carving upon it, and Captain Guy
fancied that he made out the figure of a tortoise, but the
resemblance did not strike me very forcibly. Besides this prow,
if such it were, we found no other token that any living creature
had ever been here before. Around the coast we discovered
occasional small floes of ice—but these were very few. The exact
situation of the islet (to which Captain Guy gave the name of
Bennet’s Islet, in honour of his partner in the ownership of the
schooner) is 82 degrees 50’ S. latitude, 42 degrees 20’ W.
longitude.
We had now advanced to the southward more than eight degrees
farther than any previous navigators, and the sea still lay
perfectly open before us. We found, too, that the variation
uniformly decreased as we proceeded, and, what was still more
surprising, that the temperature of the air, and latterly of the
water, became milder. The weather might even be called pleasant,
and we had a steady but very gentle breeze always from some
northern point of the compass. The sky was usually clear, with
now and then a slight appearance of thin vapour in the southern
horizon—this, however, was invariably of brief duration. Two
difficulties alone presented themselves to our view; we were
getting short of fuel, and symptoms of scurvy had occurred among
several of the crew. These considerations began to impress upon
Captain Guy the necessity of returning, and he spoke of it
frequently. For my own part, confident as I was of soon arriving
at land of some description upon the course we were pursuing, and
having every reason to believe, from present appearances, that we
should not find it the sterile soil met with in the higher Arctic
latitudes, I warmly pressed upon him the expediency of
persevering, at least for a few days longer, in the direction we
were now holding. So tempting an opportunity of solving the great
problem in regard to an Antarctic continent had never yet been
afforded to man, and I confess that I felt myself bursting with
indignation at the timid and ill-timed suggestions of our
commander. I believe, indeed, that what I could not refrain from
saying to him on this head had the effect of inducing him to push
on. While, therefore, I cannot but lament the most unfortunate
and bloody events which immediately arose from my advice, I must
still be allowed to feel some degree of gratification at having
been instrumental, however remotely, in opening to the eye of
science one of the most intensely exciting secrets which has ever
engrossed its attention.
CHAPTER 18
January 18.—This morning {*4} we continued to the southward, with
the same pleasant weather as before. The sea was entirely smooth,
the air tolerably warm and from the northeast, the temperature of
the water fifty-three. We now again got our sounding-gear in
order, and, with a hundred and fifty fathoms of line, found the
current setting toward the pole at the rate of a mile an hour.
This constant tendency to the southward, both in the wind and
current, caused some degree of speculation, and even of alarm, in
different quarters of the schooner, and I saw distinctly that no
little impression had been made upon the mind of Captain Guy. He
was exceedingly sensitive to ridicule, however, and I finally
succeeded in laughing him out of his apprehensions. The variation
was now very trivial. In the course of the day we saw several
large whales of the right species, and innumerable flights of the
albatross passed over the vessel. We also picked up a bush, full
of red berries, like those of the hawthorn, and the carcass of a
singular-looking land-animal. It was three feet in length, and
but six inches in height, with four very short legs, the feet
armed with long claws of a brilliant scarlet, and resembling
coral in substance. The body was covered with a straight silky
hair, perfectly white. The tail was peaked like that of a rat,
and about a foot and a half long. The head resembled a cat’s,
with the exception of the ears—these were flopped like the ears
of a dog. The teeth were of the same brilliant scarlet as the
claws.
January 19.—To-day, being in latitude 83 degrees 20’, longitude
43 degrees 5’ W. (the sea being of an extraordinarily dark
colour), we again saw land from the masthead, and, upon a closer
scrutiny, found it to be one of a group of very large islands.
The shore was precipitous, and the interior seemed to be well
wooded, a circumstance which occasioned us great joy. In about
four hours from our first discovering the land we came to anchor
in ten fathoms, sandy bottom, a league from the coast, as a high
surf, with strong ripples here and there, rendered a nearer
approach of doubtful expediency. The two largest boats were now
ordered out, and a party, well armed (among whom were Peters and
myself), proceeded to look for an opening in the reef which
appeared to encircle the island. After searching about for some
time, we discovered an inlet, which we were entering, when we saw
four large canoes put off from the shore, filled with men who
seemed to be well armed. We waited for them to come up, and, as
they moved with great rapidity, they were soon within hail.
Captain Guy now held up a white handkerchief on the blade of an
oar, when the strangers made a full stop, and commenced a loud
jabbering all at once, intermingled with occasional shouts, in
which we could distinguish the words Anamoo-moo! and Lama-Lama!
They continued this for at least half an hour, during which we
had a good opportunity of observing their appearance.
In the four canoes, which might have been fifty feet long and
five broad, there were a hundred and ten savages in all. They
were about the ordinary stature of Europeans, but of a more
muscular and brawny frame. Their complexion a jet black, with
thick and long woolly hair. They were clothed in skins of an
unknown black animal, shaggy and silky, and made to fit the body
with some degree of skill, the hair being inside, except where
turned out about the neck, wrists, and ankles. Their arms
consisted principally of clubs, of a dark, and apparently very
heavy wood. Some spears, however, were observed among them,
headed with flint, and a few slings. The bottoms of the canoes
were full of black stones about the size of a large egg.
When they had concluded their harangue (for it was clear they
intended their jabbering for such), one of them who seemed to be
the chief stood up in the prow of his canoe, and made signs for
us to bring our boats alongside of him. This hint we pretended
not to understand, thinking it the wiser plan to maintain, if
possible, the interval between us, as their number more than
quadrupled our own. Finding this to be the case, the chief
ordered the three other canoes to hold back, while he advanced
toward us with his own. As soon as he came up with us he leaped
on board the largest of our boats, and seated himself by the side
of Captain Guy, pointing at the same time to the schooner, and
repeating the word Anamoo-moo! and Lama-Lama! We now put back to
the vessel, the four canoes following at a little distance.
Upon getting alongside, the chief evinced symptoms of extreme
surprise and delight, clapping his hands, slapping his thighs and
breast, and laughing obstreperously. His followers behind joined
in his merriment, and for some minutes the din was so excessive
as to be absolutely deafening. Quiet being at length restored,
Captain Guy ordered the boats to be hoisted up, as a necessary
precaution, and gave the chief (whose name we soon found to be
Too-wit) to understand that we could admit no more than twenty of
his men on deck at one time. With this arrangement he appeared
perfectly satisfied, and gave some directions to the canoes, when
one of them approached, the rest remaining about fifty yards off.
Twenty of the savages now got on board, and proceeded to ramble
over every part of the deck, and scramble about among the
rigging, making themselves much at home, and examining every
article with great inquisitiveness.
It was quite evident that they had never before seen any of the
white race—from whose complexion, indeed, they appeared to
recoil. They believed the Jane to be a living creature, and
seemed to be afraid of hurting it with the points of their
spears, carefully turning them up. Our crew were much amused with
the conduct of Too-wit in one instance. The cook was splitting
some wood near the galley, and, by accident, struck his axe into
the deck, making a gash of considerable depth. The chief
immediately ran up, and pushing the cook on one side rather
roughly, commenced a half whine, half howl, strongly indicative
of sympathy in what he considered the sufferings of the schooner,
patting and smoothing the gash with his hand, and washing it from
a bucket of seawater which stood by. This was a degree of
ignorance for which we were not prepared, and for my part I could
not help thinking some of it affected.
When the visitors had satisfied, as well as they could, their
curiosity in regard to our upper works, they were admitted below,
when their amazement exceeded all bounds. Their astonishment now
appeared to be far too deep for words, for they roamed about in
silence, broken only by low ejaculations. The arms afforded them
much food for speculation, and they were suffered to handle and
examine them at leisure. I do not believe that they had the least
suspicion of their actual use, but rather took them for idols,
seeing the care we had of them, and the attention with which we
watched their movements while handling them. At the great guns
their wonder was redoubled. They approached them with every mark
of the profoundest reverence and awe, but forbore to examine them
minutely. There were two large mirrors in the cabin, and here was
the acme of their amazement. Too-wit was the first to approach
them, and he had got in the middle of the cabin, with his face to
one and his back to the other, before he fairly perceived them.
Upon raising his eyes and seeing his reflected self in the glass,
I thought the savage would go mad; but, upon turning short round
to make a retreat, and beholding himself a second time in the
opposite direction, I was afraid he would expire upon the spot.
No persuasion could prevail upon him to take another look;
throwing himself upon the floor, with his face buried in his
hands, he remained thus until we were obliged to drag him upon
deck.
The whole of the savages were admitted on board in this manner,
twenty at a time, Too-wit being suffered to remain during the
entire period. We saw no disposition to thievery among them, nor
did we miss a single article after their departure. Throughout
the whole of their visit they evinced the most friendly manner.
There were, however, some points in their demeanour which we
found it impossible to understand; for example, we could not get
them to approach several very harmless objects—such as the
schooner’s sails, an egg, an open book, or a pan of flour. We
endeavoured to ascertain if they had among them any articles
which might be turned to account in the way of traffic, but found
great difficulty in being comprehended. We made out,
nevertheless, what greatly astonished us, that the islands
abounded in the large tortoise of the Gallipagos, one of which we
saw in the canoe of Too-wit. We saw also some biche de mer in the
hands of one of the savages, who was greedily devouring it in its
natural state. These anomalies—for they were such when considered
in regard to the latitude—induced Captain Guy to wish for a
thorough investigation of the country, in the hope of making a
profitable speculation in his discovery. For my own part, anxious
as I was to know something more of these islands, I was still
more earnestly bent on prosecuting the voyage to the southward
without delay. We had now fine weather, but there was no telling
how long it would last; and being already in the eighty-fourth
parallel, with an open sea before us, a current setting strongly
to the southward, and the wind fair, I could not listen with any
patience to a proposition of stopping longer than was absolutely
necessary for the health of the crew and the taking on board a
proper supply of fuel and fresh provisions. I represented to the
captain that we might easily make this group on our return, and
winter here in the event of being blocked up by the ice. He at
length came into my views (for in some way, hardly known to
myself, I had acquired much influence over him), and it was
finally resolved that, even in the event of our finding biche de
mer, we should only stay here a week to recruit, and then push on
to the southward while we might. Accordingly we made every
necessary preparation, and, under the guidance of Too-wit, got
the Jane through the reef in safety, coming to anchor about a
mile from the shore, in an excellent bay, completely landlocked,
on the southeastern coast of the main island, and in ten fathoms
of water, black sandy bottom. At the head of this bay there were
three fine springs (we were told) of good water, and we saw
abundance of wood in the vicinity. The four canoes followed us
in, keeping, however, at a respectful distance. Too-wit himself
remained on board, and, upon our dropping anchor, invited us to
accompany him on shore, and visit his village in the interior. To
this Captain Guy consented; and ten savages being left on board
as hostages, a party of us, twelve in all, got in readiness to
attend the chief. We took care to be well armed, yet without
evincing any distrust. The schooner had her guns run out, her
boarding-nettings up, and every other proper precaution was taken
to guard against surprise. Directions were left with the chief
mate to admit no person on board during our absence, and, in the
event of our not appearing in twelve hours, to send the cutter,
with a swivel, around the island in search of us.
At every step we took inland the conviction forced itself upon us
that we were in a country differing essentially from any hitherto
visited by civilized men. We saw nothing with which we had been
formerly conversant. The trees resembled no growth of either the
torrid, the temperate, or the northern frigid zones, and were
altogether unlike those of the lower southern latitudes we had
already traversed. The very rocks were novel in their mass, their
color, and their stratification; and the streams themselves,
utterly incredible as it may appear, had so little in common with
those of other climates, that we were scrupulous of tasting them,
and, indeed, had difficulty in bringing ourselves to believe that
their qualities were purely those of nature. At a small brook
which crossed our path (the first we had reached) Too-wit and his
attendants halted to drink. On account of the singular character
of the water, we refused to taste it, supposing it to be
polluted; and it was not until some time afterward we came to
understand that such was the appearance of the streams throughout
the whole group. I am at a loss to give a distinct idea of the
nature of this liquid, and cannot do so without many words.
Although it flowed with rapidity in all declivities where common
water would do so, yet never, except when falling in a cascade,
had it the customary appearance of limpidity. It was,
nevertheless, in point of fact, as perfectly limpid as any
limestone water in existence, the difference being only in
appearance. At first sight, and especially in cases where little
declivity was found, it bore resemblance, as regards consistency,
to a thick infusion of gum arabic in common water. But this was
only the least remarkable of its extraordinary qualities. It was
not colourless, nor was it of any one uniform colour—presenting
to the eye, as it flowed, every possible shade of purple; like
the hues of a changeable silk. This variation in shade was
produced in a manner which excited as profound astonishment in
the minds of our party as the mirror had done in the case of
Too-wit. Upon collecting a basinful, and allowing it to settle
thoroughly, we perceived that the whole mass of liquid was made
up of a number of distinct veins, each of a distinct hue; that
these veins did not commingle; and that their cohesion was
perfect in regard to their own particles among themselves, and
imperfect in regard to neighbouring veins. Upon passing the blade
of a knife athwart the veins, the water closed over it
immediately, as with us, and also, in withdrawing it, all traces
of the passage of the knife were instantly obliterated. If,
however, the blade was passed down accurately between the two
veins, a perfect separation was effected, which the power of
cohesion did not immediately rectify. The phenomena of this water
formed the first definite link in that vast chain of apparent
miracles with which I was destined to be at length encircled.
CHAPTER 19
We were nearly three hours in reaching the village, it being more
than nine miles in the interior, and the path lying through a
rugged country. As we passed along, the party of Too-wit (the
whole hundred and ten savages of the canoes) was momentarily
strengthened by smaller detachments, of from two to six or seven,
which joined us, as if by accident, at different turns of the
road. There appeared so much of system in this that I could not
help feeling distrust, and I spoke to Captain Guy of my
apprehensions. It was now too late, however, to recede, and we
concluded that our best security lay in evincing a perfect
confidence in the good faith of Too-wit. We accordingly went on,
keeping a wary eye upon the manoeuvres of the savages, and not
permitting them to divide our numbers by pushing in between. In
this way, passing through a precipitous ravine, we at length
reached what we were told was the only collection of habitations
upon the island. As we came in sight of them, the chief set up a
shout, and frequently repeated the word Klock-klock, which we
supposed to be the name of the village, or perhaps the generic
name for villages.
The dwellings were of the most miserable description imaginable,
and, unlike those of even the lowest of the savage races with
which mankind are acquainted, were of no uniform plan. Some of
them (and these we found belonged to the Wampoos or Yampoos, the
great men of the land) consisted of a tree cut down at about four
feet from the root, with a large black skin thrown over it, and
hanging in loose folds upon the ground. Under this the savage
nestled. Others were formed by means of rough limbs of trees,
with the withered foliage upon them, made to recline, at an angle
of forty-five degrees, against a bank of clay, heaped up, without
regular form, to the height of five or six feet. Others, again,
were mere holes dug in the earth perpendicularly, and covered
over with similar branches, these being removed when the tenant
was about to enter, and pulled on again when he had entered. A
few were built among the forked limbs of trees as they stood, the
upper limbs being partially cut through, so as to bend over upon
the lower, thus forming thicker shelter from the weather. The
greater number, however, consisted of small shallow caverns,
apparently scratched in the face of a precipitous ledge of dark
stone, resembling fuller’s earth, with which three sides of the
village were bounded. At the door of each of these primitive
caverns was a small rock, which the tenant carefully placed
before the entrance upon leaving his residence, for what purpose
I could not ascertain, as the stone itself was never of
sufficient size to close up more than a third of the opening.
This village, if it were worthy of the name, lay in a valley of
some depth, and could only be approached from the southward, the
precipitous ledge of which I have already spoken cutting off all
access in other directions. Through the middle of the valley ran
a brawling stream of the same magical-looking water which has
been described. We saw several strange animals about the
dwellings, all appearing to be thoroughly domesticated. The
largest of these creatures resembled our common hog in the
structure of the body and snout; the tail, however, was bushy,
and the legs slender as those of the antelope. Its motion was
exceedingly awkward and indecisive, and we never saw it attempt
to run. We noticed also several animals very similar in
appearance, but of a greater length of body, and covered with a
black wool. There were a great variety of tame fowls running
about, and these seemed to constitute the chief food of the
natives. To our astonishment we saw black albatross among these
birds in a state of entire domestication, going to sea
periodically for food, but always returning to the village as a
home, and using the southern shore in the vicinity as a place of
incubation. There they were joined by their friends the pelicans
as usual, but these latter never followed them to the dwellings
of the savages. Among the other kinds of tame fowls were ducks,
differing very little from the canvass-back of our own country,
black gannets, and a large bird not unlike the buzzard in
appearance, but not carnivorous. Of fish there seemed to be a
great abundance. We saw, during our visit, a quantity of dried
salmon, rock cod, blue dolphins, mackerel, blackfish, skate,
conger eels, elephantfish, mullets, soles, parrotfish,
leather-jackets, gurnards, hake, flounders, paracutas, and
innumerable other varieties. We noticed, too, that most of them
were similar to the fish about the group of Lord Auckland
Islands, in a latitude as low as fifty-one degrees south. The
Gallipago tortoise was also very plentiful. We saw but few wild
animals, and none of a large size, or of a species with which we
were familiar. One or two serpents of a formidable aspect crossed
our path, but the natives paid them little attention, and we
concluded that they were not venomous.
As we approached the village with Too-wit and his party, a vast
crowd of the people rushed out to meet us, with loud shouts,
among which we could only distinguish the everlasting Anamoo-moo!
and Lama-Lama! We were much surprised at perceiving that, with
one or two exceptions, these new comers were entirely naked, and
skins being used only by the men of the canoes. All the weapons
of the country seemed also to be in the possession of the latter,
for there was no appearance of any among the villagers. There
were a great many women and children, the former not altogether
wanting in what might be termed personal beauty. They were
straight, tall, and well formed, with a grace and freedom of
carriage not to be found in civilized society. Their lips,
however, like those of the men, were thick and clumsy, so that,
even when laughing, the teeth were never disclosed. Their hair
was of a finer texture than that of the males. Among these naked
villagers there might have been ten or twelve who were clothed,
like the party of Too-wit, in dresses of black skin, and armed
with lances and heavy clubs. These appeared to have great
influence among the rest, and were always addressed by the title
Wampoo. These, too, were the tenants of the black skin palaces.
That of Too-wit was situated in the centre of the village, and
was much larger and somewhat better constructed than others of
its kind. The tree which formed its support was cut off at a
distance of twelve feet or thereabouts from the root, and there
were several branches left just below the cut, these serving to
extend the covering, and in this way prevent its flapping about
the trunk. The covering, too, which consisted of four very large
skins fastened together with wooden skewers, was secured at the
bottom with pegs driven through it and into the ground. The floor
was strewed with a quantity of dry leaves by way of carpet.
To this hut we were conducted with great solemnity, and as many
of the natives crowded in after us as possible. Too-wit seated
himself on the leaves, and made signs that we should follow his
example. This we did, and presently found ourselves in a
situation peculiarly uncomfortable, if not indeed critical. We
were on the ground, twelve in number, with the savages, as many
as forty, sitting on their hams so closely around us that, if any
disturbance had arisen, we should have found it impossible to
make use of our arms, or indeed to have risen to our feet. The
pressure was not only inside the tent, but outside, where
probably was every individual on the whole island, the crowd
being prevented from trampling us to death only by the incessant
exertions and vociferations of Too-wit. Our chief security lay,
however, in the presence of Too-wit himself among us, and we
resolved to stick by him closely, as the best chance of
extricating ourselves from the dilemma, sacrificing him
immediately upon the first appearance of hostile design.
After some trouble a certain degree of quiet was restored, when
the chief addressed us in a speech of great length, and very
nearly resembling the one delivered in the canoes, with the
exception that the Anamoo-moos! were now somewhat more
strenuously insisted upon than the Lama-Lamas! We listened in
profound silence until the conclusion of this harangue, when
Captain Guy replied by assuring the chief of his eternal
friendship and goodwill, concluding what he had to say by a
present of several strings of blue beads and a knife. At the
former the monarch, much to our surprise, turned up his nose with
some expression of contempt, but the knife gave him the most
unlimited satisfaction, and he immediately ordered dinner. This
was handed into the tent over the heads of the attendants, and
consisted of the palpitating entrails of a specialis of unknown
animal, probably one of the slim-legged hogs which we had
observed in our approach to the village. Seeing us at a loss how
to proceed, he began, by way of setting us an example, to devour
yard after yard of the enticing food, until we could positively
stand it no longer, and evinced such manifest symptoms of
rebellion of stomach as inspired his majesty with a degree of
astonishment only inferior to that brought about by the
looking-glasses. We declined, however, partaking of the
delicacies before us, and endeavoured to make him understand that
we had no appetite whatever, having just finished a hearty
dejeuner.
When the monarch had made an end of his meal, we commenced a
series of cross-questioning in every ingenious manner we could
devise, with a view of discovering what were the chief
productions of the country, and whether any of them might be
turned to profit. At length he seemed to have some idea of our
meaning, and offered to accompany us to a part of coast where he
assured us the biche de mer (pointing to a specimen of that
animal) was to be found in great abundance. We were glad of this
early opportunity of escaping from the oppression of the crowd,
and signified our eagerness to proceed. We now left the tent,
and, accompanied by the whole population of the village, followed
the chief to the southeastern extremity of the island, nor far
from the bay where our vessel lay at anchor. We waited here for
about an hour, until the four canoes were brought around by some
of the savages to our station. The whole of our party then
getting into one of them, we were paddled along the edge of the
reef before mentioned, and of another still farther out, where we
saw a far greater quantity of biche de mer than the oldest seamen
among us had ever seen in those groups of the lower latitudes
most celebrated for this article of commerce. We stayed near
these reefs only long enough to satisfy ourselves that we could
easily load a dozen vessels with the animal if necessary, when we
were taken alongside the schooner, and parted with Too-wit, after
obtaining from him a promise that he would bring us, in the
course of twenty-four hours, as many of the canvass-back ducks
and Gallipago tortoises as his canoes would hold. In the whole of
this adventure we saw nothing in the demeanour of the natives
calculated to create suspicion, with the single exception of the
systematic manner in which their party was strengthened during
our route from the schooner to the village.
CHAPTER 20
The chief was as good as his word, and we were soon plentifully
supplied with fresh provisions. We found the tortoises as fine as
we had ever seen, and the ducks surpassed our best species of
wild fowl, being exceedingly tender, juicy, and well-flavoured.
Besides these, the savages brought us, upon our making them
comprehend our wishes, a vast quantity of brown celery and scurvy
grass, with a canoe-load of fresh fish and some dried. The celery
was a treat indeed, and the scurvy grass proved of incalculable
benefit in restoring those of our men who had shown symptoms of
disease. In a very short time we had not a single person on the
sick-list. We had also plenty of other kinds of fresh provisions,
among which may be mentioned a species of shellfish resembling
the mussel in shape, but with the taste of an oyster. Shrimps,
too, and prawns were abundant, and albatross and other birds’
eggs with dark shells. We took in, too, a plentiful stock of the
flesh of the hog which I have mentioned before. Most of the men
found it a palatable food, but I thought it fishy and otherwise
disagreeable. In return for these good things we presented the
natives with blue beads, brass trinkets, nails, knives, and
pieces of red cloth, they being fully delighted in the exchange.
We established a regular market on shore, just under the guns of
the schooner, where our barterings were carried on with every
appearance of good faith, and a degree of order which their
conduct at the village of _Klock-klock_ had not led us to expect
from the savages.
Matters went on thus very amicably for several days, during which
parties of the natives were frequently on board the schooner, and
parties of our men frequently on shore, making long excursions
into the interior, and receiving no molestation whatever. Finding
the ease with which the vessel might be loaded with _biche de
mer_, owing to the friendly disposition of the islanders, and the
readiness with which they would render us assistance in
collecting it, Captain Guy resolved to enter into negotiations
with Too-wit for the erection of suitable houses in which to cure
the article, and for the services of himself and tribe in
gathering as much as possible, while he himself took advantage of
the fine weather to prosecute his voyage to the southward. Upon
mentioning this project to the chief he seemed very willing to
enter into an agreement. A bargain was accordingly struck,
perfectly satisfactory to both parties, by which it was arranged
that, after making the necessary preparations, such as laying off
the proper grounds, erecting a portion of the buildings, and
doing some other work in which the whole of our crew would be
required, the schooner should proceed on her route, leaving three
of her men on the island to superintend the fulfilment of the
project, and instruct the natives in drying the _biche de mer_.
In regard to terms, these were made to depend upon the exertions
of the savages in our absence. They were to receive a stipulated
quantity of blue beads, knives, red cloth, and so forth, for
every certain number of piculs of the _biche de mer_ which should
be ready on our return.
A description of the nature of this important article of
commerce, and the method of preparing it, may prove of some
interest to my readers, and I can find no more suitable place
than this for introducing an account of it. The following
comprehensive notice of the substance is taken from a modern
history of a voyage to the South Seas.
“It is that _mollusca_ from the Indian Seas which is known to
commerce by the French name _bouche de mer_ (a nice morsel from
the sea). If I am not much mistaken, the celebrated Cuvier calls
it _gasteropeda pulmonifera_. It is abundantly gathered in the
coasts of the Pacific islands, and gathered especially for the
Chinese market, where it commands a great price, perhaps as much
as their much-talked-of edible birds’ nests, which are properly
made up of the gelatinous matter picked up by a species of
swallow from the body of these molluscae. They have no shell, no
legs, nor any prominent part, except an _absorbing_ and an
_excretory_, opposite organs; but, by their elastic wings, like
caterpillars or worms, they creep in shallow waters, in which,
when low, they can be seen by a kind of swallow, the sharp bill
of which, inserted in the soft animal, draws a gummy and
filamentous substance, which, by drying, can be wrought into the
solid walls of their nest. Hence the name of _gasteropeda
pulmonifera_.
“This mollusca is oblong, and of different sizes, from three to
eighteen inches in length; and I have seen a few that were not
less than two feet long. They were nearly round, a little
flattish on one side, which lies next to the bottom of the sea;
and they are from one to eight inches thick. They crawl up into
shallow water at particular seasons of the year, probably for the
purpose of gendering, as we often find them in pairs. It is when
the sun has the most power on the water, rendering it tepid, that
they approach the shore; and they often go up into places so
shallow that, on the tide’s receding, they are left dry, exposed
to the beat of the sun. But they do not bring forth their young
in shallow water, as we never see any of their progeny, and
full-grown ones are always observed coming in from deep water.
They feed principally on that class of zoophytes which produce
the coral.
“The _biche de mer_ is generally taken in three or four feet of
water; after which they are brought on shore, and split at one
end with a knife, the incision being one inch or more, according
to the size of the mollusca. Through this opening the entrails
are forced out by pressure, and they are much like those of any
other small tenant of the deep. The article is then washed, and
afterward boiled to a certain degree, which must not be too much
or too little. They are then buried in the ground for four hours,
then boiled again for a short time, after which they are dried,
either by the fire or the sun. Those cured by the sun are worth
the most; but where one picul (133 1/3 lbs.) can be cured that
way, I can cure thirty piculs by the fire. When once properly
cured, they can be kept in a dry place for two or three years
without any risk; but they should be examined once in every few
months, say four times a year, to see if any dampness is likely
to affect them.
“The Chinese, as before stated, consider _biche de mer_ a very
great luxury, believing that it wonderfully strengthens and
nourishes the system, and renews the exhausted system of the
immoderate voluptuary. The first quality commands a high price in
Canton, being worth ninety dollars a picul; the second quality,
seventy-five dollars; the third, fifty dollars; the fourth,
thirty dollars; the fifth, twenty dollars; the sixth, twelve
dollars; the seventh, eight dollars; and the eighth, four
dollars; small cargoes, however, will often bring more in
Manilla, Singapore, and Batavia.”
An agreement having been thus entered into, we proceeded
immediately to land everything necessary for preparing the
buildings and clearing the ground. A large flat space near the
eastern shore of the bay was selected, where there was plenty of
both wood and water, and within a convenient distance of the
principal reefs on which the _biche de mer_ was to be procured.
We now all set to work in good earnest, and soon, to the great
astonishment of the savages, had felled a sufficient number of
trees for our purpose, getting them quickly in order for the
framework of the houses, which in two or three days were so far
under way that we could safely trust the rest of the work to the
three men whom we intended to leave behind. These were John
Carson, Alfred Harris, and ___ Peterson (all natives of London, I
believe), who volunteered their services in this respect.
By the last of the month we had everything in readiness for
departure. We had agreed, however, to pay a formal visit of
leave-taking to the village, and Too-wit insisted so
pertinaciously upon our keeping the promise that we did not think
it advisable to run the risk of offending him by a final refusal.
I believe that not one of us had at this time the slightest
suspicion of the good faith of the savages. They had uniformly
behaved with the greatest decorum, aiding us with alacrity in our
work, offering us their commodities, frequently without price,
and never, in any instance, pilfering a single article, although
the high value they set upon the goods we had with us was evident
by the extravagant demonstrations of joy always manifested upon
our making them a present. The women especially were most
obliging in every respect, and, upon the whole, we should have
been the most suspicious of human beings had we entertained a
single thought of perfidy on the part of a people who treated us
so well. A very short while sufficed to prove that this apparent
kindness of disposition was only the result of a deeply laid plan
for our destruction, and that the islanders for whom we
entertained such inordinate feelings of esteem, were among the
most barbarous, subtle, and bloodthirsty wretches that ever
contaminated the face of the globe.
It was on the first of February that we went on shore for the
purpose of visiting the village. Although, as said before, we
entertained not the slightest suspicion, still no proper
precaution was neglected. Six men were left in the schooner, with
instructions to permit none of the savages to approach the vessel
during our absence, under any pretence whatever, and to remain
constantly on deck. The boarding-nettings were up, the guns
double-shotted with grape and canister, and the swivels loaded
with canisters of musket-balls. She lay, with her anchor apeak,
about a mile from the shore, and no canoe could approach her in
any direction without being distinctly seen and exposed to the
full fire of our swivels immediately.
The six men being left on board, our shore-party consisted of
thirty-two persons in all. We were armed to the teeth, having
with us muskets, pistols, and cutlasses; besides, each had a long
kind of seaman’s knife, somewhat resembling the bowie knife now
so much used throughout our western and southern country. A
hundred of the black skin warriors met us at the landing for the
purpose of accompanying us on our way. We noticed, however, with
some surprise, that they were now entirely without arms; and,
upon questioning Too-wit in relation to this circumstance, he
merely answered that _Mattee non we pa pa si_—meaning that there
was no need of arms where all were brothers. We took this in good
part, and proceeded.
We had passed the spring and rivulet of which I before spoke, and
were now entering upon a narrow gorge leading through the chain
of soapstone hills among which the village was situated. This
gorge was very rocky and uneven, so much so that it was with no
little difficulty we scrambled through it on our first visit to
Klock-klock. The whole length of the ravine might have been a
mile and a half, or probably two miles. It wound in every
possible direction through the hills (having apparently formed,
at some remote period, the bed of a torrent), in no instance
proceeding more than twenty yards without an abrupt turn. The
sides of this dell would have averaged, I am sure, seventy or
eighty feet in perpendicular altitude throughout the whole of
their extent, and in some portions they arose to an astonishing
height, overshadowing the pass so completely that but little of
the light of day could penetrate. The general width was about
forty feet, and occasionally it diminished so as not to allow the
passage of more than five or six persons abreast. In short, there
could be no place in the world better adapted for the
consummation of an ambuscade, and it was no more than natural
that we should look carefully to our arms as we entered upon it.
When I now think of our egregious folly, the chief subject of
astonishment seems to be, that we should have ever ventured,
under any circumstances, so completely into the power of unknown
savages as to permit them to march both before and behind us in
our progress through this ravine. Yet such was the order we
blindly took up, trusting foolishly to the force of our party,
the unarmed condition of Too-wit and his men, the certain
efficacy of our firearms (whose effect was yet a secret to the
natives), and, more than all, to the long-sustained pretension of
friendship kept up by these infamous wretches. Five or six of
them went on before, as if to lead the way, ostentatiously
busying themselves in removing the larger stones and rubbish from
the path. Next came our own party. We walked closely together,
taking care only to prevent separation. Behind followed the main
body of the savages, observing unusual order and decorum.
Dirk Peters, a man named Wilson Allen, and myself were on the
right of our companions, examining, as we went along, the
singular stratification of the precipice which overhung us. A
fissure in the soft rock attracted our attention. It was about
wide enough for one person to enter without squeezing, and
extended back into the hill some eighteen or twenty feet in a
straight course, sloping afterward to the left. The height of the
opening, is far as we could see into it from the main gorge, was
perhaps sixty or seventy feet. There were one or two stunted
shrubs growing from the crevices, bearing a species of filbert
which I felt some curiosity to examine, and pushed in briskly for
that purpose, gathering five or six of the nuts at a grasp, and
then hastily retreating. As I turned, I found that Peters and
Allen had followed me. I desired them to go back, as there was
not room for two persons to pass, saying they should have some of
my nuts. They accordingly turned, and were scrambling back, Allen
being close to the mouth of the fissure, when I was suddenly
aware of a concussion resembling nothing I had ever before
experienced, and which impressed me with a vague conception, if
indeed I then thought of anything, that the whole foundations of
the solid globe were suddenly rent asunder, and that the day of
universal dissolution was at hand.
CHAPTER 21
As soon as I could collect my scattered senses, I found myself
nearly suffocated, and grovelling in utter darkness among a
quantity of loose earth, which was also falling upon me heavily
in every direction, threatening to bury me entirely. Horribly
alarmed at this idea, I struggled to gain my feet, and at last
succeeded. I then remained motionless for some moments,
endeavouring to conceive what had happened to me, and where I
was. Presently I heard a deep groan just at my ear, and afterward
the smothered voice of Peters calling to me for aid in the name
of God. I scrambled one or two paces forward, when I fell
directly over the head and shoulders of my companion, who, I soon
discovered, was buried in a loose mass of earth as far as his
middle, and struggling desperately to free himself from the
pressure. I tore the dirt from around him with all the energy I
could command, and at length succeeded in getting him out.
As soon as we sufficiently recovered from our fright and surprise
to be capable of conversing rationally, we both came to the
conclusion that the walls of the fissure in which we had ventured
had, by some convulsion of nature, or probably from their own
weight, caved in overhead, and that we were consequently lost for
ever, being thus entombed alive. For a long time we gave up
supinely to the most intense agony and despair, such as cannot be
adequately imagined by those who have never been in a similar
position. I firmly believed that no incident ever occurring in
the course of human events is more adapted to inspire the
supremeness of mental and bodily distress than a case like our
own, of living inhumation. The blackness of darkness which
envelops the victim, the terrific oppression of lungs, the
stifling fumes from the damp earth, unite with the ghastly
considerations that we are beyond the remotest confines of hope,
and that such is the allotted portion of the dead, to carry into
the human heart a degree of appalling awe and horror not to be
tolerated—never to be conceived.
At length Peters proposed that we should endeavour to ascertain
precisely the extent of our calamity, and grope about our prison;
it being barely possible, he observed, that some opening might
yet be left us for escape. I caught eagerly at this hope, and,
arousing myself to exertion, attempted to force my way through
the loose earth. Hardly had I advanced a single step before a
glimmer of light became perceptible, enough to convince me that,
at all events, we should not immediately perish for want of air.
We now took some degree of heart, and encouraged each other to
hope for the best. Having scrambled over a bank of rubbish which
impeded our farther progress in the direction of the light, we
found less difficulty in advancing and also experienced some
relief from the excessive oppression of lungs which had tormented
us. Presently we were enabled to obtain a glimpse of the objects
around, and discovered that we were near the extremity of the
straight portion of the fissure, where it made a turn to the
left. A few struggles more, and we reached the bend, when to our
inexpressible joy, there appeared a long seam or crack extending
upward a vast distance, generally at an angle of about forty-five
degrees, although sometimes much more precipitous. We could not
see through the whole extent of this opening; but, as a good deal
of light came down it, we had little doubt of finding at the top
of it (if we could by any means reach the top) a clear passage
into the open air.
I now called to mind that three of us had entered the fissure
from the main gorge, and that our companion, Allen, was still
missing; we determined at once to retrace our steps and look for
him. After a long search, and much danger from the farther caving
in of the earth above us, Peters at length cried out to me that
he had hold of our companion’s foot, and that his whole body was
deeply buried beneath the rubbish beyond the possibility of
extricating him. I soon found that what he said was too true, and
that, of course, life had been long extinct. With sorrowful
hearts, therefore, we left the corpse to its fate, and again made
our way to the bend.
The breadth of the seam was barely sufficient to admit us, and,
after one or two ineffectual efforts at getting up, we began once
more to despair. I have before said that the chain of hills
through which ran the main gorge was composed of a species of
soft rock resembling soapstone. The sides of the cleft we were
now attempting to ascend were of the same material, and so
excessively slippery, being wet, that we could get but little
foothold upon them even in their least precipitous parts; in some
places, where the ascent was nearly perpendicular, the difficulty
was, of course, much aggravated; and, indeed, for some time we
thought insurmountable. We took courage, however, from despair,
and what, by dint of cutting steps in the soft stone with our
bowie knives, and swinging at the risk of our lives, to small
projecting points of a harder species of slaty rock which now and
then protruded from the general mass, we at length reached a
natural platform, from which was perceptible a patch of blue sky,
at the extremity of a thickly-wooded ravine. Looking back now,
with somewhat more leisure, at the passage through which we had
thus far proceeded, we clearly saw from the appearance of its
sides, that it was of late formation, and we concluded that the
concussion, whatever it was, which had so unexpectedly
overwhelmed us, had also, at the same moment, laid open this path
for escape. Being quite exhausted with exertion, and indeed, so
weak that we were scarcely able to stand or articulate, Peters
now proposed that we should endeavour to bring our companions to
the rescue by firing the pistols which still remained in our
girdles—the muskets as well as cutlasses had been lost among the
loose earth at the bottom of the chasm. Subsequent events proved
that, had we fired, we should have sorely repented it, but
luckily a half suspicion of foul play had by this time arisen in
my mind, and we forbore to let the savages know of our
whereabouts.
After having reposed for about an hour, we pushed on slowly up
the ravine, and had gone no great way before we heard a
succession of tremendous yells. At length we reached what might
be called the surface of the ground; for our path hitherto, since
leaving the platform, had lain beneath an archway of high rock
and foliage, at a vast distance overhead. With great caution we
stole to a narrow opening, through which we had a clear sight of
the surrounding country, when the whole dreadful secret of the
concussion broke upon us in one moment and at one view.
The spot from which we looked was not far from the summit of the
highest peak in the range of the soapstone hills. The gorge in
which our party of thirty-two had entered ran within fifty feet
to the left of us. But, for at least one hundred yards, the
channel or bed of this gorge was entirely filled up with the
chaotic ruins of more than a million tons of earth and stone that
had been artificially tumbled within it. The means by which the
vast mass had been precipitated were not more simple than
evident, for sure traces of the murderous work were yet
remaining. In several spots along the top of the eastern side of
the gorge (we were now on the western) might be seen stakes of
wood driven into the earth. In these spots the earth had not
given way, but throughout the whole extent of the face of the
precipice from which the mass had fallen, it was clear, from
marks left in the soil resembling those made by the drill of the
rock blaster, that stakes similar to those we saw standing had
been inserted, at not more than a yard apart, for the length of
perhaps three hundred feet, and ranging at about ten feet back
from the edge of the gulf. Strong cords of grape vine were
attached to the stakes still remaining on the hill, and it was
evident that such cords had also been attached to each of the
other stakes. I have already spoken of the singular
stratification of these soapstone hills; and the description just
given of the narrow and deep fissure through which we effected
our escape from inhumation will afford a further conception of
its nature. This was such that almost every natural convulsion
would be sure to split the soil into perpendicular layers or
ridges running parallel with one another, and a very moderate
exertion of art would be sufficient for effecting the same
purpose. Of this stratification the savages had availed
themselves to accomplish their treacherous ends. There can be no
doubt that, by the continuous line of stakes, a partial rupture
of the soil had been brought about probably to the depth of one
or two feet, when by means of a savage pulling at the end of each
of the cords (these cords being attached to the tops of the
stakes, and extending back from the edge of the cliff), a vast
leverage power was obtained, capable of hurling the whole face of
the hill, upon a given signal, into the bosom of the abyss below.
The fate of our poor companions was no longer a matter of
uncertainty. We alone had escaped from the tempest of that
overwhelming destruction. We were the only living white men upon
the island.
CHAPTER 22
Our situation, as it now appeared, was scarcely less dreadful
than when we had conceived ourselves entombed forever. We saw
before us no prospect but that of being put to death by the
savages, or of dragging out a miserable existence in captivity
among them. We might, to be sure, conceal ourselves for a time
from their observation among the fastnesses of the hills, and, as
a final resort, in the chasm from which we had just issued; but
we must either perish in the long polar winter through cold and
famine, or be ultimately discovered in our efforts to obtain
relief.
The whole country around us seemed to be swarming with savages,
crowds of whom, we now perceived, had come over from the islands
to the southward on flat rafts, doubtless with a view of lending
their aid in the capture and plunder of the Jane. The vessel
still lay calmly at anchor in the bay, those on board being
apparently quite unconscious of any danger awaiting them. How we
longed at that moment to be with them! either to aid in effecting
their escape, or to perish with them in attempting a defence. We
saw no chance even of warning them of their danger without
bringing immediate destruction upon our own heads, with but a
remote hope of benefit to them. A pistol fired might suffice to
apprise them that something wrong had occurred; but the report
could not possibly inform them that their only prospect of safety
lay in getting out of the harbour forthwith—it could not tell
them that no principles of honour now bound them to remain, that
their companions were no longer among the living. Upon hearing
the discharge they could not be more thoroughly prepared to meet
the foe, who were now getting ready to attack, than they already
were, and always had been. No good, therefore, and infinite harm,
would result from our firing, and after mature deliberation, we
forbore.
Our next thought was to attempt to rush toward the vessel, to
seize one of the four canoes which lay at the head of the bay,
and endeavour to force a passage on board. But the utter
impossibility of succeeding in this desperate task soon became
evident. The country, as I said before, was literally swarming
with the natives, skulking among the bushes and recesses of the
hills, so as not to be observed from the schooner. In our
immediate vicinity especially, and blockading the sole path by
which we could hope to attain the shore at the proper point were
stationed the whole party of the black skin warriors, with
Too-wit at their head, and apparently only waiting for some
re-enforcement to commence his onset upon the Jane. The canoes,
too, which lay at the head of the bay, were manned with savages,
unarmed, it is true, but who undoubtedly had arms within reach.
We were forced, therefore, however unwillingly, to remain in our
place of concealment, mere spectators of the conflict which
presently ensued.
In about half an hour we saw some sixty or seventy rafts, or
flatboats, without riggers, filled with savages, and coming round
the southern bight of the harbor. They appeared to have no arms
except short clubs, and stones which lay in the bottom of the
rafts. Immediately afterward another detachment, still larger,
appeared in an opposite direction, and with similar weapons. The
four canoes, too, were now quickly filled with natives, starting
up from the bushes at the head of the bay, and put off swiftly to
join the other parties. Thus, in less time than I have taken to
tell it, and as if by magic, the Jane saw herself surrounded by
an immense multitude of desperadoes evidently bent upon capturing
her at all hazards.
That they would succeed in so doing could not be doubted for an
instant. The six men left in the vessel, however resolutely they
might engage in her defence, were altogether unequal to the
proper management of the guns, or in any manner to sustain a
contest at such odds. I could hardly imagine that they would make
resistance at all, but in this was deceived; for presently I saw
them get springs upon the cable, and bring the vessel’s starboard
broadside to bear upon the canoes, which by this time were within
pistol range, the rafts being nearly a quarter of a mile to
windward. Owing to some cause unknown, but most probably to the
agitation of our poor friends at seeing themselves in so hopeless
a situation, the discharge was an entire failure. Not a canoe was
hit or a single savage injured, the shots striking short and
ricocheting over their heads. The only effect produced upon them
was astonishment at the unexpected report and smoke, which was so
excessive that for some moments I almost thought they would
abandon their design entirely, and return to the shore. And this
they would most likely have done had our men followed up their
broadside by a discharge of small arms, in which, as the canoes
were now so near at hand, they could not have failed in doing
some execution, sufficient, at least, to deter this party from a
farther advance, until they could have given the rafts also a
broadside. But, in place of this, they left the canoe party to
recover from their panic, and, by looking about them, to see that
no injury had been sustained, while they flew to the larboard to
get ready for the rafts.
The discharge to larboard produced the most terrible effect. The
star and double-headed shot of the large guns cut seven or eight
of the rafts completely asunder, and killed, perhaps, thirty or
forty of the savages outright, while a hundred of them, at least,
were thrown into the water, the most of them dreadfully wounded.
The remainder, frightened out of their senses, commenced at once
a precipitate retreat, not even waiting to pick up their maimed
companions, who were swimming about in every direction, screaming
and yelling for aid. This great success, however, came too late
for the salvation of our devoted people. The canoe party were
already on board the schooner to the number of more than a
hundred and fifty, the most of them having succeeded in
scrambling up the chains and over the boarding-netting even
before the matches had been applied to the larboard guns. Nothing
now could withstand their brute rage. Our men were borne down at
once, overwhelmed, trodden under foot, and absolutely torn to
pieces in an instant.
Seeing this, the savages on the rafts got the better of their
fears, and came up in shoals to the plunder. In five minutes the
Jane was a pitiable scene indeed of havoc and tumultuous outrage.
The decks were split open and ripped up; the cordage, sails, and
everything movable on deck demolished as if by magic, while, by
dint of pushing at the stern, towing with the canoes, and hauling
at the sides, as they swam in thousands around the vessel, the
wretches finally forced her on shore (the cable having been
slipped), and delivered her over to the good offices of Too-wit,
who, during the whole of the engagement, had maintained, like a
skilful general, his post of security and reconnaissance among
the hills, but, now that the victory was completed to his
satisfaction, condescended to scamper down with his warriors of
the black skin, and become a partaker in the spoils.
Too-wit’s descent left us at liberty to quit our hiding place and
reconnoitre the hill in the vicinity of the chasm. At about fifty
yards from the mouth of it we saw a small spring of water, at
which we slaked the burning thirst that now consumed us. Not far
from the spring we discovered several of the filbert-bushes which
I mentioned before. Upon tasting the nuts we found them
palatable, and very nearly resembling in flavour the common
English filbert. We collected our hats full immediately,
deposited them within the ravine, and returned for more. While we
were busily employed in gathering these, a rustling in the bushes
alarmed us, and we were upon the point of stealing back to our
covert, when a large black bird of the bittern species
strugglingly and slowly arose above the shrubs. I was so much
startled that I could do nothing, but Peters had sufficient
presence of mind to run up to it before it could make its escape,
and seize it by the neck. Its struggles and screams were
tremendous, and we had thoughts of letting it go, lest the noise
should alarm some of the savages who might be still lurking in
the neighbourhood. A stab with a bowie knife, however, at length
brought it to the ground, and we dragged it into the ravine,
congratulating ourselves that, at all events, we had thus
obtained a supply of food enough to last us for a week.
We now went out again to look about us, and ventured a
considerable distance down the southern declivity of the hill,
but met with nothing else which could serve us for food. We
therefore collected a quantity of dry wood and returned, seeing
one or two large parties of the natives on their way to the
village, laden with the plunder of the vessel, and who, we were
apprehensive, might discover us in passing beneath the hill.
Our next care was to render our place of concealment as secure as
possible, and with this object, we arranged some brushwood over
the aperture which I have before spoken of as the one through
which we saw the patch of blue sky, on reaching the platform from
the interior of the chasm. We left only a very small opening just
wide enough to admit of our seeing the bay, without the risk of
being discovered from below. Having done this, we congratulated
ourselves upon the security of the position; for we were now
completely excluded from observation, as long as we chose to
remain within the ravine itself, and not venture out upon the
hill, We could perceive no traces of the savages having ever been
within this hollow; but, indeed, when we came to reflect upon the
probability that the fissure through which we attained it had
been only just now created by the fall of the cliff opposite, and
that no other way of attaining it could be perceived, we were not
so much rejoiced at the thought of being secure from molestation
as fearful lest there should be absolutely no means left us for
descent. We resolved to explore the summit of the hill
thoroughly, when a good opportunity should offer. In the meantime
we watched the motions of the savages through our loophole.
They had already made a complete wreck of the vessel, and were
now preparing to set her on fire. In a little while we saw the
smoke ascending in huge volumes from her main hatchway, and,
shortly afterward, a dense mass of flame burst up from the
forecastle. The rigging, masts and what remained of the sails
caught immediately, and the fire spread rapidly along the decks.
Still a great many of the savages retained their stations about
her, hammering with large stones, axes, and cannon balls at the
bolts and other iron and copper work. On the beach, and in canoes
and rafts, there were not less, altogether, in the immediate
vicinity of the schooner, than ten thousand natives, besides the
shoals of them who, laden with booty, were making their way
inland and over to the neighbouring islands. We now anticipated a
catastrophe, and were not disappointed. First of all there came a
smart shock (which we felt as distinctly where we were as if we
had been slightly galvanized), but unattended with any visible
signs of an explosion. The savages were evidently startled, and
paused for an instant from their labours and yellings. They were
upon the point of recommencing, when suddenly a mass of smoke
puffed up from the decks, resembling a black and heavy
thundercloud—then, as if from its bowels, arose a tall stream of
vivid fire to the height, apparently, of a quarter of a mile—then
there came a sudden circular expansion of the flame—then the
whole atmosphere was magically crowded, in a single instant, with
a wild chaos of wood, and metal, and human limbs—and, lastly,
came the concussion in its fullest fury, which hurled us
impetuously from our feet, while the hills echoed and re-echoed
the tumult, and a dense shower of the minutest fragments of the
ruins tumbled headlong in every direction around us.
The havoc among the savages far exceeded our utmost expectation,
and they had now, indeed, reaped the full and perfect fruits of
their treachery. Perhaps a thousand perished by the explosion,
while at least an equal number were desperately mangled. The
whole surface of the bay was literally strewn with the struggling
and drowning wretches, and on shore matters were even worse. They
seemed utterly appalled by the suddenness and completeness of
their discomfiture, and made no efforts at assisting one another.
At length we observed a total change in their demeanour. From
absolute stupor, they appeared to be, all at once, aroused to the
highest pitch of excitement, and rushed wildly about, going to
and from a certain point on the beach, with the strangest
expressions of mingled horror, rage, and intense curiosity
depicted on their countenances, and shouting, at the top of their
voices, “Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”
Presently we saw a large body go off into the hills, whence they
returned in a short time, carrying stakes of wood. These they
brought to the station where the crowd was the thickest, which
now separated so as to afford us a view of the object of all this
excitement. We perceived something white lying upon the ground,
but could not immediately make out what it was. At length we saw
that it was the carcass of the strange animal with the scarlet
teeth and claws which the schooner had picked up at sea on the
eighteenth of January. Captain Guy had had the body preserved for
the purpose of stuffing the skin and taking it to England. I
remember he had given some directions about it just before our
making the island, and it had been brought into the cabin and
stowed away in one of the lockers. It had now been thrown on
shore by the explosion; but why it had occasioned so much concern
among the savages was more than we could comprehend. Although
they crowded around the carcass at a little distance, none of
them seemed willing to approach it closely. By-and-by the men
with the stakes drove them in a circle around it, and no sooner
was this arrangement completed, than the whole of the vast
assemblage rushed into the interior of the island, with loud
screams of “Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”
CHAPTER 23
During the six or seven days immediately following we remained in
our hiding-place upon the hill, going out only occasionally, and
then with the greatest precaution, for water and filberts. We had
made a kind of penthouse on the platform, furnishing it with a
bed of dry leaves, and placing in it three large flat stones,
which served us for both fireplace and table. We kindled a fire
without difficulty by rubbing two pieces of dry wood together,
the one soft, the other hard. The bird we had taken in such good
season proved excellent eating, although somewhat tough. It was
not an oceanic fowl, but a species of bittern, with jet black and
grizzly plumage, and diminutive wings in proportion to its bulk.
We afterward saw three of the same kind in the vicinity of the
ravine, apparently seeking for the one we had captured; but, as
they never alighted, we had no opportunity of catching them.
As long as this fowl lasted we suffered nothing from our
situation, but it was now entirely consumed, and it became
absolutely necessary that we should look out for provision. The
filberts would not satisfy the cravings of hunger, afflicting us,
too, with severe gripings of the bowels, and, if freely indulged
in, with violent headache. We had seen several large tortoises
near the seashore to the eastward of the hill, and perceived they
might be easily taken, if we could get at them without the
observation of the natives. It was resolved, therefore, to make
an attempt at descending.
We commenced by going down the southern declivity, which seemed
to offer the fewest difficulties, but had not proceeded a hundred
yards before (as we had anticipated from appearances on the
hilltop) our progress was entirely arrested by a branch of the
gorge in which our companions had perished. We now passed along
the edge of this for about a quarter of a mile, when we were
again stopped by a precipice of immense depth, and, not being
able to make our way along the brink of it, we were forced to
retrace our steps by the main ravine.
We now pushed over to the eastward, but with precisely similar
fortune. After an hour’s scramble, at the risk of breaking our
necks, we discovered that we had merely descended into a vast pit
of black granite, with fine dust at the bottom, and whence the
only egress was by the rugged path in which we had come down.
Toiling again up this path, we now tried the northern edge of the
hill. Here we were obliged to use the greatest possible caution
in our maneuvers, as the least indiscretion would expose us to
the full view of the savages in the village. We crawled along,
therefore, on our hands and knees, and, occasionally, were even
forced to throw ourselves at full length, dragging our bodies
along by means of the shrubbery. In this careful manner we had
proceeded but a little way, when we arrived at a chasm far deeper
than any we had yet seen, and leading directly into the main
gorge. Thus our fears were fully confirmed, and we found
ourselves cut off entirely from access to the world below.
Thoroughly exhausted by our exertions, we made the best of our
way back to the platform, and throwing ourselves upon the bed of
leaves, slept sweetly and soundly for some hours.
For several days after this fruitless search we were occupied in
exploring every part of the summit of the hill, in order to
inform ourselves of its actual resources. We found that it would
afford us no food, with the exception of the unwholesome
filberts, and a rank species of scurvy grass, which grew in a
little patch of not more than four rods square, and would be soon
exhausted. On the fifteenth of February, as near as I can
remember, there was not a blade of this left, and the nuts were
growing scarce; our situation, therefore, could hardly be more
lamentable. {*5} On the sixteenth we again went round the walls
of our prison, in hope of finding some avenue of escape; but to
no purpose. We also descended the chasm in which we had been
overwhelmed, with the faint expectation of discovering, through
this channel, some opening to the main ravine. Here, too, we were
disappointed, although we found and brought up with us a musket.
On the seventeenth we set out with the determination of examining
more thoroughly the chasm of black granite into which we had made
our way in the first search. We remembered that one of the
fissures in the sides of this pit had been but partially looked
into, and we were anxious to explore it, although with no
expectation of discovering here any opening.
We found no great difficulty in reaching the bottom of the hollow
as before, and were now sufficiently calm to survey it with some
attention. It was, indeed, one of the most singular-looking
places imaginable, and we could scarcely bring ourselves to
believe it altogether the work of nature. The pit, from its
eastern to its western extremity, was about five hundred yards in
length, when all its windings were threaded; the distance from
east to west in a straight line not being more (I should suppose,
having no means of accurate examination) than forty or fifty
yards. Upon first descending into the chasm, that is to say, for
a hundred feet downward from the summit of the hill, the sides of
the abyss bore little resemblance to each other, and, apparently,
had at no time been connected, the one surface being of the
soapstone, and the other of marl, granulated with some metallic
matter. The average breadth or interval between the two cliffs
was probably here sixty feet, but there seemed to be no
regularity of formation. Passing down, however, beyond the limit
spoken of, the interval rapidly contracted, and the sides began
to run parallel, although, for some distance farther, they were
still dissimilar in their material and form of surface. Upon
arriving within fifty feet of the bottom, a perfect regularity
commenced. The sides were now entirely uniform in substance, in
colour, and in lateral direction, the material being a very black
and shining granite, and the distance between the two sides, at
all points facing each other, exactly twenty yards. The precise
formation of the chasm will be best understood by means of a
delineation taken upon the spot; for I had luckily with me a
pocketbook and pencil, which I preserved with great care through
a long series of subsequent adventure, and to which I am indebted
for memoranda of many subjects which would otherwise have been
crowded from my remembrance.
This figure [No figures in text] gives the general outlines of
the chasm, without the minor cavities in the sides, of which
there were several, each cavity having a corresponding
protuberance opposite. The bottom of the gulf was covered to the
depth of three or four inches with a powder almost impalpable,
beneath which we found a continuation of the black granite. To
the right, at the lower extremity, will be noticed the appearance
of a small opening; this is the fissure alluded to above, and to
examine which more minutely than before was the object of our
second visit. We now pushed into it with vigor, cutting away a
quantity of brambles which impeded us, and removing a vast heap
of sharp flints somewhat resembling arrowheads in shape. We were
encouraged to persevere, however, by perceiving some little light
proceeding from the farther end. We at length squeezed our way
for about thirty feet, and found that the aperture was a low and
regularly formed arch, having a bottom of the same impalpable
powder as that in the main chasm. A strong light now broke upon
us, and, turning a short bend, we found ourselves in another
lofty chamber, similar to the one we had left in every respect
but longitudinal form. Its general figure is here given.
The total length of this chasm, commencing at the opening _a_ and
proceeding round the curve _b_ to the extremity _d_, is five
hundred and fifty yards. At _c_ we discovered a small aperture
similar to the one through which we had issued from the other
chasm, and this was choked up in the same manner with brambles
and a quantity of the white arrowhead flints. We forced our way
through it, finding it about forty feet long, and emerged into a
third chasm. This, too, was precisely like the first, except in
its longitudinal shape, which was thus.
We found the entire length of the third chasm three hundred and
twenty yards. At the point _a_ was an opening about six feet
wide, and extending fifteen feet into the rock, where it
terminated in a bed of marl, there being no other chasm beyond,
as we had expected. We were about leaving this fissure, into
which very little light was admitted, when Peters called my
attention to a range of singular-looking indentures in the
surface of the marl forming the termination of the _cul-de-sac_.
With a very slight exertion of the imagination, the left, or most
northern of these indentures might have been taken for the
intentional, although rude, representation of a human figure
standing erect, with outstretched arm. The rest of them bore also
some little resemblance to alphabetical characters, and Peters
was willing, at all events, to adopt the idle opinion that they
were really such. I convinced him of his error, finally, by
directing his attention to the floor of the fissure, where, among
the powder, we picked up, piece by piece, several large flakes of
the marl, which had evidently been broken off by some convulsion
from the surface where the indentures were found, and which had
projecting points exactly fitting the indentures; thus proving
them to have been the work of nature.
After satisfying ourselves that these singular caverns afforded
us no means of escape from our prison, we made our way back,
dejected and dispirited, to the summit of the hill. Nothing worth
mentioning occurred during the next twenty-four hours, except
that, in examining the ground to the eastward of the third chasm,
we found two triangular holes of great depth, and also with black
granite sides. Into these holes we did not think it worth while
to attempt descending, as they had the appearance of mere natural
wells, without outlet. They were each about twenty yards in
circumference, and their shape, as well as relative position in
regard to the third chasm, is shown in figure 5. {image}
CHAPTER 24
On the twentieth of the month, finding it altogether impossible
to subsist any longer upon the filberts, the use of which
occasioned us the most excruciating torment, we resolved to make
a desperate attempt at descending the southern declivity of the
hill. The face of the precipice was here of the softest species
of soapstone, although nearly perpendicular throughout its whole
extent (a depth of a hundred and fifty feet at the least), and in
many places even overarching. After a long search we discovered a
narrow ledge about twenty feet below the brink of the gulf; upon
this Peters contrived to leap, with what assistance I could
render him by means of our pocket-handkerchiefs tied together.
With somewhat more difficulty I also got down; and we then saw
the possibility of descending the whole way by the process in
which we had clambered up from the chasm when we had been buried
by the fall of the hill—that is, by cutting steps in the face of
the soapstone with our knives. The extreme hazard of the attempt
can scarcely be conceived; but, as there was no other resource,
we determined to undertake it.
Upon the ledge where we stood there grew some filbert-bushes; and
to one of these we made fast an end of our rope of handkerchiefs.
The other end being tied round Peters’ waist, I lowered him down
over the edge of the precipice until the handkerchiefs were
stretched tight. He now proceeded to dig a deep hole in the
soapstone (as far in as eight or ten inches), sloping away the
rock above to the height of a foot, or thereabout, so as to allow
of his driving, with the butt of a pistol, a tolerably strong peg
into the levelled surface. I then drew him up for about four
feet, when he made a hole similar to the one below, driving in a
peg as before, and having thus a resting-place for both feet and
hands. I now unfastened the handkerchiefs from the bush, throwing
him the end, which he tied to the peg in the uppermost hole,
letting himself down gently to a station about three feet lower
than he had yet been that is, to the full extent of the
handkerchiefs. Here he dug another hole, and drove another peg.
He then drew himself up, so as to rest his feet in the hole just
cut, taking hold with his hands upon the peg in the one above. It
was now necessary to untie the handkerchiefs from the topmost
peg, with the view of fastening them to the second; and here he
found that an error had been committed in cutting the holes at so
great a distance apart. However, after one or two unsuccessful
and dangerous attempts at reaching the knot (having to hold on
with his left hand while he labored to undo the fastening with
his right), he at length cut the string, leaving six inches of it
affixed to the peg. Tying the handkerchiefs now to the second
peg, he descended to a station below the third, taking care not
to go too far down. By these means (means which I should never
have conceived of myself, and for which we were indebted
altogether to Peters’ ingenuity and resolution) my companion
finally succeeded, with the occasional aid of projections in the
cliff, in reaching the bottom without accident.
It was some time before I could summon sufficient resolution to
follow him; but I did at length attempt it. Peters had taken off
his shirt before descending, and this, with my own, formed the
rope necessary for the adventure. After throwing down the musket
found in the chasm, I fastened this rope to the bushes, and let
myself down rapidly, striving, by the vigor of my movements, to
banish the trepidation which I could overcome in no other manner.
This answered sufficiently well for the first four or five steps;
but presently I found my imagination growing terribly excited by
thoughts of the vast depths yet to be descended, and the
precarious nature of the pegs and soapstone holes which were my
only support. It was in vain I endeavored to banish these
reflections, and to keep my eyes steadily bent upon the flat
surface of the cliff before me. The more earnestly I struggled
_not to think,_the more intensely vivid became my conceptions,
and the more horribly distinct. At length arrived that crisis of
fancy, so fearful in all similar cases, the crisis in which we
began to anticipate the feelings with which we _shall_fall—to
picture to ourselves the sickness, and dizziness, and the last
struggle, and the half swoon, and the final bitterness of the
rushing and headlong descent. And now I found these fancies
creating their own realities, and all imagined horrors crowding
upon me in fact. I felt my knees strike violently together, while
my fingers were gradually but certainly relaxing their grasp.
There was a ringing in my ears, and I said, “This is my knell of
death!” And now I was consumed with the irrepressible desire of
looking below. I could not, I would not, confine my glances to
the cliff; and, with a wild, indefinable emotion, half of horror,
half of a relieved oppression, I threw my vision far down into
the abyss. For one moment my fingers clutched convulsively upon
their hold, while, with the movement, the faintest possible idea
of ultimate escape wandered, like a shadow, through my mind—in
the next my whole soul was pervaded with a longing to fall; a
desire, a yearning, a passion utterly uncontrollable. I let go at
once my grasp upon the peg, and, turning half round from the
precipice, remained tottering for an instant against its naked
face. But now there came a spinning of the brain; a
shrill-sounding and phantom voice screamed within my ears; a
dusky, fiendish, and filmy figure stood immediately beneath me;
and, sighing, I sunk down with a bursting heart, and plunged
within its arms.
I had swooned, and Peters had caught me as I fell. He had
observed my proceedings from his station at the bottom of the
cliff; and perceiving my imminent danger, had endeavored to
inspire me with courage by every suggestion he could devise;
although my confusion of mind had been so great as to prevent my
hearing what he said, or being conscious that he had even spoken
to me at all. At length, seeing me totter, he hastened to ascend
to my rescue, and arrived just in time for my preservation. Had I
fallen with my full weight, the rope of linen would inevitably
have snapped, and I should have been precipitated into the abyss;
as it was, he contrived to let me down gently, so as to remain
suspended without danger until animation returned. This was in
about fifteen minutes. On recovery, my trepidation had entirely
vanished; I felt a new being, and, with some little further aid
from my companion, reached the bottom also in safety.
We now found ourselves not far from the ravine which had proved
the tomb of our friends, and to the southward of the spot where
the hill had fallen. The place was one of singular wildness, and
its aspect brought to my mind the descriptions given by
travellers of those dreary regions marking the site of degraded
Babylon. Not to speak of the ruins of the disrupted cliff, which
formed a chaotic barrier in the vista to the northward, the
surface of the ground in every other direction was strewn with
huge tumuli, apparently the wreck of some gigantic structures of
art; although, in detail, no semblance of art could be detected.
Scoria were abundant, and large shapeless blocks of the black
granite, intermingled with others of marl, {*6} and both
granulated with metal. Of vegetation there were no traces
whatsoever throughout the whole of the desolate area within
sight. Several immense scorpions were seen, and various reptiles
not elsewhere to be found in the high latitudes. As food was our
most immediate object, we resolved to make our way to the
seacoast, distant not more than half a mile, with a view of
catching turtle, several of which we had observed from our place
of concealment on the hill. We had proceeded some hundred yards,
threading our route cautiously between the huge rocks and tumuli,
when, upon turning a corner, five savages sprung upon us from a
small cavern, felling Peters to the ground with a blow from a
club. As he fell the whole party rushed upon him to secure their
victim, leaving me time to recover from my astonishment. I still
had the musket, but the barrel had received so much injury in
being thrown from the precipice that I cast it aside as useless,
preferring to trust my pistols, which had been carefully
preserved in order. With these I advanced upon the assailants,
firing one after the other in quick succession. Two savages fell,
and one, who was in the act of thrusting a spear into Peters,
sprung to his feet without accomplishing his purpose. My
companion being thus released, we had no further difficulty. He
had his pistols also, but prudently declined using them,
confiding in his great personal strength, which far exceeded that
of any person I have ever known. Seizing a club from one of the
savages who had fallen, he dashed out the brains of the three who
remained, killing each instantaneously with a single blow of the
weapon, and leaving us completely masters of the field.
So rapidly had these events passed, that we could scarcely
believe in their reality, and were standing over the bodies of
the dead in a species of stupid contemplation, when we were
brought to recollection by the sound of shouts in the distance.
It was clear that the savages had been alarmed by the firing, and
that we had little chance of avoiding discovery. To regain the
cliff, it would be necessary to proceed in the direction of the
shouts, and even should we succeed in arriving at its base, we
should never be able to ascend it without being seen. Our
situation was one of the greatest peril, and we were hesitating
in which path to commence a flight, when one of the savages
_whom_I had shot, and supposed dead, sprang briskly to his feet,
and attempted to make his escape. We overtook _him,_however,
before he had advanced many paces, and were about to put him to
death, when Peters suggested that we might derive some benefit
from forcing him to accompany us in our attempt to escape. We
therefore dragged him with us, making him understand that we
would shoot him if he offered resistance. In a few minutes he was
perfectly submissive, and ran by our sides as we pushed in among
the rocks, making for the seashore.
So far, the irregularities of the ground we had been traversing
hid the sea, except at intervals, from our sight, and, when we
first had it fairly in view, it was perhaps two hundred yards
distant. As we emerged into the open beach we saw, to our great
dismay, an immense crowd of the natives pouring from the village,
and from all visible quarters of the island, making toward us
with gesticulations of extreme fury, and howling like wild
beasts. We were upon the point of turning upon our steps, and
trying to secure a retreat among the fastnesses of the rougher
ground, when I discovered the bows of two canoes projecting from
behind a large rock which ran out into the water. Toward these we
now ran with all speed, and, reaching them, found them unguarded,
and without any other freight than three of the large Gallipago
turtles and the usual supply of paddles for sixty rowers. We
instantly took possession of one of them, and, forcing our
captive on board, pushed out to sea with all the strength we
could command.
We had not made, however, more than fifty yards from the shore
before we became sufficiently calm to perceive the great
oversight of which we had been guilty in leaving the other canoe
in the power of the savages, who, by this time, were not more
than twice as far from the beach as ourselves, and were rapidly
advancing to the pursuit. No time was now to be lost. Our hope
was, at best, a forlorn one, but we had none other. It was very
doubtful whether, with the utmost exertion, we could get back in
time to anticipate them in taking possession of the canoe; but
yet there was a chance that we could. We might save ourselves if
we succeeded, while not to make the attempt was to resign
ourselves to inevitable butchery.
The canoe was modelled with the bow and stern alike, and, in
place of turning it around, we merely changed our position in
paddling. As soon as the savages perceived this they redoubled
their yells, as well as their speed, and approached with
inconceivable rapidity. We pulled, however, with all the energy
of desperation, and arrived at the contested point before more
than one of the natives had attained it. This man paid dearly for
his superior agility, Peters shooting him through the head with a
pistol as he approached the shore. The foremost among the rest of
his party were probably some twenty or thirty paces distant as we
seized upon the canoe. We at first endeavored to pull her into
the deep water, beyond the reach of the savages, but, finding her
too firmly aground, and there being no time to spare, Peters,
with one or two heavy strokes from the butt of the musket,
succeeded in dashing out a large portion of the bow and of one
side. We then pushed off. Two of the natives by this time had got
hold of our boat, obstinately refusing to let go, until we were
forced to despatch them with our knives. We were now clear off,
and making great way out to sea. The main body of the savages,
upon reaching the broken canoe, set up the most tremendous yell
of rage and disappointment conceivable. In truth, from everything
I could see of these wretches, they appeared to be the most
wicked, hypocritical, vindictive, bloodthirsty, and altogether
fiendish race of men upon the face of the globe. It is clear we
should have had no mercy had we fallen into their hands. They
made a mad attempt at following us in the fractured canoe, but,
finding it useless, again vented their rage in a series of
hideous vociferations, and rushed up into the hills.
We were thus relieved from immediate danger, but our situation
was still sufficiently gloomy. We knew that four canoes of the
kind we had were at one time in the possession of the savages,
and were not aware of the fact (afterward ascertained from our
captive) that two of these had been blown to pieces in the
explosion of the _Jane Guy._We calculated, therefore, upon being
yet pursued, as soon as our enemies could get round to the bay
(distant about three miles) where the boats were usually laid up.
Fearing this, we made every exertion to leave the island behind
us, and went rapidly through the water, forcing the prisoner to
take a paddle. In about half an hour, when we had gained probably
five or six miles to the southward, a large fleet of the
flat-bottomed canoes or rafts were seen to emerge from the bay
evidently with the design of pursuit. Presently they put back,
despairing to overtake us.
CHAPTER 25
We now found ourselves in the wide and desolate Antarctic Ocean,
in a latitude exceeding eighty-four degrees, in a frail canoe,
and with no provision but the three turtles. The long polar
winter, too, could not be considered as far distant, and it
became necessary that we should deliberate well upon the course
to be pursued. There were six or seven islands in sight belonging
to the same group, and distant from each other about five or six
leagues; but upon neither of these had we any intention to
venture. In coming from the northward in the _Jane Guy_ we had
been gradually leaving behind us the severest regions of
ice—this, however little it maybe in accordance with the
generally received notions respecting the Antarctic, was a
fact—experience would not permit us to deny. To attempt,
therefore, getting back would be folly—especially at so late a
period of the season. Only one course seemed to be left open for
hope. We resolved to steer boldly to the southward, where there
was at least a probability of discovering other lands, and more
than a probability of finding a still milder climate.
So far we had found the Antarctic, like the Arctic Ocean,
peculiarly free from violent storms or immoderately rough water;
but our canoe was, at best, of frail structure, although large,
and we set busily to work with a view of rendering her as safe as
the limited means in our possession would admit. The body of the
boat was of no better material than bark—the bark of a tree
unknown. The ribs were of a tough osier, well adapted to the
purpose for which it was used. We had fifty feet room from stem
to stern, from four to six in breadth, and in depth throughout
four feet and a half-the boats thus differing vastly in shape
from those of any other inhabitants of the Southern Ocean with
whom civilized nations are acquainted. We never did believe them
the workmanship of the ignorant islanders who owned them; and
some days after this period discovered, by questioning our
captive, that they were in fact made by the natives of a group to
the southwest of the country where we found them, having fallen
accidentally into the hands of our barbarians. What we could do
for the security of our boat was very little indeed. Several wide
rents were discovered near both ends, and these we contrived to
patch up with pieces of woollen jacket. With the help of the
superfluous paddles, of which there were a great many, we erected
a kind of framework about the bow, so as to break the force of
any seas which might threaten to fill us in that quarter. We also
set up two paddle-blades for masts, placing them opposite each
other, one by each gunwale, thus saving the necessity of a yard.
To these masts we attached a sail made of our shirts-doing this
with some difficulty, as here we could get no assistance from our
prisoner whatever, although he had been willing enough to labor
in all the other operations. The sight of the linen seemed to
affect him in a very singular manner. He could not be prevailed
upon to touch it or go near it, shuddering when we attempted to
force him, and shrieking out, _“Tekeli-li!”_
Having completed our arrangements in regard to the security of
the canoe, we now set sail to the south-southeast for the
present, with the view of weathering the most southerly of the
group in sight. This being done, we turned the bow full to the
southward. The weather could by no means be considered
disagreeable. We had a prevailing and very gentle wind from the
northward, a smooth sea, and continual daylight. No ice whatever
was to be seen; _nor did I ever see one particle of this after
leaving the parallel of Bennet’s Islet._Indeed, the temperature
of the water was here far too warm for its existence in any
quantity. Having killed the largest of our tortoises, and
obtained from him not only food but a copious supply of water, we
continued on our course, without any incident of moment, for
perhaps seven or eight days, during which period we must have
proceeded a vast distance to the southward, as the wind blew
constantly with us, and a very strong current set continually in
the direction we were pursuing.
_March 1st_. {*7}-Many unusual phenomena now—indicated that we
were entering upon a region of novelty and wonder. A high range
of light gray vapor appeared constantly in the southern horizon,
flaring up occasionally in lofty streaks, now darting from east
to west, now from west to east, and again presenting a level and
uniform summit—in short, having all the wild variations of the
Aurora Borealis. The average height of this vapor, as apparent
from our station, was about twenty-five degrees. The temperature
of the sea seemed to be increasing momentarily, and there was a
very perceptible alteration in its color.
_March 2d._-To-day by repeated questioning of our captive, we
came to the knowledge of many particulars in regard to the island
of the massacre, its inhabitants, and customs—but with these how
can I now detain the reader? I may say, however, that we learned
there were eight islands in the group—that they were governed by
a common king, named _Tsalemon_or _Psalemoun,_who resided in one
of the smallest of the islands; that the black skins forming the
dress of the warriors came from an animal of huge size to be
found only in a valley near the court of the king—that the
inhabitants of the group fabricated no other boats than the
flat-bottomed rafts; the four canoes being all of the kind in
their possession, and, these having been obtained, by mere
accident, from some large island in the southwest—that his own
name was Nu-Nu—that he had no knowledge of Bennet’s Islet—and
that the appellation of the island he had left was Tsalal. The
commencement of the words _Tsalemon_and Tsalal was given with a
prolonged hissing sound, which we found it impossible to imitate,
even after repeated endeavors, and which was precisely the same
with the note of the black bittern we had eaten up on the summit
of the hill.
_March 3d._-The heat of the water was now truly remarkable, and
in color was undergoing a rapid change, being no longer
transparent, but of a milky consistency and hue. In our immediate
vicinity it was usually smooth, never so rough as to endanger the
canoe—but we were frequently surprised at perceiving, to our
right and left, at different distances, sudden and extensive
agitations of the surface; these, we at length noticed, were
always preceded by wild flickerings in the region of vapor to the
southward.
_March 4th._-To-day, with the view of widening our sail, the
breeze from the northward dying away perceptibly, I took from my
coat-pocket a white handkerchief. Nu-Nu was seated at my elbow,
and the linen accidentally flaring in his face, he became
violently affected with convulsions. These were succeeded by
drowsiness and stupor, and low murmurings of _“‘Tekeli-li!
Tekeli-li!”_
_March_5th.-The wind had entirely ceased, but it was evident that
we were still hurrying on to the southward, under the influence
of a powerful current. And now,—indeed, it would seem reasonable
that we should experience some alarm at the turn events were
taking—but we felt none. The countenance of Peters indicated
nothing of this nature, although it wore at times an expression I
could not fathom. The polar winter appeared to be coming on—but
coming without its terrors. I felt a numbness of body and mind—a
dreaminess of sensation but this was all.
_March 6th._-The gray vapor had now arisen many more degrees
above the horizon, and was gradually losing its grayness of tint.
The heat of the water was extreme, even unpleasant to the touch,
and its milky hue was more evident than ever. Today a violent
agitation of the water occurred very close to the canoe. It was
attended, as usual, with a wild flaring up of the vapor at its
summit, and a momentary division at its base. A fine white
powder, resembling ashes—but certainly not such—fell over the
canoe and over a large surface of the water, as the flickering
died away among the vapor and the commotion subsided in the sea.
Nu-Nu now threw himself on his face in the bottom of the boat,
and no persuasions could induce him to arise.
_March 7th._-This day we questioned Nu-Nu concerning the motives
of his countrymen in destroying our companions; but he appeared
to be too utterly overcome by terror to afford us any rational
reply. He still obstinately lay in the bottom of the boat; and,
upon reiterating the questions as to the motive, made use only of
idiotic gesticulations, such as raising with his forefinger the
upper lip, and displaying the teeth which lay beneath it. These
were black. We had never before seen the teeth of an inhabitant
of Tsalal.
_March 8th._-To-day there floated by us one of the white animals
whose appearance upon the beach at Tsalal had occasioned so wild
a commotion among the savages. I would have picked it up, but
there came over me a sudden listlessness, and I forbore. The heat
of the water still increased, and the hand could no longer be
endured within it. Peters spoke little, and I knew not what to
think of his apathy. Nu-Nu breathed, and no more.
_March 9th._-The whole ashy material fell now continually around
us, and in vast quantities. The range of vapor to the southward
had arisen prodigiously in the horizon, and began to assume more
distinctness of form. I can liken it to nothing but a limitless
cataract, rolling silently into the sea from some immense and
far-distant rampart in the heaven. The gigantic curtain ranged
along the whole extent of the southern horizon. It emitted no
sound.
_March 21st._-A sullen darkness now hovered above us—but from out
the milky depths of the ocean a luminous glare arose, and stole
up along the bulwarks of the boat. We were nearly overwhelmed by
the white ashy shower which settled upon us and upon the canoe,
but melted into the water as it fell. The summit of the cataract
was utterly lost in the dimness and the distance. Yet we were
evidently approaching it with a hideous velocity. At intervals
there were visible in it wide, yawning, but momentary rents, and
from out these rents, within which was a chaos of flitting and
indistinct images, there came rushing and mighty, but soundless
winds, tearing up the enkindled ocean in their course.
_March 22d._-The darkness had materially increased, relieved only
by the glare of the water thrown back from the white curtain
before us. Many gigantic and pallidly white birds flew
continuously now from beyond the veil, and their scream was the
eternal _Tekeli-li!_as they retreated from our vision. Hereupon
Nu-Nu stirred in the bottom of the boat; but upon touching him we
found his spirit departed. And now we rushed into the embraces of
the cataract, where a chasm threw itself open to receive us. But
there arose in our pathway a shrouded human figure, very far
larger in its proportions than any dweller among men. And the hue
of the skin of the figure was of the perfect whiteness of the
snow.
NOTE
THE circumstances connected with the late sudden and distressing
death of Mr. Pym are already well known to the public through the
medium of the daily press. It is feared that the few remaining
chapters which were to have completed his narrative, and which
were retained by him, while the above were in type, for the
purpose of revision, have been irrecoverably lost through the
accident by which he perished himself. This, however, may prove
not to be the case, and the papers, if ultimately found, will be
given to the public.
No means have been left untried to remedy the deficiency. The
gentleman whose name is mentioned in the preface, and who, from
the statement there made, might be supposed able to fill the
vacuum, has declined the task—this, for satisfactory reasons
connected with the general inaccuracy of the details afforded
him, and his disbelief in the entire truth of the latter portions
of the narration. Peters, from whom some information might be
expected, is still alive, and a resident of Illinois, but cannot
be met with at present. He may hereafter be found, and will, no
doubt, afford material for a conclusion of Mr. Pym’s account.
The loss of two or three final chapters (for there were but two
or three) is the more deeply to be regretted, as it can not be
doubted they contained matter relative to the Pole itself, or at
least to regions in its very near proximity; and as, too, the
statements of the author in relation to these regions may shortly
be verified or contradicted by means of the governmental
expedition now preparing for the Southern Ocean.
On one point in the narrative some remarks may well be offered;
and it would afford the writer of this appendix much pleasure if
what he may here observe should have a tendency to throw credit,
in any degree, upon the very singular pages now published. We
allude to the chasms found in the island of Tsalal, and to the
whole of the figures upon pages 245-47 {of the printed
edition—ed.}.
(Note: No figures were included with this text)
Mr. Pym has given the figures of the chasms without comment, and
speaks decidedly of the _indentures_found at the extremity of the
most easterly of these chasms as having but a fanciful
resemblance to alphabetical characters, and, in short, as being
positively _not such. _This assertion is made in a manner so
simple, and sustained by a species of demonstration so conclusive
(viz., the fitting of the projections of the fragments found
among the dust into the indentures upon the wall), that we are
forced to believe the writer in earnest; and no reasonable reader
should suppose otherwise. But as the facts in relation to all the
figures are most singular (especially when taken in connection
with statements made in the body of the narrative), it may be as
well to say a word or two concerning them all—this, too, the more
especially as the facts in question have, beyond doubt, escaped
the attention of Mr. Poe.
Figure 1, then, figure 2, figure 3, and figure 5, when conjoined
with one another in the precise order which the chasms themselves
presented, and when deprived of the small lateral branches or
arches (which, it will be remembered, served only as a means of
communication between the main chambers, and were of totally
distinct character), constitute an Ethiopian verbal root—the root
“To be shady,’—whence all the inflections of shadow or darkness.
In regard to the “left or most northwardly” of the indentures in
figure 4, it is more than probable that the opinion of Peters was
correct, and that the hieroglyphical appearance was really the
work of art, and intended as the representation of a human form.
The delineation is before the reader, and he may, or may not,
perceive the resemblance suggested; but the rest of the
indentures afford strong confirmation of Peters’ idea. The upper
range is evidently the Arabic verbal root “To be white,” whence
all the inflections of brilliancy and whiteness. The lower range
is not so immediately perspicuous. The characters are somewhat
broken and disjointed; nevertheless, it can not be doubted that,
in their perfect state, they formed the full Egyptian word, “The
region of the south.” It should be observed that these
interpretations confirm the opinion of Peters in regard to the
“most northwardly” of the figures. The arm is outstretched toward
the south.
Conclusions such as these open a wide field for speculation and
exciting conjecture. They should be regarded, perhaps, in
connection with some of the most faintly detailed incidents of
the narrative; although in no visible manner is this chain of
connection complete. Tekeli-li! was the cry of the affrighted
natives of Tsalal upon discovering the carcase of the
_white_animal picked up at sea. This also was the shuddering
exclamatives of Tsalal upon discovering the carcass of the
_white_materials in possession of Mr. Pym. This also was the
shriek of the swift-flying, _white, _and gigantic birds which
issued from the vapory _white_curtain of the South. Nothing
_white_was to be found at Tsalal, and nothing otherwise in the
subsequent voyage to the region beyond. It is not impossible that
“Tsalal,” the appellation of the island of the chasms, may be
found, upon minute philological scrutiny, to betray either some
alliance with the chasms themselves, or some reference to the
Ethiopian characters so mysteriously written in their windings.
_“I have graven it within the hills, and my vengeance upon the
dust within the rock.”_
NOTES TO THE THIRD VOLUME
{*1} Whaling vessels are usually fitted with iron oil-tanks—why
the _Grampus_ was not I have never been able to ascertain.
{*2} The case of the brig _Polly_, of Boston, is one so much in
point, and her fate, in many respects, so remarkably similar to
our own, that I cannot forbear alluding to it here. This vessel,
of one hundred and thirty tons burden, sailed from Boston, with a
cargo of lumber and provisions, for Santa Croix, on the twelfth
of December, 1811, under the command of Captain Casneau. There
were eight souls on board besides the captain—the mate, four
seamen, and the cook, together with a Mr. Hunt, and a negro girl
belonging to him. On the fifteenth, having cleared the shoal of
Georges, she sprung a leak in a gale of wind from the southeast,
and was finally capsized; but, the masts going by the board, she
afterward righted. They remained in this situation, without fire,
and with very little provision, for the period of one hundred and
ninety-one days (from December the fifteenth to June the
twentieth), when Captain Casneau and Samuel Badger, the only
survivors, were taken off the wreck by the Fame, of Hull, Captain
Featherstone, bound home from Rio Janeiro. When picked up, they
were in latitude 28 degrees N., longitude 13 degrees W., having
drifted above two thousand miles! On the ninth of July the Fame
fell in with the brig Dromero, Captain Perkins, who landed the
two sufferers in Kennebeck. The narrative from which we gather
these details ends in the following words:
“It is natural to inquire how they could float such a vast
distance, upon the most frequented part of the Atlantic, and not
be discovered all this time. They were passed by more than a
dozen sail, one of which came so nigh them that they could
distinctly see the people on deck and on the rigging looking at
them; but, to the inexpressible disappointment of the starving
and freezing men, they stifled the dictates of compassion,
hoisted sail, and cruelly abandoned them to their fate.”
{*3} Among the vessels which at various times have professed to
meet with the Auroras may be mentioned the ship San Miguel, in
1769; the ship Aurora, in 1774; the brig Pearl, in 1779; and the
ship Dolores, in 1790. They all agree in giving the mean latitude
fifty-three degrees south.
{*4} The terms morning and evening, which I have made use of to
avoid confusion in my narrative, as far as possible, must not, of
course, be taken in their ordinary sense. For a long time past we
had had no night at all, the daylight being continual. The dates
throughout are according to nautical time, and the bearing must
be understood as per compass. I would also remark, in this place,
that I cannot, in the first portion of what is here written,
pretend to strict accuracy in respect to dates, or latitudes and
longitudes, having kept no regular journal until after the period
of which this first portion treats. In many instances I have
relied altogether upon memory.
{*5} This day was rendered remarkable by our observing in the
south several huge wreaths of the grayish vapour I have spoken
of.
{*6} The marl was also black; indeed, we noticed no light colored
substances of any kind upon the island.
{*7}For obvious reasons I cannot pretend to strict accuracy in
these dates. They are given principally with a view to perspicity
of narrative, and as set down in my pencil memorandum.
LIGEIA
And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the
mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great
will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth
not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save
only through the weakness of his feeble will.—_Joseph Glanvill_.
I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely
where, I first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years
have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much
suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind,
because, in truth, the character of my beloved, her rare
learning, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the
thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical language,
made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily
progressive that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I
believe that I met her first and most frequently in some large,
old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family—I have surely
heard her speak. That it is of a remotely ancient date cannot be
doubted. Ligeia! Ligeia! Buried in studies of a nature more than
all else adapted to deaden impressions of the outward world, it
is by that sweet word alone—by Ligeia—that I bring before mine
eyes in fancy the image of her who is no more. And now, while I
write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have never known the
paternal name of her who was my friend and my betrothed, and who
became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife of my
bosom. Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia? or was
it a test of my strength of affection, that I should institute no
inquiries upon this point? or was it rather a caprice of my own—a
wildly romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate
devotion? I but indistinctly recall the fact itself—what wonder
that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which originated
or attended it? And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is
entitled _Romance_—if ever she, the wan and the misty-winged
_Ashtophet_ of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over
marriages ill-omened, then most surely she presided over mine.
There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me
not. It is the person of Ligeia. In stature she was tall,
somewhat slender, and, in her latter days, even emaciated. I
would in vain attempt to portray the majesty, the quiet ease, of
her demeanor, or the incomprehensible lightness and elasticity of
her footfall. She came and departed as a shadow. I was never made
aware of her entrance into my closed study save by the dear music
of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my
shoulder. In beauty of face no maiden ever equalled her. It was
the radiance of an opium-dream—an airy and spirit-lifting vision
more wildly divine than the phantasies which hovered about the
slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet her features were
not of that regular mould which we have been falsely taught to
worship in the classical labors of the heathen. “There is no
exquisite beauty,” says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of
all the forms and genera of beauty, “without some strangeness in
the proportion.” Yet, although I saw that the features of Ligeia
were not of a classic regularity—although I perceived that her
loveliness was indeed “exquisite,” and felt that there was much
of “strangeness” pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect
the irregularity and to trace home my own perception of “the
strange.” I examined the contour of the lofty and pale
forehead—it was faultless—how cold indeed that word when applied
to a majesty so divine!—the skin rivalling the purest ivory, the
commanding extent and repose, the gentle prominence of the
regions above the temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy,
the luxuriant and naturally-curling tresses, setting forth the
full force of the Homeric epithet, “hyacinthine!” I looked at the
delicate outlines of the nose—and nowhere but in the graceful
medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar perfection.
There were the same luxurious smoothness of surface, the same
scarcely perceptible tendency to the aquiline, the same
harmoniously curved nostrils speaking the free spirit. I regarded
the sweet mouth. Here was indeed the triumph of all things
heavenly—the magnificent turn of the short upper lip—the soft,
voluptuous slumber of the under—the dimples which sported, and
the color which spoke—the teeth glancing back, with a brilliancy
almost startling, every ray of the holy light which fell upon
them in her serene and placid, yet most exultingly radiant of all
smiles. I scrutinized the formation of the chin—and here, too, I
found the gentleness of breadth, the softness and the majesty,
the fullness and the spirituality, of the Greek—the contour which
the god Apollo revealed but in a dream, to Cleomenes, the son of
the Athenian. And then I peered into the large eyes of Ligeia.
For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique. It might have
been, too, that in these eyes of my beloved lay the secret to
which Lord Verulam alludes. They were, I must believe, far larger
than the ordinary eyes of our own race. They were even fuller
than the fullest of the gazelle eyes of the tribe of the valley
of Nourjahad. Yet it was only at intervals—in moments of intense
excitement—that this peculiarity became more than slightly
noticeable in Ligeia. And at such moments was her beauty—in my
heated fancy thus it appeared perhaps—the beauty of beings either
above or apart from the earth—the beauty of the fabulous Houri of
the Turk. The hue of the orbs was the most brilliant of black,
and, far over them, hung jetty lashes of great length. The brows,
slightly irregular in outline, had the same tint. The
“strangeness,” however, which I found in the eyes, was of a
nature distinct from the formation, or the color, or the
brilliancy of the features, and must, after all, be referred to
the expression. Ah, word of no meaning! behind whose vast
latitude of mere sound we intrench our ignorance of so much of
the spiritual. The expression of the eyes of Ligeia! How for long
hours have I pondered upon it! How have I, through the whole of a
midsummer night, struggled to fathom it! What was it—that
something more profound than the well of Democritus—which lay far
within the pupils of my beloved? What was it? I was possessed
with a passion to discover. Those eyes! those large, those
shining, those divine orbs! they became to me twin stars of Leda,
and I to them devoutest of astrologers.
There is no point, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of
the science of mind, more thrillingly exciting than the
fact—never, I believe, noticed in the schools—that, in our
endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often
find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being
able, in the end, to remember. And thus how frequently, in my
intense scrutiny of Ligeia’s eyes, have I felt approaching the
full knowledge of their expression—felt it approaching—yet not
quite be mine—and so at length entirely depart! And (strange, oh
strangest mystery of all!) I found, in the commonest objects of
the universe, a circle of analogies to that expression. I mean to
say that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia’s beauty passed
into my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from
many existences in the material world, a sentiment such as I felt
always aroused within me by her large and luminous orbs. Yet not
the more could I define that sentiment, or analyze, or even
steadily view it. I recognized it, let me repeat, sometimes in
the survey of a rapidly-growing vine—in the contemplation of a
moth, a butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of running water. I have
felt it in the ocean—in the falling of a meteor. I have felt it
in the glances of unusually aged people. And there are one or two
stars in heaven—(one especially, a star of the sixth magnitude,
double and changeable, to be found near the large star in Lyra)
in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have been made aware of the
feeling. I have been filled with it by certain sounds from
stringed instruments, and not unfrequently by passages from
books. Among innumerable other instances, I well remember
something in a volume of Joseph Glanvill, which (perhaps merely
from its quaintness—who shall say?) never failed to inspire me
with the sentiment: “And the will therein lieth, which dieth not.
Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is
but a great will pervading all things by nature of its
intentness. Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death
utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.”
Length of years, and subsequent reflection, have enabled me to
trace, indeed, some remote connection between this passage in the
English moralist and a portion of the character of Ligeia. An
intensity in thought, action, or speech, was possibly, in her, a
result, or at least an index, of that gigantic volition which,
during our long intercourse, failed to give other and more
immediate evidence of its existence. Of all the women whom I have
ever known, she, the outwardly calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was
the most violently a prey to the tumultuous vultures of stern
passion. And of such passion I could form no estimate, save by
the miraculous expansion of those eyes which at once so delighted
and appalled me—by the almost magical melody, modulation,
distinctness and placidity of her very low voice—and by the
fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by contrast with her
manner of utterance) of the wild words which she habitually
uttered.
I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia: it was immense—such as I
have never known in woman. In the classical tongues was she
deeply proficient, and as far as my own acquaintance extended in
regard to the modern dialects of Europe, I have never known her
at fault. Indeed upon any theme of the most admired, because
simply the most abstruse of the boasted erudition of the academy,
have I ever found Ligeia at fault? How singularly—how
thrillingly, this one point in the nature of my wife has forced
itself, at this late period only, upon my attention! I said her
knowledge was such as I have never known in woman—but where
breathes the man who has traversed, and successfully, all the
wide areas of moral, physical, and mathematical science? I saw
not then what I now clearly perceive, that the acquisitions of
Ligeia were gigantic, were astounding; yet I was sufficiently
aware of her infinite supremacy to resign myself, with a
child-like confidence, to her guidance through the chaotic world
of metaphysical investigation at which I was most busily occupied
during the earlier years of our marriage. With how vast a
triumph—with how vivid a delight—with how much of all that is
ethereal in hope did I feel, as she bent over me in studies but
little sought—but less known—that delicious vista by slow degrees
expanding before me, down whose long, gorgeous, and all untrodden
path, I might at length pass onward to the goal of a wisdom too
divinely precious not to be forbidden!
How poignant, then, must have been the grief with which, after
some years, I beheld my well-grounded expectations take wings to
themselves and fly away! Without Ligeia I was but as a child
groping benighted. Her presence, her readings alone, rendered
vividly luminous the many mysteries of the transcendentalism in
which we were immersed. Wanting the radiant lustre of her eyes,
letters, lambent and golden, grew duller than Saturnian lead. And
now those eyes shone less and less frequently upon the pages over
which I pored. Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a
too—too glorious effulgence; the pale fingers became of the
transparent waxen hue of the grave; and the blue veins upon the
lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously with the tides of the
gentle emotion. I saw that she must die—and I struggled
desperately in spirit with the grim Azrael. And the struggles of
the passionate wife were, to my astonishment, even more energetic
than my own. There had been much in her stern nature to impress
me with the belief that, to her, death would have come without
its terrors; but not so. Words are impotent to convey any just
idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled with
the Shadow. I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle. I
would have soothed—I would have reasoned; but, in the intensity
of her wild desire for life,—for life—but for life—solace and
reason were the uttermost folly. Yet not until the last instance,
amid the most convulsive writhings of her fierce spirit, was
shaken the external placidity of her demeanor. Her voice grew
more gentle—grew more low—yet I would not wish to dwell upon the
wild meaning of the quietly uttered words. My brain reeled as I
hearkened, entranced, to a melody more than mortal—to assumptions
and aspirations which mortality had never before known.
That she loved me I should not have doubted; and I might have
been easily aware that, in a bosom such as hers, love would have
reigned no ordinary passion. But in death only, was I fully
impressed with the strength of her affection. For long hours,
detaining my hand, would she pour out before me the overflowing
of a heart whose more than passionate devotion amounted to
idolatry. How had I deserved to be so blessed by such
confessions?—how had I deserved to be so cursed with the removal
of my beloved in the hour of her making them? But upon this
subject I cannot bear to dilate. Let me say only, that in
Ligeia’s more than womanly abandonment to a love, alas! all
unmerited, all unworthily bestowed, I at length recognized the
principle of her longing with so wildly earnest a desire for the
life which was now fleeing so rapidly away. It is this wild
longing—it is this eager vehemence of desire for life—but for
life—that I have no power to portray—no utterance capable of
expressing.
At high noon of the night in which she departed, beckoning me,
peremptorily, to her side, she bade me repeat certain verses
composed by herself not many days before. I obeyed her. They were
these:
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama!—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased forever more,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness and more of Sin
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
“O God!” half shrieked Ligeia, leaping to her feet and extending
her arms aloft with a spasmodic movement, as I made an end of
these lines—“O God! O Divine Father!—shall these things be
undeviatingly so?—shall this Conqueror be not once conquered? Are
we not part and parcel in Thee? Who—who knoweth the mysteries of
the will with its vigor? Man doth not yield him to the angels,
nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his
feeble will.”
And now, as if exhausted with emotion, she suffered her white
arms to fall, and returned solemnly to her bed of death. And as
she breathed her last sighs, there came mingled with them a low
murmur from her lips. I bent to them my ear and distinguished,
again, the concluding words of the passage in Glanvill—“Man doth
not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only
through the weakness of his feeble will.”
She died: and I, crushed into the very dust with sorrow, could no
longer endure the lonely desolation of my dwelling in the dim and
decaying city by the Rhine. I had no lack of what the world calls
wealth. Ligeia had brought me far more, very far more than
ordinarily falls to the lot of mortals. After a few months,
therefore, of weary and aimless wandering, I purchased, and put
in some repair, an abbey, which I shall not name, in one of the
wildest and least frequented portions of fair England. The gloomy
and dreary grandeur of the building, the almost savage aspect of
the domain, the many melancholy and time-honored memories
connected with both, had much in unison with the feelings of
utter abandonment which had driven me into that remote and
unsocial region of the country. Yet although the external abbey,
with its verdant decay hanging about it, suffered but little
alteration, I gave way, with a child-like perversity, and
perchance with a faint hope of alleviating my sorrows, to a
display of more than regal magnificence within. For such follies,
even in childhood, I had imbibed a taste and now they came back
to me as if in the dotage of grief. Alas, I feel how much even of
incipient madness might have been discovered in the gorgeous and
fantastic draperies, in the solemn carvings of Egypt, in the wild
cornices and furniture, in the Bedlam patterns of the carpets of
tufted gold! I had become a bounden slave in the trammels of
opium, and my labors and my orders had taken a coloring from my
dreams. But these absurdities I must not pause to detail. Let me
speak only of that one chamber, ever accursed, whither in a
moment of mental alienation, I led from the altar as my bride—as
the successor of the unforgotten Ligeia—the fair-haired and
blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion, of Tremaine.
There is no individual portion of the architecture and decoration
of that bridal chamber which is not now visibly before me. Where
were the souls of the haughty family of the bride, when, through
thirst of gold, they permitted to pass the threshold of an
apartment so bedecked, a maiden and a daughter so beloved? I have
said that I minutely remember the details of the chamber—yet I am
sadly forgetful on topics of deep moment—and here there was no
system, no keeping, in the fantastic display, to take hold upon
the memory. The room lay in a high turret of the castellated
abbey, was pentagonal in shape, and of capacious size. Occupying
the whole southern face of the pentagon was the sole window—an
immense sheet of unbroken glass from Venice—a single pane, and
tinted of a leaden hue, so that the rays of either the sun or
moon, passing through it, fell with a ghastly lustre on the
objects within. Over the upper portion of this huge window,
extended the trellice-work of an aged vine, which clambered up
the massy walls of the turret. The ceiling, of gloomy-looking
oak, was excessively lofty, vaulted, and elaborately fretted with
the wildest and most grotesque specimens of a semi-Gothic,
semi-Druidical device. From out the most central recess of this
melancholy vaulting, depended, by a single chain of gold with
long links, a huge censer of the same metal, Saracenic in
pattern, and with many perforations so contrived that there
writhed in and out of them, as if endued with a serpent vitality,
a continual succession of parti-colored fires.
Some few ottomans and golden candelabra, of Eastern figure, were
in various stations about—and there was the couch, too—bridal
couch—of an Indian model, and low, and sculptured of solid ebony,
with a pall-like canopy above. In each of the angles of the
chamber stood on end a gigantic sarcophagus of black granite,
from the tombs of the kings over against Luxor, with their aged
lids full of immemorial sculpture. But in the draping of the
apartment lay, alas! the chief phantasy of all. The lofty walls,
gigantic in height—even unproportionably so—were hung from summit
to foot, in vast folds, with a heavy and massive-looking
tapestry—tapestry of a material which was found alike as a carpet
on the floor, as a covering for the ottomans and the ebony bed,
as a canopy for the bed, and as the gorgeous volutes of the
curtains which partially shaded the window. The material was the
richest cloth of gold. It was spotted all over, at irregular
intervals, with arabesque figures, about a foot in diameter, and
wrought upon the cloth in patterns of the most jetty black. But
these figures partook of the true character of the arabesque only
when regarded from a single point of view. By a contrivance now
common, and indeed traceable to a very remote period of
antiquity, they were made changeable in aspect. To one entering
the room, they bore the appearance of simple monstrosities; but
upon a farther advance, this appearance gradually departed; and
step by step, as the visitor moved his station in the chamber, he
saw himself surrounded by an endless succession of the ghastly
forms which belong to the superstition of the Norman, or arise in
the guilty slumbers of the monk. The phantasmagoric effect was
vastly heightened by the artificial introduction of a strong
continual current of wind behind the draperies—giving a hideous
and uneasy animation to the whole.
In halls such as these—in a bridal chamber such as this—I passed,
with the Lady of Tremaine, the unhallowed hours of the first
month of our marriage—passed them with but little disquietude.
That my wife dreaded the fierce moodiness of my temper—that she
shunned me and loved me but little—I could not help perceiving;
but it gave me rather pleasure than otherwise. I loathed her with
a hatred belonging more to demon than to man. My memory flew
back, (oh, with what intensity of regret!) to Ligeia, the
beloved, the august, the beautiful, the entombed. I revelled in
recollections of her purity, of her wisdom, of her lofty, her
ethereal nature, of her passionate, her idolatrous love. Now,
then, did my spirit fully and freely burn with more than all the
fires of her own. In the excitement of my opium dreams (for I was
habitually fettered in the shackles of the drug) I would call
aloud upon her name, during the silence of the night, or among
the sheltered recesses of the glens by day, as if, through the
wild eagerness, the solemn passion, the consuming ardor of my
longing for the departed, I could restore her to the pathway she
had abandoned—ah, could it be forever?—upon the earth.
About the commencement of the second month of the marriage, the
Lady Rowena was attacked with sudden illness, from which her
recovery was slow. The fever which consumed her rendered her
nights uneasy; and in her perturbed state of half-slumber, she
spoke of sounds, and of motions, in and about the chamber of the
turret, which I concluded had no origin save in the distemper of
her fancy, or perhaps in the phantasmagoric influences of the
chamber itself. She became at length convalescent—finally well.
Yet but a brief period elapsed, ere a second more violent
disorder again threw her upon a bed of suffering; and from this
attack her frame, at all times feeble, never altogether
recovered. Her illnesses were, after this epoch, of alarming
character, and of more alarming recurrence, defying alike the
knowledge and the great exertions of her physicians. With the
increase of the chronic disease which had thus, apparently, taken
too sure hold upon her constitution to be eradicated by human
means, I could not fail to observe a similar increase in the
nervous irritation of her temperament, and in her excitability by
trivial causes of fear. She spoke again, and now more frequently
and pertinaciously, of the sounds—of the slight sounds—and of the
unusual motions among the tapestries, to which she had formerly
alluded.
One night, near the closing in of September, she pressed this
distressing subject with more than usual emphasis upon my
attention. She had just awakened from an unquiet slumber, and I
had been watching, with feelings half of anxiety, half of vague
terror, the workings of her emaciated countenance. I sat by the
side of her ebony bed, upon one of the ottomans of India. She
partly arose, and spoke, in an earnest low whisper, of sounds
which she then heard, but which I could not hear—of motions which
she then saw, but which I could not perceive. The wind was
rushing hurriedly behind the tapestries, and I wished to show her
(what, let me confess it, I could not all believe) that those
almost inarticulate breathings, and those very gentle variations
of the figures upon the wall, were but the natural effects of
that customary rushing of the wind. But a deadly pallor,
overspreading her face, had proved to me that my exertions to
reassure her would be fruitless. She appeared to be fainting, and
no attendants were within call. I remembered where was deposited
a decanter of light wine which had been ordered by her
physicians, and hastened across the chamber to procure it. But,
as I stepped beneath the light of the censer, two circumstances
of a startling nature attracted my attention. I had felt that
some palpable although invisible object had passed lightly by my
person; and I saw that there lay upon the golden carpet, in the
very middle of the rich lustre thrown from the censer, a shadow—a
faint, indefinite shadow of angelic aspect—such as might be
fancied for the shadow of a shade. But I was wild with the
excitement of an immoderate dose of opium, and heeded these
things but little, nor spoke of them to Rowena. Having found the
wine, I recrossed the chamber, and poured out a gobletful, which
I held to the lips of the fainting lady. She had now partially
recovered, however, and took the vessel herself, while I sank
upon an ottoman near me, with my eyes fastened upon her person.
It was then that I became distinctly aware of a gentle footfall
upon the carpet, and near the couch; and in a second thereafter,
as Rowena was in the act of raising the wine to her lips, I saw,
or may have dreamed that I saw, fall within the goblet, as if
from some invisible spring in the atmosphere of the room, three
or four large drops of a brilliant and ruby colored fluid. If
this I saw—not so Rowena. She swallowed the wine unhesitatingly,
and I forbore to speak to her of a circumstance which must, after
all, I considered, have been but the suggestion of a vivid
imagination, rendered morbidly active by the terror of the lady,
by the opium, and by the hour.
Yet I cannot conceal it from my own perception that, immediately
subsequent to the fall of the ruby-drops, a rapid change for the
worse took place in the disorder of my wife; so that, on the
third subsequent night, the hands of her menials prepared her for
the tomb, and on the fourth, I sat alone, with her shrouded body,
in that fantastic chamber which had received her as my bride.
Wild visions, opium-engendered, flitted, shadow-like, before me.
I gazed with unquiet eye upon the sarcophagi in the angles of the
room, upon the varying figures of the drapery, and upon the
writhing of the parti-colored fires in the censer overhead. My
eyes then fell, as I called to mind the circumstances of a former
night, to the spot beneath the glare of the censer where I had
seen the faint traces of the shadow. It was there, however, no
longer; and breathing with greater freedom, I turned my glances
to the pallid and rigid figure upon the bed. Then rushed upon me
a thousand memories of Ligeia—and then came back upon my heart,
with the turbulent violence of a flood, the whole of that
unutterable woe with which I had regarded her thus enshrouded.
The night waned; and still, with a bosom full of bitter thoughts
of the one only and supremely beloved, I remained gazing upon the
body of Rowena.
It might have been midnight, or perhaps earlier, or later, for I
had taken no note of time, when a sob, low, gentle, but very
distinct, startled me from my revery. I _felt_ that it came from
the bed of ebony—the bed of death. I listened in an agony of
superstitious terror—but there was no repetition of the sound. I
strained my vision to detect any motion in the corpse—but there
was not the slightest perceptible. Yet I could not have been
deceived. I had heard the noise, however faint, and my soul was
awakened within me. I resolutely and perseveringly kept my
attention riveted upon the body. Many minutes elapsed before any
circumstance occurred tending to throw light upon the mystery. At
length it became evident that a slight, a very feeble, and barely
noticeable tinge of color had flushed up within the cheeks, and
along the sunken small veins of the eyelids. Through a species of
unutterable horror and awe, for which the language of mortality
has no sufficiently energetic expression, I felt my heart cease
to beat, my limbs grow rigid where I sat. Yet a sense of duty
finally operated to restore my self-possession. I could no longer
doubt that we had been precipitate in our preparations—that
Rowena still lived. It was necessary that some immediate exertion
be made; yet the turret was altogether apart from the portion of
the abbey tenanted by the servants—there were none within call—I
had no means of summoning them to my aid without leaving the room
for many minutes—and this I could not venture to do. I therefore
struggled alone in my endeavors to call back the spirit ill
hovering. In a short period it was certain, however, that a
relapse had taken place; the color disappeared from both eyelid
and cheek, leaving a wanness even more than that of marble; the
lips became doubly shrivelled and pinched up in the ghastly
expression of death; a repulsive clamminess and coldness
overspread rapidly the surface of the body; and all the usual
rigorous illness immediately supervened. I fell back with a
shudder upon the couch from which I had been so startlingly
aroused, and again gave myself up to passionate waking visions of
Ligeia.
An hour thus elapsed when (could it be possible?) I was a second
time aware of some vague sound issuing from the region of the
bed. I listened—in extremity of horror. The sound came again—it
was a sigh. Rushing to the corpse, I saw—distinctly saw—a tremor
upon the lips. In a minute afterward they relaxed, disclosing a
bright line of the pearly teeth. Amazement now struggled in my
bosom with the profound awe which had hitherto reigned there
alone. I felt that my vision grew dim, that my reason wandered;
and it was only by a violent effort that I at length succeeded in
nerving myself to the task which duty thus once more had pointed
out. There was now a partial glow upon the forehead and upon the
cheek and throat; a perceptible warmth pervaded the whole frame;
there was even a slight pulsation at the heart. The lady lived;
and with redoubled ardor I betook myself to the task of
restoration. I chafed and bathed the temples and the hands, and
used every exertion which experience, and no little medical
reading, could suggest. But in vain. Suddenly, the color fled,
the pulsation ceased, the lips resumed the expression of the
dead, and, in an instant afterward, the whole body took upon
itself the icy chilliness, the livid hue, the intense rigidity,
the sunken outline, and all the loathsome peculiarities of that
which has been, for many days, a tenant of the tomb.
And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia—and again, (what marvel
that I shudder while I write?), again there reached my ears a low
sob from the region of the ebony bed. But why shall I minutely
detail the unspeakable horrors of that night? Why shall I pause
to relate how, time after time, until near the period of the gray
dawn, this hideous drama of revivification was repeated; how each
terrific relapse was only into a sterner and apparently more
irredeemable death; how each agony wore the aspect of a struggle
with some invisible foe; and how each struggle was succeeded by I
know not what of wild change in the personal appearance of the
corpse? Let me hurry to a conclusion.
The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who
had been dead, once again stirred—and now more vigorously than
hitherto, although arousing from a dissolution more appalling in
its utter hopelessness than any. I had long ceased to struggle or
to move, and remained sitting rigidly upon the ottoman, a
helpless prey to a whirl of violent emotions, of which extreme
awe was perhaps the least terrible, the least consuming. The
corpse, I repeat, stirred, and now more vigorously than before.
The hues of life flushed up with unwonted energy into the
countenance—the limbs relaxed—and, save that the eyelids were yet
pressed heavily together, and that the bandages and draperies of
the grave still imparted their charnel character to the figure, I
might have dreamed that Rowena had indeed shaken off, utterly,
the fetters of Death. But if this idea was not, even then,
altogether adopted, I could at least doubt no longer, when,
arising from the bed, tottering, with feeble steps, with closed
eyes, and with the manner of one bewildered in a dream, the thing
that was enshrouded advanced boldly and palpably into the middle
of the apartment.
I trembled not—I stirred not—for a crowd of unutterable fancies
connected with the air, the stature, the demeanor of the figure,
rushing hurriedly through my brain, had paralyzed—had chilled me
into stone. I stirred not—but gazed upon the apparition. There
was a mad disorder in my thoughts—a tumult unappeasable. Could
it, indeed, be the living Rowena who confronted me? Could it
indeed be Rowena at all—the fair-haired, the blue-eyed Lady
Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine? Why, why should I doubt it? The
bandage lay heavily about the mouth—but then might it not be the
mouth of the breathing Lady of Tremaine? And the cheeks—there
were the roses as in her noon of life—yes, these might indeed be
the fair cheeks of the living Lady of Tremaine. And the chin,
with its dimples, as in health, might it not be hers?—but had she
then grown taller since her malady? What inexpressible madness
seized me with that thought? One bound, and I had reached her
feet! Shrinking from my touch, she let fall from her head,
unloosened, the ghastly cerements which had confined it, and
there streamed forth, into the rushing atmosphere of the chamber,
huge masses of long and dishevelled hair; _it was blacker than
the raven wings of the midnight!_ And now slowly opened the eyes
of the figure which stood before me. “Here then, at least,” I
shrieked aloud, “can I never—can I never be mistaken—these are
the full, and the black, and the wild eyes—of my lost love—of the
Lady—of the LADY LIGEIA.”
MORELLA
Itself, by itself, solely, one everlasting, and single.
—PLATO—_Sympos_.
With a feeling of deep yet most singular affection I regarded my
friend Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years
ago, my soul from our first meeting, burned with fires it had
never before known; but the fires were not of Eros, and bitter
and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I
could in no manner define their unusual meaning or regulate their
vague intensity. Yet we met; and fate bound us together at the
altar; and I never spoke of passion nor thought of love. She,
however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone
rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder; it is a happiness
to dream.
Morella’s erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents
were of no common order—her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt
this, and, in many matters, became her pupil. I soon, however,
found that, perhaps on account of her Presburg education, she
placed before me a number of those mystical writings which are
usually considered the mere dross of the early German literature.
These, for what reason I could not imagine, were her favourite
and constant study—and that in process of time they became my
own, should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence
of habit and example.
In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My
convictions, or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by
the ideal, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read to
be discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds
or in my thoughts. Persuaded of this, I abandoned myself
implicitly to the guidance of my wife, and entered with an
unflinching heart into the intricacies of her studies. And
then—then, when, poring over forbidden pages, I felt a forbidden
spirit enkindling within me—would Morella place her cold hand
upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some
low, singular words, whose strange meaning burned themselves in
upon my memory. And then, hour after hour, would I linger by her
side, and dwell upon the music of her voice, until at length its
melody was tainted with terror, and there fell a shadow upon my
soul, and I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too
unearthly tones. And thus, joy suddenly faded into horror, and
the most beautiful became the most hideous, as Hinnon became
Ge-Henna.
It is unnecessary to state the exact character of those
disquisitions which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned,
formed, for so long a time, almost the sole conversation of
Morella and myself. By the learned in what might be termed
theological morality they will be readily conceived, and by the
unlearned they would, at all events, be little understood. The
wild Pantheism of Fichte; the modified Paliggenedia of the
Pythagoreans; and, above all, the doctrines of Identity as urged
by Schelling, were generally the points of discussion presenting
the most of beauty to the imaginative Morella. That identity
which is termed personal, Mr. Locke, I think, truly defines to
consist in the saneness of rational being. And since by person we
understand an intelligent essence having reason, and since there
is a consciousness which always accompanies thinking, it is this
which makes us all to be that which we call _ourselves_—thereby
distinguishing us from other beings that think, and giving us our
personal identity. But the _principium indivduationis_, the
notion of that identity _which at death is or is not lost
forever_—was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense
interest; not more from the perplexing and exciting nature of its
consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which
Morella mentioned them.
But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my
wife’s manner oppressed me as a spell. I could no longer bear the
touch of her wan fingers, nor the low tone of her musical
language, nor the lustre of her melancholy eyes. And she knew all
this, but did not upbraid; she seemed conscious of my weakness or
my folly, and, smiling, called it Fate. She seemed, also,
conscious of a cause, to me unknown, for the gradual alienation
of my regard; but she gave me no hint or token of its nature. Yet
was she woman, and pined away daily. In time the crimson spot
settled steadily upon the cheek, and the blue veins upon the pale
forehead became prominent; and one instant my nature melted into
pity, but in, next I met the glance of her meaning eyes, and then
my soul sickened and became giddy with the giddiness of one who
gazes downward into some dreary and unfathomable abyss.
Shall I then say that I longed with an earnest and consuming
desire for the moment of Morella’s decease? I did; but the
fragile spirit clung to its tenement of clay for many days—for
many weeks and irksome months, until my tortured nerves obtained
the mastery over my mind, and I grew furious through delay, and,
with the heart of a fiend, cursed the days and the hours and the
bitter moments, which seemed to lengthen and lengthen as her
gentle life declined—like shadows in the dying of the day.
But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay still in heaven,
Morella called me to her bedside. There was a dim mist over all
the earth, and a warm glow upon the waters, and amid the rich
October leaves of the forest, a rainbow from the firmament had
surely fallen.
“It is a day of days,” she said, as I approached; “a day of all
days either to live or die. It is a fair day for the sons of
earth and life—ah, more fair for the daughters of heaven and
death!”
I kissed her forehead, and she continued:
“I am dying, yet shall I live.”
“Morella!”
“The days have never been when thou couldst love me—but her whom
in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore.”
“Morella!”
“I repeat that I am dying. But within me is a pledge of that
affection—ah, how little!—which thou didst feel for me, Morella.
And when my spirit departs shall the child live—thy child and
mine, Morella’s. But thy days shall be days of sorrow—that sorrow
which is the most lasting of impressions, as the cypress is the
most enduring of trees. For the hours of thy happiness are over
and joy is not gathered twice in a life, as the roses of Paestum
twice in a year. Thou shalt no longer, then, play the Teian with
time, but, being ignorant of the myrtle and the vine, thou shalt
bear about with thee thy shroud on the earth, as do the Moslemin
at Mecca.”
“Morella!” I cried, “Morella! how knowest thou this?” but she
turned away her face upon the pillow and a slight tremor coming
over her limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice no more.
Yet, as she had foretold, her child, to which in dying she had
given birth, which breathed not until the mother breathed no
more, her child, a daughter, lived. And she grew strangely in
stature and intellect, and was the perfect resemblance of her who
had departed, and I loved her with a love more fervent than I had
believed it possible to feel for any denizen of earth.
But, ere long the heaven of this pure affection became darkened,
and gloom, and horror, and grief swept over it in clouds. I said
the child grew strangely in stature and intelligence. Strange,
indeed, was her rapid increase in bodily size—but terrible, oh!
terrible were the tumultuous thoughts which crowded upon me while
watching the development of her mental being. Could it be
otherwise, when I daily discovered in the conceptions of the
child the adult powers and faculties of the woman?—when the
lessons of experience fell from the lips of infancy? and when the
wisdom or the passions of maturity I found hourly gleaming from
its full and speculative eye? When, I say, all this became
evident to my appalled senses—when I could no longer hide it from
my soul, nor throw it off from those perceptions which trembled
to receive it—is it to be wondered at that suspicions, of a
nature fearful and exciting, crept in upon my spirit, or that my
thoughts fell back aghast upon the wild tales and thrilling
theories of the entombed Morella? I snatched from the scrutiny of
the world a being whom destiny compelled me to adore, and in the
rigorous seclusion of my home, watched with an agonizing anxiety
over all which concerned the beloved.
And as years rolled away, and I gazed day after day upon her
holy, and mild, and eloquent face, and poured over her maturing
form, day after day did I discover new points of resemblance in
the child to her mother, the melancholy and the dead. And hourly
grew darker these shadows of similitude, and more full, and more
definite, and more perplexing, and more hideously terrible in
their aspect. For that her smile was like her mother’s I could
bear; but then I shuddered at its too perfect _identity_—that her
eyes were like Morella’s I could endure; but then they, too,
often looked down into the depths of my soul with Morella’s own
intense and bewildering meaning. And in the contour of the high
forehead, and in the ringlets of the silken hair, and in the wan
fingers which buried themselves therein, and in the sad musical
tones of her speech, and above all—oh! above all—in the phrases
and expressions of the dead on the lips of the loved and the
living, I found food for consuming thought and horror—for a worm
that _would_ not die.
Thus passed away two lustra of her life, and as yet my daughter
remained nameless upon the earth. “My child,” and “my love,” were
the designations usually prompted by a father’s affection, and
the rigid seclusion of her days precluded all other intercourse.
Morella’s name died with her at her death. Of the mother I had
never spoken to the daughter;—it was impossible to speak. Indeed,
during the brief period of her existence, the latter had received
no impressions from the outward world, save such as might have
been afforded by the narrow limits of her privacy. But at length
the ceremony of baptism presented to my mind, in its unnerved and
agitated condition, a present deliverance from the terrors of my
destiny. And at the baptismal font I hesitated for a name. And
many titles of the wise and beautiful, of old and modern times,
of my own and foreign lands, came thronging to my lips, with
many, many fair titles of the gentle, and the happy, and the
good. What prompted me then to disturb the memory of the buried
dead? What demon urged me to breathe that sound, which in its
very recollection was wont to make ebb the purple blood in
torrents from the temples to the heart? What fiend spoke from the
recesses of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, and in the
silence of the night, I whispered within the ears of the holy man
the syllables—Morella? What more than fiend convulsed the
features of my child, and overspread them with hues of death, as
starting at that scarcely audible sound, she turned her glassy
eyes from the earth to heaven, and falling prostrate on the black
slabs of our ancestral vault, responded—“I am here!”
Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct, fell those few simple sounds
within my ear, and thence like molten lead rolled hissingly into
my brain. Years—years may pass away, but the memory of that
epoch—never! Nor was I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the
vine—but the hemlock and the cypress overshadowed me night and
day. And I kept no reckoning of time or place, and the stars of
my fate faded from heaven, and therefore the earth grew dark, and
its figures passed by me like flitting shadows, and among them
all I beheld only—Morella. The winds of the firmament breathed
but one sound within my ears, and the ripples upon the sea
murmured evermore—Morella. But she died; and with my own hands I
bore her to the tomb; and I laughed with a long and bitter laugh
as I found no traces of the first in the charnel where I laid the
second, Morella.
A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS
During the fall of the year 1827, while residing near
Charlottesville, Virginia, I casually made the acquaintance of
Mr. Augustus Bedloe. This young gentleman was remarkable in every
respect, and excited in me a profound interest and curiosity. I
found it impossible to comprehend him either in his moral or his
physical relations. Of his family I could obtain no satisfactory
account. Whence he came, I never ascertained. Even about his
age—although I call him a young gentleman—there was something
which perplexed me in no little degree. He certainly seemed
young—and he made a point of speaking about his youth—yet there
were moments when I should have had little trouble in imagining
him a hundred years of age. But in no regard was he more peculiar
than in his personal appearance. He was singularly tall and thin.
He stooped much. His limbs were exceedingly long and emaciated.
His forehead was broad and low. His complexion was absolutely
bloodless. His mouth was large and flexible, and his teeth were
more wildly uneven, although sound, than I had ever before seen
teeth in a human head. The expression of his smile, however, was
by no means unpleasing, as might be supposed; but it had no
variation whatever. It was one of profound melancholy—of a
phaseless and unceasing gloom. His eyes were abnormally large,
and round like those of a cat. The pupils, too, upon any
accession or diminution of light, underwent contraction or
dilation, just such as is observed in the feline tribe. In
moments of excitement the orbs grew bright to a degree almost
inconceivable; seeming to emit luminous rays, not of a reflected
but of an intrinsic lustre, as does a candle or the sun; yet
their ordinary condition was so totally vapid, filmy, and dull as
to convey the idea of the eyes of a long-interred corpse.
These peculiarities of person appeared to cause him much
annoyance, and he was continually alluding to them in a sort of
half explanatory, half apologetic strain, which, when I first
heard it, impressed me very painfully. I soon, however, grew
accustomed to it, and my uneasiness wore off. It seemed to be his
design rather to insinuate than directly to assert that,
physically, he had not always been what he was—that a long series
of neuralgic attacks had reduced him from a condition of more
than usual personal beauty, to that which I saw. For many years
past he had been attended by a physician, named Templeton—an old
gentleman, perhaps seventy years of age—whom he had first
encountered at Saratoga, and from whose attention, while there,
he either received, or fancied that he received, great benefit.
The result was that Bedloe, who was wealthy, had made an
arrangement with Dr. Templeton, by which the latter, in
consideration of a liberal annual allowance, had consented to
devote his time and medical experience exclusively to the care of
the invalid.
Doctor Templeton had been a traveller in his younger days, and at
Paris had become a convert, in great measure, to the doctrines of
Mesmer. It was altogether by means of magnetic remedies that he
had succeeded in alleviating the acute pains of his patient; and
this success had very naturally inspired the latter with a
certain degree of confidence in the opinions from which the
remedies had been educed. The Doctor, however, like all
enthusiasts, had struggled hard to make a thorough convert of his
pupil, and finally so far gained his point as to induce the
sufferer to submit to numerous experiments. By a frequent
repetition of these, a result had arisen, which of late days has
become so common as to attract little or no attention, but which,
at the period of which I write, had very rarely been known in
America. I mean to say, that between Doctor Templeton and Bedloe
there had grown up, little by little, a very distinct and
strongly marked rapport, or magnetic relation. I am not prepared
to assert, however, that this rapport extended beyond the limits
of the simple sleep-producing power, but this power itself had
attained great intensity. At the first attempt to induce the
magnetic somnolency, the mesmerist entirely failed. In the fifth
or sixth he succeeded very partially, and after long continued
effort. Only at the twelfth was the triumph complete. After this
the will of the patient succumbed rapidly to that of the
physician, so that, when I first became acquainted with the two,
sleep was brought about almost instantaneously by the mere
volition of the operator, even when the invalid was unaware of
his presence. It is only now, in the year 1845, when similar
miracles are witnessed daily by thousands, that I dare venture to
record this apparent impossibility as a matter of serious fact.
The temperature of Bedloe was, in the highest degree sensitive,
excitable, enthusiastic. His imagination was singularly vigorous
and creative; and no doubt it derived additional force from the
habitual use of morphine, which he swallowed in great quantity,
and without which he would have found it impossible to exist. It
was his practice to take a very large dose of it immediately
after breakfast each morning—or, rather, immediately after a cup
of strong coffee, for he ate nothing in the forenoon—and then set
forth alone, or attended only by a dog, upon a long ramble among
the chain of wild and dreary hills that lie westward and
southward of Charlottesville, and are there dignified by the
title of the Ragged Mountains.
Upon a dim, warm, misty day, toward the close of November, and
during the strange interregnum of the seasons which in America is
termed the Indian Summer, Mr. Bedloe departed as usual for the
hills. The day passed, and still he did not return.
About eight o’clock at night, having become seriously alarmed at
his protracted absence, we were about setting out in search of
him, when he unexpectedly made his appearance, in health no worse
than usual, and in rather more than ordinary spirits. The account
which he gave of his expedition, and of the events which had
detained him, was a singular one indeed.
“You will remember,” said he, “that it was about nine in the
morning when I left Charlottesville. I bent my steps immediately
to the mountains, and, about ten, entered a gorge which was
entirely new to me. I followed the windings of this pass with
much interest. The scenery which presented itself on all sides,
although scarcely entitled to be called grand, had about it an
indescribable and to me a delicious aspect of dreary desolation.
The solitude seemed absolutely virgin. I could not help believing
that the green sods and the gray rocks upon which I trod had been
trodden never before by the foot of a human being. So entirely
secluded, and in fact inaccessible, except through a series of
accidents, is the entrance of the ravine, that it is by no means
impossible that I was indeed the first adventurer—the very first
and sole adventurer who had ever penetrated its recesses.
“The thick and peculiar mist, or smoke, which distinguishes the
Indian Summer, and which now hung heavily over all objects,
served, no doubt, to deepen the vague impressions which these
objects created. So dense was this pleasant fog that I could at
no time see more than a dozen yards of the path before me. This
path was excessively sinuous, and as the sun could not be seen, I
soon lost all idea of the direction in which I journeyed. In the
meantime the morphine had its customary effect—that of enduing
all the external world with an intensity of interest. In the
quivering of a leaf—in the hue of a blade of grass—in the shape
of a trefoil—in the humming of a bee—in the gleaming of a
dew-drop—in the breathing of the wind—in the faint odors that
came from the forest—there came a whole universe of suggestion—a
gay and motley train of rhapsodical and immethodical thought.
“Busied in this, I walked on for several hours, during which the
mist deepened around me to so great an extent that at length I
was reduced to an absolute groping of the way. And now an
indescribable uneasiness possessed me—a species of nervous
hesitation and tremor. I feared to tread, lest I should be
precipitated into some abyss. I remembered, too, strange stories
told about these Ragged Hills, and of the uncouth and fierce
races of men who tenanted their groves and caverns. A thousand
vague fancies oppressed and disconcerted me—fancies the more
distressing because vague. Very suddenly my attention was
arrested by the loud beating of a drum.
“My amazement was, of course, extreme. A drum in these hills was
a thing unknown. I could not have been more surprised at the
sound of the trump of the Archangel. But a new and still more
astounding source of interest and perplexity arose. There came a
wild rattling or jingling sound, as if of a bunch of large keys,
and upon the instant a dusky-visaged and half-naked man rushed
past me with a shriek. He came so close to my person that I felt
his hot breath upon my face. He bore in one hand an instrument
composed of an assemblage of steel rings, and shook them
vigorously as he ran. Scarcely had he disappeared in the mist
before, panting after him, with open mouth and glaring eyes,
there darted a huge beast. I could not be mistaken in its
character. It was a hyena.
“The sight of this monster rather relieved than heightened my
terrors—for I now made sure that I dreamed, and endeavored to
arouse myself to waking consciousness. I stepped boldly and
briskly forward. I rubbed my eyes. I called aloud. I pinched my
limbs. A small spring of water presented itself to my view, and
here, stooping, I bathed my hands and my head and neck. This
seemed to dissipate the equivocal sensations which had hitherto
annoyed me. I arose, as I thought, a new man, and proceeded
steadily and complacently on my unknown way.
“At length, quite overcome by exertion, and by a certain
oppressive closeness of the atmosphere, I seated myself beneath a
tree. Presently there came a feeble gleam of sunshine, and the
shadow of the leaves of the tree fell faintly but definitely upon
the grass. At this shadow I gazed wonderingly for many minutes.
Its character stupefied me with astonishment. I looked upward.
The tree was a palm.
“I now arose hurriedly, and in a state of fearful agitation—for
the fancy that I dreamed would serve me no longer. I saw—I felt
that I had perfect command of my senses—and these senses now
brought to my soul a world of novel and singular sensation. The
heat became all at once intolerable. A strange odor loaded the
breeze. A low, continuous murmur, like that arising from a full,
but gently flowing river, came to my ears, intermingled with the
peculiar hum of multitudinous human voices.
“While I listened in an extremity of astonishment which I need
not attempt to describe, a strong and brief gust of wind bore off
the incumbent fog as if by the wand of an enchanter.
“I found myself at the foot of a high mountain, and looking down
into a vast plain, through which wound a majestic river. On the
margin of this river stood an Eastern-looking city, such as we
read of in the Arabian Tales, but of a character even more
singular than any there described. From my position, which was
far above the level of the town, I could perceive its every nook
and corner, as if delineated on a map. The streets seemed
innumerable, and crossed each other irregularly in all
directions, but were rather long winding alleys than streets, and
absolutely swarmed with inhabitants. The houses were wildly
picturesque. On every hand was a wilderness of balconies, of
verandas, of minarets, of shrines, and fantastically carved
oriels. Bazaars abounded; and in these were displayed rich wares
in infinite variety and profusion—silks, muslins, the most
dazzling cutlery, the most magnificent jewels and gems. Besides
these things, were seen, on all sides, banners and palanquins,
litters with stately dames close-veiled, elephants gorgeously
caparisoned, idols grotesquely hewn, drums, banners, and gongs,
spears, silver and gilded maces. And amid the crowd, and the
clamor, and the general intricacy and confusion—amid the million
of black and yellow men, turbaned and robed, and of flowing
beard, there roamed a countless multitude of holy filleted bulls,
while vast legions of the filthy but sacred ape clambered,
chattering and shrieking, about the cornices of the mosques, or
clung to the minarets and oriels. From the swarming streets to
the banks of the river, there descended innumerable flights of
steps leading to bathing places, while the river itself seemed to
force a passage with difficulty through the vast fleets of
deeply-burthened ships that far and wide encountered its surface.
Beyond the limits of the city arose, in frequent majestic groups,
the palm and the cocoa, with other gigantic and weird trees of
vast age; and here and there might be seen a field of rice, the
thatched hut of a peasant, a tank, a stray temple, a gypsy camp,
or a solitary graceful maiden taking her way, with a pitcher upon
her head, to the banks of the magnificent river.
“You will say now, of course, that I dreamed; but not so. What I
saw—what I heard—what I felt—what I thought—had about it nothing
of the unmistakable idiosyncrasy of the dream. All was rigorously
self-consistent. At first, doubting that I was really awake, I
entered into a series of tests, which soon convinced me that I
really was. Now, when one dreams, and, in the dream, suspects
that he dreams, the suspicion never fails to confirm itself, and
the sleeper is almost immediately aroused. Thus Novalis errs not
in saying that ‘we are near waking when we dream that we dream.’
Had the vision occurred to me as I describe it, without my
suspecting it as a dream, then a dream it might absolutely have
been, but, occurring as it did, and suspected and tested as it
was, I am forced to class it among other phenomena.”
“In this I am not sure that you are wrong,” observed Dr.
Templeton, “but proceed. You arose and descended into the city.”
“I arose,” continued Bedloe, regarding the Doctor with an air of
profound astonishment “I arose, as you say, and descended into
the city. On my way I fell in with an immense populace, crowding
through every avenue, all in the same direction, and exhibiting
in every action the wildest excitement. Very suddenly, and by
some inconceivable impulse, I became intensely imbued with
personal interest in what was going on. I seemed to feel that I
had an important part to play, without exactly understanding what
it was. Against the crowd which environed me, however, I
experienced a deep sentiment of animosity. I shrank from amid
them, and, swiftly, by a circuitous path, reached and entered the
city. Here all was the wildest tumult and contention. A small
party of men, clad in garments half Indian, half European, and
officered by gentlemen in a uniform partly British, were engaged,
at great odds, with the swarming rabble of the alleys. I joined
the weaker party, arming myself with the weapons of a fallen
officer, and fighting I knew not whom with the nervous ferocity
of despair. We were soon overpowered by numbers, and driven to
seek refuge in a species of kiosk. Here we barricaded ourselves,
and, for the present were secure. From a loop-hole near the
summit of the kiosk, I perceived a vast crowd, in furious
agitation, surrounding and assaulting a gay palace that overhung
the river. Presently, from an upper window of this place, there
descended an effeminate-looking person, by means of a string made
of the turbans of his attendants. A boat was at hand, in which he
escaped to the opposite bank of the river.
“And now a new object took possession of my soul. I spoke a few
hurried but energetic words to my companions, and, having
succeeded in gaining over a few of them to my purpose made a
frantic sally from the kiosk. We rushed amid the crowd that
surrounded it. They retreated, at first, before us. They rallied,
fought madly, and retreated again. In the mean time we were borne
far from the kiosk, and became bewildered and entangled among the
narrow streets of tall, overhanging houses, into the recesses of
which the sun had never been able to shine. The rabble pressed
impetuously upon us, harrassing us with their spears, and
overwhelming us with flights of arrows. These latter were very
remarkable, and resembled in some respects the writhing creese of
the Malay. They were made to imitate the body of a creeping
serpent, and were long and black, with a poisoned barb. One of
them struck me upon the right temple. I reeled and fell. An
instantaneous and dreadful sickness seized me. I struggled—I
gasped—I died.”
“You will hardly persist _now_,” said I smiling, “that the whole
of your adventure was not a dream. You are not prepared to
maintain that you are dead?”
When I said these words, I of course expected some lively sally
from Bedloe in reply, but, to my astonishment, he hesitated,
trembled, became fearfully pallid, and remained silent. I looked
toward Templeton. He sat erect and rigid in his chair—his teeth
chattered, and his eyes were starting from their sockets.
“Proceed!” he at length said hoarsely to Bedloe.
“For many minutes,” continued the latter, “my sole sentiment—my
sole feeling—was that of darkness and nonentity, with the
consciousness of death. At length there seemed to pass a violent
and sudden shock through my soul, as if of electricity. With it
came the sense of elasticity and of light. This latter I felt—not
saw. In an instant I seemed to rise from the ground. But I had no
bodily, no visible, audible, or palpable presence. The crowd had
departed. The tumult had ceased. The city was in comparative
repose. Beneath me lay my corpse, with the arrow in my temple,
the whole head greatly swollen and disfigured. But all these
things I felt—not saw. I took interest in nothing. Even the
corpse seemed a matter in which I had no concern. Volition I had
none, but appeared to be impelled into motion, and flitted
buoyantly out of the city, retracing the circuitous path by which
I had entered it. When I had attained that point of the ravine in
the mountains at which I had encountered the hyena, I again
experienced a shock as of a galvanic battery; the sense of
weight, of volition, of substance, returned. I became my original
self, and bent my steps eagerly homeward—but the past had not
lost the vividness of the real—and not now, even for an instant,
can I compel my understanding to regard it as a dream.”
“Nor was it,” said Templeton, with an air of deep solemnity, “yet
it would be difficult to say how otherwise it should be termed.
Let us suppose only, that the soul of the man of to-day is upon
the verge of some stupendous psychal discoveries. Let us content
ourselves with this supposition. For the rest I have some
explanation to make. Here is a watercolor drawing, which I should
have shown you before, but which an unaccountable sentiment of
horror has hitherto prevented me from showing.”
We looked at the picture which he presented. I saw nothing in it
of an extraordinary character, but its effect upon Bedloe was
prodigious. He nearly fainted as he gazed. And yet it was but a
miniature portrait—a miraculously accurate one, to be sure—of his
own very remarkable features. At least this was my thought as I
regarded it.
“You will perceive,” said Templeton, “the date of this picture—it
is here, scarcely visible, in this corner—1780. In this year was
the portrait taken. It is the likeness of a dead friend—a Mr.
Oldeb—to whom I became much attached at Calcutta, during the
administration of Warren Hastings. I was then only twenty years
old. When I first saw you, Mr. Bedloe, at Saratoga, it was the
miraculous similarity which existed between yourself and the
painting which induced me to accost you, to seek your friendship,
and to bring about those arrangements which resulted in my
becoming your constant companion. In accomplishing this point, I
was urged partly, and perhaps principally, by a regretful memory
of the deceased, but also, in part, by an uneasy, and not
altogether horrorless curiosity respecting yourself.
“In your detail of the vision which presented itself to you amid
the hills, you have described, with the minutest accuracy, the
Indian city of Benares, upon the Holy River. The riots, the
combat, the massacre, were the actual events of the insurrection
of Cheyte Sing, which took place in 1780, when Hastings was put
in imminent peril of his life. The man escaping by the string of
turbans was Cheyte Sing himself. The party in the kiosk were
sepoys and British officers, headed by Hastings. Of this party I
was one, and did all I could to prevent the rash and fatal sally
of the officer who fell, in the crowded alleys, by the poisoned
arrow of a Bengalee. That officer was my dearest friend. It was
Oldeb. You will perceive by these manuscripts,” (here the speaker
produced a note-book in which several pages appeared to have been
freshly written,) “that at the very period in which you fancied
these things amid the hills, I was engaged in detailing them upon
paper here at home.”
In about a week after this conversation, the following paragraphs
appeared in a Charlottesville paper:
“We have the painful duty of announcing the death of Mr. Augustus
Bedlo, a gentleman whose amiable manners and many virtues have
long endeared him to the citizens of Charlottesville.
“Mr. B., for some years past, has been subject to neuralgia,
which has often threatened to terminate fatally; but this can be
regarded only as the mediate cause of his decease. The proximate
cause was one of especial singularity. In an excursion to the
Ragged Mountains, a few days since, a slight cold and fever were
contracted, attended with great determination of blood to the
head. To relieve this, Dr. Templeton resorted to topical
bleeding. Leeches were applied to the temples. In a fearfully
brief period the patient died, when it appeared that in the jar
containing the leeches, had been introduced, by accident, one of
the venomous vermicular sangsues which are now and then found in
the neighboring ponds. This creature fastened itself upon a small
artery in the right temple. Its close resemblance to the
medicinal leech caused the mistake to be overlooked until too
late.
“N. B.—The poisonous sangsue of Charlottesville may always be
distinguished from the medicinal leech by its blackness, and
especially by its writhing or vermicular motions, which very
nearly resemble those of a snake.”
I was speaking with the editor of the paper in question, upon the
topic of this remarkable accident, when it occurred to me to ask
how it happened that the name of the deceased had been given as
Bedlo.
“I presume,” I said, “you have authority for this spelling, but I
have always supposed the name to be written with an e at the
end.”
“Authority?—no,” he replied. “It is a mere typographical error.
The name is Bedlo with an e, all the world over, and I never knew
it to be spelt otherwise in my life.”
“Then,” said I mutteringly, as I turned upon my heel, “then
indeed has it come to pass that one truth is stranger than any
fiction—for Bedloe, without the e, what is it but Oldeb
conversed! And this man tells me that it is a typographical
error.”
THE SPECTACLES
Many years ago, it was the fashion to ridicule the idea of “love
at first sight;” but those who think, not less than those who
feel deeply, have always advocated its existence. Modern
discoveries, indeed, in what may be termed ethical magnetism or
magnetoesthetics, render it probable that the most natural, and,
consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections
are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy—in
a word, that the brightest and most enduring of the psychal
fetters are those which are riveted by a glance. The confession I
am about to make will add another to the already almost
innumerable instances of the truth of the position.
My story requires that I should be somewhat minute. I am still a
very young man—not yet twenty-two years of age. My name, at
present, is a very usual and rather plebeian one—Simpson. I say
“at present;” for it is only lately that I have been so
called—having legislatively adopted this surname within the last
year in order to receive a large inheritance left me by a distant
male relative, Adolphus Simpson, Esq. The bequest was conditioned
upon my taking the name of the testator,—the family, not the
Christian name; my Christian name is Napoleon Bonaparte—or, more
properly, these are my first and middle appellations.
I assumed the name, Simpson, with some reluctance, as in my true
patronym, Froissart, I felt a very pardonable pride—believing
that I could trace a descent from the immortal author of the
“Chronicles.” While on the subject of names, by the bye, I may
mention a singular coincidence of sound attending the names of
some of my immediate predecessors. My father was a Monsieur
Froissart, of Paris. His wife—my mother, whom he married at
fifteen—was a Mademoiselle Croissart, eldest daughter of
Croissart the banker, whose wife, again, being only sixteen when
married, was the eldest daughter of one Victor Voissart. Monsieur
Voissart, very singularly, had married a lady of similar name—a
Mademoiselle Moissart. She, too, was quite a child when married;
and her mother, also, Madame Moissart, was only fourteen when led
to the altar. These early marriages are usual in France. Here,
however, are Moissart, Voissart, Croissart, and Froissart, all in
the direct line of descent. My own name, though, as I say, became
Simpson, by act of Legislature, and with so much repugnance on my
part, that, at one period, I actually hesitated about accepting
the legacy with the useless and annoying proviso attached.
As to personal endowments, I am by no means deficient. On the
contrary, I believe that I am well made, and possess what nine
tenths of the world would call a handsome face. In height I am
five feet eleven. My hair is black and curling. My nose is
sufficiently good. My eyes are large and gray; and although, in
fact they are weak to a very inconvenient degree, still no defect
in this regard would be suspected from their appearance. The
weakness itself, however, has always much annoyed me, and I have
resorted to every remedy—short of wearing glasses. Being youthful
and good-looking, I naturally dislike these, and have resolutely
refused to employ them. I know nothing, indeed, which so
disfigures the countenance of a young person, or so impresses
every feature with an air of demureness, if not altogether of
sanctimoniousness and of age. An eyeglass, on the other hand, has
a savor of downright foppery and affectation. I have hitherto
managed as well as I could without either. But something too much
of these merely personal details, which, after all, are of little
importance. I will content myself with saying, in addition, that
my temperament is sanguine, rash, ardent, enthusiastic—and that
all my life I have been a devoted admirer of the women.
One night last winter I entered a box at the P—— Theatre, in
company with a friend, Mr. Talbot. It was an opera night, and the
bills presented a very rare attraction, so that the house was
excessively crowded. We were in time, however, to obtain the
front seats which had been reserved for us, and into which, with
some little difficulty, we elbowed our way.
For two hours my companion, who was a musical fanatico, gave his
undivided attention to the stage; and, in the meantime, I amused
myself by observing the audience, which consisted, in chief part,
of the very elite of the city. Having satisfied myself upon this
point, I was about turning my eyes to the prima donna, when they
were arrested and riveted by a figure in one of the private boxes
which had escaped my observation.
If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the intense
emotion with which I regarded this figure. It was that of a
female, the most exquisite I had ever beheld. The face was so far
turned toward the stage that, for some minutes, I could not
obtain a view of it—but the form was divine; no other word can
sufficiently express its magnificent proportion—and even the term
“divine” seems ridiculously feeble as I write it.
The magic of a lovely form in woman—the necromancy of female
gracefulness—was always a power which I had found it impossible
to resist, but here was grace personified, incarnate, the beau
ideal of my wildest and most enthusiastic visions. The figure,
almost all of which the construction of the box permitted to be
seen, was somewhat above the medium height, and nearly
approached, without positively reaching, the majestic. Its
perfect fullness and tournure were delicious. The head, of which
only the back was visible, rivalled in outline that of the Greek
Psyche, and was rather displayed than concealed by an elegant cap
of _gaze äérienne_, which put me in mind of the _ventum textilem_
of Apuleius. The right arm hung over the balustrade of the box,
and thrilled every nerve of my frame with its exquisite symmetry.
Its upper portion was draperied by one of the loose open sleeves
now in fashion. This extended but little below the elbow. Beneath
it was worn an under one of some frail material, close-fitting,
and terminated by a cuff of rich lace, which fell gracefully over
the top of the hand, revealing only the delicate fingers, upon
one of which sparkled a diamond ring, which I at once saw was of
extraordinary value. The admirable roundness of the wrist was
well set off by a bracelet which encircled it, and which also was
ornamented and clasped by a magnificent aigrette of
jewels—telling, in words that could not be mistaken, at once of
the wealth and fastidious taste of the wearer.
I gazed at this queenly apparition for at least half an hour, as
if I had been suddenly converted to stone; and, during this
period, I felt the full force and truth of all that has been said
or sung concerning “love at first sight.” My feelings were
totally different from any which I had hitherto experienced, in
the presence of even the most celebrated specimens of female
loveliness. An unaccountable, and what I am compelled to consider
a magnetic, sympathy of soul for soul, seemed to rivet, not only
my vision, but my whole powers of thought and feeling, upon the
admirable object before me. I saw—I felt—I knew that I was
deeply, madly, irrevocably in love—and this even before seeing
the face of the person beloved. So intense, indeed, was the
passion that consumed me, that I really believe it would have
received little if any abatement had the features, yet unseen,
proved of merely ordinary character; so anomalous is the nature
of the only true love—of the love at first sight—and so little
really dependent is it upon the external conditions which only
seem to create and control it.
While I was thus wrapped in admiration of this lovely vision, a
sudden disturbance among the audience caused her to turn her head
partially toward me, so that I beheld the entire profile of the
face. Its beauty even exceeded my anticipations—and yet there was
something about it which disappointed me without my being able to
tell exactly what it was. I said “disappointed,” but this is not
altogether the word. My sentiments were at once quieted and
exalted. They partook less of transport and more of calm
enthusiasm—of enthusiastic repose. This state of feeling arose,
perhaps, from the Madonna-like and matronly air of the face; and
yet I at once understood that it could not have arisen entirely
from this. There was something else—some mystery which I could
not develope—some expression about the countenance which slightly
disturbed me while it greatly heightened my interest. In fact, I
was just in that condition of mind which prepares a young and
susceptible man for any act of extravagance. Had the lady been
alone, I should undoubtedly have entered her box and accosted her
at all hazards; but, fortunately, she was attended by two
companions—a gentleman, and a strikingly beautiful woman, to all
appearance a few years younger than herself.
I revolved in my mind a thousand schemes by which I might obtain,
hereafter, an introduction to the elder lady, or, for the
present, at all events, a more distinct view of her beauty. I
would have removed my position to one nearer her own, but the
crowded state of the theatre rendered this impossible; and the
stern decrees of Fashion had, of late, imperatively prohibited
the use of the opera-glass in a case such as this, even had I
been so fortunate as to have one with me—but I had not—and was
thus in despair.
At length I bethought me of applying to my companion.
“Talbot,” I said, “you have an opera-glass. Let me have it.”
“An opera-glass!—no!—what do you suppose I would be doing with an
opera-glass?” Here he turned impatiently toward the stage.
“But, Talbot,” I continued, pulling him by the shoulder, “listen
to me will you? Do you see the stage-box?—there!—no, the next.—
Did you ever behold as lovely a woman?”
“She is very beautiful, no doubt,” he said.
“I wonder who she can be?”
“Why, in the name of all that is angelic, don’t you know who she
is? ‘Not to know her argues yourself unknown.’ She is the
celebrated Madame Lalande—the beauty of the day par excellence,
and the talk of the whole town. Immensely wealthy too—a widow,
and a great match—has just arrived from Paris.”
“Do you know her?”
“Yes; I have the honor.”
“Will you introduce me?”
“Assuredly, with the greatest pleasure; when shall it be?”
“To-morrow, at one, I will call upon you at B—’s.”
“Very good; and now do hold your tongue, if you can.”
In this latter respect I was forced to take Talbot’s advice; for
he remained obstinately deaf to every further question or
suggestion, and occupied himself exclusively for the rest of the
evening with what was transacting upon the stage.
In the meantime I kept my eyes riveted on Madame Lalande, and at
length had the good fortune to obtain a full front view of her
face. It was exquisitely lovely—this, of course, my heart had
told me before, even had not Talbot fully satisfied me upon the
point—but still the unintelligible something disturbed me. I
finally concluded that my senses were impressed by a certain air
of gravity, sadness, or, still more properly, of weariness, which
took something from the youth and freshness of the countenance,
only to endow it with a seraphic tenderness and majesty, and
thus, of course, to my enthusiastic and romantic temperment, with
an interest tenfold.
While I thus feasted my eyes, I perceived, at last, to my great
trepidation, by an almost imperceptible start on the part of the
lady, that she had become suddenly aware of the intensity of my
gaze. Still, I was absolutely fascinated, and could not withdraw
it, even for an instant. She turned aside her face, and again I
saw only the chiselled contour of the back portion of the head.
After some minutes, as if urged by curiosity to see if I was
still looking, she gradually brought her face again around and
again encountered my burning gaze. Her large dark eyes fell
instantly, and a deep blush mantled her cheek. But what was my
astonishment at perceiving that she not only did not a second
time avert her head, but that she actually took from her girdle a
double eyeglass—elevated it—adjusted it—and then regarded me
through it, intently and deliberately, for the space of several
minutes.
Had a thunderbolt fallen at my feet I could not have been more
thoroughly astounded—astounded only—not offended or disgusted in
the slightest degree; although an action so bold in any other
woman would have been likely to offend or disgust. But the whole
thing was done with so much quietude—so much nonchalance—so much
repose—with so evident an air of the highest breeding, in
short—that nothing of mere effrontery was perceptible, and my
sole sentiments were those of admiration and surprise.
I observed that, upon her first elevation of the glass, she had
seemed satisfied with a momentary inspection of my person, and
was withdrawing the instrument, when, as if struck by a second
thought, she resumed it, and so continued to regard me with fixed
attention for the space of several minutes—for five minutes, at
the very least, I am sure.
This action, so remarkable in an American theatre, attracted very
general observation, and gave rise to an indefinite movement, or
buzz, among the audience, which for a moment filled me with
confusion, but produced no visible effect upon the countenance of
Madame Lalande.
Having satisfied her curiosity—if such it was—she dropped the
glass, and quietly gave her attention again to the stage; her
profile now being turned toward myself, as before. I continued to
watch her unremittingly, although I was fully conscious of my
rudeness in so doing. Presently I saw the head slowly and
slightly change its position; and soon I became convinced that
the lady, while pretending to look at the stage was, in fact,
attentively regarding myself. It is needless to say what effect
this conduct, on the part of so fascinating a woman, had upon my
excitable mind.
Having thus scrutinized me for perhaps a quarter of an hour, the
fair object of my passion addressed the gentleman who attended
her, and while she spoke, I saw distinctly, by the glances of
both, that the conversation had reference to myself.
Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande again turned toward the
stage, and, for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the
performance. At the expiration of this period, however, I was
thrown into an extremity of agitation by seeing her unfold, for
the second time, the eye-glass which hung at her side, fully
confront me as before, and, disregarding the renewed buzz of the
audience, survey me, from head to foot, with the same miraculous
composure which had previously so delighted and confounded my
soul.
This extraordinary behavior, by throwing me into a perfect fever
of excitement—into an absolute delirium of love—served rather to
embolden than to disconcert me. In the mad intensity of my
devotion, I forgot everything but the presence and the majestic
loveliness of the vision which confronted my gaze. Watching my
opportunity, when I thought the audience were fully engaged with
the opera, I at length caught the eyes of Madame Lalande, and,
upon the instant, made a slight but unmistakable bow.
She blushed very deeply—then averted her eyes—then slowly and
cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my rash action had
been noticed—then leaned over toward the gentleman who sat by her
side.
I now felt a burning sense of the impropriety I had committed,
and expected nothing less than instant exposure; while a vision
of pistols upon the morrow floated rapidly and uncomfortably
through my brain. I was greatly and immediately relieved,
however, when I saw the lady merely hand the gentleman a
play-bill, without speaking; but the reader may form some feeble
conception of my astonishment—of my profound amazement—my
delirious bewilderment of heart and soul—when, instantly
afterward, having again glanced furtively around, she allowed her
bright eyes to set fully and steadily upon my own, and then, with
a faint smile, disclosing a bright line of her pearly teeth, made
two distinct, pointed, and unequivocal affirmative inclinations
of the head.
It is useless, of course, to dwell upon my joy—upon my
transport—upon my illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever man was
mad with excess of happiness, it was myself at that moment. I
loved. This was my first love—so I felt it to be. It was love
supreme—indescribable. It was “love at first sight;” and at first
sight, too, it had been appreciated and returned.
Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an instant. What
other construction could I possibly put upon such conduct, on the
part of a lady so beautiful—so wealthy—evidently so
accomplished—of so high breeding—of so lofty a position in
society—in every regard so entirely respectable as I felt assured
was Madame Lalande? Yes, she loved me—she returned the enthusiasm
of my love, with an enthusiasm as blind—as uncompromising—as
uncalculating—as abandoned—and as utterly unbounded as my own!
These delicious fancies and reflections, however, were now
interrupted by the falling of the drop-curtain. The audience
arose; and the usual tumult immediately supervened. Quitting
Talbot abruptly, I made every effort to force my way into closer
proximity with Madame Lalande. Having failed in this, on account
of the crowd, I at length gave up the chase, and bent my steps
homeward; consoling myself for my disappointment in not having
been able to touch even the hem of her robe, by the reflection
that I should be introduced by Talbot, in due form, upon the
morrow.
This morrow at last came, that is to say, a day finally dawned
upon a long and weary night of impatience; and then the hours
until “one” were snail-paced, dreary, and innumerable. But even
Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and there came an end to
this long delay. The clock struck. As the last echo ceased, I
stepped into B——’s and inquired for Talbot.
“Out,” said the footman—Talbot’s own.
“Out!” I replied, staggering back half a dozen paces—“let me tell
you, my fine fellow, that this thing is thoroughly impossible and
impracticable; Mr. Talbot is not out. What do you mean?”
“Nothing, sir; only Mr. Talbot is not in, that’s all. He rode
over to S——, immediately after breakfast, and left word that he
would not be in town again for a week.”
I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavored to reply,
but my tongue refused its office. At length I turned on my heel,
livid with wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole tribe of the
Talbots to the innermost regions of Erebus. It was evident that
my considerate friend, il fanatico, had quite forgotten his
appointment with myself—had forgotten it as soon as it was made.
At no time was he a very scrupulous man of his word. There was no
help for it; so smothering my vexation as well as I could, I
strolled moodily up the street, propounding futile inquiries
about Madame Lalande to every male acquaintance I met. By report
she was known, I found, to all—to many by sight—but she had been
in town only a few weeks, and there were very few, therefore, who
claimed her personal acquaintance. These few, being still
comparatively strangers, could not, or would not, take the
liberty of introducing me through the formality of a morning
call. While I stood thus in despair, conversing with a trio of
friends upon the all-absorbing subject of my heart, it so
happened that the subject itself passed by.
“As I live, there she is!” cried one.
“Surprisingly beautiful!” exclaimed a second.
“An angel upon earth!” ejaculated a third.
I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us, passing
slowly down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera,
accompanied by the younger lady who had occupied a portion of her
box.
“Her companion also wears remarkably well,” said the one of my
trio who had spoken first.
“Astonishingly,” said the second; “still quite a brilliant air,
but art will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better than she
did at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still;—don’t you
think so, Froissart?—Simpson, I mean.”
“_Still!_” said I, “and why shouldn’t she be? But compared with
her friend she is as a rush-light to the evening star—a glow-worm
to Antares.”
“Ha! ha! ha!—why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at making
discoveries—original ones, I mean.” And here we separated, while
one of the trio began humming a gay _vaudeville_, of which I
caught only the lines—
Ninon, Ninon, Ninon à bas—
A bas Ninon De L’Enclos!
During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly
to console me, although it fed the passion by which I was
consumed. As the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group,
I had observed that she recognized me; and more than this, she
had blessed me, by the most seraphic of all imaginable smiles,
with no equivocal mark of the recognition.
As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it
until such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the
country. In the meantime I perseveringly frequented every
reputable place of public amusement; and, at length, at the
theatre, where I first saw her, I had the supreme bliss of
meeting her, and of exchanging glances with her once again. This
did not occur, however, until the lapse of a fortnight. Every
day, in the interim, I had inquired for Talbot at his hotel, and
every day had been thrown into a spasm of wrath by the
everlasting “Not come home yet” of his footman.
Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition
little short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was a
Parisian—had lately arrived from Paris—might she not suddenly
return?—return before Talbot came back—and might she not be thus
lost to me forever? The thought was too terrible to bear. Since
my future happiness was at issue, I resolved to act with a manly
decision. In a word, upon the breaking up of the play, I traced
the lady to her residence, noted the address, and the next
morning sent her a full and elaborate letter, in which I poured
out my whole heart.
I spoke boldly, freely—in a word, I spoke with passion. I
concealed nothing—nothing even of my weakness. I alluded to the
romantic circumstances of our first meeting—even to the glances
which had passed between us. I went so far as to say that I felt
assured of her love; while I offered this assurance, and my own
intensity of devotion, as two excuses for my otherwise
unpardonable conduct. As a third, I spoke of my fear that she
might quit the city before I could have the opportunity of a
formal introduction. I concluded the most wildly enthusiastic
epistle ever penned, with a frank declaration of my worldly
circumstances—of my affluence—and with an offer of my heart and
of my hand.
In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what seemed
the lapse of a century it came.
Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I really
received a letter from Madame Lalande—the beautiful, the wealthy,
the idolized Madame Lalande. Her eyes—her magnificent eyes, had
not belied her noble heart. Like a true Frenchwoman as she was
she had obeyed the frank dictates of her reason—the generous
impulses of her nature—despising the conventional pruderies of
the world. She had not scorned my proposals. She had not
sheltered herself in silence. She had not returned my letter
unopened. She had even sent me, in reply, one penned by her own
exquisite fingers. It ran thus:
“Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de butefulle
tong of his contrée so vell as might. It is only de late dat I am
arrive, and not yet ave do opportunité for to—l’étudier.
“Vid dis apologie for the manière, I vill now say dat,
hélas!—Monsieur Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need I say de
more? Hélas! am I not ready speak de too moshe?
“EUGENIE LALAND.”
This noble-spirited note I kissed a million times, and committed,
no doubt, on its account, a thousand other extravagances that
have now escaped my memory. Still Talbot _would_ not return.
Alas! could he have formed even the vaguest idea of the suffering
his absence had occasioned his friend, would not his sympathizing
nature have flown immediately to my relief? Still, however, he
came _not_. I wrote. He replied. He was detained by urgent
business—but would shortly return. He begged me not to be
impatient—to moderate my transports—to read soothing books—to
drink nothing stronger than Hock—and to bring the consolations of
philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not come himself,
why, in the name of every thing rational, could he not have
enclosed me a letter of presentation? I wrote him again,
entreating him to forward one forthwith. My letter was returned
by _that_ footman, with the following endorsement in pencil. The
scoundrel had joined his master in the country:
“Left S—— yesterday, for parts unknown—did not say where—or when
be back—so thought best to return letter, knowing your
handwriting, and as how you is always, more or less, in a hurry.
“Yours sincerely,
“STUBBS.”
After this, it is needless to say, that I devoted to the infernal
deities both master and valet:—but there was little use in anger,
and no consolation at all in complaint.
But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional audacity.
Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to make it
avail me to the end. Besides, after the correspondence which had
passed between us, what act of mere informality could I commit,
within bounds, that ought to be regarded as indecorous by Madame
Lalande? Since the affair of the letter, I had been in the habit
of watching her house, and thus discovered that, about twilight,
it was her custom to promenade, attended only by a negro in
livery, in a public square overlooked by her windows. Here, amid
the luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of a sweet
midsummer evening, I observed my opportunity and accosted her.
The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this with
the assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance. With a
presence of mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at once, and,
to greet me, held out the most bewitchingly little of hands. The
valet at once fell into the rear, and now, with hearts full to
overflowing, we discoursed long and unreservedly of our love.
As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than she wrote
it, our conversation was necessarily in French. In this sweet
tongue, so adapted to passion, I gave loose to the impetuous
enthusiasm of my nature, and, with all the eloquence I could
command, besought her to consent to an immediate marriage.
At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of
decorum—that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the
opportunity for bliss has forever gone by. I had most imprudently
made it known among my friends, she observed, that I desired her
acquaintance—thus that I did not possess it—thus, again, there
was no possibility of concealing the date of our first knowledge
of each other. And then she adverted, with a blush, to the
extreme recency of this date. To wed immediately would be
improper—would be indecorous—would be outre. All this she said
with a charming air of naivete which enraptured while it grieved
and convinced me. She went even so far as to accuse me,
laughingly, of rashness—of imprudence. She bade me remember that
I really even knew not who she was—what were her prospects, her
connections, her standing in society. She begged me, but with a
sigh, to reconsider my proposal, and termed my love an
infatuation—a will o’ the wisp—a fancy or fantasy of the moment—a
baseless and unstable creation rather of the imagination than of
the heart. These things she uttered as the shadows of the sweet
twilight gathered darkly and more darkly around us—and then, with
a gentle pressure of her fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a single
sweet instant, all the argumentative fabric she had reared.
I replied as best I could—as only a true lover can. I spoke at
length, and perseveringly of my devotion, of my passion—of her
exceeding beauty, and of my own enthusiastic admiration. In
conclusion, I dwelt, with a convincing energy, upon the perils
that encompass the course of love—that course of true love that
never did run smooth—and thus deduced the manifest danger of
rendering that course unnecessarily long.
This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigor of her
determination. She relented; but there was yet an obstacle, she
said, which she felt assured I had not properly considered. This
was a delicate point—for a woman to urge, especially so; in
mentioning it, she saw that she must make a sacrifice of her
feelings; still, for me, every sacrifice should be made. She
alluded to the topic of age. Was I aware—was I fully aware of the
discrepancy between us? That the age of the husband, should
surpass by a few years—even by fifteen or twenty—the age of the
wife, was regarded by the world as admissible, and, indeed, as
even proper; but she had always entertained the belief that the
years of the wife should never exceed in number those of the
husband. A discrepancy of this unnatural kind gave rise, too
frequently, alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now she was aware
that my own age did not exceed two and twenty; and I, on the
contrary, perhaps, was not aware that the years of my Eugénie
extended very considerably beyond that sum.
About all this there was a nobility of soul—a dignity of
candor—which delighted—which enchanted me—which eternally riveted
my chains. I could scarcely restrain the excessive transport
which possessed me.
“My sweetest Eugénie,” I cried, “what is all this about which you
are discoursing? Your years surpass in some measure my own. But
what then? The customs of the world are so many conventional
follies. To those who love as ourselves, in what respect differs
a year from an hour? I am twenty-two, you say; granted: indeed,
you may as well call me, at once, twenty-three. Now you yourself,
my dearest Eugénie, can have numbered no more than—can have
numbered no more than—no more than—than—than—than—”
Here I paused for an instant, in the expectation that Madame
Lalande would interrupt me by supplying her true age. But a
Frenchwoman is seldom direct, and has always, by way of answer to
an embarrassing query, some little practical reply of her own. In
the present instance, Eugénie, who for a few moments past had
seemed to be searching for something in her bosom, at length let
fall upon the grass a miniature, which I immediately picked up
and presented to her.
“Keep it!” she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles. “Keep
it for my sake—for the sake of her whom it too flatteringly
represents. Besides, upon the back of the trinket you may
discover, perhaps, the very information you seem to desire. It is
now, to be sure, growing rather dark—but you can examine it at
your leisure in the morning. In the meantime, you shall be my
escort home to-night. My friends are about holding a little
musical _levée_. I can promise you, too, some good singing. We
French are not nearly so punctilious as you Americans, and I
shall have no difficulty in smuggling you in, in the character of
an old acquaintance.”
With this, she took my arm, and I attended her home. The mansion
was quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in good taste. Of
this latter point, however, I am scarcely qualified to judge; for
it was just dark as we arrived; and in American mansions of the
better sort lights seldom, during the heat of summer, make their
appearance at this, the most pleasant period of the day. In about
an hour after my arrival, to be sure, a single shaded solar lamp
was lit in the principal drawing-room; and this apartment, I
could thus see, was arranged with unusual good taste and even
splendor; but two other rooms of the suite, and in which the
company chiefly assembled, remained, during the whole evening, in
a very agreeable shadow. This is a well-conceived custom, giving
the party at least a choice of light or shade, and one which our
friends over the water could not do better than immediately
adopt.
The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most delicious of
my life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the musical abilities
of her friends; and the singing I here heard I had never heard
excelled in any private circle out of Vienna. The instrumental
performers were many and of superior talents. The vocalists were
chiefly ladies, and no individual sang less than well. At length,
upon a peremptory call for “Madame Lalande,” she arose at once,
without affectation or demur, from the chaise longue upon which
she had sat by my side, and, accompanied by one or two gentlemen
and her female friend of the opera, repaired to the piano in the
main drawing-room. I would have escorted her myself, but felt
that, under the circumstances of my introduction to the house, I
had better remain unobserved where I was. I was thus deprived of
the pleasure of seeing, although not of hearing, her sing.
The impression she produced upon the company seemed
electrical—but the effect upon myself was something even more. I
know not how adequately to describe it. It arose in part, no
doubt, from the sentiment of love with which I was imbued; but
chiefly from my conviction of the extreme sensibility of the
singer. It is beyond the reach of art to endow either air or
recitative with more impassioned expression than was hers. Her
utterance of the romance in Otello—the tone with which she gave
the words “Sul mio sasso,” in the Capuletti—is ringing in my
memory yet. Her lower tones were absolutely miraculous. Her voice
embraced three complete octaves, extending from the contralto D
to the D upper soprano, and, though sufficiently powerful to have
filled the San Carlos, executed, with the minutest precision,
every difficulty of vocal composition—ascending and descending
scales, cadences, or fiorituri. In the final of the Somnambula,
she brought about a most remarkable effect at the words:
Ah! non guinge uman pensiero
Al contento ond ’io son piena.
Here, in imitation of Malibran, she modified the original phrase
of Bellini, so as to let her voice descend to the tenor G, when,
by a rapid transition, she struck the G above the treble stave,
springing over an interval of two octaves.
Upon rising from the piano after these miracles of vocal
execution, she resumed her seat by my side; when I expressed to
her, in terms of the deepest enthusiasm, my delight at her
performance. Of my surprise I said nothing, and yet was I most
unfeignedly surprised; for a certain feebleness, or rather a
certain tremulous indecision of voice in ordinary conversation,
had prepared me to anticipate that, in singing, she would not
acquit herself with any remarkable ability.
Our conversation was now long, earnest, uninterrupted, and
totally unreserved. She made me relate many of the earlier
passages of my life, and listened with breathless attention to
every word of the narrative. I concealed nothing—felt that I had
a right to conceal nothing—from her confiding affection.
Encouraged by her candor upon the delicate point of her age, I
entered, with perfect frankness, not only into a detail of my
many minor vices, but made full confession of those moral and
even of those physical infirmities, the disclosure of which, in
demanding so much higher a degree of courage, is so much surer an
evidence of love. I touched upon my college indiscretions—upon my
extravagances—upon my carousals—upon my debts—upon my
flirtations. I even went so far as to speak of a slightly hectic
cough with which, at one time, I had been troubled—of a chronic
rheumatism—of a twinge of hereditary gout—and, in conclusion, of
the disagreeable and inconvenient, but hitherto carefully
concealed, weakness of my eyes.
“Upon this latter point,” said Madame Lalande, laughingly, “you
have been surely injudicious in coming to confession; for,
without the confession, I take it for granted that no one would
have accused you of the crime. By the by,” she continued, “have
you any recollection—” and here I fancied that a blush, even
through the gloom of the apartment, became distinctly visible
upon her cheek—“have you any recollection, _mon cher ami_, of
this little ocular assistant, which now depends from my neck?”
As she spoke she twirled in her fingers the identical double
eye-glass which had so overwhelmed me with confusion at the
opera.
“Full well—alas! do I remember it,” I exclaimed, pressing
passionately the delicate hand which offered the glasses for my
inspection. They formed a complex and magnificent toy, richly
chased and filigreed, and gleaming with jewels, which, even in
the deficient light, I could not help perceiving were of high
value.
“_Eh bien! mon ami_,” she resumed with a certain _empressment_ of
manner that rather surprised me—“_Eh bien! mon ami_, you have
earnestly besought of me a favor which you have been pleased to
denominate priceless. You have demanded of me my hand upon the
morrow. Should I yield to your entreaties—and, I may add, to the
pleadings of my own bosom—would I not be entitled to demand of
you a very—a very little boon in return?”
“Name it!” I exclaimed with an energy that had nearly drawn upon
us the observation of the company, and restrained by their
presence alone from throwing myself impetuously at her feet.
“Name it, my beloved, my Eugénie, my own!—name it!—but, alas! it
is already yielded ere named.”
“You shall conquer, then, _mon ami_,” said she, “for the sake of
the Eugénie whom you love, this little weakness which you have at
last confessed—this weakness more moral than physical—and which,
let me assure you, is so unbecoming the nobility of your real
nature—so inconsistent with the candor of your usual
character—and which, if permitted further control, will assuredly
involve you, sooner or later, in some very disagreeable scrape.
You shall conquer, for my sake, this affectation which leads you,
as you yourself acknowledge, to the tacit or implied denial of
your infirmity of vision. For, this infirmity you virtually deny,
in refusing to employ the customary means for its relief. You
will understand me to say, then, that I wish you to wear
spectacles;—ah, hush!—you have already consented to wear them,
for my sake. You shall accept the little toy which I now hold in
my hand, and which, though admirable as an aid to vision, is
really of no very immense value as a gem. You perceive that, by a
trifling modification thus—or thus—it can be adapted to the eyes
in the form of spectacles, or worn in the waistcoat pocket as an
eye-glass. It is in the former mode, however, and habitually,
that you have already consented to wear it for my sake.”
This request—must I confess it?—confused me in no little degree.
But the condition with which it was coupled rendered hesitation,
of course, a matter altogether out of the question.
“It is done!” I cried, with all the enthusiasm that I could
muster at the moment. “It is done—it is most cheerfully agreed. I
sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To-night I wear this dear
eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and upon my heart; but with the
earliest dawn of that morning which gives me the pleasure of
calling you wife, I will place it upon my—upon my nose,—and there
wear it ever afterward, in the less romantic, and less
fashionable, but certainly in the more serviceable, form which
you desire.”
Our conversation now turned upon the details of our arrangements
for the morrow. Talbot, I learned from my betrothed, had just
arrived in town. I was to see him at once, and procure a
carriage. The _soirée_ would scarcely break up before two; and by
this hour the vehicle was to be at the door; when, in the
confusion occasioned by the departure of the company, Madame L.
could easily enter it unobserved. We were then to call at the
house of a clergyman who would be in waiting; there be married,
drop Talbot, and proceed on a short tour to the East; leaving the
fashionable world at home to make whatever comments upon the
matter it thought best.
Having planned all this, I immediately took leave, and went in
search of Talbot, but, on the way, I could not refrain from
stepping into a hotel, for the purpose of inspecting the
miniature; and this I did by the powerful aid of the glasses. The
countenance was a surpassingly beautiful one! Those large
luminous eyes!—that proud Grecian nose!—those dark luxuriant
curls!—“Ah!” said I, exultingly to myself, “this is indeed the
speaking image of my beloved!” I turned the reverse, and
discovered the words—“Eugénie Lalande—aged twenty-seven years and
seven months.”
I found Talbot at home, and proceeded at once to acquaint him
with my good fortune. He professed excessive astonishment, of
course, but congratulated me most cordially, and proffered every
assistance in his power. In a word, we carried out our
arrangement to the letter, and, at two in the morning, just ten
minutes after the ceremony, I found myself in a close carriage
with Madame Lalande—with Mrs. Simpson, I should say—and driving
at a great rate out of town, in a direction northeast by north,
half-north.
It had been determined for us by Talbot, that, as we were to be
up all night, we should make our first stop at C——, a village
about twenty miles from the city, and there get an early
breakfast and some repose, before proceeding upon our route. At
four precisely, therefore, the carriage drew up at the door of
the principal inn. I handed my adored wife out, and ordered
breakfast forthwith. In the meantime we were shown into a small
parlor, and sat down.
It was now nearly if not altogether daylight; and, as I gazed,
enraptured, at the angel by my side, the singular idea came, all
at once, into my head, that this was really the very first moment
since my acquaintance with the celebrated loveliness of Madame
Lalande, that I had enjoyed a near inspection of that loveliness
by daylight at all.
“And now, _mon ami_,” said she, taking my hand, and so
interrupting this train of reflection, “and now, _mon cher ami_,
since we are indissolubly one—since I have yielded to your
passionate entreaties, and performed my portion of our
agreement—I presume you have not forgotten that you also have a
little favor to bestow—a little promise which it is your
intention to keep. Ah! let me see! Let me remember! Yes; full
easily do I call to mind the precise words of the dear promise
you made to Eugénie last night. Listen! You spoke thus: ‘It is
done!—it is most cheerfully agreed! I sacrifice every feeling for
your sake. To-night I wear this dear eye-glass as an eye-glass,
and upon my heart; but with the earliest dawn of that morning
which gives me the privilege of calling you wife, I will place it
upon my—upon my nose,—and there wear it ever afterward, in the
less romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly in the more
serviceable, form which you desire.’ These were the exact words,
my beloved husband, were they not?”
“They were,” I said; “you have an excellent memory; and
assuredly, my beautiful Eugénie, there is no disposition on my
part to evade the performance of the trivial promise they imply.
See! Behold! they are becoming—rather—are they not?” And here,
having arranged the glasses in the ordinary form of spectacles, I
applied them gingerly in their proper position; while Madame
Simpson, adjusting her cap, and folding her arms, sat bolt
upright in her chair, in a somewhat stiff and prim, and indeed,
in a somewhat undignified position.
“Goodness gracious me!” I exclaimed, almost at the very instant
that the rim of the spectacles had settled upon my nose—“_My!_
goodness gracious me!—why, what can be the matter with these
glasses?” and taking them quickly off, I wiped them carefully
with a silk handkerchief, and adjusted them again.
But if, in the first instance, there had occurred something which
occasioned me surprise, in the second, this surprise became
elevated into astonishment; and this astonishment was
profound—was extreme—indeed I may say it was horrific. What, in
the name of everything hideous, did this mean? Could I believe my
eyes?—could I?—that was the question. Was that—was that—was that
rouge? And were those—and were those—were those wrinkles, upon
the visage of Eugénie Lalande? And oh! Jupiter, and every one of
the gods and goddesses, little and big!—what—what—what—_what_ had
become of her teeth? I dashed the spectacles violently to the
ground, and, leaping to my feet, stood erect in the middle of the
floor, confronting Mrs. Simpson, with my arms set a-kimbo, and
grinning and foaming, but, at the same time, utterly speechless
with terror and with rage.
Now I have already said that Madame Eugénie Lalande—that is to
say, Simpson—spoke the English language but very little better
than she wrote it, and for this reason she very properly never
attempted to speak it upon ordinary occasions. But rage will
carry a lady to any extreme; and in the present care it carried
Mrs. Simpson to the very extraordinary extreme of attempting to
hold a conversation in a tongue that she did not altogether
understand.
“Vell, Monsieur,” said she, after surveying me, in great apparent
astonishment, for some moments—“Vell, Monsieur?—and vat den?—vat
de matter now? Is it de dance of de Saint itusse dat you ave? If
not like me, vat for vy buy de pig in the poke?”
“You wretch!” said I, catching my breath—“you—you—you villainous
old hag!”
“Ag?—ole?—me not so ver ole, after all! Me not one single day
more dan de eighty-doo.”
“Eighty-two!” I ejaculated, staggering to the wall—“eighty-two
hundred thousand baboons! The miniature said twenty-seven years
and seven months!”
“To be sure!—dat is so!—ver true! but den de portraite has been
take for dese fifty-five year. Ven I go marry my segonde usbande,
Monsieur Lalande, at dat time I had de portraite take for my
daughter by my first usbande, Monsieur Moissart!”
“Moissart!” said I.
“Yes, Moissart,” said she, mimicking my pronunciation, which, to
speak the truth, was none of the best,—“and vat den? Vat you know
about de Moissart?”
“Nothing, you old fright!—I know nothing about him at all; only I
had an ancestor of that name, once upon a time.”
“Dat name! and vat you ave for say to dat name? ’Tis ver _goot_
name; and so is Voissart—dat is ver goot name too. My daughter,
Mademoiselle Moissart, she marry von Monsieur Voissart,—and de
name is bot _ver_ respectable name.”
“Moissart?” I exclaimed, “and Voissart! Why, what is it you
mean?”
“Vat I mean?—I mean Moissart and Voissart; and for de matter of
dat, I mean Croissart and Froissart, too, if I only tink proper
to mean it. My daughter’s daughter, Mademoiselle Voissart, she
marry von Monsieur Croissart, and den again, my daughter’s grande
daughter, Mademoiselle Croissart, she marry von Monsieur
Froissart; and I suppose you say dat _dat_ is not von _ver_
respectaable name.”
“Froissart!” said I, beginning to faint, “why, surely you don’t
say Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart?”
“Yes,” she replied, leaning fully back in her chair, and
stretching out her lower limbs at great length; “yes, Moissart,
and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart. But Monsieur
Froissart, he vas von _ver_ big vat you call fool—he vas von ver
great big donce like yourself—for he lef _la belle France_ for
come to dis stupide Amérique—and ven he get here he went and ave
von _ver_ stupid, von _ver, ver_ stupide sonn, so I hear, dough I
not yet av ad de plaisir to meet vid him—neither me nor my
companion, de Madame Stéphanie Lalande. He is name de Napoleon
Bonaparte Froissart, and I suppose you say dat _dat_, too, is not
von ver respectable name.”
Either the length or the nature of this speech, had the effect of
working up Mrs. Simpson into a very extraordinary passion indeed;
and as she made an end of it, with great labor, she jumped up
from her chair like somebody bewitched, dropping upon the floor
an entire universe of bustle as she jumped. Once upon her feet,
she gnashed her gums, brandished her arms, rolled up her sleeves,
shook her fist in my face, and concluded the performance by
tearing the cap from her head, and with it an immense wig of the
most valuable and beautiful black hair, the whole of which she
dashed upon the ground with a yell, and there trammpled and
danced a fandango upon it, in an absolute ecstasy and agony of
rage.
Meantime I sank aghast into the chair which she had vacated.
“Moissart and Voissart!” I repeated, thoughtfully, as she cut one
of her pigeon-wings, and “Croissart and Froissart!” as she
completed another—“Moissart and Voissart and Croissart and
Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart!—why, you ineffable old serpent,
that’s me—that’s me—d’ye hear? that’s me”—here I screamed at the
top of my voice—“that’s me-e-e! I am Napoleon Bonaparte
Froissart! and if I havn’t married my great, great, grandmother,
I wish I may be everlastingly confounded!”
Madame Eugénie Lalande, _quasi_ Simpson—formerly Moissart—was, in
sober fact, my great, great, grandmother. In her youth she had
been beautiful, and even at eighty-two, retained the majestic
height, the sculptural contour of head, the fine eyes and the
Grecian nose of her girlhood. By the aid of these, of
pearl-powder, of rouge, of false hair, false teeth, and false
tournure, as well as of the most skilful modistes of Paris, she
contrived to hold a respectable footing among the beauties _en
peu passées_ of the French metropolis. In this respect, indeed,
she might have been regarded as little less than the equal of the
celebrated Ninon De L’Enclos.
She was immensely wealthy, and being left, for the second time, a
widow without children, she bethought herself of my existence in
America, and for the purpose of making me her heir, paid a visit
to the United States, in company with a distant and exceedingly
lovely relative of her second husband’s—a Madame Stéphanie
Lalande.
At the opera, my great, great, grandmother’s attention was
arrested by my notice; and, upon surveying me through her
eye-glass, she was struck with a certain family resemblance to
herself. Thus interested, and knowing that the heir she sought
was actually in the city, she made inquiries of her party
respecting me. The gentleman who attended her knew my person, and
told her who I was. The information thus obtained induced her to
renew her scrutiny; and this scrutiny it was which so emboldened
me that I behaved in the absurd manner already detailed. She
returned my bow, however, under the impression that, by some odd
accident, I had discovered her identity. When, deceived by my
weakness of vision, and the arts of the toilet, in respect to the
age and charms of the strange lady, I demanded so
enthusiastically of Talbot who she was, he concluded that I meant
the younger beauty, as a matter of course, and so informed me,
with perfect truth, that she was “the celebrated widow, Madame
Lalande.”
In the street, next morning, my great, great, grandmother
encountered Talbot, an old Parisian acquaintance; and the
conversation, very naturally turned upon myself. My deficiencies
of vision were then explained; for these were notorious, although
I was entirely ignorant of their notoriety, and my good old
relative discovered, much to her chagrin, that she had been
deceived in supposing me aware of her identity, and that I had
been merely making a fool of myself in making open love, in a
theatre, to an old woman unknown. By way of punishing me for this
imprudence, she concocted with Talbot a plot. He purposely kept
out of my way to avoid giving me the introduction. My street
inquiries about “the lovely widow, Madame Lalande,” were supposed
to refer to the younger lady, of course, and thus the
conversation with the three gentlemen whom I encountered shortly
after leaving Talbot’s hotel will be easily explained, as also
their allusion to Ninon De L’Enclos. I had no opportunity of
seeing Madame Lalande closely during daylight; and, at her
musical _soirée_, my silly weakness in refusing the aid of
glasses effectually prevented me from making a discovery of her
age. When “Madame Lalande” was called upon to sing, the younger
lady was intended; and it was she who arose to obey the call; my
great, great, grandmother, to further the deception, arising at
the same moment and accompanying her to the piano in the main
drawing-room. Had I decided upon escorting her thither, it had
been her design to suggest the propriety of my remaining where I
was; but my own prudential views rendered this unnecessary. The
songs which I so much admired, and which so confirmed my
impression of the youth of my mistress, were executed by Madame
Stéphanie Lalande. The eyeglass was presented by way of adding a
reproof to the hoax—a sting to the epigram of the deception. Its
presentation afforded an opportunity for the lecture upon
affectation with which I was so especially edified. It is almost
superfluous to add that the glasses of the instrument, as worn by
the old lady, had been exchanged by her for a pair better adapted
to my years. They suited me, in fact, to a T.
The clergyman, who merely pretended to tie the fatal knot, was a
boon companion of Talbot’s, and no priest. He was an excellent
“whip,” however; and having doffed his cassock to put on a
great-coat, he drove the hack which conveyed the “happy couple”
out of town. Talbot took a seat at his side. The two scoundrels
were thus “in at the death,” and through a half-open window of
the back parlor of the inn, amused themselves in grinning at the
_dénouement_ of the drama. I believe I shall be forced to call
them both out.
Nevertheless, I am _not_ the husband of my great, great,
grandmother; and this is a reflection which affords me infinite
relief;—but I _am_ the husband of Madame Lalande—of Madame
Stéphanie Lalande—with whom my good old relative, besides making
me her sole heir when she dies—if she ever does—has been at the
trouble of concocting me a match. In conclusion: I am done
forever with _billets doux_, and am never to be met without
SPECTACLES.
KING PEST
A Tale Containing an Allegory.
The gods do bear and will allow in kings
The things which they abhor in rascal routes.
—_Buckhurst’s Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex._
About twelve o’clock, one night in the month of October, and
during the chivalrous reign of the third Edward, two seamen
belonging to the crew of the _>Free and Easy_, a trading schooner
plying between Sluys and the Thames, and then at anchor in that
river, were much astonished to find themselves seated in the
tap-room of an ale-house in the parish of St. Andrews,
London—which ale-house bore for sign the portraiture of a “Jolly
Tar.”
The room, although ill-contrived, smoke-blackened, low-pitched,
and in every other respect agreeing with the general character of
such places at the period—was, nevertheless, in the opinion of
the grotesque groups scattered here and there within it,
sufficiently well adapted to its purpose.
Of these groups our two seamen formed, I think, the most
interesting, if not the most conspicuous.
The one who appeared to be the elder, and whom his companion
addressed by the characteristic appellation of “Legs,” was at the
same time much the taller of the two. He might have measured six
feet and a half, and an habitual stoop in the shoulders seemed to
have been the necessary consequence of an altitude so enormous.
Superfluities in height were, however, more than accounted for by
deficiencies in other respects. He was exceedingly thin; and
might, as his associates asserted, have answered, when drunk, for
a pennant at the mast-head, or, when sober, have served for a
jib-boom. But these jests, and others of a similar nature, had
evidently produced, at no time, any effect upon the cachinnatory
muscles of the tar. With high cheek-bones, a large hawk-nose,
retreating chin, fallen under-jaw, and huge protruding white
eyes, the expression of his countenance, although tinged with a
species of dogged indifference to matters and things in general,
was not the less utterly solemn and serious beyond all attempts
at imitation or description.
The younger seaman was, in all outward appearance, the converse
of his companion. His stature could not have exceeded four feet.
A pair of stumpy bow-legs supported his squat, unwieldy figure,
while his unusually short and thick arms, with no ordinary fists
at their extremities, swung off dangling from his sides like the
fins of a sea-turtle. Small eyes, of no particular color,
twinkled far back in his head. His nose remained buried in the
mass of flesh which enveloped his round, full, and purple face;
and his thick upper-lip rested upon the still thicker one beneath
with an air of complacent self-satisfaction, much heightened by
the owner’s habit of licking them at intervals. He evidently
regarded his tall shipmate with a feeling half-wondrous,
half-quizzical; and stared up occasionally in his face as the red
setting sun stares up at the crags of Ben Nevis.
Various and eventful, however, had been the peregrinations of the
worthy couple in and about the different tap-houses of the
neighbourhood during the earlier hours of the night. Funds even
the most ample, are not always everlasting: and it was with empty
pockets our friends had ventured upon the present hostelrie.
At the precise period, then, when this history properly
commences, Legs, and his fellow Hugh Tarpaulin, sat, each with
both elbows resting upon the large oaken table in the middle of
the floor, and with a hand upon either cheek. They were eyeing,
from behind a huge flagon of unpaid-for “humming-stuff,” the
portentous words, “No Chalk,” which to their indignation and
astonishment were scored over the doorway by means of that very
mineral whose presence they purported to deny. Not that the gift
of decyphering written characters—a gift among the commonalty of
that day considered little less cabalistical than the art of
inditing—could, in strict justice, have been laid to the charge
of either disciple of the sea; but there was, to say the truth, a
certain twist in the formation of the letters—an indescribable
lee-lurch about the whole—which foreboded, in the opinion of both
seamen, a long run of dirty weather; and determined them at once,
in the allegorical words of Legs himself, to “pump ship, clew up
all sail, and scud before the wind.”
Having accordingly disposed of what remained of the ale, and
looped up the points of their short doublets, they finally made a
bolt for the street. Although Tarpaulin rolled twice into the
fire-place, mistaking it for the door, yet their escape was at
length happily effected—and half after twelve o’clock found our
heroes ripe for mischief, and running for life down a dark alley
in the direction of St. Andrew’s Stair, hotly pursued by the
landlady of the “Jolly Tar.”
At the epoch of this eventful tale, and periodically, for many
years before and after, all England, but more especially the
metropolis, resounded with the fearful cry of “Plague!” The city
was in a great measure depopulated—and in those horrible regions,
in the vicinity of the Thames, where amid the dark, narrow, and
filthy lanes and alleys, the Demon of Disease was supposed to
have had his nativity, Awe, Terror, and Superstition were alone
to be found stalking abroad.
By authority of the king such districts were placed under ban,
and all persons forbidden, under pain of death, to intrude upon
their dismal solitude. Yet neither the mandate of the monarch,
nor the huge barriers erected at the entrances of the streets,
nor the prospect of that loathsome death which, with almost
absolute certainty, overwhelmed the wretch whom no peril could
deter from the adventure, prevented the unfurnished and
untenanted dwellings from being stripped, by the hand of nightly
rapine, of every article, such as iron, brass, or lead-work,
which could in any manner be turned to a profitable account.
Above all, it was usually found, upon the annual winter opening
of the barriers, that locks, bolts, and secret cellars, had
proved but slender protection to those rich stores of wines and
liquors which, in consideration of the risk and trouble of
removal, many of the numerous dealers having shops in the
neighbourhood had consented to trust, during the period of exile,
to so insufficient a security.
But there were very few of the terror-stricken people who
attributed these doings to the agency of human hands.
Pest-spirits, plague-goblins, and fever-demons, were the popular
imps of mischief; and tales so blood-chilling were hourly told,
that the whole mass of forbidden buildings was, at length,
enveloped in terror as in a shroud, and the plunderer himself was
often scared away by the horrors his own depreciations had
created; leaving the entire vast circuit of prohibited district
to gloom, silence, pestilence, and death.
It was by one of the terrific barriers already mentioned, and
which indicated the region beyond to be under the Pest-ban, that,
in scrambling down an alley, Legs and the worthy Hugh Tarpaulin
found their progress suddenly impeded. To return was out of the
question, and no time was to be lost, as their pursuers were
close upon their heels. With thorough-bred seamen to clamber up
the roughly fashioned plank-work was a trifle; and, maddened with
the twofold excitement of exercise and liquor, they leaped
unhesitatingly down within the enclosure, and holding on their
drunken course with shouts and yellings, were soon bewildered in
its noisome and intricate recesses.
Had they not, indeed, been intoxicated beyond moral sense, their
reeling footsteps must have been palsied by the horrors of their
situation. The air was cold and misty. The paving-stones,
loosened from their beds, lay in wild disorder amid the tall,
rank grass, which sprang up around the feet and ankles. Fallen
houses choked up the streets. The most fetid and poisonous smells
everywhere prevailed;—and by the aid of that ghastly light which,
even at midnight, never fails to emanate from a vapory and
pestilential atmosphere, might be discerned lying in the by-paths
and alleys, or rotting in the windowless habitations, the carcass
of many a nocturnal plunderer arrested by the hand of the plague
in the very perpetration of his robbery.
But it lay not in the power of images, or sensations, or
impediments such as these, to stay the course of men who,
naturally brave, and at that time especially, brimful of courage
and of “humming-stuff,” would have reeled, as straight as their
condition might have permitted, undauntedly into the very jaws of
Death. Onward—still onward stalked the grim Legs, making the
desolate solemnity echo and re-echo with yells like the terrific
war-whoop of the Indian; and onward, still onward rolled the
dumpy Tarpaulin, hanging on to the doublet of his more active
companion, and far surpassing the latter’s most strenuous
exertions in the way of vocal music, by bull-roarings _in basso_,
from the profundity of his stentorian lungs.
They had now evidently reached the strong hold of the pestilence.
Their way at every step or plunge grew more noisome and more
horrible—the paths more narrow and more intricate. Huge stones
and beams falling momently from the decaying roofs above them,
gave evidence, by their sullen and heavy descent, of the vast
height of the surrounding houses; and while actual exertion
became necessary to force a passage through frequent heaps of
rubbish, it was by no means seldom that the hand fell upon a
skeleton or rested upon a more fleshly corpse.
Suddenly, as the seamen stumbled against the entrance of a tall
and ghastly-looking building, a yell more than usually shrill
from the throat of the excited Legs, was replied to from within,
in a rapid succession of wild, laughter-like, and fiendish
shrieks. Nothing daunted at sounds which, of such a nature, at
such a time, and in such a place, might have curdled the very
blood in hearts less irrevocably on fire, the drunken couple
rushed headlong against the door, burst it open, and staggered
into the midst of things with a volley of curses.
The room within which they found themselves proved to be the shop
of an undertaker; but an open trap-door, in a corner of the floor
near the entrance, looked down upon a long range of wine-cellars,
whose depths the occasional sound of bursting bottles proclaimed
to be well stored with their appropriate contents. In the middle
of the room stood a table—in the centre of which again arose a
huge tub of what appeared to be punch. Bottles of various wines
and cordials, together with jugs, pitchers, and flagons of every
shape and quality, were scattered profusely upon the board.
Around it, upon coffin-tressels, was seated a company of six.
This company I will endeavor to delineate one by one.
Fronting the entrance, and elevated a little above his
companions, sat a personage who appeared to be the president of
the table. His stature was gaunt and tall, and Legs was
confounded to behold in him a figure more emaciated than himself.
His face was as yellow as saffron—but no feature excepting one
alone, was sufficiently marked to merit a particular description.
This one consisted in a forehead so unusually and hideously
lofty, as to have the appearance of a bonnet or crown of flesh
superadded upon the natural head. His mouth was puckered and
dimpled into an expression of ghastly affability, and his eyes,
as indeed the eyes of all at table, were glazed over with the
fumes of intoxication. This gentleman was clothed from head to
foot in a richly-embroidered black silk-velvet pall, wrapped
negligently around his form after the fashion of a Spanish cloak.
His head was stuck full of sable hearse-plumes, which he nodded
to and fro with a jaunty and knowing air; and, in his right hand,
he held a huge human thigh-bone, with which he appeared to have
been just knocking down some member of the company for a song.
Opposite him, and with her back to the door, was a lady of no
whit the less extraordinary character. Although quite as tall as
the person just described, she had no right to complain of his
unnatural emaciation. She was evidently in the last stage of a
dropsy; and her figure resembled nearly that of the huge puncheon
of October beer which stood, with the head driven in, close by
her side, in a corner of the chamber. Her face was exceedingly
round, red, and full; and the same peculiarity, or rather want of
peculiarity, attached itself to her countenance, which I before
mentioned in the case of the president—that is to say, only one
feature of her face was sufficiently distinguished to need a
separate characterization: indeed the acute Tarpaulin immediately
observed that the same remark might have applied to each
individual person of the party; every one of whom seemed to
possess a monopoly of some particular portion of physiognomy.
With the lady in question this portion proved to be the mouth.
Commencing at the right ear, it swept with a terrific chasm to
the left—the short pendants which she wore in either auricle
continually bobbing into the aperture. She made, however, every
exertion to keep her mouth closed and look dignified, in a dress
consisting of a newly starched and ironed shroud coming up close
under her chin, with a crimpled ruffle of cambric muslin.
At her right hand sat a diminutive young lady whom she appeared
to patronise. This delicate little creature, in the trembling of
her wasted fingers, in the livid hue of her lips, and in the
slight hectic spot which tinged her otherwise leaden complexion,
gave evident indications of a galloping consumption. An air of
extreme _haut ton_, however, pervaded her whole appearance; she
wore in a graceful and _dégagé_ manner, a large and beautiful
winding-sheet of the finest India lawn; her hair hung in ringlets
over her neck; a soft smile played about her mouth; but her nose,
extremely long, thin, sinuous, flexible and pimpled, hung down
far below her under lip, and in spite of the delicate manner in
which she now and then moved it to one side or the other with her
tongue, gave to her countenance a somewhat equivocal expression.
Over against her, and upon the left of the dropsical lady, was
seated a little puffy, wheezing, and gouty old man, whose cheeks
reposed upon the shoulders of their owner, like two huge bladders
of Oporto wine. With his arms folded, and with one bandaged leg
deposited upon the table, he seemed to think himself entitled to
some consideration. He evidently prided himself much upon every
inch of his personal appearance, but took more especial delight
in calling attention to his gaudy-colored surtout. This, to say
the truth, must have cost him no little money, and was made to
fit him exceedingly well—being fashioned from one of the
curiously embroidered silken covers appertaining to those
glorious escutcheons which, in England and elsewhere, are
customarily hung up, in some conspicuous place, upon the
dwellings of departed aristocracy.
Next to him, and at the right hand of the president, was a
gentleman in long white hose and cotton drawers. His frame shook,
in a ridiculous manner, with a fit of what Tarpaulin called “the
horrors.” His jaws, which had been newly shaved, were tightly
tied up by a bandage of muslin; and his arms being fastened in a
similar way at the wrists, prevented him from helping himself too
freely to the liquors upon the table; a precaution rendered
necessary, in the opinion of Legs, by the peculiarly sottish and
wine-bibbing cast of his visage. A pair of prodigious ears,
nevertheless, which it was no doubt found impossible to confine,
towered away into the atmosphere of the apartment, and were
occasionally pricked up in a spasm, at the sound of the drawing
of a cork.
Fronting him, sixthly and lastly, was situated a singularly
stiff-looking personage, who, being afflicted with paralysis,
must, to speak seriously, have felt very ill at ease in his
unaccommodating habiliments. He was habited, somewhat uniquely,
in a new and handsome mahogany coffin. Its top or head-piece
pressed upon the skull of the wearer, and extended over it in the
fashion of a hood, giving to the entire face an air of
indescribable interest. Arm-holes had been cut in the sides, for
the sake not more of elegance than of convenience; but the dress,
nevertheless, prevented its proprietor from sitting as erect as
his associates; and as he lay reclining against his tressel, at
an angle of forty-five degrees, a pair of huge goggle eyes rolled
up their awful whites towards the ceiling in absolute amazement
at their own enormity.
Before each of the party lay a portion of a skull, which was used
as a drinking cup. Overhead was suspended a human skeleton, by
means of a rope tied round one of the legs and fastened to a ring
in the ceiling. The other limb, confined by no such fetter, stuck
off from the body at right angles, causing the whole loose and
rattling frame to dangle and twirl about at the caprice of every
occasional puff of wind which found its way into the apartment.
In the cranium of this hideous thing lay quantity of ignited
charcoal, which threw a fitful but vivid light over the entire
scene; while coffins, and other wares appertaining to the shop of
an undertaker, were piled high up around the room, and against
the windows, preventing any ray from escaping into the street.
At sight of this extraordinary assembly, and of their still more
extraordinary paraphernalia, our two seamen did not conduct
themselves with that degree of decorum which might have been
expected. Legs, leaning against the wall near which he happened
to be standing, dropped his lower jaw still lower than usual, and
spread open his eyes to their fullest extent: while Hugh
Tarpaulin, stooping down so as to bring his nose upon a level
with the table, and spreading out a palm upon either knee, burst
into a long, loud, and obstreperous roar of very ill-timed and
immoderate laughter.
Without, however, taking offence at behaviour so excessively
rude, the tall president smiled very graciously upon the
intruders—nodded to them in a dignified manner with his head of
sable plumes—and, arising, took each by an arm, and led him to a
seat which some others of the company had placed in the meantime
for his accommodation. Legs to all this offered not the slightest
resistance, but sat down as he was directed; while the gallant
Hugh, removing his coffin tressel from its station near the head
of the table, to the vicinity of the little consumptive lady in
the winding sheet, plumped down by her side in high glee, and
pouring out a skull of red wine, quaffed it to their better
acquaintance. But at this presumption the stiff gentleman in the
coffin seemed exceedingly nettled; and serious consequences might
have ensued, had not the president, rapping upon the table with
his truncheon, diverted the attention of all present to the
following speech:
“It becomes our duty upon the present happy occasion—”
“Avast there!” interrupted Legs, looking very serious, “avast
there a bit, I say, and tell us who the devil ye all are, and
what business ye have here, rigged off like the foul fiends, and
swilling the snug blue ruin stowed away for the winter by my
honest shipmate, Will Wimble, the undertaker!”
At this unpardonable piece of ill-breeding, all the original
company half started to their feet, and uttered the same rapid
succession of wild fiendish shrieks which had before caught the
attention of the seamen. The president, however, was the first to
recover his composure, and at length, turning to Legs with great
dignity, recommenced:
“Most willingly will we gratify any reasonable curiosity on the
part of guests so illustrious, unbidden though they be. Know then
that in these dominions I am monarch, and here rule with
undivided empire under the title of ‘King Pest the First.’
“This apartment, which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the
shop of Will Wimble the undertaker—a man whom we know not, and
whose plebeian appellation has never before this night thwarted
our royal ears—this apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of our
Palace, devoted to the councils of our kingdom, and to other
sacred and lofty purposes.
“The noble lady who sits opposite is Queen Pest, our Serene
Consort. The other exalted personages whom you behold are all of
our family, and wear the insignia of the blood royal under the
respective titles of ‘His Grace the Arch Duke Pest-Iferous’—‘His
Grace the Duke Pest-Ilential’—‘His Grace the Duke Tem-Pest’—and
‘Her Serene Highness the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.’
“As regards,” continued he, “your demand of the business upon
which we sit here in council, we might be pardoned for replying
that it concerns, and concerns alone, our own private and regal
interest, and is in no manner important to any other than
ourself. But in consideration of those rights to which as guests
and strangers you may feel yourselves entitled, we will
furthermore explain that we are here this night, prepared by deep
research and accurate investigation, to examine, analyze, and
thoroughly determine the indefinable spirit—the incomprehensible
qualities and nature—of those inestimable treasures of the
palate, the wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goodly metropolis:
by so doing to advance not more our own designs than the true
welfare of that unearthly sovereign whose reign is over us all,
whose dominions are unlimited, and whose name is ‘Death’.”
“Whose name is Davy Jones!” ejaculated Tarpaulin, helping the
lady by his side to a skull of liqueur, and pouring out a second
for himself.
“Profane varlet!” said the president, now turning his attention
to the worthy Hugh, “profane and execrable wretch!—we have said,
that in consideration of those rights which, even in thy filthy
person, we feel no inclination to violate, we have condescended
to make reply to thy rude and unseasonable inquiries. We
nevertheless, for your unhallowed intrusion upon our councils,
believe it our duty to mulct thee and thy companion in each a
gallon of Black Strap—having imbibed which to the prosperity of
our kingdom—at a single draught—and upon your bended knees—ye
shall be forthwith free either to proceed upon your way, or
remain and be admitted to the privileges of our table, according
to your respective and individual pleasures.”
“It would be a matter of utter impossibility,” replied Legs, whom
the assumptions and dignity of King Pest the First had evidently
inspired some feelings of respect, and who arose and steadied
himself by the table as he spoke—“it would, please your majesty,
be a matter of utter impossibility to stow away in my hold even
one-fourth part of the same liquor which your majesty has just
mentioned. To say nothing of the stuffs placed on board in the
forenoon by way of ballast, and not to mention the various ales
and liqueurs shipped this evening at different sea-ports, I have,
at present, a full cargo of ‘humming-stuff’ taken in and duly
paid for at the sign of the ‘Jolly Tar.’ You will, therefore,
please your majesty, be so good as to take the will for the
deed—for by no manner of means either can I or will I swallow
another drop—least of all a drop of that villainous bilge-water
that answers to the name of ‘Black Strap.’”
“Belay that!” interrupted Tarpaulin, astonished not more at the
length of his companion’s speech than at the nature of his
refusal—“Belay that you lubber!—and I say, Legs, none of your
palaver! _My_ hull is still light, although I confess you
yourself seem to be a little top-heavy; and as for the matter of
your share of the cargo, why rather than raise a squall I would
find stowage-room for it myself, but—”
“This proceeding,” interposed the president, “is by no means in
accordance with the terms of the mulct or sentence, which is in
its nature Median, and not to be altered or recalled. The
conditions we have imposed must be fulfilled to the letter, and
that without a moment’s hesitation—in failure of which fulfilment
we decree that you do here be tied neck and heels together, and
duly drowned as rebels in yon hogshead of October beer!”
“A sentence!—a sentence!—a righteous and just sentence!—a
glorious decree!—a most worthy and upright, and holy
condemnation!” shouted the Pest family altogether. The king
elevated his forehead into innumerable wrinkles; the gouty little
old man puffed like a pair of bellows; the lady of the winding
sheet waved her nose to and fro; the gentleman in the cotton
drawers pricked up his ears; she of the shroud gasped like a
dying fish; and he of the coffin looked stiff and rolled up his
eyes.
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!” chuckled Tarpaulin without heeding the general
excitation, “ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—I was
saying,” said he, “I was saying when Mr. King Pest poked in his
marlin-spike, that as for the matter of two or three gallons more
or less of Black Strap, it was a trifle to a tight sea-boat like
myself not overstowed—but when it comes to drinking the health of
the Devil (whom God assoilzie) and going down upon my marrow
bones to his ill-favored majesty there, whom I know, as well as I
know myself to be a sinner, to be nobody in the whole world, but
Tim Hurlygurly the stage-player!—why! it’s quite another guess
sort of a thing, and utterly and altogether past my
comprehension.”
He was not allowed to finish this speech in tranquillity. At the
name Tim Hurlygurly the whole assembly leaped from their name
seats.
“Treason!” shouted his Majesty King Pest the First.
“Treason!” said the little man with the gout.
“Treason!” screamed the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.
“Treason!” muttered the gentleman with his jaws tied up.
“Treason!” growled he of the coffin.
“Treason! treason!” shrieked her majesty of the mouth; and,
seizing by the hinder part of his breeches the unfortunate
Tarpaulin, who had just commenced pouring out for himself a skull
of liqueur, she lifted him high into the air, and let him fall
without ceremony into the huge open puncheon of his beloved ale.
Bobbing up and down, for a few seconds, like an apple in a bowl
of toddy, he, at length, finally disappeared amid the whirlpool
of foam which, in the already effervescent liquor, his struggles
easily succeeded in creating.
Not tamely, however, did the tall seaman behold the discomfiture
of his companion. Jostling King Pest through the open trap, the
valiant Legs slammed the door down upon him with an oath, and
strode towards the centre of the room. Here tearing down the
skeleton which swung over the table, he laid it about him with so
much energy and good will, that, as the last glimpses of light
died away within the apartment, he succeeded in knocking out the
brains of the little gentleman with the gout. Rushing then with
all his force against the fatal hogshead full of October ale and
Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it over and over in an instant. Out
burst a deluge of liquor so fierce—so impetuous—so
overwhelming—that the room was flooded from wall to wall—the
loaded table was overturned—the tressels were thrown upon their
backs—the tub of punch into the fire-place—and the ladies into
hysterics. Piles of death-furniture floundered about. Jugs,
pitchers, and carboys mingled promiscuously in the _mêlée_, and
wicker flagons encountered desperately with bottles of junk. The
man with the horrors was drowned upon the spot—the little stiff
gentleman floated off in his coffin—and the victorious Legs,
seizing by the waist the fat lady in the shroud, rushed out with
her into the street, and made a bee-line for the _Free and Easy_,
followed under easy sail by the redoubtable Hugh Tarpaulin, who,
having sneezed three or four times, panted and puffed after him
with the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.
THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK
“You hard-headed, dunder-headed, obstinate, rusty, crusty, musty,
fusty, old savage!” said I, in fancy, one afternoon, to my grand
uncle Rumgudgeon—shaking my fist at him in imagination.
Only in imagination. The fact is, some trivial discrepancy _did_
exist, just then, between what I said and what I had not the
courage to say—between what I did and what I had half a mind to
do.
The old porpoise, as I opened the drawing-room door, was sitting
with his feet upon the mantel-piece, and a bumper of port in his
paw, making strenuous efforts to accomplish the ditty.
Remplis ton verre vide!
Vide ton verre plein!
“My _dear_ uncle,” said I, closing the door gently, and
approaching him with the blandest of smiles, “you are always so
very kind and considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in
so many—so very many ways—that—that I feel I have only to suggest
this little point to you once more to make sure of your full
acquiescence.”
“Hem!” said he, “good boy! go on!”
“I am sure, my dearest uncle (you confounded old rascal!), that
you have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union with
Kate. This is merely a joke of yours, I know—ha! ha! ha!—how very
pleasant you are at times.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” said he, “curse you! yes!”
“To be sure—of course! I knew you were jesting. Now, uncle, all
that Kate and myself wish at present, is that you would oblige us
with your advice as—as regards the time—you know, uncle—in short,
when will it be most convenient for yourself, that the wedding
shall—shall—come off, you know?”
“Come off, you scoundrel!—what do you mean by that?—Better wait
till it goes on.”
“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—oh,
that’s good!—oh, that’s capital—_such_ a wit! But all we want
just _now_, you know, uncle, is that you would indicate the time
precisely.”
“Ah!—precisely?”
“Yes, uncle—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to yourself.”
“Wouldn’t it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random—some
time within a year or so, for example?—_must_ I say precisely?”
“_If_ you please, uncle—precisely.”
“Well, then, Bobby, my boy—you’re a fine fellow, aren’t
you?—since you _will_ have the exact time I’ll—why I’ll oblige
you for once.”
“Dear uncle!”
“Hush, sir!” (drowning my voice)—“I’ll oblige you for once. You
shall have my consent—and the _plum_, we mus’n’t forget the
plum—let me see! when shall it be? To-day’s Sunday—isn’t it?
Well, then, you shall be married precisely—_precisely_, now
mind!—_when three Sundays come together in a week!_ Do you hear
me, sir! _What_ are you gaping at? I say, you shall have Kate and
her plum when three Sundays come together in a week—but not
_till_ then—you young scapegrace—not _till_ then, if I die for
it. You know me—_I’m a man of my word_—now be off!” Here he
swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the room in
despair.
A very “fine old English gentleman,” was my grand-uncle
Rumgudgeon, but unlike him of the song, he had his weak points.
He was a little, pursy, pompous, passionate semicircular
somebody, with a red nose, a thick skull, a long purse, and a
strong sense of his own consequence. With the best heart in the
world, he contrived, through a predominant whim of contradiction,
to earn for himself, among those who only knew him superficially,
the character of a curmudgeon. Like many excellent people, he
seemed possessed with a spirit of tantalization, which might
easily, at a casual glance, have been mistaken for malevolence.
To every request, a positive “No!” was his immediate answer; but
in the end—in the long, long end—there were exceedingly few
requests which he refused. Against all attacks upon his purse he
made the most sturdy defence; but the amount extorted from him,
at last, was generally in direct ratio with the length of the
siege and the stubbornness of the resistance. In charity no one
gave more liberally or with a worse grace.
For the fine arts, and especially for the belles-lettres, he
entertained a profound contempt. With this he had been inspired
by Casimir Perier, whose pert little query “A quoi un poete est
il bon?” he was in the habit of quoting, with a very droll
pronunciation, as the ne plus ultra of logical wit. Thus my own
inkling for the Muses had excited his entire displeasure. He
assured me one day, when I asked him for a new copy of Horace,
that the translation of “Poeta nascitur non fit” was “a nasty
poet for nothing fit”—a remark which I took in high dudgeon. His
repugnance to “the humanities” had, also, much increased of late,
by an accidental bias in favor of what he supposed to be natural
science. Somebody had accosted him in the street, mistaking him
for no less a personage than Doctor Dubble L. Dee, the lecturer
upon quack physics. This set him off at a tangent; and just at
the epoch of this story—for story it is getting to be after
all—my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon was accessible and pacific only
upon points which happened to chime in with the caprioles of the
hobby he was riding. For the rest, he laughed with his arms and
legs, and his politics were stubborn and easily understood. He
thought, with Horsley, that “the people have nothing to do with
the laws but to obey them.”
I had lived with the old gentleman all my life. My parents, in
dying, had bequeathed me to him as a rich legacy. I believe the
old villain loved me as his own child—nearly if not quite as well
as he loved Kate—but it was a dog’s existence that he led me,
after all. From my first year until my fifth, he obliged me with
very regular floggings. From five to fifteen, he threatened me,
hourly, with the House of Correction. From fifteen to twenty, not
a day passed in which he did not promise to cut me off with a
shilling. I was a sad dog, it is true—but then it was a part of
my nature—a point of my faith. In Kate, however, I had a firm
friend, and I knew it. She was a good girl, and told me very
sweetly that I might have her (plum and all) whenever I could
badger my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon, into the necessary consent.
Poor girl!—she was barely fifteen, and without this consent, her
little amount in the funds was not come-at-able until five
immeasurable summers had “dragged their slow length along.” What,
then, to do? At fifteen, or even at twenty-one (for I had now
passed my fifth olympiad) five years in prospect are very much
the same as five hundred. In vain we besieged the old gentleman
with importunities. Here was a piece de resistance (as Messieurs
Ude and Careme would say) which suited his perverse fancy to a T.
It would have stiffed the indignation of Job himself, to see how
much like an old mouser he behaved to us two poor wretched little
mice. In his heart he wished for nothing more ardently than our
union. He had made up his mind to this all along. In fact, he
would have given ten thousand pounds from his own pocket (Kate’s
plum was her own) if he could have invented any thing like an
excuse for complying with our very natural wishes. But then we
had been so imprudent as to broach the subject ourselves. Not to
oppose it under such circumstances, I sincerely believe, was not
in his power.
I have said already that he had his weak points; but in speaking
of these, I must not be understood as referring to his obstinacy:
which was one of his strong points—“assurement ce n’ etait pas sa
foible.” When I mention his weakness I have allusion to a bizarre
old-womanish superstition which beset him. He was great in
dreams, portents, et id genus omne of rigmarole. He was
excessively punctilious, too, upon small points of honor, and,
after his own fashion, was a man of his word, beyond doubt. This
was, in fact, one of his hobbies. The spirit of his vows he made
no scruple of setting at naught, but the letter was a bond
inviolable. Now it was this latter peculiarity in his
disposition, of which Kate’s ingenuity enabled us one fine day,
not long after our interview in the dining-room, to take a very
unexpected advantage, and, having thus, in the fashion of all
modern bards and orators, exhausted in prolegomena, all the time
at my command, and nearly all the room at my disposal, I will sum
up in a few words what constitutes the whole pith of the story.
It happened then—so the Fates ordered it—that among the naval
acquaintances of my betrothed, were two gentlemen who had just
set foot upon the shores of England, after a year’s absence,
each, in foreign travel. In company with these gentlemen, my
cousin and I, preconcertedly paid uncle Rumgudgeon a visit on the
afternoon of Sunday, October the tenth,—just three weeks after
the memorable decision which had so cruelly defeated our hopes.
For about half an hour the conversation ran upon ordinary topics,
but at last, we contrived, quite naturally, to give it the
following turn:
CAPT. PRATT. “Well I have been absent just one year.—Just one
year to-day, as I live—let me see! yes!—this is October the
tenth. You remember, Mr. Rumgudgeon, I called, this day year to
bid you good-bye. And by the way, it does seem something like a
coincidence, does it not—that our friend, Captain Smitherton,
here, has been absent exactly a year also—a year to-day!”
SMITHERTON. “Yes! just one year to a fraction. You will remember,
Mr. Rumgudgeon, that I called with Capt. Pratol on this very day,
last year, to pay my parting respects.”
UNCLE. “Yes, yes, yes—I remember it very well—very queer indeed!
Both of you gone just one year. A very strange coincidence,
indeed! Just what Doctor Dubble L. Dee would denominate an
extraordinary concurrence of events. Doctor Dub—”
KATE. (Interrupting.) “To be sure, papa, it is something strange;
but then Captain Pratt and Captain Smitherton didn’t go
altogether the same route, and that makes a difference, you
know.”
UNCLE. “I don’t know any such thing, you huzzy! How should I? I
think it only makes the matter more remarkable, Doctor Dubble L.
Dee—”
KATE. “Why, papa, Captain Pratt went round Cape Horn, and Captain
Smitherton doubled the Cape of Good Hope.”
UNCLE. “Precisely!—the one went east and the other went west, you
jade, and they both have gone quite round the world. By the by,
Doctor Dubble L. Dee—”
MYSELF. (Hurriedly.) “Captain Pratt, you must come and spend the
evening with us to-morrow—you and Smitherton—you can tell us all
about your voyage, and we’ll have a game of whist and—”
PRATT. “Wist, my dear fellow—you forget. To-morrow will be
Sunday. Some other evening—”
KATE. “Oh, no, fie!—Robert’s not quite so bad as that. To-day’s
Sunday.”
PRATT. “I beg both your pardons—but I can’t be so much mistaken.
I know to-morrow’s Sunday, because-”
SMITHERTON. (Much surprised.) “What are you all thinking about?
Wasn’t yesterday, Sunday, I should like to know?”
ALL. “Yesterday indeed! you are out!”
UNCLE. “To-day’s Sunday, I say—don’t I know?”
PRATT. “Oh no!—to-morrow’s Sunday.”
SMITHERTON. “You are all mad—every one of you. I am as positive
that yesterday was Sunday as I am that I sit upon this chair.”
KATE. (Jumping up eagerly.) “I see it—I see it all. Papa, this is
a judgment upon you, about—about you know what. Let me alone, and
I’ll explain it all in a minute. It’s a very simple thing,
indeed. Captain Smitherton says that yesterday was Sunday: so it
was; he is right. Cousin Bobby, and uncle and I say that to-day
is Sunday: so it is; we are right. Captain Pratt maintains that
to-morrow will be Sunday: so it will; he is right, too. The fact
is, we are all right, and thus three Sundays have come together
in a week.”
SMITHERTON. (After a pause.) “By the by, Pratt, Kate has us
completely. What fools we two are! Mr. Rumgudgeon, the matter
stands thus: the earth, you know, is twenty-four thousand miles
in circumference. Now this globe of the earth turns upon its own
axis—revolves—spins round—these twenty-four thousand miles of
extent, going from west to east, in precisely twenty-four hours.
Do you understand, Mr. Rumgudgeon?—”
UNCLE. “To be sure—to be sure—Doctor Dub—”
SMITHERTON. (Drowning his voice.) “Well, sir; that is at the rate
of one thousand miles per hour. Now, suppose that I sail from
this position a thousand miles east. Of course I anticipate the
rising of the sun here at London by just one hour. I see the sun
rise one hour before you do. Proceeding, in the same direction,
yet another thousand miles, I anticipate the rising by two
hours—another thousand, and I anticipate it by three hours, and
so on, until I go entirely round the globe, and back to this
spot, when, having gone twenty-four thousand miles east, I
anticipate the rising of the London sun by no less than
twenty-four hours; that is to say, I am a day in advance of your
time. Understand, eh?”
UNCLE. “But Double L. Dee—”
SMITHERTON. (Speaking very loud.) “Captain Pratt, on the
contrary, when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this
position, was an hour, and when he had sailed twenty-four
thousand miles west, was twenty-four hours, or one day, behind
the time at London. Thus, with me, yesterday was Sunday—thus,
with you, to-day is Sunday—and thus, with Pratt, to-morrow will
be Sunday. And what is more, Mr. Rumgudgeon, it is positively
clear that we are all right; for there can be no philosophical
reason assigned why the idea of one of us should have preference
over that of the other.”
UNCLE. “My eyes!—well, Kate—well, Bobby!—this is a judgment upon
me, as you say. But I am a man of my word—mark that! you shall
have her, boy, (plum and all), when you please. Done up, by Jove!
Three Sundays all in a row! I’ll go, and take Dubble L. Dee’s
opinion upon that.”
VOLUME 4.
THE DEVIL IN THE BELFRY
What o’clock is it?—_Old Saying_.
Everybody knows, in a general way, that the finest place in the
world is—or, alas, _was_—the Dutch borough of
Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies some distance from any of the
main roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the-way situation, there
are perhaps very few of my readers who have ever paid it a visit.
For the benefit of those who have not, therefore, it will be only
proper that I should enter into some account of it. And this is
indeed the more necessary, as with the hope of enlisting public
sympathy in behalf of the inhabitants, I design here to give a
history of the calamitous events which have so lately occurred
within its limits. No one who knows me will doubt that the duty
thus self-imposed will be executed to the best of my ability,
with all that rigid impartiality, all that cautious examination
into facts, and diligent collation of authorities, which should
ever distinguish him who aspires to the title of historian.
By the united aid of medals, manuscripts, and inscriptions, I am
enabled to say, positively, that the borough of
Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from its origin, in precisely
the same condition which it at present preserves. Of the date of
this origin, however, I grieve that I can only speak with that
species of indefinite definiteness which mathematicians are, at
times, forced to put up with in certain algebraic formulae. The
date, I may thus say, in regard to the remoteness of its
antiquity, cannot be less than any assignable quantity
whatsoever.
Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I
confess myself, with sorrow, equally at fault. Among a multitude
of opinions upon this delicate point—some acute, some learned,
some sufficiently the reverse—I am able to select nothing which
ought to be considered satisfactory. Perhaps the idea of
Grogswigg—nearly coincident with that of Kroutaplenttey—is to be
cautiously preferred.—It runs:—“Vondervotteimittis—Vonder, lege
Donder—Votteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz—Bleitziz obsol:—pro
Blitzen.” This derivative, to say the truth, is still
countenanced by some traces of the electric fluid evident on the
summit of the steeple of the House of the Town-Council. I do not
choose, however, to commit myself on a theme of such importance,
and must refer the reader desirous of information to the
“Oratiunculae de Rebus Praeter-Veteris,” of Dundergutz. See,
also, Blunderbuzzard “De Derivationibus,” pp. 27 to 5010, Folio,
Gothic edit., Red and Black character, Catch-word and No Cypher;
wherein consult, also, marginal notes in the autograph of
Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell.
Notwithstanding the obscurity which thus envelops the date of the
foundation of Vondervotteimittis, and the derivation of its name,
there can be no doubt, as I said before, that it has always
existed as we find it at this epoch. The oldest man in the
borough can remember not the slightest difference in the
appearance of any portion of it; and, indeed, the very suggestion
of such a possibility is considered an insult. The site of the
village is in a perfectly circular valley, about a quarter of a
mile in circumference, and entirely surrounded by gentle hills,
over whose summit the people have never yet ventured to pass. For
this they assign the very good reason that they do not believe
there is anything at all on the other side.
Round the skirts of the valley (which is quite level, and paved
throughout with flat tiles), extends a continuous row of sixty
little houses. These, having their backs on the hills, must look,
of course, to the centre of the plain, which is just sixty yards
from the front door of each dwelling. Every house has a small
garden before it, with a circular path, a sun-dial, and
twenty-four cabbages. The buildings themselves are so precisely
alike, that one can in no manner be distinguished from the other.
Owing to the vast antiquity, the style of architecture is
somewhat odd, but it is not for that reason the less strikingly
picturesque. They are fashioned of hard-burned little bricks,
red, with black ends, so that the walls look like a chess-board
upon a great scale. The gables are turned to the front, and there
are cornices, as big as all the rest of the house, over the eaves
and over the main doors. The windows are narrow and deep, with
very tiny panes and a great deal of sash. On the roof is a vast
quantity of tiles with long curly ears. The woodwork, throughout,
is of a dark hue and there is much carving about it, with but a
trifling variety of pattern for, time out of mind, the carvers of
Vondervotteimittiss have never been able to carve more than two
objects—a time-piece and a cabbage. But these they do exceedingly
well, and intersperse them, with singular ingenuity, wherever
they find room for the chisel.
The dwellings are as much alike inside as out, and the furniture
is all upon one plan. The floors are of square tiles, the chairs
and tables of black-looking wood with thin crooked legs and puppy
feet. The mantelpieces are wide and high, and have not only
time-pieces and cabbages sculptured over the front, but a real
time-piece, which makes a prodigious ticking, on the top in the
middle, with a flower-pot containing a cabbage standing on each
extremity by way of outrider. Between each cabbage and the
time-piece, again, is a little China man having a large stomach
with a great round hole in it, through which is seen the
dial-plate of a watch.
The fireplaces are large and deep, with fierce crooked-looking
fire-dogs. There is constantly a rousing fire, and a huge pot
over it, full of sauer-kraut and pork, to which the good woman of
the house is always busy in attending. She is a little fat old
lady, with blue eyes and a red face, and wears a huge cap like a
sugar-loaf, ornamented with purple and yellow ribbons. Her dress
is of orange-colored linsey-woolsey, made very full behind and
very short in the waist—and indeed very short in other respects,
not reaching below the middle of her leg. This is somewhat thick,
and so are her ankles, but she has a fine pair of green stockings
to cover them. Her shoes—of pink leather—are fastened each with a
bunch of yellow ribbons puckered up in the shape of a cabbage. In
her left hand she has a little heavy Dutch watch; in her right
she wields a ladle for the sauerkraut and pork. By her side there
stands a fat tabby cat, with a gilt toy-repeater tied to its
tail, which “the boys” have there fastened by way of a quiz.
The boys themselves are, all three of them, in the garden
attending the pig. They are each two feet in height. They have
three-cornered cocked hats, purple waistcoats reaching down to
their thighs, buckskin knee-breeches, red stockings, heavy shoes
with big silver buckles, long surtout coats with large buttons of
mother-of-pearl. Each, too, has a pipe in his mouth, and a little
dumpy watch in his right hand. He takes a puff and a look, and
then a look and a puff. The pig—which is corpulent and lazy—is
occupied now in picking up the stray leaves that fall from the
cabbages, and now in giving a kick behind at the gilt repeater,
which the urchins have also tied to his tail in order to make him
look as handsome as the cat.
Right at the front door, in a high-backed leather-bottomed armed
chair, with crooked legs and puppy feet like the tables, is
seated the old man of the house himself. He is an exceedingly
puffy little old gentleman, with big circular eyes and a huge
double chin. His dress resembles that of the boys—and I need say
nothing farther about it. All the difference is, that his pipe is
somewhat bigger than theirs and he can make a greater smoke. Like
them, he has a watch, but he carries his watch in his pocket. To
say the truth, he has something of more importance than a watch
to attend to—and what that is, I shall presently explain. He sits
with his right leg upon his left knee, wears a grave countenance,
and always keeps one of his eyes, at least, resolutely bent upon
a certain remarkable object in the centre of the plain.
This object is situated in the steeple of the House of the Town
Council. The Town Council are all very little, round, oily,
intelligent men, with big saucer eyes and fat double chins, and
have their coats much longer and their shoe-buckles much bigger
than the ordinary inhabitants of Vondervotteimittiss. Since my
sojourn in the borough, they have had several special meetings,
and have adopted these three important resolutions:
“That it is wrong to alter the good old course of things:”
“That there is nothing tolerable out of Vondervotteimittiss:”
and—
“That we will stick by our clocks and our cabbages.”
Above the session-room of the Council is the steeple, and in the
steeple is the belfry, where exists, and has existed time out of
mind, the pride and wonder of the village—the great clock of the
borough of Vondervotteimittiss. And this is the object to which
the eyes of the old gentlemen are turned who sit in the
leather-bottomed arm-chairs.
The great clock has seven faces—one in each of the seven sides of
the steeple—so that it can be readily seen from all quarters. Its
faces are large and white, and its hands heavy and black. There
is a belfry-man whose sole duty is to attend to it; but this duty
is the most perfect of sinecures—for the clock of
Vondervotteimittis was never yet known to have anything the
matter with it. Until lately, the bare supposition of such a
thing was considered heretical. From the remotest period of
antiquity to which the archives have reference, the hours have
been regularly struck by the big bell. And, indeed the case was
just the same with all the other clocks and watches in the
borough. Never was such a place for keeping the true time. When
the large clapper thought proper to say “Twelve o’clock!” all its
obedient followers opened their throats simultaneously, and
responded like a very echo. In short, the good burghers were fond
of their sauer-kraut, but then they were proud of their clocks.
All people who hold sinecure offices are held in more or less
respect, and as the belfry—man of Vondervotteimittiss has the
most perfect of sinecures, he is the most perfectly respected of
any man in the world. He is the chief dignitary of the borough,
and the very pigs look up to him with a sentiment of reverence.
His coat-tail is very far longer—his pipe, his shoe-buckles, his
eyes, and his stomach, very far bigger—than those of any other
old gentleman in the village; and as to his chin, it is not only
double, but triple.
I have thus painted the happy estate of Vondervotteimittiss:
alas, that so fair a picture should ever experience a reverse!
There has been long a saying among the wisest inhabitants, that
“no good can come from over the hills”; and it really seemed that
the words had in them something of the spirit of prophecy. It
wanted five minutes of noon, on the day before yesterday, when
there appeared a very odd-looking object on the summit of the
ridge of the eastward. Such an occurrence, of course, attracted
universal attention, and every little old gentleman who sat in a
leather-bottomed arm-chair turned one of his eyes with a stare of
dismay upon the phenomenon, still keeping the other upon the
clock in the steeple.
By the time that it wanted only three minutes to noon, the droll
object in question was perceived to be a very diminutive
foreign-looking young man. He descended the hills at a great
rate, so that every body had soon a good look at him. He was
really the most finicky little personage that had ever been seen
in Vondervotteimittiss. His countenance was of a dark
snuff-color, and he had a long hooked nose, pea eyes, a wide
mouth, and an excellent set of teeth, which latter he seemed
anxious of displaying, as he was grinning from ear to ear. What
with mustachios and whiskers, there was none of the rest of his
face to be seen. His head was uncovered, and his hair neatly done
up in papillotes. His dress was a tight-fitting swallow-tailed
black coat (from one of whose pockets dangled a vast length of
white handkerchief), black kerseymere knee-breeches, black
stockings, and stumpy-looking pumps, with huge bunches of black
satin ribbon for bows. Under one arm he carried a huge
_chapeau-de-bras_, and under the other a fiddle nearly five times
as big as himself. In his left hand was a gold snuff-box, from
which, as he capered down the hill, cutting all manner of
fantastic steps, he took snuff incessantly with an air of the
greatest possible self-satisfaction. God bless me!—here was a
sight for the honest burghers of Vondervotteimittiss!
To speak plainly, the fellow had, in spite of his grinning, an
audacious and sinister kind of face; and as he curvetted right
into the village, the old stumpy appearance of his pumps excited
no little suspicion; and many a burgher who beheld him that day
would have given a trifle for a peep beneath the white cambric
handkerchief which hung so obtrusively from the pocket of his
swallow-tailed coat. But what mainly occasioned a righteous
indignation was, that the scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a
fandango here, and a whirligig there, did not seem to have the
remotest idea in the world of such a thing as keeping time in his
steps.
The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to
get their eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a
minute of noon, the rascal bounced, as I say, right into the
midst of them; gave a _chassez_ here, and a _balancez_ there; and
then, after a _pirouette_ and a _pas-de-zephyr_, pigeon-winged
himself right up into the belfry of the House of the Town
Council, where the wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a
state of dignity and dismay. But the little chap seized him at
once by the nose; gave it a swing and a pull; clapped the big
_chapeau-de-bras_ upon his head; knocked it down over his eyes
and mouth; and then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him with it
so long and so soundly, that what with the belfry-man being so
fat, and the fiddle being so hollow, you would have sworn that
there was a regiment of double-bass drummers all beating the
devil’s tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of
Vondervotteimittiss.
There is no knowing to what desperate act of vengeance this
unprincipled attack might have aroused the inhabitants, but for
the important fact that it now wanted only half a second of noon.
The bell was about to strike, and it was a matter of absolute and
pre-eminent necessity that every body should look well at his
watch. It was evident, however, that just at this moment the
fellow in the steeple was doing something that he had no business
to do with the clock. But as it now began to strike, nobody had
any time to attend to his manœuvres, for they had all to count
the strokes of the bell as it sounded.
“One!” said the clock.
“Von!” echoed every little old gentleman in every
leather-bottomed arm-chair in Vondervotteimittiss. “Von!” said
his watch also; “von!” said the watch of his vrow; and “von!”
said the watches of the boys, and the little gilt repeaters on
the tails of the cat and pig.
“Two!” continued the big bell; and
“Doo!” repeated all the repeaters.
“Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!” said the bell.
“Dree! Vour! Fibe! Sax! Seben! Aight! Noin! Den!” answered the
others.
“Eleven!” said the big one.
“Eleben!” assented the little ones.
“Twelve!” said the bell.
“Dvelf!” they replied perfectly satisfied, and dropping their
voices.
“Und dvelf it is!” said all the little old gentlemen, putting up
their watches. But the big bell had not done with them yet.
“Thirteen!” said he.
“Der Teufel!” gasped the little old gentlemen, turning pale,
dropping their pipes, and putting down all their right legs from
over their left knees.
“Der Teufel!” groaned they, “Dirteen! Dirteen!!—Mein Gott, it is
Dirteen o’clock!!”
Why attempt to describe the terrible scene which ensued? All
Vondervotteimittiss flew at once into a lamentable state of
uproar.
“Vot is cum’d to mein pelly?” roared all the boys—“I’ve been
ongry for dis hour!”
“Vot is com’d to mein kraut?” screamed all the vrows, “It has
been done to rags for this hour!”
“Vot is cum’d to mein pipe?” swore all the little old gentlemen,
“Donder and Blitzen; it has been smoked out for dis hour!”—and
they filled them up again in a great rage, and sinking back in
their arm-chairs, puffed away so fast and so fiercely that the
whole valley was immediately filled with impenetrable smoke.
Meantime the cabbages all turned very red in the face, and it
seemed as if old Nick himself had taken possession of every thing
in the shape of a timepiece. The clocks carved upon the furniture
took to dancing as if bewitched, while those upon the
mantel-pieces could scarcely contain themselves for fury, and
kept such a continual striking of thirteen, and such a frisking
and wriggling of their pendulums as was really horrible to see.
But, worse than all, neither the cats nor the pigs could put up
any longer with the behavior of the little repeaters tied to
their tails, and resented it by scampering all over the place,
scratching and poking, and squeaking and screeching, and
caterwauling and squalling, and flying into the faces, and
running under the petticoats of the people, and creating
altogether the most abominable din and confusion which it is
possible for a reasonable person to conceive. And to make matters
still more distressing, the rascally little scape-grace in the
steeple was evidently exerting himself to the utmost. Every now
and then one might catch a glimpse of the scoundrel through the
smoke. There he sat in the belfry upon the belfry-man, who was
lying flat upon his back. In his teeth the villain held the
bell-rope, which he kept jerking about with his head, raising
such a clatter that my ears ring again even to think of it. On
his lap lay the big fiddle, at which he was scraping, out of all
time and tune, with both hands, making a great show, the
nincompoop! of playing “Judy O’Flannagan and Paddy O’Rafferty.”
Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in
disgust, and now appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and
fine kraut. Let us proceed in a body to the borough, and restore
the ancient order of things in Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting
that little fellow from the steeple.
LIONIZING
—— all people went
Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.
—_Bishop Hall’s Satires_.
I am—that is to say I was—a great man; but I am neither the
author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe,
is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of
Fum-Fudge.
The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with
both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius—my father
wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I
mastered before I was breeched.
I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently
conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a
Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone.
Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed
a half dozen of drams.
When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step
with him into his study.
“My son,” said he, when we were seated, “what is the chief end of
your existence?”
“My father,” I answered, “it is the study of Nosology.”
“And what, Robert,” he inquired, “is Nosology?”
“Sir,” I said, “it is the science of Noses.”
“And can you tell me,” he demanded, “what is the meaning of a
nose?”
“A nose, my father;” I replied, greatly softened, “has been
variously defined by about a thousand different authors.” [Here I
pulled out my watch.] “It is now noon or thereabouts—we shall
have time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To
commence then:—The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that
protuberance—that bump—that excrescence—that—”
“Will do, Robert,” interrupted the good old gentleman. “I am
thunderstruck at the extent of your information—I am
positively—upon my soul.” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his
hand upon his heart.] “Come here!” [Here he took me by the arm.]
“Your education may now be considered as finished—it is high time
you should scuffle for yourself—and you cannot do a better thing
than merely follow your nose—so—so—so—” [Here he kicked me
downstairs and out of the door.]—“so get out of my house, and God
bless you!”
As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this
accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided
by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it
a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology
forthwith.
All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.
“Wonderful genius!” said the Quarterly.
“Superb physiologist!” said the Westminster.
“Clever fellow!” said the Foreign.
“Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh.
“Profound thinker!” said the Dublin.
“Great man!” said Bentley.
“Divine soul!” said Fraser.
“One of us!” said Blackwood.
“Who can he be?” said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.
“What can he be?” said big Miss Bas-Bleu.
“Where can he be?” said little Miss Bas-Bleu.—But I paid these
people no attention whatever—I just stepped into the shop of an
artist.
The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess’ poodle; the Earl of
This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness
of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.
I approached the artist and turned up my nose.
“Oh, beautiful!” sighed her Grace.
“Oh my!” lisped the Marquis.
“Oh, shocking!” groaned the Earl.
“Oh, abominable!” growled his Royal Highness.
“What will you take for it?” asked the artist.
“For his nose!” shouted her Grace.
“A thousand pounds,” said I, sitting down.
“A thousand pounds?” inquired the artist, musingly.
“A thousand pounds,” said I.
“Beautiful!” said he, entranced.
“A thousand pounds,” said I.
“Do you warrant it?” he asked, turning the nose to the light.
“I do,” said I, blowing it well.
“Is it quite original?” he inquired; touching it with reverence.
“Humph!” said I, twisting it to one side.
“Has no copy been taken?” he demanded, surveying it through a
microscope.
“None,” said I, turning it up.
“Admirable!” he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the
beauty of the manœuvre.
“A thousand pounds,” said I.
“A thousand pounds?” said he.
“Precisely,” said I.
“A thousand pounds?” said he.
“Just so,” said I.
“You shall have them,” said he. “What a piece of virtu!” So he
drew me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I
engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the
ninety-ninth edition of the “Nosology,” with a portrait of the
proboscis.—That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me
to dinner.
We were all lions and _recherchés_.
There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus,
Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.
There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgôt, Price,
Priestly, Condorcêt, De Staël, and the “Ambitious Student in Ill
Health.”
There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were
philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.
There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms;
bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive
intelligence and homoömeria.
There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus;
heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism;
Homousios and Homouioisios.
There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned
Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with _velouté_ sauce; veal _à
la St_. Menehoult; marinade _à la_ St. Florentin; and orange
jellies _en mosaïques_.
There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He touched upon Latour and
Markbrünnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St.
George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and
Preignac; upon Grâve, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St.
Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his
eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.
There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of
Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino—of the gloom of
Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of
the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.
There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of
opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in
Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece.
There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking
that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in
the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth
was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of
green horns.
There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the
eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the fifty-four
orations of Isæus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches
of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus;
of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of
Pindar’s hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty
tragedies of Homer Junior.
There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all
about internal fires and tertiary formations; about aëriforms,
fluidiforms, and solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist
and schorl; about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about
blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about
cyanite and lepidolite; about hematite and tremolite; about
antimony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.
There was myself. I spoke of myself;—of myself, of myself, of
myself;—of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up
my nose, and I spoke of myself.
“Marvellous clever man!” said the Prince.
“Superb!” said his guests;—and next morning her Grace of
Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.
“Will you go to Almack’s, pretty creature?” she said, tapping me
under the chin.
“Upon honor,” said I.
“Nose and all?” she asked.
“As I live,” I replied.
“Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will be there?”
“Dear Duchess, with all my heart.”
“Pshaw, no!—but with all your nose?”
“Every bit of it, my love,” said I:—so I gave it a twist or two,
and found myself at Almack’s. The rooms were crowded to
suffocation.
“He is coming!” said somebody on the staircase.
“He is coming!” said somebody farther up.
“He is coming!” said somebody farther still.
“He is come!” exclaimed the Duchess. “He is come, the little
love!”—and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice
upon the nose. A marked sensation immediately ensued.
“_Diavolo!_” cried Count Capricornutti.
“_Dios guarda!_” muttered Don Stiletto.
“_Mille tonnerres!_” ejaculated the Prince de Grenouille.
“_Tousand teufel!_” growled the Elector of Bluddennuff.
It was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon
Bluddennuff.
“Sir!” said I to him, “you are a baboon.”
“Sir,” he replied, after a pause, “_Donner und Blitzen!_”
This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At
Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose—and then called
upon my friends.
“_Bête!_” said the first.
“Fool!” said the second.
“Dolt!” said the third.
“Ass!” said the fourth.
“Ninny!” said the fifth.
“Noodle!” said the sixth.
“Be off!” said the seventh.
At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father.
“Father,” I asked, “what is the chief end of my existence?”
“My son,” he replied, “it is still the study of Nosology; but in
hitting the Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark.
You have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none.
You are damned, and he has become the hero of the day. I grant
you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to
the size of his proboscis—but, good heavens! there is no
competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all.”
X-ING A PARAGRAB
As it is well known that the ‘wise men’ came ‘from the East,’ and
as Mr. Touch-and-go Bullet-head came from the East, it follows
that Mr. Bullet-head was a wise man; and if collateral proof of
the matter be needed, here we have it—Mr. B. was an editor.
Irascibility was his sole foible, for in fact the obstinacy of
which men accused him was anything but his foible, since he
justly considered it his forte. It was his strong point—his
virtue; and it would have required all the logic of a Brownson to
convince him that it was ‘anything else.’
I have shown that Touch-and-go Bullet-head was a wise man; and
the only occasion on which he did not prove infallible, was when,
abandoning that legitimate home for all wise men, the East, he
migrated to the city of Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some
place of a similar title, out West.
I must do him the justice to say, however, that when he made up
his mind finally to settle in that town, it was under the
impression that no newspaper, and consequently no editor, existed
in that particular section of the country. In establishing ‘The
Tea-Pot’ he expected to have the field all to himself. I feel
confident he never would have dreamed of taking up his residence
in Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis had he been aware that, in
Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, there lived a gentleman named John
Smith (if I rightly remember), who for many years had there
quietly grown fat in editing and publishing the
‘Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis Gazette.’ It was solely,
therefore, on account of having been misinformed, that Mr.
Bullet-head found himself in Alex—— suppose we call it Nopolis,
‘for short’—but, as he did find himself there, he determined to
keep up his character for obst—for firmness, and remain. So
remain he did; and he did more; he unpacked his press, type,
etc., etc., rented an office exactly opposite to that of the
‘Gazette,’ and, on the third morning after his arrival, issued
the first number of ‘The Alexan’—that is to say, of ‘The Nopolis
Tea-Pot’—as nearly as I can recollect, this was the name of the
new paper.
The leading article, I must admit, was brilliant—not to say
severe. It was especially bitter about things in general—and as
for the editor of ‘The Gazette,’ he was torn all to pieces in
particular. Some of Bullet-head’s remarks were really so fiery
that I have always, since that time, been forced to look upon
John Smith, who is still alive, in the light of a salamander. I
cannot pretend to give all the ‘Tea-Pot’s’ paragraphs verbatim,
but one of them runs thus:
‘Oh, yes!—Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! The editor over the way
is a genius—O, my! Oh, goodness, gracious!—what is this world
coming to? Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!’
A philippic at once so caustic and so classical, alighted like a
bombshell among the hitherto peaceful citizens of Nopolis. Groups
of excited individuals gathered at the corners of the streets.
Every one awaited, with heartfelt anxiety, the reply of the
dignified Smith. Next morning it appeared as follows:
‘We quote from “The Tea-Pot” of yesterday the subjoined
paragraph: “Oh, yes! Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! Oh, my! Oh,
goodness! Oh, tempora! Oh, Moses!” Why, the fellow is all O! That
accounts for his reasoning in a circle, and explains why there is
neither beginning nor end to him, nor to anything he says. We
really do not believe the vagabond can write a word that hasn’t
an O in it. Wonder if this O-ing is a habit of his? By-the-by, he
came away from Down-East in a great hurry. Wonder if he O’s as
much there as he does here? “O! it is pitiful.”’
The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head at these scandalous
insinuations, I shall not attempt to describe. On the
eel-skinning principle, however, he did not seem to be so much
incensed at the attack upon his integrity as one might have
imagined. It was the sneer at his style that drove him to
desperation. What!—he Touch-and-go Bullet-head!—not able to write
a word without an O in it! He would soon let the jackanapes see
that he was mistaken. Yes! he would let him see how much he was
mistaken, the puppy! He, Touch-and-go Bullet-head, of
Frogpondium, would let Mr. John Smith perceive that he,
Bullet-head, could indite, if it so pleased him, a whole
paragraph—aye! a whole article—in which that contemptible vowel
should not once—not even once—make its appearance. But no;—that
would be yielding a point to the said John Smith. He,
Bullet-head, would make no alteration in his style, to suit the
caprices of any Mr. Smith in Christendom. Perish so vile a
thought! The O forever; He would persist in the O. He would be as
O-wy as O-wy could be.
Burning with the chivalry of this determination, the great
Touch-and-go, in the next ‘Tea-Pot,’ came out merely with this
simple but resolute paragraph, in reference to this unhappy
affair:
‘The editor of the “Tea-Pot” has the honor of advising the editor
of the “Gazette” that he (the “Tea-Pot”) will take an opportunity
in tomorrow morning’s paper, of convincing him (the “Gazette”)
that he (the “Tea-Pot”) both can and will be _his own master_, as
regards style;—he (the “Tea-Pot”) intending to show him (the
“Gazette”) the supreme, and indeed the withering contempt with
which the criticism of him (the “Gazette”) inspires the
independent bosom of him (the “Tea-Pot”) by composing for the
especial gratification (?) of him (the “Gazette”) a leading
article, of some extent, in which the beautiful vowel—the emblem
of Eternity—yet so offensive to the hyper-exquisite delicacy of
him (the “Gazette”) shall most certainly not be avoided by his
(the “Gazette’s”) most obedient, humble servant, the “Tea-Pot.”
“So much for Buckingham!”’
In fulfilment of the awful threat thus darkly intimated rather
than decidedly enunciated, the great Bullet-head, turning a deaf
ear to all entreaties for ‘copy,’ and simply requesting his
foreman to ‘go to the d——l,’ when he (the foreman) assured him
(the ‘Tea-Pot’!) that it was high time to ‘go to press’: turning
a deaf ear to everything, I say, the great Bullet-head sat up
until day-break, consuming the midnight oil, and absorbed in the
composition of the really unparalleled paragraph, which follows:—
‘So ho, John! how now? Told you so, you know. Don’t crow, another
time, before you’re out of the woods! Does your mother know
you’re out? Oh, no, no!—so go home at once, now, John, to your
odious old woods of Concord! Go home to your woods, old owl—go!
You won’t! Oh, poh, poh, John don’t do so! You’ve _got_ to go,
you know! So go at once, and don’t go slow, for nobody owns you
here, you know! Oh! John, John, if you don’t go you’re no
homo—no! You’re only a fowl, an owl; a cow, a sow; a doll, a
poll; a poor, old, good-for-nothing-to-nobody, log, dog, hog, or
frog, come out of a Concord bog. Cool, now—cool! Do be cool, you
fool! None of your crowing, old cock! Don’t frown so—don’t! Don’t
hollo, nor howl nor growl, nor bow-wow-wow! Good Lord, John, how
you do look! Told you so, you know—but stop rolling your goose of
an old poll about so, and go and drown your sorrows in a bowl!’
Exhausted, very naturally, by so stupendous an effort, the great
Touch-and-go could attend to nothing farther that night. Firmly,
composedly, yet with an air of conscious power, he handed his MS.
to the devil in waiting, and then, walking leisurely home,
retired, with ineffable dignity to bed.
Meantime the devil, to whom the copy was entrusted, ran up stairs
to his ‘case,’ in an unutterable hurry, and forthwith made a
commencement at ‘setting’ the MS. ‘up.’
In the first place, of course,—as the opening word was ‘So,’—he
made a plunge into the capital S hole and came out in triumph
with a capital S. Elated by this success, he immediately threw
himself upon the little-o box with a blindfold impetuosity—but
who shall describe his horror when his fingers came up without
the anticipated letter in their clutch? who shall paint his
astonishment and rage at perceiving, as he rubbed his knuckles,
that he had been only thumping them to no purpose, against the
bottom of an empty box. Not a single little-o was in the little-o
hole; and, glancing fearfully at the capital-O partition, he
found _that_, to his extreme terror, in a precisely similar
predicament. Awe-stricken, his first impulse was to rush to the
foreman.
‘Sir!’ said he, gasping for breath, ‘I can’t never set up nothing
without no o’s.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ growled the foreman, who was in a
very ill humor at being kept so late.
‘Why, sir, there beant an o in the office, neither a big un nor a
little un!’
‘What—what the d—l has become of all that were in the case?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said the boy, ‘but one of them ere “G’zette”
devils is bin prowling ’bout here all night, and I spect he’s
gone and cabbaged ‘em every one.’
‘Dod rot him! I haven’t a doubt of it,’ replied the foreman,
getting purple with rage ‘but I tell you what you do, Bob, that’s
a good boy—you go over the first chance you get and hook every
one of their i’s and (d——n them!) their izzards.’
‘Jist so,’ replied Bob, with a wink and a frown—‘I’ll be into
‘em, I’ll let ‘em know a thing or two; but in de meantime, that
ere paragrab? Mus go in to-night, you know—else there’ll be the
d—l to pay, and—’
‘And not a bit of pitch hot,’ interrupted the foreman, with a
deep sigh, and an emphasis on the ‘bit.’ ‘Is it a long paragraph,
Bob?’
‘Shouldn’t call it a _wery_ long paragrab,’ said Bob.
‘Ah, well, then! do the best you can with it! We must get to
press,’ said the foreman, who was over head and ears in work;
‘just stick in some other letter for o; nobody’s going to read
the fellow’s trash anyhow.’
‘Wery well,’ replied Bob, ‘here goes it!’ and off he hurried to
his case, muttering as he went: ‘Considdeble vell, them ere
expressions, perticcler for a man as doesn’t swar. So I’s to
gouge out all their eyes, eh? and d-n all their gizzards! Vell!
this here’s the chap as is just able for to do it.’ The fact is
that although Bob was but twelve years old and four feet high, he
was equal to any amount of fight, in a small way.
The exigency here described is by no means of rare occurrence in
printing-offices; and I cannot tell how to account for it, but
the fact is indisputable, that when the exigency does occur, it
almost always happens that x is adopted as a substitute for the
letter deficient. The true reason, perhaps, is that x is rather
the most superabundant letter in the cases, or at least was so in
the old times—long enough to render the substitution in question
an habitual thing with printers. As for Bob, he would have
considered it heretical to employ any other character, in a case
of this kind, than the x to which he had been accustomed.
‘I shell have to x this ere paragrab,’ said he to himself, as he
read it over in astonishment, ‘but it’s jest about the awfulest
o-wy paragrab I ever did see’: so x it he did, unflinchingly, and
to press it went x-ed.
Next morning the population of Nopolis were taken all aback by
reading in ‘The Tea-Pot,’ the following extraordinary leader:
‘Sx hx, Jxhn! hxw nxw? Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw. Dxn’t crxw, anxther
time, befxre yxu’re xut xf the wxxds! Dxes yxur mxther knxw
yxu’re xut? Xh, nx, nx!—sx gx hxme at xnce, nxw, Jxhn, tx yxur
xdixus xld wxxds xf Cxncxrd! Gx hxme tx yxur wxxds, xld xwl,—gx!
Yxu wxn’t? Xh, pxh, pxh, Jxhn, dxn’t dx sx! Yxu’ve gxt tx gx, yxu
knxw, sx gx at xnce, and dxn’t gx slxw; fxr nxbxdy xwns yxu here,
yxu knxw. Xh, Jxhn, Jxhn, Jxhn, if yxu dxn’t gx yxu’re nx
hxmx—nx! Yxu’re xnly a fxwl, an xwl; a cxw, a sxw; a dxll, a
pxll; a pxxr xld gxxd-fxr-nxthing-tx-nxbxdy, lxg, dxg, hxg, xr
frxg, cxme xut xf a Cxncxrd bxg. Cxxl, nxw—cxxl! Dx be cxxl, yxu
fxxl! Nxne xf yxur crxwing, xld cxck! Dxn’t frxwn sx—dxn’t! Dxn’t
hxllx, nxr hxwl, nxr grxwl, nxr bxw-wxw-wxw! Gxxd Lxrd, Jxhn, hxw
yxu dx lxxk! Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw,—but stxp rxlling yxur gxxse
xf an xld pxll abxut sx, and gx and drxwn yxur sxrrxws in a
bxwl!’
The uproar occasioned by this mystical and cabalistical article,
is not to be conceived. The first definite idea entertained by
the populace was, that some diabolical treason lay concealed in
the hieroglyphics; and there was a general rush to Bullet-head’s
residence, for the purpose of riding him on a rail; but that
gentleman was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, no one could
tell how; and not even the ghost of him has ever been seen since.
Unable to discover its legitimate object, the popular fury at
length subsided; leaving behind it, by way of sediment, quite a
medley of opinion about this unhappy affair.
One gentleman thought the whole an X-ellent joke.
Another said that, indeed, Bullet-head had shown much X-uberance
of fancy.
A third admitted him X-entric, but no more.
A fourth could only suppose it the Yankee’s design to X-press, in
a general way, his X-asperation.
‘Say, rather, to set an X-ample to posterity,’ suggested a fifth.
That Bullet-head had been driven to an extremity, was clear to
all; and in fact, since that editor could not be found, there was
some talk about lynching the other one.
The more common conclusion, however, was that the affair was,
simply, X-traordinary and in-X-plicable. Even the town
mathematician confessed that he could make nothing of so dark a
problem. X, everybody knew, was an unknown quantity; but in this
case (as he properly observed), there was an unknown quantity of
X.
The opinion of Bob, the devil (who kept dark about his having
‘X-ed the paragrab’), did not meet with so much attention as I
think it deserved, although it was very openly and very
fearlessly expressed. He said that, for his part, he had no doubt
about the matter at all, that it was a clear case, that Mr.
Bullet-head ‘never could be persuaded fur to drink like other
folks, but vas continually a-svigging o’ that ere blessed XXX
ale, and as a naiteral consekvence, it just puffed him up savage,
and made him X (cross) in the X-treme.’
METZENGERSTEIN
Pestis eram vivus—moriens tua mors ero.
—_Martin Luther_
Horror and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why
then give a date to this story I have to tell? Let it suffice to
say, that at the period of which I speak, there existed, in the
interior of Hungary, a settled although hidden belief in the
doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines themselves—that
is, of their falsity, or of their probability—I say nothing. I
assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyère says
of all our unhappiness—“_vient de ne pouvoir être seuls_.” {*1}
But there are some points in the Hungarian superstition which
were fast verging to absurdity. They—the Hungarians—differed very
essentially from their Eastern authorities. For example, “_The
soul_,” said the former—I give the words of an acute and
intelligent Parisian—“_ne demeure qu’un seul fois dans un corps
sensible: au reste—un cheval, un chien, un homme même, n’est que
la ressemblance peu tangible de ces animaux._”
The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at
variance for centuries. Never before were two houses so
illustrious, mutually embittered by hostility so deadly. The
origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of an
ancient prophecy—“A lofty name shall have a fearful fall when, as
the rider over his horse, the mortality of Metzengerstein shall
triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing.”
To be sure the words themselves had little or no meaning. But
more trivial causes have given rise—and that no long while ago—to
consequences equally eventful. Besides, the estates, which were
contiguous, had long exercised a rival influence in the affairs
of a busy government. Moreover, near neighbors are seldom
friends; and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might
look, from their lofty buttresses, into the very windows of the
palace Metzengerstein. Least of all had the more than feudal
magnificence, thus discovered, a tendency to allay the irritable
feelings of the less ancient and less wealthy Berlifitzings. What
wonder then, that the words, however silly, of that prediction,
should have succeeded in setting and keeping at variance two
families already predisposed to quarrel by every instigation of
hereditary jealousy? The prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied
anything—a final triumph on the part of the already more powerful
house; and was of course remembered with the more bitter
animosity by the weaker and less influential.
Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although loftily descended, was, at
the epoch of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man,
remarkable for nothing but an inordinate and inveterate personal
antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love of
horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great age,
nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the
dangers of the chase.
Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet
of age. His father, the Minister G—, died young. His mother, the
Lady Mary, followed him quickly after. Frederick was, at that
time, in his fifteenth year. In a city, fifteen years are no long
period—a child may be still a child in his third lustrum: but in
a wilderness—in so magnificent a wilderness as that old
principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning.
From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of
his father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former,
entered immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were
seldom held before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were
without number. The chief in point of splendor and extent was the
“Château Metzengerstein.” The boundary line of his dominions was
never clearly defined; but his principal park embraced a circuit
of fifty miles.
Upon the succession of a proprietor so young, with a character so
well known, to a fortune so unparalleled, little speculation was
afloat in regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed,
for the space of three days, the behavior of the heir out-Heroded
Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations of his most
enthusiastic admirers. Shameful debaucheries—flagrant
treacheries—unheard-of atrocities—gave his trembling vassals
quickly to understand that no servile submission on their part—no
punctilios of conscience on his own—were thenceforward to prove
any security against the remorseless fangs of a petty Caligula.
On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the castle
Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire; and the unanimous
opinion of the neighborhood added the crime of the incendiary to
the already hideous list of the Baron’s misdemeanors and
enormities.
But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young
nobleman himself sat apparently buried in meditation, in a vast
and desolate upper apartment of the family palace of
Metzengerstein. The rich although faded tapestry hangings which
swung gloomily upon the walls, represented the shadowy and
majestic forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. _Here_,
rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries, familiarly
seated with the autocrat and the sovereign, put a veto on the
wishes of a temporal king, or restrained with the fiat of papal
supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-enemy. _There_, the
dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their muscular
war-coursers plunging over the carcasses of fallen foes—startled
the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression; and _here_,
again, the voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of days
gone by, floated away in the mazes of an unreal dance to the
strains of imaginary melody.
But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen, to the
gradually increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or
perhaps pondered upon some more novel, some more decided act of
audacity—his eyes became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an
enormous, and unnaturally colored horse, represented in the
tapestry as belonging to a Saracen ancestor of the family of his
rival. The horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood
motionless and statue-like—while farther back, its discomfited
rider perished by the dagger of a Metzengerstein.
On Frederick’s lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became
aware of the direction which his glance had, without his
consciousness, assumed. Yet he did not remove it. On the
contrary, he could by no means account for the overwhelming
anxiety which appeared falling like a pall upon his senses. It
was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent
feelings with the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed
the more absorbing became the spell—the more impossible did it
appear that he could ever withdraw his glance from the
fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming
suddenly more violent, with a compulsory exertion he diverted his
attention to the glare of ruddy light thrown full by the flaming
stables upon the windows of the apartment.
The action, however, was but momentary, his gaze returned
mechanically to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment,
the head of the gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its
position. The neck of the animal, before arched, as if in
compassion, over the prostrate body of its lord, was now
extended, at full length, in the direction of the Baron. The
eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic and human
expression, while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red; and
the distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full
view his gigantic and disgusting teeth.
Stupefied with terror, the young nobleman tottered to the door.
As he threw it open, a flash of red light, streaming far into the
chamber, flung his shadow with a clear outline against the
quivering tapestry, and he shuddered to perceive that shadow—as
he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming the exact
position, and precisely filling up the contour, of the relentless
and triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.
To lighten the depression of his spirits, the Baron hurried into
the open air. At the principal gate of the palace he encountered
three equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril
of their lives, they were restraining the convulsive plunges of a
gigantic and fiery-colored horse.
“Whose horse? Where did you get him?” demanded the youth, in a
querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware
that the mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very
counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.
“He is your own property, sire,” replied one of the equerries,
“at least he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying,
all smoking and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of
the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the
old Count’s stud of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray.
But the grooms there disclaim any title to the creature; which is
strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow
escape from the flames.
“The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his
forehead,” interrupted a second equerry, “I supposed them, of
course, to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at
the castle are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse.”
“Extremely singular!” said the young Baron, with a musing air,
and apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words. “He is,
as you say, a remarkable horse—a prodigious horse! although, as
you very justly observe, of a suspicious and untractable
character; let him be mine, however,” he added, after a pause,
“perhaps a rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame even
the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing.”
“You are mistaken, my lord; the horse, as I think we mentioned,
is _not_ from the stables of the Count. If such had been the
case, we know our duty better than to bring him into the presence
of a noble of your family.”
“True!” observed the Baron, dryly, and at that instant a page of
the bedchamber came from the palace with a heightened color, and
a precipitate step. He whispered into his master’s ear an account
of the sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry,
in an apartment which he designated; entering, at the same time,
into particulars of a minute and circumstantial character; but
from the low tone of voice in which these latter were
communicated, nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of
the equerries.
The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a
variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure,
and an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his
countenance, as he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber
should be immediately locked up, and the key placed in his own
possession.
“Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter
Berlifitzing?” said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after
the departure of the page, the huge steed which that nobleman had
adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled fury,
down the long avenue which extended from the château to the
stables of Metzengerstein.
“No!” said the Baron, turning abruptly toward the speaker, “dead!
say you?”
“It is indeed true, my lord; and, to a noble of your name, will
be, I imagine, no unwelcome intelligence.”
A rapid smile shot over the countenance of the listener. “How
died he?”
“In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his
hunting stud, he has himself perished miserably in the flames.”
“I-n-d-e-e-d-!” ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and
deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea.
“Indeed;” repeated the vassal.
“Shocking!” said the youth, calmly, and turned quietly into the
château.
From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward
demeanor of the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von
Metzengerstein. Indeed, his behavior disappointed every
expectation, and proved little in accordance with the views of
many a manoeuvering mamma; while his habits and manner, still
less than formerly, offered any thing congenial with those of the
neighboring aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the
limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and social world, was
utterly companionless—unless, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous,
and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward continually
bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his friend.
Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long
time, however, periodically came in. “Will the Baron honor our
festivals with his presence?” “Will the Baron join us in a
hunting of the boar?”—“Metzengerstein does not hunt;”
“Metzengerstein will not attend,” were the haughty and laconic
answers.
These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious
nobility. Such invitations became less cordial—less frequent—in
time they ceased altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count
Berlifitzing was even heard to express a hope “that the Baron
might be at home when he did not wish to be at home, since he
disdained the company of his equals; and ride when he did not
wish to ride, since he preferred the society of a horse.” This to
be sure was a very silly explosion of hereditary pique; and
merely proved how singularly unmeaning our sayings are apt to
become, when we desire to be unusually energetic.
The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the
conduct of the young nobleman to the natural sorrow of a son for
the untimely loss of his parents—forgetting, however, his
atrocious and reckless behavior during the short period
immediately succeeding that bereavement. Some there were, indeed,
who suggested a too haughty idea of self-consequence and dignity.
Others again (among them may be mentioned the family physician)
did not hesitate in speaking of morbid melancholy, and hereditary
ill-health; while dark hints, of a more equivocal nature, were
current among the multitude.
Indeed, the Baron’s perverse attachment to his lately-acquired
charger—an attachment which seemed to attain new strength from
every fresh example of the animal’s ferocious and demon-like
propensities—at length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men,
a hideous and unnatural fervor. In the glare of noon—at the dead
hour of night—in sickness or in health—in calm or in tempest—the
young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that
colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded
with his own spirit.
There were circumstances, moreover, which coupled with late
events, gave an unearthly and portentous character to the mania
of the rider, and to the capabilities of the steed. The space
passed over in a single leap had been accurately measured, and
was found to exceed, by an astounding difference, the wildest
expectations of the most imaginative. The Baron, besides, had no
particular _name_ for the animal, although all the rest in his
collection were distinguished by characteristic appellations. His
stable, too, was appointed at a distance from the rest; and with
regard to grooming and other necessary offices, none but the
owner in person had ventured to officiate, or even to enter the
enclosure of that particular stall. It was also to be observed,
that although the three grooms, who had caught the steed as he
fled from the conflagration at Berlifitzing, had succeeded in
arresting his course, by means of a chain-bridle and noose—yet no
one of the three could with any certainty affirm that he had,
during that dangerous struggle, or at any period thereafter,
actually placed his hand upon the body of the beast. Instances of
peculiar intelligence in the demeanor of a noble and
high-spirited horse are not to be supposed capable of exciting
unreasonable attention—especially among men who, daily trained to
the labors of the chase, might appear well acquainted with the
sagacity of a horse—but there were certain circumstances which
intruded themselves per force upon the most skeptical and
phlegmatic; and it is said there were times when the animal
caused the gaping crowd who stood around to recoil in horror from
the deep and impressive meaning of his terrible stamp—times when
the young Metzengerstein turned pale and shrunk away from the
rapid and searching expression of his earnest and human-looking
eye.
Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to
doubt the ardor of that extraordinary affection which existed on
the part of the young nobleman for the fiery qualities of his
horse; at least, none but an insignificant and misshapen little
page, whose deformities were in everybody’s way, and whose
opinions were of the least possible importance. He—if his ideas
are worth mentioning at all—had the effrontery to assert that his
master never vaulted into the saddle without an unaccountable and
almost imperceptible shudder, and that, upon his return from
every long-continued and habitual ride, an expression of
triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his countenance.
One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awaking from a heavy
slumber, descended like a maniac from his chamber, and, mounting
in hot haste, bounded away into the mazes of the forest. An
occurrence so common attracted no particular attention, but his
return was looked for with intense anxiety on the part of his
domestics, when, after some hours’ absence, the stupendous and
magnificent battlements of the Chateau Metzengerstein, were
discovered crackling and rocking to their very foundation, under
the influence of a dense and livid mass of ungovernable fire.
As the flames, when first seen, had already made so terrible a
progress that all efforts to save any portion of the building
were evidently futile, the astonished neighborhood stood idly
around in silent and pathetic wonder. But a new and fearful
object soon rivetted the attention of the multitude, and proved
how much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings
of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought
about by the most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter.
Up the long avenue of aged oaks which led from the forest to the
main entrance of the Château Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an
unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an
impetuosity which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest.
The career of the horseman was indisputably, on his own part,
uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance, the convulsive
struggle of his frame, gave evidence of superhuman exertion: but
no sound, save a solitary shriek, escaped from his lacerated
lips, which were bitten through and through in the intensity of
terror. One instant, and the clattering of hoofs resounded
sharply and shrilly above the roaring of the flames and the
shrieking of the winds—another, and, clearing at a single plunge
the gate-way and the moat, the steed bounded far up the tottering
staircases of the palace, and, with its rider, disappeared amid
the whirlwind of chaotic fire.
The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm
sullenly succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building
like a shroud, and, streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere,
shot forth a glare of preternatural light; while a cloud of smoke
settled heavily over the battlements in the distinct colossal
figure of—_a horse_.
THE SYSTEM OF DOCTOR TARR AND PROFESSOR FETHER
During the autumn of 18—, while on a tour through the extreme
southern provinces of France, my route led me within a few miles
of a certain _Maison de Santé_ or private mad-house, about which
I had heard much, in Paris, from my medical friends. As I had
never visited a place of the kind, I thought the opportunity too
good to be lost; and so proposed to my travelling companion (a
gentleman with whom I had made casual acquaintance a few days
before), that we should turn aside, for an hour or so, and look
through the establishment. To this he objected—pleading haste in
the first place, and, in the second, a very usual horror at the
sight of a lunatic. He begged me, however, not to let any mere
courtesy towards himself interfere with the gratification of my
curiosity, and said that he would ride on leisurely, so that I
might overtake him during the day, or, at all events, during the
next. As he bade me good-bye, I bethought me that there might be
some difficulty in obtaining access to the premises, and
mentioned my fears on this point. He replied that, in fact,
unless I had personal knowledge of the superintendent, Monsieur
Maillard, or some credential in the way of a letter, a difficulty
might be found to exist, as the regulations of these private
mad-houses were more rigid than the public hospital laws. For
himself, he added, he had, some years since, made the
acquaintance of Maillard, and would so far assist me as to ride
up to the door and introduce me; although his feelings on the
subject of lunacy would not permit of his entering the house.
I thanked him, and, turning from the main road, we entered a
grass-grown by-path, which, in half an hour, nearly lost itself
in a dense forest, clothing the base of a mountain. Through this
dank and gloomy wood we rode some two miles, when the _Maison de
Santé_ came in view. It was a fantastic château, much
dilapidated, and indeed scarcely tenantable through age and
neglect. Its aspect inspired me with absolute dread, and,
checking my horse, I half resolved to turn back. I soon, however,
grew ashamed of my weakness, and proceeded.
As we rode up to the gate-way, I perceived it slightly open, and
the visage of a man peering through. In an instant afterward,
this man came forth, accosted my companion by name, shook him
cordially by the hand, and begged him to alight. It was Monsieur
Maillard himself. He was a portly, fine-looking gentleman of the
old school, with a polished manner, and a certain air of gravity,
dignity, and authority which was very impressive.
My friend, having presented me, mentioned my desire to inspect
the establishment, and received Monsieur Maillard’s assurance
that he would show me all attention, now took leave, and I saw
him no more.
When he had gone, the superintendent ushered me into a small and
exceedingly neat parlor, containing, among other indications of
refined taste, many books, drawings, pots of flowers, and musical
instruments. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth. At a piano,
singing an aria from Bellini, sat a young and very beautiful
woman, who, at my entrance, paused in her song, and received me
with graceful courtesy. Her voice was low, and her whole manner
subdued. I thought, too, that I perceived the traces of sorrow in
her countenance, which was excessively, although to my taste, not
unpleasingly, pale. She was attired in deep mourning, and excited
in my bosom a feeling of mingled respect, interest, and
admiration.
I had heard, at Paris, that the institution of Monsieur Maillard
was managed upon what is vulgarly termed the “system of
soothing”—that all punishments were avoided—that even confinement
was seldom resorted to—that the patients, while secretly watched,
were left much apparent liberty, and that most of them were
permitted to roam about the house and grounds in the ordinary
apparel of persons in right mind.
Keeping these impressions in view, I was cautious in what I said
before the young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane;
and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her
eyes which half led me to imagine she was not. I confined my
remarks, therefore, to general topics, and to such as I thought
would not be displeasing or exciting even to a lunatic. She
replied in a perfectly rational manner to all that I said; and
even her original observations were marked with the soundest good
sense, but a long acquaintance with the metaphysics of mania, had
taught me to put no faith in such evidence of sanity, and I
continued to practise, throughout the interview, the caution with
which I commenced it.
Presently a smart footman in livery brought in a tray with fruit,
wine, and other refreshments, of which I partook, the lady soon
afterward leaving the room. As she departed I turned my eyes in
an inquiring manner toward my host.
“No,” he said, “oh, no—a member of my family—my niece, and a most
accomplished woman.”
“I beg a thousand pardons for the suspicion,” I replied, “but of
course you will know how to excuse me. The excellent
administration of your affairs here is well understood in Paris,
and I thought it just possible, you know—”
“Yes, yes—say no more—or rather it is myself who should thank you
for the commendable prudence you have displayed. We seldom find
so much of forethought in young men; and, more than once, some
unhappy contre-temps has occurred in consequence of
thoughtlessness on the part of our visitors. While my former
system was in operation, and my patients were permitted the
privilege of roaming to and fro at will, they were often aroused
to a dangerous frenzy by injudicious persons who called to
inspect the house. Hence I was obliged to enforce a rigid system
of exclusion; and none obtained access to the premises upon whose
discretion I could not rely.”
“While your former system was in operation!” I said, repeating
his words—“do I understand you, then, to say that the ‘soothing
system’ of which I have heard so much is no longer in force?”
“It is now,” he replied, “several weeks since we have concluded
to renounce it forever.”
“Indeed! you astonish me!”
“We found it, sir,” he said, with a sigh, “absolutely necessary
to return to the old usages. The danger of the soothing system
was, at all times, appalling; and its advantages have been much
overrated. I believe, sir, that in this house it has been given a
fair trial, if ever in any. We did every thing that rational
humanity could suggest. I am sorry that you could not have paid
us a visit at an earlier period, that you might have judged for
yourself. But I presume you are conversant with the soothing
practice—with its details.”
“Not altogether. What I have heard has been at third or fourth
hand.”
“I may state the system, then, in general terms, as one in which
the patients were _menagés_—humored. We contradicted no fancies
which entered the brains of the mad. On the contrary, we not only
indulged but encouraged them; and many of our most permanent
cures have been thus effected. There is no argument which so
touches the feeble reason of the madman as the argumentum ad
absurdum. We have had men, for example, who fancied themselves
chickens. The cure was, to insist upon the thing as a fact—to
accuse the patient of stupidity in not sufficiently perceiving it
to be a fact—and thus to refuse him any other diet for a week
than that which properly appertains to a chicken. In this manner
a little corn and gravel were made to perform wonders.”
“But was this species of acquiescence all?”
“By no means. We put much faith in amusements of a simple kind,
such as music, dancing, gymnastic exercises generally, cards,
certain classes of books, and so forth. We affected to treat each
individual as if for some ordinary physical disorder; and the
word ‘lunacy’ was never employed. A great point was to set each
lunatic to guard the actions of all the others. To repose
confidence in the understanding or discretion of a madman, is to
gain him body and soul. In this way we were enabled to dispense
with an expensive body of keepers.”
“And you had no punishments of any kind?”
“None.”
“And you never confined your patients?”
“Very rarely. Now and then, the malady of some individual growing
to a crisis, or taking a sudden turn of fury, we conveyed him to
a secret cell, lest his disorder should infect the rest, and
there kept him until we could dismiss him to his friends—for with
the raging maniac we have nothing to do. He is usually removed to
the public hospitals.”
“And you have now changed all this—and you think for the better?”
“Decidedly. The system had its disadvantages, and even its
dangers. It is now, happily, exploded throughout all the _Maisons
de Santé_ of France.”
“I am very much surprised,” I said, “at what you tell me; for I
made sure that, at this moment, no other method of treatment for
mania existed in any portion of the country.”
“You are young yet, my friend,” replied my host, “but the time
will arrive when you will learn to judge for yourself of what is
going on in the world, without trusting to the gossip of others.
Believe nothing you hear, and only one-half that you see. Now
about our _Maisons de Santé_, it is clear that some ignoramus has
misled you. After dinner, however, when you have sufficiently
recovered from the fatigue of your ride, I will be happy to take
you over the house, and introduce to you a system which, in my
opinion, and in that of every one who has witnessed its
operation, is incomparably the most effectual as yet devised.”
“Your own?” I inquired—“one of your own invention?”
“I am proud,” he replied, “to acknowledge that it is—at least in
some measure.”
In this manner I conversed with Monsieur Maillard for an hour or
two, during which he showed me the gardens and conservatories of
the place.
“I cannot let you see my patients,” he said, “just at present. To
a sensitive mind there is always more or less of the shocking in
such exhibitions; and I do not wish to spoil your appetite for
dinner. We will dine. I can give you some veal a la Menehoult,
with cauliflowers in _velouté_ sauce—after that a glass of Clos
de Vougeot—then your nerves will be sufficiently steadied.”
At six, dinner was announced; and my host conducted me into a
large _salle à manger_, where a very numerous company were
assembled—twenty-five or thirty in all. They were, apparently,
people of rank—certainly of high breeding—although their
habiliments, I thought, were extravagantly rich, partaking
somewhat too much of the ostentatious finery of the _vielle
cour_. I noticed that at least two-thirds of these guests were
ladies; and some of the latter were by no means accoutred in what
a Parisian would consider good taste at the present day. Many
females, for example, whose age could not have been less than
seventy were bedecked with a profusion of jewelry, such as rings,
bracelets, and earrings, and wore their bosoms and arms
shamefully bare. I observed, too, that very few of the dresses
were well made—or, at least, that very few of them fitted the
wearers. In looking about, I discovered the interesting girl to
whom Monsieur Maillard had presented me in the little parlor; but
my surprise was great to see her wearing a hoop and farthingale,
with high-heeled shoes, and a dirty cap of Brussels lace, so much
too large for her that it gave her face a ridiculously diminutive
expression. When I had first seen her, she was attired, most
becomingly, in deep mourning. There was an air of oddity, in
short, about the dress of the whole party, which, at first,
caused me to recur to my original idea of the “soothing system,”
and to fancy that Monsieur Maillard had been willing to deceive
me until after dinner, that I might experience no uncomfortable
feelings during the repast, at finding myself dining with
lunatics; but I remembered having been informed, in Paris, that
the southern provincialists were a peculiarly eccentric people,
with a vast number of antiquated notions; and then, too, upon
conversing with several members of the company, my apprehensions
were immediately and fully dispelled.
The dining-room itself, although perhaps sufficiently comfortable
and of good dimensions, had nothing too much of elegance about
it. For example, the floor was uncarpeted; in France, however, a
carpet is frequently dispensed with. The windows, too, were
without curtains; the shutters, being shut, were securely
fastened with iron bars, applied diagonally, after the fashion of
our ordinary shop-shutters. The apartment, I observed, formed, in
itself, a wing of the château, and thus the windows were on three
sides of the parallelogram, the door being at the other. There
were no less than ten windows in all.
The table was superbly set out. It was loaded with plate, and
more than loaded with delicacies. The profusion was absolutely
barbaric. There were meats enough to have feasted the Anakim.
Never, in all my life, had I witnessed so lavish, so wasteful an
expenditure of the good things of life. There seemed very little
taste, however, in the arrangements; and my eyes, accustomed to
quiet lights, were sadly offended by the prodigious glare of a
multitude of wax candles, which, in silver candelabra, were
deposited upon the table, and all about the room, wherever it was
possible to find a place. There were several active servants in
attendance; and, upon a large table, at the farther end of the
apartment, were seated seven or eight people with fiddles, fifes,
trombones, and a drum. These fellows annoyed me very much, at
intervals, during the repast, by an infinite variety of noises,
which were intended for music, and which appeared to afford much
entertainment to all present, with the exception of myself.
Upon the whole, I could not help thinking that there was much of
the bizarre about every thing I saw—but then the world is made up
of all kinds of persons, with all modes of thought, and all sorts
of conventional customs. I had travelled, too, so much, as to be
quite an adept at the nil admirari; so I took my seat very coolly
at the right hand of my host, and, having an excellent appetite,
did justice to the good cheer set before me.
The conversation, in the meantime, was spirited and general. The
ladies, as usual, talked a great deal. I soon found that nearly
all the company were well educated; and my host was a world of
good-humored anecdote in himself. He seemed quite willing to
speak of his position as superintendent of a_Maison de Santé_;
and, indeed, the topic of lunacy was, much to my surprise, a
favorite one with all present. A great many amusing stories were
told, having reference to the _whims_ of the patients.
“We had a fellow here once,” said a fat little gentleman, who sat
at my right,—“a fellow that fancied himself a tea-pot; and by the
way, is it not especially singular how often this particular
crotchet has entered the brain of the lunatic? There is scarcely
an insane asylum in France which cannot supply a human tea-pot.
Our gentleman was a Britannia-ware tea-pot, and was careful to
polish himself every morning with buckskin and whiting.”
“And then,” said a tall man just opposite, “we had here, not long
ago, a person who had taken it into his head that he was a
donkey—which allegorically speaking, you will say, was quite
true. He was a troublesome patient; and we had much ado to keep
him within bounds. For a long time he would eat nothing but
thistles; but of this idea we soon cured him by insisting upon
his eating nothing else. Then he was perpetually kicking out his
heels—so—so—”
“Mr. De Kock! I will thank you to behave yourself!” here
interrupted an old lady, who sat next to the speaker. “Please
keep your feet to yourself! You have spoiled my brocade! Is it
necessary, pray, to illustrate a remark in so practical a style?
Our friend here can surely comprehend you without all this. Upon
my word, you are nearly as great a donkey as the poor unfortunate
imagined himself. Your acting is very natural, as I live.”
“Mille pardons! Ma’m’selle!” replied Monsieur De Kock, thus
addressed—“a thousand pardons! I had no intention of offending.
Ma’m’selle Laplace—Monsieur De Kock will do himself the honor of
taking wine with you.”
Here Monsieur De Kock bowed low, kissed his hand with much
ceremony, and took wine with Ma’m’selle Laplace.
“Allow me, mon ami,” now said Monsieur Maillard, addressing
myself, “allow me to send you a morsel of this veal _à la St.
Menehoult_—you will find it particularly fine.”
At this instant three sturdy waiters had just succeeded in
depositing safely upon the table an enormous dish, or trencher,
containing what I supposed to be the “_monstrum, horrendum,
informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum_.” A closer scrutiny assured
me, however, that it was only a small calf roasted whole, and set
upon its knees, with an apple in its mouth, as is the English
fashion of dressing a hare.
“Thank you, no,” I replied; “to say the truth, I am not
particularly partial to veal _à la St_.—what is it?—for I do not
find that it altogether agrees with me. I will change my plate,
however, and try some of the rabbit.”
There were several side-dishes on the table, containing what
appeared to be the ordinary French rabbit—a very delicious
morceau, which I can recommend.
“Pierre,” cried the host, “change this gentleman’s plate, and
give him a side-piece of this rabbit au-chat.”
“This what?” said I.
“This rabbit _au-chat_.”
“Why, thank you—upon second thoughts, no. I will just help myself
to some of the ham.”
There is no knowing what one eats, thought I to myself, at the
tables of these people of the province. I will have none of their
rabbit _au-chat_—and, for the matter of that, none of their
_cat-au-rabbit_ either.
“And then,” said a cadaverous looking personage, near the foot of
the table, taking up the thread of the conversation where it had
been broken off,—“and then, among other oddities, we had a
patient, once upon a time, who very pertinaciously maintained
himself to be a Cordova cheese, and went about, with a knife in
his hand, soliciting his friends to try a small slice from the
middle of his leg.”
“He was a great fool, beyond doubt,” interposed some one, “but
not to be compared with a certain individual whom we all know,
with the exception of this strange gentleman. I mean the man who
took himself for a bottle of champagne, and always went off with
a pop and a fizz, in this fashion.”
Here the speaker, very rudely, as I thought, put his right thumb
in his left cheek, withdrew it with a sound resembling the
popping of a cork, and then, by a dexterous movement of the
tongue upon the teeth, created a sharp hissing and fizzing, which
lasted for several minutes, in imitation of the frothing of
champagne. This behavior, I saw plainly, was not very pleasing to
Monsieur Maillard; but that gentleman said nothing, and the
conversation was resumed by a very lean little man in a big wig.
“And then there was an ignoramus,” said he, “who mistook himself
for a frog, which, by the way, he resembled in no little degree.
I wish you could have seen him, sir,”—here the speaker addressed
myself—“it would have done your heart good to see the natural
airs that he put on. Sir, if that man was not a frog, I can only
observe that it is a pity he was not. His croak
thus—o-o-o-o-gh—o-o-o-o-gh! was the finest note in the world—B
flat; and when he put his elbows upon the table thus—after taking
a glass or two of wine—and distended his mouth, thus, and rolled
up his eyes, thus, and winked them with excessive rapidity, thus,
why then, sir, I take it upon myself to say, positively, that you
would have been lost in admiration of the genius of the man.”
“I have no doubt of it,” I said.
“And then,” said somebody else, “then there was Petit Gaillard,
who thought himself a pinch of snuff, and was truly distressed
because he could not take himself between his own finger and
thumb.”
“And then there was Jules Desoulières, who was a very singular
genius, indeed, and went mad with the idea that he was a pumpkin.
He persecuted the cook to make him up into pies—a thing which the
cook indignantly refused to do. For my part, I am by no means
sure that a pumpkin pie _à la Desoulières_ would not have been
very capital eating indeed!”
“You astonish me!” said I; and I looked inquisitively at Monsieur
Maillard.
“Ha! ha! ha!” said that gentleman—“he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho!
ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—very good indeed! You must not be astonished,
_mon ami;_ our friend here is a wit—a _drôle_—you must not
understand him to the letter.”
“And then,” said some other one of the party,—“then there was
Bouffon Le Grand—another extraordinary personage in his way. He
grew deranged through love, and fancied himself possessed of two
heads. One of these he maintained to be the head of Cicero; the
other he imagined a composite one, being Demosthenes’ from the
top of the forehead to the mouth, and Lord Brougham’s from the
mouth to the chin. It is not impossible that he was wrong; but he
would have convinced you of his being in the right; for he was a
man of great eloquence. He had an absolute passion for oratory,
and could not refrain from display. For example, he used to leap
upon the dinner-table thus, and—and—”
Here a friend, at the side of the speaker, put a hand upon his
shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear; upon which he
ceased talking with great suddenness, and sank back within his
chair.
“And then,” said the friend who had whispered, “there was
Boullard, the tee-totum. I call him the tee-totum because, in
fact, he was seized with the droll, but not altogether
irrational, crotchet, that he had been converted into a
tee-totum. You would have roared with laughter to see him spin.
He would turn round upon one heel by the hour, in this
manner—so—”
Here the friend whom he had just interrupted by a whisper,
performed an exactly similar office for himself.
“But then,” cried the old lady, at the top of her voice, “your
Monsieur Boullard was a madman, and a very silly madman at best;
for who, allow me to ask you, ever heard of a human tee-totum?
The thing is absurd. Madame Joyeuse was a more sensible person,
as you know. She had a crotchet, but it was instinct with common
sense, and gave pleasure to all who had the honor of her
acquaintance. She found, upon mature deliberation, that, by some
accident, she had been turned into a chicken-cock; but, as such,
she behaved with propriety. She flapped her wings with prodigious
effect—so—so—so—and, as for her crow, it was delicious!
Cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-de-doo
dooo-do-o-o-o-o-o-o!”
“Madame Joyeuse, I will thank you to behave yourself!” here
interrupted our host, very angrily. “You can either conduct
yourself as a lady should do, or you can quit the table
forthwith—take your choice.”
The lady (whom I was much astonished to hear addressed as Madame
Joyeuse, after the description of Madame Joyeuse she had just
given) blushed up to the eyebrows, and seemed exceedingly abashed
at the reproof. She hung down her head, and said not a syllable
in reply. But another and younger lady resumed the theme. It was
my beautiful girl of the little parlor.
“Oh, Madame Joyeuse was a fool!” she exclaimed, “but there was
really much sound sense, after all, in the opinion of Eugénie
Salsafette. She was a very beautiful and painfully modest young
lady, who thought the ordinary mode of habiliment indecent, and
wished to dress herself, always, by getting outside instead of
inside of her clothes. It is a thing very easily done, after all.
You have only to do so—and then so—so—so—and then so—so—so—and
then so—so—and then—”
“Mon dieu! Ma’m’selle Salsafette!” here cried a dozen voices at
once. “What are you about?—forbear!—that is sufficient!—we see,
very plainly, how it is done!—hold! hold!” and several persons
were already leaping from their seats to withhold Ma’m’selle
Salsafette from putting herself upon a par with the Medicean
Venus, when the point was very effectually and suddenly
accomplished by a series of loud screams, or yells, from some
portion of the main body of the _château_.
My nerves were very much affected, indeed, by these yells; but
the rest of the company I really pitied. I never saw any set of
reasonable people so thoroughly frightened in my life. They all
grew as pale as so many corpses, and, shrinking within their
seats, sat quivering and gibbering with terror, and listening for
a repetition of the sound. It came again—louder and seemingly
nearer—and then a third time very loud, and then a fourth time
with a vigor evidently diminished. At this apparent dying away of
the noise, the spirits of the company were immediately regained,
and all was life and anecdote as before. I now ventured to
inquire the cause of the disturbance.
“A mere _bagatelle_,” said Monsieur Maillard. “We are used to
these things, and care really very little about them. The
lunatics, every now and then, get up a howl in concert; one
starting another, as is sometimes the case with a bevy of dogs at
night. It occasionally happens, however, that the _concerto_
yells are succeeded by a simultaneous effort at breaking loose;
when, of course, some little danger is to be apprehended.”
“And how many have you in charge?”
“At present we have not more than ten, altogether.”
“Principally females, I presume?”
“Oh, no—every one of them men, and stout fellows, too, I can tell
you.”
“Indeed! I have always understood that the majority of lunatics
were of the gentler sex.”
“It is generally so, but not always. Some time ago, there were
about twenty-seven patients here; and, of that number, no less
than eighteen were women; but, lately, matters have changed very
much, as you see.”
“Yes—have changed very much, as you see,” here interrupted the
gentleman who had broken the shins of Ma’m’selle Laplace.
“Yes—have changed very much, as you see!” chimed in the whole
company at once.
“Hold your tongues, every one of you!” said my host, in a great
rage. Whereupon the whole company maintained a dead silence for
nearly a minute. As for one lady, she obeyed Monsieur Maillard to
the letter, and thrusting out her tongue, which was an
excessively long one, held it very resignedly, with both hands,
until the end of the entertainment.
“And this gentlewoman,” said I, to Monsieur Maillard, bending
over and addressing him in a whisper—“this good lady who has just
spoken, and who gives us the cock-a-doodle-de-doo—she, I presume,
is harmless—quite harmless, eh?”
“Harmless!” ejaculated he, in unfeigned surprise, “why—why, what
can you mean?”
“Only slightly touched?” said I, touching my head. “I take it for
granted that she is not particularly not dangerously affected,
eh?”
“_Mon dieu!_ what is it you imagine? This lady, my particular old
friend Madame Joyeuse, is as absolutely sane as myself. She has
her little eccentricities, to be sure—but then, you know, all old
women—all _very_ old women—are more or less eccentric!”
“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure—and then the rest of these
ladies and gentlemen—”
“Are my friends and keepers,” interupted Monsieur Maillard,
drawing himself up with _hauteur_,—“my very good friends and
assistants.”
“What! all of them?” I asked,—“the women and all?”
“Assuredly,” he said,—“we could not do at all without the women;
they are the best lunatic nurses in the world; they have a way of
their own, you know; their bright eyes have a marvellous
effect—something like the fascination of the snake, you know.”
“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure! They behave a little odd,
eh?—they are a little queer, eh?—don’t you think so?”
“Odd!—queer!—why, do you really think so? We are not very
prudish, to be sure, here in the South—do pretty much as we
please—enjoy life, and all that sort of thing, you know—”
“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure.”
“And then, perhaps, this Clos de Vougeot is a little heady, you
know—a little strong—you understand, eh?”
“To be sure,” said I,—“to be sure. By the bye, Monsieur, did I
understand you to say that the system you have adopted, in place
of the celebrated soothing system, was one of very rigorous
severity?”
“By no means. Our confinement is necessarily close; but the
treatment—the medical treatment, I mean—is rather agreeable to
the patients than otherwise.”
“And the new system is one of your own invention?”
“Not altogether. Some portions of it are referable to Professor
Tarr, of whom you have, necessarily, heard; and, again, there are
modifications in my plan which I am happy to acknowledge as
belonging of right to the celebrated Fether, with whom, if I
mistake not, you have the honor of an intimate acquaintance.”
“I am quite ashamed to confess,” I replied, “that I have never
even heard the names of either gentleman before.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated my host, drawing back his chair
abruptly, and uplifting his hands. “I surely do not hear you
aright! You did not intend to say, eh? that you had never heard
either of the learned Doctor Tarr, or of the celebrated Professor
Fether?”
“I am forced to acknowledge my ignorance,” I replied; “but the
truth should be held inviolate above all things. Nevertheless, I
feel humbled to the dust, not to be acquainted with the works of
these, no doubt, extraordinary men. I will seek out their
writings forthwith, and peruse them with deliberate care.
Monsieur Maillard, you have really—I must confess it—you have
really—made me ashamed of myself!”
And this was the fact.
“Say no more, my good young friend,” he said kindly, pressing my
hand,—“join me now in a glass of Sauterne.”
We drank. The company followed our example without stint. They
chatted—they jested—they laughed—they perpetrated a thousand
absurdities—the fiddles shrieked—the drum row-de-dowed—the
trombones bellowed like so many brazen bulls of Phalaris—and the
whole scene, growing gradually worse and worse, as the wines
gained the ascendancy, became at length a sort of pandemonium in
petto. In the meantime, Monsieur Maillard and myself, with some
bottles of Sauterne and Vougeot between us, continued our
conversation at the top of the voice. A word spoken in an
ordinary key stood no more chance of being heard than the voice
of a fish from the bottom of Niagara Falls.
“And, sir,” said I, screaming in his ear, “you mentioned
something before dinner about the danger incurred in the old
system of soothing. How is that?”
“Yes,” he replied, “there was, occasionally, very great danger
indeed. There is no accounting for the caprices of madmen; and,
in my opinion as well as in that of Dr. Tarr and Professor
Fether, it is never safe to permit them to run at large
unattended. A lunatic may be ‘soothed,’ as it is called, for a
time, but, in the end, he is very apt to become obstreperous. His
cunning, too, is proverbial and great. If he has a project in
view, he conceals his design with a marvellous wisdom; and the
dexterity with which he counterfeits sanity, presents, to the
metaphysician, one of the most singular problems in the study of
mind. When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high
time to put him in a straitjacket.”
“But the danger, my dear sir, of which you were speaking, in your
own experience—during your control of this house—have you had
practical reason to think liberty hazardous in the case of a
lunatic?”
“Here?—in my own experience?—why, I may say, yes. For example:—no
very long while ago, a singular circumstance occurred in this
very house. The ‘soothing system,’ you know, was then in
operation, and the patients were at large. They behaved
remarkably well—especially so—any one of sense might have known
that some devilish scheme was brewing from that particular fact,
that the fellows behaved so remarkably well. And, sure enough,
one fine morning the keepers found themselves pinioned hand and
foot, and thrown into the cells, where they were attended, as if
they were the lunatics, by the lunatics themselves, who had
usurped the offices of the keepers.”
“You don’t tell me so! I never heard of any thing so absurd in my
life!”
“Fact—it all came to pass by means of a stupid fellow—a
lunatic—who, by some means, had taken it into his head that he
had invented a better system of government than any ever heard of
before—of lunatic government, I mean. He wished to give his
invention a trial, I suppose, and so he persuaded the rest of the
patients to join him in a conspiracy for the overthrow of the
reigning powers.”
“And he really succeeded?”
“No doubt of it. The keepers and kept were soon made to exchange
places. Not that exactly either—for the madmen had been free, but
the keepers were shut up in cells forthwith, and treated, I am
sorry to say, in a very cavalier manner.”
“But I presume a counter-revolution was soon effected. This
condition of things could not have long existed. The country
people in the neighborhood—visitors coming to see the
establishment—would have given the alarm.”
“There you are out. The head rebel was too cunning for that. He
admitted no visitors at all—with the exception, one day, of a
very stupid-looking young gentleman of whom he had no reason to
be afraid. He let him in to see the place—just by way of
variety,—to have a little fun with him. As soon as he had
gammoned him sufficiently, he let him out, and sent him about his
business.”
“And how long, then, did the madmen reign?”
“Oh, a very long time, indeed—a month certainly—how much longer I
can’t precisely say. In the meantime, the lunatics had a jolly
season of it—that you may swear. They doffed their own shabby
clothes, and made free with the family wardrobe and jewels. The
cellars of the château were well stocked with wine; and these
madmen are just the devils that know how to drink it. They lived
well, I can tell you.”
“And the treatment—what was the particular species of treatment
which the leader of the rebels put into operation?”
“Why, as for that, a madman is not necessarily a fool, as I have
already observed; and it is my honest opinion that his treatment
was a much better treatment than that which it superseded. It was
a very capital system indeed—simple—neat—no trouble at all—in
fact it was delicious—it was—”
Here my host’s observations were cut short by another series of
yells, of the same character as those which had previously
disconcerted us. This time, however, they seemed to proceed from
persons rapidly approaching.
“Gracious heavens!” I ejaculated—“the lunatics have most
undoubtedly broken loose.”
“I very much fear it is so,” replied Monsieur Maillard, now
becoming excessively pale. He had scarcely finished the sentence,
before loud shouts and imprecations were heard beneath the
windows; and, immediately afterward, it became evident that some
persons outside were endeavoring to gain entrance into the room.
The door was beaten with what appeared to be a sledge-hammer, and
the shutters were wrenched and shaken with prodigious violence.
A scene of the most terrible confusion ensued. Monsieur Maillard,
to my excessive astonishment threw himself under the side-board.
I had expected more resolution at his hands. The members of the
orchestra, who, for the last fifteen minutes, had been seemingly
too much intoxicated to do duty, now sprang all at once to their
feet and to their instruments, and, scrambling upon their table,
broke out, with one accord, into, “Yankee Doodle,” which they
performed, if not exactly in tune, at least with an energy
superhuman, during the whole of the uproar.
Meantime, upon the main dining-table, among the bottles and
glasses, leaped the gentleman who, with such difficulty, had been
restrained from leaping there before. As soon as he fairly
settled himself, he commenced an oration, which, no doubt, was a
very capital one, if it could only have been heard. At the same
moment, the man with the teetotum predilection, set himself to
spinning around the apartment, with immense energy, and with arms
outstretched at right angles with his body; so that he had all
the air of a tee-totum in fact, and knocked everybody down that
happened to get in his way. And now, too, hearing an incredible
popping and fizzing of champagne, I discovered at length, that it
proceeded from the person who performed the bottle of that
delicate drink during dinner. And then, again, the frog-man
croaked away as if the salvation of his soul depended upon every
note that he uttered. And, in the midst of all this, the
continuous braying of a donkey arose over all. As for my old
friend, Madame Joyeuse, I really could have wept for the poor
lady, she appeared so terribly perplexed. All she did, however,
was to stand up in a corner, by the fireplace, and sing out
incessantly at the top of her voice, “Cock-a-doodle-de-dooooooh!”
And now came the climax—the catastrophe of the drama. As no
resistance, beyond whooping and yelling and cock-a-doodling, was
offered to the encroachments of the party without, the ten
windows were very speedily, and almost simultaneously, broken in.
But I shall never forget the emotions of wonder and horror with
which I gazed, when, leaping through these windows, and down
among us _pêle-mêle_, fighting, stamping, scratching, and
howling, there rushed a perfect army of what I took to be
chimpanzees, ourang-outangs, or big black baboons of the Cape of
Good Hope.
I received a terrible beating—after which I rolled under a sofa
and lay still. After lying there some fifteen minutes, during
which time I listened with all my ears to what was going on in
the room, I came to same satisfactory _dénouement_ of this
tragedy. Monsieur Maillard, it appeared, in giving me the account
of the lunatic who had excited his fellows to rebellion, had been
merely relating his own exploits. This gentleman had, indeed,
some two or three years before, been the superintendent of the
establishment, but grew crazy himself, and so became a patient.
This fact was unknown to the travelling companion who introduced
me. The keepers, ten in number, having been suddenly overpowered,
were first well tarred, then carefully feathered, and then shut
up in underground cells. They had been so imprisoned for more
than a month, during which period Monsieur Maillard had
generously allowed them not only the tar and feathers (which
constituted his “system”), but some bread and abundance of water.
The latter was pumped on them daily. At length, one escaping
through a sewer, gave freedom to all the rest.
The “soothing system,” with important modifications, has been
resumed at the _château;_ yet I cannot help agreeing with
Monsieur Maillard, that his own “treatment” was a very capital
one of its kind. As he justly observed, it was “simple—neat—and
gave no trouble at all—not the least.”
I have only to add that, although I have searched every library
in Europe for the works of Doctor _Tarr_ and Professor _Fether_,
I have, up to the present day, utterly failed in my endeavors at
procuring an edition.
THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ.
LATE EDITOR OF THE “GOOSETHERUMFOODLE.”
By Himself
I am now growing in years, and—since I understand that
Shakespeare and Mr. Emmons are deceased—it is not impossible that
I may even die. It has occurred to me, therefore, that I may as
well retire from the field of Letters and repose upon my laurels.
But I am ambitious of signalizing my abdication of the literary
sceptre by some important bequest to posterity; and, perhaps, I
cannot do a better thing than just pen for it an account of my
earlier career. My name, indeed, has been so long and so
constantly before the public eye, that I am not only willing to
admit the naturalness of the interest which it has everywhere
excited, but ready to satisfy the extreme curiosity which it has
inspired. In fact, it is no more than the duty of him who
achieves greatness to leave behind him, in his ascent, such
landmarks as may guide others to be great. I propose, therefore,
in the present paper, (which I had some idea of calling
“Memoranda to serve for the Literary History of America,”) to
give a detail of those important, yet feeble and tottering first
steps, by which, at length, I attained the high road to the
pinnacle of human renown.
Of one’s very remote ancestors it is superfluous to say much. My
father, Thomas Bob, Esq., stood for many years at the summit of
his profession, which was that of a merchant-barber, in the city
of Smug. His warehouse was the resort of all the principal people
of the place, and especially of the editorial corps—a body which
inspires all about it with profound veneration and awe. For my
own part, I regarded them as gods, and drank in with avidity the
rich wit and wisdom which continuously flowed from their august
mouths during the process of what is styled “lather.” My first
moment of positive inspiration must be dated from that
ever-memorable epoch, when the brilliant conductor of the
“Gad-Fly,” in the intervals of the important process just
mentioned, recited aloud, before a conclave of our apprentices,
an inimitable poem in honor of the “Only Genuine Oil-of-Bob,” (so
called from its talented inventor, my father,) and for which
effusion the editor of the “Fly” was remunerated with a regal
liberality by the firm of Thomas Bob & company, merchant-barbers.
The genius of the stanzas to the “Oil-of-Bob” first breathed into
me, I say, the divine _afflatus_. I resolved at once to become a
great man, and to commence by becoming a great poet. That very
evening I fell upon my knees at the feet of my father.
“Father,” I said, “pardon me!—but I have a soul above lather. It
is my firm intention to cut the shop. I would be an editor—I
would be a poet—I would pen stanzas to the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’ Pardon
me and aid me to be great!”
“My dear Thingum,” replied my father, (I had been christened
Thingum after a wealthy relative so surnamed,) “My dear Thingum,”
he said, raising me from my knees by the ears—“Thingum, my boy,
you’re a trump, and take after your father in having a soul. You
have an immense head, too, and it must hold a great many brains.
This I have long seen, and therefore had thoughts of making you a
lawyer. The business, however, has grown ungenteel, and that of a
politician don’t pay. Upon the whole you judge wisely;—the trade
of editor is best:—and if you can be a poet at the same time,—as
most of the editors are, by the by,—why you will kill two birds
with one stone. To encourage you in the beginning of things, I
will allow you a garret; pen, ink, and paper; a rhyming
dictionary; and a copy of the ‘Gad-Fly.’ I suppose you would
scarcely demand any more.”
“I would be an ungrateful villain if I did,” I replied with
enthusiasm. “Your generosity is boundless. I will repay it by
making you the father of a genius.”
Thus ended my conference with the best of men, and immediately
upon its termination, I betook myself with zeal to my poetical
labors; as upon these, chiefly, I founded my hopes of ultimate
elevation to the editorial chair.
In my first attempts at composition I found the stanzas to “The
Oil-of-Bob” rather a draw-back than otherwise. Their splendor
more dazzled than enlightened me. The contemplation of their
excellence tended, naturally, to discourage me by comparison with
my own abortions; so that for a long time I labored in vain. At
length there came into my head one of those exquisitely original
ideas which now and then _will_ permeate the brain of a man of
genius. It was this:—or, rather, thus was it carried into
execution. From the rubbish of an old book-stall, in a very
remote corner of the town, I got together several antique and
altogether unknown or forgotten volumes. The bookseller sold them
to me for a song. From one of these, which purported to be a
translation of one Dante’s “Inferno,” I copied with remarkable
neatness a long passage about a man named Ugolino, who had a
parcel of brats. From another which contained a good many old
plays by some person whose name I forget, I extracted in the same
manner, and with the same care, a great number of lines about
“angels” and “ministers saying grace,” and “goblins damned,” and
more besides of that sort. From a third, which was the
composition of some blind man or other, either a Greek or a
Choctaw—I cannot be at the pains of remembering every trifle
exactly—I took about fifty verses beginning with “Achilles’
wrath,” and “grease,” and something else. From a fourth, which I
recollect was also the work of a blind man, I selected a page or
two all about “hail” and “holy light”; and although a blind man
has no business to write about light, still the verses were
sufficiently good in their way.
Having made fair copies of these poems, I signed every one of
them “Oppodeldoc,” (a fine sonorous name,) and, doing each up
nicely in a separate envelope, I despatched one to each of the
four principal Magazines, with a request for speedy insertion and
prompt pay. The result of this well conceived plan, however, (the
success of which would have saved me much trouble in after life,)
served to convince me that some editors are not to be bamboozled,
and gave the _coup-de-grace_ (as they say in France,) to my
nascent hopes, (as they say in the city of the transcendentals.)
The fact is, that each and every one of the Magazines in
question, gave Mr. “Oppodeldoc” a complete using-up, in the
“Monthly Notices to Correspondents.” The “Hum-Drum” gave him a
dressing after this fashion:
“‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has sent us a long _tirade_
concerning a bedlamite whom he styles ‘Ugolino,’ who had a great
many children that should have been all whipped and sent to bed
without their suppers. The whole affair is exceedingly tame—not
to say _flat_. ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is entirely devoid
of imagination—and imagination, in our humble opinion, is not
only the soul of Poesy, but also its very heart. ‘Oppodeldoc,’
(whoever he is,) has the audacity to demand of us, for his
twattle, a ‘speedy insertion and prompt pay.’ We neither insert
nor purchase any stuff of the sort. There can be no doubt,
however, that he would meet with a ready sale for all the
balderdash he can scribble, at the office of either the
‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’”
All this, it must be acknowledged, was very severe upon
“Oppodeldoc”—but the unkindest cut was putting the word Poesy in
small caps. In those five pre-eminent letters what a world of
bitterness is there not involved!
But “Oppodeldoc” was punished with equal severity in the
“Rowdy-Dow,” which spoke thus:
“We have received a most singular and insolent communication from
a person (whoever he is,) signing himself ‘Oppodeldoc’—thus
desecrating the greatness of the illustrious Roman Emperor so
named. Accompanying the letter of ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)
we find sundry lines of most disgusting and unmeaning rant about
‘angels and ministers of grace’—rant such as no madman short of a
Nat Lee, or an ‘Oppodeldoc,’ could possibly perpetrate. And for
this trash of trash, we are modestly requested to ‘pay promptly.’
No sir—no! We pay for nothing of _that_ sort. Apply to the
‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle.’ These
_periodicals_ will undoubtedly accept any literary offal you may
send them—and as undoubtedly _promise_ to pay for it.”
This was bitter indeed upon poor “Oppodeldoc”; but, in this
instance, the weight of the satire falls upon the “Hum-drum,” the
“Lollipop,” and the “Goosetherumfoodle,” who are pungently styled
“_periodicals_”—in Italics, too—a thing that must have cut them
to the heart.
Scarcely less savage was the “Lollipop,” which thus discoursed:
“Some _individual_, who rejoices in the appellation ‘Oppodeldoc,’
(to what low uses are the names of the illustrious dead too often
applied!) has enclosed us some fifty or sixty _verses_ commencing
after this fashion:
Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered, &c., &c., &c., &c.
“‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) is respectfully informed that
there is not a printer’s devil in our office who is not in the
daily habit of composing better _lines_. Those of ‘Oppodeldoc’
will not _scan_. ‘Oppodeldoc’ should learn to _count_. But why he
should have conceived the idea that _we_, (of all others, _we!_)
would disgrace our pages with his ineffable nonsense, is utterly
beyond comprehension. Why, the absurd twattle is scarcely good
enough for the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ the
‘Goosetherumfoodle’—things that are in the practice of publishing
‘Mother Goose’s Melodies’ as original lyrics. And ‘Oppodeldoc’
(whoever he is,) has even the assurance to demand _pay_ for this
drivel. Does ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) know—is he aware that
we could not be paid to insert it?”
As I perused this I felt myself growing gradually smaller and
smaller, and when I came to the point at which the editor sneered
at the poem as “verses” there was little more than an ounce of me
left. As for “Oppodeldoc,” I began to experience _compassion_ for
the poor fellow. But the “Goosetherumfoodle” showed, if possible,
less mercy than the “Lollipop.” It was the “Goosetherumfoodle”
that said:
“A wretched poetaster, who signs himself ‘Oppodeldoc,’ is silly
enough to fancy that _we_ will print and _pay for_ a medley of
incoherent and ungrammatical bombast which he has transmitted to
us, and which commences with the following most _intelligible_
line:
‘Hail, Holy Light! Offspring of Heaven, first born.’
“We say, ‘most _intelligible_.’ ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,)
will be kind enough to tell us, perhaps, how ‘_hail_’ can be
‘_holy light_’ We always regarded it as _frozen rain_. Will he
inform us, also, how frozen rain can be, at one and the same
time, both ‘holy light,’ (whatever that is,) and an
‘offspring?’—which latter term, (if we understand any thing about
English,) is only employed, with propriety, in reference to small
babies of about six weeks old. But it is preposterous to descant
upon such absurdity—although ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) has
the unparalleled effrontery to suppose that we will not only
‘insert’ his ignorant ravings, but (absolutely) _pay for them!_
“Now this is fine—it is rich!—and we have half a mind to punish
this young scribbler for his egotism, by really publishing his
effusion, _verbatim et literatim_, as he has written it. We could
inflict no punishment so severe, and we _would_ inflict it, but
for the boredom which we should cause our readers in so doing.
“Let ‘Oppodeldoc,’ (whoever he is,) send any future _composition_
of like character to the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Lollipop,’ or the
‘Rowdy-Dow,’ _They_ will ‘insert’ it. _They_ ‘insert’ every month
just such stuff. Send it to them. WE are not to be insulted with
impunity.”
This made an end of me; and as for the “Hum-Drum,” the
“Rowdy-Dow,” and the “Lollipop,” I never could comprehend how
they survived it. The putting _them_ in the smallest possible
_minion_, (that was the rub—thereby insinuating their
lowness—their baseness,) while WE stood looking down upon them in
gigantic capitals!—oh it was _too_ bitter!—it was wormwood—it was
gall. Had I been either of these periodicals I would have spared
no pains to have the “Goosetherumfoodle” prosecuted. It might
have been done under the Act for the “Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals.” As for “Oppodeldoc,” (whoever he was), I had by this
time lost all patience with the fellow, and sympathized with him
no longer. He was a fool, beyond doubt, (whoever he was,) and got
not a kick more than he deserved.
The result of my experiment with the old books, convinced me, in
the first place, that “honesty is the best policy,” and, in the
second, that if I could not write better than Mr. Dante, and the
two blind men, and the rest of the old set, it would, at least,
be a difficult matter to write worse. I took heart, therefore,
and determined to prosecute the “entirely original,” (as they say
on the covers of the magazines,) at whatever cost of study and
pains. I again placed before my eyes, as a model, the brilliant
stanzas on “The Oil-of-Bob” by the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” and
resolved to construct an ode on the same sublime theme, in
rivalry of what had already been done.
With my first verse I had no material difficulty. It ran thus:
“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob.’”
Having carefully looked out, however, all the legitimate rhymes
to “Bob,” I found it impossible to proceed. In this dilemma I had
recourse to paternal aid; and, after some hours of mature
thought, my father and myself thus constructed the poem:
_“To pen an Ode upon the ‘Oil-of-Bob’
Is all sorts of a job._
“(Signed) Snob.”
To be sure, this composition was of no very great length—but I
“have yet to learn” as they say in the Edinburgh Review, that the
mere extent of a literary work has any thing to do with its
merit. As for the Quarterly cant about “sustained effort,” it is
impossible to see the sense of it. Upon the whole, therefore, I
was satisfied with the success of my maiden attempt, and now the
only question regarded the disposal I should make of it. My
father suggested that I should send it to the “Gad-Fly”—but there
were two reasons which operated to prevent me from so doing. I
dreaded the jealousy of the editor—and I had ascertained that he
did not pay for original contributions. I therefore, after due
deliberation, consigned the article to the more dignified pages
of the “Lollipop,” and awaited the event in anxiety, but with
resignation.
In the very next published number I had the proud satisfaction of
seeing my poem printed at length, as the leading article, with
the following significant words, prefixed in italics and between
brackets:
_We call the attention of our readers to the subjoined admirable
stanza on “The Oil of Bob.” We need say nothing of their
sublimity, or their pathos:—it is impossible to peruse them
without tears. Those who have been nauseated with a sad dose on
the same august topic from the goose quill of the editor of the
“Gad Fly” will do well to compare the two compositions._
P. S.—We are consumed with anxiety to probe the mystery which
envelops the evident pseudonym “Snob.” May we hope for a personal
interview?
All this was scarcely more than justice, but it was, I confess,
rather more than I had expected:—I acknowledged this, be it
observed, to the everlasting disgrace of my country and of
mankind. I lost no time, however, in calling upon the editor of
the “Lollipop,” and had the good fortune to find this gentleman
at home. He saluted me with an air of profound respect, slightly
blended with a fatherly and patronizing admiration, wrought in
him, no doubt, by my appearance of extreme youth and
inexperience. Begging me to be seated, he entered at once upon
the subject of my poem;—but modesty will ever forbid me to repeat
the thousand compliments which he lavished upon me. The eulogies
of Mr. Crab, (such was the editor’s name,) were, however, by no
means fulsomely indiscriminate. He analyzed my composition with
much freedom and great ability—not hesitating to point out a few
trivial defects—a circumstance which elevated him highly in my
esteem. The “Gad-Fly” was, of course, brought upon the _tapis_,
and I hope never to be subjected to a criticism so searching, or
to rebukes so withering, as were bestowed by Mr. Crab upon that
unhappy effusion. I had been accustomed to regard the editor of
the “Gad-Fly” as something superhuman; but Mr. Crab soon
disabused me of that idea. He set the literary as well as the
personal character of the Fly (so Mr. C. satirically designated
the rival editor,) in its true light. He, the Fly, was very
little better than he should be. He had written infamous things.
He was a penny-a-liner, and a buffoon. He was a villain. He had
composed a tragedy which set the whole country in a guffaw, and a
farce which deluged the universe in tears. Besides all this, he
had the impudence to pen what he meant for a lampoon upon
himself, (Mr. Crab,) and the temerity to style him “an ass.”
Should I at any time wish to express my opinion of Mr. Fry, the
pages of the “Lollipop,” Mr. Crab assured me, were at my
unlimited disposal. In the meantime, as it was very certain that
I would be attacked in the Fly for my attempt at composing a
rival poem on the “Oil-of-Bob,” he (Mr. Crab,) would take it upon
himself to attend, pointedly, to my private and personal
interests. If I were not made a man of at once, it should not be
the fault of himself, (Mr. Crab.)
Mr. Crab having now paused in his discourse, (the latter portion
of which I found it impossible to comprehend,) I ventured to
suggest something about the remuneration which I had been taught
to expect for my poem, by an announcement on the cover of the
“Lollipop,” declaring that it, (the “Lollipop,”) “insisted upon
being permitted to pay exorbitant prices for all accepted
contributions—frequently expending more money for a single brief
poem than the whole annual cost of the ‘Hum-Drum,’ the
‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle’ combined.”
As I mentioned the word “remuneration,” Mr. Crab first opened his
eyes, and then his mouth, to quite a remarkable extent; causing
his personal appearance to resemble that of a highly-agitated
elderly duck in the act of quacking; and in this condition he
remained, (ever and anon pressing his hands tightly to his
forehead, as if in a state of desperate bewilderment) until I had
nearly made an end of what I had to say.
Upon my conclusion, he sank back into his seat, as if much
overcome, letting his arms fall lifelessly by his side, but
keeping his mouth still rigorously open, after the fashion of the
duck. While I remained in speechless astonishment at behavior so
alarming, he suddenly leaped to his feet and made a rush at the
bell-rope; but just as he reached this, he appeared to have
altered his intention, whatever it was, for he dived under a
table and immediately re-appeared with a cudgel. This he was in
the act of uplifting, (for what purpose I am at a loss to
imagine,) when, all at once, there came a benign smile over his
features, and he sank placidly back in his chair.
“Mr. Bob,” he said, (for I had sent up my card before ascending
myself,) “Mr. Bob, you are a young man, I presume—_very?_”
I assented; adding that I had not yet concluded my third lustrum.
“Ah!” he replied, “very good! I see how it is—say no more!
Touching this matter of compensation, what you observe is very
just: in fact it is excessively so. But ah—ah—the _first_
contribution—the _first_, I say,—it is never the Magazine custom
to pay for—you comprehend, eh? The truth is, we are usually the
_recipients_ in such case.” [Mr. Crab smiled blandly as he
emphasized the word “recipients.”] “For the most part, we are
_paid_ for the insertion of a maiden attempt—especially in verse.
In the second place, Mr. Bob, the Magazine rule is never to
disburse what we term in France the _argent comptant_—I have no
doubt you understand. In a quarter or two after publication of
the article—or in a year or two—we make no objection to giving
our note at nine months; provided always that we can so arrange
our affairs as to be quite certain of a ‘burst up’ in six. I
really _do_ hope, Mr. Bob, that you will look upon this
explanation as satisfactory.” Here Mr. Crab concluded, and the
tears stood in his eyes.
Grieved to the soul at having been, however innocently, the cause
of pain to so eminent and so sensitive a man, I hastened to
apologize, and to reassure him, by expressing my perfect
coincidence with his views, as well as my entire appreciation of
the delicacy of his position. Having done all this in a neat
speech, I took leave.
One fine morning, very shortly afterwards, “I awoke and found
myself famous.” The extent of my renown will be best estimated by
reference to the editorial opinions of the day. These opinions,
it will be seen, were embodied in critical notices of the number
of the “Lollipop” containing my poem, and are perfectly
satisfactory, conclusive and clear with the exception, perhaps,
of the hieroglyphical marks, “_Sep_. 15—1 t.” appended to each of
the critiques.
The “Owl,” a journal of profound sagacity, and well known for the
deliberate gravity of its literary decisions—the “Owl,” I say,
spoke as follows:
“‘The Lollipop!’ The October number of this delicious Magazine
surpasses its predecessors, and sets competition at defiance. In
the beauty of its typography and paper—in the number and
excellence of its steel plates—as well as in the literary merit
of its contributions—the ‘Lollipop’ compares with its slow-paced
rivals as Hyperion with a Satyr. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’
and the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ excel, it is true, in braggadocio,
but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this
celebrated journal can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses,
is more than we can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation
of 100,000, and its subscription-list has increased one-fourth
during the last month; but, on the other hand, the sums it
disburses constantly for contributions are inconceivable. It is
reported that Mr. Slyass received no less than thirty-seven and a
half cents for his inimitable paper on ‘Pigs.’ With Mr. Crab, as
editor, and with such names upon the list of contributors as Snob
and Slyass, there can be no such word as ‘fail’ for the
Lollipop.’ Go and subscribe. _Sep_. 15—1 _t.”_
I must say that I was gratified with this high-toned notice from
a paper so respectable as the “Owl.” The placing my name—that is
to say, my _nom de guerre_—in priority of station to that of the
great Slyass, was a compliment as happy as I felt it to be
deserved.
My attention was next arrested by these paragraphs in the
“Toad”—a print highly distinguished for its uprightness, and
independence—for its entire freedom from sycophancy and
subservience to the givers of dinners:
“The ‘Lollipop’ for October is out in advance of all its
contemporaries, and infinitely surpasses them, of course, in the
splendor of its embellishments, as well as in the richness of its
literary contents. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ and the
‘Goosetherumfoodle’ excel, we admit, in braggadocio, but, in all
other points, give us the ‘Lollipop. How this celebrated Magazine
can sustain its evidently tremendous expenses, is more than we
can understand. To be sure, it has a circulation of 200,000, and
its subscription list has increased one-third during the last
fortnight, but on the other hand, the sums it disburses, monthly,
for contributions, are fearfully great. We learn that Mr.
Mumblethumb received no less than fifty cents for his late
‘Monody in a Mud-Puddle.’
“Among the original contributors to the present number we notice,
(besides the eminent editor, Mr. Crab,) such men as Snob, Slyass,
and Mumblethumb. Apart from the editorial matter, the most
valuable paper, nevertheless, is, we think, a poetical gem by
Snob, on the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—but our readers must not suppose from
the title of this incomparable _bijou_, that it bears any
similitude to some balderdash on the same subject by a certain
contemptible individual whose name is unmentionable to ears
polite. The present poem ‘On the Oil-of-Bob,’ has excited
universal anxiety and curiosity in respect to the owner of the
evident pseudonym, ‘Snob’—a curiosity which, happily, we have it
in our power to satisfy. ‘Snob’ is the nom de plume of Mr.
Thingum Bob, of this city,—a relative of the great Mr. Thingum,
(after whom he is named,) and otherwise connected with the most
illustrious families of the State. His father, Thomas Bob, Esq.,
is an opulent merchant in Smug. _Sep_. 15—1 _t.”_
This generous approbation touched me to the heart—the more
especially as it emanated from a source so avowedly—so
proverbially pure as the “Toad.” The word “balderdash,” as
applied to the “Oil-of-Bob” of the Fly, I considered singularly
pungent and appropriate. The words “gem” and “_bijou_,” however,
used in reference to my composition, struck me as being, in some
degree, feeble, and seemed to me to be deficient in force. They
were not sufficiently _prononcés_, (as we have it in France).
I had hardly finished reading the “Toad,” when a friend placed in
my hands a copy of the “Mole,” a daily, enjoying high reputation
for the keenness of its perception about matters in general, and
for the open, honest, above-ground style of its editorials. The
“Mole” spoke of the “Lollipop” as follows:
“We have just received the ‘Lollipop’ for October, and must say
that never before have we perused any single number of any
periodical which afforded us a felicity so supreme. We speak
advisedly. The ‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow’ and the
‘Goosetherumfoodle’ must look well to their laurels. These
prints, no doubt, surpass every thing in loudness of pretension,
but, in all other points, give us the ‘Lollipop!’ How this
celebrated Magazine can sustain its evidently tremendous
expenses, is more than we can comprehend. To be sure, it has a
circulation of 300,000 and its subscription-list has increased
one-half within the last week, but then the sum it disburses,
monthly, for contributions, is astoundingly enormous. We have it
upon good authority, that Mr. Fatquack received no less than
sixty-two cents and a half for his late domestic nouvelette, the
‘Dish-Clout.’
“The contributors to the number before us are Mr. Crab, (the
eminent editor,) Snob, Mumblethumb, Fatquack, and others; but,
after the inimitable compositions of the editor himself, we
prefer a diamond-like effusion from the pen of a rising poet who
writes over the signature ‘Snob’—a nom de guerre which we predict
will one day extinguish the radiance of ‘Boz.’ ‘Snob,’ we learn,
is a Mr. Thingum Bob, Esq., sole heir of a wealthy merchant of
this city, Thomas Bob, Esq., and a near relative of the
distinguished Mr. Thingum. The title of Mr. B.‘s admirable poem
is the ‘Oil-of-Bob’—a somewhat unfortunate name, by-the-by, as
some contemptible vagabond connected with the penny press has
already disgusted the town with a great deal of drivel upon the
same topic. There will be no danger, however, of confounding the
compositions. Sep. 15—1 t.”
The generous approbation of so clear-sighted a journal as the
“Mole” penetrated my soul with delight. The only objection which
occurred to me was, that the terms “contemptible vagabond” might
have been better written “_odious and_ contemptible _wretch,
villain and_ vagabond.” This would have sounded more gracefully,
I think. “Diamond-like,” also, was scarcely, it will be admitted,
of sufficient intensity to express what the “Mole” evidently
_thought_ of the brilliancy of the “Oil-of-Bob.”
On the same afternoon in which I saw these notices in the “Owl,”
the “Toad,” and the “Mole” I happened to meet with a copy of the
“Daddy-Long-Legs,” a periodical proverbial for the extreme extent
of its understanding. And it was the “Daddy-Long-Legs” which
spoke thus:
“The ‘Lollipop!!’ This gorgeous magazine is already before the
public for October. The question of preeminence is forever put to
rest, and hereafter it will be excessively preposterous in the
‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ to make
any farther spasmodic attempts at competition. These journals may
excel the ‘Lollipop’ in outcry, but, in all other points, give us
the ‘Lollipop!’ How this celebrated Magazine can sustain its
evidently tremendous expenses, is past comprehension. To be sure
it has a circulation of precisely half a million, and its
subscription-list has increased seventy-five per cent, within the
last couple of days; but then the sums it disburses, monthly, for
contributions, are scarcely credible; we are cognizant of the
fact, that Mademoiselle Cribalittle received no less than
eighty-seven cents and a half for her late valuable Revolutionary
Tale, entitled ‘The York-Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill
Katy-Didn’t.’
“The most able papers in the present number, are, of course,
those furnished by the editor, (the eminent Mr. Crab,) but there
are numerous magnificent contributions from such names as Snob,
Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb,
Mrs. Squibalittle, and last, though not least, Fatquack. The
world may well be challenged to produce so rich a galaxy of
genius.
“The poem over the signature ‘Snob’ is, we find, attracting
universal commendation, and, we are constrained to say, deserves,
if possible, even more applause than it has received. The
‘Oil-of-Bob’ is the title of this masterpiece of eloquence and
art. One or two of our readers _may_ have a _very_ faint,
although sufficiently disgusting recollection of a poem (?)
similarly entitled, the perpetration of a miserable
penny-a-liner, mendicant, and cut-throat, connected in the
capacity of scullion, we believe, with one of the indecent prints
about the purlieus of the city; we beg them, for God’s sake, not
to confound the compositions. The author of the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is,
we hear, Thingum Bob, Esq., a gentleman of high genius, and a
scholar. ‘Snob’ is merely a _nom-de-guerre. Sept_. 15—1 _t.”_
I could scarcely restrain my indignation while I perused the
concluding portions of this diatribe. It was clear to me that the
yea-nay manner—not to say the gentleness—the positive forbearance
with which the “Daddy-Long-Legs” spoke of that pig, the editor of
the “Gad-Fly”—it was evident to me, I say, that this gentleness
of speech could proceed from nothing else than a partiality for
the Fly—whom it was clearly the intention of the
“Daddy-Long-Legs” to elevate into reputation at my expense. Any
one, indeed, might perceive, with half an eye, that, had the real
design of the “Daddy” been what it wished to appear, it, (the
“Daddy”) might have expressed itself in terms more direct, more
pungent, and altogether more to the purpose. The words
“penny-a-liner,” “mendicant,” “scullion,” and “cut-throat,” were
epithets so intentionally inexpressive and equivocal, as to be
worse than nothing when applied to the author of the very worst
stanzas ever penned by one of the human race. We all know what is
meant by “damning with faint praise,” and, on the other hand, who
could fail seeing through the covert purpose of the “Daddy”—that
of glorifying with feeble abuse?
What the “Daddy” chose to say of the Fly, however, was no
business of mine. What it said of myself _was_. After the noble
manner in which the “Owl,” the “Toad,” the “Mole,” had expressed
themselves in respect to my ability, it was rather too much to be
coolly spoken of by a thing like the “Daddy-Long-Legs,” as merely
“a gentleman of high genius and a scholar.” Gentleman indeed! I
made up my mind at once, either to get a written apology from the
“Daddy-Long-Legs,” or to call it out.
Full of this purpose, I looked about me to find a friend whom I
could entrust with a message to his Daddyship, and as the editor
of the “Lollipop” had given me marked tokens of regard, I at
length concluded to seek assistance upon the present occasion.
I have never yet been able to account, in a manner satisfactory
to my own understanding, for the _very_ peculiar countenance and
demeanor with which Mr. Crab listened to me, as I unfolded to him
my design. He again went through the scene of the bell-rope and
cudgel, and did not omit the duck. At one period I thought he
really intended to quack. His fit, nevertheless, finally subsided
as before, and he began to act and speak in a rational way. He
declined bearing the cartel, however, and in fact, dissuaded me
from sending it at all; but was candid enough to admit that the
“Daddy-Long-Legs” had been disgracefully in the wrong—more
especially in what related to the epithets “gentleman and
scholar.”
Towards the end of this interview with Mr. Crab, who really
appeared to take a paternal interest in my welfare, he suggested
to me that I might turn an honest penny, and, at the same time,
advance my reputation, by occasionally playing Thomas Hawk for
the “Lollipop.”
I begged Mr. Crab to inform me who was Mr. Thomas Hawk, and how
it was expected that I should play him.
Here Mr. Crab again “made great eyes,” (as we say in Germany,)
but at length, recovering himself from a profound attack of
astonishment, he assured me that he employed the words “Thomas
Hawk” to avoid the colloquialism, Tommy, which was low—but that
the true idea was Tommy Hawk—or tomahawk—and that by “playing
tomahawk” he referred to scalping, brow-beating and otherwise
using-up the herd of poor-devil authors.
I assured my patron that, if this was all, I was perfectly
resigned to the task of playing Thomas Hawk. Hereupon Mr. Crab
desired me to use-up the editor of the “Gad-Fly” forthwith, in
the fiercest style within the scope of my ability, and as a
specimen of my powers. This I did, upon the spot, in a review of
the original “Oil-of-Bob,” occupying thirty-six pages of the
“Lollipop.” I found playing Thomas Hawk, indeed, a far less
onerous occupation than poetizing; for I went upon _system_
altogether, and thus it was easy to do the thing thoroughly and
well. My practice was this. I bought auction copies (cheap) of
“Lord Brougham’s Speeches,” “Cobbett’s Complete Works,” the “New
Slang-Syllabus,” the “Whole Art of Snubbing,” “Prentice’s
Billingsgate” (folio edition,) and “Lewis G. Clarke on Tongue.”
These works I cut up thoroughly with a currycomb, and then,
throwing the shreds into a sieve, sifted out carefully all that
might be thought decent, (a mere trifle); reserving the hard
phrases, which I threw into a large tin pepper-castor with
longitudinal holes, so that an entire sentence could get through
without material injury. The mixture was then ready for use. When
called upon to play Thomas Hawk, I anointed a sheet of fools-cap
with the white of a gander’s egg; then, shredding the thing to be
reviewed as I had previously shredded the books,—only with more
care, so as to get every word separate—I threw the latter shreds
in with the former, screwed on the lid of the castor, gave it a
shake, and so dusted out the mixture upon the egged foolscap;
where it stuck. The effect was beautiful to behold. It was
captivating. Indeed, the reviews I brought to pass by this simple
expedient have never been approached, and were the wonder of the
world. At first, through bashfulness—the result of inexperience—I
was a little put out by a certain inconsistency—a certain air of
the _bizarre_, (as we say in France,) worn by the composition as
a whole. All the phrases did not _fit_, (as we say in the
Anglo-Saxon). Many were quite awry. Some, even, were
up-side-down; and there were none of them which were not, in some
measure, injured in regard to effect, by this latter species of
accident, when it occurred—with the exception of Mr. Lewis
Clarke’s paragraphs, which were so vigorous, and altogether
stout, that they seemed not particularly disconcerted by any
extreme of position, but looked equally happy and satisfactory,
whether on their heads, or on their heels.
What became of the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” after the publication
of my criticism on his “Oil-of-Bob,” it is somewhat difficult to
determine. The most reasonable conclusion is, that he wept
himself to death. At all events he disappeared instantaneously
from the face of the earth, and no man has seen even the ghost of
him since.
This matter having been properly accomplished, and the Furies
appeased, I grew at once into high favor with Mr. Crab. He took
me into his confidence, gave me a permanent situation as Thomas
Hawk of the “Lollipop,” and, as for the present, he could afford
me no salary, allowed me to profit, at discretion, by his advice.
“My dear Thingum,” said he to me one day after dinner, “I respect
your abilities and love you as a son. You shall be my heir. When
I die I will bequeath you the ‘Lollipop.’ In the meantime I will
make a man of you—I _will_—provided always that you follow my
counsel. The first thing to do is to get rid of the old bore.”
“Boar?” said I inquiringly—“pig, eh?—_aper?_ (as we say in
Latin)—who?—where?”
“Your father,” said he.
“Precisely,” I replied,—“pig.”
“You have your fortune to make, Thingum,” resumed Mr. Crab, “and
that governor of yours is a millstone about your neck. We must
cut him at once.” [Here I took out my knife.] “We must cut him,”
continued Mr. Crab, “decidedly and forever. He won’t do—he
_won’t_. Upon second thoughts, you had better kick him, or cane
him, or something of that kind.”
“What do you say,” I suggested modestly, “to my kicking him in
the first instance, caning him afterwards, and winding up by
tweaking his nose?”
Mr. Crab looked at me musingly for some moments, and then
answered:
“I think, Mr. Bob, that what you propose would answer
sufficiently well—indeed remarkably well—that is to say, as far
as it went—but barbers are exceedingly hard to cut, and I think,
upon the whole, that, having performed upon Thomas Bob the
operations you suggest, it would be advisable to blacken, with
your fists, both his eyes, very carefully and thoroughly, to
prevent his ever seeing you again in fashionable promenades.
After doing this, I really do not perceive that you can do any
more. However—it might be just as well to roll him once or twice
in the gutter, and then put him in charge of the police. Any time
the next morning you can call at the watch-house and swear an
assault.”
I was much affected by the kindness of feeling towards me
personally, which was evinced in this excellent advice of Mr.
Crab, and I did not fail to profit by it forthwith. The result
was, that I got rid of the old bore, and began to feel a little
independent and gentleman-like. The want of money, however, was,
for a few weeks, a source of some discomfort; but at length, by
carefully putting to use my two eyes, and observing how matters
went just in front of my nose, I perceived how the thing was to
be brought about. I say “thing”—be it observed—for they tell me
the Latin for it is _rem_. By the way, talking of Latin, can any
one tell me the meaning of _quocunque_—or what is the meaning of
_modo?_
My plan was exceedingly simple. I bought, for a song, a sixteenth
of the “Snapping-Turtle”:—that was all. The thing was _done_, and
I put money in my purse. There were some trivial arrangements
afterwards, to be sure; but these formed no portion of the plan.
They were a consequence—a result. For example, I bought pen, ink,
and paper, and put them into furious activity. Having thus
completed a Magazine article, I gave it, for appellation,
“Fol-Lol, _by the Author of_ ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’” and enveloped it
to the “Goosetherumfoodle.” That journal, however, having
pronounced it “twattle” in the “Monthly Notices to
Correspondents,” I reheaded the paper “‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle,’ by
Thingum Bob, Esq., Author of the Ode on ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’ _and_
Editor of the ‘Snapping-Turtle.’” With this amendment, I
re-enclosed it to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and, while I awaited a
reply, published daily, in the “Turtle,” six columns of what may
be termed philosophical and analytical investigation of the
literary merits of the “Goosetherumfoodle,” as well as of the
personal character of the editor of the “Goosetherumfoodle.” At
the end of a week the “Goosetherumfoodle” discovered that it had,
by some odd mistake, “confounded a stupid article, headed
‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle’ and composed by some unknown ignoramus, with
a gem of resplendent lustre similarly entitled, the work of
Thingum Bob, Esq., the celebrated author of ‘The Oil-of-Bob.’”
The “Goosetherumfoodle” deeply “regretted this very natural
accident,” and promised, moreover, an insertion of the _genuine_
“Hey-Diddle-Diddle” in the very next number of the Magazine.
The fact is, I _thought_—I _really_ thought—I thought at the
time—I thought _then_—and have no reason for thinking otherwise
_now_—that the “Goosetherumfoodle” _did_ make a mistake. With the
best intentions in the world, I never knew any thing that made as
many singular mistakes as the “Goosetherumfoodle.” From that day
I took a liking to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and the result was I
soon saw into the very depths of its literary merits, and did not
fail to expatiate upon them, in the “Turtle,” whenever a fitting
opportunity occurred. And it is to be regarded as a very peculiar
coincidence—as one of those positively _remarkable_ coincidences
which set a man to serious thinking—that just such a total
revolution of opinion—just such entire _bouleversement_, (as we
say in French,)—just such thorough _topsiturviness_, (if I may be
permitted to employ a rather forcible term of the Choctaws,) as
happened, _pro_ and _con_, between myself on the one part, and
the “Goosetherumfoodle” on the other, did actually again happen,
in a brief period afterwards, and with precisely similar
circumstances, in the case of myself and the “Rowdy-Dow,” and in
the case of myself and the “Hum-Drum.”
Thus it was that, by a master-stroke of genius, I at length
consummated my triumphs by “putting money in my purse,” and thus
may be said really and fairly to have commenced that brilliant
and eventful career which rendered me illustrious, and which now
enables me to say, with Chateaubriand, “I have made
history”—“_J’ai fait l’histoire_.”
I have indeed “made history.” From the bright epoch which I now
record, my actions—my works—are the property of mankind. They are
familiar to the world. It is, then, needless for me to detail
how, soaring rapidly, I fell heir to the “Lollipop”—how I merged
this journal in the “Hum-Drum”—how again I made purchase of the
“Rowdy-Dow,” thus combining the three periodicals—how, lastly, I
effected a bargain for the sole remaining rival, and united all
the literature of the country in one magnificent Magazine, known
everywhere as the
“Rowdy-Dow, Lollipop, Hum-Drum,
and
goosetherumfoodle.”
Yes; I have made history. My fame is universal. It extends to the
uttermost ends of the earth. You cannot take up a common
newspaper in which you shall not see some allusion to the
immortal Thingum Bob. It is Mr. Thingum Bob said so, and Mr.
Thingum Bob wrote this, and Mr. Thingum Bob did that. But I am
meek and expire with an humble heart. After all, what is it?—this
indescribable something which men will persist in terming
“genius?” I agree with Buffon—with Hogarth—it is but _diligence_
after all.
Look at _me!_—how I labored—how I toiled—how I wrote! Ye Gods,
did I _not_ write? I knew not the word “ease.” By day I adhered
to my desk, and at night, a pale student, I consumed the midnight
oil. You should have seen me—you _should_. I leaned to the right.
I leaned to the left. I sat forward. I sat backward. I sat upon
end. I sat _tete baissée_, (as they have it in the Kickapoo,)
bowing my head close to the alabaster page. And, through all,
I—_wrote_. Through joy and through sorrow, I—_wrote_. Through
hunger and through thirst, I—_wrote_. Through good report and
through ill report, I—_wrote_. Through sunshine and through
moonshine, I—_wrote. What_ I wrote it is unnecessary to say. The
_style!_—that was the thing. I caught it from
Fatquack—whizz!—fizz!—— and I am giving you a specimen of it now.
HOW TO WRITE A “BLACKWOOD” ARTICLE
“In the name of the Prophet—figs!!”
—_Cry of the Turkish fig-peddler._
I presume everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora
Psyche Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies
ever calls me Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a
vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means “the
soul” (that’s me, I’m all soul) and sometimes “a butterfly,”
which latter meaning undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my
new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and
the trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces of
orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any person who should
look at me would be instantly aware that my name wasn’t Snobbs.
Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that report through sheer envy.
Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But what can we
expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about
“blood out of a turnip,” &c.? [Mem. put her in mind of it the
first opportunity.] [Mem. again—pull her nose.] Where was I? Ah!
I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia,
and that Zenobia was a queen—(So am I. Dr. Moneypenny always
calls me the Queen of the Hearts)—and that Zenobia, as well as
Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was “a Greek,” and that
consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia
and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me
Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.
As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very
Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding
secretary to the “Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total,
Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical,
Association, To, Civilize, Humanity.” Dr. Moneypenny made the
title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big like an
empty rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes—but he’s deep.)
We all sign the initials of the society after our names, in the
fashion of the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts—the S. D. U. K.,
Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, &c, &c. Dr.
Moneypenny says that S. stands for stale, and that D. U. K.
spells duck, (but it don’t,) that S. D. U. K. stands for Stale
Duck and not for Lord Brougham’s society—but then Dr. Moneypenny
is such a queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me
the truth. At any rate we always add to our names the initials P.
R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H.—that is to say,
Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles,
Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association,
To, Civilize, Humanity—one letter for each word, which is a
decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have
it that our initials give our true character—but for my life I
can’t see what he means.
Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous
exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met
with no very great success until I joined it. The truth is, the
members indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers
read every Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than
buffoonery. They were all whipped syllabub. There was no
investigation of first causes, first principles. There was no
investigation of any thing at all. There was no attention paid to
that great point, the “fitness of things.” In short there was no
fine writing like this. It was all low—very! No profundity, no
reading, no metaphysics—nothing which the learned call
spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to stigmatize as
cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant” with a capital K—but I
know better.]
When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a
better style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how
well I have succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P. R.
E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as any to be found even in
Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because I have been assured that the
finest writing, upon every subject, is to be discovered in the
pages of that justly celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our
model upon all themes, and are getting into rapid notice
accordingly. And, after all, it’s not so very difficult a matter
to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if one only
goes properly about it. Of course I don’t speak of the political
articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr.
Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of
tailor’s-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for
orders. One hands him the “Times,” another the “Examiner” and a
third a “Culley’s New Compendium of Slang-Whang.” Mr. B. merely
cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done—nothing but
“Examiner,” “Slang-Whang,” and “Times”—then “Times,”
“Slang-Whang,” and “Examiner”—and then “Times,” “Examiner,” and
“Slang-Whang.”
But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous
articles; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr.
Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and
what everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of
writing which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is
only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the
society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of
composition. This method is very simple, but not so much so as
the politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B.‘s, and making known to
him the wishes of the society, he received me with great
civility, took me into his study, and gave me a clear explanation
of the whole process.
“My dear madam,” said he, evidently struck with my majestic
appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green
agraffas, and orange-colored auriclas. “My dear madam,” said he,
“sit down. The matter stands thus: In the first place your writer
of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with
a very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!” he
continued, after a pause, with the most expressive energy and
solemnity of manner, “mark me!—that pen—must—never be mended!
Herein, madam, lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume
upon myself to say, that no individual, of however great genius
ever wrote with a good pen—understand me,—a good article. You may
take, it for granted, that when manuscript can be read it is
never worth reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to
which if you cannot readily assent, our conference is at an end.”
He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the
conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one,
too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He
seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions.
“It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you
to any article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study,
yet perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let
me see. There was ‘The Dead Alive,’ a capital thing!—the record
of a gentleman’s sensations when entombed before the breath was
out of his body—full of tastes, terror, sentiment, metaphysics,
and erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born
and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the ‘Confessions of an
Opium-eater’—fine, very fine!—glorious imagination—deep
philosophy acute speculation—plenty of fire and fury, and a good
spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of
flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully.
They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper—but not so. It
was composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands
and water, ‘hot, without sugar.’” [This I could scarcely have
believed had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of
it.] “Then there was ‘The Involuntary Experimentalist,’ all about
a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and
well, although certainly done to a turn. And then there was ‘The
Diary of a Late Physician,’ where the merit lay in good rant, and
indifferent Greek—both of them taking things with the public. And
then there was ‘The Man in the Bell,’ a paper by-the-by, Miss
Zenobia, which I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention.
It is the history of a young person who goes to sleep under the
clapper of a church bell, and is awakened by its tolling for a
funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly, pulling out
his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are
the great things after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung,
be sure and make a note of your sensations—they will be worth to
you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, Miss
Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations.”
“That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood,” said I.
“Good!” he replied. “I see you are a pupil after my own heart.
But I must put you au fait to the details necessary in composing
what may be denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the
sensation stamp—the kind which you will understand me to say I
consider the best for all purposes.
“The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape
as no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance,—that was
a good hit. But if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, and if
you cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed
up in an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will
have to be contented with simply imagining some similar
misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the actual
fact to bear you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an
experimental knowledge of the matter in hand. ‘Truth is strange,’
you know, ‘stranger than fiction’—besides being more to the
purpose.”
Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would
go and hang myself forthwith.
“Good!” he replied, “do so;—although hanging is somewhat
hacknied. Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth’s
pills, and then give us your sensations. However, my instructions
will apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in
your way home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over
by an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter.
But to proceed.
“Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the
tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic,
the tone enthusiastic, the tone natural—all commonplace enough.
But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately
come much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus:
Can’t be too brief. Can’t be too snappish. Always a full stop.
And never a paragraph.
“Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional.
Some of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be
all in a whirl, like a humming-top, and make a noise very
similar, which answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This
is the best of all possible styles where the writer is in too
great a hurry to think.
“The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big
words this is your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic
schools—of Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmaeon. Say something about
objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man named
Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let
slip any thing a little too absurd, you need not be at the
trouble of scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say
that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the
‘Kritik der reinem Vernunft,’ or to the ‘Metaphysithe
Anfongsgrunde der Noturwissenchaft.’ This would look erudite
and—and—and frank.
“There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall
mention only two more—the tone transcendental and the tone
heterogeneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into
the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody
else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed.
A little reading of the ‘Dial’ will carry you a great way.
Eschew, in this case, big words; get them as small as possible,
and write them upside down. Look over Channing’s poems and quote
what he says about a ‘fat little man with a delusive show of
Can.’ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don’t say a
syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo.
Hint everything—assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say
‘bread and butter,’ do not by any means say it outright. You may
say any thing and every thing approaching to ‘bread and butter.’
You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so far as to
insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real
meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to
say ‘bread and butter!’”
I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I
lived. He kissed me and continued:
“As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture,
in equal proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is
consequently made up of every thing deep, great, odd, piquant,
pertinent, and pretty.
“Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and
tone. The most important portion—in fact, the soul of the whole
business, is yet to be attended to—I allude to the filling up. It
is not to be supposed that a lady, or gentleman either, has been
leading the life of a book worm. And yet above all things it is
necessary that your article have an air of erudition, or at least
afford evidence of extensive general reading. Now I’ll put you in
the way of accomplishing this point. See here!” (pulling down
some three or four ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at
random). “By casting your eye down almost any page of any book in
the world, you will be able to perceive at once a host of little
scraps of either learning or _bel-esprit-ism_, which are the very
thing for the spicing of a Blackwood article. You might as well
note down a few while I read them to you. I shall make two
divisions: first, Piquant Facts for the Manufacture of Similes,
and, second, Piquant Expressions to be introduced as occasion may
require. Write now!”—and I wrote as he dictated.
“PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. ‘There were originally but three
Muses—Melete, Mneme, Aœde—meditation, memory, and singing.’ You
may make a good deal of that little fact if properly worked. You
see it is not generally known, and looks _recherché_. You must be
careful and give the thing with a downright improviso air.
“Again. ‘The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged
without injury to the purity of its waters.’ Rather stale that,
to be sure, but, if properly dressed and dished up, will look
quite as fresh as ever.
“Here is something better. ‘The Persian Iris appears to some
persons to possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to
others it is perfectly scentless.’ Fine that, and very delicate!
Turn it about a little, and it will do wonders. We’ll have some
thing else in the botanical line. There’s nothing goes down so
well, especially with the help of a little Latin. Write!
“‘_The Epidendrum Flos Aeris_, of Java, bears a very beautiful
flower, and will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives
suspend it by a cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance
for years.’ That’s capital! That will do for the similes. Now for
the Piquant Expressions.
“PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. ‘_The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li_.’
Good! By introducing these few words with dexterity you will
evince your intimate acquaintance with the language and
literature of the Chinese. With the aid of this you may either
get along without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There
is no passing muster, however, without Spanish, Italian, German,
Latin, and Greek. I must look you out a little specimen of each.
Any scrap will answer, because you must depend upon your own
ingenuity to make it fit into your article. Now write!
“‘_Aussi tendre que Zaire_’—as tender as Zaire-French. Alludes to
the frequent repetition of the phrase, _la tendre Zaire_, in the
French tragedy of that name. Properly introduced, will show not
only your knowledge of the language, but your general reading and
wit. You can say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating
(write an article about being choked to death by a chicken-bone)
was not altogether _aussi tendre que Zaire_. Write!
‘Van muerte tan escondida,
Que no te sienta venir,
Porque el plazer del morir,
No mestorne a dar la vida.’
“That’s Spanish—from Miguel de Cervantes. ‘Come quickly, O death!
but be sure and don’t let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I
shall feel at your appearance should unfortunately bring me back
again to life.’ This you may slip in quite a propos when you are
struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!
‘Il pover ‘huomo che non se’n era accorto,
Andava combattendo, e era morto.‘
“That’s Italian, you perceive—from Ariosto. It means that a great
hero, in the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been
fairly killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The
application of this to your own case is obvious—for I trust, Miss
Psyche, that you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour
and a half after you have been choked to death by that
chicken-bone. Please to write!
‘Und sterb’ich doch, no sterb’ich denn
Durch sie—durch sie!’’
“That’s German—from Schiller. ‘And if I die, at least I die—for
thee—for thee!’ Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the
cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or
lady either) of sense, wouldn’t die, I should like to know, for a
well fattened capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with
capers and mushrooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, with
orange-jellies _en mosaïques_. Write! (You can get them that way
at Tortoni’s)—Write, if you please!
“Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too, (one can’t be
too _recherché_ or brief in one’s Latin, it’s getting so
common—ignoratio elenchi. He has committed an ignoratio
elenchi—that is to say, he has understood the words of your
proposition, but not the idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some
poor fellow whom you address while choking with that
chicken-bone, and who therefore didn’t precisely understand what
you were talking about. Throw the ignoratio elenchi in his teeth,
and, at once, you have him annihilated. If he dares to reply, you
can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that speeches are mere
anemonae verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with great
brilliancy, has no smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may be
down upon him with insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter—a phrase
which Silius Italicus (see here!) applies to thoughts pompous and
inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the heart. He can do
nothing but roll over and die. Will you be kind enough to write?
“In Greek we must have some thing pretty—from Demosthenes, for
example. Ανερο φευων και παλιν μαχεσεται. [Aner o pheugoen kai
palin makesetai.] There is a tolerably good translation of it in
Hudibras—
‘For he that flies may fight again,
Which he can never do that’s slain.’
In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your
Greek. The very letters have an air of profundity about them.
Only observe, madam, the astute look of that Epsilon! That Phi
ought certainly to be a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow
than that Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In short, there is nothing
like Greek for a genuine sensation-paper. In the present case
your application is the most obvious thing in the world. Rap out
the sentence, with a huge oath, and by way of ultimatum at the
good-for-nothing dunder-headed villain who couldn’t understand
your plain English in relation to the chicken-bone. He’ll take
the hint and be off, you may depend upon it.”
These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the
topic in question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient.
I was, at length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and
determined to do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made
a proposition for the purchase of the paper when written; but as
he could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better
to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a
sum. Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the
gentleman showed his consideration for me in all other respects,
and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His parting
words made a deep impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall
always remember them with gratitude.
“My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, while the tears stood in his
eyes, “is there anything else I can do to promote the success of
your laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is just possible
that you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to—to—get
yourself drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone, or—or
hung,—or—bitten by a—but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a
couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard—fine fellows, I
assure you—savage, and all that—indeed just the thing for your
money—they’ll have you eaten up, auricula and all, in less than
five minutes (here’s my watch!)—and then only think of the
sensations! Here! I say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you villain!—let out
those”—but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another
moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my
departure, and accordingly took leave at once—somewhat more
abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have otherwise
allowed.
It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into
some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this
view I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about
Edinburgh, seeking for desperate adventures—adventures adequate
to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast
character of the article I intended to write. In this excursion I
was attended by one negro servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog
Diana, whom I had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not,
however, until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my
arduous undertaking. An important event then happened of which
the following Blackwood article, in the tone heterogeneous, is
the substance and result.
A PREDICAMENT
What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?—COMUS.
It was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the
goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets
were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children
were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they
bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they
caterwauled. Dogs they danced. _Danced!_ Could it then be
possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus
it is ever. What a host of gloomy recollections will ever and
anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative
contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the everlasting,
and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say,
the—continued—yes, the continued and continuous, bitter,
harassing, disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression,
the very disturbing influence of the serene, and godlike, and
heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what
may be rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly
enviable—nay! the most benignly beautiful, the most deliciously
ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so bold
an expression) thing (pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world—but
I am always led away by my feelings. In such a mind, I repeat,
what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle! The dogs
danced! I—I could not! They frisked—I wept. They capered—I sobbed
aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the
recollection of the classical reader that exquisite passage in
relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in the
commencement of the third volume of that admirable and venerable
Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.
In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but
faithful companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She
had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribbon tied
fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches
in height, but her head was somewhat bigger than her body, and
her tail being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air of injured
innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite
with all.
And Pompey, my negro!—sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee?
I had taken Pompey’s arm. He was three feet in height (I like to
be particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of
age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be
called small, nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like
pearl, and his large full eyes were deliciously white. Nature had
endowed him with no neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual
with that race) in the middle of the upper portion of the feet.
He was clad with a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a
stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly-new drab overcoat
which had formerly been in the service of the tall, stately, and
illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was well
cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up
out of the dirt with both hands.
There were three persons in our party, and two of them have
already been the subject of remark. There was a third—that person
was myself. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not Suky
Snobbs. My appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of
which I speak I was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a
sky-blue Arabian mantelet. And the dress had trimmings of green
agraffas, and seven graceful flounces of the orange-colored
auricula. I thus formed the third of the party. There was the
poodle. There was Pompey. There was myself. We were three. Thus
it is said there were originally but three Furies—Melty, Nimmy,
and Hetty—Meditation, Memory, and Fiddling.
Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a
respectable distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the
populous and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On
a sudden, there presented itself to view a church—a Gothic
cathedral—vast, venerable, and with a tall steeple, which towered
into the sky. What madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon
my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the
giddy pinnacle, and then survey the immense extent of the city.
The door of the cathedral stood invitingly open. My destiny
prevailed. I entered the ominous archway. Where then was my
guardian angel?—if indeed such angels there be. If! Distressing
monosyllable! what world of mystery, and meaning, and doubt, and
uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters! I entered the
ominous archway! I entered; and, without injury to my
orange-colored auriculas, I passed beneath the portal, and
emerged within the vestibule. Thus it is said the immense river
Alfred passed, unscathed, and unwetted, beneath the sea.
I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round! Yes, they
went round and up, and round and up and round and up, until I
could not help surmising, with the sagacious Pompey, upon whose
supporting arm I leaned in all the confidence of early
affection—I could not help surmising that the upper end of the
continuous spiral ladder had been accidentally, or perhaps
designedly, removed. I paused for breath; and, in the meantime,
an accident occurred of too momentous a nature in a moral, and
also in a metaphysical point of view, to be passed over without
notice. It appeared to me—indeed I was quite confident of the
fact—I could not be mistaken—no! I had, for some moments,
carefully and anxiously observed the motions of my Diana—I say
that I could not be mistaken—Diana smelt a rat! At once I called
Pompey’s attention to the subject, and he—he agreed with me.
There was then no longer any reasonable room for doubt. The rat
had been smelled—and by Diana. Heavens! shall I ever forget the
intense excitement of the moment? Alas! what is the boasted
intellect of man? The rat!—it was there—that is to say, it was
somewhere. Diana smelled the rat. I—I could not! Thus it is said
the Prussian Isis has, for some persons, a sweet and very
powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly scentless.
The staircase had been surmounted, and there were now only three
or four more upward steps intervening between us and the summit.
We still ascended, and now only one step remained. One step! One
little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great
staircase of human life how vast a sum of human happiness or
misery depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey, and then of
the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us. I
thought of Pompey!—alas, I thought of love! I thought of my many
false steps which have been taken, and may be taken again. I
resolved to be more cautious, more reserved. I abandoned the arm
of Pompey, and, without his assistance, surmounted the one
remaining step, and gained the chamber of the belfry. I was
followed immediately afterward by my poodle. Pompey alone
remained behind. I stood at the head of the staircase, and
encouraged him to ascend. He stretched forth to me his hand, and
unfortunately in so doing was forced to abandon his firm hold
upon the overcoat. Will the gods never cease their persecution?
The overcoat is dropped, and, with one of his feet, Pompey
stepped upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. He
stumbled and fell—this consequence was inevitable. He fell
forward, and, with his accursed head, striking me full in the—in
the breast, precipitated me headlong, together with himself, upon
the hard, filthy, and detestable floor of the belfry. But my
revenge was sure, sudden, and complete. Seizing him furiously by
the wool with both hands, I tore out a vast quantity of black,
and crisp, and curling material, and tossed it from me with every
manifestation of disdain. It fell among the ropes of the belfry
and remained. Pompey arose, and said no word. But he regarded me
piteously with his large eyes and—sighed. Ye Gods—that sigh! It
sunk into my heart. And the hair—the wool! Could I have reached
that wool I would have bathed it with my tears, in testimony of
regret. But alas! it was now far beyond my grasp. As it dangled
among the cordage of the bell, I fancied it alive. I fancied that
it stood on end with indignation. Thus the happy-dandy Flos Aeris
of Java bears, it is said, a beautiful flower, which will live
when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a cord
from the ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for years.
Our quarrel was now made up, and we looked about the room for an
aperture through which to survey the city of Edina. Windows there
were none. The sole light admitted into the gloomy chamber
proceeded from a square opening, about a foot in diameter, at a
height of about seven feet from the floor. Yet what will the
energy of true genius not effect? I resolved to clamber up to
this hole. A vast quantity of wheels, pinions, and other
cabalistic-looking machinery stood opposite the hole, close to
it; and through the hole there passed an iron rod from the
machinery. Between the wheels and the wall where the hole lay
there was barely room for my body—yet I was desperate, and
determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my side.
“You perceive that aperture, Pompey. I wish to look through it.
You will stand here just beneath the hole—so. Now, hold out one
of your hands, Pompey, and let me step upon it—thus. Now, the
other hand, Pompey, and with its aid I will get upon your
shoulders.”
He did every thing I wished, and I found, upon getting up, that I
could easily pass my head and neck through the aperture. The
prospect was sublime. Nothing could be more magnificent. I merely
paused a moment to bid Diana behave herself, and assure Pompey
that I would be considerate and bear as lightly as possible upon
his shoulders. I told him I would be tender of his feelings—ossi
tender que beefsteak. Having done this justice to my faithful
friend, I gave myself up with great zest and enthusiasm to the
enjoyment of the scene which so obligingly spread itself out
before my eyes.
Upon this subject, however, I shall forbear to dilate. I will not
describe the city of Edinburgh. Every one has been to the city of
Edinburgh. Every one has been to Edinburgh—the classic Edina. I
will confine myself to the momentous details of my own lamentable
adventure. Having, in some measure, satisfied my curiosity in
regard to the extent, situation, and general appearance of the
city, I had leisure to survey the church in which I was, and the
delicate architecture of the steeple. I observed that the
aperture through which I had thrust my head was an opening in the
dial-plate of a gigantic clock, and must have appeared, from the
street, as a large key-hole, such as we see in the face of the
French watches. No doubt the true object was to admit the arm of
an attendant, to adjust, when necessary, the hands of the clock
from within. I observed also, with surprise, the immense size of
these hands, the longest of which could not have been less than
ten feet in length, and, where broadest, eight or nine inches in
breadth. They were of solid steel apparently, and their edges
appeared to be sharp. Having noticed these particulars, and some
others, I again turned my eyes upon the glorious prospect below,
and soon became absorbed in contemplation.
From this, after some minutes, I was aroused by the voice of
Pompey, who declared that he could stand it no longer, and
requested that I would be so kind as to come down. This was
unreasonable, and I told him so in a speech of some length. He
replied, but with an evident misunderstanding of my ideas upon
the subject. I accordingly grew angry, and told him in plain
words, that he was a fool, that he had committed an ignoramus
e-clench-eye, that his notions were mere insommary Bovis, and his
words little better than an ennemywerrybor’em. With this he
appeared satisfied, and I resumed my contemplations.
It might have been half an hour after this altercation when, as I
was deeply absorbed in the heavenly scenery beneath me, I was
startled by something very cold which pressed with a gentle
pressure on the back of my neck. It is needless to say that I
felt inexpressibly alarmed. I knew that Pompey was beneath my
feet, and that Diana was sitting, according to my explicit
directions, upon her hind legs, in the farthest corner of the
room. What could it be? Alas! I but too soon discovered. Turning
my head gently to one side, I perceived, to my extreme horror,
that the huge, glittering, scimetar-like minute-hand of the clock
had, in the course of its hourly revolution, descended upon my
neck. There was, I knew, not a second to be lost. I pulled back
at once—but it was too late. There was no chance of forcing my
head through the mouth of that terrible trap in which it was so
fairly caught, and which grew narrower and narrower with a
rapidity too horrible to be conceived. The agony of that moment
is not to be imagined. I threw up my hands and endeavored, with
all my strength, to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I might
as well have tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down
it came, closer and yet closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; but
he said that I had hurt his feelings by calling him “an ignorant
old squint-eye.” I yelled to Diana; but she only said
“bow-wow-wow,” and that I had told her “on no account to stir
from the corner.” Thus I had no relief to expect from my
associates.
Meantime the ponderous and terrific Scythe of Time (for I now
discovered the literal import of that classical phrase) had not
stopped, nor was it likely to stop, in its career. Down and still
down, it came. It had already buried its sharp edge a full inch
in my flesh, and my sensations grew indistinct and confused. At
one time I fancied myself in Philadelphia with the stately Dr.
Moneypenny, at another in the back parlor of Mr. Blackwood
receiving his invaluable instructions. And then again the sweet
recollection of better and earlier times came over me, and I
thought of that happy period when the world was not all a desert,
and Pompey not altogether cruel.
The ticking of the machinery amused me. Amused me, I say, for my
sensations now bordered upon perfect happiness, and the most
trifling circumstances afforded me pleasure. The eternal
click-clak, click-clak, click-clak of the clock was the most
melodious of music in my ears, and occasionally even put me in
mind of the graceful sermonic harangues of Dr. Ollapod. Then
there were the great figures upon the dial-plate—how intelligent
how intellectual, they all looked! And presently they took to
dancing the Mazurka, and I think it was the figure V. who
performed the most to my satisfaction. She was evidently a lady
of breeding. None of your swaggerers, and nothing at all
indelicate in her motions. She did the pirouette to
admiration—whirling round upon her apex. I made an endeavor to
hand her a chair, for I saw that she appeared fatigued with her
exertions—and it was not until then that I fully perceived my
lamentable situation. Lamentable indeed! The bar had buried
itself two inches in my neck. I was aroused to a sense of
exquisite pain. I prayed for death, and, in the agony of the
moment, could not help repeating those exquisite verses of the
poet Miguel De Cervantes:
Vanny Buren, tan escondida
Query no te senty venny
Pork and pleasure, delly morry
Nommy, torny, darry, widdy!
But now a new horror presented itself, and one indeed sufficient
to startle the strongest nerves. My eyes, from the cruel pressure
of the machine, were absolutely starting from their sockets.
While I was thinking how I should possibly manage without them,
one actually tumbled out of my head, and, rolling down the steep
side of the steeple, lodged in the rain gutter which ran along
the eaves of the main building. The loss of the eye was not so
much as the insolent air of independence and contempt with which
it regarded me after it was out. There it lay in the gutter just
under my nose, and the airs it gave itself would have been
ridiculous had they not been disgusting. Such a winking and
blinking were never before seen. This behavior on the part of my
eye in the gutter was not only irritating on account of its
manifest insolence and shameful ingratitude, but was also
exceedingly inconvenient on account of the sympathy which always
exists between two eyes of the same head, however far apart. I
was forced, in a manner, to wink and to blink, whether I would or
not, in exact concert with the scoundrelly thing that lay just
under my nose. I was presently relieved, however, by the dropping
out of the other eye. In falling it took the same direction
(possibly a concerted plot) as its fellow. Both rolled out of the
gutter together, and in truth I was very glad to get rid of them.
The bar was now four inches and a half deep in my neck, and there
was only a little bit of skin to cut through. My sensations were
those of entire happiness, for I felt that in a few minutes, at
farthest, I should be relieved from my disagreeable situation.
And in this expectation I was not at all deceived. At twenty-five
minutes past five in the afternoon, precisely, the huge
minute-hand had proceeded sufficiently far on its terrible
revolution to sever the small remainder of my neck. I was not
sorry to see the head which had occasioned me so much
embarrassment at length make a final separation from my body. It
first rolled down the side of the steeple, then lodge, for a few
seconds, in the gutter, and then made its way, with a plunge,
into the middle of the street.
I will candidly confess that my feelings were now of the most
singular—nay, of the most mysterious, the most perplexing and
incomprehensible character. My senses were here and there at one
and the same moment. With my head I imagined, at one time, that
I, the head, was the real Signora Psyche Zenobia—at another I
felt convinced that myself, the body, was the proper identity. To
clear my ideas on this topic I felt in my pocket for my
snuff-box, but, upon getting it, and endeavoring to apply a pinch
of its grateful contents in the ordinary manner, I became
immediately aware of my peculiar deficiency, and threw the box at
once down to my head. It took a pinch with great satisfaction,
and smiled me an acknowledgement in return. Shortly afterward it
made me a speech, which I could hear but indistinctly without
ears. I gathered enough, however, to know that it was astonished
at my wishing to remain alive under such circumstances. In the
concluding sentences it quoted the noble words of Ariosto—
Il pover hommy che non sera corty
And have a combat tenty erry morty;
thus comparing me to the hero who, in the heat of the combat, not
perceiving that he was dead, continued to contest the battle with
inextinguishable valor. There was nothing now to prevent my
getting down from my elevation, and I did so. What it was that
Pompey saw so very peculiar in my appearance I have never yet
been able to find out. The fellow opened his mouth from ear to
ear, and shut his two eyes as if he were endeavoring to crack
nuts between the lids. Finally, throwing off his overcoat, he
made one spring for the staircase and disappeared. I hurled after
the scoundrel these vehement words of Demosthenes—
Andrew O’Phlegethon, you really make haste to fly,
and then turned to the darling of my heart, to the one-eyed! the
shaggy-haired Diana. Alas! what a horrible vision affronted my
eyes? Was that a rat I saw skulking into his hole? Are these the
picked bones of the little angel who has been cruelly devoured by
the monster? Ye gods! and what do I behold—is that the departed
spirit, the shade, the ghost, of my beloved puppy, which I
perceive sitting with a grace so melancholy, in the corner?
Hearken! for she speaks, and, heavens! it is in the German of
Schiller—
“Unt stubby duk, so stubby dun
Duk she! duk she!”
Alas! and are not her words too true?
“And if I died, at least I died
For thee—for thee.”
Sweet creature! she too has sacrificed herself in my behalf.
Dogless, niggerless, headless, what now remains for the unhappy
Signora Psyche Zenobia? Alas—nothing! I have done.
MYSTIFICATION
Slid, if these be your “passados” and “montantes,” I’ll have none
o’ them.
—NED KNOWLES.
The Baron Ritzner von Jung was a noble Hungarian family, every
member of which (at least as far back into antiquity as any
certain records extend) was more or less remarkable for talent of
some description—the majority for that species of _grotesquerie_
in conception of which Tieck, a scion of the house, has given a
vivid, although by no means the most vivid exemplifications. My
acquaintance with Ritzner commenced at the magnificent Chateau
Jung, into which a train of droll adventures, not to be made
public, threw me during the summer months of the year 18—. Here
it was that I obtained a place in his regard, and here, with
somewhat more difficulty, a partial insight into his mental
conformation. In later days this insight grew more clear, as the
intimacy which had at first permitted it became more close; and
when, after three years separation, we met at G——n, I knew all
that it was necessary to know of the character of the Baron
Ritzner von Jung.
I remember the buzz of curiosity which his advent excited within
the college precincts on the night of the twenty-fifth of June. I
remember still more distinctly, that while he was pronounced by
all parties at first sight “the most remarkable man in the
world,” no person made any attempt at accounting for his opinion.
That he was unique appeared so undeniable, that it was deemed
impertinent to inquire wherein the uniquity consisted. But,
letting this matter pass for the present, I will merely observe
that, from the first moment of his setting foot within the limits
of the university, he began to exercise over the habits, manners,
persons, purses, and propensities of the whole community which
surrounded him, an influence the most extensive and despotic, yet
at the same time the most indefinite and altogether
unaccountable. Thus the brief period of his residence at the
university forms an era in its annals, and is characterized by
all classes of people appertaining to it or its dependencies as
“that very extraordinary epoch forming the domination of the
Baron Ritzner von Jung.”
Upon his advent to G——n, he sought me out in my apartments. He
was then of no particular age, by which I mean that it was
impossible to form a guess respecting his age by any data
personally afforded. He might have been fifteen or fifty, and was
twenty-one years and seven months. He was by no means a handsome
man—perhaps the reverse. The contour of his face was somewhat
angular and harsh. His forehead was lofty and very fair; his nose
a snub; his eyes large, heavy, glassy, and meaningless. About the
mouth there was more to be observed. The lips were gently
protruded, and rested the one upon the other, after such a
fashion that it is impossible to conceive any, even the most
complex, combination of human features, conveying so entirely,
and so singly, the idea of unmitigated gravity, solemnity and
repose.
It will be perceived, no doubt, from what I have already said,
that the Baron was one of those human anomalies now and then to
be found, who make the science of mystification the study and the
business of their lives. For this science a peculiar turn of mind
gave him instinctively the cue, while his physical appearance
afforded him unusual facilities for carrying his prospects into
effect. I firmly believe that no student at G——n, during that
renowned epoch so quaintly termed the domination of the Baron
Ritzner von Jung, ever rightly entered into the mystery which
overshadowed his character. I truly think that no person at the
university, with the exception of myself, ever suspected him to
be capable of a joke, verbal or practical:—the old bull-dog at
the garden-gate would sooner have been accused,—the ghost of
Heraclitus,—or the wig of the Emeritus Professor of Theology.
This, too, when it was evident that the most egregious and
unpardonable of all conceivable tricks, whimsicalities and
buffooneries were brought about, if not directly by him, at least
plainly through his intermediate agency or connivance. The
beauty, if I may so call it, of his art mystifique, lay in that
consummate ability (resulting from an almost intuitive knowledge
of human nature, and a most wonderful self-possession,) by means
of which he never failed to make it appear that the drolleries he
was occupied in bringing to a point, arose partly in spite, and
partly in consequence of the laudable efforts he was making for
their prevention, and for the preservation of the good order and
dignity of Alma Mater. The deep, the poignant, the overwhelming
mortification, which upon each such failure of his praise worthy
endeavors, would suffuse every lineament of his countenance, left
not the slightest room for doubt of his sincerity in the bosoms
of even his most skeptical companions. The adroitness, too, was
no less worthy of observation by which he contrived to shift the
sense of the grotesque from the creator to the created—from his
own person to the absurdities to which he had given rise. In no
instance before that of which I speak, have I known the habitual
mystific escape the natural consequence of his manoevres—an
attachment of the ludicrous to his own character and person.
Continually enveloped in an atmosphere of whim, my friend
appeared to live only for the severities of society; and not even
his own household have for a moment associated other ideas than
those of the rigid and august with the memory of the Baron
Ritzner von Jung.
During the epoch of his residence at G——n it really appeared that
the demon of the _dolce far niente_ lay like an incubus upon the
university. Nothing, at least, was done beyond eating and
drinking and making merry. The apartments of the students were
converted into so many pot-houses, and there was no pot-house of
them all more famous or more frequented than that of the Baron.
Our carousals here were many, and boisterous, and long, and never
unfruitful of events.
Upon one occasion we had protracted our sitting until nearly
daybreak, and an unusual quantity of wine had been drunk. The
company consisted of seven or eight individuals besides the Baron
and myself. Most of these were young men of wealth, of high
connection, of great family pride, and all alive with an
exaggerated sense of honor. They abounded in the most ultra
German opinions respecting the duello. To these Quixotic notions
some recent Parisian publications, backed by three or four
desperate and fatal rencounters at G——n, had given new vigor and
impulse; and thus the conversation, during the greater part of
the night, had run wild upon the all-engrossing topic of the
times. The Baron, who had been unusually silent and abstracted in
the earlier portion of the evening, at length seemed to be
aroused from his apathy, took a leading part in the discourse,
and dwelt upon the benefits, and more especially upon the
beauties, of the received code of etiquette in passages of arms
with an ardor, an eloquence, an impressiveness, and an
affectionateness of manner, which elicited the warmest enthusiasm
from his hearers in general, and absolutely staggered even
myself, who well knew him to be at heart a ridiculer of those
very points for which he contended, and especially to hold the
entire fanfaronade of duelling etiquette in the sovereign
contempt which it deserves.
Looking around me during a pause in the Baron’s discourse (of
which my readers may gather some faint idea when I say that it
bore resemblance to the fervid, chanting, monotonous, yet musical
sermonic manner of Coleridge), I perceived symptoms of even more
than the general interest in the countenance of one of the party.
This gentleman, whom I shall call Hermann, was an original in
every respect—except, perhaps, in the single particular that he
was a very great fool. He contrived to bear, however, among a
particular set at the university, a reputation for deep
metaphysical thinking, and, I believe, for some logical talent.
As a duellist he had acquired great renown, even at G——n. I
forget the precise number of victims who had fallen at his hands;
but they were many. He was a man of courage undoubtedly. But it
was upon his minute acquaintance with the etiquette of the
duello, and the nicety of his sense of honor, that he most
especially prided himself. These things were a hobby which he
rode to the death. To Ritzner, ever upon the lookout for the
grotesque, his peculiarities had for a long time past afforded
food for mystification. Of this, however, I was not aware;
although, in the present instance, I saw clearly that something
of a whimsical nature was upon the tapis with my friend, and that
Hermann was its especial object.
As the former proceeded in his discourse, or rather monologue, I
perceived the excitement of the latter momently increasing. At
length he spoke; offering some objection to a point insisted upon
by R., and giving his reasons in detail. To these the Baron
replied at length (still maintaining his exaggerated tone of
sentiment) and concluding, in what I thought very bad taste, with
a sarcasm and a sneer. The hobby of Hermann now took the bit in
his teeth. This I could discern by the studied hair-splitting
farrago of his rejoinder. His last words I distinctly remember.
“Your opinions, allow me to say, Baron von Jung, although in the
main correct, are, in many nice points, discreditable to yourself
and to the university of which you are a member. In a few
respects they are even unworthy of serious refutation. I would
say more than this, sir, were it not for the fear of giving you
offence (here the speaker smiled blandly), I would say, sir, that
your opinions are not the opinions to be expected from a
gentleman.”
As Hermann completed this equivocal sentence, all eyes were
turned upon the Baron. He became pale, then excessively red;
then, dropping his pocket-handkerchief, stooped to recover it,
when I caught a glimpse of his countenance, while it could be
seen by no one else at the table. It was radiant with the
quizzical expression which was its natural character, but which I
had never seen it assume except when we were alone together, and
when he unbent himself freely. In an instant afterward he stood
erect, confronting Hermann; and so total an alteration of
countenance in so short a period I certainly never saw before.
For a moment I even fancied that I had misconceived him, and that
he was in sober earnest. He appeared to be stifling with passion,
and his face was cadaverously white. For a short time he remained
silent, apparently striving to master his emotion. Having at
length seemingly succeeded, he reached a decanter which stood
near him, saying as he held it firmly clenched—“The language you
have thought proper to employ, Mynheer Hermann, in addressing
yourself to me, is objectionable in so many particulars, that I
have neither temper nor time for specification. That my opinions,
however, are not the opinions to be expected from a gentleman, is
an observation so directly offensive as to allow me but one line
of conduct. Some courtesy, nevertheless, is due to the presence
of this company, and to yourself, at this moment, as my guest.
You will pardon me, therefore, if, upon this consideration, I
deviate slightly from the general usage among gentlemen in
similar cases of personal affront. You will forgive me for the
moderate tax I shall make upon your imagination, and endeavor to
consider, for an instant, the reflection of your person in yonder
mirror as the living Mynheer Hermann himself. This being done,
there will be no difficulty whatever. I shall discharge this
decanter of wine at your image in yonder mirror, and thus fulfil
all the spirit, if not the exact letter, of resentment for your
insult, while the necessity of physical violence to your real
person will be obviated.”
With these words he hurled the decanter, full of wine, against
the mirror which hung directly opposite Hermann; striking the
reflection of his person with great precision, and of course
shattering the glass into fragments. The whole company at once
started to their feet, and, with the exception of myself and
Ritzner, took their departure. As Hermann went out, the Baron
whispered me that I should follow him and make an offer of my
services. To this I agreed; not knowing precisely what to make of
so ridiculous a piece of business.
The duellist accepted my aid with his stiff and _ultra recherché_
air, and, taking my arm, led me to his apartment. I could hardly
forbear laughing in his face while he proceeded to discuss, with
the profoundest gravity, what he termed “the refinedly peculiar
character” of the insult he had received. After a tiresome
harangue in his ordinary style, he took down from his book
shelves a number of musty volumes on the subject of the duello,
and entertained me for a long time with their contents; reading
aloud, and commenting earnestly as he read. I can just remember
the titles of some of the works. There were the “Ordonnance of
Philip le Bel on Single Combat”; the “Theatre of Honor,” by
Favyn, and a treatise “On the Permission of Duels,” by Andiguier.
He displayed, also, with much pomposity, Brantome’s “Memoirs of
Duels,” published at Cologne, 1666, in the types of Elzevir—a
precious and unique vellum-paper volume, with a fine margin, and
bound by Derome. But he requested my attention particularly, and
with an air of mysterious sagacity, to a thick octavo, written in
barbarous Latin by one Hedelin, a Frenchman, and having the
quaint title, “Duelli Lex Scripta, et non; aliterque.” From this
he read me one of the drollest chapters in the world concerning
“Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se,”
about half of which, he averred, was strictly applicable to his
own “refinedly peculiar” case, although not one syllable of the
whole matter could I understand for the life of me. Having
finished the chapter, he closed the book, and demanded what I
thought necessary to be done. I replied that I had entire
confidence in his superior delicacy of feeling, and would abide
by what he proposed. With this answer he seemed flattered, and
sat down to write a note to the Baron. It ran thus:
Sir,—My friend, M. P.-, will hand you this note. I find it
incumbent upon me to request, at your earliest convenience, an
explanation of this evening’s occurrences at your chambers. In
the event of your declining this request, Mr. P. will be happy to
arrange, with any friend whom you may appoint, the steps
preliminary to a meeting.
With sentiments of perfect respect,
Your most humble servant,
JOHANN HERMAN.
“_To the Baron Ritzner von Jung,
August 18th, 18_—.”
Not knowing what better to do, I called upon Ritzner with this
epistle. He bowed as I presented it; then, with a grave
countenance, motioned me to a seat. Having perused the cartel, he
wrote the following reply, which I carried to Hermann.
“SIR,—Through our common friend, Mr. P., I have received your
note of this evening. Upon due reflection I frankly admit the
propriety of the explanation you suggest. This being admitted, I
still find great difficulty, (owing to the refinedly peculiar
nature of our disagreement, and of the personal affront offered
on my part,) in so wording what I have to say by way of apology,
as to meet all the minute exigencies, and all the variable
shadows, of the case. I have great reliance, however, on that
extreme delicacy of discrimination, in matters appertaining to
the rules of etiquette, for which you have been so long and so
pre-eminently distinguished. With perfect certainty, therefore,
of being comprehended, I beg leave, in lieu of offering any
sentiments of my own, to refer you to the opinions of Sieur
Hedelin, as set forth in the ninth paragraph of the chapter of
“_Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se_,” in
his “_Duelli Lex scripta, et non; aliterque_.” The nicety of your
discernment in all the matters here treated, will be sufficient,
I am assured, to convince you _that the mere circumstance of me
referring you_ to this admirable passage, ought to satisfy your
request, as a man of honor, for explanation.
“With sentiments of profound respect,
“Your most obedient servant,
“VON JUNG.”
“The Herr Johann Hermann,
August 18th, 18—”
Hermann commenced the perusal of this epistle with a scowl,
which, however, was converted into a smile of the most ludicrous
self-complacency as he came to the rigmarole about Injuriae per
applicationem, per constructionem, et per se. Having finished
reading, he begged me, with the blandest of all possible smiles,
to be seated, while he made reference to the treatise in
question. Turning to the passage specified, he read it with great
care to himself, then closed the book, and desired me, in my
character of confidential acquaintance, to express to the Baron
von Jung his exalted sense of his chivalrous behavior, and, in
that of second, to assure him that the explanation offered was of
the fullest, the most honorable, and the most unequivocally
satisfactory nature.
Somewhat amazed at all this, I made my retreat to the Baron. He
seemed to receive Hermann’s amicable letter as a matter of
course, and after a few words of general conversation, went to an
inner room and brought out the everlasting treatise “_Duelli Lex
scripta, et non; aliterque_.” He handed me the volume and asked
me to look over some portion of it. I did so, but to little
purpose, not being able to gather the least particle of meaning.
He then took the book himself, and read me a chapter aloud. To my
surprise, what he read proved to be a most horribly absurd
account of a duel between two baboons. He now explained the
mystery; showing that the volume, as it appeared _prima facie_,
was written upon the plan of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas;
that is to say, the language was ingeniously framed so as to
present to the ear all the outward signs of intelligibility, and
even of profundity, while in fact not a shadow of meaning
existed. The key to the whole was found in leaving out every
second and third word alternately, when there appeared a series
of ludicrous quizzes upon a single combat as practised in modern
times.
The Baron afterwards informed me that he had purposely thrown the
treatise in Hermann’s way two or three weeks before the
adventure, and that he was satisfied, from the general tenor of
his conversation, that he had studied it with the deepest
attention, and firmly believed it to be a work of unusual merit.
Upon this hint he proceeded. Hermann would have died a thousand
deaths rather than acknowledge his inability to understand
anything and everything in the universe that had ever been
written about the _duello_.
DIDDLING
CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES.
Hey, diddle diddle
The cat and the fiddle
Since the world began there have been two Jeremys. The one wrote
a Jeremiad about usury, and was called Jeremy Bentham. He has
been much admired by Mr. John Neal, and was a great man in a
small way. The other gave name to the most important of the Exact
Sciences, and was a great man in a great way—I may say, indeed,
in the very greatest of ways.
Diddling—or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle—is
sufficiently well understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing
_diddling_, is somewhat difficult to define. We may get, however,
at a tolerably distinct conception of the matter in hand, by
defining—not the thing, diddling, in itself—but man, as an animal
that diddles. Had Plato but hit upon this, he would have been
spared the affront of the picked chicken.
Very pertinently it was demanded of Plato, why a picked chicken,
which was clearly “a biped without feathers,” was not, according
to his own definition, a man? But I am not to be bothered by any
similar query. Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no
animal that diddles but man. It will take an entire hen-coop of
picked chickens to get over that.
What constitutes the essence, the nare, the principle of diddling
is, in fact, peculiar to the class of creatures that wear coats
and pantaloons. A crow thieves; a fox cheats; a weasel outwits; a
man diddles. To diddle is his destiny. “Man was made to mourn,”
says the poet. But not so:—he was made to diddle. This is his
aim—his object—his end. And for this reason when a man’s diddled
we say he’s “_done_.”
Diddling, rightly considered, is a compound, of which the
ingredients are minuteness, interest, perseverance, ingenuity,
audacity, _nonchalance_, originality, impertinence, and grin.
_Minuteness:_—Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a
small scale. His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper
at sight. Should he ever be tempted into magnificent speculation,
he then, at once, loses his distinctive features, and becomes
what we term “financier.” This latter word conveys the diddling
idea in every respect except that of magnitude. A diddler may
thus be regarded as a banker _in petto_—a “financial operation,”
as a diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to
“Flaccus”—as a Mastodon to a mouse—as the tail of a comet to that
of a pig.
_Interest:_—Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to
diddle for the mere _sake_ of the diddle. He has an object in
view—his pocket—and yours. He regards always the main chance. He
looks to Number One. You are Number Two, and must look to
yourself.
_Perseverance:_—Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily
discouraged. Should even the banks break, he cares nothing about
it. He steadily pursues his end, and
‘Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto,’
so he never lets go of his game.
_Ingenuity:_—Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness
large. He understands plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he
not Alexander he would be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he
would be a maker of patent rat-traps or an angler for trout.
_Audacity:_—Your diddler is audacious.—He is a bold man. He
carries the war into Africa. He conquers all by assault. He would
not fear the daggers of Frey Herren. With a little more prudence
Dick Turpin would have made a good diddler; with a trifle less
blarney, Daniel O’Connell; with a pound or two more brains,
Charles the Twelfth.
_Nonchalance:_—Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all
nervous. He never had any nerves. He is never seduced into a
flurry. He is never put out—unless put out of doors. He is
cool—cool as a cucumber. He is calm—“calm as a smile from Lady
Bury.” He is easy—easy as an old glove, or the damsels of ancient
Baiæ.
_Originality:_—Your diddler is original—conscientiously so. His
thoughts are his own. He would scorn to employ those of another.
A stale trick is his aversion. He would return a purse, I am
sure, upon discovering that he had obtained it by an unoriginal
diddle.
_Impertinence:_—Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets
his arms a-kimbo. He thrusts his hands in his trowsers’ pockets.
He sneers in your face. He treads on your corns. He eats your
dinner, he drinks your wine, he borrows your money, he pulls your
nose, he kicks your poodle, and he kisses your wife.
_Grin:_—Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this
nobody sees but himself. He grins when his daily work is
done—when his allotted labors are accomplished—at night in his
own closet, and altogether for his own private entertainment. He
goes home. He locks his door. He divests himself of his clothes.
He puts out his candle. He gets into bed. He places his head upon
the pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is no
hypothesis. It is a matter of course. I reason _à priori_, and a
diddle would be no diddle without a grin.
The origin of the diddle is referrable to the infancy of the
Human Race. Perhaps the first diddler was Adam. At all events, we
can trace the science back to a very remote period of antiquity.
The moderns, however, have brought it to a perfection never
dreamed of by our thick-headed progenitors. Without pausing to
speak of the “old saws,” therefore, I shall content myself with a
compendious account of some of the more “modern instances.”
A very good diddle is this. A housekeeper in want of a sofa, for
instance, is seen to go in and out of several cabinet warehouses.
At length she arrives at one offering an excellent variety. She
is accosted, and invited to enter, by a polite and voluble
individual at the door. She finds a sofa well adapted to her
views, and upon inquiring the price, is surprised and delighted
to hear a sum named at least twenty per cent. lower than her
expectations. She hastens to make the purchase, gets a bill and
receipt, leaves her address, with a request that the article be
sent home as speedily as possible, and retires amid a profusion
of bows from the shopkeeper. The night arrives and no sofa. A
servant is sent to make inquiry about the delay. The whole
transaction is denied. No sofa has been sold—no money
received—except by the diddler, who played shop-keeper for the
nonce.
Our cabinet warehouses are left entirely unattended, and thus
afford every facility for a trick of this kind. Visitors enter,
look at furniture, and depart unheeded and unseen. Should any one
wish to purchase, or to inquire the price of an article, a bell
is at hand, and this is considered amply sufficient.
Again, quite a respectable diddle is this. A well-dressed
individual enters a shop, makes a purchase to the value of a
dollar; finds, much to his vexation, that he has left his
pocket-book in another coat pocket; and so says to the
shopkeeper—
“My dear sir, never mind; just oblige me, will you, by sending
the bundle home? But stay! I really believe that I have nothing
less than a five dollar bill, even there. However, you can send
four dollars in change with the bundle, you know.”
“Very good, sir,” replies the shop-keeper, who entertains, at
once, a lofty opinion of the high-mindedness of his customer. “I
know fellows,” he says to himself, “who would just have put the
goods under their arm, and walked off with a promise to call and
pay the dollar as they came by in the afternoon.”
A boy is sent with the parcel and change. On the route, quite
accidentally, he is met by the purchaser, who exclaims:
“Ah! This is my bundle, I see—I thought you had been home with
it, long ago. Well, go on! My wife, Mrs. Trotter, will give you
the five dollars—I left instructions with her to that effect. The
change you might as well give to me—I shall want some silver for
the Post Office. Very good! One, two, is this a good
quarter?—three, four—quite right! Say to Mrs. Trotter that you
met me, and be sure now and do not loiter on the way.”
The boy doesn’t loiter at all—but he is a very long time in
getting back from his errand—for no lady of the precise name of
Mrs. Trotter is to be discovered. He consoles himself, however,
that he has not been such a fool as to leave the goods without
the money, and re-entering his shop with a self-satisfied air,
feels sensibly hurt and indignant when his master asks him what
has become of the change.
A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. The captain of a ship,
which is about to sail, is presented by an official looking
person with an unusually moderate bill of city charges. Glad to
get off so easily, and confused by a hundred duties pressing upon
him all at once, he discharges the claim forthwith. In about
fifteen minutes, another and less reasonable bill is handed him
by one who soon makes it evident that the first collector was a
diddler, and the original collection a diddle.
And here, too, is a somewhat similar thing. A steamboat is
casting loose from the wharf. A traveller, portmanteau in hand,
is discovered running toward the wharf, at full speed. Suddenly,
he makes a dead halt, stoops, and picks up something from the
ground in a very agitated manner. It is a pocket-book, and—“Has
any gentleman lost a pocketbook?” he cries. No one can say that
he has exactly lost a pocket-book; but a great excitement ensues,
when the treasure trove is found to be of value. The boat,
however, must not be detained.
“Time and tide wait for no man,” says the captain.
“For God’s sake, stay only a few minutes,” says the finder of the
book—“the true claimant will presently appear.”
“Can’t wait!” replies the man in authority; “cast off there, d’ye
hear?”
“What _am_ I to do?” asks the finder, in great tribulation. “I am
about to leave the country for some years, and I cannot
conscientiously retain this large amount in my possession. I beg
your pardon, sir,” [here he addresses a gentleman on shore,] “but
you have the air of an honest man. _Will_ you confer upon me the
favor of taking charge of this pocket-book—I _know_ I can trust
you—and of advertising it? The notes, you see, amount to a very
considerable sum. The owner will, no doubt, insist upon rewarding
you for your trouble—”
“_Me!_—no, _you!_—it was you who found the book.”
“Well, if you _must_ have it so—_I_ will take a small reward—just
to satisfy your scruples. Let me see—why these notes are all
hundreds—bless my soul! a hundred is too much to take—fifty would
be quite enough, I am sure—”
“Cast off there!” says the captain.
“But then I have no change for a hundred, and upon the whole,
_you_ had better—”
“Cast off there!” says the captain.
“Never mind!” cries the gentleman on shore, who has been
examining his own pocket-book for the last minute or so—“never
mind! _I_ can fix it—here is a fifty on the Bank of North
America—throw the book.”
And the over-conscientious finder takes the fifty with marked
reluctance, and throws the gentleman the book, as desired, while
the steamboat fumes and fizzes on her way. In about half an hour
after her departure, the “large amount” is seen to be a
“counterfeit presentment,” and the whole thing a capital diddle.
A bold diddle is this. A camp-meeting, or something similar, is
to be held at a certain spot which is accessible only by means of
a free bridge. A diddler stations himself upon this bridge,
respectfully informs all passers by of the new county law, which
establishes a toll of one cent for foot passengers, two for
horses and donkeys, and so forth, and so forth. Some grumble but
all submit, and the diddler goes home a wealthier man by some
fifty or sixty dollars well earned. This taking a toll from a
great crowd of people is an excessively troublesome thing.
A neat diddle is this. A friend holds one of the diddler’s
promises to pay, filled up and signed in due form, upon the
ordinary blanks printed in red ink. The diddler purchases one or
two dozen of these blanks, and every day dips one of them in his
soup, makes his dog jump for it, and finally gives it to him as a
bonne bouche. The note arriving at maturity, the diddler, with
the diddler’s dog, calls upon the friend, and the promise to pay
is made the topic of discussion. The friend produces it from his
escritoire, and is in the act of reaching it to the diddler, when
up jumps the diddler’s dog and devours it forthwith. The diddler
is not only surprised but vexed and incensed at the absurd
behavior of his dog, and expresses his entire readiness to cancel
the obligation at any moment when the evidence of the obligation
shall be forthcoming.
A very mean diddle is this. A lady is insulted in the street by a
diddler’s accomplice. The diddler himself flies to her
assistance, and, giving his friend a comfortable thrashing,
insists upon attending the lady to her own door. He bows, with
his hand upon his heart, and most respectfully bids her adieu.
She entreats him, as her deliverer, to walk in and be introduced
to her big brother and her papa. With a sigh, he declines to do
so. “Is there no way, then, sir,” she murmurs, “in which I may be
permitted to testify my gratitude?”
“Why, yes, madam, there is. Will you be kind enough to lend me a
couple of shillings?”
In the first excitement of the moment the lady decides upon
fainting outright. Upon second thought, however, she opens her
purse-strings and delivers the specie. Now this, I say, is a
diddle minute—for one entire moiety of the sum borrowed has to be
paid to the gentleman who had the trouble of performing the
insult, and who had then to stand still and be thrashed for
performing it.
Rather a small but still a scientific diddle is this. The diddler
approaches the bar of a tavern, and demands a couple of twists of
tobacco. These are handed to him, when, having slightly examined
them, he says:
“I don’t much like this tobacco. Here, take it back, and give me
a glass of brandy and water in its place.” The brandy and water
is furnished and imbibed, and the diddler makes his way to the
door. But the voice of the tavern-keeper arrests him.
“I believe, sir, you have forgotten to pay for your brandy and
water.”
“Pay for my brandy and water!—didn’t I give you the tobacco for
the brandy and water? What more would you have?”
“But, sir, if you please, I don’t remember that you paid me for
the tobacco.”
“What do you mean by that, you scoundrel?—Didn’t I give you back
your tobacco? Isn’t that your tobacco lying there? Do you expect
me to pay for what I did not take?”
“But, sir,” says the publican, now rather at a loss what to say,
“but sir—”
“But me no buts, sir,” interrupts the diddler, apparently in very
high dudgeon, and slamming the door after him, as he makes his
escape.—“But me no buts, sir, and none of your tricks upon
travellers.”
Here again is a very clever diddle, of which the simplicity is
not its least recommendation. A purse, or pocket-book, being
really lost, the loser inserts in one of the daily papers of a
large city a fully descriptive advertisement.
Whereupon our diddler copies the facts of this advertisement,
with a change of heading, of general phraseology and address. The
original, for instance, is long, and verbose, is headed “A
Pocket-Book Lost!” and requires the treasure, when found, to be
left at No. 1 Tom Street. The copy is brief, and being headed
with “Lost” only, indicates No. 2 Dick, or No. 3 Harry Street, as
the locality at which the owner may be seen. Moreover, it is
inserted in at least five or six of the daily papers of the day,
while in point of time, it makes its appearance only a few hours
after the original. Should it be read by the loser of the purse,
he would hardly suspect it to have any reference to his own
misfortune. But, of course, the chances are five or six to one,
that the finder will repair to the address given by the diddler,
rather than to that pointed out by the rightful proprietor. The
former pays the reward, pockets the treasure and decamps.
Quite an analogous diddle is this. A lady of ton has dropped,
some where in the street, a diamond ring of very unusual value.
For its recovery, she offers some forty or fifty dollars
reward—giving, in her advertisement, a very minute description of
the gem, and of its settings, and declaring that, on its
restoration at No. so and so, in such and such Avenue, the reward
would be paid instanter, without a single question being asked.
During the lady’s absence from home, a day or two afterwards, a
ring is heard at the door of No. so and so, in such and such
Avenue; a servant appears; the lady of the house is asked for and
is declared to be out, at which astounding information, the
visitor expresses the most poignant regret. His business is of
importance and concerns the lady herself. In fact, he had the
good fortune to find her diamond ring. But perhaps it would be as
well that he should call again. “By no means!” says the servant;
and “By no means!” says the lady’s sister and the lady’s
sister-in-law, who are summoned forthwith. The ring is
clamorously identified, the reward is paid, and the finder nearly
thrust out of doors. The lady returns and expresses some little
dissatisfaction with her sister and sister-in-law, because they
happen to have paid forty or fifty dollars for a fac-simile of
her diamond ring—a fac-simile made out of real pinch-beck and
unquestionable paste.
But as there is really no end to diddling, so there would be none
to this essay, were I even to hint at half the variations, or
inflections, of which this science is susceptible. I must bring
this paper, perforce, to a conclusion, and this I cannot do
better than by a summary notice of a very decent, but rather
elaborate diddle, of which our own city was made the theatre, not
very long ago, and which was subsequently repeated with success,
in other still more verdant localities of the Union. A
middle-aged gentleman arrives in town from parts unknown. He is
remarkably precise, cautious, staid, and deliberate in his
demeanor. His dress is scrupulously neat, but plain,
unostentatious. He wears a white cravat, an ample waistcoat, made
with an eye to comfort alone; thick-soled cosy-looking shoes, and
pantaloons without straps. He has the whole air, in fact, of your
well-to-do, sober-sided, exact, and respectable “man of
business,” _par excellence_—one of the stern and outwardly hard,
internally soft, sort of people that we see in the crack high
comedies—fellows whose words are so many bonds, and who are noted
for giving away guineas, in charity, with the one hand, while, in
the way of mere bargain, they exact the uttermost fraction of a
farthing with the other.
He makes much ado before he can get suited with a boarding house.
He dislikes children. He has been accustomed to quiet. His habits
are methodical—and then he would prefer getting into a private
and respectable small family, piously inclined. Terms, however,
are no object—only he must insist upon settling his bill on the
first of every month, (it is now the second) and begs his
landlady, when he finally obtains one to his mind, not on any
account to forget his instructions upon this point—but to send in
a bill, and receipt, precisely at ten o’clock, on the first day
of every month, and under no circumstances to put it off to the
second.
These arrangements made, our man of business rents an office in a
reputable rather than a fashionable quarter of the town. There is
nothing he more despises than pretense. “Where there is much
show,” he says, “there is seldom any thing very solid behind”—an
observation which so profoundly impresses his landlady’s fancy,
that she makes a pencil memorandum of it forthwith, in her great
family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon.
The next step is to advertise, after some such fashion as this,
in the principal business six-pennies of the city—the pennies are
eschewed as not “respectable”—and as demanding payment for all
advertisements in advance. Our man of business holds it as a
point of his faith that work should never be paid for until done.
“WANTED.—The advertisers, being about to commence extensive
business operations in this city, will require the services of
three or four intelligent and competent clerks, to whom a liberal
salary will be paid. The very best recommendations, not so much
for capacity, as for integrity, will be expected. Indeed, as the
duties to be performed involve high responsibilities, and large
amounts of money must necessarily pass through the hands of those
engaged, it is deemed advisable to demand a deposit of fifty
dollars from each clerk employed. No person need apply,
therefore, who is not prepared to leave this sum in the
possession of the advertisers, and who cannot furnish the most
satisfactory testimonials of morality. Young gentlemen piously
inclined will be preferred. Application should be made between
the hours of ten and eleven A. M., and four and five P. M., of
Messrs.
“Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs & Co.,
“No. 110 Dog Street.”
By the thirty-first day of the month, this advertisement has
brought to the office of Messrs. Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and
Company, some fifteen or twenty young gentlemen piously inclined.
But our man of business is in no hurry to conclude a contract
with any—no man of business is ever precipitate—and it is not
until the most rigid catechism in respect to the piety of each
young gentleman’s inclination, that his services are engaged and
his fifty dollars receipted for, just by way of proper
precaution, on the part of the respectable firm of Bogs, Hogs,
Logs, Frogs, and Company. On the morning of the first day of the
next month, the landlady does not present her bill, according to
promise—a piece of neglect for which the comfortable head of the
house ending in ogs would no doubt have chided her severely,
could he have been prevailed upon to remain in town a day or two
for that purpose.
As it is, the constables have had a sad time of it, running
hither and thither, and all they can do is to declare the man of
business most emphatically, a “hen knee high”—by which some
persons imagine them to imply that, in fact, he is n. e. i.—by
which again the very classical phrase _non est inventus_, is
supposed to be understood. In the meantime the young gentlemen,
one and all, are somewhat less piously inclined than before,
while the landlady purchases a shilling’s worth of the Indian
rubber, and very carefully obliterates the pencil memorandum that
some fool has made in her great family Bible, on the broad margin
of the Proverbs of Solomon.
THE ANGEL OF THE ODD
AN EXTRAVAGANZA.
It was a chilly November afternoon. I had just consummated an
unusually hearty dinner, of which the dyspeptic _truffe_ formed
not the least important item, and was sitting alone in the
dining-room, with my feet upon the fender, and at my elbow a
small table which I had rolled up to the fire, and upon which
were some apologies for dessert, with some miscellaneous bottles
of wine, spirit and _liqueur_. In the morning I had been reading
Glover’s “Leonidas,” Wilkie’s “Epigoniad,” Lamartine’s
“Pilgrimage,” Barlow’s “Columbiad,” Tuckermann’s “Sicily,” and
Griswold’s “Curiosities”; I am willing to confess, therefore,
that I now felt a little stupid. I made effort to arouse myself
by aid of frequent Lafitte, and, all failing, I betook myself to
a stray newspaper in despair. Having carefully perused the column
of “houses to let,” and the column of “dogs lost,” and then the
two columns of “wives and apprentices runaway,” I attacked with
great resolution the editorial matter, and, reading it from
beginning to end without understanding a syllable, conceived the
possibility of its being Chinese, and so re-read it from the end
to the beginning, but with no more satisfactory result. I was
about throwing away, in disgust,
“This folio of four pages, happy work
Which not even critics criticise,”
when I felt my attention somewhat aroused by the paragraph which
follows:
“The avenues to death are numerous and strange. A London paper
mentions the decease of a person from a singular cause. He was
playing at ‘puff the dart,’ which is played with a long needle
inserted in some worsted, and blown at a target through a tin
tube. He placed the needle at the wrong end of the tube, and
drawing his breath strongly to puff the dart forward with force,
drew the needle into his throat. It entered the lungs, and in a
few days killed him.”
Upon seeing this I fell into a great rage, without exactly
knowing why. “This thing,” I exclaimed, “is a contemptible
falsehood—a poor hoax—the lees of the invention of some pitiable
penny-a-liner—of some wretched concoctor of accidents in
Cocaigne. These fellows, knowing the extravagant gullibility of
the age, set their wits to work in the imagination of improbable
possibilities—-of odd accidents, as they term them; but to a
reflecting intellect (like mine,” I added, in parenthesis,
putting my forefinger unconsciously to the side of my nose,) “to
a contemplative understanding such as I myself possess, it seems
evident at once that the marvelous increase of late in these ‘odd
accidents’ is by far the oddest accident of all. For my own part,
I intend to believe nothing henceforward that has anything of the
‘singular’ about it.”
“Mein Gott, den, vat a vool you bees for dat!” replied one of the
most remarkable voices I ever heard. At first I took it for a
rumbling in my ears—such as a man sometimes experiences when
getting very drunk—but, upon second thought, I considered the
sound as more nearly resembling that which proceeds from an empty
barrel beaten with a big stick; and, in fact, this I should have
concluded it to be, but for the articulation of the syllables and
words. I am by no means naturally nervous, and the very few
glasses of Lafitte which I had sipped served to embolden me no
little, so that I felt nothing of trepidation, but merely
uplifted my eyes with a leisurely movement, and looked carefully
around the room for the intruder. I could not, however, perceive
any one at all.
“Humph!” resumed the voice, as I continued my survey, “you mus pe
so dronk as de pig, den, for not zee me as I zit here at your
zide.”
Hereupon I bethought me of looking immediately before my nose,
and there, sure enough, confronting me at the table sat a
personage nondescript, although not altogether indescribable. His
body was a wine-pipe, or a rum-puncheon, or something of that
character, and had a truly Falstaffian air. In its nether
extremity were inserted two kegs, which seemed to answer all the
purposes of legs. For arms there dangled from the upper portion
of the carcass two tolerably long bottles, with the necks outward
for hands. All the head that I saw the monster possessed of was
one of those Hessian canteens which resemble a large snuff-box
with a hole in the middle of the lid. This canteen (with a funnel
on its top, like a cavalier cap slouched over the eyes) was set
on edge upon the puncheon, with the hole toward myself; and
through this hole, which seemed puckered up like the mouth of a
very precise old maid, the creature was emitting certain rumbling
and grumbling noises which he evidently intended for intelligible
talk.
“I zay,” said he, “you mos pe dronk as de pig, vor zit dare and
not zee me zit ere; and I zay, doo, you mos pe pigger vool as de
goose, vor to dispelief vat iz print in de print. ’Tiz de
troof—dat it iz—eberry vord ob it.”
“Who are you, pray?” said I, with much dignity, although somewhat
puzzled; “how did you get here? and what is it you are talking
about?”
“Az vor ow I com’d ere,” replied the figure, “dat iz none of your
pizzness; and as vor vat I be talking apout, I be talk apout vat
I tink proper; and as vor who I be, vy dat is de very ting I
com’d here for to let you zee for yourzelf.”
“You are a drunken vagabond,” said I, “and I shall ring the bell
and order my footman to kick you into the street.”
“He! he! he!” said the fellow, “hu! hu! hu! dat you can’t do.”
“Can’t do!” said I, “what do you mean?—I can’t do what?”
“Ring de pell,” he replied, attempting a grin with his little
villanous mouth.
Upon this I made an effort to get up, in order to put my threat
into execution; but the ruffian just reached across the table
very deliberately, and hitting me a tap on the forehead with the
neck of one of the long bottles, knocked me back into the
arm-chair from which I had half arisen. I was utterly astounded;
and, for a moment, was quite at a loss what to do. In the
meantime, he continued his talk.
“You zee,” said he, “it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you
shall know who I pe. Look at me! zee! I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.”
“And odd enough, too,” I ventured to reply; “but I was always
under the impression that an angel had wings.”
“Te wing!” he cried, highly incensed, “vat I pe do mit te wing?
Mein Gott! do you take me vor a shicken?”
“No—oh no!” I replied, much alarmed, “you are no
chicken—certainly not.”
“Well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or I’ll rap you again
mid me vist. It iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing,
und te imp ab te wing, und te head-teuffel ab te wing. Te angel
ab _not_ te wing, and I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.”
“And your business with me at present is—is—”
“My pizzness!” ejaculated the thing, “vy vat a low bred buppy you
mos pe vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness!”
This language was rather more than I could bear, even from an
angel; so, plucking up courage, I seized a salt-cellar which lay
within reach, and hurled it at the head of the intruder. Either
he dodged, however, or my aim was inaccurate; for all I
accomplished was the demolition of the crystal which protected
the dial of the clock upon the mantel-piece. As for the Angel, he
evinced his sense of my assault by giving me two or three hard
consecutive raps upon the forehead as before. These reduced me at
once to submission, and I am almost ashamed to confess that
either through pain or vexation, there came a few tears into my
eyes.
“Mein Gott!” said the Angel of the Odd, apparently much softened
at my distress; “mein Gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry
zorry. You mos not trink it so strong—you mos put te water in te
wine. Here, trink dis, like a goot veller, und don’t gry
now—don’t!”
Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was
about a third full of Port) with a colorless fluid that he poured
from one of his hand bottles. I observed that these bottles had
labels about their necks, and that these labels were inscribed
“Kirschenwasser.”
The considerate kindness of the Angel mollified me in no little
measure; and, aided by the water with which he diluted my Port
more than once, I at length regained sufficient temper to listen
to his very extraordinary discourse. I cannot pretend to recount
all that he told me, but I gleaned from what he said that he was
the genius who presided over the _contretemps_ of mankind, and
whose business it was to bring about the _odd accidents_ which
are continually astonishing the skeptic. Once or twice, upon my
venturing to express my total incredulity in respect to his
pretensions, he grew very angry indeed, so that at length I
considered it the wiser policy to say nothing at all, and let him
have his own way. He talked on, therefore, at great length, while
I merely leaned back in my chair with my eyes shut, and amused
myself with munching raisins and filliping the stems about the
room. But, by and by, the Angel suddenly construed this behavior
of mine into contempt. He arose in a terrible passion, slouched
his funnel down over his eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a
threat of some character which I did not precisely comprehend,
and finally made me a low bow and departed, wishing me, in the
language of the archbishop in Gil-Blas, “_beaucoup de bonheur et
un peu plus de bon sens_.”
His departure afforded me relief. The _very_ few glasses of
Lafitte that I had sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy,
and I felt inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty
minutes, as is my custom after dinner. At six I had an
appointment of consequence, which it was quite indispensable that
I should keep. The policy of insurance for my dwelling house had
expired the day before; and, some dispute having arisen, it was
agreed that, at six, I should meet the board of directors of the
company and settle the terms of a renewal. Glancing upward at the
clock on the mantel-piece, (for I felt too drowsy to take out my
watch), I had the pleasure to find that I had still twenty-five
minutes to spare. It was half past five; I could easily walk to
the insurance office in five minutes; and my usual siestas had
never been known to exceed five and twenty. I felt sufficiently
safe, therefore, and composed myself to my slumbers forthwith.
Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward
the time-piece and was half inclined to believe in the
possibility of odd accidents when I found that, instead of my
ordinary fifteen or twenty minutes, I had been dozing only three;
for it still wanted seven and twenty of the appointed hour. I
betook myself again to my nap, and at length a second time awoke,
when, to my utter amazement, it _still_ wanted twenty-seven
minutes of six. I jumped up to examine the clock, and found that
it had ceased running. My watch informed me that it was half past
seven; and, of course, having slept two hours, I was too late for
my appointment. “It will make no difference,” I said: “I can call
at the office in the morning and apologize; in the meantime what
can be the matter with the clock?” Upon examining it I discovered
that one of the raisin stems which I had been filliping about the
room during the discourse of the Angel of the Odd, had flown
through the fractured crystal, and lodging, singularly enough, in
the key-hole, with an end projecting outward, had thus arrested
the revolution of the minute hand.
“Ah!” said I, “I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A
natural accident, such as _will_ happen now and then!”
I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour
retired to bed. Here, having placed a candle upon a reading stand
at the bed head, and having made an attempt to peruse some pages
of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” I unfortunately fell asleep
in less than twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was.
My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel of
the Odd. Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside
the curtains, and, in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum
puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the
contempt with which I had treated him. He concluded a long
harangue by taking off his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my
gullet, and thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwässer,
which he poured, in a continuous flood, from one of the long
necked bottles that stood him instead of an arm. My agony was at
length insufferable, and I awoke just in time to perceive that a
rat had ran off with the lighted candle from the stand, but _not_
in season to prevent his making his escape with it through the
hole. Very soon, a strong suffocating odor assailed my nostrils;
the house, I clearly perceived, was on fire. In a few minutes the
blaze broke forth with violence, and in an incredibly brief
period the entire building was wrapped in flames. All egress from
my chamber, except through a window, was cut off. The crowd,
however, quickly procured and raised a long ladder. By means of
this I was descending rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a
huge hog, about whose rotund stomach, and indeed about whose
whole air and physiognomy, there was something which reminded me
of the Angel of the Odd,—when this hog, I say, which hitherto had
been quietly slumbering in the mud, took it suddenly into his
head that his left shoulder needed scratching, and could find no
more convenient rubbing-post than that afforded by the foot of
the ladder. In an instant I was precipitated and had the
misfortune to fracture my arm.
This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more
serious loss of my hair, the whole of which had been singed off
by the fire, predisposed me to serious impressions, so that,
finally, I made up my mind to take a wife. There was a rich widow
disconsolate for the loss of her seventh husband, and to her
wounded spirit I offered the balm of my vows. She yielded a
reluctant consent to my prayers. I knelt at her feet in gratitude
and adoration. She blushed and bowed her luxuriant tresses into
close contact with those supplied me, temporarily, by Grandjean.
I know not how the entanglement took place, but so it was. I
arose with a shining pate, wigless; she in disdain and wrath,
half buried in alien hair. Thus ended my hopes of the widow by an
accident which could not have been anticipated, to be sure, but
which the natural sequence of events had brought about.
Without despairing, however, I undertook the siege of a less
implacable heart. The fates were again propitious for a brief
period; but again a trivial incident interfered. Meeting my
betrothed in an avenue thronged with the _élite_ of the city, I
was hastening to greet her with one of my best considered bows,
when a small particle of some foreign matter, lodging in the
corner of my eye, rendered me, for the moment, completely blind.
Before I could recover my sight, the lady of my love had
disappeared—irreparably affronted at what she chose to consider
my premeditated rudeness in passing her by ungreeted. While I
stood bewildered at the suddenness of this accident, (which might
have happened, nevertheless, to any one under the sun), and while
I still continued incapable of sight, I was accosted by the Angel
of the Odd, who proffered me his aid with a civility which I had
no reason to expect. He examined my disordered eye with much
gentleness and skill, informed me that I had a drop in it, and
(whatever a “drop” was) took it out, and afforded me relief.
I now considered it high time to die, (since fortune had so
determined to persecute me,) and accordingly made my way to the
nearest river. Here, divesting myself of my clothes, (for there
is no reason why we cannot die as we were born), I threw myself
headlong into the current; the sole witness of my fate being a
solitary crow that had been seduced into the eating of
brandy-saturated corn, and so had staggered away from his
fellows. No sooner had I entered the water than this bird took it
into its head to fly away with the most indispensable portion of
my apparel. Postponing, therefore, for the present, my suicidal
design, I just slipped my nether extremities into the sleeves of
my coat, and betook myself to a pursuit of the felon with all the
nimbleness which the case required and its circumstances would
admit. But my evil destiny attended me still. As I ran at full
speed, with my nose up in the atmosphere, and intent only upon
the purloiner of my property, I suddenly perceived that my feet
rested no longer upon _terra-firma_; the fact is, I had thrown
myself over a precipice, and should inevitably have been dashed
to pieces but for my good fortune in grasping the end of a long
guide-rope, which depended from a passing balloon.
As soon as I sufficiently recovered my senses to comprehend the
terrific predicament in which I stood or rather hung, I exerted
all the power of my lungs to make that predicament known to the
æronaut overhead. But for a long time I exerted myself in vain.
Either the fool could not, or the villain would not perceive me.
Meantime the machine rapidly soared, while my strength even more
rapidly failed. I was soon upon the point of resigning myself to
my fate, and dropping quietly into the sea, when my spirits were
suddenly revived by hearing a hollow voice from above, which
seemed to be lazily humming an opera air. Looking up, I perceived
the Angel of the Odd. He was leaning with his arms folded, over
the rim of the car; and with a pipe in his mouth, at which he
puffed leisurely, seemed to be upon excellent terms with himself
and the universe. I was too much exhausted to speak, so I merely
regarded him with an imploring air.
For several minutes, although he looked me full in the face, he
said nothing. At length removing carefully his meerschaum from
the right to the left corner of his mouth, he condescended to
speak.
“Who pe you,” he asked, “und what der teuffel you pe do dare?”
To this piece of impudence, cruelty and affectation, I could
reply only by ejaculating the monosyllable “Help!”
“Elp!” echoed the ruffian—“not I. Dare iz te pottle—elp yourself,
und pe tam’d!”
With these words he let fall a heavy bottle of Kirschenwasser
which, dropping precisely upon the crown of my head, caused me to
imagine that my brains were entirely knocked out. Impressed with
this idea, I was about to relinquish my hold and give up the
ghost with a good grace, when I was arrested by the cry of the
Angel, who bade me hold on.
“Old on!” he said; “don’t pe in te urry—don’t. Will you pe take
de odder pottle, or ave you pe got zober yet and come to your
zenzes?”
I made haste, hereupon, to nod my head twice—once in the
negative, meaning thereby that I would prefer not taking the
other bottle at present—and once in the affirmative, intending
thus to imply that I _was_ sober and _had_ positively come to my
senses. By these means I somewhat softened the Angel.
“Und you pelief, ten,” he inquired, “at te last? You pelief, ten,
in te possibilty of te odd?”
I again nodded my head in assent.
“Und you ave pelief in _me_, te Angel of te Odd?”
I nodded again.
“Und you acknowledge tat you pe te blind dronk and te vool?”
I nodded once more.
“Put your right hand into your left hand preeches pocket, ten, in
token ov your vull zubmizzion unto te Angel ov te Odd.”
This thing, for very obvious reasons, I found it quite impossible
to do. In the first place, my left arm had been broken in my fall
from the ladder, and, therefore, had I let go my hold with the
right hand, I must have let go altogether. In the second place, I
could have no breeches until I came across the crow. I was
therefore obliged, much to my regret, to shake my head in the
negative—intending thus to give the Angel to understand that I
found it inconvenient, just at that moment, to comply with his
very reasonable demand! No sooner, however, had I ceased shaking
my head than—
“Go to der teuffel, ten!” roared the Angel of the Odd.
In pronouncing these words, he drew a sharp knife across the
guide-rope by which I was suspended, and as we then happened to
be precisely over my own house, (which, during my peregrinations,
had been handsomely rebuilt,) it so occurred that I tumbled
headlong down the ample chimney and alit upon the dining-room
hearth.
Upon coming to my senses, (for the fall had very thoroughly
stunned me,) I found it about four o’clock in the morning. I lay
outstretched where I had fallen from the balloon. My head
grovelled in the ashes of an extinguished fire, while my feet
reposed upon the wreck of a small table, overthrown, and amid the
fragments of a miscellaneous dessert, intermingled with a
newspaper, some broken glass and shattered bottles, and an empty
jug of the Schiedam Kirschenwasser. Thus revenged himself the
Angel of the Odd.
[Mabbott states that Griswold “obviously had a revised form” for
use in the 1856 volume of Poe’s works. Mabbott does not
substantiate this claim, but it is surely not unreasonable. An
editor, and even typographical errors, may have produced nearly
all of the very minor changes made in this version. (Indeed, two
very necessary words were clearly dropped by accident.) An editor
might have corrected “Wickliffe’s ‘Epigoniad’” to “Wilkie’s
‘Epigoniad’,” but is unlikely to have added “Tuckerman’s
‘Sicily’” to the list of books read by the narrator. Griswold was
not above forgery (in Poe’s letters) when it suited his purpose,
but would have too little to gain by such an effort in this
instance.]
MELLONTA TAUTA
TO THE EDITORS OF THE LADY’S BOOK:
I have the honor of sending you, for your magazine, an article
which I hope you will be able to comprehend rather more
distinctly than I do myself. It is a translation, by my friend,
Martin Van Buren Mavis, (sometimes called the “Poughkeepsie
Seer”) of an odd-looking MS. which I found, about a year ago,
tightly corked up in a jug floating in the Mare Tenebrarum—a sea
well described by the Nubian geographer, but seldom visited
now-a-days, except for the transcendentalists and divers for
crotchets.
Truly yours,
EDGAR A. POE
{this paragraph not in the volume—ED}
ON BOARD BALLOON “SKYLARK”
_April_, 1, 2848
Now, my dear friend—now, for your sins, you are to suffer the
infliction of a long gossiping letter. I tell you distinctly that
I am going to punish you for all your impertinences by being as
tedious, as discursive, as incoherent and as unsatisfactory as
possible. Besides, here I am, cooped up in a dirty balloon, with
some one or two hundred of the canaille, all bound on a pleasure
excursion, (what a funny idea some people have of pleasure!) and
I have no prospect of touching terra firma for a month at least.
Nobody to talk to. Nothing to do. When one has nothing to do,
then is the time to correspond with ones friends. You perceive,
then, why it is that I write you this letter—it is on account of
my ennui and your sins.
Get ready your spectacles and make up your mind to be annoyed. I
mean to write at you every day during this odious voyage.
Heigho! when will any Invention visit the human pericranium? Are
we forever to be doomed to the thousand inconveniences of the
balloon? Will nobody contrive a more expeditious mode of
progress? The jog-trot movement, to my thinking, is little less
than positive torture. Upon my word we have not made more than a
hundred miles the hour since leaving home! The very birds beat
us—at least some of them. I assure you that I do not exaggerate
at all. Our motion, no doubt, seems slower than it actually
is—this on account of our having no objects about us by which to
estimate our velocity, and on account of our going with the wind.
To be sure, whenever we meet a balloon we have a chance of
perceiving our rate, and then, I admit, things do not appear so
very bad. Accustomed as I am to this mode of travelling, I cannot
get over a kind of giddiness whenever a balloon passes us in a
current directly overhead. It always seems to me like an immense
bird of prey about to pounce upon us and carry us off in its
claws. One went over us this morning about sunrise, and so nearly
overhead that its drag-rope actually brushed the network
suspending our car, and caused us very serious apprehension. Our
captain said that if the material of the bag had been the
trumpery varnished “silk” of five hundred or a thousand years
ago, we should inevitably have been damaged. This silk, as he
explained it to me, was a fabric composed of the entrails of a
species of earth-worm. The worm was carefully fed on mulberries—a
kind of fruit resembling a water-melon—and, when sufficiently
fat, was crushed in a mill. The paste thus arising was called
papyrus in its primary state, and went through a variety of
processes until it finally became “silk.” Singular to relate, it
was once much admired as an article of female dress! Balloons
were also very generally constructed from it. A better kind of
material, it appears, was subsequently found in the down
surrounding the seed-vessels of a plant vulgarly called
euphorbium, and at that time botanically termed milk-weed. This
latter kind of silk was designated as silk-buckingham, on account
of its superior durability, and was usually prepared for use by
being varnished with a solution of gum caoutchouc—a substance
which in some respects must have resembled the gutta percha now
in common use. This caoutchouc was occasionally called Indian
rubber or rubber of twist, and was no doubt one of the numerous
fungi. Never tell me again that I am not at heart an antiquarian.
Talking of drag-ropes—our own, it seems, has this moment knocked
a man overboard from one of the small magnetic propellers that
swarm in ocean below us—a boat of about six thousand tons, and,
from all accounts, shamefully crowded. These diminutive barques
should be prohibited from carrying more than a definite number of
passengers. The man, of course, was not permitted to get on board
again, and was soon out of sight, he and his life-preserver. I
rejoice, my dear friend, that we live in an age so enlightened
that no such a thing as an individual is supposed to exist. It is
the mass for which the true Humanity cares. By-the-by, talking of
Humanity, do you know that our immortal Wiggins is not so
original in his views of the Social Condition and so forth, as
his contemporaries are inclined to suppose? Pundit assures me
that the same ideas were put nearly in the same way, about a
thousand years ago, by an Irish philosopher called Furrier, on
account of his keeping a retail shop for cat peltries and other
furs. Pundit knows, you know; there can be no mistake about it.
How very wonderfully do we see verified every day, the profound
observation of the Hindoo Aries Tottle (as quoted by
Pundit)—“Thus must we say that, not once or twice, or a few
times, but with almost infinite repetitions, the same opinions
come round in a circle among men.”
April 2.—Spoke to-day the magnetic cutter in charge of the middle
section of floating telegraph wires. I learn that when this
species of telegraph was first put into operation by Horse, it
was considered quite impossible to convey the wires over sea, but
now we are at a loss to comprehend where the difficulty lay! So
wags the world. Tempora mutantur—excuse me for quoting the
Etruscan. What would we do without the Atalantic telegraph?
(Pundit says Atlantic was the ancient adjective.) We lay to a few
minutes to ask the cutter some questions, and learned, among
other glorious news, that civil war is raging in Africa, while
the plague is doing its good work beautifully both in Yurope and
Ayesher. Is it not truly remarkable that, before the magnificent
light shed upon philosophy by Humanity, the world was accustomed
to regard War and Pestilence as calamities? Do you know that
prayers were actually offered up in the ancient temples to the
end that these evils (!) might not be visited upon mankind? Is it
not really difficult to comprehend upon what principle of
interest our forefathers acted? Were they so blind as not to
perceive that the destruction of a myriad of individuals is only
so much positive advantage to the mass!
April 3.—It is really a very fine amusement to ascend the
rope-ladder leading to the summit of the balloon-bag, and thence
survey the surrounding world. From the car below you know the
prospect is not so comprehensive—you can see little vertically.
But seated here (where I write this) in the luxuriously-cushioned
open piazza of the summit, one can see everything that is going
on in all directions. Just now there is quite a crowd of balloons
in sight, and they present a very animated appearance, while the
air is resonant with the hum of so many millions of human voices.
I have heard it asserted that when Yellow or (Pundit will have
it) Violet, who is supposed to have been the first aeronaut,
maintained the practicability of traversing the atmosphere in all
directions, by merely ascending or descending until a favorable
current was attained, he was scarcely hearkened to at all by his
contemporaries, who looked upon him as merely an ingenious sort
of madman, because the philosophers (?) of the day declared the
thing impossible. Really now it does seem to me quite
unaccountable how any thing so obviously feasible could have
escaped the sagacity of the ancient savans. But in all ages the
great obstacles to advancement in Art have been opposed by the
so-called men of science. To be sure, our men of science are not
quite so bigoted as those of old:—oh, I have something so queer
to tell you on this topic. Do you know that it is not more than a
thousand years ago since the metaphysicians consented to relieve
the people of the singular fancy that there existed but two
possible roads for the attainment of Truth! Believe it if you
can! It appears that long, long ago, in the night of Time, there
lived a Turkish philosopher (or Hindoo possibly) called Aries
Tottle. This person introduced, or at all events propagated what
was termed the deductive or a priori mode of investigation. He
started with what he maintained to be axioms or “self-evident
truths,” and thence proceeded “logically” to results. His
greatest disciples were one Neuclid, and one Cant. Well, Aries
Tottle flourished supreme until advent of one Hog, surnamed the
“Ettrick Shepherd,” who preached an entirely different system,
which he called the a posteriori or inductive. His plan referred
altogether to Sensation. He proceeded by observing, analyzing,
and classifying facts-instantiae naturae, as they were affectedly
called—into general laws. Aries Tottle’s mode, in a word, was
based on noumena; Hog’s on phenomena. Well, so great was the
admiration excited by this latter system that, at its first
introduction, Aries Tottle fell into disrepute; but finally he
recovered ground and was permitted to divide the realm of Truth
with his more modern rival. The savans now maintained the
Aristotelian and Baconian roads were the sole possible avenues to
knowledge. “Baconian,” you must know, was an adjective invented
as equivalent to Hog-ian and more euphonious and dignified.
Now, my dear friend, I do assure you, most positively, that I
represent this matter fairly, on the soundest authority; and you
can easily understand how a notion so absurd on its very face
must have operated to retard the progress of all true
knowledge—which makes its advances almost invariably by intuitive
bounds. The ancient idea confined investigations to crawling; and
for hundreds of years so great was the infatuation about Hog
especially, that a virtual end was put to all thinking, properly
so called. No man dared utter a truth to which he felt himself
indebted to his Soul alone. It mattered not whether the truth was
even demonstrably a truth, for the bullet-headed savans of the
time regarded only the road by which he had attained it. They
would not even look at the end. “Let us see the means,” they
cried, “the means!” If, upon investigation of the means, it was
found to come under neither the category Aries (that is to say
Ram) nor under the category Hog, why then the savans went no
farther, but pronounced the “theorist” a fool, and would have
nothing to do with him or his truth.
Now, it cannot be maintained, even, that by the crawling system
the greatest amount of truth would be attained in any long series
of ages, for the repression of imagination was an evil not to be
compensated for by any superior certainty in the ancient modes of
investigation. The error of these Jurmains, these Vrinch, these
Inglitch, and these Amriccans (the latter, by the way, were our
own immediate progenitors), was an error quite analogous with
that of the wiseacre who fancies that he must necessarily see an
object the better the more closely he holds it to his eyes. These
people blinded themselves by details. When they proceeded
Hoggishly, their “facts” were by no means always facts—a matter
of little consequence had it not been for assuming that they were
facts and must be facts because they appeared to be such. When
they proceeded on the path of the Ram, their course was scarcely
as straight as a ram’s horn, for they never had an axiom which
was an axiom at all. They must have been very blind not to see
this, even in their own day; for even in their own day many of
the long “established” axioms had been rejected. For example—“Ex
nihilo nihil fit”; “a body cannot act where it is not”; “there
cannot exist antipodes”; “darkness cannot come out of light”—all
these, and a dozen other similar propositions, formerly admitted
without hesitation as axioms, were, even at the period of which I
speak, seen to be untenable. How absurd in these people, then, to
persist in putting faith in “axioms” as immutable bases of Truth!
But even out of the mouths of their soundest reasoners it is easy
to demonstrate the futility, the impalpability of their axioms in
general. Who was the soundest of their logicians? Let me see! I
will go and ask Pundit and be back in a minute.... Ah, here we
have it! Here is a book written nearly a thousand years ago and
lately translated from the Inglitch—which, by the way, appears to
have been the rudiment of the Amriccan. Pundit says it is
decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its topic, Logic. The
author (who was much thought of in his day) was one Miller, or
Mill; and we find it recorded of him, as a point of some
importance, that he had a mill-horse called Bentham. But let us
glance at the treatise!
Ah!—“Ability or inability to conceive,” says Mr. Mill, very
properly, “is in no case to be received as a criterion of
axiomatic truth.” What modern in his senses would ever think of
disputing this truism? The only wonder with us must be, how it
happened that Mr. Mill conceived it necessary even to hint at any
thing so obvious. So far good—but let us turn over another paper.
What have we here?—“Contradictories cannot both be true—that is,
cannot co-exist in nature.” Here Mr. Mill means, for example,
that a tree must be either a tree or not a tree—that it cannot be
at the same time a tree and not a tree. Very well; but I ask him
why. His reply is this—and never pretends to be any thing else
than this—“Because it is impossible to conceive that
contradictories can both be true.” But this is no answer at all,
by his own showing, for has he not just admitted as a truism that
“ability or inability to conceive is in no case to be received as
a criterion of axiomatic truth.”
Now I do not complain of these ancients so much because their
logic is, by their own showing, utterly baseless, worthless and
fantastic altogether, as because of their pompous and imbecile
proscription of all other roads of Truth, of all other means for
its attainment than the two preposterous paths—the one of
creeping and the one of crawling—to which they have dared to
confine the Soul that loves nothing so well as to soar.
By the by, my dear friend, do you not think it would have puzzled
these ancient dogmaticians to have determined by which of their
two roads it was that the most important and most sublime of all
their truths was, in effect, attained? I mean the truth of
Gravitation. Newton owed it to Kepler. Kepler admitted that his
three laws were guessed at—these three laws of all laws which led
the great Inglitch mathematician to his principle, the basis of
all physical principle—to go behind which we must enter the
Kingdom of Metaphysics: Kepler guessed—that is to say imagined.
He was essentially a “theorist”—that word now of so much
sanctity, formerly an epithet of contempt. Would it not have
puzzled these old moles too, to have explained by which of the
two “roads” a cryptographist unriddles a cryptograph of more than
usual secrecy, or by which of the two roads Champollion directed
mankind to those enduring and almost innumerable truths which
resulted from his deciphering the Hieroglyphics.
One word more on this topic and I will be done boring you. Is it
not passing strange that, with their eternal prattling about
roads to Truth, these bigoted people missed what we now so
clearly perceive to be the great highway—that of Consistency?
Does it not seem singular how they should have failed to deduce
from the works of God the vital fact that a perfect consistency
must be an absolute truth! How plain has been our progress since
the late announcement of this proposition! Investigation has been
taken out of the hands of the ground-moles and given, as a task,
to the true and only true thinkers, the men of ardent
imagination. These latter theorize. Can you not fancy the shout
of scorn with which my words would be received by our progenitors
were it possible for them to be now looking over my shoulder?
These men, I say, theorize; and their theories are simply
corrected, reduced, systematized—cleared, little by little, of
their dross of inconsistency—until, finally, a perfect
consistency stands apparent which even the most stolid admit,
because it is a consistency, to be an absolute and an
unquestionable truth.
April 4.—The new gas is doing wonders, in conjunction with the
new improvement with gutta percha. How very safe, commodious,
manageable, and in every respect convenient are our modern
balloons! Here is an immense one approaching us at the rate of at
least a hundred and fifty miles an hour. It seems to be crowded
with people—perhaps there are three or four hundred
passengers—and yet it soars to an elevation of nearly a mile,
looking down upon poor us with sovereign contempt. Still a
hundred or even two hundred miles an hour is slow travelling
after all. Do you remember our flight on the railroad across the
Kanadaw continent?—fully three hundred miles the hour—that was
travelling. Nothing to be seen though—nothing to be done but
flirt, feast and dance in the magnificent saloons. Do you
remember what an odd sensation was experienced when, by chance,
we caught a glimpse of external objects while the cars were in
full flight? Every thing seemed unique—in one mass. For my part,
I cannot say but that I preferred the travelling by the slow
train of a hundred miles the hour. Here we were permitted to have
glass windows—even to have them open—and something like a
distinct view of the country was attainable.... Pundit says that
the route for the great Kanadaw railroad must have been in some
measure marked out about nine hundred years ago! In fact, he goes
so far as to assert that actual traces of a road are still
discernible—traces referable to a period quite as remote as that
mentioned. The track, it appears was double only; ours, you know,
has twelve paths; and three or four new ones are in preparation.
The ancient rails were very slight, and placed so close together
as to be, according to modern notions, quite frivolous, if not
dangerous in the extreme. The present width of track—fifty
feet—is considered, indeed, scarcely secure enough. For my part,
I make no doubt that a track of some sort must have existed in
very remote times, as Pundit asserts; for nothing can be clearer,
to my mind, than that, at some period—not less than seven
centuries ago, certainly—the Northern and Southern Kanadaw
continents were united; the Kanawdians, then, would have been
driven, by necessity, to a great railroad across the continent.
April 5.—I am almost devoured by _ennui_. Pundit is the only
conversible person on board; and he, poor soul! can speak of
nothing but antiquities. He has been occupied all the day in the
attempt to convince me that the ancient Amriccans governed
themselves!—did ever anybody hear of such an absurdity?—that they
existed in a sort of every-man-for-himself confederacy, after the
fashion of the “prairie dogs” that we read of in fable. He says
that they started with the queerest idea conceivable, viz: that
all men are born free and equal—this in the very teeth of the
laws of _gradation_ so visibly impressed upon all things both in
the moral and physical universe. Every man “voted,” as they
called it—that is to say meddled with public affairs—until at
length, it was discovered that what is everybody’s business is
nobody’s, and that the “Republic” (so the absurd thing was
called) was without a government at all. It is related, however,
that the first circumstance which disturbed, very particularly,
the self-complacency of the philosophers who constructed this
“Republic,” was the startling discovery that universal suffrage
gave opportunity for fraudulent schemes, by means of which any
desired number of votes might at any time be polled, without the
possibility of prevention or even detection, by any party which
should be merely villainous enough not to be ashamed of the
fraud. A little reflection upon this discovery sufficed to render
evident the consequences, which were that rascality must
predominate—in a word, that a republican government could never
be any thing but a rascally one. While the philosophers, however,
were busied in blushing at their stupidity in not having foreseen
these inevitable evils, and intent upon the invention of new
theories, the matter was put to an abrupt issue by a fellow of
the name of Mob, who took every thing into his own hands and set
up a despotism, in comparison with which those of the fabulous
Zeros and Hellofagabaluses were respectable and delectable. This
Mob (a foreigner, by-the-by), is said to have been the most
odious of all men that ever encumbered the earth. He was a giant
in stature—insolent, rapacious, filthy, had the gall of a bullock
with the heart of a hyena and the brains of a peacock. He died,
at length, by dint of his own energies, which exhausted him.
Nevertheless, he had his uses, as every thing has, however vile,
and taught mankind a lesson which to this day it is in no danger
of forgetting—never to run directly contrary to the natural
analogies. As for Republicanism, no analogy could be found for it
upon the face of the earth—unless we except the case of the
“prairie dogs,” an exception which seems to demonstrate, if
anything, that democracy is a very admirable form of
government—for dogs.
April 6.—Last night had a fine view of Alpha Lyrae, whose disk,
through our captain’s spy-glass, subtends an angle of half a
degree, looking very much as our sun does to the naked eye on a
misty day. Alpha Lyrae, although so very much larger than our
sun, by the by, resembles him closely as regards its spots, its
atmosphere, and in many other particulars. It is only within the
last century, Pundit tells me, that the binary relation existing
between these two orbs began even to be suspected. The evident
motion of our system in the heavens was (strange to say!)
referred to an orbit about a prodigious star in the centre of the
galaxy. About this star, or at all events about a centre of
gravity common to all the globes of the Milky Way and supposed to
be near Alcyone in the Pleiades, every one of these globes was
declared to be revolving, our own performing the circuit in a
period of 117,000,000 of years! We, with our present lights, our
vast telescopic improvements, and so forth, of course find it
difficult to comprehend the ground of an idea such as this. Its
first propagator was one Mudler. He was led, we must presume, to
this wild hypothesis by mere analogy in the first instance; but,
this being the case, he should have at least adhered to analogy
in its development. A great central orb was, in fact, suggested;
so far Mudler was consistent. This central orb, however,
dynamically, should have been greater than all its surrounding
orbs taken together. The question might then have been asked—“Why
do we not see it?”—we, especially, who occupy the mid region of
the cluster—the very locality near which, at least, must be
situated this inconceivable central sun. The astronomer, perhaps,
at this point, took refuge in the suggestion of non-luminosity;
and here analogy was suddenly let fall. But even admitting the
central orb non-luminous, how did he manage to explain its
failure to be rendered visible by the incalculable host of
glorious suns glaring in all directions about it? No doubt what
he finally maintained was merely a centre of gravity common to
all the revolving orbs—but here again analogy must have been let
fall. Our system revolves, it is true, about a common centre of
gravity, but it does this in connection with and in consequence
of a material sun whose mass more than counterbalances the rest
of the system. The mathematical circle is a curve composed of an
infinity of straight lines; but this idea of the circle—this idea
of it which, in regard to all earthly geometry, we consider as
merely the mathematical, in contradistinction from the practical,
idea—is, in sober fact, the practical conception which alone we
have any right to entertain in respect to those Titanic circles
with which we have to deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose
our system, with its fellows, revolving about a point in the
centre of the galaxy. Let the most vigorous of human imaginations
but attempt to take a single step toward the comprehension of a
circuit so unutterable! It would scarcely be paradoxical to say
that a flash of lightning itself, travelling forever upon the
circumference of this inconceivable circle, would still forever
be travelling in a straight line. That the path of our sun along
such a circumference—that the direction of our system in such an
orbit—would, to any human perception, deviate in the slightest
degree from a straight line even in a million of years, is a
proposition not to be entertained; and yet these ancient
astronomers were absolutely cajoled, it appears, into believing
that a decisive curvature had become apparent during the brief
period of their astronomical history—during the mere point—during
the utter nothingness of two or three thousand years! How
incomprehensible, that considerations such as this did not at
once indicate to them the true state of affairs—that of the
binary revolution of our sun and Alpha Lyrae around a common
centre of gravity!
April 7.—Continued last night our astronomical amusements. Had a
fine view of the five Neptunian asteroids, and watched with much
interest the putting up of a huge impost on a couple of lintels
in the new temple at Daphnis in the moon. It was amusing to think
that creatures so diminutive as the lunarians, and bearing so
little resemblance to humanity, yet evinced a mechanical
ingenuity so much superior to our own. One finds it difficult,
too, to conceive the vast masses which these people handle so
easily, to be as light as our own reason tells us they actually
are.
April 8.—Eureka! Pundit is in his glory. A balloon from Kanadaw
spoke us to-day and threw on board several late papers; they
contain some exceedingly curious information relative to
Kanawdian or rather Amriccan antiquities. You know, I presume,
that laborers have for some months been employed in preparing the
ground for a new fountain at Paradise, the Emperor’s principal
pleasure garden. Paradise, it appears, has been, literally
speaking, an island time out of mind—that is to say, its northern
boundary was always (as far back as any record extends) a
rivulet, or rather a very narrow arm of the sea. This arm was
gradually widened until it attained its present breadth—a mile.
The whole length of the island is nine miles; the breadth varies
materially. The entire area (so Pundit says) was, about eight
hundred years ago, densely packed with houses, some of them
twenty stories high; land (for some most unaccountable reason)
being considered as especially precious just in this vicinity.
The disastrous earthquake, however, of the year 2050, so totally
uprooted and overwhelmed the town (for it was almost too large to
be called a village) that the most indefatigable of our
antiquarians have never yet been able to obtain from the site any
sufficient data (in the shape of coins, medals or inscriptions)
wherewith to build up even the ghost of a theory concerning the
manners, customs, &c., &c., &c., of the aboriginal inhabitants.
Nearly all that we have hitherto known of them is, that they were
a portion of the Knickerbocker tribe of savages infesting the
continent at its first discovery by Recorder Riker, a knight of
the Golden Fleece. They were by no means uncivilized, however,
but cultivated various arts and even sciences after a fashion of
their own. It is related of them that they were acute in many
respects, but were oddly afflicted with monomania for building
what, in the ancient Amriccan, was denominated “churches”—a kind
of pagoda instituted for the worship of two idols that went by
the names of Wealth and Fashion. In the end, it is said, the
island became, nine tenths of it, church. The women, too, it
appears, were oddly deformed by a natural protuberance of the
region just below the small of the back—although, most
unaccountably, this deformity was looked upon altogether in the
light of a beauty. One or two pictures of these singular women
have in fact, been miraculously preserved. They look very odd,
very—like something between a turkey-cock and a dromedary.
Well, these few details are nearly all that have descended to us
respecting the ancient Knickerbockers. It seems, however, that
while digging in the centre of the emperors garden, (which, you
know, covers the whole island), some of the workmen unearthed a
cubical and evidently chiseled block of granite, weighing several
hundred pounds. It was in good preservation, having received,
apparently, little injury from the convulsion which entombed it.
On one of its surfaces was a marble slab with (only think of it!)
an inscription—a legible inscription. Pundit is in ecstacies.
Upon detaching the slab, a cavity appeared, containing a leaden
box filled with various coins, a long scroll of names, several
documents which appear to resemble newspapers, with other matters
of intense interest to the antiquarian! There can be no doubt
that all these are genuine Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe
called Knickerbocker. The papers thrown on board our balloon are
filled with fac-similes of the coins, MSS., typography, &c., &c.
I copy for your amusement the Knickerbocker inscription on the
marble slab:—
This Corner Stone of a Monument to
The Memory of
GEORGE WASHINGTON
Was Laid With Appropriate Ceremonies
on the
19th Day of October, 1847
The anniversary of the surrender of
Lord Cornwallis
to General Washington at Yorktown
A. D. 1781
Under the Auspices of the
Washington Monument Association of
the city of New York
This, as I give it, is a verbatim translation done by Pundit
himself, so there can be no mistake about it. From the few words
thus preserved, we glean several important items of knowledge,
not the least interesting of which is the fact that a thousand
years ago actual monuments had fallen into disuse—as was all very
proper—the people contenting themselves, as we do now, with a
mere indication of the design to erect a monument at some future
time; a corner-stone being cautiously laid by itself “solitary
and alone” (excuse me for quoting the great American poet
Benton!), as a guarantee of the magnanimous intention. We
ascertain, too, very distinctly, from this admirable inscription,
the how as well as the where and the what, of the great surrender
in question. As to the where, it was Yorktown (wherever that
was), and as to the what, it was General Cornwallis (no doubt
some wealthy dealer in corn). He was surrendered. The inscription
commemorates the surrender of—what?—why, “of Lord Cornwallis.”
The only question is what could the savages wish him surrendered
for. But when we remember that these savages were undoubtedly
cannibals, we are led to the conclusion that they intended him
for sausage. As to the how of the surrender, no language can be
more explicit. Lord Cornwallis was surrendered (for sausage)
“under the auspices of the Washington Monument Association”—no
doubt a charitable institution for the depositing of
corner-stones.—But, Heaven bless me! what is the matter? Ah, I
see—the balloon has collapsed, and we shall have a tumble into
the sea. I have, therefore, only time enough to add that, from a
hasty inspection of the fac-similes of newspapers, &c., &c., I
find that the great men in those days among the Amriccans, were
one John, a smith, and one Zacchary, a tailor.
Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever get this letter
or not is point of little importance, as I write altogether for
my own amusement. I shall cork the MS. up in a bottle, however,
and throw it into the sea.
Yours everlastingly,
PUNDITA.
THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE.
And stepped at once into a cooler clime.—_Cowper_.
Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of “The Andromache”?
{*1} Ignoble souls!—De L’Omelette perished of an ortolan.
_L’histoire en est brève_. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius!
A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting,
indolent, to the _Chaussée D’Antin_, from its home in far Peru.
From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De
L’Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird.
That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau
he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his
loyalty in outbidding his king—the notorious ottoman of Cadêt.
He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to
restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this
moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo!
the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men!
But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of
the Duc?—“_Horreur!—chien! Baptiste!—l’oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet
oiseau modeste que tu as déshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as
servi sans papier!_” It is superfluous to say more:—the Duc
expired in a paroxysm of disgust.
“Ha! ha! ha!” said his Grace on the third day after his decease.
“He! he! he!” replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with
an air of _hauteur_.
“Why, surely you are not serious,” retorted De L’Omelette. “I
have sinned—c’est vrai—but, my good sir, consider!—you have no
actual intention of putting such—such barbarous threats into
execution.”
“No _what?_” said his majesty—“come, sir, strip!”
“Strip, indeed! very pretty i’ faith! no, sir, I shall _not_
strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L’Omelette, Prince de
Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the ‘Mazurkiad,’ and
Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of
the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest
_robe-de-chambre_ ever put together by Rombêrt—to say nothing of
the taking my hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I
should have in drawing off my gloves?”
“Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took
thee, just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou
wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent
thee,—my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou
sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen
drawers, and thy _robe-de-chambre_ is a shroud of no scanty
dimensions.”
“Sir!” replied the Duc, “I am not to be insulted with
impunity!—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging
this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime _au
revoir!_”—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic
presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman
in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged
his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his
identity, he took a bird’s eye view of his whereabouts.
The apartment was superb. Even De L’Omelette pronounced it _bien
comme il faut_. It was not its length nor its breadth,—but its
height—ah, that was appalling!—There was no ceiling—certainly
none—but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His
Grace’s brain reeled as he glanced upward. From above, hung a
chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like the
city of Boston, _parmi les nues_. From its nether extremity swung
a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby; but from it there
poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never
worshipped such—Gheber never imagined such—Mussulman never
dreamed of such when, drugged with opium, he has tottered to a
bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God
Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath, decidedly approbatory.
The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these
were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty
was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their _tout ensemble_
French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled; it was _not_
colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De
L’Omelette pressed his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes,
raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty—in a blush.
But the paintings!—Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!—a thousand and the
same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here,
for did he not paint the—? and was he not consequently damned?
The paintings—the paintings! O luxury! O love!—who, gazing on
those forbidden beauties, shall have eyes for the dainty devices
of the golden frames that besprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth
and the porphyry walls?
But the Duc’s heart is fainting within him. He is not, however,
as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the
ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. _C’est vrai que de
toutes ces choses il a pensé beaucoup—mais!_ The Duc De
L’Omelette is terror-stricken; for, through the lurid vista which
a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most
ghastly of all fires!
_Le pauvre Duc!_ He could not help imagining that the glorious,
the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that
hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy
of the enchanted window-panes, were the wailings and the howlings
of the hopeless and the damned! And there, too!—there!—upon the
ottoman!—who could _he_ be?—he, the _petitmaître_—no, the
Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, _et qui sourit_, with his
pale countenance, _si amèrement?_
_Mais il faut agir_—that is to say, a Frenchman never faints
outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene—De L’Omelette is
himself again. There were some foils upon a table—some points
also. The Duc had studied under B——; _il avait tué ses six
hommes._ Now, then, _il peut s’échapper_. He measures two points,
and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice.
_Horreur!_ his Majesty does not fence!
_Mais il joue!_—how happy a thought!—but his Grace had always an
excellent memory. He had dipped in the “_Diable_” of Abbé
Gualtier. Therein it is said “_que le Diable n’ose pas refuser un
jeu d’écarté._”
But the chances—the chances! True—desperate: but scarcely more
desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?—had he
not skimmed over Père Le Brun?—was he not a member of the Club
Vingt-un? “_Si je perds_,” said he, “_je serai deux fois perdu_—I
shall be doubly damned—_voilà tout!_ (Here his Grace shrugged his
shoulders.) _Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans—que les
cartes soient préparées!_”
His Grace was all care, all attention—his Majesty all confidence.
A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace
thought of his game. His Majesty did not think; he shuffled. The
Duc cut.
The cards were dealt. The trump is turned—it is—it is—the king!
No—it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine
habiliments. De L’Omelette placed his hand upon his heart.
They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts
heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.
“_C’est à vous à faire_,” said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace
bowed, dealt, and arose from the table _en presentant le Roi_.
His Majesty looked chagrined.
Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes;
and the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, “_que s’il
n’eût été De L’Omelette il n’aurait point d’objection d’être le
Diable._”
THE OBLONG BOX.
Some years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C., to the
city of New York, in the fine packet-ship “Independence,” Captain
Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June),
weather permitting; and on the fourteenth, I went on board to
arrange some matters in my state-room.
I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a
more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my
acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that
of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I entertained
feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow-student
at C—— University, where we were very much together. He had the
ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of
misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he
united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human
bosom.
I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and,
upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he
had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters—his own.
The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two berths,
one above the other. These berths, to be sure, were so
exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one
person; still, I could not comprehend why there were three
state-rooms for these four persons. I was, just at that epoch, in
one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally
inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, with shame, that I
busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous
conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It
was no business of mine, to be sure, but with none the less
pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the
enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great
wonder why I had not arrived at it before. “It is a servant of
course,” I said; “what a fool I am, not sooner to have thought of
so obvious a solution!” And then I again repaired to the list—but
here I saw distinctly that no servant was to come with the party,
although, in fact, it had been the original design to bring
one—for the words “and servant” had been first written and then
overscored. “Oh, extra baggage, to be sure,” I now said to
myself—“something he wishes not to be put in the hold—something
to be kept under his own eye—ah, I have it—a painting or so—and
this is what he has been bargaining about with Nicolino, the
Italian Jew.” This idea satisfied me, and I dismissed my
curiosity for the nonce.
Wyatt’s two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever
girls they were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never
yet seen her. He had often talked about her in my presence,
however, and in his usual style of enthusiasm. He described her
as of surpassing beauty, wit, and accomplishment. I was,
therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance.
On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt
and party were also to visit it—so the captain informed me—and I
waited on board an hour longer than I had designed, in hope of
being presented to the bride, but then an apology came. “Mrs. W.
was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on board until
to-morrow, at the hour of sailing.”
The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the
wharf, when Captain Hardy met me and said that, “owing to
circumstances” (a stupid but convenient phrase), “he rather
thought the ‘Independence’ would not sail for a day or two, and
that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know.” This
I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze; but as
“the circumstances” were not forthcoming, although I pumped for
them with much perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return
home and digest my impatience at leisure.
I did not receive the expected message from the captain for
nearly a week. It came at length, however, and I immediately went
on board. The ship was crowded with passengers, and every thing
was in the bustle attendant upon making sail. Wyatt’s party
arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There were the two
sisters, the bride, and the artist—the latter in one of his
customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to
these, however, to pay them any special attention. He did not
even introduce me to his wife—this courtesy devolving, per force,
upon his sister Marian—a very sweet and intelligent girl, who, in
a few hurried words, made us acquainted.
Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; and when she raised her veil,
in acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly
astonished. I should have been much more so, however, had not
long experience advised me not to trust, with too implicit a
reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my friend, the artist,
when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman. When
beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared
into the regions of the purely ideal.
The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a
decidedly plain-looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was
not, I think, very far from it. She was dressed, however, in
exquisite taste—and then I had no doubt that she had captivated
my friend’s heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect
and soul. She said very few words, and passed at once into her
state-room with Mr. W.
My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant—that
was a settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage.
After some delay, a cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong
pine box, which was every thing that seemed to be expected.
Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a short time
were safely over the bar and standing out to sea.
The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet
in length by two and a half in breadth; I observed it
attentively, and like to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar;
and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to myself for the
accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be
remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist,
would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he
had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino:—and now
here was a box, which, from its shape, could possibly contain
nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo’s “Last Supper;” and
a copy of this very “Last Supper,” done by Rubini the younger, at
Florence, I had known, for some time, to be in the possession of
Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently
settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. It
was the first time I had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of
his artistical secrets; but here he evidently intended to steal a
march upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my
very nose; expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved
to quiz him well, now and hereafter.
One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go
into the extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt’s own; and
there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the
floor—no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his
wife;—this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it
was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong,
disagreeable, and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On
the lid were painted the words—“Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New
York. Charge of Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled
with care.”
Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the
artist’s wife’s mother,—but then I looked upon the whole address
as a mystification, intended especially for myself. I made up my
mind, of course, that the box and contents would never get
farther north than the studio of my misanthropic friend, in
Chambers Street, New York.
For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although
the wind was dead ahead; having chopped round to the northward,
immediately upon our losing sight of the coast. The passengers
were, consequently, in high spirits and disposed to be social. I
must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who behaved stiffly,
and, I could not help thinking, uncourteously to the rest of the
party. Wyatt’s conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy,
even beyond his usual habit—in fact he was morose—but in him I
was prepared for eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could
make no excuse. They secluded themselves in their staterooms
during the greater part of the passage, and absolutely refused,
although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication with any
person on board.
Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say, she
was chatty; and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea.
She became excessively intimate with most of the ladies; and, to
my profound astonishment, evinced no equivocal disposition to
coquet with the men. She amused us all very much. I say
“amused”—and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth is, I
soon found that Mrs. W. was far oftener laughed at than with. The
gentlemen said little about her; but the ladies, in a little
while, pronounced her “a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent
looking, totally uneducated, and decidedly vulgar.” The great
wonder was, how Wyatt had been entrapped into such a match.
Wealth was the general solution—but this I knew to be no solution
at all; for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a
dollar nor had any expectations from any source whatever. “He had
married,” he said, “for love, and for love only; and his bride
was far more than worthy of his love.” When I thought of these
expressions, on the part of my friend, I confess that I felt
indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking
leave of his senses? What else could I think? He, so refined, so
intellectual, so fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of
the faulty, and so keen an appreciation of the beautiful! To be
sure, the lady seemed especially fond of him—particularly so in
his absence—when she made herself ridiculous by frequent
quotations of what had been said by her “beloved husband, Mr.
Wyatt.” The word “husband” seemed forever—to use one of her own
delicate expressions—forever “on the tip of her tongue.” In the
meantime, it was observed by all on board, that he avoided her in
the most pointed manner, and, for the most part, shut himself up
alone in his state-room, where, in fact, he might have been said
to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to amuse
herself as she thought best, in the public society of the main
cabin.
My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was, that, the artist,
by some unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of
enthusiastic and fanciful passion, had been induced to unite
himself with a person altogether beneath him, and that the
natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied
him from the bottom of my heart—but could not, for that reason,
quite forgive his incommunicativeness in the matter of the “Last
Supper.” For this I resolved to have my revenge.
One day he came upon deck, and, taking his arm as had been my
wont, I sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom,
however (which I considered quite natural under the
circumstances), seemed entirely unabated. He said little, and
that moodily, and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or two,
and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow!—as I
thought of his wife, I wondered that he could have heart to put
on even the semblance of mirth. I determined to commence a series
of covert insinuations, or innuendoes, about the oblong box—just
to let him perceive, gradually, that I was not altogether the
butt, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant mystification. My
first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said
something about the “peculiar shape of _that_ box”; and, as I
spoke the words, I smiled knowingly, winked, and touched him
gently with my forefinger in the ribs.
The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry
convinced me, at once, that he was mad. At first he stared at me
as if he found it impossible to comprehend the witticism of my
remark; but as its point seemed slowly to make its way into his
brain, his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed protruding from
their sockets. Then he grew very red—then hideously pale—then, as
if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and
boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with
gradually increasing vigor, for ten minutes or more. In
conclusion, he fell flat and heavily upon the deck. When I ran to
uplift him, to all appearance he was dead.
I called assistance, and, with much difficulty, we brought him to
himself. Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At
length we bled him and put him to bed. The next morning he was
quite recovered, so far as regarded his mere bodily health. Of
his mind I say nothing, of course. I avoided him during the rest
of the passage, by advice of the captain, who seemed to coincide
with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but cautioned me
to say nothing on this head to any person on board.
Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of
Wyatt which contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I
was already possessed. Among other things, this: I had been
nervous—drank too much strong green tea, and slept ill at
night—in fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to
sleep at all. Now, my state-room opened into the main cabin, or
dining-room, as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt’s
three rooms were in the after-cabin, which was separated from the
main one by a slight sliding door, never locked even at night. As
we were almost constantly on a wind, and the breeze was not a
little stiff, the ship heeled to leeward very considerably; and
whenever her starboard side was to leeward, the sliding door
between the cabins slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the
trouble to get up and shut it. But my berth was in such a
position, that when my own state-room door was open, as well as
the sliding door in question (and my own door was always open on
account of the heat,) I could see into the after-cabin quite
distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were
situated the state-rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights
(not consecutive) while I lay awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W., about
eleven o’clock upon each night, steal cautiously from the
state-room of Mr. W., and enter the extra room, where she
remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and
went back. That they were virtually separated was clear. They had
separate apartments—no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent
divorce; and here, after all I thought was the mystery of the
extra state-room.
There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much.
During the two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after
the disappearance of Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was
attracted by certain singular cautious, subdued noises in that of
her husband. After listening to them for some time, with
thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in
translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the
artist in prying open the oblong box, by means of a chisel and
mallet—the latter being apparently muffled, or deadened, by some
soft woollen or cotton substance in which its head was enveloped.
In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment
when he fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I could determine
when he removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon the
lower berth in his room; this latter point I knew, for example,
by certain slight taps which the lid made in striking against the
wooden edges of the berth, as he endeavored to lay it down very
gently—there being no room for it on the floor. After this there
was a dead stillness, and I heard nothing more, upon either
occasion, until nearly daybreak; unless, perhaps, I may mention a
low sobbing, or murmuring sound, so very much suppressed as to be
nearly inaudible—if, indeed, the whole of this latter noise were
not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it seemed to
resemble sobbing or sighing—but, of course, it could not have
been either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr.
Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely giving the rein
to one of his hobbies—indulging in one of his fits of artistic
enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong box, in order to feast his
eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was nothing in this,
however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have
been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by good Captain
Hardy’s green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of
which I speak, I distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon
the oblong box, and force the nails into their old places by
means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he issued from his
state-room, fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from
hers.
We had been at sea seven days, and were now off Cape Hatteras,
when there came a tremendously heavy blow from the southwest. We
were, in a measure, prepared for it, however, as the weather had
been holding out threats for some time. Every thing was made
snug, alow and aloft; and as the wind steadily freshened, we lay
to, at length, under spanker and foretopsail, both double-reefed.
In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours—the ship
proving herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects, and
shipping no water of any consequence. At the end of this period,
however, the gale had freshened into a hurricane, and our
after-sail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the trough
of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one
immediately after the other. By this accident we lost three men
overboard with the caboose, and nearly the whole of the larboard
bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our senses, before the
foretopsail went into shreds, when we got up a storm stay-sail
and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading
the sea much more steadily than before.
The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its
abating. The rigging was found to be ill-fitted, and greatly
strained; and on the third day of the blow, about five in the
afternoon, our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to windward, went by
the board. For an hour or more, we tried in vain to get rid of
it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship; and, before
we had succeeded, the carpenter came aft and announced four feet
of water in the hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps
choked and nearly useless.
All was now confusion and despair—but an effort was made to
lighten the ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as
could be reached, and by cutting away the two masts that
remained. This we at last accomplished—but we were still unable
to do any thing at the pumps; and, in the meantime, the leak
gained on us very fast.
At sundown, the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as
the sea went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of
saving ourselves in the boats. At eight P. M., the clouds broke
away to windward, and we had the advantage of a full moon—a piece
of good fortune which served wonderfully to cheer our drooping
spirits.
After incredible labor we succeeded, at length, in getting the
longboat over the side without material accident, and into this
we crowded the whole of the crew and most of the passengers. This
party made off immediately, and, after undergoing much suffering,
finally arrived, in safety, at Ocracoke Inlet, on the third day
after the wreck.
Fourteen passengers, with the captain, remained on board,
resolving to trust their fortunes to the jolly-boat at the stern.
We lowered it without difficulty, although it was only by a
miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it touched the
water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr.
Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and
myself, with a negro valet.
We had no room, of course, for any thing except a few positively
necessary instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our
backs. No one had thought of even attempting to save any thing
more. What must have been the astonishment of all, then, when
having proceeded a few fathoms from the ship, Mr. Wyatt stood up
in the stern-sheets, and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy that
the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his
oblong box!
“Sit down, Mr. Wyatt,” replied the captain, somewhat sternly,
“you will capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwhale
is almost in the water now.”
“The box!” vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing—“the box, I say!
Captain Hardy, you cannot, you will not refuse me. Its weight
will be but a trifle—it is nothing—mere nothing. By the mother
who bore you—for the love of Heaven—by your hope of salvation, I
implore you to put back for the box!”
The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal
of the artist, but he regained his stern composure, and merely
said:
“Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say,
or you will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him!—he is about
to spring overboard! There—I knew it—he is over!”
As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the
boat, and, as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded, by
almost superhuman exertion, in getting hold of a rope which hung
from the fore-chains. In another moment he was on board, and
rushing frantically down into the cabin.
In the meantime, we had been swept astern of the ship, and being
quite out of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea
which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back,
but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the
tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate
artist was sealed.
As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for
as such only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the
companion—way, up which by dint of strength that appeared
gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed in
the extremity of astonishment, he passed, rapidly, several turns
of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around his
body. In another instant both body and box were in the
sea—disappearing suddenly, at once and forever.
We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted
upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained
unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark.
“Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that
an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some
feeble hope of his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself
to the box, and commit himself to the sea.”
“They sank as a matter of course,” replied the captain, “and that
like a shot. They will soon rise again, however—but not till the
salt melts.”
“The salt!” I ejaculated.
“Hush!” said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the
deceased. “We must talk of these things at some more appropriate
time.”
We suffered much, and made a narrow escape; but fortune
befriended us, as well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed,
in fine, more dead than alive, after four days of intense
distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained
here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length
obtained a passage to New York.
About a month after the loss of the “Independence,” I happened to
meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned,
naturally, upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of
poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars.
The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and
a servant. His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a
most lovely, and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the
fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship),
the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was
frantic with grief—but circumstances imperatively forbade the
deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her
mother the corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the
universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was
well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned
the ship rather than take passage with a dead body.
In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being
first partially embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of
salt, in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on
board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady’s
decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had
engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some
person should personate her during the voyage. This the deceased
lady’s-maid was easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room,
originally engaged for this girl during her mistress’ life, was
now merely retained. In this state-room the pseudo-wife, slept,
of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the best
of her ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had
been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers
on board.
My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too
inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is
a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a
countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an
hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears.
LOSS OF BREATH
O breathe not, etc.
—Moore’s _Melodies_
The most notorious ill-fortune must in the end yield to the
untiring courage of philosophy—as the most stubborn city to the
ceaseless vigilance of an enemy. Shalmanezer, as we have it in
holy writings, lay three years before Samaria; yet it fell.
Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself seven in Nineveh;
but to no purpose. Troy expired at the close of the second
lustrum; and Azoth, as Aristaeus declares upon his honour as a
gentleman, opened at last her gates to Psammetichus, after having
barred them for the fifth part of a century....
“Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!” said I to my wife on the
morning after our wedding; “thou witch!—thou hag!—thou
whippersnapper—thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced
quintessence of all that is abominable!—thou—thou—” here standing
upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth
close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and more
decided epithet of opprobrium, which should not fail, if
ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance, when to my
extreme horror and astonishment I discovered that I had lost my
breath.
The phrases “I am out of breath,” “I have lost my breath,” etc.,
are often enough repeated in common conversation; but it had
never occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak
could _bona fide_ and actually happen! Imagine—that is if you
have a fanciful turn—imagine, I say, my wonder—my
consternation—my despair!
There is a good genius, however, which has never entirely
deserted me. In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a sense
of propriety, _et le chemin des passions me conduit_—as Lord
Edouard in the “Julie” says it did him—_à la philosophie
véritable_.
Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree
the occurrence had affected me, I determined at all events to
conceal the matter from my wife, until further experience should
discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity.
Altering my countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its
bepuffed and distorted appearance, to an expression of arch and
coquettish benignity, I gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and
a kiss on the other, and without saying one syllable (Furies! I
could not), left her astonished at my drollery, as I pirouetted
out of the room in a _pas de zephyr_.
Behold me then safely ensconced in my private boudoir, a fearful
instance of the ill consequences attending upon
irascibility—alive, with the qualifications of the dead—dead,
with the propensities of the living—an anomaly on the face of the
earth—being very calm, yet breathless.
Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was
entirely gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my
life had been at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror.
Hard fate!—yet there was some alleviation to the first
overwhelming paroxysm of my sorrow. I found, upon trial, that the
powers of utterance which, upon my inability to proceed in the
conversation with my wife, I then concluded to be totally
destroyed, were in fact only partially impeded, and I discovered
that had I, at that interesting crisis, dropped my voice to a
singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued to her the
communication of my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the
guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the breath,
but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat.
Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed
in meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory
kind. A thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession
of my soul—and even the idea of suicide flitted across my brain;
but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the
obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I
shuddered at self-murder as the most decided of atrocities while
the tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very
water-dog wheezed assiduously under the table, each taking to
itself much merit for the strength of its lungs, and all
obviously done in derision of my own pulmonary incapacity.
Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length
heard the footsteps of my wife descending the staircase. Being
now assured of her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart
to the scene of my disaster.
Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous
search. It was possible, I thought, that, concealed in some
obscure corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be
found the lost object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory—it
might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many
points of philosophy, are still very unphilosophical. William
Godwin, however, says in his “Mandeville,” that “invisible things
are the only realities,” and this, all will allow, is a case in
point. I would have the judicious reader pause before accusing
such asseverations of an undue quantum of absurdity. Anaxagoras,
it will be remembered, maintained that snow is black, and this I
have since found to be the case.
Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the
contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be
only a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle
of billets-doux from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well
here observe that this confirmation of my lady’s partiality for
Mr. W. occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lackobreath
should admire anything so dissimilar to myself was a natural and
necessary evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent
appearance, and at the same time somewhat diminutive in stature.
What wonder, then, that the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance,
and his altitude, which has grown into a proverb, should have met
with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs. Lackobreath. But to
return.
My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet
after closet—drawer after drawer—corner after corner—were
scrutinized to no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself
sure of my prize, having, in rummaging a dressing-case,
accidentally demolished a bottle of Grandjean’s Oil of
Archangels—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the
liberty of recommending.
With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—there to ponder upon
some method of eluding my wife’s penetration, until I could make
arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had
already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I
might, with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my
unhappy calamity—a calamity calculated, even more than beggary,
to estrange the affections of the multitude, and to draw down
upon the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous and
the happy. I was not long in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I
committed to memory the entire tragedy of “Metamora.” I had the
good fortune to recollect that in the accentuation of this drama,
or at least of such portion of it as is allotted to the hero, the
tones of voice in which I found myself deficient were altogether
unnecessary, and the deep guttural was expected to reign
monotonously throughout.
I practised for some time by the borders of a well frequented
marsh;—herein, however, having no reference to a similar
proceeding of Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and
conscientiously my own. Thus armed at all points, I determined to
make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten with a passion
for the stage. In this, I succeeded to a miracle; and to every
question or suggestion found myself at liberty to reply in my
most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some passage from the
tragedy—any portion of which, as I soon took great pleasure in
observing, would apply equally well to any particular subject. It
is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of such
passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint—the
showing my teeth—the working my knees—the shuffling my feet—or in
any of those unmentionable graces which are now justly considered
the characteristics of a popular performer. To be sure they spoke
of confining me in a strait-jacket—but, good God! they never
suspected me of having lost my breath.
Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very
early one morning in the mail stage for ——, giving it to be
understood, among my acquaintances, that business of the last
importance required my immediate personal attendance in that
city.
The coach was crammed to repletion; but in the uncertain twilight
the features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without
making any effectual resistance, I suffered myself to be placed
between two gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while a third, of a
size larger, requesting pardon for the liberty he was about to
take, threw himself upon my body at full length, and falling
asleep in an instant, drowned all my guttural ejaculations for
relief, in a snore which would have put to blush the roarings of
the bull of Phalaris. Happily the state of my respiratory
faculties rendered suffocation an accident entirely out of the
question.
As, however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the
outskirts of the city, my tormentor, arising and adjusting his
shirt-collar, thanked me in a very friendly manner for my
civility. Seeing that I remained motionless (all my limbs were
dislocated and my head twisted on one side), his apprehensions
began to be excited; and arousing the rest of the passengers, he
communicated, in a very decided manner, his opinion that a dead
man had been palmed upon them during the night for a living and
responsible fellow-traveller; here giving me a thump on the right
eye, by way of demonstrating the truth of his suggestion.
Hereupon all, one after another (there were nine in company),
believed it their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising
physician, too, having applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and
found me without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was
pronounced a true bill; and the whole party expressed a
determination to endure tamely no such impositions for the
future, and to proceed no farther with any such carcasses for the
present.
I was here, accordingly, thrown out at the sign of the “Crow” (by
which tavern the coach happened to be passing), without meeting
with any farther accident than the breaking of both my arms,
under the left hind wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the
driver the justice to state that he did not forget to throw after
me the largest of my trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my
head, fractured my skull in a manner at once interesting and
extraordinary.
The landlord of the “Crow,” who is a hospitable man, finding that
my trunk contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little
trouble he might take in my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon
of his acquaintance, and delivered me to his care with a bill and
receipt for ten dollars.
The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations
immediately. Having cut off my ears, however, he discovered signs
of animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring
apothecary with whom to consult in the emergency. In case of his
suspicions with regard to my existence proving ultimately
correct, he, in the meantime, made an incision in my stomach, and
removed several of my viscera for private dissection.
The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I
endeavored to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might,
and making the most furious contortions—for the operations of the
surgeon had, in a measure, restored me to the possession of my
faculties. All, however, was attributed to the effects of a new
galvanic battery, wherewith the apothecary, who is really a man
of information, performed several curious experiments, in which,
from my personal share in their fulfillment, I could not help
feeling deeply interested. It was a course of mortification to
me, nevertheless, that although I made several attempts at
conversation, my powers of speech were so entirely in abeyance,
that I could not even open my mouth; much less, then, make reply
to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which, under other
circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the Hippocratian
pathology would have afforded me a ready confutation.
Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners
remanded me for farther examination. I was taken up into a
garret; and the surgeon’s lady having accommodated me with
drawers and stockings, the surgeon himself fastened my hands, and
tied up my jaws with a pocket-handkerchief—then bolted the door
on the outside as he hurried to his dinner, leaving me alone to
silence and to meditation.
I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken
had not my mouth been tied up with the pocket-handkerchief.
Consoling myself with this reflection, I was mentally repeating
some passages of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” as is my custom
before resigning myself to sleep, when two cats, of a greedy and
vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall, leaped up with
a flourish a la Catalani, and alighting opposite one another on
my visage, betook themselves to indecorous contention for the
paltry consideration of my nose.
But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the
throne of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the
cutting off his nose gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the
loss of a few ounces of my countenance proved the salvation of my
body. Aroused by the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst,
at a single effort, the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking
across the room I cast a glance of contempt at the belligerents,
and throwing open the sash to their extreme horror and
disappointment, precipitated myself, very dexterously, from the
window.
The mail-robber W——, to whom I bore a singular resemblance, was
at this moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected
for his execution in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long
continued ill health had obtained him the privilege of remaining
unmanacled; and habited in his gallows costume—one very similar
to my own,—he lay at full length in the bottom of the hangman’s
cart (which happened to be under the windows of the surgeon at
the moment of my precipitation) without any other guard than the
driver, who was asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry,
who were drunk.
As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the
vehicle. W——, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity.
Leaping up immediately, he bolted out behind, and turning down an
alley, was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits,
aroused by the bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of
the transaction. Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart
of the felon, standing upright in the cart before their eyes,
they were of the opinion that the rascal (meaning W——) was after
making his escape, (so they expressed themselves), and, having
communicated this opinion to one another, they took each a dram,
and then knocked me down with the butt-ends of their muskets.
It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of
course nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my
inevitable fate. I resigned myself thereto with a feeling half
stupid, half acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the
sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the noose
about my neck. The drop fell.
I forbear to depict my sensations upon the gallows; although
here, undoubtedly, I could speak to the point, and it is a topic
upon which nothing has been well said. In fact, to write upon
such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author
should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony
composed a treatise upon getting drunk.
I may just mention, however, that die I did not. My body was, but
I had no breath to be, suspended; and but for the knot under my
left ear (which had the feel of a military stock) I dare say that
I should have experienced very little inconvenience. As for the
jerk given to my neck upon the falling of the drop, it merely
proved a corrective to the twist afforded me by the fat gentleman
in the coach.
For good reasons, however, I did my best to give the crowd the
worth of their trouble. My convulsions were said to be
extraordinary. My spasms it would have been difficult to beat.
The populace encored. Several gentlemen swooned; and a multitude
of ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit availed himself
of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the spot,
his admirable painting of the “Marsyas flayed alive.”
When I had afforded sufficient amusement, it was thought proper
to remove my body from the gallows;—this the more especially as
the real culprit had in the meantime been retaken and recognized,
a fact which I was so unlucky as not to know.
Much sympathy was, of course, exercised in my behalf, and as no
one made claim to my corpse, it was ordered that I should be
interred in a public vault.
Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed,
and I was left alone. A line of Marston’s “Malcontent”—
Death’s a good fellow and keeps open house—
struck me at that moment as a palpable lie.
I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out.
The place was dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled
with ennui. By way of amusement, I felt my way among the numerous
coffins ranged in order around. I lifted them down, one by one,
and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about
the mortality within.
“This,” I soliloquized, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated,
and rotund—“this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word,
an unhappy—an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not
to walk but to waddle—to pass through life not like a human
being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but like a
rhinoceros.
“His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his
circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step
forward, it has been his misfortune to take two toward the right,
and three toward the left. His studies have been confined to the
poetry of Crabbe. He can have no idea of the wonder of a
pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has been an abstract
conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has
never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat
has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the
days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and
suffocation—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon Ossa. He
was short of breath—to say all in a word, he was short of breath.
He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was
the inventor of self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He
patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker, and he died miserably in
attempting to smoke a cigar. His was a case in which I feel a
deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathize.
“But here,”—said I—“here”—and I dragged spitefully from its
receptacle a gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose
remarkable appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome
familiarity—“here is a wretch entitled to no earthly
commiseration.” Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct
view of my subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to its
nose, and causing it to assume a sitting position upon the
ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued
my soliloquy.
“Entitled,” I repeated, “to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed
would think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had
his full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the
originator of tall monuments—shot-towers—lightning-rods—Lombardy
poplars. His treatise upon “Shades and Shadows” has immortalized
him. He edited with distinguished ability the last edition of
“South on the Bones.” He went early to college and studied
pneumatics. He then came home, talked eternally, and played upon
the French-horn. He patronized the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who
walked against Time, would not walk against him. Windham and
Allbreath were his favorite writers,—his favorite artist, Phiz.
He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu corrupitur,
like the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus. {*1} He was indubitably
a—”
“How can you?—how—can—you?”—interrupted the object of my
animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate
exertion, the bandage around its jaws—“how can you, Mr. Lackobreath, be
so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you
not see how they had fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if you know
any thing—how vast a superfluity of breath I have to dispose of! If you
do not know, however, sit down and you shall see. In my situation it is
really a great relief to be able to open ones mouth—to be able to
expatiate—to be able to communicate with a person like yourself, who do
not think yourself called upon at every period to interrupt the thread
of a gentleman’s discourse. Interruptions are annoying and should
undoubtedly be abolished—don’t you think so?—no reply, I beg you,—one
person is enough to be speaking at a time.—I shall be done by and by,
and then you may begin.—How the devil sir, did you get into this
place?—not a word I beseech you—been here some time myself—terrible
accident!—heard of it, I suppose?—awful calamity!—walking under your
windows—some short while ago—about the time you were
stage-struck—horrible occurrence!—heard of “catching one’s breath,”
eh?—hold your tongue I tell you!—I caught somebody else’s!—had always
too much of my own—met Blab at the corner of the street—wouldn’t give
me a chance for a word—couldn’t get in a syllable edgeways—attacked,
consequently, with epilepsis—Blab made his escape—damn all fools!—they
took me up for dead, and put me in this place—pretty doings all of
them!—heard all you said about me—every word a
lie—horrible!—wonderful!—outrageous!—hideous!—incomprehensible!—et
cetera—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera—”
It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a
discourse, or the joy with which I became gradually convinced
that the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman (whom I
soon recognized as my neighbor Windenough) was, in fact, the
identical expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with
my wife. Time, place, and circumstances rendered it a matter
beyond question. I did not, however, immediately release my hold
upon Mr. W.’s proboscis—not at least during the long period in
which the inventor of Lombardy poplars continued to favor me with
his explanations.
In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence which
has ever been my predominating trait. I reflected that many
difficulties might still lie in the path of my preservation which
only extreme exertion on my part would be able to surmount. Many
persons, I considered, are prone to estimate commodities in their
possession—however valueless to the then proprietor—however
troublesome, or distressing—in direct ratio with the advantages
to be derived by others from their attainment, or by themselves
from their abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr.
Windenough? In displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was
at present so willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to
the exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world,
I remembered with a sigh, who will not scruple to take unfair
opportunities with even a next door neighbor, and (this remark is
from Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most
anxious to throw off the burden of their own calamities that they
feel the least desirous of relieving them in others.
Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my
grasp upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to
model my reply.
“Monster!” I began in a tone of the deepest indignation—“monster
and double-winded idiot!—dost thou, whom for thine iniquities it
has pleased heaven to accurse with a two-fold respimtion—dost
thou, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an
old acquaintance?—‘I lie,’ forsooth! and ‘hold my tongue,’ to be
sure!—pretty conversation indeed, to a gentleman with a single
breath!—all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the
calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer—to curtail the
superfluities of thine unhappy respiration.”
Like Brutus, I paused for a reply—with which, like a tornado, Mr.
Windenough immediately overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon
protestation, and apology upon apology. There were no terms with
which he was unwilling to comply, and there were none of which I
failed to take the fullest advantage.
Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered
me the respiration; for which (having carefully examined it) I
gave him afterward a receipt.
I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in
a manner so cursory, of a transaction so impalpable. It will be
thought that I should have entered more minutely, into the
details of an occurrence by which—and this is very true—much new
light might be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of
physical philosophy.
To all this I am sorry that I cannot reply. A hint is the only
answer which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances—but
I think it much safer upon consideration to say as little as
possible about an affair so delicate—so delicate, I repeat, and
at the time involving the interests of a third party whose
sulphurous resentment I have not the least desire, at this
moment, of incurring.
We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an
escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of
our resuscitated voices was soon sufficiently apparent. Scissors,
the Whig editor, republished a treatise upon “the nature and
origin of subterranean noises.” A reply—rejoinder—confutation—and
justification—followed in the columns of a Democratic gazette. It
was not until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy,
that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both
parties to have been decidedly in the wrong.
I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in
a life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again
recalling to the attention of the reader the merits of that
indiscriminate philosophy which is a sure and ready shield
against those shafts of calamity which can neither be seen, felt
nor fully understood. It was in the spirit of this wisdom that,
among the ancient Hebrews, it was believed the gates of Heaven
would be inevitably opened to that sinner, or saint, who, with
good lungs and implicit confidence, should vociferate the word
“Amen!” It was in the spirit of this wisdom that, when a great
plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain
attempted for its removal, Epimenides, as Laërtius relates, in
his second book, of that philosopher, advised the erection of a
shrine and temple “to the proper God.”
LYTTLETON BARRY.
THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP
A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.
_Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!_
_La moitié de ma vie a mis l’ autre au tombeau._
—CORNEILLE.
I cannot just now remember when or where I first made the
acquaintance of that truly fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier
General John A. B. C. Smith. Some one _did_ introduce me to the
gentleman, I am sure—at some public meeting, I know very
well—held about something of great importance, no doubt—at some
place or other, I feel convinced,—whose name I have unaccountably
forgotten. The truth is—that the introduction was attended, upon
my part, with a degree of anxious embarrassment which operated to
prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am
constitutionally nervous—this, with me, is a family failing, and
I can’t help it. In especial, the slightest appearance of
mystery—of any point I cannot exactly comprehend—puts me at once
into a pitiable state of agitation.
There was something, as it were, remarkable—yes, _remarkable_,
although this is but a feeble term to express my full
meaning—about the entire individuality of the personage in
question. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of a presence
singularly commanding. There was an _air distingué_ pervading the
whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and hinted at high
birth. Upon this topic—the topic of Smith’s personal appearance—I
have a kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head
of hair would have done honor to a Brutus; nothing could be more
richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty
black;—which was also the color, or more properly the no color of
his unimaginable whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these
latter without enthusiasm; it is not too much to say that they
were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all
events, they encircled, and at times partially overshadowed, a
mouth utterly unequalled. Here were the most entirely even, and
the most brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. From between
them, upon every proper occasion, issued a voice of surpassing
clearness, melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, also, my
acquaintance was pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair
was worth a couple of the ordinary ocular organs. They were of a
deep hazel, exceedingly large and lustrous; and there was
perceptible about them, ever and anon, just that amount of
interesting obliquity which gives pregnancy to expression.
The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever
saw. For your life you could not have found a fault with its
wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great
advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush
of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble
Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I
never beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were
admirably modelled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These
were, indeed, the _ne plus ultra_ of good legs. Every connoisseur
in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither
too much flesh, nor too little,—neither rudeness nor fragility. I
could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the _os
femoris_, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the
rear of the _fibula_ which goes to the conformation of a properly
proportioned calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend
Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.
But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty
as reasons or blackberries, still I could not bring myself to
believe that _the remarkable_ something to which I alluded just
now,—that the odd air of _je ne sais quoi_ which hung about my
new acquaintance,—lay altogether, or indeed at all, in the
supreme excellence of his bodily endowments. Perhaps it might be
traced to the _manner_;—yet here again I could not pretend to be
positive. There _was_ a primness, not to say stiffness, in his
carriage—a degree of measured, and, if I may so express it, of
rectangular precision, attending his every movement, which,
observed in a more diminutive figure, would have had the least
little savor in the world, of affectation, pomposity or
constraint, but which noticed in a gentleman of his undoubted
dimensions, was readily placed to the account of reserve,
_hauteur_—of a commendable sense, in short, of what is due to the
dignity of colossal proportion.
The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my
ear some few words of comment upon the man. He was a _remarkable_
man—a _very_ remarkable man—indeed one of the _most_ remarkable
men of the age. He was an especial favorite, too, with the
ladies—chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage.
“In _that_ point he is unrivalled—indeed he is a perfect
desperado—a down-right fire-eater, and no mistake,” said my
friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling me
with the mystery of his tone.
“A downright fire-eater, and _no_ mistake. Showed _that_, I
should say, to some purpose, in the late tremendous swamp-fight
away down South, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians.” [Here my
friend opened his eyes to some extent.] “Bless my soul!—blood and
thunder, and all that!—_prodigies_ of valor!—heard of him of
course?—you know he’s the man—”
“Man alive, how _do_ you do? why, how _are_ ye? _very_ glad to
see ye, indeed!” here interrupted the General himself, seizing my
companion by the hand as he drew near, and bowing stiffly, but
profoundly, as I was presented. I then thought, (and I think so
still,) that I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice, nor
beheld a finer set of teeth: but I _must_ say that I was sorry
for the interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the
whispers and insinuations aforesaid, my interest had been greatly
excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.
However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith soon completely dissipated
this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we had quite a
long _tête-à-tête_, and I was not only pleased but
_really_—instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, or a man
of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he
forebore, nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then
most at heart—I mean the mysterious circumstances attending the
Bugaboo war—and, on my own part, what I conceive to be a proper
sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the subject; although, in
truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, that
the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest,
and that he delighted, especially, in commenting upon the rapid
march of mechanical invention. Indeed, lead him where I would,
this was a point to which he invariably came back.
“There is nothing at all like it,” he would say; “we are a
wonderful people, and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes and
rail-roads—man-traps and spring-guns! Our steam-boats are upon
every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is about to run regular
trips (fare either way only twenty pounds sterling) between
London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the immense
influence upon social life—upon arts—upon commerce—upon
literature—which will be the immediate result of the great
principles of electro-magnetics! Nor, is this all, let me assure
you! There is really no end to the march of invention. The most
wonderful—the most ingenious—and let me add, Mr.—Mr.—Thompson, I
believe, is your name—let me add, I say, the most _useful_—the
most truly _useful_—mechanical contrivances, are daily springing
up like mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more
figuratively, like—ah—grasshoppers—like grasshoppers, Mr.
Thompson—about us and ah—ah—ah—around us!”
Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say
that I left General Smith with a heightened interest in the man,
with an exalted opinion of his conversational powers, and a deep
sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this age
of mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had not been
altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate
inquiry among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier
General himself, and particularly respecting the tremendous
events _quorum pars magna fuit_, during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo
campaign.
The first opportunity which presented itself, and which
(_horresco referens_) I did not in the least scruple to seize,
occurred at the Church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where
I found myself established, one Sunday, just at sermon time, not
only in the pew, but by the side, of that worthy and
communicative little friend of mine, Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated,
I congratulated myself, and with much reason, upon the very
flattering state of affairs. If any person knew anything about
Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith, that person, it was
clear to me, was Miss Tabitha T. We telegraphed a few signals,
and then commenced, _sotto voce_, a brisk _tête-à-tête_.
“Smith!” said she, in reply to my very earnest inquiry;
“Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Bless me, I thought you
_knew_ all about _him!_ This is a wonderfully inventive age!
Horrid affair that!—a bloody set of wretches, those
Kickapoos!—fought like a hero—prodigies of valor—immortal renown.
Smith!—Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.! why, you know he’s
the man—”
“Man,” here broke in Doctor Drummummupp, at the top of his voice,
and with a thump that came near knocking the pulpit about our
ears—“man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live;
he cometh up and is cut down like a flower!” I started to the
extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated looks of the
divine, that the wrath which had nearly proved fatal to the
pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself.
There was no help for it; so I submitted with a good grace, and
listened, in all the martyrdom of dignified silence, to the
balance of that very capital discourse.
Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole
Theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by
merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of
affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda
Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing Iago to a
very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in
making my wishes understood; especially, as our box was next the
slips, and completely overlooked the stage.
“Smith!” said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the
purport of my query; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.?”
“Smith!” inquired Miranda, musingly. “God bless me, did you ever
behold a finer figure?”
“Never, madam, but _do_ tell me—”
“Or so inimitable grace?”
“Never, upon my word!—But pray inform me—”
“Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?”
“Madam!”
“Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be
so good as to look at that leg!”
“The devil!” and I turned again to her sister.
“Smith!” said she, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair
that, wasn’t it?—great wretches, those Bugaboos—savage and so
on—but we live in a wonderfully inventive age!—Smith!—O yes!
great man!—perfect desperado!—immortal renown!—prodigies of
valor! _Never heard!_” [This was given in a scream.] “Bless my
soul! why, he’s the man—”
“——mandragora
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owd’st yesterday!”
here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my
face all the time, in a way that I _couldn’t_ stand, and I
_wouldn’t_. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, went
behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly scoundrel such
a thrashing as I trust he will remember to the day of his death.
At the _soirée_ of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was
confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment.
Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my
pretty hostess for a _vis-à-vis_, than I propounded those
questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential
to my peace.
“Smith!” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid
affair that, wasn’t it?—diamonds, did you say?—terrible wretches
those Kickapoos!—we are playing _whist_, if you please, Mr.
Tattle—however, this is the age of invention, most certainly
_the_ age, one may say—_the_ age _par excellence_—speak
French?—oh, quite a hero—perfect desperado!—_no hearts_, Mr.
Tattle? I don’t believe it.—immortal renown and all
that!—prodigies of valor! _Never heard!!_—why, bless me, he’s the
man—”
“Mann!—_Captain_ Mann?” here screamed some little feminine
interloper from the farthest corner of the room. “Are you talking
about Captain Mann and the duel?—oh, I _must_ hear—do tell—go on,
Mrs. O’Trump!—do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did—all about
a certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should
have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and
I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything farther
that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.
Smith.
Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill
luck would not run against me forever, and so determined to make
a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little
angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.
“Smith!” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a _pas de
zephyr_, “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful
business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it?—dreadful creatures,
those Indians!—_do_ turn out your toes! I really am ashamed of
you—man of great courage, poor fellow!—but this is a wonderful
age for invention—O dear me, I’m out of breath—quite a
desperado—prodigies of valor—_never heard!_—can’t believe it—I
shall have to sit down and enlighten you—Smith! why, he’s the
man—”
“Man-_Fred_, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led
Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. “Did ever anybody hear the like? It’s
Man-_Fred_, I say, and not at all by any means Man-_Friday_.”
Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner;
and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the
purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain
poetical drama of Lord Byron’s. Although I pronounced, with great
promptness, that the true title was Man-_Friday_, and not by any
means Man-_Fred_, yet when I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she
was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in
a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the
Bas-Bleus.
Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved
to call at once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate;
for I knew that here at least I should get something like
definite information.
“Smith!” said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling out
his syllables; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Savage
affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn’t it? Say! don’t you
think so?—perfect despera-a-ado—great pity, ‘pon my
honor!—wonderfully inventive age!—pro-o-odigies of valor! By the
by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?”
“Captain Mann be d—d!” said I; “please to go on with your story.”
“Hem!—oh well!—quite _la même cho-o-ose_, as we say in France.
Smith, eh? Brigadier-General John A.—B.—C.? I say”—[here Mr. S.
thought proper to put his finger to the side of his nose]—“I say,
you don’t mean to insinuate now, really and truly, and
conscientiously, that you don’t know all about that affair of
Smith’s, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A—B—C.? Why, bless me,
he’s the ma-a-an—”
“_Mr_. Sinivate,” said I, imploringly, “_is_ he the man in the
mask?”
“No-o-o!” said he, looking wise, “nor the man in the mo-o-on.”
This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so
left the house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to
call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his
ungentlemanly conduct and ill-breeding.
In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted
touching the information I desired. There was one resource left
me yet. I would go to the fountain-head. I would call forthwith
upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a
solution of this abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least,
there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain,
positive, peremptory—as short as pie-crust—as concise as Tacitus
or Montesquieu.
It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I
pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room
by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my
visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for
the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a
large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay
close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best
humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.
“Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!” said the bundle, in
one of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices,
between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days
of my existence.
“Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe.”
I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into
the farthest extremity of the room.
“God bless me! my dear fellow,” here again whistled the bundle,
“what—what—what—why, what _is_ the matter? I really believe you
don’t know me at all.”
What _could_ I say to all this—what _could_ I? I staggered into
an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the
solution of the wonder.
“Strange you shouldn’t know me though, isn’t it?” presently
re-squeaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was
performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very
analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a
single leg, however, apparent.
“Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring
me that leg!” Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork
leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it
stood up before my eyes.
“And a bloody action it _was_,” continued the thing, as if in a
soliloquy; “but then one mustn’t fight with the Bugaboos and
Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey,
I’ll thank you now for that arm. Thomas” [turning to me] “is
decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever
want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you
to Bishop.” Here Pompey screwed on an arm.
“We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog,
slip on my shoulders and bosom! Pettitt makes the best shoulders,
but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow.”
“Bosom!” said I.
“Pompey, will you _never_ be ready with that wig? Scalping is a
rough process after all; but then you can procure such a capital
scratch at De L’Orme’s.”
“Scratch!”
“Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a _good_ set of these you had
better go to Parmly’s at once; high prices, but excellent work. I
swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big
Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle.”
“Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!”
“O yes, by-the-by, my eye—here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in !
Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he’s a
belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can’t imagine how
well I see with the eyes of his make.”
I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me
was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of
Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in
the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still
puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily
cleared up.
“Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked the General, “I really do
believe you would let me go out without my palate.”
Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his
master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey,
and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a
very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend.
The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the
General’s countenance was instantaneous and surprising. When he
again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and
strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction.
“D—n the vagabonds!” said he, in so clear a tone that I
positively started at the change, “D—n the vagabonds! they not
only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut
off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn’t Bonfanti’s
equal, however, in America, for really good articles of this
description. I can recommend you to him with confidence,” [here
the General bowed,] “and assure you that I have the greatest
pleasure in so doing.”
I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of
him at once, with a perfect understanding of the true state of
affairs—with a full comprehension of the mystery which had
troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man—was _the man
that was used up_.
THE BUSINESS MAN
Method is the soul of business.—OLD SAYING.
I am a business man. I am a methodical man. Method is the thing,
after all. But there are no people I more heartily despise than
your eccentric fools who prate about method without understanding
it; attending strictly to its letter, and violating its spirit.
These fellows are always doing the most out-of-the-way things in
what they call an orderly manner. Now here, I conceive, is a
positive paradox. True method appertains to the ordinary and the
obvious alone, and cannot be applied to the _outré_. What
definite idea can a body attach to such expressions as
“methodical Jack o’ Dandy,” or “a systematical Will o’ the Wisp”?
My notions upon this head might not have been so clear as they
are, but for a fortunate accident which happened to me when I was
a very little boy. A good-hearted old Irish nurse (whom I shall
not forget in my will) took me up one day by the heels, when I
was making more noise than was necessary, and swinging me round
two or three times, d—d my eyes for “a skreeking little
spalpeen,” and then knocked my head into a cocked hat against the
bedpost. This, I say, decided my fate, and made my fortune. A
bump arose at once on my sinciput, and turned out to be as pretty
an organ of order as one shall see on a summer’s day. Hence that
positive appetite for system and regularity which has made me the
distinguished man of business that I am.
If there is any thing on earth I hate, it is a genius. Your
geniuses are all arrant asses—the greater the genius the greater
the ass—and to this rule there is no exception whatever.
Especially, you cannot make a man of business out of a genius,
any more than money out of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of
pine-knots. The creatures are always going off at a tangent into
some fantastic employment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at
variance with the “fitness of things,” and having no business
whatever to be considered as a business at all. Thus you may tell
these characters immediately by the nature of their occupations.
If you ever perceive a man setting up as a merchant or a
manufacturer, or going into the cotton or tobacco trade, or any
of those eccentric pursuits; or getting to be a drygoods dealer,
or soap-boiler, or something of that kind; or pretending to be a
lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a physician—any thing out of the
usual way—you may set him down at once as a genius, and then,
according to the rule-of-three, he’s an ass.
Now I am not in any respect a genius, but a regular business man.
My day-book and ledger will evince this in a minute. They are
well kept, though I say it myself; and, in my general habits of
accuracy and punctuality, I am not to be beat by a clock.
Moreover, my occupations have been always made to chime in with
the ordinary habitudes of my fellowmen. Not that I feel the least
indebted, upon this score, to my exceedingly weak-minded parents,
who, beyond doubt, would have made an arrant genius of me at
last, if my guardian angel had not come, in good time, to the
rescue. In biography the truth is every thing, and in
autobiography it is especially so—yet I scarcely hope to be
believed when I state, however solemnly, that my poor father put
me, when I was about fifteen years of age, into the
counting-house of what be termed “a respectable hardware and
commission merchant doing a capital bit of business!” A capital
bit of fiddlestick! However, the consequence of this folly was,
that in two or three days, I had to be sent home to my
button-headed family in a high state of fever, and with a most
violent and dangerous pain in the sinciput, all around about my
organ of order. It was nearly a gone case with me then—just
touch-and-go for six weeks—the physicians giving me up and all
that sort of thing. But, although I suffered much, I was a
thankful boy in the main. I was saved from being a “respectable
hardware and commission merchant, doing a capital bit of
business,” and I felt grateful to the protuberance which had been
the means of my salvation, as well as to the kindhearted female
who had originally put these means within my reach.
The most of boys run away from home at ten or twelve years of
age, but I waited till I was sixteen. I don’t know that I should
have gone even then, if I had not happened to hear my old mother
talk about setting me up on my own hook in the grocery way. The
grocery way!—only think of that! I resolved to be off forthwith,
and try and establish myself in some decent occupation, without
dancing attendance any longer upon the caprices of these
eccentric old people, and running the risk of being made a genius
of in the end. In this project I succeeded perfectly well at the
first effort, and by the time I was fairly eighteen, found myself
doing an extensive and profitable business in the Tailor’s
Walking-Advertisement line.
I was enabled to discharge the onerous duties of this profession,
only by that rigid adherence to system which formed the leading
feature of my mind. A scrupulous method characterized my actions
as well as my accounts. In my case it was method—not money—which
made the man: at least all of him that was not made by the tailor
whom I served. At nine, every morning, I called upon that
individual for the clothes of the day. Ten o’clock found me in
some fashionable promenade or other place of public amusement.
The precise regularity with which I turned my handsome person
about, so as to bring successively into view every portion of the
suit upon my back, was the admiration of all the knowing men in
the trade. Noon never passed without my bringing home a customer
to the house of my employers, Messrs. Cut & Comeagain. I say this
proudly, but with tears in my eyes—for the firm proved themselves
the basest of ingrates. The little account, about which we
quarreled and finally parted, cannot, in any item, be thought
overcharged, by gentlemen really conversant with the nature of
the business. Upon this point, however, I feel a degree of proud
satisfaction in permitting the reader to judge for himself. My
bill ran thus:
_Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, Merchant Tailors.
To Peter Proffit, Walking Advertiser,_ Drs.
July 10. to promenade, as usual and customer brought home $00 25
July 11. To do do do 25
July 12. To one lie, second class; damaged black cloth sold
for invisible green 25
July 13. To one lie, first class, extra quality and size;
recommended milled satinet as broadcloth, 75
July 20. To purchasing bran new paper shirt collar or dickey,
to set off gray Petersham 02
Aug. 15. To wearing double-padded bobtail frock, (thermometer
106 in the shade) 25
Aug. 16. Standing on one leg three hours, to show off
new-style strapped pants at 12 1/2 cents per leg per
hour 37½
Aug. 17. To promenade, as usual, and large customer brought
(fat man) 50
Aug. 18. To do do (medium size) 25
Aug. 19. To do do (small man and bad pay) 6
TOTAL $2 95½
The item chiefly disputed in this bill was the very moderate
charge of two pennies for the dickey. Upon my word of honor, this
was not an unreasonable price for that dickey. It was one of the
cleanest and prettiest little dickeys I ever saw; and I have good
reason to believe that it effected the sale of three Petershams.
The elder partner of the firm, however, would allow me only one
penny of the charge, and took it upon himself to show in what
manner four of the same sized conveniences could be got out of a
sheet of foolscap. But it is needless to say that I stood upon
the principle of the thing. Business is business, and should be
done in a business way. There was no system whatever in swindling
me out of a penny—a clear fraud of fifty per cent—no method in
any respect. I left at once the employment of Messrs. Cut &
Comeagain, and set up in the Eye-Sore line by myself—one of the
most lucrative, respectable, and independent of the ordinary
occupations.
My strict integrity, economy, and rigorous business habits, here
again came into play. I found myself driving a flourishing trade,
and soon became a marked man upon “Change.” The truth is, I never
dabbled in flashy matters, but jogged on in the good old sober
routine of the calling—a calling in which I should, no doubt,
have remained to the present hour, but for a little accident
which happened to me in the prosecution of one of the usual
business operations of the profession. Whenever a rich old hunks
or prodigal heir or bankrupt corporation gets into the notion of
putting up a palace, there is no such thing in the world as
stopping either of them, and this every intelligent person knows.
The fact in question is indeed the basis of the Eye-Sore trade.
As soon, therefore, as a building-project is fairly afoot by one
of these parties, we merchants secure a nice corner of the lot in
contemplation, or a prime little situation just adjoining, or
tight in front. This done, we wait until the palace is half-way
up, and then we pay some tasty architect to run us up an
ornamental mud hovel, right against it; or a Down-East or Dutch
Pagoda, or a pig-sty, or an ingenious little bit of fancy work,
either Esquimau, Kickapoo, or Hottentot. Of course we can’t
afford to take these structures down under a bonus of five
hundred per cent upon the prime cost of our lot and plaster. Can
we? I ask the question. I ask it of business men. It would be
irrational to suppose that we can. And yet there was a rascally
corporation which asked me to do this very thing—this very thing!
I did not reply to their absurd proposition, of course; but I
felt it a duty to go that same night, and lamp-black the whole of
their palace. For this the unreasonable villains clapped me into
jail; and the gentlemen of the Eye-Sore trade could not well
avoid cutting my connection when I came out.
The Assault-and-Battery business, into which I was now forced to
adventure for a livelihood, was somewhat ill-adapted to the
delicate nature of my constitution; but I went to work in it with
a good heart, and found my account here, as heretofore, in those
stern habits of methodical accuracy which had been thumped into
me by that delightful old nurse—I would indeed be the basest of
men not to remember her well in my will. By observing, as I say,
the strictest system in all my dealings, and keeping a
well-regulated set of books, I was enabled to get over many
serious difficulties, and, in the end, to establish myself very
decently in the profession. The truth is, that few individuals,
in any line, did a snugger little business than I. I will just
copy a page or so out of my Day-Book; and this will save me the
necessity of blowing my own trumpet—a contemptible practice of
which no high-minded man will be guilty. Now, the Day-Book is a
thing that don’t lie.
“Jan. 1.—New Year’s Day. Met Snap in the street, groggy.
Mem—he’ll do. Met Gruff shortly afterward, blind drunk. Mem—he’ll
answer, too. Entered both gentlemen in my Ledger, and opened a
running account with each.
“Jan. 2.—Saw Snap at the Exchange, and went up and trod on his
toe. Doubled his fist and knocked me down. Good!—got up again.
Some trifling difficulty with Bag, my attorney. I want the
damages at a thousand, but he says that for so simple a knock
down we can’t lay them at more than five hundred. Mem—must get
rid of Bag—no system at all.
“Jan. 3.—Went to the theatre, to look for Gruff. Saw him sitting
in a side box, in the second tier, between a fat lady and a lean
one. Quizzed the whole party through an opera-glass, till I saw
the fat lady blush and whisper to G. Went round, then, into the
box, and put my nose within reach of his hand. Wouldn’t pull
it—no go. Blew it, and tried again—no go. Sat down then, and
winked at the lean lady, when I had the high satisfaction of
finding him lift me up by the nape of the neck, and fling me over
into the pit. Neck dislocated, and right leg capitally
splintered. Went home in high glee, drank a bottle of champagne,
and booked the young man for five thousand. Bag says it’ll do.
“Feb. 15.—Compromised the case of Mr. Snap. Amount entered in
Journal—fifty cents—which see.
“Feb. 16.—Cast by that ruffian, Gruff, who made me a present of
five dollars. Costs of suit, four dollars and twenty-five cents.
Nett profit,—see Journal,—seventy-five cents.”
Now, here is a clear gain, in a very brief period, of no less
than one dollar and twenty-five cents—this is in the mere cases
of Snap and Gruff; and I solemnly assure the reader that these
extracts are taken at random from my Day-Book.
It’s an old saying, and a true one, however, that money is
nothing in comparison with health. I found the exactions of the
profession somewhat too much for my delicate state of body; and,
discovering, at last, that I was knocked all out of shape, so
that I didn’t know very well what to make of the matter, and so
that my friends, when they met me in the street, couldn’t tell
that I was Peter Proffit at all, it occurred to me that the best
expedient I could adopt was to alter my line of business. I
turned my attention, therefore, to Mud-Dabbling, and continued it
for some years.
The worst of this occupation is, that too many people take a
fancy to it, and the competition is in consequence excessive.
Every ignoramus of a fellow who finds that he hasn’t brains in
sufficient quantity to make his way as a walking advertiser, or
an eye-sore prig, or a salt-and-batter man, thinks, of course,
that he’ll answer very well as a dabbler of mud. But there never
was entertained a more erroneous idea than that it requires no
brains to mud-dabble. Especially, there is nothing to be made in
this way without method. I did only a retail business myself, but
my old habits of system carried me swimmingly along. I selected
my street-crossing, in the first place, with great deliberation,
and I never put down a broom in any part of the town but that. I
took care, too, to have a nice little puddle at hand, which I
could get at in a minute. By these means I got to be well known
as a man to be trusted; and this is one-half the battle, let me
tell you, in trade. Nobody ever failed to pitch me a copper, and
got over my crossing with a clean pair of pantaloons. And, as my
business habits, in this respect, were sufficiently understood, I
never met with any attempt at imposition. I wouldn’t have put up
with it, if I had. Never imposing upon any one myself, I suffered
no one to play the possum with me. The frauds of the banks of
course I couldn’t help. Their suspension put me to ruinous
inconvenience. These, however, are not individuals, but
corporations; and corporations, it is very well known, have
neither bodies to be kicked nor souls to be damned.
I was making money at this business when, in an evil moment, I
was induced to merge it in the Cur-Spattering—a somewhat
analogous, but, by no means, so respectable a profession. My
location, to be sure, was an excellent one, being central, and I
had capital blacking and brushes. My little dog, too, was quite
fat and up to all varieties of snuff. He had been in the trade a
long time, and, I may say, understood it. Our general routine was
this:—Pompey, having rolled himself well in the mud, sat upon end
at the shop door, until he observed a dandy approaching in bright
boots. He then proceeded to meet him, and gave the Wellingtons a
rub or two with his wool. Then the dandy swore very much, and
looked about for a boot-black. There I was, full in his view,
with blacking and brushes. It was only a minute’s work, and then
came a sixpence. This did moderately well for a time;—in fact, I
was not avaricious, but my dog was. I allowed him a third of the
profit, but he was advised to insist upon half. This I couldn’t
stand—so we quarrelled and parted.
I next tried my hand at the Organ-Grinding for a while, and may
say that I made out pretty well. It is a plain, straightforward
business, and requires no particular abilities. You can get a
music-mill for a mere song, and to put it in order, you have but
to open the works, and give them three or four smart raps with a
hammer. It improves the tone of the thing, for business purposes,
more than you can imagine. This done, you have only to stroll
along, with the mill on your back, until you see tanbark in the
street, and a knocker wrapped up in buckskin. Then you stop and
grind; looking as if you meant to stop and grind till doomsday.
Presently a window opens, and somebody pitches you a sixpence,
with a request to “Hush up and go on,” etc. I am aware that some
grinders have actually afforded to “go on” for this sum; but for
my part, I found the necessary outlay of capital too great to
permit of my “going on” under a shilling.
At this occupation I did a good deal; but, somehow, I was not
quite satisfied, and so finally abandoned it. The truth is, I
labored under the disadvantage of having no monkey—and American
streets are so muddy, and a Democratic rabble is so obstrusive,
and so full of demnition mischievous little boys.
I was now out of employment for some months, but at length
succeeded, by dint of great interest, in procuring a situation in
the Sham-Post. The duties, here, are simple, and not altogether
unprofitable. For example:—very early in the morning I had to
make up my packet of sham letters. Upon the inside of each of
these I had to scrawl a few lines on any subject which occurred
to me as sufficiently mysterious—signing all the epistles Tom
Dobson, or Bobby Tompkins, or anything in that way. Having folded
and sealed all, and stamped them with sham postmarks—New Orleans,
Bengal, Botany Bay, or any other place a great way off—I set out,
forthwith, upon my daily route, as if in a very great hurry. I
always called at the big houses to deliver the letters, and
receive the postage. Nobody hesitates at paying for a
letter—especially for a double one—people are such fools—and it
was no trouble to get round a corner before there was time to
open the epistles. The worst of this profession was, that I had
to walk so much and so fast; and so frequently to vary my route.
Besides, I had serious scruples of conscience. I can’t bear to
hear innocent individuals abused—and the way the whole town took
to cursing Tom Dobson and Bobby Tompkins was really awful to
hear. I washed my hands of the matter in disgust.
My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I
have found that a most pleasant and lucrative business, and,
really, no trouble at all. The country, it is well known, has
become infested with cats—so much so of late, that a petition for
relief, most numerously and respectably signed, was brought
before the Legislature at its late memorable session. The
Assembly, at this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, having
passed many other wise and wholesome enactments, it crowned all
with the Cat-Act. In its original form, this law offered a
premium for cat-heads (fourpence a-piece), but the Senate
succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the
word “tails” for “heads.” This amendment was so obviously proper,
that the House concurred in it nem. con.
As soon as the governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole
estate in the purchase of Toms and Tabbies. At first I could only
afford to feed them upon mice (which are cheap), but they
fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so marvellous a rate, that
I at length considered it my best policy to be liberal, and so
indulged them in oysters and turtle. Their tails, at a
legislative price, now bring me in a good income; for I have
discovered a way, in which, by means of Macassar oil, I can force
three crops in a year. It delights me to find, too, that the
animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have
the appendages cut off than otherwise. I consider myself,
therefore, a made man, and am bargaining for a country-seat on
the Hudson.
THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN
The garden like a lady fair was cut
That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut;
The azure fields of heaven were ’sembled right
In a large round set with flow’rs of light:
The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew
That hung upon their azure leaves, did show
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the ev’ning blue.
—GILES FLETCHER
No more remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young
Ellison. He was remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion
of good gifts ever lavished upon him by fortune. From his cradle
to his grave, a gale of the blandest prosperity bore him along.
Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its mere wordly or external
sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom
I speak, seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the wild
doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of
exemplifying, by individual instance, what has been deemed the
mere chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of
Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted the dogma—that in
man’s physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden principle,
the antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of
his career, has taught me to understand that, in general, from
the violation of a few simple laws of Humanity, arises the
Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a species, we have in our
possession the as yet unwrought elements of Content,—and that
even now, in the present blindness and darkness of all idea on
the great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible
that Man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly
fortuitous conditions, may be happy.
With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and
thus is it especially worthy of observation that the
uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was in great
part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed evident, that with
less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then, stands so
well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found
himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his
life, into the common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those
of preeminent endowments. But it is by no means my present object
to pen an essay on Happiness. The ideas of my friend may be
summed up in a few words. He admitted but four unvarying laws, or
rather elementary principles, of Bliss. That which he considered
chief, was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one
of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he said,
“attainable by other means than this is scarcely worth the name.”
He pointed to the tillers of the earth—the only people who, as a
class, are proverbially more happy than others—and then he
instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His second
principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of
ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he
held that, other things being equal, the extent of happiness was
proportioned to the spirituality of this object.
I have said that Ellison was remarkable in the continuous
profusion of good gifts lavished upon him by Fortune. In personal
grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was of that
order to which the attainment of knowledge is less a labor than a
necessity and an intuition. His family was one of the most
illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most
devoted of women. His possessions had been always ample; but,
upon the attainment of his one and twentieth year, it was
discovered that one of those extraordinary freaks of Fate had
been played in his behalf which startle the whole social world
amid which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the
entire moral constitution of those who are their objects. It
appears that about one hundred years prior to Mr. Ellison’s
attainment of his majority, there had died, in a remote province,
one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This gentlemen had amassed a princely
fortune, and, having no very immediate connexions, conceived the
whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a century after
his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes
of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest
of blood, bearing the name Ellison, who should be alive at the
end of the hundred years. Many futile attempts had been made to
set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character
rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government
was aroused, and a decree finally obtained, forbidding all
similar accumulations. This act did not prevent young Ellison,
upon his twenty-first birth-day, from entering into possession,
as the heir of his ancestor, Seabright, of a fortune of four
hundred and fifty millions of dollars. {*1}
When it had become definitely known that such was the enormous
wealth inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to
the mode of its disposal. The gigantic magnitude and the
immediately available nature of the sum, dazzled and bewildered
all who thought upon the topic. The possessor of any appreciable
amount of money might have been imagined to perform any one of a
thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those of any
citizen, it would have been easy to suppose him engaging to
supreme excess in the fashionable extravagances of his time; or
busying himself with political intrigues; or aiming at
ministerial power; or purchasing increase of nobility, or
devising gorgeous architectural piles; or collecting large
specimens of Virtu; or playing the munificent patron of Letters
and Art; or endowing and bestowing his name upon extensive
institutions of charity. But, for the inconceivable wealth in the
actual possession of the young heir, these objects and all
ordinary objects were felt to be inadequate. Recourse was had to
figures; and figures but sufficed to confound. It was seen, that
even at three per cent, the annual income of the inheritance
amounted to no less than thirteen millions and five hundred
thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and
twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand, nine
hundred and eighty-six per day, or one thousand five hundred and
forty-one per hour, or six and twenty dollars for every minute
that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly
broken up. Men knew not what to imagine. There were some who even
conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest himself forthwith of at
least two-thirds of his fortune as of utterly superfluous
opulence; enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of
his superabundance.
I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made
up his mind upon a topic which had occasioned so much of
discussion to his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at the
nature of his decision. In the widest and noblest sense, he was a
poet. He comprehended, moreover, the true character, the august
aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment.
The proper gratification of the sentiment he instinctively felt
to lie in the creation of novel forms of Beauty. Some
peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the nature of
his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism the
whole cast of his ethical speculations; and it was this bias,
perhaps, which imperceptibly led him to perceive that the most
advantageous, if not the sole legitimate field for the exercise
of the poetic sentiment, was to be found in the creation of novel
moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened that he
became neither musician nor poet; if we use this latter term in
its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he became
neither the one nor the other, in pursuance of an idea of his
which I have already mentioned—the idea, that in the contempt of
ambition lay one of the essential principles of happiness on
earth. Is it not, indeed, possible that while a high order of
genius is necessarily ambitious, the highest is invariably above
that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that
many far greater than Milton, have contentedly remained “mute and
inglorious?” I believe the world has never yet seen, and that,
unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest order
of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never behold,
that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer
productions of Art, of which the human nature is absolutely
capable.
Mr. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man
lived more profoundly enamored both of Music and the Muse. Under
other circumstances than those which invested him, it is not
impossible that he would have become a painter. The field of
sculpture, although in its nature rigidly poetical, was too
limited in its extent and in its consequences, to have occupied,
at any time, much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all
the provinces in which even the most liberal understanding of the
poetic sentiment has declared this sentiment capable of
expatiating. I mean the most liberal public or recognized
conception of the idea involved in the phrase “poetic sentiment.”
But Mr. Ellison imagined that the richest, and altogether the
most natural and most suitable province, had been blindly
neglected. No definition had spoken of the Landscape-Gardener, as
of the poet; yet my friend could not fail to perceive that the
creation of the Landscape-Garden offered to the true muse the
most magnificent of opportunities. Here was, indeed, the fairest
field for the display of invention, or imagination, in the
endless combining of forms of novel Beauty; the elements which
should enter into combination being, at all times, and by a vast
superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In
the multiform of the tree, and in the multicolor of the flower,
he recognized the most direct and the most energetic efforts of
Nature at physical loveliness. And in the direction or
concentration of this effort, or, still more properly, in its
adaption to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth, he
perceived that he should be employing the best means—laboring to
the greatest advantage—in the fulfilment of his destiny as Poet.
“Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth.”
In his explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much
towards solving what has always seemed to me an enigma. I mean
the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such
combinations of scenery exist in Nature as the painter of genius
has in his power to produce. No such Paradises are to be found in
reality as have glowed upon the canvass of Claude. In the most
enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a
defect or an excess—many excesses and defects. While the
component parts may exceed, individually, the highest skill of
the artist, the arrangement of the parts will always be
susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be
attained, from which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will
not find matter of offence, in what is technically termed the
composition of a natural landscape. And yet how unintelligible is
this! In all other matters we are justly instructed to regard
Nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition.
Who shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to
improve the proportions of the lily of the valley? The criticism
which says, of sculpture or of portraiture, that “Nature is to be
exalted rather than imitated,” is in error. No pictorial or
sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more
than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it
gladdens our daily path. Byron, who often erred, erred not in
saying, I’ve seen more living beauty, ripe and real, than all the
nonsense of their stone ideal. In landscape alone is the
principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it
is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has induced
him to pronounce it true throughout all the domains of Art.
Having, I say, felt its truth here. For the feeling is no
affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute
demonstrations, than the sentiment of his Art yields to the
artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, that such and
such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter, or form,
constitute, and alone constitute, the true Beauty. Yet his
reasons have not yet been matured into expression. It remains for
a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to
investigate and express them. Nevertheless is he confirmed in his
instinctive opinions, by the concurrence of all his compeers. Let
a composition be defective; let an emendation be wrought in its
mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted to
every artist in the world; by each will its necessity be
admitted. And even far more than this, in remedy of the defective
composition, each insulated member of the fraternity will suggest
the identical emendation.
I repeat that in landscape arrangements, or collocations alone,
is the physical Nature susceptible of “exaltation” and that,
therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this one point,
was a mystery which, hitherto I had been unable to solve. It was
Mr. Ellison who first suggested the idea that what we regarded as
improvement or exaltation of the natural beauty, was really such,
as respected only the mortal or human point of view; that each
alteration or disturbance of the primitive scenery might possibly
effect a blemish in the picture, if we could suppose this picture
viewed at large from some remote point in the heavens. “It is
easily understood,” says Mr. Ellison, “that what might improve a
closely scrutinized detail, might, at the same time, injure a
general and more distantly observed effect.” He spoke upon this
topic with warmth: regarding not so much its immediate or obvious
importance (which is little), as the character of the conclusions
to which it might lead, or of the collateral propositions which
it might serve to corroborate or sustain. There might be a class
of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose
scrutiny and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful,
more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God
the great landscape-garden of the whole earth.
In the course of our discussion, my young friend took occasion to
quote some passages from a writer who has been supposed to have
well treated this theme.
“There are, properly,” he writes, “but two styles of
landscape-gardening, the natural and the artificial. One seeks to
recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its means
to the surrounding scenery; cultivating trees in harmony with the
hills or plain of the neighboring land; detecting and bringing
into practice those nice relations of size, proportion and color
which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to
the experienced student of nature. The result of the natural
style of gardening, is seen rather in the absence of all defects
and incongruities—in the prevalence of a beautiful harmony and
order, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles.
The artificial style has as many varieties as there are different
tastes to gratify. It has a certain general relation to the
various styles of building. There are the stately avenues and
retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed
old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic
Gothic or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said
against the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a
mixture of pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.
This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and
design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered
balustrade, calls up at once to the eye, the fair forms that have
passed there in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an
evidence of care and human interest.”
“From what I have already observed,” said Mr. Ellison, “you will
understand that I reject the idea, here expressed, of ‘recalling
the original beauty of the country.’ The original beauty is never
so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, much depends
upon the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is said in
respect to the ‘detecting and bringing into practice those nice
relations of size, proportion and color,’ is a mere vagueness of
speech, which may mean much, or little, or nothing, and which
guides in no degree. That the true ‘result of the natural style
of gardening is seen rather in the absence of all defects and
incongruities, than in the creation of any special wonders or
miracles,’ is a proposition better suited to the grovelling
apprehension of the herd, than to the fervid dreams of the man of
genius. The merit suggested is, at best, negative, and appertains
to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate
Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that merit which
consists in the mere avoiding demerit, appeals directly to the
understanding, and can thus be foreshadowed in Rule, the loftier
merit, which breathes and flames in invention or creation, can be
apprehended solely in its results. Rule applies but to the
excellences of avoidance—to the virtues which deny or refrain.
Beyond these the critical art can but suggest. We may be
instructed to build an Odyssey, but it is in vain that we are
told how to conceive a ‘Tempest,’ an ‘Inferno,’ a ‘Prometheus
Bound,’ a ‘Nightingale,’ such as that of Keats, or the ‘Sensitive
Plant’ of Shelley. But, the thing done, the wonder accomplished,
and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists
of the negative school, who, through inability to create, have
scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What,
in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure
reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort
admiration from their instinct of the beautiful or of the
sublime.
“Our author’s observations on the artificial style of gardening,”
continued Mr. Ellison, “are less objectionable. ‘A mixture of
pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.’ This is
just, and the reference to the sense of human interest is equally
so. I repeat that the principle here expressed, is
incontrovertible; but there may be something even beyond it.
There may be an object in full keeping with the principle
suggested—an object unattainable by the means ordinarily in
possession of mankind, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm
to the landscape-garden immeasurably surpassing that which a
merely human interest could bestow. The true poet possessed of
very unusual pecuniary resources, might possibly, while retaining
the necessary idea of art or interest or culture, so imbue his
designs at once with extent and novelty of Beauty, as to convey
the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be seen that, in
bringing about such result, he secures all the advantages of
interest or design, while relieving his work of all the harshness
and technicality of Art. In the most rugged of wildernesses—in
the most savage of the scenes of pure Nature—there is apparent
the art of a Creator; yet is this art apparent only to
reflection; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling.
Now, if we imagine this sense of the Almighty Design to be
harmonized in a measurable degree, if we suppose a landscape
whose combined strangeness, vastness, definitiveness, and
magnificence, shall inspire the idea of culture, or care, or
superintendence, on the part of intelligences superior yet akin
to humanity—then the sentiment of interest is preserved, while
the Art is made to assume the air of an intermediate or secondary
Nature—a Nature which is not God, nor an emanation of God, but
which still is Nature, in the sense that it is the handiwork of
the angels that hover between man and God.”
It was in devoting his gigantic wealth to the practical
embodiment of a vision such as this—in the free exercise in the
open air, which resulted from personal direction of his plans—in
the continuous and unceasing object which these plans afforded—in
the high spirituality of the object itself—in the contempt of
ambition which it enabled him more to feel than to affect—and,
lastly, it was in the companionship and sympathy of a devoted
wife, that Ellison thought to find, and found, an exemption from
the ordinary cares of Humanity, with a far greater amount of
positive happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De
Staël.
MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER
Perhaps no exhibition of the kind has ever elicited so general
attention as the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has
been an object of intense curiosity, to all persons who think.
Yet the question of its _modus operandi_ is still undetermined.
Nothing has been written on this topic which can be considered as
decisive—and accordingly we find every where men of mechanical
genius, of great general acuteness, and discriminative
understanding, who make no scruple in pronouncing the Automaton a
_pure machine_, unconnected with human agency in its movements,
and consequently, beyond all comparison, the most astonishing of
the inventions of mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were
they right in their supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, it
would be grossly absurd to compare with the Chess-Player, any
similar thing of either modern or ancient days. Yet there have
been many and wonderful automata. In Brewster’s Letters on
Natural Magic, we have an account of the most remarkable. Among
these may be mentioned, as having beyond doubt existed, firstly,
the coach invented by M. Camus for the amusement of Louis XIV
when a child. A table, about four feet square, was introduced,
into the room appropriated for the exhibition. Upon this table
was placed a carriage, six inches in length, made of wood, and
drawn by two horses of the same material. One window being down,
a lady was seen on the back seat. A coachman held the reins on
the box, and a footman and page were in their places behind. M.
Camus now touched a spring; whereupon the coachman smacked his
whip, and the horses proceeded in a natural manner, along the
edge of the table, drawing after them the carriage. Having gone
as far as possible in this direction, a sudden turn was made to
the left, and the vehicle was driven at right angles to its
former course, and still closely along the edge of the table. In
this way the coach proceeded until it arrived opposite the chair
of the young prince. It then stopped, the page descended and
opened the door, the lady alighted, and presented a petition to
her sovereign. She then re-entered. The page put up the steps,
closed the door, and resumed his station. The coachman whipped
his horses, and the carriage was driven back to its original
position.
The magician of M. Maillardet is also worthy of notice. We copy
the following account of it from the _Letters_ before mentioned
of Dr. B., who derived his information principally from the
Edinburgh Encyclopaedia.
“One of the most popular pieces of mechanism which we have seen,
Is the Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, for the purpose of
answering certain given questions. A figure, dressed like a
magician, appears seated at the bottom of a wall, holding a wand
in one hand, and a book in the other A number of questions, ready
prepared, are inscribed on oval medallions, and the spectator
takes any of these he chooses and to which he wishes an answer,
and having placed it in a drawer ready to receive it, the drawer
shuts with a spring till the answer is returned. The magician
then arises from his seat, bows his head, describes circles with
his wand, and consulting the book as If in deep thought, he lifts
it towards his face. Having thus appeared to ponder over the
proposed question he raises his wand, and striking with it the
wall above his head, two folding doors fly open, and display an
appropriate answer to the question. The doors again close, the
magician resumes his original position, and the drawer opens to
return the medallion. There are twenty of these medallions, all
containing different questions, to which the magician returns the
most suitable and striking answers. The medallions are thin
plates of brass, of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each
other. Some of the medallions have a question inscribed on each
side, both of which the magician answered in succession. If the
drawer is shut without a medallion being put into it, the
magician rises, consults his book, shakes his head, and resumes
his seat. The folding doors remain shut, and the drawer is
returned empty. If two medallions are put into the drawer
together, an answer is returned only to the lower one. When the
machinery is wound up, the movements continue about an hour,
during which time about fifty questions may be answered. The
inventor stated that the means by which the different medallions
acted upon the machinery, so as to produce the proper answers to
the questions which they contained, were extremely simple.”
The duck of Vaucanson was still more remarkable. It was _of _the
size of life, and so perfect an imitation of the living animal
that all the spectators were deceived. It executed, says
Brewster, all the natural movements and gestures, it ate and
drank with avidity, performed all the quick motions of the head
and throat which are peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled
the water which it drank with its bill. It produced also the
sound of quacking in the most natural manner. In the anatomical
structure the artist exhibited the highest skill. Every bone in
the real duck had its representative In the automaton, and its
wings were anatomically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, and
curvature was imitated, and each bone executed its proper
movements. When corn was thrown down before it, the duck
stretched out its neck to pick it up, swallowed, and digested it.
{*1}
But if these machines were ingenious, what shall we think of the
calculating machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we think of an
engine of wood and metal which can not only compute astronomical
and navigation tables to any given extent, but render the
exactitude of its operations mathematically certain through its
power of correcting its possible errors? What shall we think of a
machine which can not only accomplish all this, but actually
print off its elaborate results, when obtained, without the
slightest intervention of the intellect of man? It will, perhaps,
be said, in reply, that a machine such as we have described is
altogether above comparison with the Chess-Player of Maelzel. By
no means—it is altogether beneath it—that is to say provided we
assume (what should never for a moment be assumed) that the
Chess-Player is a _pure machine, _and performs its operations
without any immediate human agency. Arithmetical or algebraical
calculations are, from their very nature, fixed and determinate.
Certain _data _being given, certain results necessarily and
inevitably follow. These results have dependence upon nothing,
and are influenced by nothing but the _data _originally given.
And the question to be solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its
final determination, by a succession of unerring steps liable to
no change, and subject to no modification. This being the case,
we can without difficulty conceive the _possibility _of so
arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon starting In accordance
with the _data _of the question to be solved, it should continue
its movements regularly, progressively, and undeviatingly towards
the required solution, since these movements, however complex,
are never imagined to be otherwise than finite and determinate.
But the case is widely different with the Chess-Player. With him
there is no determinate progression. No one move in chess
necessarily follows upon any one other. From no particular
disposition of the men at one period of a game can we predicate
their disposition at a different period. Let us place the _first
move _in a game of chess, in juxta-position with the _data _of an
algebraical question, and their great difference will be
immediately perceived. From the latter—from the _data—_the second
step of the question, dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. It
is modelled by the _data. _It must be _thus _and not otherwise.
But from the first move in the game of chess no especial second
move follows of necessity. In the algebraical question, as it
proceeds towards solution, the _certainty _of its operations
remains altogether unimpaired. The second step having been a
consequence of the _data, _the third step is equally a
consequence of the second, the fourth of the third, the fifth of
the fourth, and so on, _and not possibly otherwise, _to the end.
But in proportion to the progress made in a game of chess, is the
_uncertainty _of each ensuing move. A few moves having been made,
_no _step is certain. Different spectators of the game would
advise different moves. All is then dependent upon the variable
judgment of the players. Now even granting (what should not be
granted) that the movements of the Automaton Chess-Player were in
themselves determinate, they would be necessarily interrupted and
disarranged by the indeterminate will of his antagonist. There is
then no analogy whatever between the operations of the
Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr.
Babbage, and if we choose to call the former a _pure machine _we
must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the
most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. Its original
projector, however, Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in declaring
it to be a “very ordinary piece of mechanism—a _bagatelle _whose
effects appeared so marvellous only from the boldness of the
conception, and the fortunate choice of the methods adopted for
promoting the illusion.” But it is needless to dwell upon this
point. It is quite certain that the operations of the Automaton
are regulated by _mind, _and by nothing else. Indeed this matter
is susceptible of a mathematical demonstration, _a priori. _The
only question then is of the _manner _in which human agency is
brought to bear. Before entering upon this subject it would be as
well to give a brief history and description of the Chess-Player
for the benefit of such of our readers as may never have had an
opportunity of witnessing Mr. Maelzel’s exhibition.
The Automaton Chess-Player was invented in 1769, by Baron
Kempelen, a nobleman of Presburg, in Hungary, who afterwards
disposed of it, together with the secret of its operations, to
its present possessor. {2*} Soon after its completion it was
exhibited in Presburg, Paris, Vienna, and other continental
cities. In 1783 and 1784, it was taken to London by Mr. Maelzel.
Of late years it has visited the principal towns in the United
States. Wherever seen, the most intense curiosity was excited by
its appearance, and numerous have been the attempts, by men of
all classes, to fathom the mystery of its evolutions. The cut on
this page gives a tolerable representation of the figure as seen
by the citizens of Richmond a few weeks ago. The right arm,
however, should lie more at length upon the box, a chess-board
should appear upon it, and the cushion should not be seen while
the pipe is held. Some immaterial alterations have been made in
the costume of the player since it came into the possession of
Maelzel—the plume, for example, was not originally worn. {image
of automaton}
At the hour appointed for exhibition, a curtain is withdrawn, or
folding doors are thrown open, and the machine rolled to within
about twelve feet of the nearest of the spectators, between whom
and it (the machine) a rope is stretched. A figure is seen
habited as a Turk, and seated, with its legs crossed, at a large
box apparently of maple wood, which serves it as a table. The
exhibiter will, if requested, roll the machine to any portion of
the room, suffer it to remain altogether on any designated spot,
or even shift its location repeatedly during the progress of a
game. The bottom of the box is elevated considerably above the
floor by means of the castors or brazen rollers on which it
moves, a clear view of the surface immediately beneath the
Automaton being thus afforded to the spectators. The chair on
which the figure sits is affixed permanently to the box. On the
top of this latter is a chess-board, also permanently affixed.
The right arm of the Chess-Player is extended at full length
before him, at right angles with his body, and lying, in an
apparently careless position, by the side of the board. The back
of the hand is upwards. The board itself is eighteen inches
square. The left arm of the figure is bent at the elbow, and in
the left hand is a pipe. A green drapery conceals the back of the
Turk, and falls partially over the front of both shoulders. To
judge from the external appearance of the box, it is divided into
five compartments—three cupboards of equal dimensions, and two
drawers occupying that portion of the chest lying beneath the
cupboards. The foregoing observations apply to the appearance of
the Automaton upon its first introduction into the presence of
the spectators.
Maelzel now informs the company that he will disclose to their
view the mechanism of the machine. Taking from his pocket a bunch
of keys he unlocks with one of them, door marked ~ in the cut
above, and throws the cupboard fully open to the inspection of
all present. Its whole interior is apparently filled with wheels,
pinions, levers, and other machinery, crowded very closely
together, so that the eye can penetrate but a little distance
into the mass. Leaving this door open to its full extent, he goes
now round to the back of the box, and raising the drapery of the
figure, opens another door situated precisely in the rear of the
one first opened. Holding a lighted candle at this door, and
shifting the position of the whole machine repeatedly at the same
time, a bright light is thrown entirely through the cupboard,
which is now clearly seen to be full, completely full, of
machinery. The spectators being satisfied of this fact, Maelzel
closes the back door, locks it, takes the key from the lock, lets
fall the drapery of the figure, and comes round to the front. The
door marked I, it will be remembered, is still open. The
exhibiter now proceeds to open the drawer which lies beneath the
cupboards at the bottom of the box—for although there are
apparently two drawers, there is really only one—the two handles
and two key holes being intended merely for ornament. Having
opened this drawer to its full extent, a small cushion, and a set
of chessmen, fixed in a frame work made to support them
perpendicularly, are discovered. Leaving this drawer, as well as
cupboard No. 1 open, Maelzel now unlocks door No. 2, and door No.
3, which are discovered to be folding doors, opening into one and
the same compartment. To the right of this compartment, however,
(that is to say the spectators’ right) a small division, six
inches wide, and filled with machinery, is partitioned off. The
main compartment itself (in speaking of that portion of the box
visible upon opening doors 2 and 3, we shall always call it the
main compartment) is lined with dark cloth and contains no
machinery whatever beyond two pieces of steel, quadrant-shaped,
and situated one in each of the rear top corners of the
compartment. A small protuberance about eight inches square, and
also covered with dark cloth, lies on the floor of the
compartment near the rear corner on the spectators’ left hand.
Leaving doors No. 2 and No. 3 open as well as the drawer, and
door No. I, the exhibiter now goes round to the back of the main
compartment, and, unlocking another door there, displays clearly
all the interior of the main compartment, by introducing a candle
behind it and within it. The whole box being thus apparently
disclosed to the scrutiny of the company, Maelzel, still leaving
the doors and drawer open, rolls the Automaton entirely round,
and exposes the back of the Turk by lifting up the drapery. A
door about ten inches square is thrown open in the loins of the
figure, and a smaller one also in the left thigh. The interior of
the figure, as seen through these apertures, appears to be
crowded with machinery. In general, every spectator is now
thoroughly satisfied of having beheld and completely scrutinized,
at one and the same time, every individual portion of the
Automaton, and the idea of any person being concealed in the
interior, during so complete an exhibition of that interior, if
ever entertained, is immediately dismissed as preposterous in the
extreme.
M. Maelzel, having rolled the machine back into its original
position, now informs the company that the Automaton will play a
game of chess with any one disposed to encounter him. This
challenge being accepted, a small table is prepared for the
antagonist, and placed close by the rope, but on the spectators’
side of it, and so situated as not to prevent the company from
obtaining a full view of the Automaton. From a drawer in this
table is taken a set of chess-men, and Maelzel arranges them
generally, but not always, with his own hands, on the chess
board, which consists merely of the usual number of squares
painted upon the table. The antagonist having taken his seat, the
exhibiter approaches the drawer of the box, and takes therefrom
the cushion, which, after removing the pipe from the hand of the
Automaton, he places under its left arm as a support. Then taking
also from the drawer the Automaton’s set of chess-men, he
arranges them upon the chessboard before the figure. He now
proceeds to close the doors and to lock them—leaving the bunch of
keys in door No. 1. He also closes the drawer, and, finally,
winds up the machine, by applying a key to an aperture in the
left end (the spectators’ left) of the box. The game now
commences—the Automaton taking the first move. The duration of
the contest is usually limited to half an hour, but if it be not
finished at the expiration of this period, and the antagonist
still contend that he can beat the Automaton, M. Maelzel has
seldom any objection to continue it. Not to weary the company, is
the ostensible, and no doubt the real object of the limitation.
It Wits of course be understood that when a move is made at his
own table, by the antagonist, the corresponding move is made at
the box of the Automaton, by Maelzel himself, who then acts as
the representative of the antagonist. On the other hand, when the
Turk moves, the corresponding move is made at the table of the
antagonist, also by M. Maelzel, who then acts as the
representative of the Automaton. In this manner it is necessary
that the exhibiter should often pass from one table to the other.
He also frequently goes in rear of the figure to remove the
chess-men which it has taken, and which it deposits, when taken,
on the box to the left (to its own left) of the board. When the
Automaton hesitates in relation to its move, the exhibiter is
occasionally seen to place himself very near its right side, and
to lay his hand, now and then, in a careless manner upon the box.
He has also a peculiar shuffle with his feet, calculated to
induce suspicion of collusion with the machine in minds which are
more cunning than sagacious. These peculiarities are, no doubt,
mere mannerisms of M. Maelzel, or, if he is aware of them at all,
he puts them in practice with a view of exciting in the
spectators a false idea of the pure mechanism in the Automaton.
The Turk plays with his left hand. All the movements of the arm
are at right angles. In this manner, the hand (which is gloved
and bent in a natural way,) being brought directly above the
piece to be moved, descends finally upon it, the fingers
receiving it, in most cases, without difficulty. Occasionally,
however, when the piece is not precisely in its proper situation,
the Automaton fails in his attempt at seizing it. When this
occurs, no second effort is made, but the arm continues its
movement in the direction originally intended, precisely as if
the piece were in the fingers. Having thus designated the spot
whither the move should have been made, the arm returns to its
cushion, and Maelzel performs the evolution which the Automaton
pointed out. At every movement of the figure machinery is heard
in motion. During the progress of the game, the figure now and
then rolls its eyes, as if surveying the board, moves its head,
and pronounces the word _echec _(check) when necessary. {*3} If a
false move be made by his antagonist, he raps briskly on the box
with the fingers of his right hand, shakes his head roughly, and
replacing the piece falsely moved, in its former situation,
assumes the next move himself. Upon beating the game, he waves
his head with an air of triumph, looks round complacently upon
the spectators, and drawing his left arm farther back than usual,
suffers his fingers alone to rest upon the cushion. In general,
the Turk is victorious—once or twice he has been beaten. The game
being ended, Maelzel will again if desired, exhibit the mechanism
of the box, in the same manner as before. The machine is then
rolled back, and a curtain hides it from the view of the company.
There have been many attempts at solving the mystery of the
Automaton. The most general opinion in relation to it, an opinion
too not unfrequently adopted by men who should have known better,
was, as we have before said, that no immediate human agency was
employed—in other words, that the machine was purely a machine
and nothing else. Many, however maintained that the exhibiter
himself regulated the movements of the figure by mechanical means
operating through the feet of the box. Others again, spoke
confidently of a magnet. Of the first of these opinions we shall
say nothing at present more than we have already said. In
relation to the second it is only necessary to repeat what we
have before stated, that the machine is rolled about on castors,
and will, at the request of a spectator, be moved to and fro to
any portion of the room, even during the progress of a game. The
supposition of the magnet is also untenable—for if a magnet were
the agent, any other magnet in the pocket of a spectator would
disarrange the entire mechanism. The exhibiter, however, will
suffer the most powerful loadstone to remain even upon the box
during the whole of the exhibition.
The first attempt at a written explanation of the secret, at
least the first attempt of which we ourselves have any knowledge,
was made in a large pamphlet printed at Paris in 1785. The
author’s hypothesis amounted to this—that a dwarf actuated the
machine. This dwarf he supposed to conceal himself during the
opening of the box by thrusting his legs into two hollow
cylinders, which were represented to be (but which are not) among
the machinery in the cupboard No. I, while his body was out of
the box entirely, and covered by the drapery of the Turk. When
the doors were shut, the dwarf was enabled to bring his body
within the box—the noise produced by some portion of the
machinery allowing him to do so unheard, and also to close the
door by which he entered. The interior of the automaton being
then exhibited, and no person discovered, the spectators, says
the author of this pamphlet, are satisfied that no one is within
any portion of the machine. This whole hypothesis was too
obviously absurd to require comment, or refutation, and
accordingly we find that it attracted very little attention.
In 1789 a book was published at Dresden by M. I. F. Freyhere in
which another endeavor was made to unravel the mystery. Mr.
Freyhere’s book was a pretty large one, and copiously illustrated
by colored engravings. His supposition was that “a well-taught
boy very thin and tall of his age (sufficiently so that he could
be concealed in a drawer almost immediately under the
chess-board”) played the game of chess and effected all the
evolutions of the Automaton. This idea, although even more silly
than that of the Parisian author, met with a better reception,
and was in some measure believed to be the true solution of the
wonder, until the inventor put an end to the discussion by
suffering a close examination of the top of the box.
These bizarre attempts at explanation were followed by others
equally bizarre. Of late years however, an anonymous writer, by a
course of reasoning exceedingly unphilosophical, has contrived to
blunder upon a plausible solution—although we cannot consider it
altogether the true one. His Essay was first published in a
Baltimore weekly paper, was illustrated by cuts, and was entitled
“An attempt to analyze the Automaton Chess-Player of M. Maelzel.”
This Essay we suppose to have been the original of the _pamphlet
to _which Sir David Brewster alludes in his letters on Natural
Magic, and which he has no hesitation in declaring a thorough and
satisfactory explanation. The _results _of the analysis are
undoubtedly, in the main, just; but we can only account for
Brewster’s pronouncing the Essay a thorough and satisfactory
explanation, by supposing him to have bestowed upon it a very
cursory and inattentive perusal. In the compendium of the Essay,
made use of in the Letters on Natural Magic, it is quite
impossible to arrive at any distinct conclusion in regard to the
adequacy or inadequacy of the analysis, on account of the gross
misarrangement and deficiency of the letters of reference
employed. The same fault is to be found in the “Attempt &c.,” as
we originally saw it. The solution consists in a series of minute
explanations, (accompanied by wood-cuts, the whole occupying many
pages) in which the object is to show the _possibility _of _so
shifting the partitions _of the box, as to allow a human being,
concealed in the interior, to move portions of his body from one
part of the box to another, during the exhibition of the
mechanism—thus eluding the scrutiny of the spectators. There can
be no doubt, as we have before observed, and as we will presently
endeavor to show, that the principle, or rather the result, of
this solution is the true one. Some person is concealed in the
box during the whole time of exhibiting the interior. We object,
however, to the whole verbose description of the _manner _in
which the partitions are shifted, to accommodate the movements of
the person concealed. We object to it as a mere theory assumed in
the first place, and to which circumstances are afterwards made
to adapt themselves. It was not, and could not have been, arrived
at by any inductive reasoning. In whatever way the shifting is
managed, it is of course concealed at every step from
observation. To show that certain movements might possibly be
effected in a certain way, is very far from showing that they are
actually so effected. There may be an infinity of other methods
by which the same results may be obtained. The probability of the
one assumed proving the correct one is then as unity to infinity.
But, in reality, this particular point, the shifting of the
partitions, is of no consequence whatever. It was altogether
unnecessary to devote seven or eight pages for the purpose of
proving what no one in his senses would deny—viz: that the
wonderful mechanical genius of Baron Kempelen could invent the
necessary means for shutting a door or slipping aside a pannel,
with a human agent too at his service in actual contact with the
pannel or the door, and the whole operations carried on, as the
author of the Essay himself shows, and as we shall attempt to
show more fully hereafter, entirely out of reach of the
observation of the spectators.
In attempting ourselves an explanation of the Automaton, we will,
in the first place, endeavor to show how its operations are
effected, and afterwards describe, as briefly as possible, the
nature of the _observations _from which we have deduced our
result.
It will be necessary for a proper understanding of the subject,
that we repeat here in a few words, the routine adopted by the
exhibiter in disclosing the interior of the box—a routine from
which he _never _deviates in any material particular. In the
first place he opens the door No. I. Leaving this open, he goes
round to the rear of the box, and opens a door precisely at the
back of door No. I. To this back door he holds a lighted candle.
He then _closes the back door, _locks it, and, coming round to
the front, opens the drawer to its full extent. This done, he
opens the doors No. 2 and No. 3, (the folding doors) and displays
the interior of the main compartment. Leaving open the main
compartment, the drawer, and the front door of cupboard No. I, he
now goes to the rear again, and throws open the back door of the
main compartment. In shutting up the box no particular order is
observed, except that the folding doors are always closed before
the drawer.
Now, let us suppose that when the machine is first rolled into
the presence of the spectators, a man is already within it. His
body is situated behind the dense machinery in cupboard No. T.
(the rear portion of which machinery is so contrived as to slip
_en masse, _from the main compartment to the cupboard No. I, as
occasion may require,) and his legs lie at full length in the
main compartment. When Maelzel opens the door No. I, the man
within is not in any danger of discovery, for the keenest eye
cannot penetrate more than about two inches into the darkness
within. But the case is otherwise when the back door of the
cupboard No. I, is opened. A bright light then pervades the
cupboard, and the body of the man would be discovered if it were
there. But it is not. The putting the key in the lock of the back
door was a signal on hearing which the person concealed brought
his body forward to an angle as acute as possible—throwing it
altogether, or nearly so, into the main compartment. This,
however, is a painful position, and cannot be long maintained.
Accordingly we find that Maelzel _closes the back door. _This
being done, there is no reason why the body of the man may not
resume its former situation—for the cupboard is again so dark as
to defy scrutiny. The drawer is now opened, and the legs of the
person within drop down behind it in the space it formerly
occupied. {*4} There is, consequently, now no longer any part of
the man in the main compartment—his body being behind the
machinery in cupboard No. 1, and his legs in the space occupied
by the drawer. The exhibiter, therefore, finds himself at liberty
to display the main compartment. This he does—opening both its
back and front doors—and no person Is discovered. The spectators
are now satisfied that the whole of the box is exposed to
view—and exposed too, all portions of it at one and the same
time. But of course this is not the case. They neither see the
space behind the drawer, nor the interior of cupboard No. 1—the
front door of which latter the exhibiter virtually shuts in
shutting its back door. Maelzel, having now rolled the machine
around, lifted up the drapery of the Turk, opened the doors in
his back and thigh, and shown his trunk to be full of machinery,
brings the whole back into its original position, and closes the
doors. The man within is now at liberty to move about. He gets up
into the body of the Turk just so high as to bring his eyes above
the level of the chess-board. It is very probable that he seats
himself upon the little square block or protuberance which is
seen in a corner of the main compartment when the doors are open.
In this position he sees the chess-board through the bosom of the
Turk which is of gauze. Bringing his right arm across his breast
he actuates the little machinery necessary to guide the left arm
and the fingers of the figure. This machinery is situated just
beneath the left shoulder of the Turk, and is consequently easily
reached by the right hand of the man concealed, if we suppose his
right arm brought across the breast. The motions of the head and
eyes, and of the right arm of the figure, as well as the sound
_echec _are produced by other mechanism in the interior, and
actuated at will by the man within. The whole of this
mechanism—that is to say all the mechanism essential to the
machine—is most probably contained within the little cupboard (of
about six inches in breadth) partitioned off at the right (the
spectators’ right) of the main compartment.
In this analysis of the operations of the Automaton, we have
purposely avoided any allusion to the manner in which the
partitions are shifted, and it will now be readily comprehended
that this point is a matter of no importance, since, by mechanism
within the ability of any common carpenter, it might be effected
in an infinity of different ways, and since we have shown that,
however performed, it is performed out of the view of the
spectators. Our result is founded upon the following
_observations _taken during frequent visits to the exhibition of
Maelzel. {*5}
I. The moves of the Turk are not made at regular intervals of
time, but accommodate themselves to the moves of the
antagonist—although this point (of regularity) so important in
all kinds of mechanical contrivance, might have been readily
brought about by limiting the time allowed for the moves of the
antagonist. For example, if this limit were three minutes, the
moves of the Automaton might be made at any given intervals
longer than three minutes. The fact then of irregularity, when
regularity might have been so easily attained, goes to prove that
regularity is unimportant to the action of the Automaton—in other
words, that the Automaton is not a _pure machine._
2. When the Automaton is about to move a piece, a distinct motion
is observable just beneath the left shoulder, and which motion
agitates in a slight degree, the drapery covering the front of
the left shoulder. This motion invariably precedes, by about two
seconds, the movement of the arm itself—and the arm never, in any
instance, moves without this preparatory motion in the shoulder.
Now let the antagonist move a piece, and let the corresponding
move be made by Maelzel, as usual, upon the board of the
Automaton. Then let the antagonist narrowly watch the Automaton,
until he detect the preparatory motion in the shoulder.
Immediately upon detecting this motion, and before the arm itself
begins to move, let him withdraw his piece, as if perceiving an
error in his manœuvre. It will then be seen that the movement of
the arm, which, in all other cases, immediately succeeds the
motion in the shoulder, is withheld—is not made—although Maelzel
has not yet performed, on the board of the Automaton, any move
corresponding to the withdrawal of the antagonist. In this case,
that the Automaton was about to move is evident—and that he did
not move, was an effect plainly produced by the withdrawal of the
antagonist, and without any intervention of Maelzel.
This fact fully proves, 1—that the intervention of Maelzel, in
performing the moves of the antagonist on the board of the
Automaton, is not essential to the movements of the Automaton,
2—that its movements are regulated by _mind—_by some person who
sees the board of the antagonist, 3—that its movements are not
regulated by the mind of Maelzel, whose back was turned towards
the antagonist at the withdrawal of his move.
3. The Automaton does not invariably win the game. Were the
machine a pure machine this would not be the case—it would always
win. The _principle _being discovered by which a machine can be
made to _play _a game of chess, an extension of the same
principle would enable it to win a game—a farther extension would
enable it to win _all _games—that is, to beat any possible game
of an antagonist. A little consideration will convince any one
that the difficulty of making a machine beat all games, Is not in
the least degree greater, as regards the principle of the
operations necessary, than that of making it beat a single game.
If then we regard the Chess-Player as a machine, we must suppose,
(what is highly improbable,) that its inventor preferred leaving
it incomplete to perfecting it—a supposition rendered still more
absurd, when we reflect that the leaving it incomplete would
afford an argument against the possibility of its being a pure
machine—the very argument we now adduce.
4. When the situation of the game is difficult or complex, we
never perceive the Turk either shake his head or roll his eyes.
It is only when his next move is obvious, or when the game is so
circumstanced that to a man in the Automaton’s place there would
be no necessity for reflection. Now these peculiar movements of
the head and eyes are movements customary with persons engaged in
meditation, and the ingenious Baron Kempelen would have adapted
these movements (were the machine a pure machine) to occasions
proper for their display—that is, to occasions of complexity. But
the reverse is seen to be the case, and this reverse applies
precisely to our supposition of a man in the interior. When
engaged in meditation about the game he has no time to think of
setting in motion the mechanism of the Automaton by which are
moved the head and the eyes. When the game, however, is obvious,
he has time to look about him, and, accordingly, we see the head
shake and the eyes roll.
5. When the machine is rolled round to allow the spectators an
examination of the back of the Turk, and when his drapery is
lifted up and the doors in the trunk and thigh thrown open, the
interior of the trunk is seen to be crowded with machinery. In
scrutinizing this machinery while the Automaton was in motion,
that is to say while the whole machine was moving on the castors,
it appeared to us that certain portions of the mechanism changed
their shape and position in a degree too great to be accounted
for by the simple laws of perspective; and subsequent
examinations convinced us that these undue alterations were
attributable to mirrors in the interior of the trunk. The
introduction of mirrors among the machinery could not have been
intended to influence, in any degree, the machinery itself. Their
operation, whatever that operation should prove to be, must
necessarily have reference to the eye of the spectator. We at
once concluded that these mirrors were so placed to multiply to
the vision some few pieces of machinery within the trunk so as to
give it the appearance of being crowded with mechanism. Now the
direct inference from this is that the machine is not a pure
machine. For if it were, the inventor, so far from wishing its
mechanism to appear complex, and using deception for the purpose
of giving it this appearance, would have been especially desirous
of convincing those who witnessed his exhibition, of the
_simplicity _of the means by which results so wonderful were
brought about.
6. The external appearance, and, especially, the deportment of
the Turk, are, when we consider them as imitations of _life, _but
very indifferent imitations. The countenance evinces no
ingenuity, and is surpassed, in its resemblance to the human
face, by the very commonest of wax-works. The eyes roll
unnaturally in the head, without any corresponding motions of the
lids or brows. The arm, particularly, performs its operations in
an exceedingly stiff, awkward, jerking, and rectangular manner.
Now, all this is the result either of inability in Maelzel to do
better, or of intentional neglect—accidental neglect being out of
the question, when we consider that the whole time of the
ingenious proprietor is occupied in the improvement of his
machines. Most assuredly we must not refer the unlife-like
appearances to inability—for all the rest of Maelzel’s automata
are evidence of his full ability to copy the motions and
peculiarities of life with the most wonderful exactitude. The
rope-dancers, for example, are inimitable. When the clown laughs,
his lips, his eyes, his eye-brows, and eyelids—indeed, all the
features of his countenance—are imbued with their appropriate
expressions. In both him and his companion, every gesture is so
entirely easy, and free from the semblance of artificiality,
that, were it not for the diminutiveness of their size, and the
fact of their being passed from one spectator to another previous
to their exhibition on the rope, it would be difficult to
convince any assemblage of persons that these wooden automata
were not living creatures. We cannot, therefore, doubt Mr.
Maelzel’s ability, and we must necessarily suppose that he
intentionally suffered his Chess Player to remain the same
artificial and unnatural figure which Baron Kempelen (no doubt
also through design) originally made it. What this design was it
is not difficult to conceive. Were the Automaton life-like in its
motions, the spectator would be more apt to attribute its
operations to their true cause, (that is, to human agency within)
than he is now, when the awkward and rectangular manœuvres convey
the idea of pure and unaided mechanism.
7. When, a short time previous to the commencement of the game,
the Automaton is wound up by the exhibiter as usual, an ear in
any degree accustomed to the sounds produced in winding up a
system of machinery, will not fail to discover, instantaneously,
that the axis turned by the key in the box of the Chess-Player,
cannot possibly be connected with either a weight, a spring, or
any system of machinery whatever. The inference here is the same
as in our last observation. The winding up is inessential to the
operations of the Automaton, and is performed with the design of
exciting in the spectators the false idea of mechanism.
8. When the question is demanded explicitly of Maelzel—“Is the
Automaton a pure machine or not?” his reply is invariably the
same—“I will say nothing about it.” Now the notoriety of the
Automaton, and the great curiosity it has every where excited,
are owing more especially to the prevalent opinion that it is a
pure machine, than to any other circumstance. Of course, then, it
is the interest of the proprietor to represent it as a pure
machine. And what more obvious, and more effectual method could
there be of impressing the spectators with this desired idea,
than a positive and explicit declaration to that effect? On the
other hand, what more obvious and effectual method could there be
of exciting a disbelief in the Automaton’s being a pure machine,
than by withholding such explicit declaration? For, people will
naturally reason thus,—It is Maelzel’s interest to represent this
thing a pure machine—he refuses to do so, directly, in words,
although he does not scruple, and is evidently anxious to do so,
indirectly by actions—were it actually what he wishes to
represent it by actions, he would gladly avail himself of the
more direct testimony of words—the inference is, that a
consciousness of its not being a pure machine, is the reason of
his silence—his actions cannot implicate him in a falsehood—his
words may.
9. When, in exhibiting the interior of the box, Maelzel has
thrown open the door No. I, and also the door immediately behind
it, he holds a lighted candle at the back door (as mentioned
above) and moves the entire machine to and fro with a view of
convincing the company that the cupboard No. 1 is entirely filled
with machinery. When the machine is thus moved about, it will be
apparent to any careful observer, that whereas that portion of
the machinery near the front door No. 1, is perfectly steady and
unwavering, the portion farther within fluctuates, in a very
slight degree, with the movements of the machine. This
circumstance first aroused in us the suspicion that the more
remote portion of the machinery was so arranged as to be easily
slipped, _en masse, _from its position when occasion should
require it. This occasion we have already stated to occur when
the man concealed within brings his body into an erect position
upon the closing of the back door.
10. Sir David Brewster states the figure of the Turk to be of the
size of life—but in fact it is far above the ordinary size.
Nothing is more easy than to err in our notions of magnitude. The
body of the Automaton is generally insulated, and, having no
means of immediately comparing it with any human form, we suffer
ourselves to consider it as of ordinary dimensions. This mistake
may, however, be corrected by observing the Chess-Player when, as
is sometimes the case, the exhibiter approaches it. Mr. Maelzel,
to be sure, is not very tall, but upon drawing near the machine,
his head will be found at least eighteen inches below the head of
the Turk, although the latter, it will be remembered, is in a
sitting position.
11. The box behind which the Automaton is placed, is precisely
three feet six inches long, two feet four inches deep, and two
feet six inches high. These dimensions are fully sufficient for
the accommodation of a man very much above the common size—and
the main compartment alone is capable of holding any ordinary man
in the position we have mentioned as assumed by the person
concealed. As these are facts, which any one who doubts them may
prove by actual calculation, we deem it unnecessary to dwell upon
them. We will only suggest that, although the top of the box is
apparently a board of about three inches in thickness, the
spectator may satisfy himself by stooping and looking up at it
when the main compartment is open, that it is in reality very
thin. The height of the drawer also will be misconceived by those
who examine it in a cursory manner. There is a space of about
three inches between the top of the drawer as seen from the
exterior, and the bottom of the cupboard—a space which must be
included in the height of the drawer. These contrivances to make
the room within the box appear less than it actually is, are
referrible to a design on the part of the inventor, to impress
the company again with a false idea, viz. that no human being can
be accommodated within the box.
12. The interior of the main compartment is lined throughout with
_cloth. _This cloth we suppose to have a twofold object. A
portion of _it _may form, when tightly stretched, the only
partitions which there is any necessity for removing during the
changes of the man’s position, viz: the partition between the
rear of the main compartment and the rear of the cupboard No. 1,
and the partition between the main compartment, and the space
behind the drawer when open. If we imagine this to be the case,
the difficulty of shifting the partitions vanishes at once, if
indeed any such difficulty could be supposed under any
circumstances to exist. The second object of the cloth is to
deaden and render indistinct all sounds occasioned by the
movements of the person within.
13. The antagonist (as we have before observed) is not suffered
to play at the board of the Automaton, but is seated at some
distance from the machine. The reason which, most probably, would
be assigned for this circumstance, if the question were demanded,
is, that were the antagonist otherwise situated, his person would
intervene between the machine and the spectators, and preclude
the latter from a distinct view. But this difficulty might be
easily obviated, either by elevating the seats of the company, or
by turning the end of the box towards them during the game. The
true cause of the restriction is, perhaps, very different. Were
the antagonist seated in contact with the box, the secret would
be liable to discovery, by his detecting, with the aid of a quick
car, the breathings of the man concealed.
14. Although M. Maelzel, in disclosing the interior of the
machine, sometimes slightly deviates from the _routine _which we
have pointed out, yet _reeler in _any instance does he _so
_deviate from it as to interfere with our solution. For example,
he has been known to open, first of all, the drawer—but he never
opens the main compartment without first closing the back door of
cupboard No. 1—he never opens the main compartment without first
pulling out the drawer—he never shuts the drawer without first
shutting the main compartment—he never opens the back door of
cupboard No. 1 while the main compartment is open—and the game of
chess is never commenced until the whole machine is closed. Now
if it were observed that _never, in any single instance, _did M.
Maelzel differ from the routine we have pointed out as necessary
to our solution, it would be one of the strongest possible
arguments in corroboration of it—but the argument becomes
infinitely strengthened if we duly consider the circumstance that
he _does occasionally _deviate from the routine but never does
_so _deviate as to falsify the solution.
15. There are six candles on the board of the Automaton during
exhibition. The question naturally arises—“Why are so many
employed, when a single candle, or, at farthest, two, would have
been amply sufficient to afford the spectators a clear view of
the board, in a room otherwise so well lit up as the exhibition
room always is—when, moreover, if we suppose the machine a _pure
machine, _there can be no necessity for so much light, or indeed
any light at all, to enable _it _to perform its operations—and
when, especially, only a single candle is placed upon the table
of the antagonist?” The first and most obvious inference is, that
so strong a light is requisite to enable the man within to see
through the transparent material (probably fine gauze) of which
the breast of the Turk is composed. But when we consider the
arrangement of the candles, another reason immediately presents
itself. There are six lights (as we have said before) in all.
Three of these are on each side of the figure. Those most remote
from the spectators are the longest—those in the middle are about
two inches shorter—and those nearest the company about two inches
shorter still—and the candles on one side differ in height from
the candles respectively opposite on the other, by a ratio
different from two inches—that is to say, the longest candle on
one side is about three inches shorter than the longest candle on
the other, and so on. Thus it will be seen that no two of the
candles are of the same height, and thus also the difficulty of
ascertaining the _material _of the breast of the figure (against
which the light is especially directed) is greatly augmented by
the dazzling effect of the complicated crossings of the
rays—crossings which are brought about by placing the centres of
radiation all upon different levels.
16. While the Chess-Player was in possession of Baron Kempelen,
it was more than once observed, first, that an Italian in the
suite of the Baron was never visible during the playing of a game
at chess by the Turk, and, secondly, that the Italian being taken
seriously ill, the exhibition was suspended until his recovery.
This Italian professed a _total _ignorance of the game of chess,
although all others of the suite played well. Similar
observations have been made since the Automaton has been
purchased by Maelzel. There is a man, _Schlumberoer, _who attends
him wherever he goes, but who has no ostensible occupation other
than that of assisting in the packing and unpacking of the
automata. This man is about the medium size, and has a remarkable
stoop in the shoulders. Whether he professes to play chess or
not, we are not informed. It is quite certain, however, that he
is never to be seen during the exhibition of the Chess-Player,
although frequently visible just before and just after the
exhibition. Moreover, some years ago Maelzel visited Richmond
with his automata, and exhibited them, we believe, in the house
now occupied by M. Bossieux as a Dancing Academy. _Schlumberg_er
was suddenly taken ill, and during his illness there was no
exhibition of the Chess-Player. These facts are well known to
many of our citizens. The reason assigned for the suspension of
the Chess-Player’s performances, was _not _the illness of
_Schlumberger. _The inferences from all this we leave, without
farther comment, to the reader.
17. The Turk plays with his _left_ arm. A circumstance so
remarkable cannot be accidental. Brewster takes no notice of it
whatever beyond a mere statement, we believe, that such is the
fact. The early writers of treatises on the Automaton, seem not
to have observed the matter at all, and have no reference to it.
The author of the pamphlet alluded to by Brewster, mentions it,
but acknowledges his inability to account for it. Yet it is
obviously from such prominent discrepancies or incongruities as
this that deductions are to be made (if made at all) which shall
lead us to the truth.
The circumstance of the Automaton’s playing with his left hand
cannot have connexion with the operations of the machine,
considered merely as such. Any mechanical arrangement which would
cause the figure to move, in any given manner, the left
arm—could, if reversed, cause it to move, in the same manner, the
right. But these principles cannot be extended to the human
organization, wherein there is a marked and radical difference in
the construction, and, at all events, in the powers, of the right
and left arms. Reflecting upon this latter fact, we naturally
refer the incongruity noticeable in the Chess-Player to this
peculiarity in the human organization. If so, we must imagine
some _reversion—_for the Chess-Player plays precisely as a man
_would not. _These ideas, once entertained, are sufficient of
themselves, to suggest the notion of a man in the interior. A few
more imperceptible steps lead us, finally, to the result. The
Automaton plays with his left arm, because under no other
circumstances could the man within play with his right—a
_desideratum _of course. Let us, for example, imagine the
Automaton to play with his right arm. To reach the machinery
which moves the arm, and which we have before explained to lie
just beneath the shoulder, it would be necessary for the man
within either to use his right arm in an exceedingly painful and
awkward position, (viz. brought up close to his body and tightly
compressed between his body and the side of the Automaton,) or
else to use his left arm brought across his breast. In neither
case could he act with the requisite ease or precision. On the
contrary, the Automaton playing, as it actually does, with the
left arm, all difficulties vanish. The right arm of the man
within is brought across his breast, and his right fingers act,
without any constraint, upon the machinery in the shoulder of the
figure.
We do not believe that any reasonable objections can be urged
against this solution of the Automaton Chess-Player.
THE POWER OF WORDS
OINOS. Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
immortality!
AGATHOS. You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is
to be demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition.
For wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may be given!
OINOS. But in this existence, I dreamed that I should be at once
cognizant of all things, and thus at once be happy in being
cognizant of all.
AGATHOS. Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the
acquisition of knowledge! In for ever knowing, we are for ever
blessed; but to know all were the curse of a fiend.
OINOS. But does not The Most High know all?
AGATHOS. That (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the one
thing unknown even to Him.
OINOS. But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last
all things be known?
AGATHOS. Look down into the abysmal distances!—attempt to force
the gaze down the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep
slowly through them thus—and thus—and thus! Even the spiritual
vision, is it not at all points arrested by the continuous golden
walls of the universe?—the walls of the myriads of the shining
bodies that mere number has appeared to blend into unity?
OINOS. I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no
dream.
AGATHOS. There are _no_ dreams in Aidenn—but it is here whispered
that, of this infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford
infinite springs, at which the soul may allay the thirst _to
know_, which is for ever unquenchable within it—since to quench
it, would be to extinguish the soul’s self. Question me then, my
Oinos, freely and without fear. Come! we will leave to the left
the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and swoop outward from the
throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion, where, for pansies
and violets, and heart’s-ease, are the beds of the triplicate and
triple-tinted suns.
OINOS. And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!—speak to me
in the earth’s familiar tones. I understand not what you hinted
to me, just now, of the modes or of the method of what, during
mortality, we were accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to
say that the Creator is not God?
AGATHOS. I mean to say that the Deity does not create.
OINOS. Explain.
AGATHOS. In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures
which are now, throughout the universe, so perpetually springing
into being, can only be considered as the mediate or indirect,
not as the direct or immediate results of the Divine creative
power.
OINOS. Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered
heretical in the extreme.
AGATHOS. Among angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.
OINOS. I can comprehend you thus far—that certain operations of
what we term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain
conditions, give rise to that which has all the _appearance_ of
creation. Shortly before the final overthrow of the earth, there
were, I well remember, many very successful experiments in what
some philosophers were weak enough to denominate the creation of
animalculæ.
AGATHOS. The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of
the secondary creation—and of the only species of creation which
has ever been, since the first word spoke into existence the
first law.
OINOS. Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of
nonentity, burst hourly forth into the heavens—are not these
stars, Agathos, the immediate handiwork of the King?
AGATHOS. Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to
the conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought
can perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our
hands, for example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and, in
so doing, gave vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it.
This vibration was indefinitely extended, till it gave impulse to
every particle of the earth’s air, which thenceforward, and for
ever, was actuated by the one movement of the hand. This fact the
mathematicians of our globe well knew. They made the special
effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid by special impulses, the
subject of exact calculation—so that it became easy to determine
in what precise period an impulse of given extent would engirdle
the orb, and impress (for ever) every atom of the atmosphere
circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty, from a
given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the
results of any given impulse were absolutely endless—and who saw
that a portion of these results were accurately traceable through
the agency of algebraic analysis—who saw, too, the facility of
the retrogradation—these men saw, at the same time, that this
species of analysis itself, had within itself a capacity for
indefinite progress—that there were no bounds conceivable to its
advancement and applicability, except within the intellect of him
who advanced or applied it. But at this point our mathematicians
paused.
OINOS. And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?
AGATHOS. Because there were some considerations of deep interest
beyond. It was deducible from what they knew, that to a being of
infinite understanding—one to whom the perfection of the
algebraic analysis lay unfolded—there could be no difficulty in
tracing every impulse given the air—and the ether through the
air—to the remotest consequences at any even infinitely remote
epoch of time. It is indeed demonstrable that every such impulse
given the air, must, in the end, impress every individual thing
that exists within the universe;—and the being of infinite
understanding—the being whom we have imagined—might trace the
remote undulations of the impulse—trace them upward and onward in
their influences upon all particles of an matter—upward and
onward for ever in their modifications of old forms—or, in other
words, in their creation of new—until he found them
reflected—unimpressive at last—back from the throne of the
Godhead. And not only could such a thing do this, but at any
epoch, should a given result be afforded him—should one of these
numberless comets, for example, be presented to his inspection—he
could have no difficulty in determining, by the analytic
retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This power
of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection—this
faculty of referring at all epochs, all effects to all causes—is
of course the prerogative of the Deity alone—but in every variety
of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power itself
exercised by the whole host of the Angelic intelligences.
OINOS. But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.
AGATHOS. In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth;
but the general proposition has reference to impulses upon the
ether—which, since it pervades, and alone pervades all space, is
thus the great medium of creation.
OINOS. Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?
AGATHOS. It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the
source of all motion is thought—and the source of all thought is—
OINOS. God.
AGATHOS. I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child of the fair
Earth which lately perished—of impulses upon the atmosphere of
the Earth.
OINOS. You did.
AGATHOS. And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind
some thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an
impulse on the air?
OINOS. But why, Agathos, do you weep—and why, oh why do your
wings droop as we hover above this fair star—which is the
greenest and yet most terrible of all we have encountered in our
flight? Its brilliant flowers look like a fairy dream—but its
fierce volcanoes like the passions of a turbulent heart.
AGATHOS. They are!—they are! This wild star—it is now three
centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at
the feet of my beloved—I spoke it—with a few passionate
sentences—into birth. Its brilliant flowers are the dearest of
all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the passions
of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts.
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
Μελλοντα ταυτα.—SOPHOCLES—_Antig._
“These things are in the near future.”
_ Una._ “Born again?”
_ Monos._ Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These
were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long
pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until
Death himself resolved for me the secret.
_Una._ Death!
_Monos._ How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe,
too, a vacillation in your step—a joyous inquietude in your eyes.
You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the
Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how
singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror
to all hearts—throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!
_Una._ Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How
often, Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its
nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human
bliss—saying unto it “thus far, and no farther!” That earnest
mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our bosoms—how
vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first
up-springing, that our happiness would strengthen with its
strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of
that evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus,
in time, it became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy
then.
_Monos._ Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine,
forever now!
_ Una._ But the memory of past sorrow—is it not present joy? I
have much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I
burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the dark
Valley and Shadow.
_ Monos._ And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos
in vain? I will be minute in relating all—but at what point shall
the weird narrative begin?
_Una._ At what point?
_Monos._ You have said.
_Una._ Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the
propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say,
then, commence with the moment of life’s cessation—but commence
with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you,
you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed
down your pallid eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.
_ Monos._ One word first, my Una, in regard to man’s general
condition at this epoch. You will remember that one or two of the
wise among our forefathers—wise in fact, although not in the
world’s esteem—had ventured to doubt the propriety of the term
“improvement,” as applied to the progress of our civilization.
There were periods in each of the five or six centuries
immediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some vigorous
intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose truth
appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly
obvious—principles which should have taught our race to submit to
the guidance of the natural laws, rather than attempt their
control. At long intervals some masterminds appeared, looking
upon each advance in practical science as a retro-gradation in
the true utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect—that
intellect which we now feel to have been the most exalted of
all—since those truths which to us were of the most enduring
importance could only be reached by that analogy which speaks in
proof tones to the imagination alone and to the unaided reason
bears no weight—occasionally did this poetic intellect proceed a
step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of the
philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the
tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a
distinct intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the
infant condition of his soul. And these men—the poets—living and
perishing amid the scorn of the “utilitarians”—of rough pedants,
who arrogated to themselves a title which could have been
properly applied only to the scorned—these men, the poets,
pondered piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when
our wants were not more simple than our enjoyments were keen—days
when mirth was a word unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was
happiness—holy, august and blissful days, when blue rivers ran
undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest solitudes,
primæval, odorous, and unexplored.
Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to
strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most
evil of all our evil days. The great “movement”—that was the cant
term—went on: a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art—the
Arts—arose supreme, and, once enthroned, cast chains upon the
intellect which had elevated them to power. Man, because he could
not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature, fell into childish
exultation at his acquired and still-increasing dominion over her
elements. Even while he stalked a God in his own fancy, an
infantine imbecility came over him. As might be supposed from the
origin of his disorder, he grew infected with system, and with
abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other
odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and in the
face of analogy and of God—in despite of the loud warning voice
of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in
Earth and Heaven—wild attempts at an omni-prevalent Democracy
were made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading
evil—Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime
huge smoking cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank
before the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was
deformed as with the ravages of some loathsome disease. And
methinks, sweet Una, even our slumbering sense of the forced and
of the far-fetched might have arrested us here. But now it
appears that we had worked out our own destruction in the
perversion of our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of its
culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis that
taste alone—that faculty which, holding a middle position between
the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely have
been disregarded—it was now that taste alone could have led us
gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the
pure contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas
for the μουσικη which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!—since both were
most desperately needed when both were most entirely forgotten or
despised. {*1}
Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
truly!—“que tout notre raisonnement se rèduit à céder au
sentiment;” and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old
ascendancy over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But
this thing was not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of
knowledge the old age of the world drew on. This the mass of
mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily, affected
not to see. But, for myself, the Earth’s records had taught me to
look for widest ruin as the price of highest civilization. I had
imbibed a prescience of our Fate from comparison of China the
simple and enduring, with Assyria the architect, with Egypt the
astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than either, the turbulent
mother of all Arts. In history {*2} of these regions I met with a
ray from the Future. The individual artificialities of the three
latter were local diseases of the Earth, and in their individual
overthrows we had seen local remedies applied; but for the
infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration save
in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
that he must be “born again.”
And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of
the days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth,
having undergone that purification {*3} which alone could efface
its rectangular obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the
verdure and the mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of
Paradise, and be rendered at length a fit dwelling-place for
man:—for man the Death purged—for man to whose now exalted
intellect there should be poison in knowledge no more—for the
redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but still for
the material, man.
_Una._ Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but
the epoch of the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we
believed, and as the corruption you indicate did surely warrant
us in believing. Men lived; and died individually. You yourself
sickened, and passed into the grave; and thither your constant
Una speedily followed you. And though the century which has since
elapsed, and whose conclusion brings us thus together once more,
tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience of duration,
yet, my Monos, it was a century still.
_Monos._ Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity.
Unquestionably, it was in the Earth’s dotage that I died. Wearied
at heart with anxieties which had their origin in the general
turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After some
few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with
ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for pain, while
I longed but was impotent to undeceive you—after some days there
came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
torpor; and this was termed Death by those who stood around me.
Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of
sentience. It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the
extreme quiescence of him, who, having slumbered long and
profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a midsummer
noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness, through the
mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being awakened by
external disturbances.
I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased
to beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses
were unusually active, although eccentrically so—assuming often
each other’s functions at random. The taste and the smell were
inextricably confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and
intense. The rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened
my lips to the last, affected me with sweet fancies of
flowers—fantastic flowers, far more lovely than any of the old
Earth, but whose prototypes we have here blooming around us. The
eyelids, transparent and bloodless, offered no complete
impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance, the balls
could not roll in their sockets but all objects within the range
of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or
into the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than
those which struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the
former instance, this effect was so far anomalous that I
appreciated it only as sound—sound sweet or discordant as the
matters presenting themselves at my side were light or dark in
shade—curved or angular in outline. The hearing, at the same
time, although excited in degree, was not irregular in
action—estimating real sounds with an extravagance of precision,
not less than of sensibility. Touch had undergone a modification
more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily received, but
pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the highest
physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers upon
my eyelids, at first only recognised through vision, at length,
long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual
delight immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. All my
perceptions were purely sensual. The materials furnished the
passive brain by the senses were not in the least degree wrought
into shape by the deceased understanding. Of pain there was some
little; of pleasure there was much; but of moral pain or pleasure
none at all. Thus your wild sobs floated into my ear with all
their mournful cadences, and were appreciated in their every
variation of sad tone; but they were soft musical sounds and no
more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no intimation of the
sorrows which gave them birth; while the large and constant tears
which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a heart which
broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone. And
this was in truth the Death of which these bystanders spoke
reverently, in low whispers—you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with loud
cries.
They attired me for the coffin—three or four dark figures which
flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
vision they affected me as forms; but upon passing to my side
their images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and
other dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of wo. You
alone, habited in a white robe, passed in all directions
musically about me.
The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed
by a vague uneasiness—an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when
sad real sounds fall continuously within his ear—low distant
bell-tones, solemn, at long but equal intervals, and mingling
with melancholy dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a
heavy discomfort. It oppressed my limbs with the oppression of
some dull weight, and was palpable. There was also a moaning
sound, not unlike the distant reverberation of surf, but more
continuous, which, beginning with the first twilight, had grown
in strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights were brought into
the room, and this reverberation became forthwith interrupted
into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound, but less dreary
and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a great
measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp, (for
there were many,) there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain
of melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the
bed upon which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side,
breathing odor from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my
brow, there arose tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with
the merely physical sensations which circumstances had called
forth, a something akin to sentiment itself—a feeling that, half
appreciating, half responded to your earnest love and sorrow; but
this feeling took no root in the pulseless heart, and seemed
indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and faded quickly away,
first into extreme quiescence, and then into a purely sensual
pleasure as before.
And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
exercise I found a wild delight—yet a delight still physical,
inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the
animal frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve
thrilled; no artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up
in the brain, that of which no words could convey to the merely
human intelligence even an indistinct conception. Let me term it
a mental pendulous pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of
man’s abstract idea of Time. By the absolute equalization of this
movement—or of such as this—had the cycles of the firmamental
orbs themselves, been adjusted. By its aid I measured the
irregularities of the clock upon the mantel, and of the watches
of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The
slightest deviations from the true proportion—and these
deviations were omni-prevalent—affected me just as violations of
abstract truth were wont, on earth, to affect the moral sense.
Although no two of the time-pieces in the chamber struck the
individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no difficulty
in holding steadily in mind the tones, and the respective
momentary errors of each. And this—this keen, perfect,
self-existing sentiment of duration—this sentiment existing (as
man could not possibly have conceived it to exist) independently
of any succession of events—this idea—this sixth sense,
upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first obvious and
certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of the
temporal Eternity.
It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had
departed from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the
coffin. The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the
tremulousness of the monotonous strains. But, suddenly these
strains diminished in distinctness and in volume. Finally they
ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died away. Forms affected my
vision no longer. The oppression of the Darkness uplifted itself
from my bosom. A dull shock like that of electricity pervaded my
frame, and was followed by total loss of the idea of contact. All
of what man has termed sense was merged in the sole consciousness
of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of duration. The
mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of the
deadly Decay.
Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and
the sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a
lethargic intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in
operation upon the flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware
of the bodily presence of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una,
I still dully felt that you sat by my side. So, too, when the
noon of the second day came, I was not unconscious of those
movements which displaced you from my side, which confined me
within the coffin, which deposited me within the hearse, which
bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which heaped
heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.
And here, in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose,
there rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched
narrowly each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record
of its flight—without effort and without object.
A year passed. The consciousness of being had grown hourly more
indistinct, and that of mere locality had, in great measure,
usurped its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in
that of place. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had
been the body, was now growing to be the body itself. At length,
as often happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is
Death imaged)—at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the
deep slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into
awaking, yet left him half enveloped in dreams—so to me, in the
strict embrace of the Shadow came that light which alone might
have had power to startle—the light of enduring Love. Men toiled
at the grave in which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp
earth. Upon my mouldering bones there descended the coffin of
Una.
And now again all was void. That nebulous light had been
extinguished. That feeble thrill had vibrated itself into
quiescence. Many lustra had supervened. Dust had returned to
dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being had at length
utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead—instead of all
things—dominant and perpetual—the autocrats Place and Time. For
that which was not—for that which had no form—for that which had
no thought—for that which had no sentience—for that which was
soulless, yet of which matter formed no portion—for all this
nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the grave was still a
home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.
THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION
Πυρ σοι προσοισω.
I will bring fire to thee.
—EURIPIDES—_Androm._
EIROS.
Why do you call me Eiros?
CHARMION.
So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget too,
my earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.
EIROS.
This is indeed no dream!
CHARMION.
Dreams are with us no more; but of these mysteries anon. I
rejoice to see you looking life-like and rational. The film of
the shadow has already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart and
fear nothing. Your allotted days of stupor have expired and,
to-morrow, I will myself induct you into the full joys and
wonders of your novel existence.
EIROS.
True—I feel no stupor—none at all. The wild sickness and the
terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
rushing, horrible sound, like the “voice of many waters.” Yet my
senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their
perception of the new.
CHARMION.
A few days will remove all this;—but I fully understand you, and
feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what
you undergo—yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have
now suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in
Aidenn.
EIROS.
In Aidenn?
CHARMION.
In Aidenn.
EIROS.
Oh God!—pity me, Charmion!—I am overburthened with the majesty of
all things—of the unknown now known—of the speculative Future
merged in the august and certain Present.
CHARMION.
Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of
this. Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the
exercise of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward—but
back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the details of that
stupendous event which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us
converse of familiar things, in the old familiar language of the
world which has so fearfully perished.
EIROS.
Most fearfully, fearfully!—this is indeed no dream.
CHARMION.
Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?
EIROS.
Mourned, Charmion?—oh deeply. To that last hour of all, there
hung a cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your
household.
CHARMION.
And that last hour—speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked
fact of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out
from among mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave—at that
period, if I remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you
was utterly unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the
speculative philosophy of the day.
EIROS.
The individual calamity was as you say entirely unanticipated;
but analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion
with astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even
when you left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in
the most holy writings which speak of the final destruction of
all things by fire, as having reference to the orb of the earth
alone. But in regard to the immediate agency of the ruin,
speculation had been at fault from that epoch in astronomical
knowledge in which the comets were divested of the terrors of
flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had been well
established. They had been observed to pass among the satellites
of Jupiter, without bringing about any sensible alteration either
in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We had
long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was
not in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets
were accurately known. That among them we should look for the
agency of the threatened fiery destruction had been for many
years considered an inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild
fancies had been, of late days, strangely rife among mankind;
and, although it was only with a few of the ignorant that actual
apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement by astronomers of a
new comet, yet this announcement was generally received with I
know not what of agitation and mistrust.
The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and
it was at once conceded by all observers, that its path, at
perihelion, would bring it into very close proximity with the
earth. There were two or three astronomers, of secondary note,
who resolutely maintained that a contact was inevitable. I cannot
very well express to you the effect of this intelligence upon the
people. For a few short days they would not believe an assertion
which their intellect so long employed among worldly
considerations could not in any manner grasp. But the truth of a
vitally important fact soon makes its way into the understanding
of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that astronomical
knowledge lied not, and they awaited the comet. Its approach was
not, at first, seemingly rapid; nor was its appearance of very
unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material
increase in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration
in its color. Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were
discarded and all interests absorbed in a growing discussion,
instituted by the philosophic, in respect to the cometary nature.
Even the grossly ignorant aroused their sluggish capacities to
such considerations. The learned now gave their intellect—their
soul—to no such points as the allaying of fear, or to the
sustenance of loved theory. They sought—they panted for right
views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. Truth arose in the
purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise bowed
down and adored.
That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would
result from the apprehended contact, was an opinion which hourly
lost ground among the wise; and the wise were now freely
permitted to rule the reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was
demonstrated, that the density of the comet’s nucleus was far
less than that of our rarest gas; and the harmless passage of a
similar visitor among the satellites of Jupiter was a point
strongly insisted upon, and which served greatly to allay terror.
Theologists with an earnestness fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the
biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the people with a
directness and simplicity of which no previous instance had been
known. That the final destruction of the earth must be brought
about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
enforced every where conviction; and that the comets were of no
fiery nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved
all, in a great measure, from the apprehension of the great
calamity foretold. It is noticeable that the popular prejudices
and vulgar errors in regard to pestilences and wars—errors which
were wont to prevail upon every appearance of a comet—were now
altogether unknown. As if by some sudden convulsive exertion,
reason had at once hurled superstition from her throne. The
feeblest intellect had derived vigor from excessive interest.
What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of
elaborate question. The learned spoke of slight geological
disturbances, of probable alterations in climate, and
consequently in vegetation, of possible magnetic and electric
influences. Many held that no visible or perceptible effect would
in any manner be produced. While such discussions were going on,
their subject gradually approached, growing larger in apparent
diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as
it came. All human operations were suspended.
There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when
the comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all
the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was
gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently
within their bosoms. A very few days sufficed, however, to merge
even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable We could no
longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its
historical attributes had disappeared. It oppressed us with a
hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical
phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts, and
a shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with inconceivable
rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame,
extending from horizon to horizon.
Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear
that we were already within the influence of the comet; yet we
lived. We even felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity
of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was
apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible through
it. Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we
gained faith, from this predicted circumstance, in the foresight
of the wise. A wild luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown
before, burst out upon every vegetable thing.
Yet another day—and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was
now evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change
had come over all men; and the first sense of pain was the wild
signal for general lamentation and horror. This first sense of
pain lay in a rigorous constriction of the breast and lungs, and
an insufferable dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that
our atmosphere was radically affected; the conformation of this
atmosphere and the possible modifications to which it might be
subjected, were now the topics of discussion. The result of
investigation sent an electric thrill of the intensest terror
through the universal heart of man.
It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a
compound of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of
twenty-one measures of oxygen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen in
every one hundred of the atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the
principle of combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was absolutely
necessary to the support of animal life, and was the most
powerful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the
contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal life or
flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
ascertained in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we
had latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of
the idea, which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a
total extraction of the nitrogen? A combustion irresistible,
all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate;—the entire fulfilment,
in all their minute and terrible details, of the fiery and
horror-inspiring denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy
Book.
Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of
mankind? That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired
us with hope, was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In
its impalpable gaseous character we clearly perceived the
consummation of Fate. Meantime a day again passed—bearing away
with it the last shadow of Hope. We gasped in the rapid
modification of the air. The red blood bounded tumultuously
through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed all
men; and, with arms rigidly outstretched towards the threatening
heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus of the
destroyer was now upon us; even here in Aidenn, I shudder while I
speak. Let me be brief—brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and
penetrating all things. Then—let us bow down, Charmion, before
the excessive majesty of the great God!—then, there came a
shouting and pervading sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM;
while the whole incumbent mass of ether in which we existed,
burst at once into a species of intense flame, for whose
surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat even the angels in the
high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name. Thus ended all.
SHADOW—A PARABLE
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow._
—_Psalm of David_.
Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall
have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For
indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known,
and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen
of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and
some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in
the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.
The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense
than terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many
prodigies and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea
and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad.
To those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown
that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek
Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the
alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at
the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the
red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the
skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only
in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations,
and meditations of mankind.
Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a
noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a
company of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save
by a lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the
artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened
from within. Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut
out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless
streets—but the boding and the memory of Evil, they would not be
so excluded. There were things around us and about of which I can
render no distinct account—things material and
spiritual—heaviness in the atmosphere—a sense of
suffocation—anxiety—and, above all, that terrible state of
existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly
living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie
dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs—upon
the household furniture—upon the goblets from which we drank; and
all things were depressed, and borne down thereby—all things save
only the flames of the seven lamps which illumined our revel.
Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus
remained burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror
which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at which
we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of his own
countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his
companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way—which
was hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon—which are madness;
and drank deeply—although the purple wine reminded us of blood.
For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of
young Zoilus. Dead, and at full length he lay, enshrouded; the
genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in
our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague,
and his eyes, in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
of the pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment
as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to
die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed
were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the
bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the
depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice
the songs of the son of Teios. But gradually my songs they
ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among the sable
draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undistinguishable, and
so faded away. And lo! from among those sable draperies where the
sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and
undefined shadow—a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven,
might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And
quivering awhile among the draperies of the room, it at length
rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass. But
the shadow was vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the
shadow neither of man nor of God—neither God of Greece, nor God
of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian God. And the shadow rested upon the
brazen doorway, and under the arch of the entablature of the
door, and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there became
stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young
Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen
the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not
steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually
into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos,
speaking some low words, demanded of the shadow its dwelling and
its appellation. And the shadow answered, “I am SHADOW, and my
dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those
dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian
canal.” And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, for the
tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one
being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their
cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in
the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand
departed friends.
VOLUME 5.
PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE.
In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture of their
residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but little
sentiment beyond marbles and colours. In France, _meliora probant,
deteriora _sequuntur—the people are too much a race of gadabouts
to maintain those household proprieties of which, indeed, they have a
delicate appreciation, or at least the elements of a proper sense. The
Chinese and most of the eastern races have a warm but inappropriate fancy.
The Scotch are _poor _decorists. The Dutch have, perhaps, an
indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage. In Spain they are _all
_curtains—a nation of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish. The
Hottentots and Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees alone are
preposterous.
How this happens, it is not difficult to see. We have no aristocracy of
blood, and having therefore as a natural, and indeed as an inevitable
thing, fashioned for ourselves an aristocracy of dollars, the _display
of wealth _has here to take the place and perform the office of the
heraldic display in monarchical countries. By a transition readily
understood, and which might have been as readily foreseen, we have been
brought to merge in simple _show_ our notions of taste itself.
To speak less abstractly. In England, for example, no mere parade of
costly appurtenances would be so likely as with us, to create an
impression of the beautiful in respect to the appurtenances themselves—or
of taste as regards the proprietor:—this for the reason, first, that
wealth is not, in England, the loftiest object of ambition as constituting
a nobility; and secondly, that there, the true nobility of blood,
confining itself within the strict limits of legitimate taste, rather
avoids than affects that mere costliness in which a _parvenu _rivalry
may at any time be successfully attempted.
The people _will _imitate the nobles, and the result is a thorough
diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America, the coins current being
the sole arms of the aristocracy, their display may be said, in general,
to be the sole means of the aristocratic distinction; and the populace,
looking always upward for models, are insensibly led to confound the two
entirely separate ideas of magnificence and beauty. In short, the cost of
an article of furniture has at length come to be, with us, nearly the sole
test of its merit in a decorative point of view—and this test, once
established, has led the way to many analogous errors, readily traceable
to the one primitive folly.
There could be nothing more directly offensive to the eye of an artist
than the interior of what is termed in the United States—that is to
say, in Appallachia—a well-furnished apartment. Its most usual
defect is a want of keeping. We speak of the keeping of a room as we would
of the keeping of a picture—for both the picture and the room are
amenable to those undeviating principles which regulate all varieties of
art; and very nearly the same laws by which we decide on the higher merits
of a painting, suffice for decision on the adjustment of a chamber.
A want of keeping is observable sometimes in the character of the several
pieces of furniture, but generally in their colours or modes of adaptation
to use _Very _often the eye is offended by their inartistic
arrangement. Straight lines are too prevalent—too uninterruptedly
continued—or clumsily interrupted at right angles. If curved lines
occur, they are repeated into unpleasant uniformity. By undue precision,
the appearance of many a fine apartment is utterly spoiled.
Curtains are rarely well disposed, or well chosen in respect to other
decorations. With formal furniture, curtains are out of place; and an
extensive volume of drapery of any kind is, under any circumstance,
irreconcilable with good taste—the proper quantum, as well as the
proper adjustment, depending upon the character of the general effect.
Carpets are better understood of late than of ancient days, but we still
very frequently err in their patterns and colours. The soul of the
apartment is the carpet. From it are deduced not only the hues but the
forms of all objects incumbent. A judge at common law may be an ordinary
man; a good judge of a carpet _must be _a genius. Yet we have heard
discoursing of carpets, with the air “_d’un mouton qui reve,” _fellows
who should not and who could not be entrusted with the management of their
own _moustaches. _Every one knows that a large floor _may _have
a covering of large figures, and that a small one must have a covering of
small—yet this is not all the knowledge in the world. As regards
texture, the Saxony is alone admissible. Brussels is the preterpluperfect
tense of fashion, and Turkey is taste in its dying agonies. Touching
pattern—a carpet should _not _be bedizzened out like a Riccaree
Indian—all red chalk, yellow ochre, and cock’s feathers. In brief—distinct
grounds, and vivid circular or cycloid figures, _of no meaning, _are
here Median laws. The abomination of flowers, or representations of
well-known objects of any kind, should not be endured within the limits of
Christendom. Indeed, whether on carpets, or curtains, or tapestry, or
ottoman coverings, all upholstery of this nature should be rigidly
Arabesque. As for those antique floor-cloth & still occasionally seen
in the dwellings of the rabble—cloths of huge, sprawling, and
radiating devises, stripe-interspersed, and glorious with all hues, among
which no ground is intelligible—these are but the wicked invention
of a race of time-servers and money-lovers—children of Baal and
worshippers of Mammon—Benthams, who, to spare thought and economize
fancy, first cruelly invented the Kaleidoscope, and then established
joint-stock companies to twirl it by steam.
_Glare_ is a leading error in the philosophy of American household
decoration—an error easily recognised as deduced from the perversion
of taste just specified., We are violently enamoured of gas and of glass.
The former is totally inadmissible within doors. Its harsh and unsteady
light offends. No one having both brains and eyes will use it. A mild, or
what artists term a cool light, with its consequent warm shadows, will do
wonders for even an ill-furnished apartment. Never was a more lovely
thought than that of the astral lamp. We mean, of course, the astral lamp
proper—the lamp of Argand, with its original plain ground-glass
shade, and its tempered and uniform moonlight rays. The cut-glass shade is
a weak invention of the enemy. The eagerness with which we have adopted
it, partly on account of its _flashiness,_ but principally on account
of its _greater rest,_ is a good commentary on the proposition with
which we began. It is not too much to say, that the deliberate employer of
a cut-glass shade, is either radically deficient in taste, or blindly
subservient to the caprices of fashion. The light proceeding from one of
these gaudy abominations is unequal broken, and painful. It alone is
sufficient to mar a world of good effect in the furniture subjected to its
influence. Female loveliness, in especial, is more than one-half
disenchanted beneath its evil eye.
In the matter of glass, generally, we proceed upon false principles. Its
leading feature is _glitter—_and in that one word how much of
all that is detestable do we express! Flickering, unquiet lights, are _sometimes
_pleasing—to children and idiots always so—but in the
embellishment of a room they should be scrupulously avoided. In truth,
even strong _steady _lights are inadmissible. The huge and unmeaning
glass chandeliers, prism-cut, gas-lighted, and without shade, which dangle
in our most fashionable drawing-rooms, may be cited as the quintessence of
all that is false in taste or preposterous in folly.
The rage for _glitter-_because its idea has become as we before
observed, confounded with that of magnificence in the abstract—has
led us, also, to the exaggerated employment of mirrors. We line our
dwellings with great British plates, and then imagine we have done a fine
thing. Now the slightest thought will be sufficient to convince any one
who has an eye at all, of the ill effect of numerous looking-glasses, and
especially of large ones. Regarded apart from its reflection, the mirror
presents a continuous, flat, colourless, unrelieved surface,—a thing
always and obviously unpleasant. Considered as a reflector, it is potent
in producing a monstrous and odious uniformity: and the evil is here
aggravated, not in merely direct proportion with the augmentation of its
sources, but in a ratio constantly increasing. In fact, a room with four
or five mirrors arranged at random, is, for all purposes of artistic show,
a room of no shape at all. If we add to this evil, the attendant glitter
upon glitter, we have a perfect farrago of discordant and displeasing
effects. The veriest bumpkin, on entering an apartment so bedizzened,
would be instantly aware of something wrong, although he might be
altogether unable to assign a cause for his dissatisfaction. But let the
same person be led into a room tastefully furnished, and he would be
startled into an exclamation of pleasure and surprise.
It is an evil growing out of our republican institutions, that here a man
of large purse has usually a very little soul which he keeps in it. The
corruption of taste is a portion or a pendant of the dollar-manufacture.
As we grow rich, our ideas grow rusty. It is, therefore, not among _our
_aristocracy that we must look (if at all, in Appallachia), for the
spirituality of a British _boudoir. _But we have seen apartments in
the tenure of Americans of moderns [possibly “modest” or “moderate”]
means, which, in negative merit at least, might vie with any of the _or-molu’d
_cabinets of our friends across the water. Even _now_, there is
present to our mind’s eye a small and not, ostentatious chamber with whose
decorations no fault can be found. The proprietor lies asleep on a sofa—the
weather is cool—the time is near midnight: we will make a sketch of
the room during his slumber.
It is oblong—some thirty feet in length and twenty-five in breadth—a
shape affording the best(ordinary) opportunities for the adjustment of
furniture. It has but one door—by no means a wide one—which is
at one end of the parallelogram, and but two windows, which are at the
other. These latter are large, reaching down to the floor—have deep
recesses—and open on an Italian _veranda. _Their panes are of a
crimson-tinted glass, set in rose-wood framings, more massive than usual.
They are curtained within the recess, by a thick silver tissue adapted to
the shape of the window, and hanging loosely in small volumes. Without the
recess are curtains of an exceedingly rich crimson silk, fringed with a
deep network of gold, and lined with silver tissue, which is the material
of the exterior blind. There are no cornices; but the folds of the whole
fabric (which are sharp rather than massive, and have an airy appearance),
issue from beneath a broad entablature of rich giltwork, which encircles
the room at the junction of the ceiling and walls. The drapery is thrown
open also, or closed, by means of a thick rope of gold loosely enveloping
it, and resolving itself readily into a knot; no pins or other such
devices are apparent. The colours of the curtains and their fringe—the
tints of crimson and gold—appear everywhere in profusion, and
determine the _character _of the room. The carpet—of Saxony
material—is quite half an inch thick, and is of the same crimson
ground, relieved simply by the appearance of a gold cord (like that
festooning the curtains) slightly relieved above the surface of the _ground,
_and thrown upon it in such a manner as to form a succession of short
irregular curves—one occasionally overlaying the other. The walls
are prepared with a glossy paper of a silver gray tint, spotted with small
Arabesque devices of a fainter hue of the prevalent crimson. Many
paintings relieve the expanse of paper. These are chiefly landscapes of an
imaginative cast—such as the fairy grottoes of Stanfield, or the
lake of the Dismal Swamp of Chapman. There are, nevertheless, three or
four female heads, of an ethereal beauty-portraits in the manner of Sully.
The tone of each picture is warm, but dark. There are no “brilliant
effects.” _Repose _speaks in all. Not one is of small size.
Diminutive paintings give that _spotty _look to a room, which is the
blemish of so many a fine work of Art overtouched. The frames are broad
but not deep, and richly carved, without being _dulled _or filagreed.
They have the whole lustre of burnished gold. They lie flat on the walls,
and do not hang off with cords. The designs themselves are often seen to
better advantage in this latter position, but the general appearance of
the chamber is injured. But one mirror—and this not a very large one—is
visible. In shape it is nearly circular—and it is hung so that a
reflection of the person can be obtained from it in none of the ordinary
sitting-places of the room. Two large low sofas of rosewood and crimson
silk, gold-flowered, form the only seats, with the exception of two light
conversation chairs, also of rose-wood. There is a pianoforte (rose-wood,
also), without cover, and thrown open. An octagonal table, formed
altogether of the richest gold-threaded marble, is placed near one of the
sofas. This is also without cover—the drapery of the curtains has
been thought sufficient.. Four large and gorgeous Sevres vases, in which
bloom a profusion of sweet and vivid flowers, occupy the slightly rounded
angles of the room. A tall candelabrum, bearing a small antique lamp with
highly perfumed oil, is standing near the head of my sleeping friend. Some
light and graceful hanging shelves, with golden edges and crimson silk
cords with gold tassels, sustain two or three hundred magnificently bound
books. Beyond these things, there is no furniture, if we except an Argand
lamp, with a plain crimson-tinted ground glass shade, which depends from
He lofty vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold chain, and throws a
tranquil but magical radiance over all.
A TALE OF JERUSALEM
Intensos rigidam in frontem ascendere canos
Passus erat——
—Lucan—_De Catone_
——a bristly _bore_.
_Translation._
“Let us hurry to the walls,” said Abel-Phittim to Buzi-Ben-Levi and Simeon
the Pharisee, on the tenth day of the month Thammuz, in the year of the
world three thousand nine hundred and forty-one—“let us hasten to the
ramparts adjoining the gate of Benjamin, which is in the city of David,
and overlooking the camp of the uncircumcised; for it is the last hour of
the fourth watch, being sunrise; and the idolaters, in fulfilment of the
promise of Pompey, should be awaiting us with the lambs for the
sacrifices.”
Simeon, Abel-Phittim, and Duzi-Ben-Levi were the Gizbarim, or
sub-collectors of the offering, in the holy city of Jerusalem.
“Verily,” replied the Pharisee; “let us hasten: for this generosity in the
heathen is unwonted; and fickle-mindedness has ever been an attribute of
the worshippers of Baal.”
“That they are fickle-minded and treacherous is as true as the
Pentateuch,” said Buzi-Ben-Levi, “but that is only toward the people of
Adonai. When was it ever known that the Ammonites proved wanting to their
own interests? Methinks it is no great stretch of generosity to allow us
lambs for the altar of the Lord, receiving in lieu thereof thirty silver
shekels per head!”
“Thou forgettest, however, Ben-Levi,” replied Abel-Phittim, “that the
Roman Pompey, who is now impiously besieging the city of the Most High,
has no assurity that we apply not the lambs thus purchased for the altar,
to the sustenance of the body, rather than of the spirit.”
“Now, by the five corners of my beard!” shouted the Pharisee, who belonged
to the sect called The Dashers (that little knot of saints whose manner of
_dashing _and lacerating the feet against the pavement was long a
thorn and a reproach to less zealous devotees—a stumbling-block to less
gifted perambulators)—“by the five corners of that beard which, as a
priest, I am forbidden to shave!—have we lived to see the day when a
blaspheming and idolatrous upstart of Rome shall accuse us of
appropriating to the appetites of the flesh the most holy and consecrated
elements? Have we lived to see the day when—”
“Let us not question the motives of the Philistine,” interrupted
Abel-Phittim, “for to-day we profit for the first time by his avarice or
by his generosity; but rather let us hurry to the ramparts, lest offerings
should be wanting for that altar whose fire the rains of heaven can not
extinguish, and whose pillars of smoke no tempest can turn aside.”
That part of the city to which our worthy Gizbarim now hastened, and which
bore the name of its architect, King David, was esteemed the most strongly
fortified district of Jerusalem; being situated upon the steep and lofty
hill of Zion. Here, a broad, deep, circumvallatory trench, hewn from the
solid rock, was defended by a wall of great strength erected upon its
inner edge. This wall was adorned, at regular interspaces, by square
towers of white marble; the lowest sixty, and the highest one hundred and
twenty cubits in height. But, in the vicinity of the gate of Benjamin, the
wall arose by no means from the margin of the fosse. On the contrary,
between the level of the ditch and the basement of the rampart sprang up a
perpendicular cliff of two hundred and fifty cubits, forming part of the
precipitous Mount Moriah. So that when Simeon and his associates arrived
on the summit of the tower called Adoni-Bezek—the loftiest of all the
turrets around about Jerusalem, and the usual place of conference with the
besieging army—they looked down upon the camp of the enemy from an
eminence excelling by many feet that of the Pyramid of Cheops, and, by
several, that of the temple of Belus.
“Verily,” sighed the Pharisee, as he peered dizzily over the precipice,
“the uncircumcised are as the sands by the seashore—as the locusts in the
wilderness! The valley of the King hath become the valley of Adommin.”
“And yet,” added Ben-Levi, “thou canst not point me out a Philistine—no,
not one—from Aleph to Tau—from the wilderness to the battlements—who
seemeth any bigger than the letter Jod!”
“Lower away the basket with the shekels of silver!” here shouted a Roman
soldier in a hoarse, rough voice, which appeared to issue from the regions
of Pluto—“lower away the basket with the accursed coin which it has
broken the jaw of a noble Roman to pronounce! Is it thus you evince your
gratitude to our master Pompeius, who, in his condescension, has thought
fit to listen to your idolatrous importunities? The god Phœbus, who is a
true god, has been charioted for an hour—and were you not to be on the
ramparts by sunrise? Ædepol! do you think that we, the conquerors of the
world, have nothing better to do than stand waiting by the walls of every
kennel, to traffic with the dogs of the earth? Lower away! I say—and
see that your trumpery be bright in color and just in weight!”
“El Elohim!” ejaculated the Pharisee, as the discordant tones of the
centurion rattled up the crags of the precipice, and fainted away against
the temple—“El Elohim!—who is the god Phœbus?—whom doth
the blasphemer invoke? Thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi! who art read in the laws of
the Gentiles, and hast sojourned among them who dabble with the Teraphim!—is
it Nergal of whom the idolater speaketh?—or Ashimah?—or
Nibhaz,—or Tartak?—or Adramalech?—or Anamalech?—or
Succoth-Benith?—or Dagon?—or Belial?—or Baal-Perith?—or
Baal-Peor?—or Baal-Zebub?”
“Verily it is neither—but beware how thou lettest the rope slip too
rapidly through thy fingers; for should the wicker-work chance to hang on
the projection of yonder crag, there will be a woful outpouring of the
holy things of the sanctuary.”
By the assistance of some rudely constructed machinery, the heavily laden
basket was now carefully lowered down among the multitude; and, from the
giddy pinnacle, the Romans were seen gathering confusedly round it; but
owing to the vast height and the prevalence of a fog, no distinct view of
their operations could be obtained.
Half an hour had already elapsed.
“We shall be too late!” sighed the Pharisee, as at the expiration of this
period he looked over into the abyss—“we shall be too late! we shall be
turned out of office by the Katholim.”
“No more,” responded Abel-Phittim—“no more shall we feast upon the
fat of the land—no longer shall our beards be odorous with frankincense—our
loins girded up with fine linen from the Temple.”
“Raca!” swore Ben-Levi, “Raca! do they mean to defraud us of the purchase
money? or, Holy Moses! are they weighing the shekels of the tabernacle?”
“They have given the signal at last!” cried the Pharisee—“they
have given the signal at last! pull away, Abel-Phittim!—and thou,
Buzi-Ben-Levi, pull away!—for verily the Philistines have either
still hold upon the basket, or the Lord hath softened their hearts to
place therein a beast of good weight!” And the Gizbarim pulled away, while
their burden swung heavily upward through the still increasing mist.
“Booshoh he!”—as, at the conclusion of an hour, some object at the
extremity of the rope became indistinctly visible—“Booshoh he!” was
the exclamation which burst from the lips of Ben-Levi.
“Booshoh he!—for shame!—it is a ram from the thickets of
Engedi, and as rugged as the valley of Jehosaphat!”
“It is a firstling of the flock,” said Abel-Phittim, “I know him by the
bleating of his lips, and the innocent folding of his limbs. His eyes are
more beautiful than the jewels of the Pectoral, and his flesh is like the
honey of Hebron.”
“It is a fatted calf from the pastures of Bashan,” said the Pharisee, “the
heathen have dealt wonderfully with us——let us raise up our
voices in a psalm—let us give thanks on the shawm and on the
psaltery—on the harp and on the huggab—on the cythern and on the sackbut!”
It was not until the basket had arrived within a few feet of the Gizbarim
that a low grunt betrayed to their perception a _hog_ of no common size.
“Now El Emanu!” slowly and with upturned eyes ejaculated the trio, as,
letting go their hold, the emancipated porker tumbled headlong among the
Philistines, “El Emanu!—God be with us—it is _the unutterable
flesh!”_
THE SPHINX
During the dread reign of the cholera in New York, I had accepted the
invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement
of his _cottage ornée_ on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around
us all the ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling in
the woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books, we
should have passed the time pleasantly enough, but for the fearful
intelligence which reached us every morning from the populous city. Not a
day elapsed which did not bring us news of the decease of some
acquaintance. Then as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily
the loss of some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every
messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent with death.
That palsying thought, indeed, took entire possession of my soul. I could
neither speak, think, nor dream of any thing else. My host was of a less
excitable temperament, and, although greatly depressed in spirits, exerted
himself to sustain my own. His richly philosophical intellect was not at
any time affected by unrealities. To the substances of terror he was
sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no apprehension.
His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal gloom into which
I had fallen, were frustrated, in great measure, by certain volumes which
I had found in his library. These were of a character to force into
germination whatever seeds of hereditary superstition lay latent in my
bosom. I had been reading these books without his knowledge, and thus he
was often at a loss to account for the forcible impressions which had been
made upon my fancy.
A favorite topic with me was the popular belief in omens—a belief
which, at this one epoch of my life, I was almost seriously disposed to
defend. On this subject we had long and animated discussions—he
maintaining the utter groundlessness of faith in such matters,—I
contending that a popular sentiment arising with absolute
spontaneity—that is to say, without apparent traces of
suggestion—had in itself the unmistakable elements of truth, and
was entitled to as much respect as that intuition which is the
idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius.
The fact is, that soon after my arrival at the cottage there had occurred
to myself an incident so entirely inexplicable, and which had in it so
much of the portentous character, that I might well have been excused for
regarding it as an omen. It appalled, and at the same time so confounded
and bewildered me, that many days elapsed before I could make up my mind
to communicate the circumstances to my friend.
Near the close of exceedingly warm day, I was sitting, book in hand, at an
open window, commanding, through a long vista of the river banks, a view
of a distant hill, the face of which nearest my position had been denuded
by what is termed a land-slide, of the principal portion of its trees. My
thoughts had been long wandering from the volume before me to the gloom
and desolation of the neighboring city. Uplifting my eyes from the page,
they fell upon the naked face of the bill, and upon an object—upon
some living monster of hideous conformation, which very rapidly made its
way from the summit to the bottom, disappearing finally in the dense
forest below. As this creature first came in sight, I doubted my own
sanity—or at least the evidence of my own eyes; and many minutes
passed before I succeeded in convincing myself that I was neither mad nor
in a dream. Yet when I described the monster (which I distinctly saw, and
calmly surveyed through the whole period of its progress), my readers, I
fear, will feel more difficulty in being convinced of these points than
even I did myself.
Estimating the size of the creature by comparison with the diameter of the
large trees near which it passed—the few giants of the forest which
had escaped the fury of the land-slide—I concluded it to be far
larger than any ship of the line in existence. I say ship of the line,
because the shape of the monster suggested the idea—the hull of one
of our seventy-four might convey a very tolerable conception of the
general outline. The mouth of the animal was situated at the extremity of
a proboscis some sixty or seventy feet in length, and about as thick as
the body of an ordinary elephant. Near the root of this trunk was an
immense quantity of black shaggy hair—more than could have been
supplied by the coats of a score of buffaloes; and projecting from this
hair downwardly and laterally, sprang two gleaming tusks not unlike those
of the wild boar, but of infinitely greater dimensions. Extending forward,
parallel with the proboscis, and on each side of it, was a gigantic staff,
thirty or forty feet in length, formed seemingly of pure crystal and in
shape a perfect prism,—it reflected in the most gorgeous manner the
rays of the declining sun. The trunk was fashioned like a wedge with the
apex to the earth. From it there were outspread two pairs of wings—each
wing nearly one hundred yards in length—one pair being placed above
the other, and all thickly covered with metal scales; each scale
apparently some ten or twelve feet in diameter. I observed that the upper
and lower tiers of wings were connected by a strong chain. But the chief
peculiarity of this horrible thing was the representation of a Death’s
Head, which covered nearly the whole surface of its breast, and which was
as accurately traced in glaring white, upon the dark ground of the body,
as if it had been there carefully designed by an artist. While I regarded
the terrific animal, and more especially the appearance on its breast,
with a feeling or horror and awe—with a sentiment of forthcoming
evil, which I found it impossible to quell by any effort of the reason, I
perceived the huge jaws at the extremity of the proboscis suddenly expand
themselves, and from them there proceeded a sound so loud and so
expressive of woe, that it struck upon my nerves like a knell and as the
monster disappeared at the foot of the hill, I fell at once, fainting, to
the floor.
Upon recovering, my first impulse, of course, was to inform my friend of
what I had seen and heard—and I can scarcely explain what feeling of
repugnance it was which, in the end, operated to prevent me.
At length, one evening, some three or four days after the occurrence, we
were sitting together in the room in which I had seen the apparition—I
occupying the same seat at the same window, and he lounging on a sofa near
at hand. The association of the place and time impelled me to give him an
account of the phenomenon. He heard me to the end—at first laughed
heartily—and then lapsed into an excessively grave demeanor, as if
my insanity was a thing beyond suspicion. At this instant I again had a
distinct view of the monster—to which, with a shout of absolute
terror, I now directed his attention. He looked eagerly—but
maintained that he saw nothing—although I designated minutely the
course of the creature, as it made its way down the naked face of the
hill.
I was now immeasurably alarmed, for I considered the vision either as an
omen of my death, or, worse, as the fore-runner of an attack of mania. I
threw myself passionately back in my chair, and for some moments buried my
face in my hands. When I uncovered my eyes, the apparition was no longer
apparent.
My host, however, had in some degree resumed the calmness of his demeanor,
and questioned me very rigorously in respect to the conformation of the
visionary creature. When I had fully satisfied him on this head, he sighed
deeply, as if relieved of some intolerable burden, and went on to talk,
with what I thought a cruel calmness, of various points of speculative
philosophy, which had heretofore formed subject of discussion between us.
I remember his insisting very especially (among other things) upon the
idea that the principle source of error in all human investigations lay in
the liability of the understanding to under-rate or to over-value the
importance of an object, through mere misadmeasurement of its
propinquity. “To estimate properly, for example,” he said, “the influence
to be exercised on mankind at large by the thorough diffusion of
Democracy, the distance of the epoch at which such diffusion may possibly
be accomplished should not fail to form an item in the estimate. Yet can
you tell me one writer on the subject of government who has ever thought
this particular branch of the subject worthy of discussion at all?”
He here paused for a moment, stepped to a book-case, and brought forth one
of the ordinary synopses of Natural History. Requesting me then to
exchange seats with him, that he might the better distinguish the fine
print of the volume, he took my armchair at the window, and, opening the
book, resumed his discourse very much in the same tone as before.
“But for your exceeding minuteness,” he said, “in describing the monster,
I might never have had it in my power to demonstrate to you what it was.
In the first place, let me read to you a schoolboy account of the genus
Sphinx, of the family Crepuscularia of the order Lepidoptera, of the class
of Insecta—or insects. The account runs thus:
“‘Four membranous wings covered with little colored scales of metallic
appearance; mouth forming a rolled proboscis, produced by an elongation of
the jaws, upon the sides of which are found the rudiments of mandibles and
downy palpi; the inferior wings retained to the superior by a stiff hair;
antennæ in the form of an elongated club, prismatic; abdomen pointed. The
Death’s-headed Sphinx has occasioned much terror among the vulgar,
at times, by the melancholy kind of cry which it utters, and the insignia
of death which it wears upon its corslet.’”
He here closed the book and leaned forward in the chair, placing himself
accurately in the position which I had occupied at the moment of beholding
“the monster.”
“Ah, here it is,” he presently exclaimed—“it is reascending the face
of the hill, and a very remarkable looking creature I admit it to be.
Still, it is by no means so large or so distant as you imagined it,—for
the fact is that, as it wriggles its way up this thread, which some spider
has wrought along the window-sash, I find it to be about the sixteenth of
an inch in its extreme length, and also about the sixteenth of an inch
distant from the pupil of my eye.”
HOP-FROG
I never knew anyone so keenly alive to a joke as the king was. He seemed
to live only for joking. To tell a good story of the joke kind, and to
tell it well, was the surest road to his favor. Thus it happened that his
seven ministers were all noted for their accomplishments as jokers. They
all took after the king, too, in being large, corpulent, oily men, as well
as inimitable jokers. Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there
is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been
quite able to determine; but certain it is that a lean joker is a rara
avis in terris.
About the refinements, or, as he called them, the “ghost” of wit, the king
troubled himself very little. He had an especial admiration for breadth in
a jest, and would often put up with length, for the sake of it.
Over-niceties wearied him. He would have preferred Rabelais’ “Gargantua”
to the “Zadig” of Voltaire: and, upon the whole, practical jokes suited
his taste far better than verbal ones.
At the date of my narrative, professing jesters had not altogether gone
out of fashion at court. Several of the great continental “powers” still
retain their “fools,” who wore motley, with caps and bells, and who were
expected to be always ready with sharp witticisms, at a moment’s notice,
in consideration of the crumbs that fell from the royal table.
_Our_ king, as a matter of course, retained his “fool.” The fact is, he
_required_ something in the way of folly—if only to counterbalance the
heavy wisdom of the seven wise men who were his ministers—not to
mention himself.
His fool, or professional jester, was not only a fool, however. His value
was trebled in the eyes of the king, by the fact of his being also a dwarf
and a cripple. Dwarfs were as common at court, in those days, as fools;
and many monarchs would have found it difficult to get through their days
(days are rather longer at court than elsewhere) without both a jester to
laugh with, and a dwarf to laugh at. But, as I have already observed, your
jesters, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, are fat, round, and
unwieldy—so that it was no small source of self-gratulation with our
king that, in Hop-Frog (this was the fool’s name), he possessed a
triplicate treasure in one person.
I believe the name “Hop-Frog” was _not_ that given to the dwarf by his
sponsors at baptism, but it was conferred upon him, by general consent of
the seven ministers, on account of his inability to walk as other men
do. In fact, Hop-Frog could only get along by a sort of interjectional
gait—something between a leap and a wriggle—a movement that
afforded illimitable amusement, and of course consolation, to the king,
for (notwithstanding the protuberance of his stomach and a constitutional
swelling of the head) the king, by his whole court, was accounted a
capital figure.
But although Hop-Frog, through the distortion of his legs, could move only
with great pain and difficulty along a road or floor, the prodigious
muscular power which nature seemed to have bestowed upon his arms, by way
of compensation for deficiency in the lower limbs, enabled him to perform
many feats of wonderful dexterity, where trees or ropes were in question,
or any thing else to climb. At such exercises he certainly much more
resembled a squirrel, or a small monkey, than a frog.
I am not able to say, with precision, from what country Hop-Frog
originally came. It was from some barbarous region, however, that no
person ever heard of—a vast distance from the court of our king.
Hop-Frog, and a young girl very little less dwarfish than himself
(although of exquisite proportions, and a marvellous dancer), had been
forcibly carried off from their respective homes in adjoining provinces,
and sent as presents to the king, by one of his ever-victorious generals.
Under these circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that a close
intimacy arose between the two little captives. Indeed, they soon became
sworn friends. Hop-Frog, who, although he made a great deal of sport, was
by no means popular, had it not in his power to render Trippetta many
services; but she, on account of her grace and exquisite beauty (although
a dwarf), was universally admired and petted; so she possessed much
influence; and never failed to use it, whenever she could, for the benefit
of Hop-Frog.
On some grand state occasion—I forgot what—the king determined
to have a masquerade, and whenever a masquerade or any thing of that kind,
occurred at our court, then the talents, both of Hop-Frog and Trippetta
were sure to be called into play. Hop-Frog, in especial, was so inventive
in the way of getting up pageants, suggesting novel characters, and
arranging costumes, for masked balls, that nothing could be done, it
seems, without his assistance.
The night appointed for the fete had arrived. A gorgeous hall had been
fitted up, under Trippetta’s eye, with every kind of device which could
possibly give eclat to a masquerade. The whole court was in a fever of
expectation. As for costumes and characters, it might well be supposed
that everybody had come to a decision on such points. Many had made up
their minds (as to what roles they should assume) a week, or even a month,
in advance; and, in fact, there was not a particle of indecision anywhere—except
in the case of the king and his seven minsters. Why they hesitated I never
could tell, unless they did it by way of a joke. More probably, they found
it difficult, on account of being so fat, to make up their minds. At all
events, time flew; and, as a last resort they sent for Trippetta and
Hop-Frog.
When the two little friends obeyed the summons of the king they found him
sitting at his wine with the seven members of his cabinet council; but the
monarch appeared to be in a very ill humor. He knew that Hop-Frog was not
fond of wine, for it excited the poor cripple almost to madness; and
madness is no comfortable feeling. But the king loved his practical jokes,
and took pleasure in forcing Hop-Frog to drink and (as the king called it)
“to be merry.”
“Come here, Hop-Frog,” said he, as the jester and his friend entered the
room; “swallow this bumper to the health of your absent friends, [here
Hop-Frog sighed,] and then let us have the benefit of your invention. We
want characters—characters, man—something novel—out of
the way. We are wearied with this everlasting sameness. Come, drink! the
wine will brighten your wits.”
Hop-Frog endeavored, as usual, to get up a jest in reply to these advances
from the king; but the effort was too much. It happened to be the poor
dwarf’s birthday, and the command to drink to his “absent friends” forced
the tears to his eyes. Many large, bitter drops fell into the goblet as he
took it, humbly, from the hand of the tyrant.
“Ah! ha! ha! ha!” roared the latter, as the dwarf reluctantly
drained the beaker. “See what a glass of good wine can do! Why,
your eyes are shining already!”
Poor fellow! his large eyes gleamed, rather than shone; for the effect of
wine on his excitable brain was not more powerful than instantaneous. He
placed the goblet nervously on the table, and looked round upon the
company with a half-insane stare. They all seemed highly amused at
the success of the king’s ‘joke.’
“And now to business,” said the prime minister, a very fat man.
“Yes,” said the King; “Come, Hop-Frog, lend us your
assistance. Characters, my fine fellow; we stand in need of
characters—all of us—ha! ha! ha!” and as this was
seriously meant for a joke, his laugh was chorused by the seven.
Hop-Frog also laughed, although feebly and somewhat vacantly.
“Come, come,” said the king, impatiently, “have you nothing to suggest?”
“I am endeavoring to think of something novel,” replied the dwarf,
abstractedly, for he was quite bewildered by the wine.
“Endeavoring!” cried the tyrant, fiercely; “what do you
mean by _that?_ Ah, I perceive. You are sulky, and want more wine.
Here, drink this!” and he poured out another goblet full and
offered it to the cripple, who merely gazed at it, gasping for breath.
“Drink, I say!” shouted the monster, “or by the
fiends—”
The dwarf hesitated. The king grew purple with rage. The courtiers
smirked. Trippetta, pale as a corpse, advanced to the monarch’s seat, and,
falling on her knees before him, implored him to spare her friend.
The tyrant regarded her, for some moments, in evident wonder at her
audacity. He seemed quite at a loss what to do or say—how most
becomingly to express his indignation. At last, without uttering a
syllable, he pushed her violently from him, and threw the contents of the
brimming goblet in her face.
The poor girl got up the best she could, and, not daring even to sigh,
resumed her position at the foot of the table.
There was a dead silence for about half a minute, during which the falling
of a leaf, or of a feather, might have been heard. It was interrupted by a
low, but harsh and protracted grating sound which seemed to come at once
from every corner of the room.
“What—what—what are you making that noise for?” demanded the
king, turning furiously to the dwarf.
The latter seemed to have recovered, in great measure, from his
intoxication, and looking fixedly but quietly into the tyrant’s face,
merely ejaculated:
“I—I? How could it have been me?”
“The sound appeared to come from without,” observed one of the courtiers.
“I fancy it was the parrot at the window, whetting his bill upon his
cage-wires.”
“True,” replied the monarch, as if much relieved by the suggestion; “but,
on the honor of a knight, I could have sworn that it was the gritting of
this vagabond’s teeth.”
Hereupon the dwarf laughed (the king was too confirmed a joker to object
to any one’s laughing), and displayed a set of large, powerful, and very
repulsive teeth. Moreover, he avowed his perfect willingness to swallow as
much wine as desired. The monarch was pacified; and having drained another
bumper with no very perceptible ill effect, Hop-Frog entered at once, and
with spirit, into the plans for the masquerade.
“I cannot tell what was the association of idea,” observed he, very
tranquilly, and as if he had never tasted wine in his life, “but just
after your majesty, had struck the girl and thrown the wine in her face—just
after your majesty had done this, and while the parrot was making that odd
noise outside the window, there came into my mind a capital diversion—one
of my own country frolics—often enacted among us, at our
masquerades: but here it will be new altogether. Unfortunately, however,
it requires a company of eight persons and—”
“Here we are!” cried the king, laughing at his acute discovery of the
coincidence; “eight to a fraction—I and my seven ministers. Come!
what is the diversion?”
“We call it,” replied the cripple, “the Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs, and
it really is excellent sport if well enacted.”
“We will enact it,” remarked the king, drawing himself up, and lowering
his eyelids.
“The beauty of the game,” continued Hop-Frog, “lies in the fright it
occasions among the women.”
“Capital!” roared in chorus the monarch and his ministry.
“I will equip you as ourang-outangs,” proceeded the dwarf; “leave all that
to me. The resemblance shall be so striking, that the company of
masqueraders will take you for real beasts—and of course, they will
be as much terrified as astonished.”
“Oh, this is exquisite!” exclaimed the king. “Hop-Frog! I will make a man
of you.”
“The chains are for the purpose of increasing the confusion by their
jangling. You are supposed to have escaped, en masse, from your keepers.
Your majesty cannot conceive the effect produced, at a masquerade, by
eight chained ourang-outangs, imagined to be real ones by most of the
company; and rushing in with savage cries, among the crowd of delicately
and gorgeously habited men and women. The _contrast_ is inimitable.”
“It must be,” said the king: and the council arose hurriedly (as it was
growing late), to put in execution the scheme of Hop-Frog.
His mode of equipping the party as ourang-outangs was very simple, but
effective enough for his purposes. The animals in question had, at the
epoch of my story, very rarely been seen in any part of the civilized
world; and as the imitations made by the dwarf were sufficiently
beast-like and more than sufficiently hideous, their truthfulness to
nature was thus thought to be secured.
The king and his ministers were first encased in tight-fitting stockinet
shirts and drawers. They were then saturated with tar. At this stage of
the process, some one of the party suggested feathers; but the suggestion
was at once overruled by the dwarf, who soon convinced the eight, by
ocular demonstration, that the hair of such a brute as the ourang-outang
was much more efficiently represented by _flax_. A thick coating of
the latter was accordingly plastered upon the coating of tar. A long
chain was now procured. First, it was passed about the waist of the king,
_and tied;_ then about another of the party, and also tied; then
about all successively, in the same manner. When this chaining
arrangement was complete, and the party stood as far apart from each
other as possible, they formed a circle; and to make all things appear
natural, Hop-Frog passed the residue of the chain in two diameters, at
right angles, across the circle, after the fashion adopted, at the
present day, by those who capture chimpanzees, or other large apes, in
Borneo.
The grand saloon in which the masquerade was to take place, was a circular
room, very lofty, and receiving the light of the sun only through a single
window at top. At night (the season for which the apartment was especially
designed) it was illuminated principally by a large chandelier, depending
by a chain from the centre of the sky-light, and lowered, or elevated, by
means of a counter-balance as usual; but (in order not to look unsightly)
this latter passed outside the cupola and over the roof.
The arrangements of the room had been left to Trippetta’s superintendence;
but, in some particulars, it seems, she had been guided by the calmer
judgment of her friend the dwarf. At his suggestion it was that, on this
occasion, the chandelier was removed. Its waxen drippings (which, in
weather so warm, it was quite impossible to prevent) would have been
seriously detrimental to the rich dresses of the guests, who, on account
of the crowded state of the saloon, could not all be expected to keep from
out its centre; that is to say, from under the chandelier. Additional
sconces were set in various parts of the hall, out of the war, and a
flambeau, emitting sweet odor, was placed in the right hand of each of the
Caryaides [Caryatides] that stood against the wall—some fifty or
sixty altogether.
The eight ourang-outangs, taking Hop-Frog’s advice, waited patiently until
midnight (when the room was thoroughly filled with masqueraders) before
making their appearance. No sooner had the clock ceased striking, however,
than they rushed, or rather rolled in, all together—for the
impediments of their chains caused most of the party to fall, and all to
stumble as they entered.
The excitement among the masqueraders was prodigious, and filled the heart
of the king with glee. As had been anticipated, there were not a few of
the guests who supposed the ferocious-looking creatures to be beasts of
some kind in reality, if not precisely ourang-outangs. Many of the women
swooned with affright; and had not the king taken the precaution to
exclude all weapons from the saloon, his party might soon have expiated
their frolic in their blood. As it was, a general rush was made for the
doors; but the king had ordered them to be locked immediately upon his
entrance; and, at the dwarf’s suggestion, the keys had been deposited with
him.
While the tumult was at its height, and each masquerader attentive only to
his own safety (for, in fact, there was much real danger from the pressure
of the excited crowd), the chain by which the chandelier ordinarily hung,
and which had been drawn up on its removal, might have been seen very
gradually to descend, until its hooked extremity came within three feet of
the floor.
Soon after this, the king and his seven friends having reeled about the
hall in all directions, found themselves, at length, in its centre, and,
of course, in immediate contact with the chain. While they were thus
situated, the dwarf, who had followed noiselessly at their heels, inciting
them to keep up the commotion, took hold of their own chain at the
intersection of the two portions which crossed the circle diametrically
and at right angles. Here, with the rapidity of thought, he inserted the
hook from which the chandelier had been wont to depend; and, in an
instant, by some unseen agency, the chandelier-chain was drawn so far
upward as to take the hook out of reach, and, as an inevitable
consequence, to drag the ourang-outangs together in close connection, and
face to face.
The masqueraders, by this time, had recovered, in some measure, from their
alarm; and, beginning to regard the whole matter as a well-contrived
pleasantry, set up a loud shout of laughter at the predicament of the
apes.
“Leave them to me!” now screamed Hop-Frog, his shrill voice making itself
easily heard through all the din. “Leave them to me. I fancy I know them.
If I can only get a good look at them, I can soon tell who they are.”
Here, scrambling over the heads of the crowd, he managed to get to the
wall; when, seizing a flambeau from one of the Caryatides, he returned,
as he went, to the centre of the room—leaped, with the agility of a
monkey, upon the kings head, and thence clambered a few feet up the
chain; holding down the torch to examine the group of ourang-outangs, and
still screaming: “I shall soon find out who they are!”
And now, while the whole assembly (the apes included) were convulsed with
laughter, the jester suddenly uttered a shrill whistle; when the chain
flew violently up for about thirty feet—dragging with it the
dismayed and struggling ourang-outangs, and leaving them suspended in
mid-air between the sky-light and the floor. Hop-Frog, clinging to the
chain as it rose, still maintained his relative position in respect to the
eight maskers, and still (as if nothing were the matter) continued to
thrust his torch down toward them, as though endeavoring to discover who
they were.
So thoroughly astonished was the whole company at this ascent, that a dead
silence, of about a minute’s duration, ensued. It was broken by just such
a low, harsh, grating sound, as had before attracted the attention of the
king and his councillors when the former threw the wine in the face of
Trippetta. But, on the present occasion, there could be no question as to
whence the sound issued. It came from the fang-like teeth of the
dwarf, who ground them and gnashed them as he foamed at the mouth, and
glared, with an expression of maniacal rage, into the upturned
countenances of the king and his seven companions.
“Ah, ha!” said at length the infuriated jester. “Ah, ha! I begin to see
who these people are now!” Here, pretending to scrutinize the king more
closely, he held the flambeau to the flaxen coat which enveloped him, and
which instantly burst into a sheet of vivid flame. In less than half a
minute the whole eight ourang-outangs were blazing fiercely, amid the
shrieks of the multitude who gazed at them from below, horror-stricken,
and without the power to render them the slightest assistance.
At length the flames, suddenly increasing in virulence, forced the jester
to climb higher up the chain, to be out of their reach; and, as he made
this movement, the crowd again sank, for a brief instant, into silence.
The dwarf seized his opportunity, and once more spoke:
“I now see distinctly.” he said, “what manner of people these maskers are.
They are a great king and his seven privy-councillors,—a king who
does not scruple to strike a defenceless girl and his seven councillors
who abet him in the outrage. As for myself, I am simply Hop-Frog, the
jester—and this is my last jest.”
Owing to the high combustibility of both the flax and the tar to which it
adhered, the dwarf had scarcely made an end of his brief speech before the
work of vengeance was complete. The eight corpses swung in their chains, a
fetid, blackened, hideous, and indistinguishable mass. The cripple hurled
his torch at them, clambered leisurely to the ceiling, and disappeared
through the sky-light.
It is supposed that Trippetta, stationed on the roof of the saloon, had
been the accomplice of her friend in his fiery revenge, and that,
together, they effected their escape to their own country; for neither was
seen again.
THE MAN OF THE CROWD.
Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir être seul.—_La Bruyère_.
It was well said of a certain German book that “_er lasst sich nicht
lesen_”—it does not permit itself to be read. There are some
secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in
their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors and looking them
piteously in the eyes—die with despair of heart and convulsion of
throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer
themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes
up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the
grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.
Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat at the
large bow window of the D—— Coffee-House in London. For some
months I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with
returning strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which are so
precisely the converse of _ennui_—moods of the keenest
appetency, when the film from the mental vision departs—the
αχλυξ η πριυ
επῆευ—and the intellect, electrified,
surpasses as greatly its every-day condition, as does the vivid yet
candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely
to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure even from many
of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest
in every thing. With a cigar in my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had
been amusing myself for the greater part of the afternoon, now in poring
over advertisements, now in observing the promiscuous company in the
room, and now in peering through the smoky panes into the street.
This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and had
been very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came on,
the throng momently increased; and, by the time the lamps were well
lighted, two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing past
the door. At this particular period of the evening I had never before been
in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me,
therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all
care of things within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of
the scene without.
At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked
at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate
relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded with minute
interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gait, visage,
and expression of countenance.
By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied
business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their way
through the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolled quickly;
when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no symptom of
impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still a
numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and
talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on
account of the very denseness of the company around. When impeded in their
progress, these people suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubled their
gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone smile upon the
lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If jostled, they bowed
profusely to the jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed with confusion.—There
was nothing very distinctive about these two large classes beyond what I
have noted. Their habiliments belonged to that order which is pointedly
termed the decent. They were undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, attorneys,
tradesmen, stock-jobbers—the Eupatrids and the common-places of
society—men of leisure and men actively engaged in affairs of their
own—conducting business upon their own responsibility. They did not
greatly excite my attention.
The tribe of clerks was an obvious one and here I discerned two remarkable
divisions. There were the junior clerks of flash houses—young
gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair, and
supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage, which
may be termed deskism for want of a better word, the manner of these
persons seemed to me an exact fac-simile of what had been the perfection
of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before. They wore the cast-off
graces of the gentry;—and this, I believe, involves the best
definition of the class.
The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the “steady old
fellows,” it was not possible to mistake. These were known by their coats
and pantaloons of black or brown, made to sit comfortably, with white
cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, and thick hose or
gaiters. They had all slightly bald heads, from which the right
ears, long used to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on end. I
observed that they always removed or settled their hats with both hands,
and wore watches, with short gold chains of a substantial and ancient
pattern. Theirs was the affectation of respectability—if indeed
there be an affectation so honorable.
There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easily
understood as belonging to the race of swell pick-pockets with which all
great cities are infested. I watched these gentry with much
inquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they should ever be
mistaken for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousness of
wristband, with an air of excessive frankness, should betray them at once.
The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily
recognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of the
desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief,
gilt chains, and filagreed buttons, to that of the scrupulously inornate
clergyman, than which nothing could be less liable to suspicion. Still
all were distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a
filmy dimness of eye, and pallor and compression of lip. There were two
other traits, moreover, by which I could always detect them: a guarded
lowness of tone in conversation, and a more than ordinary extension of
the thumb in a direction at right angles with the fingers. Very often, in
company with these sharpers, I observed an order of men somewhat
different in habits, but still birds of a kindred feather. They may be
defined as the gentlemen who live by their wits. They seem to prey upon
the public in two battalions—that of the dandies and that of the
military men. Of the first grade the leading features are long locks and
smiles; of the second, frogged coats and frowns.
Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darker and
deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyes flashing
from countenances whose every other feature wore only an expression of
abject humility; sturdy professional street beggars scowling upon
mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth into the
night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had placed
a sure hand, and who sidled and tottered through the mob, looking every
one beseechingly in the face, as if in search of some chance consolation,
some lost hope; modest young girls returning from long and late labor to a
cheerless home, and shrinking more tearfully than indignantly from the
glances of ruffians, whose direct contact, even, could not be avoided;
women of the town of all kinds and of all ages—the unequivocal
beauty in the prime of her womanhood, putting one in mind of the statue in
Lucian, with the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with
filth—the loathsome and utterly lost leper in rags—the
wrinkled, bejewelled and paint-begrimed beldame, making a last effort at
youth—the mere child of immature form, yet, from long association,
an adept in the dreadful coquetries of her trade, and burning with a rabid
ambition to be ranked the equal of her elders in vice; drunkards
innumerable and indescribable—some in shreds and patches, reeling,
inarticulate, with bruised visage and lack-lustre eyes—some in whole
although filthy garments, with a slightly unsteady swagger, thick sensual
lips, and hearty-looking rubicund faces—others clothed in materials
which had once been good, and which even now were scrupulously well
brushed—men who walked with a more than naturally firm and springy
step, but whose countenances were fearfully pale, whose eyes hideously
wild and red, and who clutched with quivering fingers, as they strode
through the crowd, at every object which came within their reach; beside
these, pie-men, porters, coal-heavers, sweeps; organ-grinders,
monkey-exhibitors, and ballad mongers, those who vended with those who
sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every description, and all
full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which jarred discordantly upon the
ear, and gave an aching sensation to the eye.
As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene; for
not only did the general character of the crowd materially alter (its
gentler features retiring in the gradual withdrawal of the more orderly
portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out into bolder relief,
as the late hour brought forth every species of infamy from its den,) but
the rays of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle with the
dying day, had now at length gained ascendancy, and threw over every thing
a fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet splendid—as that ebony
to which has been likened the style of Tertullian.
The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination of individual
faces; and although the rapidity with which the world of light flitted
before the window, prevented me from casting more than a glance upon each
visage, still it seemed that, in my then peculiar mental state, I could
frequently read, even in that brief interval of a glance, the history of
long years.
With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing the mob,
when suddenly there came into view a countenance (that of a decrepid old
man, some sixty-five or seventy years of age,)—a countenance which
at once arrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of the
absolute idiosyncrasy of its expression. Any thing even remotely
resembling that expression I had never seen before. I well remember that
my first thought, upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it,
would have greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the
fiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original survey, to
form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there arose confusedly and
paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of vast mental power, of caution,
of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of malice, of blood
thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessive terror, of intense—of
supreme despair. I felt singularly aroused, startled, fascinated. “How
wild a history,” I said to myself, “is written within that bosom!” Then
came a craving desire to keep the man in view—to know more of him.
Hurriedly putting on an overcoat, and seizing my hat and cane, I made my
way into the street, and pushed through the crowd in the direction which I
had seen him take; for he had already disappeared. With some little
difficulty I at length came within sight of him, approached, and followed
him closely, yet cautiously, so as not to attract his attention.
I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short in
stature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His clothes, generally,
were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then, within the strong
glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was of
beautiful texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a
closely-buttoned and evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped
him, I caught a glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. These
observations heightened my curiosity, and I resolved to follow the
stranger whithersoever he should go.
It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the city,
soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This change of weather had an odd
effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once put into new
commotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas. The waver, the
jostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For my own part I did
not much regard the rain—the lurking of an old fever in my system
rendering the moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying a
handkerchief about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man held
his way with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I here walked
close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him. Never once turning
his head to look back, he did not observe me. By and by he passed into a
cross street, which, although densely filled with people, was not quite so
much thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here a change in his
demeanor became evident. He walked more slowly and with less object than
before—more hesitatingly. He crossed and re-crossed the way
repeatedly without apparent aim; and the press was still so thick that, at
every such movement, I was obliged to follow him closely. The street was a
narrow and long one, and his course lay within it for nearly an hour,
during which the passengers had gradually diminished to about that number
which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the park—so vast a
difference is there between a London populace and that of the most
frequented American city. A second turn brought us into a square,
brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old manner of the
stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled
wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon those who
hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I was
surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of the
square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished
to see him repeat the same walk several times—once nearly detecting
me as he came round with a sudden movement.
In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with
far less interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast;
the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. With a
gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a by-street comparatively
deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he rushed with an
activity I could not have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put
me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a large and
busy bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger appeared well
acquainted, and where his original demeanor again became apparent, as he
forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the host of buyers and
sellers.
During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this place,
it required much caution on my part to keep him within reach without
attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchouc
over-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment did he
see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing, spoke
no word, and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now
utterly amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that we should not
part until I had satisfied myself in some measure respecting him.
A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting the
bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old man, and
at the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. He hurried into
the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, and then ran with
incredible swiftness through many crooked and people-less lanes, until we
emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence we had started—the
street of the D—— Hotel. It no longer wore, however, the same
aspect. It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fell fiercely, and
there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale. He walked
moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with a heavy sigh,
turned in the direction of the river, and, plunging through a great
variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one of the
principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience were
thronging from the doors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while he
threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony of his
countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head again fell upon his
breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed that he now
took the course in which had gone the greater number of the audience—but,
upon the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend the waywardness of his
actions.
As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness
and vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed closely a party of
some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this number one by one dropped
off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and gloomy lane
little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed lost in
thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly a route which
brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very different from
those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome quarter of
London, where every thing wore the worst impress of the most deplorable
poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim light of an
accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements were seen
tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capricious that scarce
the semblance of a passage was discernible between them. The paving-stones
lay at random, displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass.
Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere
teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the sounds of human life
revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands of the most abandoned
of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro. The spirits of the old
man again flickered up, as a lamp which is near its death hour. Once more
he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze
of light burst upon our sight, and we stood before one of the huge
suburban temples of Intemperance—one of the palaces of the fiend,
Gin.
It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still
pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy
the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his original
bearing, and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object, among
the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before a rush to
the doors gave token that the host was closing them for the night. It was
something even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the
countenance of the singular being whom I had watched so pertinaciously.
Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced
his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty London. Long and swiftly he
fled, while I followed him in the wildest amazement, resolute not to
abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun
arose while we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most
thronged mart of the populous town, the street of the D——
Hotel, it presented an appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely
inferior to what I had seen on the evening before. And here, long, amid
the momently increasing confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the
stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and during the day did not
pass from out the turmoil of that street. And, as the shades of the
second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death, and, stopping fully in
front of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed
me not, but resumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained
absorbed in contemplation. “This old man,” I said at length,
“is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone.
_He is the man of the crowd._ It will be in vain to follow; for I
shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the
world is a grosser book than the ‘Hortulus Animæ,’ {*1} and
perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that ‘_er lasst
sich nicht lesen._’”
{*1} The “_Hortulus Animæ cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis_”
of Grünninger.
NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD
A Tale With a Moral.
“_Con tal que las costumbres de un autor_,” says Don Thomas de las
Torres, in the preface to his “Amatory Poems” _“sean puras y castas,
importo muy poco que no sean igualmente severas sus obras”_—meaning,
in plain English, that, provided the morals of an author are pure
personally, it signifies nothing what are the morals of his books. We
presume that Don Thomas is now in Purgatory for the assertion. It would be
a clever thing, too, in the way of poetical justice, to keep him there
until his “Amatory Poems” get out of print, or are laid definitely upon
the shelf through lack of readers. Every fiction should have a moral; and,
what is more to the purpose, the critics have discovered that every
fiction has. Philip Melanchthon, some time ago, wrote a commentary upon
the “Batrachomyomachia,” and proved that the poet’s object was to excite a
distaste for sedition. Pierre la Seine, going a step farther, shows that
the intention was to recommend to young men temperance in eating and
drinking. Just so, too, Jacobus Hugo has satisfied himself that, by
Euenis, Homer meant to insinuate John Calvin; by Antinous, Martin Luther;
by the Lotophagi, Protestants in general; and, by the Harpies, the Dutch.
Our more modern Scholiasts are equally acute. These fellows demonstrate a
hidden meaning in “The Antediluvians,” a parable in Powhatan, “new views
in Cock Robin,” and transcendentalism in “Hop O’ My Thumb.” In short, it
has been shown that no man can sit down to write without a very profound
design. Thus to authors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, for
example, need have no care of his moral. It is there—that is to say,
it is somewhere—and the moral and the critics can take care of
themselves. When the proper time arrives, all that the gentleman intended,
and all that he did not intend, will be brought to light, in the “Dial,”
or the “Down-Easter,” together with all that he ought to have intended,
and the rest that he clearly meant to intend:—so that it will all
come very straight in the end.
There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge brought against me by
certain ignoramuses—that I have never written a moral tale, or, in
more precise words, a tale with a moral. They are not the critics
predestined to bring me out, and develop my morals:—that is the
secret. By and by the “North American Quarterly Humdrum” will make them
ashamed of their stupidity. In the meantime, by way of staying execution—by
way of mitigating the accusations against me—I offer the sad history
appended,—a history about whose obvious moral there can be no
question whatever, since he who runs may read it in the large capitals
which form the title of the tale. I should have credit for this
arrangement—a far wiser one than that of La Fontaine and others, who
reserve the impression to be conveyed until the last moment, and thus
sneak it in at the fag end of their fables.
_Defuncti injuriâ ne afficiantur_ was a law of the twelve tables, and _De
mortuis nil nisi bonum_ is an excellent injunction—even if the dead
in question be nothing but dead small beer. It is not my design,
therefore, to vituperate my deceased friend, Toby Dammit. He was a sad
dog, it is true, and a dog’s death it was that he died; but he himself was
not to blame for his vices. They grew out of a personal defect in his
mother. She did her best in the way of flogging him while an infant—for
duties to her well-regulated mind were always pleasures, and babies,
like tough steaks, or the modern Greek olive trees, are invariably the
better for beating—but, poor woman! she had the misfortune to be
left-handed, and a child flogged left-handedly had better be left
unflogged. The world revolves from right to left. It will not do to whip a
baby from left to right. If each blow in the proper direction drives an
evil propensity out, it follows that every thump in an opposite one knocks
its quota of wickedness in. I was often present at Toby’s chastisements,
and, even by the way in which he kicked, I could perceive that he was
getting worse and worse every day. At last I saw, through the tears in my
eyes, that there was no hope of the villain at all, and one day when he
had been cuffed until he grew so black in the face that one might have
mistaken him for a little African, and no effect had been produced beyond
that of making him wriggle himself into a fit, I could stand it no longer,
but went down upon my knees forthwith, and, uplifting my voice, made
prophecy of his ruin.
The fact is that his precocity in vice was awful. At five months of age he
used to get into such passions that he was unable to articulate. At six
months, I caught him gnawing a pack of cards. At seven months he was in
the constant habit of catching and kissing the female babies. At eight
months he peremptorily refused to put his signature to the Temperance
pledge. Thus he went on increasing in iniquity, month after month, until,
at the close of the first year, he not only insisted upon wearing
moustaches, but had contracted a propensity for cursing and swearing, and
for backing his assertions by bets.
Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I had
predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. The fashion had “grown with
his growth and strengthened with his strength,” so that, when he came to
be a man, he could scarcely utter a sentence without interlarding it with
a proposition to gamble. Not that he actually laid wagers—no. I will
do my friend the justice to say that he would as soon have laid eggs. With
him the thing was a mere formula—nothing more. His expressions on
this head had no meaning attached to them whatever. They were simple if
not altogether innocent expletives—imaginative phrases wherewith to
round off a sentence. When he said “I’ll bet you so and so,” nobody ever
thought of taking him up; but still I could not help thinking it my duty
to put him down. The habit was an immoral one, and so I told him. It was a
vulgar one—this I begged him to believe. It was discountenanced by
society—here I said nothing but the truth. It was forbidden by act
of Congress—here I had not the slightest intention of telling a lie.
I remonstrated—but to no purpose. I demonstrated—in vain. I
entreated—he smiled. I implored—he laughed. I preached—he
sneered. I threatened—he swore. I kicked him—he called for the
police. I pulled his nose—he blew it, and offered to bet the Devil
his head that I would not venture to try that experiment again.
Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency of
Dammit’s mother had entailed upon her son. He was detestably poor, and
this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive expressions about
betting, seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will not be bound to say that I
ever heard him make use of such a figure of speech as “I’ll bet you a
dollar.” It was usually “I’ll bet you what you please,” or “I’ll bet you
what you dare,” or “I’ll bet you a trifle,” or else, more significantly
still, “I’ll bet the Devil my head.”
This latter form seemed to please him best;—perhaps because it
involved the least risk; for Dammit had become excessively parsimonious.
Had any one taken him up, his head was small, and thus his loss would have
been small too. But these are my own reflections and I am by no means sure
that I am right in attributing them to him. At all events the phrase in
question grew daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross impropriety of a
man betting his brains like bank-notes—but this was a point which
my friend’s perversity of disposition would not permit him to comprehend.
In the end, he abandoned all other forms of wager, and gave himself up to
“I’ll bet the Devil my head,” with a pertinacity and exclusiveness of
devotion that displeased not less than it surprised me. I am always
displeased by circumstances for which I cannot account. Mysteries force a
man to think, and so injure his health. The truth is, there was something
in the air with which Mr. Dammit was wont to give utterance to his
offensive expression—something in his manner of enunciation—which
at first interested, and afterwards made me very uneasy—something
which, for want of a more definite term at present, I must be permitted to
call queer; but which Mr. Coleridge would have called mystical, Mr. Kant
pantheistical, Mr. Carlyle twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyperquizzitistical.
I began not to like it at all. Mr. Dammits soul was in a perilous state. I
resolved to bring all my eloquence into play to save it. I vowed to serve
him as St. Patrick, in the Irish chronicle, is said to have served the
toad,—that is to say, “awaken him to a sense of his situation.” I
addressed myself to the task forthwith. Once more I betook myself to
remonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a final attempt at
expostulation.
When I had made an end of my lecture, Mr. Dammit indulged himself in some
very equivocal behavior. For some moments he remained silent, merely
looking me inquisitively in the face. But presently he threw his head to
one side, and elevated his eyebrows to a great extent. Then he spread out
the palms of his hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he winked with
the right eye. Then he repeated the operation with the left. Then he shut
them both up very tight. Then he opened them both so very wide that I became
seriously alarmed for the consequences. Then, applying his thumb to his
nose, he thought proper to make an indescribable movement with the rest of
his fingers. Finally, setting his arms a-kimbo, he condescended to reply.
I can call to mind only the heads of his discourse. He would be obliged to
me if I would hold my tongue. He wished none of my advice. He despised all
my insinuations. He was old enough to take care of himself. Did I still
think him baby Dammit? Did I mean to say any thing against his character?
Did I intend to insult him? Was I a fool? Was my maternal parent aware, in
a word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence? He would put this
latter question to me as to a man of veracity, and he would bind himself
to abide by my reply. Once more he would demand explicitly if my mother
knew that I was out. My confusion, he said, betrayed me, and he would be
willing to bet the Devil his head that she did not.
Mr. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he left
my presence with undignified precipitation. It was well for him that he
did so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my anger had been aroused. For
once I would have taken him up upon his insulting wager. I would have won
for the Arch-Enemy Mr. Dammit’s little head—for the fact is, my
mamma was very well aware of my merely temporary absence from home.
But Khoda shefa midêhed—Heaven gives relief—as the Mussulmans
say when you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance of my duty that I
had been insulted, and I bore the insult like a man. It now seemed to me,
however, that I had done all that could be required of me, in the case of
this miserable individual, and I resolved to trouble him no longer with my
counsel, but to leave him to his conscience and himself. But although I
forebore to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself to give up
his society altogether. I even went so far as to humor some of his less
reprehensible propensities; and there were times when I found myself
lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard, with tears in my eyes:—so
profoundly did it grieve me to hear his evil talk.
One fine day, having strolled out together, arm in arm, our route led us
in the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we resolved to cross
it. It was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and the
archway, having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark. As we
entered the passage, the contrast between the external glare and the
interior gloom struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of the
unhappy Dammit, who offered to bet the Devil his head that I was hipped.
He seemed to be in an unusual good humor. He was excessively lively—so
much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy suspicion. It is not
impossible that he was affected with the transcendentals. I am not well
enough versed, however, in the diagnosis of this disease to speak with
decision upon the point; and unhappily there were none of my friends of
the “Dial” present. I suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certain
species of austere Merry-Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor friend,
and caused him to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing would serve
him but wriggling and skipping about under and over every thing that came
in his way; now shouting out, and now lisping out, all manner of odd
little and big words, yet preserving the gravest face in the world all the
time. I really could not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him.
At length, having passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the
termination of the footway, when our progress was impeded by a turnstile
of some height. Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around as
usual. But this turn would not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted
upon leaping the stile, and said he could cut a pigeon-wing over it in the
air. Now this, conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The
best pigeon-winger over all kinds of style was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and
as I knew he could not do it, I would not believe that it could be done by
Toby Dammit. I therefore told him, in so many words, that he was a
braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this I had reason to be
sorry afterward;—for he straightway offered to bet the Devil his
head that he could.
I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some
remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a
slight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation “ahem!” I
started, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into a
nook of the frame—work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a
little lame old gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more
reverend than his whole appearance; for he not only had on a full suit of
black, but his shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned very neatly
down over a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a
girl’s. His hands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and
his two eyes were carefully rolled up into the top of his head.
Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk
apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought very
odd. Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular a
circumstance, he interrupted me with a second “ahem!”
To this observation I was not immediately prepared to reply. The fact is,
remarks of this laconic nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known a
Quarterly Review non-plussed by the word “Fudge!” I am not ashamed to say,
therefore, that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance.
“Dammit,” said I, “what are you about? don’t you hear?—the gentleman
says ‘ahem!’” I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed him;
for, to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man is
particularly puzzled he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he is
pretty sure to look like a fool.
“Dammit,” observed I—although this sounded very much like an oath,
than which nothing was further from my thoughts—“Dammit,” I
suggested—“the gentleman says ‘ahem!’”
I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profundity; I did not
think it profound myself; but I have noticed that the effect of our
speeches is not always proportionate with their importance in our own
eyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb, or
knocked him in the head with the “Poets and Poetry of America,” he could
hardly have been more discomfited than when I addressed him with those
simple words: “Dammit, what are you about?—don’t you hear?—the
gentleman says ‘ahem!’”
“You don’t say so?” gasped he at length, after turning more colors than a
pirate runs up, one after the other, when chased by a man-of-war. “Are you
quite sure he said that? Well, at all events I am in for it now, and may
as well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, then—ahem!”
At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased—God only knows why.
He left his station at the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a
gracious air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially, looking all
the while straight up in his face with an air of the most unadulterated
benignity which it is possible for the mind of man to imagine.
“I am quite sure you will win it, Dammit,” said he, with the frankest of
all smiles, “but we are obliged to have a trial, you know, for the sake of
mere form.”
“Ahem!” replied my friend, taking off his coat, with a deep sigh, tying a
pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountable
alteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes and bringing down
the corners of his mouth—“ahem!” And “ahem!” said he again, after a
pause; and not another word more than “ahem!” did I ever know him to say
after that. “Aha!” thought I, without expressing myself aloud—“this
is quite a remarkable silence on the part of Toby Dammit, and is no doubt
a consequence of his verbosity upon a previous occasion. One extreme
induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many unanswerable
questions which he propounded to me so fluently on the day when I gave him
my last lecture? At all events, he is cured of the transcendentals.”
“Ahem!” here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts, and
looking like a very old sheep in a revery.
The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the shade
of the bridge—a few paces back from the turnstile. “My good fellow,”
said he, “I make it a point of conscience to allow you this much run. Wait
here, till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see whether you go
over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don’t omit any flourishes of
the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say ‘one, two, three, and
away.’ Mind you, start at the word ‘away.’” Here he took his position by
the stile, paused a moment as if in profound reflection, then looked up
and, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the strings of his
apron, then took a long look at Dammit, and finally gave the word as
agreed upon—
_One—two—three—and—away!_
Punctually at the word “away,” my poor friend set off in a strong gallop.
The stile was not very high, like Mr. Lord’s—nor yet very low, like
that of Mr. Lord’s reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he would
clear it. And then what if he did not?—ah, that was the question—what
if he did not? “What right,” said I, “had the old gentleman to make any
other gentleman jump? The little old dot-and-carry-one! who is he? If he
asks me to jump, I won’t do it, that’s flat, and I don’t care who the
devil he is.” The bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a very
ridiculous manner, and there was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all
times—an echo which I never before so particularly observed as when
I uttered the four last words of my remark.
But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an
instant. In less than five seconds from his starting, my poor Toby had
taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor of
the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he went up.
I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration just over the
top of the stile; and of course I thought it an unusually singular thing
that he did not continue to go over. But the whole leap was the affair of
a moment, and, before I had a chance to make any profound reflections,
down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back, on the same side of the
stile from which he had started. At the same instant I saw the old
gentleman limping off at the top of his speed, having caught and wrapt up
in his apron something that fell heavily into it from the darkness of the
arch just over the turnstile. At all this I was much astonished; but I had
no leisure to think, for Dammit lay particularly still, and I concluded
that his feelings had been hurt, and that he stood in need of my
assistance. I hurried up to him and found that he had received what might
be termed a serious injury. The truth is, he had been deprived of his
head, which after a close search I could not find anywhere; so I
determined to take him home and send for the homœopathists. In the
meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open an adjacent window of the
bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at once. About five feet just
above the top of the turnstile, and crossing the arch of the foot-path so
as to constitute a brace, there extended a flat iron bar, lying with its
breadth horizontally, and forming one of a series that served to
strengthen the structure throughout its extent. With the edge of this
brace it appeared evident that the neck of my unfortunate friend had come
precisely in contact.
He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homœopathists did not give
him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he hesitated
to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to all
riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked a bar sinister
on his family escutcheon, and, for the general expenses of his funeral,
sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The scoundrels
refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him for
dog’s meat.
THOU ART THE MAN
I will now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound to
you—as I alone can—the secret of the enginery that effected
the Rattleborough miracle—the one, the true, the admitted, the
undisputed, the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to
infidelity among the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodoxy of the
grandames all the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.
This event—which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of
unsuitable levity—occurred in the summer of 18—. Mr. Barnabas
Shuttleworthy—one of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of
the borough—had been missing for several days under circumstances
which gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out
from Rattleborough very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the
avowed intention of proceeding to the city of ——, about fifteen miles
distant, and of returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his
departure, however, his horse returned without him, and without the
saddle-bags which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal
was wounded, too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave
rise to much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and when it was
found, on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the
whole borough arose en masse to go and look for his body.
The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom
friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy—a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was
universally called, “Charley Goodfellow,” or “Old Charley Goodfellow.”
Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the
name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never
yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there
never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly, honest,
good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did
you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always straight in the
face, as much as to say: “I have a clear conscience myself, am afraid of
no man, and am altogether above doing a mean action.” And thus all the
hearty, careless, “walking gentlemen” of the stage are very certain to be
called Charles.
Now, “Old Charley Goodfellow,” although he had been in Rattleborough not
longer than six months or thereabouts, and although nobody knew any thing
about him before he came to settle in the neighborhood, had experienced no
difficulty in the world in making the acquaintance of all the respectable
people in the borough. Not a man of them but would have taken his bare
word for a thousand at any moment; and as for the women, there is no
saying what they would not have done to oblige him. And all this came of
his having been christened Charles, and of his possessing, in consequence,
that ingenuous face which is proverbially the very “best letter of
recommendation.”
I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most respectable
and, undoubtedly, he was the most wealthy man in Rattleborough, while “Old
Charley Goodfellow” was upon as intimate terms with him as if he had been
his own brother. The two old gentlemen were next-door neighbours, and,
although Mr. Shuttleworthy seldom, if ever, visited “Old Charley,” and
never was known to take a meal in his house, still this did not prevent
the two friends from being exceedingly intimate, as I have just observed;
for “Old Charley” never let a day pass without stepping in three or four
times to see how his neighbour came on, and very often he would stay to
breakfast or tea, and almost always to dinner, and then the amount of wine
that was made way with by the two cronies at a sitting, it would really be
a difficult thing to ascertain. “Old Charleys” favorite beverage was
Chateau-Margaux, and it appeared to do Mr. Shuttleworthy’s heart good to
see the old fellow swallow it, as he did, quart after quart; so that, one
day, when the wine was in and the wit as a natural consequence, somewhat
out, he said to his crony, as he slapped him upon the back—“I tell
you what it is, ‘Old Charley,’ you are, by all odds, the heartiest old
fellow I ever came across in all my born days; and, since you love to
guzzle the wine at that fashion, I’ll be darned if I don’t have to make
thee a present of a big box of the Chateau-Margaux. Od rot me,”—(Mr.
Shuttleworthy had a sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went beyond
“Od rot me,” or “By gosh,” or “By the jolly golly,”)—“Od rot me,”
says he, “if I don’t send an order to town this very afternoon for a
double box of the best that can be got, and I’ll make ye a present of it,
I will!—ye needn’t say a word now—I will, I tell ye, and
there’s an end of it; so look out for it—it will come to hand some
of these fine days, precisely when ye are looking for it the least!” I
mention this little bit of liberality on the part of Mr. Shuttleworthy,
just by way of showing you how very intimate an understanding existed
between the two friends.
Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to be fairly
understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play, I never saw any
one so profoundly affected as “Old Charley Goodfellow.” When he first
heard that the horse had come home without his master, and without his
master’s saddle-bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot, that had gone
clean through and through the poor animal’s chest without quite killing
him; when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the missing man had
been his own dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all over as if
he had had a fit of the ague.
At first he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do any thing
at all, or to concert upon any plan of action; so that for a long time he
endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy’s other friends from making a
stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait awhile—say for a
week or two, or a month, or two—to see if something wouldn’t turn
up, or if Mr. Shuttleworthy wouldn’t come in the natural way, and explain
his reasons for sending his horse on before. I dare say you have often
observed this disposition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who
are labouring under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to
be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of any thing like action,
and like nothing in the world so well as to lie quietly in bed and “nurse
their grief,” as the old ladies express it—that is to say, ruminate
over the trouble.
The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an opinion of the wisdom
and discretion of “Old Charley,” that the greater part of them felt
disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in the business “until
something should turn up,” as the honest old gentleman worded it; and I
believe that, after all this would have been the general determination,
but for the very suspicious interference of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s nephew, a
young man of very dissipated habits, and otherwise of rather bad
character. This nephew, whose name was Pennifeather, would listen to
nothing like reason in the matter of “lying quiet,” but insisted upon
making immediate search for the “corpse of the murdered man.” This
was the expression he employed; and Mr. Goodfellow acutely remarked at the
time, that it was “a singular expression, to say no more.” This remark of
“Old Charley’s,” too, had great effect upon the crowd; and one of the
party was heard to ask, very impressively, “how it happened that young Mr.
Pennifeather was so intimately cognizant of all the circumstances
connected with his wealthy uncle’s disappearance, as to feel authorized to
assert, distinctly and unequivocally, that his uncle was ‘a murdered
man.’” Hereupon some little squibbing and bickering occurred among various
members of the crowd, and especially between “Old Charley” and Mr.
Pennifeather—although this latter occurrence was, indeed, by no
means a novelty, for little good-will had subsisted between the parties for
the last three or four months; and matters had even gone so far that Mr.
Pennifeather had actually knocked down his uncle’s friend for some alleged
excess of liberty that the latter had taken in the uncle’s house, of which
the nephew was an inmate. Upon this occasion “Old Charley” is said to have
behaved with exemplary moderation and Christian charity. He arose from the
blow, adjusted his clothes, and made no attempt at retaliation at all—merely
muttering a few words about “taking summary vengeance at the first
convenient opportunity,”—a natural and very justifiable ebullition
of anger, which meant nothing, however, and, beyond doubt, was no sooner
given vent to than forgotten.
However these matters may be (which have no reference to the point now at
issue), it is quite certain that the people of Rattleborough, principally
through the persuasion of Mr. Pennifeather, came at length to the
determination of dispersion over the adjacent country in search of the
missing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they came to this determination in the
first instance. After it had been fully resolved that a search should be
made, it was considered almost a matter of course that the seekers should
disperse—that is to say, distribute themselves in parties—for
the more thorough examination of the region round about. I forget,
however, by what ingenious train of reasoning it was that “Old Charley”
finally convinced the assembly that this was the most injudicious plan
that could be pursued. Convince them, however, he did—all except Mr.
Pennifeather, and, in the end, it was arranged that a search should be
instituted, carefully and very thoroughly, by the burghers en masse, “Old
Charley” himself leading the way.
As for the matter of that, there could have been no better pioneer than
“Old Charley,” whom everybody knew to have the eye of a lynx; but,
although he led them into all manner of out-of-the-way holes and corners,
by routes that nobody had ever suspected of existing in the neighbourhood,
and although the search was incessantly kept up day and night for nearly a
week, still no trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be discovered. When I say
no trace, however, I must not be understood to speak literally; for trace,
to some extent, there certainly was. The poor gentleman had been tracked,
by his horse’s shoes (which were peculiar), to a spot about three miles to
the east of the borough, on the main road leading to the city. Here the
track made off into a by-path through a piece of woodland—the path
coming out again into the main road, and cutting off about half a mile of
the regular distance. Following the shoe-marks down this lane, the party
came at length to a pool of stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles,
to the right of the lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of the track
was lost sight of. It appeared, however, that a struggle of some nature
had here taken place, and it seemed as if some large and heavy body, much
larger and heavier than a man, had been drawn from the by-path to the
pool. This latter was carefully dragged twice, but nothing was found; and
the party was upon the point of going away, in despair of coming to any
result, when Providence suggested to Mr. Goodfellow the expediency of
draining the water off altogether. This project was received with cheers,
and many high compliments to “Old Charley” upon his sagacity and
consideration. As many of the burghers had brought spades with them,
supposing that they might possibly be called upon to disinter a corpse,
the drain was easily and speedily effected; and no sooner was the bottom
visible, than right in the middle of the mud that remained was discovered
a black silk velvet waistcoat, which nearly every one present immediately
recognized as the property of Mr. Pennifeather. This waistcoat was much
torn and stained with blood, and there were several persons among the
party who had a distinct remembrance of its having been worn by its owner
on the very morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s departure for the city; while
there were others, again, ready to testify upon oath, if required, that
Mr. P. did not wear the garment in question at any period during the
remainder of that memorable day, nor could any one be found to say that he
had seen it upon Mr. P.‘s person at any period at all subsequent to Mr.
Shuttleworthy’s disappearance.
Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and it was
observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspicions which were
excited against him, that he grew exceedingly pale, and when asked what he
had to say for himself, was utterly incapable of saying a word. Hereupon,
the few friends his riotous mode of living had left him deserted him at
once to a man, and were even more clamorous than his ancient and avowed
enemies for his instantaneous arrest. But, on the other hand, the
magnanimity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the more brilliant
lustre through contrast. He made a warm and intensely eloquent defence of
Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than once to his own sincere
forgiveness of that wild young gentleman—“the heir of the worthy Mr.
Shuttleworthy,”—for the insult which he (the young gentleman) had,
no doubt in the heat of passion, thought proper to put upon him (Mr.
Goodfellow). “He forgave him for it,” he said, “from the very bottom of
his heart; and for himself (Mr. Goodfellow), so far from pushing the
suspicious circumstances to extremity, which he was sorry to say, really
had arisen against Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr. Goodfellow) would make every
exertion in his power, would employ all the little eloquence in his
possession to—to—to—soften down, as much as he could
conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really exceedingly
perplexing piece of business.”
Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer in this strain, very much
to the credit both of his head and of his heart; but your warm-hearted
people are seldom apposite in their observations—they run into all
sorts of blunders, contre-temps and mal apropos-isms, in the
hot-headedness of their zeal to serve a friend—thus, often with the
kindest intentions in the world, doing infinitely more to prejudice his
cause than to advance it.
So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the eloquence of “Old
Charley”; for, although he laboured earnestly in behalf of the suspected,
yet it so happened, somehow or other, that every syllable he uttered of
which the direct but unwitting tendency was not to exalt the speaker in
the good opinion of his audience, had the effect to deepen the suspicion
already attached to the individual whose cause he pleaded, and to arouse
against him the fury of the mob.
One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator was his
allusion to the suspected as “the heir of the worthy old gentleman Mr.
Shuttleworthy.” The people had really never thought of this before. They
had only remembered certain threats of disinheritance uttered a year or
two previously by the uncle (who had no living relative except the
nephew), and they had, therefore, always looked upon this disinheritance
as a matter that was settled—so single-minded a race of beings were
the Rattleburghers; but the remark of “Old Charley” brought them at once
to a consideration of this point, and thus gave them to see the
possibility of the threats having been nothing more than a threat. And
straightway hereupon, arose the natural question of cui bono?—a
question that tended even more than the waistcoat to fasten the terrible
crime upon the young man. And here, lest I may be misunderstood, permit me
to digress for one moment merely to observe that the exceedingly brief and
simple Latin phrase which I have employed, is invariably mistranslated and
misconceived. “Cui bono?” in all the crack novels and elsewhere,—in
those of Mrs. Gore, for example, (the author of “Cecil,”) a lady who
quotes all tongues from the Chaldaean to Chickasaw, and is helped to her
learning, “as needed,” upon a systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford,—in
all the crack novels, I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of
Bulwer and Dickens to those of Turnapenny and Ainsworth, the two little
Latin words cui bono are rendered “to what purpose?” or, (as if quo bono,)
“to what good.” Their true meaning, nevertheless, is “for whose
advantage.” Cui, to whom; bono, is it for a benefit. It is a purely legal
phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we have now under
consideration, where the probability of the doer of a deed hinges upon the
probability of the benefit accruing to this individual or to that from the
deed’s accomplishment. Now in the present instance, the question cui bono?
very pointedly implicated Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had threatened him,
after making a will in his favour, with disinheritance. But the threat had
not been actually kept; the original will, it appeared, had not been
altered. Had it been altered, the only supposable motive for murder on the
part of the suspected would have been the ordinary one of revenge; and
even this would have been counteracted by the hope of reinstation into the
good graces of the uncle. But the will being unaltered, while the threat
to alter remained suspended over the nephew’s head, there appears at once
the very strongest possible inducement for the atrocity, and so concluded,
very sagaciously, the worthy citizens of the borough of Rattle.
Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and the crowd,
after some further search, proceeded homeward, having him in custody. On
the route, however, another circumstance occurred tending to confirm the
suspicion entertained. Mr. Goodfellow, whose zeal led him to be always a
little in advance of the party, was seen suddenly to run forward a few
paces, stoop, and then apparently to pick up some small object from the
grass. Having quickly examined it he was observed, too, to make a sort of
half attempt at concealing it in his coat pocket; but this action was
noticed, as I say, and consequently prevented, when the object picked up
was found to be a Spanish knife which a dozen persons at once recognized
as belonging to Mr. Pennifeather. Moreover, his initials were engraved
upon the handle. The blade of this knife was open and bloody.
No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and immediately upon
reaching Rattleborough he was taken before a magistrate for examination.
Here matters again took a most unfavourable turn. The prisoner, being
questioned as to his whereabouts on the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s
disappearance, had absolutely the audacity to acknowledge that on that
very morning he had been out with his rifle deer-stalking, in the
immediate neighbourhood of the pool where the blood-stained waistcoat had
been discovered through the sagacity of Mr. Goodfellow.
This latter now came forward, and, with tears in his eyes, asked
permission to be examined. He said that a stern sense of the duty he owed
his Maker, not less than his fellow-men, would permit him no longer to
remain silent. Hitherto, the sincerest affection for the young man
(notwithstanding the latter’s ill-treatment of himself, Mr. Goodfellow)
had induced him to make every hypothesis which imagination could suggest,
by way of endeavoring to account for what appeared suspicious in the
circumstances that told so seriously against Mr. Pennifeather, but these
circumstances were now altogether too convincing—too damning; he
would hesitate no longer—he would tell all he knew, although his
heart (Mr. Goodfellow’s) should absolutely burst asunder in the effort. He
then went on to state that, on the afternoon of the day previous to Mr.
Shuttleworthy’s departure for the city, that worthy old gentleman had
mentioned to his nephew, in his hearing (Mr. Goodfellow’s), that his
object in going to town on the morrow was to make a deposit of an
unusually large sum of money in the “Farmers’ and Mechanics’ Bank,” and
that, then and there, the said Mr. Shuttleworthy had distinctly avowed to
the said nephew his irrevocable determination of rescinding the will
originally made, and of cutting him off with a shilling. He (the witness)
now solemnly called upon the accused to state whether what he (the
witness) had just stated was or was not the truth in every substantial
particular. Much to the astonishment of every one present, Mr.
Pennifeather frankly admitted that it was.
The magistrate now considered it his duty to send a couple of constables
to search the chamber of the accused in the house of his uncle. From this
search they almost immediately returned with the well-known steel-bound,
russet leather pocket-book which the old gentleman had been in the habit
of carrying for years. Its valuable contents, however, had been
abstracted, and the magistrate in vain endeavored to extort from the
prisoner the use which had been made of them, or the place of their
concealment. Indeed, he obstinately denied all knowledge of the matter.
The constables, also, discovered, between the bed and sacking of the
unhappy man, a shirt and neck-handkerchief both marked with the initials
of his name, and both hideously besmeared with the blood of the victim.
At this juncture, it was announced that the horse of the murdered man had
just expired in the stable from the effects of the wound he had received,
and it was proposed by Mr. Goodfellow that a post mortem examination of
the beast should be immediately made, with the view, if possible, of
discovering the ball. This was accordingly done; and, as if to demonstrate
beyond a question the guilt of the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after
considerable searching in the cavity of the chest was enabled to detect
and to pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary size, which, upon trial,
was found to be exactly adapted to the bore of Mr. Pennifeather’s rifle,
while it was far too large for that of any other person in the borough or
its vicinity. To render the matter even surer yet, however, this bullet
was discovered to have a flaw or seam at right angles to the usual suture,
and upon examination, this seam corresponded precisely with an accidental
ridge or elevation in a pair of moulds acknowledged by the accused himself
to be his own property. Upon finding of this bullet, the examining
magistrate refused to listen to any farther testimony, and immediately
committed the prisoner for trial—declining resolutely to take any bail in
the case, although against this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly
remonstrated, and offered to become surety in whatever amount might be
required. This generosity on the part of “Old Charley” was only in
accordance with the whole tenor of his amiable and chivalrous conduct
during the entire period of his sojourn in the borough of Rattle. In the
present instance the worthy man was so entirely carried away by the
excessive warmth of his sympathy, that he seemed to have quite forgotten,
when he offered to go bail for his young friend, that he himself (Mr.
Goodfellow) did not possess a single dollar’s worth of property upon the
face of the earth.
The result of the committal may be readily foreseen. Mr. Pennifeather,
amid the loud execrations of all Rattleborough, was brought to trial at
the next criminal sessions, when the chain of circumstantial evidence
(strengthened as it was by some additional damning facts, which Mr.
Goodfellow’s sensitive conscientiousness forbade him to withhold from the
court) was considered so unbroken and so thoroughly conclusive, that the
jury, without leaving their seats, returned an immediate verdict of
“Guilty of murder in the first degree.” Soon afterward the unhappy wretch
received sentence of death, and was remanded to the county jail to await
the inexorable vengeance of the law.
In the meantime, the noble behavior of “Old Charley Goodfellow,” had
doubly endeared him to the honest citizens of the borough. He became ten
times a greater favorite than ever, and, as a natural result of the
hospitality with which he was treated, he relaxed, as it were, perforce,
the extremely parsimonious habits which his poverty had hitherto impelled
him to observe, and very frequently had little reunions at his own house,
when wit and jollity reigned supreme—dampened a little, of course, by the
occasional remembrance of the untoward and melancholy fate which impended
over the nephew of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous host.
One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably surprised at
the receipt of the following letter:
Charles Goodfellow, Esq., Rattleborough
From H.F.B. & Co.
Chat. Mar. A—No. 1.—6 doz. bottles (1/2 Gross)
“Charles Goodfellow, Esquire.
“Dear Sir—In conformity with an order transmitted to our firm
about two months since, by our esteemed correspondent, Mr. Barnabus
Shuttleworthy, we have the honor of forwarding this morning, to your address, a
double box of Chateau-Margaux of the antelope brand, violet seal. Box numbered
and marked as per margin.
“We remain, sir,
“Your most ob’nt ser’ts,
“HOGGS, FROGS, BOGS, & CO.
“City of—, June 21, 18—.
“P.S.—The box will reach you by wagon, on the day after your
receipt of this letter. Our respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy.
“H., F., B., & CO.”
The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr.
Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the promised
Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore, looked upon it now as a sort of
especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was highly
delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his joy invited a large
party of friends to a petit souper on the morrow, for the purpose of
broaching the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy’s present. Not that he said any
thing about “the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy” when he issued the
invitations. The fact is, he thought much and concluded to say nothing at
all. He did not mention to any one—if I remember aright—that
he had received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his friends
to come and help him drink some, of a remarkable fine quality and rich
flavour, that he had ordered up from the city a couple of months ago, and
of which he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I have often puzzled
myself to imagine why it was that “Old Charley” came to the conclusion to
say nothing about having received the wine from his old friend, but I
could never precisely understand his reason for the silence, although he
had some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no doubt.
The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly
respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow’s house. Indeed, half the borough
was there,—I myself among the number,—but, much to the
vexation of the host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a late
hour, and when the sumptuous supper supplied by “Old Charley” had been
done very ample justice by the guests. It came at length, however,—a
monstrously big box of it there was, too—and as the whole party were
in excessively good humor, it was decided, nem. con., that it should be
lifted upon the table and its contents disembowelled forthwith.
No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice we had
the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and glasses, not a
few of which were demolished in the scuffle. “Old Charley,” who was pretty
much intoxicated, and excessively red in the face, now took a seat, with
an air of mock dignity, at the head of the board, and thumped furiously
upon it with a decanter, calling upon the company to keep order “during
the ceremony of disinterring the treasure.”
After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as very
often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence ensued.
Being then requested to force open the lid, I complied, of course, “with
an infinite deal of pleasure.” I inserted a chisel, and giving it a few
slight taps with a hammer, the top of the box flew suddenly off, and at
the same instant, there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing
the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse of the murdered
Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a few seconds, fixedly and
sorrowfully, with its decaying and lack-lustre eyes, full into the
countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly, but clearly and
impressively, the words—“Thou art the man!” and then, falling over
the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied, stretched out its limbs
quiveringly upon the table.
The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for the
doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men in the
room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild,
shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr. Goodfellow. If
I live a thousand years, I can never forget the more than mortal agony
which was depicted in that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with
triumph and wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue of
marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to be
turned inward and absorbed in the contemplation of his own miserable,
murderous soul. At length their expression appeared to flash suddenly out
into the external world, when, with a quick leap, he sprang from his
chair, and falling heavily with his head and shoulders upon the table, and
in contact with the corpse, poured out rapidly and vehemently a detailed
confession of the hideous crime for which Mr. Pennifeather was then
imprisoned and doomed to die.
What he recounted was in substance this:—He followed his victim to
the vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol; despatched
its rider with the butt end; possessed himself of the pocket-book; and,
supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great labour to the brambles by
the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and
thus bore it to a secure place of concealment a long distance off through
the woods.
The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet, had been placed by
himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr.
Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained
handkerchief and shirt.
Toward the end of the blood-chilling recital the words of the guilty
wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted, he
arose, staggered backward from the table, and fell—_dead_.
The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, although
efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow’s excess of frankness had
disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the first. I was present when
Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression which then
arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me that his threat
of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus prepared
to view the manoeuvering of “Old Charley” in a very different light from
that in which it was regarded by the good citizens of Rattleborough. I saw
at once that all the criminating discoveries arose, either directly or
indirectly, from himself. But the fact which clearly opened my eyes to the
true state of the case, was the affair of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in
the carcass of the horse. I had not forgotten, although the Rattleburghers
had, that there was a hole where the ball had entered the horse, and
another where it went out. If it were found in the animal then, after
having made its exit, I saw clearly that it must have been deposited by
the person who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed the
idea suggested by the bullet; for the blood on examination proved to be
capital claret, and no more. When I came to think of these things, and
also of the late increase of liberality and expenditure on the part of Mr.
Goodfellow, I entertained a suspicion which was none the less strong
because I kept it altogether to myself.
In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse of
Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as
divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his
party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry
well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the
bottom, I discovered what I sought.
Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two
cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the
promise of a box of Chateaux-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured a
stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse, and
deposited the latter in an old wine box—taking care so to double the body
up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press
forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with nails; and I
anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were removed, the top
would fly off and the body up.
Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed it as
already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine merchants
with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my servant to
wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow’s door, in a barrow, at a given signal
from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to speak, I
confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their effect, I
counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch.
I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was
released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by
the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever
afterward a new life.
WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING
It’s on my visiting cards sure enough (and it’s them that’s all o’ pink
satin paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the intheristhin’
words, “Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, 39 Southampton Row, Russell
Square, Parrish o’ Bloomsbury.” And shud ye be wantin’ to diskiver who is
the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot tun in the houl
city o’ Lonon—why it’s jist mesilf. And fait that same is no wonder
at all at all (so be plased to stop curlin’ your nose), for every inch o’
the six wakes that I’ve been a gintleman, and left aff wid the
bog-throthing to take up wid the Barronissy, it’s Pathrick that’s been
living like a houly imperor, and gitting the iddication and the graces.
Och! and wouldn’t it be a blessed thing for your spirrits if ye cud lay
your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, when he
is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or stipping into the Brisky for the
drive into the Hyde Park. But it’s the illigant big figgur that I ’ave, for
the rason o’ which all the ladies fall in love wid me. Isn’t it my own
swate silf now that’ll missure the six fut, and the three inches more nor
that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly will proportioned all over to
match? And it is ralelly more than three fut and a bit that there is, inny
how, of the little ould furrener Frinchman that lives jist over the way,
and that’s a-oggling and a-goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,)
at the purty widdy Misthress Tracle that’s my own nixt-door neighbor, (God
bliss her!) and a most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the
little spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a
sling, and it’s for that same thing, by yur lave, that I’m going to give
you the good rason.
The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first day
that I com’d from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the strait
to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a gone case
althegither with the heart o’ the purty Misthress Tracle. I percaved it,
ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that’s God’s truth. First of all
it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she threw open her two
peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould spy-glass that she
clapped tight to one o’ them and divil may burn me if it didn’t spake to
me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it, through the spy-glass:
“Och! the tip o’ the mornin’ to ye, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt,
mavourneen; and it’s a nate gintleman that ye are, sure enough, and it’s
mesilf and me forten jist that’ll be at yur sarvice, dear, inny time o’
day at all at all for the asking.” And it’s not mesilf ye wud have to be
bate in the purliteness; so I made her a bow that wud ha’ broken yur heart
altegither to behould, and thin I pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and
thin I winked at her hard wid both eyes, as much as to say, “True for you,
yer a swate little crature, Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be
drownthed dead in a bog, if it’s not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison,
Barronitt, that’ll make a houl bushel o’ love to yur leddyship, in the
twinkling o’ the eye of a Londonderry purraty.”
And it was the nixt mornin’, sure, jist as I was making up me mind whither
it wouldn’t be the purlite thing to sind a bit o’ writin’ to the widdy by
way of a love-litter, when up com’d the delivery servant wid an illigant
card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver could rade the
copperplate printin’ on account of being lift handed) was all about
Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look-aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and that
the houl of the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the little
ould furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.
And jist wid that in cum’d the little willian himself, and then he made me
a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken the liberty of doing
me the honor of the giving me a call, and thin he went on to palaver at a
great rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind what he wud be afther the
tilling me at all at all, excipting and saving that he said “pully wou,
woolly wou,” and tould me, among a bushel o’ lies, bad luck to him, that
he was mad for the love o’ my widdy Misthress Tracle, and that my widdy
Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him.
At the hearin’ of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a
grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick O’Grandison,
Barronitt, and that it wasn’t althegither gentaal to lit the anger git the
upper hand o’ the purliteness, so I made light o’ the matter and kipt
dark, and got quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a while what
did he do but ask me to go wid him to the widdy’s, saying he wud give me
the feshionable inthroduction to her leddyship.
“Is it there ye are?” said I thin to mesilf, “and it’s thrue for you,
Pathrick, that ye’re the fortunittest mortal in life. We’ll soon see now
whither it’s your swate silf, or whither it’s little Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns, that Misthress Tracle is head and ears in the love wid.”
Wid that we wint aff to the widdy’s, next door, and ye may well say it was
an illigant place; so it was. There was a carpet all over the floor, and
in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a Jew’s harp and the divil knows
what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, the beautifullest thing in
all natur, and sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there was the swate
little angel, Misthress Tracle.
“The tip o’ the mornin’ to ye,” says I, “Mrs. Tracle,” and thin I made
sich an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered the
brain o’ ye.
“Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud,” says the little furrenner
Frinchman, “and sure Mrs. Tracle,” says he, that he did, “isn’t this
gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, and
isn’t he althegither and entirely the most particular frind and
acquaintance that I have in the houl world?”
And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the swatest
curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits like an angel; and
thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns
that plumped his silf right down by the right side of her. Och hon! I
ixpicted the two eyes o’ me wud ha cum’d out of my head on the spot, I was
so dispirate mad! Howiver, “Bait who!” says I, after awhile. “Is it there
ye are, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns?” and so down I plumped on the lift side
of her leddyship, to be aven with the willain. Botheration! it wud ha done
your heart good to percave the illigant double wink that I gived her jist
thin right in the face with both eyes.
But the little ould Frinchman he niver beginned to suspict me at all at
all, and disperate hard it was he made the love to her leddyship. “Woully
wou,” says he, “Pully wou,” says he, “Plump in the mud,” says he.
“That’s all to no use, Mounseer Frog, mavourneen,” thinks I; and I talked
as hard and as fast as I could all the while, and throth it was mesilf
jist that divarted her leddyship complately and intirely, by rason of the
illigant conversation that I kipt up wid her all about the dear bogs of
Connaught. And by and by she gived me such a swate smile, from one ind of
her mouth to the ither, that it made me as bould as a pig, and I jist took
hould of the ind of her little finger in the most dilikittest manner in
natur, looking at her all the while out o’ the whites of my eyes.
And then ounly percave the cuteness of the swate angel, for no sooner did
she obsarve that I was afther the squazing of her flipper, than she up wid
it in a jiffy, and put it away behind her back, jist as much as to say,
“Now thin, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, there’s a bitther chance for ye,
mavourneen, for it’s not altogether the gentaal thing to be afther the
squazing of my flipper right full in the sight of that little furrenner
Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns.”
Wid that I giv’d her a big wink jist to say, “lit Sir Pathrick alone for
the likes o’ them thricks,” and thin I wint aisy to work, and you’d have
died wid the divarsion to behould how cliverly I slipped my right arm
betwane the back o’ the sofy, and the back of her leddyship, and there,
sure enough, I found a swate little flipper all a waiting to say, “the tip
o’ the mornin’ to ye, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt.” And wasn’t it
mesilf, sure, that jist giv’d it the laste little bit of a squaze in the
world, all in the way of a commincement, and not to be too rough wid her
leddyship? and och, botheration, wasn’t it the gentaalest and dilikittest
of all the little squazes that I got in return? “Blood and thunder, Sir
Pathrick, mavourneen,” thinks I to mesilf, “fait it’s jist the mother’s
son of you, and nobody else at all at all, that’s the handsomest and the
fortunittest young bog-throtter that ever cum’d out of Connaught!” And
with that I givd the flipper a big squaze, and a big squaze it was, by the
powers, that her leddyship giv’d to me back. But it would ha split the
seven sides of you wid the laffin’ to behould, jist then all at once, the
consated behavior of Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns. The likes o’ sich a
jabbering, and a smirking, and a parley-wouing as he begin’d wid her
leddyship, niver was known before upon arth; and divil may burn me if it
wasn’t me own very two peepers that cotch’d him tipping her the wink out
of one eye. Och, hon! if it wasn’t mesilf thin that was mad as a Kilkenny
cat I shud like to be tould who it was!
“Let me infarm you, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns,” said I, as purlite as iver
ye seed, “that it’s not the gintaal thing at all at all, and not for the
likes o’ you inny how, to be afther the oggling and a-goggling at her
leddyship in that fashion,” and jist wid that such another squaze as it
was I giv’d her flipper, all as much as to say, “isn’t it Sir Pathrick
now, my jewel, that’ll be able to the protectin’ o’ you, my darlint?” and
then there cum’d another squaze back, all by way of the answer. “Thrue for
you, Sir Pathrick,” it said as plain as iver a squaze said in the world,
“Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen, and it’s a proper nate gintleman
ye are—that’s God’s truth,” and with that she opened her two
beautiful peepers till I belaved they wud ha’ cum’d out of her hid
althegither and intirely, and she looked first as mad as a cat at Mounseer
Frog, and thin as smiling as all out o’ doors at mesilf.
“Thin,” says he, the willian, “Och hon! and a wolly-wou, pully-wou,” and
then wid that he shoved up his two shoulders till the divil the bit of his
hid was to be diskivered, and then he let down the two corners of his
purraty-trap, and thin not a haporth more of the satisfaction could I git
out o’ the spalpeen.
Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir Pathrick that was unreasonable mad thin,
and the more by token that the Frinchman kipt an wid his winking at the
widdy; and the widdy she kept an wid the squazing of my flipper, as much
as to say, “At him again, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, mavourneen:” so I just
ripped out wid a big oath, and says I:
“Ye little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of a bloody noun!”—and
jist thin what d’ye think it was that her leddyship did? Troth she jumped
up from the sofy as if she was bit, and made off through the door, while I
turned my head round afther her, in a complate bewilderment and
botheration, and followed her wid me two peepers. You percave I had a
reason of my own for knowing that she couldn’t git down the stares
althegither and intirely; for I knew very well that I had hould of her
hand, for the divil the bit had I iver lit it go. And says I:
“Isn’t it the laste little bit of a mistake in the world that
ye’ve been afther the making, yer leddyship? Come back now,
that’s a darlint, and I’ll give ye yur flipper.” But
aff she wint down the stairs like a shot, and thin I turned round to the
little Frinch furrenner. Och hon! if it wasn’t his spalpeeny little
paw that I had hould of in my own—why thin—thin it
wasn’t—that’s all.
And maybe it wasn’t mesilf that jist died then outright wid the laffin’,
to behold the little chap when he found out that it wasn’t the widdy at
all at all that he had had hould of all the time, but only Sir Pathrick
O’Grandison. The ould divil himself niver behild sich a long face as he
pet an! As for Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, it wasn’t for the
likes of his riverence to be afther the minding of a thrifle of a mistake.
Ye may jist say, though (for it’s God’s thruth), that afore I left hould
of the flipper of the spalpeen (which was not till afther her leddyship’s
futman had kicked us both down the stairs), I giv’d it such a nate little
broth of a squaze as made it all up into raspberry jam.
“Woully wou,” says he, “pully wou,” says he—“Cot tam!”
And that’s jist the thruth of the rason why he wears his lift hand in a
sling.
BON-BON.
Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,
Je suis plus savant que Balzac—
Plus sage que Pibrac;
Mon bras seul faisant l’attaque
De la nation Cossaque,
La mettroit au sac;
De Charon je passerois le lac,
En dormant dans son bac;
J’irois au fier Eac,
Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac,
Présenter du tabac.
—_French Vaudeville_
That Pierre Bon-Bon was a _restaurateur_ of uncommon qualifications,
no man who, during the reign of——, frequented the little Câfé
in the cul-de-sac Le Febre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at
liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled
in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more especially
undeniable. His _patés à la fois_ were beyond doubt immaculate; but
what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la Nature_—his
thoughts _sur l’Ame_—his observations _sur l’Esprit?_ If
his _omelettes_—if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable,
what _littérateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for
an “_Idée de Bon-Bon_” as for all the trash of “_Idées_” of all
the rest of the _savants?_ Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no
other man had ransacked—had more than any other would have
entertained a notion of reading—had understood more than any other
would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while
he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to assert
“that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the
depth of the Lyceum”—although, mark me, his doctrines were by no
means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were
difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their
self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is
to Bon-Bon—but let this go no farther—it is to Bon-Bon that
Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was indeed
not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian—nor did he,
like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be
employed in the invention of a _fricasée_ or, _facili gradú_,
the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the
obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was
Ionic—Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned _à priori_—He
reasoned also _à posteriori_. His ideas were innate—or
otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizonde—He believed in
Bossarion [Bessarion]. Bon-Bon was emphatically a—Bon-Bonist.
I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of _restaurateur_. I
would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling
his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of
their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in
which branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion
the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities
of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the
Chinese, who held that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all
events were right, he thought, who employed the same words for the mind
and the diaphragm. (*1) By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of
gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the
metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings—and what great man
has not a thousand?—if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they
were failings of very little importance—faults indeed which, in
other tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues.
As regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it in
this history but for the remarkable prominency—the extreme _alto
relievo_—in which it jutted out from the plane of his general
disposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.
{*1} MD
Not that he was avaricious—no. It was by no means necessary to the
satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own
proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected—a trade of any
kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances—a triumphant smile
was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a
knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.
At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as the
one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At the
epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity not attracted observation,
there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon reported that,
upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was wont to differ
widely from the downright grin with which he would laugh at his own jokes,
or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature;
stories were told of perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at
leisure; and instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague
longings, and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil
for wise purposes of his own.
The philosopher had other weaknesses—but they are scarcely worthy
our serious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary
profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle. Whether
this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid proof of such
profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as far as I can learn, did
not think the subject adapted to minute investigation;—nor do I. Yet
in the indulgence of a propensity so truly classical, it is not to be
supposed that the restaurateur would lose sight of that intuitive
discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the same time,
his essais and his omelettes. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had
its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Cotes du
Rhone. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would
sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel an argument over
Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well had
it been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the
peddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded—but this was by
no means the case. Indeed to say the truth, that trait of mind in the
philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to assume a character of strange
intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply tinctured with the diablerie
of his favorite German studies.
To enter the little _café_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febre was, at the period of
our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon was a man of
genius. There was not a sous-cusinier in Rouen, who could not have told
you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forebore
to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. His large
water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach of his
master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of deportment, a
debasement of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw not altogether
unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of this habitual respect
might have been attributed to the personal appearance of the
metaphysician. A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to say,
have its way even with a beast; and I am willing to allow much in the
outward man of the restaurateur calculated to impress the imagination of
the quadruped. There is a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the
little great—if I may be permitted so equivocal an expression—which
mere physical bulk alone will be found at all times inefficient in
creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his
head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the
rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering
upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of
his acquirements—in its immensity a fitting habitation for his
immortal soul.
I might here—if it so pleased me—dilate upon the matter of
habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external metaphysician. I
might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short, combed smoothly over
his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white flannel cap and
tassels—that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fashion of those
worn by the common class of restaurateurs at that day—that the
sleeves were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted—that
the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with
cloth of the same quality and color as the garment, but faced in a more
fanciful manner with the particolored velvet of Genoa—that his
slippers were of a bright purple, curiously filigreed, and might have been
manufactured in Japan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and the
brilliant tints of the binding and embroidery—that his breeches were
of the yellow satin-like material called aimable—that his sky-blue
cloak, resembling in form a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all
over with crimson devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like a
mist of the morning—and that his tout ensemble gave rise to the
remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, “that it
was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise,
or rather a very Paradise of perfection.” I might, I say, expatiate upon
all these points if I pleased,—but I forbear, merely personal
details may be left to historical novelists,—they are beneath the
moral dignity of matter-of-fact.
I have said that “to enter the _café_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febre was to
enter the sanctum of a man of genius”—but then it was only the man
of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the _sanctum_. A sign,
consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one side of the
volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a _paté_. On the back were
visible in large letters _Œuvres de Bon-Bon_. Thus was delicately shadowed
forth the two-fold occupation of the proprietor.
Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building
presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique
construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the _café_. In a
corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army of
curtains, together with a canopy _à la Grècque_, gave it an air at once
classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonary opposite, appeared, in
direct family communion, the properties of the kitchen and the
_bibliotheque_. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here
lay an ovenful of the latest ethics—there a kettle of dudecimo
_mélanges_. Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron—a
toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of Eusebius—Plato
reclined at his ease in the frying-pan—and contemporary manuscripts
were filed away upon the spit.
In other respects the _Café de Bon-Bon_ might be said to differ little from
the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace yawned opposite the door.
On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a formidable
array of labelled bottles.
It was here, about twelve o’clock one night during the severe
winter of ——, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened to
the comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity—that
Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked
the door upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific
mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of
blazing fagots.
It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or twice
during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to its centre
with the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the wall,
and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of
the philosopher’s bed, and disorganized the economy of his pate-pans and
papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of the
tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its
stanchions of solid oak.
It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his
chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a
perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity of
his meditations. In attempting _des oeufs à la Princesse_, he had
unfortunately perpetrated an _omelette à la Reine;_ the discovery of a
principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and
last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains
which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing to a
successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these
unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some degree
of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is so well
calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the large
black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself uneasily in
his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye toward those
distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the
red firelight itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming.
Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible
to himself, he drew close to his seat a small table covered with books and
papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of retouching a voluminous
manuscript, intended for publication on the morrow.
He had been thus occupied for some minutes when “I am in no hurry,
Monsieur Bon-Bon,” suddenly whispered a whining voice in the apartment.
“The devil!” ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning the
table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.
“Very true,” calmly replied the voice.
“Very true!—what is very true?—how came you here?” vociferated
the metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at
full length upon the bed.
“I was saying,” said the intruder, without attending to the
interrogatives,—“I was saying that I am not at all pushed for time—that
the business upon which I took the liberty of calling, is of no pressing
importance—in short, that I can very well wait until you have
finished your Exposition.”
“My Exposition!—there now!—how do you know?—how came you
to understand that I was writing an Exposition?—good God!”
“Hush!” replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising quickly
from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron lamp
that depended over-head swung convulsively back from his approach.
The philosopher’s amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the
stranger’s dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure, exceedingly
lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely distinct,
by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to the skin,
but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century ago. These
garments had evidently been intended for a much shorter person than their
present owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches.
In his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to
the extreme poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head
was bare, and entirely bald, with the exception of a hinder part, from
which depended a queue of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles,
with side glasses, protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and
at the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color
or their conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a
shirt, but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme
precision around the throat and the ends hanging down formally side by
side gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an
ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and
demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that nature. Over
his left ear, he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an
instrument resembling the stylus of the ancients. In a breast-pocket of
his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with clasps
of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned outwardly
from the person as to discover the words “Rituel Catholique” in white
letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy was interestingly saturnine—even
cadaverously pale. The forehead was lofty, and deeply furrowed with the
ridges of contemplation. The corners of the mouth were drawn down into an
expression of the most submissive humility. There was also a clasping of
the hands, as he stepped toward our hero—a deep sigh—and
altogether a look of such utter sanctity as could not have failed to be
unequivocally preposessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the
countenance of the metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory
survey of his visitor’s person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and
conducted him to a seat.
There would however be a radical error in attributing this instantaneous
transition of feeling in the philosopher, to any one of those causes which
might naturally be supposed to have had an influence. Indeed, Pierre
Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his disposition, was
of all men the least likely to be imposed upon by any speciousness of
exterior deportment. It was impossible that so accurate an observer of men
and things should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real
character of the personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To
say no more, the conformation of his visitor’s feet was sufficiently
remarkable—he maintained lightly upon his head an inordinately tall
hat—there was a tremulous swelling about the hinder part of his
breeches—and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact.
Judge, then, with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself
thrown thus at once into the society of a person for whom he had at all
times entertained the most unqualified respect. He was, however, too much
of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions in
regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all
conscious of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed; but, by leading
his guest into the conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas,
which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication,
enlighten the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself—ideas
which, I should have added, his visitor’s great age, and well-known
proficiency in the science of morals, might very well have enabled him to
afford.
Actuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman sit down,
while he himself took occasion to throw some fagots upon the fire, and
place upon the now re-established table some bottles of _Mousseux_. Having
quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair _vis-à-vis_ to his
companion’s, and waited until the latter should open the conversation. But
plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of
their application—and the _restaurateur_ found himself _nonplussed_ by
the very first words of his visitor’s speech.
“I see you know me, Bon-Bon,” said he; “ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi!
hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!”—and the devil, dropping
at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a mouth
from ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth,
and, throwing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and
uproariously, while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches,
joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent,
stood up on end, and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.
Not so the philosopher; he was too much a man of the world either to laugh
like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the
cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see the white
letters which formed the words “_Rituel Catholique_” on the book in his
guest’s pocket, momently changing both their color and their import, and
in a few seconds, in place of the original title the words _Régitre des
Condamnes_ blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance,
when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor’s remark, imparted to his manner an
air of embarrassment which probably might, not otherwise have been
observed.
“Why sir,” said the philosopher, “why sir, to speak
sincerely—I believe you are—upon my word—the
d——dest—that is to say, I think—I imagine—I
_have_ some faint—some _very_ faint idea—of the
remarkable honor—”
“Oh!—ah!—yes!—very well!” interrupted his Majesty; “say
no more—I see how it is.” And hereupon, taking off his green
spectacles, he wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat,
and deposited them in his pocket.
If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his amazement
was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented itself to
view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain
the color of his guest’s, he found them by no means black, as he had
anticipated—nor gray, as might have been imagined—nor yet
hazel nor blue—nor indeed yellow nor red—nor purple—nor
white—nor green—nor any other color in the heavens above, or
in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In short, Pierre
Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but
could discover no indications of their having existed at any previous
period—for the space where eyes should naturally have been was, I am
constrained to say, simply a dead level of flesh.
It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and the reply of his
Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.
“Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon—eyes! did you say?—oh!—ah!—I
perceive! The ridiculous prints, eh, which are in, circulation, have given
you a false idea of my personal appearance? Eyes!—true. Eyes, Pierre
Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place—that, you would say, is
the head?—right—the head of a worm. To you, likewise, these
optics are indispensable—yet I will convince you that my vision is
more penetrating than your own. There is a cat I see in the corner—a
pretty cat—look at her—observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you
behold the thoughts—the thoughts, I say,—the ideas—the
reflections—which are being engendered in her pericranium? There it
is, now—you do not! She is thinking we admire the length of her tail
and the profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most
distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial of
metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind; but to one of my
profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance, liable
at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron, or a pitchfork. To you, I
allow, these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use
them well;—my vision is the soul.”
Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and pouring
out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without scruple, and
make himself perfectly at home.
“A clever book that of yours, Pierre,” resumed his Majesty, tapping our
friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his glass after
a thorough compliance with his visitor’s injunction. “A clever book that
of yours, upon my honor. It’s a work after my own heart. Your arrangement
of the matter, I think, however, might be improved, and many of your
notions remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my most
intimate acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill temper,
as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one solid truth
in all that he has written, and for that I gave him the hint out of pure
compassion for his absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well
know to what divine moral truth I am alluding?”
“Cannot say that I—”
“Indeed!—why it was I who told Aristotle that by sneezing, men
expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis.”
“Which is—hiccup!—undoubtedly the case,” said the
metaphysician, while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux,
and offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visitor.
“There was Plato, too,” continued his Majesty, modestly
declining the snuff-box and the compliment it implied—“there
was Plato, too, for whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a
friend. You knew Plato, Bon-Bon?—ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons.
He met me at Athens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was
distressed for an idea. I bade him write, down that δ
υοῦς εστιν
αυλος. He said that he would do so, and went
home, while I stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience smote me
for having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening back to
Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher’s chair as he was inditing
the ‘αυλος.’
“Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
the sentence now read ‘δ
υοῦς εστιν
αυγος’, and is, you perceive, the
fundamental doctrines in his metaphysics.”
“Were you ever at Rome?” asked the _restaurateur_, as he finished his second
bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of
Chambertin.
“But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time,” said the devil,
as if reciting some passage from a book—“there was a time when
occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the republic, bereft of
all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people,
and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive power—at
that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon—at that time only I was in Rome, and I
have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy.”
(*2)
{*2} Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (_Cicero, Lucretius,
Seneca_) mais c’etait la Philosophie Grecque.—_Condorcet_.
“What do you think of—what do you think of—hiccup!—Epicurus?”
“What do I think of whom?” said the devil, in astonishment, “you cannot
surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus!
Do you mean me, sir?—I am Epicurus! I am the same philosopher who
wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes
Laertes.”
“That’s a lie!” said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little
into his head.
“Very well!—very well, sir!—very well, indeed, sir!” said his
Majesty, apparently much flattered.
“That’s a lie!” repeated the restaurateur, dogmatically; “that’s a—hiccup!—a
lie!”
“Well, well, have it your own way!” said the devil, pacifically, and
Bon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at argument, thought it his duty to
conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.
“As I was saying,” resumed the visitor—“as I was observing a little
while ago, there are some very _outré_ notions in that book of yours
Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about
the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?”
“The—hiccup!—soul,” replied the metaphysician, referring to
his MS., “is undoubtedly—”
“No, sir!”
“Indubitably—”
“No, sir!”
“Indisputably—”
“No, sir!”
“Evidently—”
“No, sir!”
“Incontrovertibly—”
“No, sir!”
“Hiccup!—”
“No, sir!”
“And beyond all question, a—”
“No sir, the soul is no such thing!” (Here the philosopher, looking
daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third bottle
of Chambertin.)
“Then—hic-cup!—pray, sir—what—what is it?”
“That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon,” replied his Majesty,
musingly. “I have tasted—that is to say, I have known some very bad
souls, and some too—pretty good ones.” Here he smacked his lips,
and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket,
was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.
He continued.
“There was the soul of Cratinus—passable: Aristophanes—racy:
Plato—exquisite—not _your_ Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your
Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus—faugh! Then let me
see! there were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then
there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus,—dear
Quinty! as I called him when he sung a _seculare_ for my amusement, while I
toasted him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want _flavor_, these
Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will _keep_,
which cannot be said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne.”
Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the _nil admirari_ and endeavored
to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a
strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although
extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no notice:—simply
kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visitor continued:
“I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle;—you know I am
fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to
my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of
Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus—and Titus
Livius was positively Polybius and none other.”
“Hic-cup!” here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded:
“But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon—if I have a penchant, it
is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev—I
mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long
ones are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a
little rancid on account of the gall!”
“Shelled!”
“I mean taken out of the carcass.”
“What do you think of a—hic-cup!—physician?”
“Don’t mention them!—ugh! ugh! ugh!” (Here his Majesty retched
violently.) “I never tasted but one—that rascal Hippocrates!—smelt
of asafoetida—ugh! ugh! ugh!—caught a wretched cold washing
him in the Styx—and after all he gave me the cholera morbus.”
“The—hiccup!—wretch!” ejaculated Bon-Bon, “the—hic-cup!—abortion
of a pill-box!”—and the philosopher dropped a tear.
“After all,” continued the visitor, “after all, if a dev—if a
gentleman wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or two; and
with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.”
“How so?”
“Why, we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know
that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep
a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless
pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is not good), they will—smell—you
understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls
are consigned to us in the usual way.”
“Hiccup!—hiccup!—good God! how do you manage?”
Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the
devil half started from his seat;—however, with a slight sigh, he
recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: “I tell
you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing.”
The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough
comprehension and acquiescence, and the visitor continued.
“Why, there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put
up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in
which case I find they keep very well.”
“But the body!—hiccup!—the body!”
“The body, the body—well, what of the body?—oh! ah! I
perceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I
have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties
never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and
Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and—and a
thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the
latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why
isn’t there A——, now, who you know as well as I? Is
_he_ not in possession of his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who
writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who—but stay! I
have his agreement in my pocket-book.”
Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number
of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters
_Machi—Maza—Robesp_—with the words _Caligula, George,
Elizabeth_. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it
read aloud the following words:
“In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to
specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d’or, I being
aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this
agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my
soul. (Signed) A....” {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did
not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)
{*4} Quere-Arouet?
“A clever fellow that,” resumed he; “but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he
was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow;
Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasseed
shadow!”
“_Only_ think—hiccup!—of a fricasséed shadow!” exclaimed our
hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of
his Majesty’s discourse.
“Only think of a hiccup!—fricasséed shadow!! Now, damme!—hiccup!—humph!
If _I_ would have been such a—hiccup!—nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.—humph!”
“_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?”
“Yes, sir—hiccup!—_my_ soul is—”
“What, sir?”
“_No_ shadow, damme!”
“Did you mean to say—”
“Yes, sir, my soul is—hiccup!—humph!—yes, sir.”
“Did you not intend to assert—”
“My soul is—hiccup!—peculiarly qualified for—hiccup!—a—”
“What, sir?”
“Stew.”
“Ha!”
“Soufflee.”
“Eh!”
“Fricassee.”
“Indeed!”
“Ragout and fricandeau—and see here, my good fellow! I’ll let you
have it—hiccup!—a bargain.” Here the philosopher slapped his
Majesty upon the back.
“Couldn’t think of such a thing,” said the latter calmly, at the same time
rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.
“Am supplied at present,” said his Majesty.
“Hiccup!—e-h?” said the philosopher.
“Have no funds on hand.”
“What?”
“Besides, very unhandsome in me—”
“Sir!”
“To take advantage of—”
“Hiccup!”
“Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.”
Here the visitor bowed and withdrew—in what manner could not
precisely be ascertained—but in a well-concerted effort to discharge
a bottle at “the villain,” the slender chain was severed that depended
from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the
lamp.
SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY.
The _symposium_ of the preceding evening had been a little too much
for my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy.
Instead of going out therefore to spend the evening as I had proposed, it
occurred to me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful
of supper and go immediately to bed.
A light supper of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More than
a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still, there
can be no material objection to two. And really between two and three,
there is merely a single unit of difference. I ventured, perhaps, upon
four. My wife will have it five;—but, clearly, she has confounded
two very distinct affairs. The abstract number, five, I am willing to
admit; but, concretely, it has reference to bottles of Brown Stout,
without which, in the way of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed.
Having thus concluded a frugal meal, and donned my night-cap, with the
serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I placed my head upon
the pillow, and, through the aid of a capital conscience, fell into a
profound slumber forthwith.
But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled? I could not have completed
my third snore when there came a furious ringing at the street-door bell,
and then an impatient thumping at the knocker, which awakened me at once.
In a minute afterward, and while I was still rubbing my eyes, my wife
thrust in my face a note, from my old friend, Doctor Ponnonner. It ran
thus:
“Come to me, by all means, my dear good friend, as soon as you receive
this. Come and help us to rejoice. At last, by long persevering diplomacy, I
have gained the assent of the Directors of the City Museum, to my examination
of the Mummy—you know the one I mean. I have permission to unswathe it
and open it, if desirable. A few friends only will be present—you, of
course. The Mummy is now at my house, and we shall begin to unroll it at eleven
to-night.
“Yours, ever,
PONNONNER.
By the time I had reached the “Ponnonner,” it struck me that I was as wide
awake as a man need be. I leaped out of bed in an ecstacy, overthrowing
all in my way; dressed myself with a rapidity truly marvellous; and set
off, at the top of my speed, for the doctor’s.
There I found a very eager company assembled. They had been awaiting me
with much impatience; the Mummy was extended upon the dining-table; and
the moment I entered its examination was commenced.
It was one of a pair brought, several years previously, by Captain Arthur
Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnonner’s from a tomb near Eleithias, in
the Lybian mountains, a considerable distance above Thebes on the Nile.
The grottoes at this point, although less magnificent than the Theban
sepulchres, are of higher interest, on account of affording more numerous
illustrations of the private life of the Egyptians. The chamber from
which our specimen was taken, was said to be very rich in such
illustrations—the walls being completely covered with fresco
paintings and bas-reliefs, while statues, vases, and Mosaic work of rich
patterns, indicated the vast wealth of the deceased.
The treasure had been deposited in the Museum precisely in the same
condition in which Captain Sabretash had found it—that is to say,
the coffin had not been disturbed. For eight years it had thus stood,
subject only externally to public inspection. We had now, therefore, the
complete Mummy at our disposal; and to those who are aware how very rarely
the unransacked antique reaches our shores, it will be evident, at once
that we had great reason to congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.
Approaching the table, I saw on it a large box, or case, nearly seven feet
long, and perhaps three feet wide, by two feet and a half deep. It was
oblong—not coffin-shaped. The material was at first supposed to be
the wood of the sycamore (_platanus_), but, upon cutting into it, we
found it to be pasteboard, or, more properly, _papier mache_,
composed of papyrus. It was thickly ornamented with paintings,
representing funeral scenes, and other mournful subjects—interspersed
among which, in every variety of position, were certain series of
hieroglyphical characters, intended, no doubt, for the name of the
departed. By good luck, Mr. Gliddon formed one of our party; and he had no
difficulty in translating the letters, which were simply phonetic, and
represented the word _Allamistakeo_.
We had some difficulty in getting this case open without injury; but
having at length accomplished the task, we came to a second,
coffin-shaped, and very considerably less in size than the exterior one,
but resembling it precisely in every other respect. The interval between
the two was filled with resin, which had, in some degree, defaced the
colors of the interior box.
Upon opening this latter (which we did quite easily), we arrived at a
third case, also coffin-shaped, and varying from the second one in no
particular, except in that of its material, which was cedar, and still
emitted the peculiar and highly aromatic odor of that wood. Between the
second and the third case there was no interval—the one fitting
accurately within the other.
Removing the third case, we discovered and took out the body itself. We
had expected to find it, as usual, enveloped in frequent rolls, or
bandages, of linen; but, in place of these, we found a sort of sheath,
made of papyrus, and coated with a layer of plaster, thickly gilt and
painted. The paintings represented subjects connected with the various
supposed duties of the soul, and its presentation to different divinities,
with numerous identical human figures, intended, very probably, as
portraits of the persons embalmed. Extending from head to foot was a
columnar, or perpendicular, inscription, in phonetic hieroglyphics, giving
again his name and titles, and the names and titles of his relations.
Around the neck thus ensheathed, was a collar of cylindrical glass beads,
diverse in color, and so arranged as to form images of deities, of the
scarabaeus, etc., with the winged globe. Around the small of the waist
was a similar collar or belt.
Stripping off the papyrus, we found the flesh in excellent preservation,
with no perceptible odor. The color was reddish. The skin was hard,
smooth, and glossy. The teeth and hair were in good condition. The eyes
(it seemed) had been removed, and glass ones substituted, which were very
beautiful and wonderfully life-like, with the exception of somewhat too
determined a stare. The fingers and the nails were brilliantly gilded.
Mr. Gliddon was of opinion, from the redness of the epidermis, that the
embalmment had been effected altogether by asphaltum; but, on scraping the
surface with a steel instrument, and throwing into the fire some of the
powder thus obtained, the flavor of camphor and other sweet-scented gums
became apparent.
We searched the corpse very carefully for the usual openings through which
the entrails are extracted, but, to our surprise, we could discover none.
No member of the party was at that period aware that entire or unopened
mummies are not infrequently met. The brain it was customary to withdraw
through the nose; the intestines through an incision in the side; the body
was then shaved, washed, and salted; then laid aside for several weeks,
when the operation of embalming, properly so called, began.
As no trace of an opening could be found, Doctor Ponnonner was preparing
his instruments for dissection, when I observed that it was then past two
o’clock. Hereupon it was agreed to postpone the internal examination until
the next evening; and we were about to separate for the present, when some
one suggested an experiment or two with the Voltaic pile.
The application of electricity to a mummy three or four thousand years old
at the least, was an idea, if not very sage, still sufficiently original,
and we all caught it at once. About one-tenth in earnest and nine-tenths
in jest, we arranged a battery in the Doctor’s study, and conveyed thither
the Egyptian.
It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying bare some
portions of the temporal muscle which appeared of less stony rigidity than
other parts of the frame, but which, as we had anticipated, of course,
gave no indication of galvanic susceptibility when brought in contact with
the wire. This, the first trial, indeed, seemed decisive, and, with a
hearty laugh at our own absurdity, we were bidding each other good night,
when my eyes, happening to fall upon those of the Mummy, were there
immediately riveted in amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had sufficed
to assure me that the orbs which we had all supposed to be glass, and
which were originally noticeable for a certain wild stare, were now so far
covered by the lids, that only a small portion of the _tunica albuginea_
remained visible.
With a shout I called attention to the fact, and it became immediately
obvious to all.
I cannot say that I was alarmed at the phenomenon, because “alarmed” is,
in my case, not exactly the word. It is possible, however, that, but for
the Brown Stout, I might have been a little nervous. As for the rest of
the company, they really made no attempt at concealing the downright
fright which possessed them. Doctor Ponnonner was a man to be pitied. Mr.
Gliddon, by some peculiar process, rendered himself invisible. Mr. Silk
Buckingham, I fancy, will scarcely be so bold as to deny that he made his
way, upon all fours, under the table.
After the first shock of astonishment, however, we resolved, as a matter
of course, upon further experiment forthwith. Our operations were now
directed against the great toe of the right foot. We made an incision over
the outside of the exterior _os sesamoideum pollicis pedis,_ and thus
got at the root of the abductor muscle. Readjusting the battery, we now
applied the fluid to the bisected nerves—when, with a movement of
exceeding life-likeness, the Mummy first drew up its right knee so as to
bring it nearly in contact with the abdomen, and then, straightening the
limb with inconceivable force, bestowed a kick upon Doctor Ponnonner,
which had the effect of discharging that gentleman, like an arrow from a
catapult, through a window into the street below.
We rushed out _en masse_ to bring in the mangled remains of the
victim, but had the happiness to meet him upon the staircase, coming up in
an unaccountable hurry, brimful of the most ardent philosophy, and more
than ever impressed with the necessity of prosecuting our experiment with
vigor and with zeal.
It was by his advice, accordingly, that we made, upon the spot, a profound
incision into the tip of the subject’s nose, while the Doctor himself,
laying violent hands upon it, pulled it into vehement contact with the
wire.
Morally and physically—figuratively and literally—was the
effect electric. In the first place, the corpse opened its eyes and winked
very rapidly for several minutes, as does Mr. Barnes in the pantomime; in
the second place, it sneezed; in the third, it sat upon end; in the
fourth, it shook its fist in Doctor Ponnonner’s face; in the fifth,
turning to Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, it addressed them, in very
capital Egyptian, thus:
“I must say, gentlemen, that I am as much surprised as I am mortified at
your behavior. Of Doctor Ponnonner nothing better was to be expected. He
is a poor little fat fool who knows no better. I pity and forgive him. But
you, Mr. Gliddon—and you, Silk—who have travelled and resided
in Egypt until one might imagine you to the manor born—you, I say
who have been so much among us that you speak Egyptian fully as well, I
think, as you write your mother tongue—you, whom I have always been
led to regard as the firm friend of the mummies—I really did
anticipate more gentlemanly conduct from you. What am I to think of your
standing quietly by and seeing me thus unhandsomely used? What am I to
suppose by your permitting Tom, Dick, and Harry to strip me of my coffins,
and my clothes, in this wretchedly cold climate? In what light (to come to
the point) am I to regard your aiding and abetting that miserable little
villain, Doctor Ponnonner, in pulling me by the nose?”
It will be taken for granted, no doubt, that upon hearing this speech
under the circumstances, we all either made for the door, or fell into
violent hysterics, or went off in a general swoon. One of these three
things was, I say, to be expected. Indeed each and all of these lines of
conduct might have been very plausibly pursued. And, upon my word, I am at
a loss to know how or why it was that we pursued neither the one nor the
other. But, perhaps, the true reason is to be sought in the spirit of the
age, which proceeds by the rule of contraries altogether, and is now
usually admitted as the solution of every thing in the way of paradox and
impossibility. Or, perhaps, after all, it was only the Mummy’s exceedingly
natural and matter-of-course air that divested his words of the terrible.
However this may be, the facts are clear, and no member of our party
betrayed any very particular trepidation, or seemed to consider that any
thing had gone very especially wrong.
For my part I was convinced it was all right, and merely stepped aside,
out of the range of the Egyptian’s fist. Doctor Ponnonner thrust his hands
into his breeches’ pockets, looked hard at the Mummy, and grew excessively
red in the face. Mr. Glidden stroked his whiskers and drew up the collar
of his shirt. Mr. Buckingham hung down his head, and put his right thumb
into the left corner of his mouth.
The Egyptian regarded him with a severe countenance for some minutes and
at length, with a sneer, said:
“Why don’t you speak, Mr. Buckingham? Did you hear what I asked you, or
not? Do take your thumb out of your mouth!”
Mr. Buckingham, hereupon, gave a slight start, took his right thumb out of
the left corner of his mouth, and, by way of indemnification inserted his
left thumb in the right corner of the aperture above-mentioned.
Not being able to get an answer from Mr. B., the figure turned peevishly
to Mr. Gliddon, and, in a peremptory tone, demanded in general terms what
we all meant.
Mr. Gliddon replied at great length, in phonetics; and but for the
deficiency of American printing-offices in hieroglyphical type, it would
afford me much pleasure to record here, in the original, the whole of his
very excellent speech.
I may as well take this occasion to remark, that all the subsequent
conversation in which the Mummy took a part, was carried on in primitive
Egyptian, through the medium (so far as concerned myself and other
untravelled members of the company)—through the medium, I say, of
Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, as interpreters. These gentlemen spoke
the mother tongue of the Mummy with inimitable fluency and grace; but I
could not help observing that (owing, no doubt, to the introduction of
images entirely modern, and, of course, entirely novel to the stranger)
the two travellers were reduced, occasionally, to the employment of
sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a particular meaning. Mr.
Gliddon, at one period, for example, could not make the Egyptian
comprehend the term “politics,” until he sketched upon the wall, with a
bit of charcoal a little carbuncle-nosed gentleman, out at elbows,
standing upon a stump, with his left leg drawn back, right arm thrown
forward, with his fist shut, the eyes rolled up toward Heaven, and the
mouth open at an angle of ninety degrees. Just in the same way Mr.
Buckingham failed to convey the absolutely modern idea “wig,” until (at
Doctor Ponnonner’s suggestion) he grew very pale in the face, and
consented to take off his own.
It will be readily understood that Mr. Gliddon’s discourse turned chiefly
upon the vast benefits accruing to science from the unrolling and
disembowelling of mummies; apologizing, upon this score, for any
disturbance that might have been occasioned him, in particular, the
individual Mummy called Allamistakeo; and concluding with a mere hint (for
it could scarcely be considered more) that, as these little matters were
now explained, it might be as well to proceed with the investigation
intended. Here Doctor Ponnonner made ready his instruments.
In regard to the latter suggestions of the orator, it appears that
Allamistakeo had certain scruples of conscience, the nature of which I did
not distinctly learn; but he expressed himself satisfied with the
apologies tendered, and, getting down from the table, shook hands with the
company all round.
When this ceremony was at an end, we immediately busied ourselves in
repairing the damages which our subject had sustained from the scalpel. We
sewed up the wound in his temple, bandaged his foot, and applied a square
inch of black plaster to the tip of his nose.
It was now observed that the Count (this was the title, it seems, of
Allamistakeo) had a slight fit of shivering—no doubt from the cold.
The Doctor immediately repaired to his wardrobe, and soon returned with a
black dress coat, made in Jennings’ best manner, a pair of sky-blue plaid
pantaloons with straps, a pink gingham chemise, a flapped vest of brocade,
a white sack overcoat, a walking cane with a hook, a hat with no brim,
patent-leather boots, straw-colored kid gloves, an eye-glass, a pair of
whiskers, and a waterfall cravat. Owing to the disparity of size between
the Count and the doctor (the proportion being as two to one), there was
some little difficulty in adjusting these habiliments upon the person of
the Egyptian; but when all was arranged, he might have been said to be
dressed. Mr. Gliddon, therefore, gave him his arm, and led him to a
comfortable chair by the fire, while the Doctor rang the bell upon the
spot and ordered a supply of cigars and wine.
The conversation soon grew animated. Much curiosity was, of course,
expressed in regard to the somewhat remarkable fact of Allamistakeo’s
still remaining alive.
“I should have thought,” observed Mr. Buckingham, “that it is high time
you were dead.”
“Why,” replied the Count, very much astonished, “I am little more than
seven hundred years old! My father lived a thousand, and was by no means
in his dotage when he died.”
Here ensued a brisk series of questions and computations, by means of
which it became evident that the antiquity of the Mummy had been grossly
misjudged. It had been five thousand and fifty years and some months since
he had been consigned to the catacombs at Eleithias.
“But my remark,” resumed Mr. Buckingham, “had no reference to your age at
the period of interment (I am willing to grant, in fact, that you are
still a young man), and my illusion was to the immensity of time during
which, by your own showing, you must have been done up in asphaltum.”
“In what?” said the Count.
“In asphaltum,” persisted Mr. B.
“Ah, yes; I have some faint notion of what you mean; it might be made to
answer, no doubt—but in my time we employed scarcely any thing else
than the Bichloride of Mercury.”
“But what we are especially at a loss to understand,” said Doctor
Ponnonner, “is how it happens that, having been dead and buried in Egypt
five thousand years ago, you are here to-day all alive and looking so
delightfully well.”
“Had I been, as you say, dead,” replied the Count, “it is more than
probable that dead, I should still be; for I perceive you are yet in the
infancy of Galvanism, and cannot accomplish with it what was a common
thing among us in the old days. But the fact is, I fell into catalepsy,
and it was considered by my best friends that I was either dead or should
be; they accordingly embalmed me at once—I presume you are aware of
the chief principle of the embalming process?”
“Why, not altogether.”
“Ah, I perceive—a deplorable condition of ignorance! Well I cannot
enter into details just now: but it is necessary to explain that to embalm
(properly speaking), in Egypt, was to arrest indefinitely all the animal
functions subjected to the process. I use the word ‘animal’ in its widest
sense, as including the physical not more than the moral and vital being.
I repeat that the leading principle of embalmment consisted, with us, in
the immediately arresting, and holding in perpetual abeyance, all the
animal functions subjected to the process. To be brief, in whatever
condition the individual was, at the period of embalmment, in that
condition he remained. Now, as it is my good fortune to be of the blood of
the Scarabaeus, I was embalmed alive, as you see me at present.”
“The blood of the Scarabaeus!” exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner.
“Yes. The Scarabaeus was the insignium or the ‘arms,’ of a very
distinguished and very rare patrician family. To be ‘of the blood of the
Scarabaeus,’ is merely to be one of that family of which the Scarabaeus is
the insignium. I speak figuratively.”
“But what has this to do with you being alive?”
“Why, it is the general custom in Egypt to deprive a corpse, before
embalmment, of its bowels and brains; the race of the Scarabaei alone did
not coincide with the custom. Had I not been a Scarabeus, therefore, I
should have been without bowels and brains; and without either it is
inconvenient to live.”
“I perceive that,” said Mr. Buckingham, “and I presume that all the entire
mummies that come to hand are of the race of Scarabaei.”
“Beyond doubt.”
“I thought,” said Mr. Gliddon, very meekly, “that the Scarabaeus was one
of the Egyptian gods.”
“One of the Egyptian _what?”_ exclaimed the Mummy, starting to its
feet.
“Gods!” repeated the traveller.
“Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished to hear you talk in this style,” said
the Count, resuming his chair. “No nation upon the face of the earth has
ever acknowledged more than one god. The Scarabaeus, the Ibis, etc., were
with us (as similar creatures have been with others) the symbols, or
media, through which we offered worship to the Creator too august to be
more directly approached.”
There was here a pause. At length the colloquy was renewed by Doctor
Ponnonner.
“It is not improbable, then, from what you have explained,” said he, “that
among the catacombs near the Nile there may exist other mummies of the
Scarabaeus tribe, in a condition of vitality?”
“There can be no question of it,” replied the Count; “all the Scarabaei
embalmed accidentally while alive, are alive now. Even some of those
purposely so embalmed, may have been overlooked by their executors, and
still remain in the tomb.”
“Will you be kind enough to explain,” I said, “what you mean by ‘purposely
so embalmed’?”
“With great pleasure!” answered the Mummy, after surveying me leisurely
through his eye-glass—for it was the first time I had ventured to
address him a direct question.
“With great pleasure,” he said. “The usual duration of man’s life, in my
time, was about eight hundred years. Few men died, unless by most
extraordinary accident, before the age of six hundred; few lived longer
than a decade of centuries; but eight were considered the natural term.
After the discovery of the embalming principle, as I have already
described it to you, it occurred to our philosophers that a laudable
curiosity might be gratified, and, at the same time, the interests of
science much advanced, by living this natural term in installments. In the
case of history, indeed, experience demonstrated that something of this
kind was indispensable. An historian, for example, having attained the age
of five hundred, would write a book with great labor and then get himself
carefully embalmed; leaving instructions to his executors pro tem., that
they should cause him to be revivified after the lapse of a certain period—say
five or six hundred years. Resuming existence at the expiration of this
time, he would invariably find his great work converted into a species of
hap-hazard note-book—that is to say, into a kind of literary arena
for the conflicting guesses, riddles, and personal squabbles of whole
herds of exasperated commentators. These guesses, etc., which passed under
the name of annotations, or emendations, were found so completely to have
enveloped, distorted, and overwhelmed the text, that the author had to go
about with a lantern to discover his own book. When discovered, it was
never worth the trouble of the search. After re-writing it throughout, it
was regarded as the bounden duty of the historian to set himself to work
immediately in correcting, from his own private knowledge and experience,
the traditions of the day concerning the epoch at which he had originally
lived. Now this process of re-scription and personal rectification,
pursued by various individual sages from time to time, had the effect of
preventing our history from degenerating into absolute fable.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Doctor Ponnonner at this point, laying his hand
gently upon the arm of the Egyptian—“I beg your pardon, sir, but may
I presume to interrupt you for one moment?”
“By all means, sir,” replied the Count, drawing up.
“I merely wished to ask you a question,” said the Doctor. “You mentioned
the historian’s personal correction of traditions respecting his own
epoch. Pray, sir, upon an average what proportion of these Kabbala were
usually found to be right?”
“The Kabbala, as you properly term them, sir, were generally discovered to
be precisely on a par with the facts recorded in the un-re-written
histories themselves;—that is to say, not one individual iota of
either was ever known, under any circumstances, to be not totally and
radically wrong.”
“But since it is quite clear,” resumed the Doctor, “that at least five
thousand years have elapsed since your entombment, I take it for granted
that your histories at that period, if not your traditions were
sufficiently explicit on that one topic of universal interest, the
Creation, which took place, as I presume you are aware, only about ten
centuries before.”
“Sir!” said the Count Allamistakeo.
The Doctor repeated his remarks, but it was only after much additional
explanation that the foreigner could be made to comprehend them. The
latter at length said, hesitatingly:
“The ideas you have suggested are to me, I confess, utterly novel. During
my time I never knew any one to entertain so singular a fancy as that the
universe (or this world if you will have it so) ever had a beginning at
all. I remember once, and once only, hearing something remotely hinted, by
a man of many speculations, concerning the origin _of the human race;_
and by this individual, the very word _Adam_ (or Red Earth), which
you make use of, was employed. He employed it, however, in a generical
sense, with reference to the spontaneous germination from rank soil (just
as a thousand of the lower genera of creatures are germinated)—the
spontaneous germination, I say, of five vast hordes of men, simultaneously
upspringing in five distinct and nearly equal divisions of the globe.”
Here, in general, the company shrugged their shoulders, and one or two of
us touched our foreheads with a very significant air. Mr. Silk Buckingham,
first glancing slightly at the occiput and then at the sinciput of
Allamistakeo, spoke as follows:
“The long duration of human life in your time, together with the
occasional practice of passing it, as you have explained, in installments,
must have had, indeed, a strong tendency to the general development and
conglomeration of knowledge. I presume, therefore, that we are to
attribute the marked inferiority of the old Egyptians in all particulars
of science, when compared with the moderns, and more especially with the
Yankees, altogether to the superior solidity of the Egyptian skull.”
“I confess again,” replied the Count, with much suavity, “that I am
somewhat at a loss to comprehend you; pray, to what particulars of science
do you allude?”
Here our whole party, joining voices, detailed, at great length, the
assumptions of phrenology and the marvels of animal magnetism.
Having heard us to an end, the Count proceeded to relate a few anecdotes,
which rendered it evident that prototypes of Gall and Spurzheim had
flourished and faded in Egypt so long ago as to have been nearly
forgotten, and that the manoeuvres of Mesmer were really very contemptible
tricks when put in collation with the positive miracles of the Theban
savans, who created lice and a great many other similar things.
I here asked the Count if his people were able to calculate eclipses. He
smiled rather contemptuously, and said they were.
This put me a little out, but I began to make other inquiries in regard to
his astronomical knowledge, when a member of the company, who had never as
yet opened his mouth, whispered in my ear, that for information on this
head, I had better consult Ptolemy (whoever Ptolemy is), as well as one
Plutarch de facie lunae.
I then questioned the Mummy about burning-glasses and lenses, and, in
general, about the manufacture of glass; but I had not made an end of my
queries before the silent member again touched me quietly on the elbow,
and begged me for God’s sake to take a peep at Diodorus Siculus. As for
the Count, he merely asked me, in the way of reply, if we moderns
possessed any such microscopes as would enable us to cut cameos in the
style of the Egyptians. While I was thinking how I should answer this
question, little Doctor Ponnonner committed himself in a very
extraordinary way.
“Look at our architecture!” he exclaimed, greatly to the indignation of
both the travellers, who pinched him black and blue to no purpose.
“Look,” he cried with enthusiasm, “at the Bowling-Green Fountain in New
York! or if this be too vast a contemplation, regard for a moment the
Capitol at Washington, D. C.!”—and the good little medical man went
on to detail very minutely, the proportions of the fabric to which he
referred. He explained that the portico alone was adorned with no less
than four and twenty columns, five feet in diameter, and ten feet apart.
The Count said that he regretted not being able to remember, just at that
moment, the precise dimensions of any one of the principal buildings of
the city of Aznac, whose foundations were laid in the night of Time, but
the ruins of which were still standing, at the epoch of his entombment, in
a vast plain of sand to the westward of Thebes. He recollected, however,
(talking of the porticoes,) that one affixed to an inferior palace in a
kind of suburb called Carnac, consisted of a hundred and forty-four
columns, thirty-seven feet in circumference, and twenty-five feet apart.
The approach to this portico, from the Nile, was through an avenue two
miles long, composed of sphynxes, statues, and obelisks, twenty, sixty,
and a hundred feet in height. The palace itself (as well as he could
remember) was, in one direction, two miles long, and might have been
altogether about seven in circuit. Its walls were richly painted all over,
within and without, with hieroglyphics. He would not pretend to assert
that even fifty or sixty of the Doctor’s Capitols might have been built
within these walls, but he was by no means sure that two or three hundred
of them might not have been squeezed in with some trouble. That palace at
Carnac was an insignificant little building after all. He (the Count),
however, could not conscientiously refuse to admit the ingenuity,
magnificence, and superiority of the Fountain at the Bowling Green, as
described by the Doctor. Nothing like it, he was forced to allow, had ever
been seen in Egypt or elsewhere.
I here asked the Count what he had to say to our railroads.
“Nothing,” he replied, “in particular.” They were rather slight, rather
ill-conceived, and clumsily put together. They could not be compared, of
course, with the vast, level, direct, iron-grooved causeways upon which
the Egyptians conveyed entire temples and solid obelisks of a hundred and
fifty feet in altitude.
I spoke of our gigantic mechanical forces.
He agreed that we knew something in that way, but inquired how I should
have gone to work in getting up the imposts on the lintels of even the
little palace at Carnac.
This question I concluded not to hear, and demanded if he had any idea of
Artesian wells; but he simply raised his eyebrows; while Mr. Gliddon
winked at me very hard and said, in a low tone, that one had been recently
discovered by the engineers employed to bore for water in the Great Oasis.
I then mentioned our steel; but the foreigner elevated his nose, and asked
me if our steel could have executed the sharp carved work seen on the
obelisks, and which was wrought altogether by edge-tools of copper.
This disconcerted us so greatly that we thought it advisable to vary the
attack to Metaphysics. We sent for a copy of a book called the “Dial,” and
read out of it a chapter or two about something that is not very clear,
but which the Bostonians call the Great Movement of Progress.
The Count merely said that Great Movements were awfully common things in
his day, and as for Progress, it was at one time quite a nuisance, but it
never progressed.
We then spoke of the great beauty and importance of Democracy, and were at
much trouble in impressing the Count with a due sense of the advantages we
enjoyed in living where there was suffrage ad libitum, and no king.
He listened with marked interest, and in fact seemed not a little amused.
When we had done, he said that, a great while ago, there had occurred
something of a very similar sort. Thirteen Egyptian provinces determined
all at once to be free, and to set a magnificent example to the rest of
mankind. They assembled their wise men, and concocted the most ingenious
constitution it is possible to conceive. For a while they managed
remarkably well; only their habit of bragging was prodigious. The thing
ended, however, in the consolidation of the thirteen states, with some
fifteen or twenty others, in the most odious and insupportable despotism
that was ever heard of upon the face of the Earth.
I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant.
As well as the Count could recollect, it was Mob.
Not knowing what to say to this, I raised my voice, and deplored the
Egyptian ignorance of steam.
The Count looked at me with much astonishment, but made no answer. The
silent gentleman, however, gave me a violent nudge in the ribs with his
elbows—told me I had sufficiently exposed myself for once—and
demanded if I was really such a fool as not to know that the modern
steam-engine is derived from the invention of Hero, through Solomon de
Caus.
We were now in imminent danger of being discomfited; but, as good luck
would have it, Doctor Ponnonner, having rallied, returned to our rescue,
and inquired if the people of Egypt would seriously pretend to rival the
moderns in the all-important particular of dress.
The Count, at this, glanced downward to the straps of his pantaloons, and
then taking hold of the end of one of his coat-tails, held it up close to
his eyes for some minutes. Letting it fall, at last, his mouth extended
itself very gradually from ear to ear; but I do not remember that he said
any thing in the way of reply.
Hereupon we recovered our spirits, and the Doctor, approaching the Mummy
with great dignity, desired it to say candidly, upon its honor as a
gentleman, if the Egyptians had comprehended, at any period, the
manufacture of either Ponnonner’s lozenges or Brandreth’s pills.
We looked, with profound anxiety, for an answer—but in vain. It was
not forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed and hung down his head. Never was
triumph more consummate; never was defeat borne with so ill a grace.
Indeed, I could not endure the spectacle of the poor Mummy’s
mortification. I reached my hat, bowed to him stiffly, and took leave.
Upon getting home I found it past four o’clock, and went immediately to
bed. It is now ten A.M. I have been up since seven, penning these
memoranda for the benefit of my family and of mankind. The former I shall
behold no more. My wife is a shrew. The truth is, I am heartily sick of
this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that
every thing is going wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be
President in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave and swallow a cup of
coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner’s and get embalmed for a
couple of hundred years.
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE
In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the
essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite
for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which
best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most
definite impression. By “minor poems” I mean, of course, poems of little
length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard
to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully,
has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I
hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a long
poem,” is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it
excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of
this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem
to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of
any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it
flags—fails—a revulsion ensues—and then the poem is, in
effect, and in fact, no longer such.
There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
critical dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is to be devoutly admired
throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during
perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand.
This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losing
sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it
merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity—its
totality of effect or impression—we read it (as would be necessary)
at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of
excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
work, we read it again, omitting the first book—that is to say,
commencing with the second—we shall be surprised at now finding that
admirable which we before condemned—that damnable which we had
previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
nullity:—and this is precisely the fact.
In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very good
reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but, granting the
epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect
sense of art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, but
an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artistic
anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem _were _popular
in reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem
will ever be popular again.
That the extent of a poetical work is, _ceteris paribus, _the measure
of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
sufficiently absurd—yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size, _abstractly
considered—there can be nothing in mere _bulk, so _far as a
volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from
these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment
of physical magnitude which it conveys, _does _impress us with a
sense of the sublime—but no man is impressed after _this _fashion
by the material grandeur of even “The Columbiad.” Even the Quarterlies
have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As _yet, _they have
not _insisted _on our estimating “Lamar” tine by the cubic foot, or
Pollock by the pound—but what else are we to _infer _from their
continual plating about “sustained effort”? If, by “sustained effort,” any
little gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for
the effort—if this indeed be a thing conk mendable—but let us
forbear praising the epic on the effort’s account. It is to be hoped that
common sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
rather by the impression it makes—by the effect it produces—than
by the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of “sustained
effort” which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The
fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another—nor
can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received as
self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities,
they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue
brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now
and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or
enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon
the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and
spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous to stamp
themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers
of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind.
A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem,
in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following
exquisite little Serenade—
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me—who knows how?—
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark the silent stream—
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale’s complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on shine,
O, beloved as thou art!
O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O, press it close to shine again,
Where it will break at last.
Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines—yet no less a poet
than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
One of the finest poems by Willis—the very best in my opinion which
he has ever written—has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
The shadows lay along Broadway,
’Twas near the twilight-tide—
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk’d she; but, viewlessly,
Walk’d spirits at her side.
Peace charm’d the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charm’d the air;
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair—
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true—
For heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to won,
But honor’d well her charms to sell.
If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair—
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail—
’Twixt Want and Scorn she walk’d forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow
From this world’s peace to pray
For as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman’s heart gave way!—
But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven
By man is cursed alway!
In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who has
written so many mere “verses of society.” The lines are not only richly
ideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the other
works of this author.
While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity is
indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of the
public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded by a
heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in the
brief period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished more
in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies
combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic. _It has been
assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate
object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a
morals and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged.
We Americans especially have patronized this happy idea, and we Bostonians
very especially have developed it in full. We have taken it into our heads
that to write a poem simply for the poem’s sake, and to acknowledge such
to have been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting
in the true poetic dignity and force:—but the simple fact is that
would we but permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should
immediately there discover that under the sun there neither exists nor _can
_exist any work more thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than
this very poem, this poem _per se, _this poem which is a poem and
nothing more, this poem written solely for the poem’s sake.
With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man, I
would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation. The
demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All _that
_which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that _with
which _she _has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a
flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth
we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple,
precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must
be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the
poetical. _He _must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical
and chasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of
inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of
these differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the
obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which in the
mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that Aristotle
has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues
themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices _of the trio marked
with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns itself with
Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral Sense is
regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
displaying the charms:—waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of
her deformity—her disproportion—her animosity to the fitting,
to the appropriate, to the harmonious—in a word, to Beauty.
An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a sense
of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in the
manifold forms, and sounds, and odors and sentiments amid which he exists.
And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in
the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and
sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a duplicate source of the
light. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing,
with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of
description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and
sentiments which greet _him _in common with all mankind—he, I
say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something
in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst
unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This
thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and
an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for
the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but a wild
effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of
the glories beyond the grave, we struggle by multiform combinations among
the things and thoughts of Time to attain a portion of that Loveliness
whose very elements perhaps appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by
Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find
ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina
supposes, through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant,
impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at
once and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys of which _through’
_the poem, or _through _the music, we attain to but brief and
indeterminate glimpses.
The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness—this struggle, on
the part of souls fittingly constituted—has given to the world all
_that _which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to
understand and _to feel _as poetic.
The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes—in
Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance—very
especially in Music—and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in
the com position of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has
regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly
on the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music,
in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment
in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected—is so vitally important an
adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles—the creation of supernal
Beauty. It _may _be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and
then, attained in _fact. _We are often made to feel, with a shivering
delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot _have
been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in
the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the
widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
had advantages which we do not possess—and Thomas Moore, singing his
own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
To recapitulate then:—I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words
as _The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. _Its sole arbiter is Taste.
With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral
relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with
Duty or with Truth.
A few words, however, in explanation. _That _pleasure which is at
once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived,
I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation,
or excitement _of the soul, _which we recognize as the Poetic
Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the
satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of
the heart. I make Beauty, therefore—using the word as inclusive of
the sublime—I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because
it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as
directly as possible from their causes:—no one as yet having been
weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most
readily _attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that
the incitements of Passion’ or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons
of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they
may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper
subjection to that _Beauty _which is the atmosphere and the real
essence of the poem.
I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longfellow’s “Waif”:—
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an Eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That my soul cannot resist;
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
Nothing can be better than—
———————the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Down the corridors of Time.
The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance
_of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
sentiments, and especially for the _ease _of the general manner. This
“ease” or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
to regard as ease in appearance alone—as a point of really difficult
attainment. But not so:—a natural manner is difficult only to him
who should never meddle with it—to the unnatural. It is but the
result of writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the
tone, _in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind
would adopt—and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion.
The author who, after the fashion of “The North American Review,” should
be upon _all _occasions merely “quiet,” must necessarily upon _many
_occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
considered “easy” or “natural” than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the one
which he entitles “June.” I quote only a portion of it:—
There, through the long, long summer hours,
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale, close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife-bee and humming bird.
And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know, I know I should not see
The season’s glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me;
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs and song, and the light and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their soften’d hearts should bear
The thoughts of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is—that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.
The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous—nothing could be more
melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of all
the poet’s cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to the
soul—while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remaining
compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of a
similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we know
not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the
higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
of brilliancy and spirit as “The Health” of Edward Coate Pinckney:—
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair that, like the air,
’Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music’s own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden’d bee
Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the flagrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,—
The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life’s, but hers.
I fill’d this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon—
Her health! and would on earth there stood,
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.
It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far south. Had
he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been ranked as
the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which has so long
controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thing
called “The North American Review.” The poem just cited is especially
beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chiefly
to our sympathy in the poet’s enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the
evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits
_of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for
themselves. Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us
that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very
admirable book:—whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the
work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing
this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all
the chaff _for his reward.
Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics—but I am by
no means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
axiom, which need only be properly _put, _to become self-evident. It
is _not _excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:—and
thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to
admit that they are _not _merits altogether.
Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished character
as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude
to his lines beginning—“Come, rest in this bosom.” The intense
energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron. There
are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the _all
in all _of the divine passion of Love—a sentiment which, perhaps,
has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any
other single sentiment ever embodied in words:—
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I’ll be, ‘mid the horrors of this,—
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!
It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with Coleridge—than
whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact
is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only. _But never was there a
greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.
In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
profoundly—more weirdly _imaginative, _in the best sense, than
the lines commencing—“I would I were by that dim lake”—which
are the com. position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to
remember them.
One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy—one of the most
singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had
always for me an inexpressible charm:—
O saw ye not fair Ines?
She’s gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest;
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
O turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivalltd bright;
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek
I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier,
Who rode so gaily by thy side,
And whisper’d thee so near!
Were there no bonny dames at home
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a beauteous dream,
If it had been no more!
Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps,
And shootings of the throng;
But some were sad and felt no mirth,
But only Music’s wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you’ve loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before,—
Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shorel
The smile that blest one lover’s heart
Has broken many more!
“The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
written,—one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of
the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It
is, moreover, powerfully ideal—imaginative. I regret that its length
renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
permit me to offer the universally appreciated “Bridge of Sighs”:—
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;—
Fashion’d so slenderly,
Young and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver,
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life’s history,
Glad to death’s mystery,
Swift to be hurl’d—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it,—think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can!
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve’s family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily,
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God’s providence
Seeming estranged.
Take her up tenderly;
Lift her with care;
Fashion’d so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,—kindly,—
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perhishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest,—
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
versification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is
the thesis of the poem.
Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:—
Though the day of my destiny’s over,
And the star of my fate bath declined
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit bath painted
It never bath found but in _thee._
Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of shine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from _thee._
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain—it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn—
They may torture, but shall not subdue me—
’Tis of _thee _that I think—not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,—
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,
Nor mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one—
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
’Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error bath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of _thee._
From the wreck of the past, which bath perished,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It bath taught me that which I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of _thee._
Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
could scarcely be improved. No nobler _theme _ever engaged the pen of
poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
unwavering love of woman.
From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a very
brief specimen. I call him, and _think _him the noblest of poets, _not
_because the impressions he produces are at _all _times the most
profound—_not _because the poetical excitement which he induces
is at _all _times the most intense—but because it is at all
times the most ethereal—in other words, the most elevating and most
pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read
is from his last long poem, “The Princess”:—
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember’d kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
purpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictly and
simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the
Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul, _quite
independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart, or of
that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in regard to
passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to elevate the Soul.
Love, on the contrary—Love—the true, the divine Eros—the
Uranian as distinguished from the Diona an Venus—is unquestionably
the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth, if,
to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we are led to perceive a
harmony where none was apparent before, we experience at once the true
poetical effect; but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and
not in the least degree to the truth which merely served to render the
harmony manifest.
We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements
which induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizes the
ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in Heaven—in
the volutes of the flower—in the clustering of low shrubberies—in
the waving of the grain-fields—in the slanting of tall eastern trees—in
the blue distance of mountains—in the grouping of clouds—in
the twinkling of half-hidden brooks—in the gleaming of silver rivers—in
the repose of sequestered lakes—in the star-mirroring depths of
lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds—in the harp of
Bolos—in the sighing of the night-wind—in the repining voice
of the forest—in the surf that complains to the shore—in the
fresh breath of the woods—in the scent of the violet—in the
voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth—in the suggestive odour that
comes to him at eventide from far distant undiscovered islands, over dim
oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts—in
all unworldly motives—in all holy impulses—in all chivalrous,
generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman—in
the grace of her step—in the lustre of her eye—in the melody
of her voice—in her soft laughter, in her sigh—in the harmony
of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning
endearments—in her burning enthusiasms—in her gentle charities—in
her meek and devotional endurances—but above all—ah, far above
all, he kneels to it—he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in
the strength, in the altogether divine majesty—of her love.
Let me conclude by—the recitation of yet another brief poem—one
very different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
Motherwell, and is called “The Song of the Cavalier.” With our modern and
altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are
not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the
sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do
this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul of the old
cavalier:—
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine:
Deathe’s couriers. Fame and Honor call
No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
When the sword-hilt’s in our hand,—
Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and poling crye,
Our business is like men to fight.
OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)
It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed to
what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple love
of the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
sentiment inspired_by their writings should be ascribed to a fact
which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a
merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on being
required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he would be
apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general handling. This
quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to ideality, but in the
case in question it arises independently of the author’s will, and is
altogether apart from his intention. Words and their rhythm have varied.
Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid delight, and which delight, in
many instances, may be traced to the one source, quaintness, must have
worn in the days of their construction, a very commonplace air. This is,
of course, no argument against the poems now-we mean it only as against
the poets _thew. _There is a growing desire to overrate them. The old
English muse was frank, guileless, sincere, and although very learned,
still learned without art. No general error evinces a more thorough
confusion of ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowley
metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With
the two former ethics were the end-with the two latter the means. The poet
of the “Creation” wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he
supposed to be moral truth-the poet of the “Ancient Mariner” to infuse the
Poetic Sentiment through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished
by complete failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the
other, by a path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a
triumph which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane
eyes of the multitude. But in this view even the “metaphysical verse” of
Cowley is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the
man. And he was in this but a type of his school-for we may as well
designate in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up
in the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
perceptible general character. They used little art in composition. Their
writings sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely of that
soul’s nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of this _abandon-to
elevate _immeasurably all the energies of mind-but, again, so to mingle
the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good things, with the
lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as to render it not a
matter of doubt that the average results of mind in such a school will be
found inferior to those results in one _(ceteris _paribus) more
artificial.
We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the “Book of
Gems” are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
idea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had been merely to
show the school’s character, the attempt might have been considered
successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us of
the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of their
antiquity.. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please us.
His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His opinion,
for example, of Sir Henry Wotton’s “Verses on the Queen of Bohemia"-that
“there are few finer things in our language,” is untenable and absurd.
In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of Poesy
which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time. Here
every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No prepossession
for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no other
prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of poetry,
a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments, stitched,
apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and without
even an attempt at adaptation.
In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with “The
Shepherd’s Hunting” by Withers—a poem partaking, in a remarkable
degree, of the peculiarities of “Il Penseroso.” Speaking of Poesy the
author says:
“By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least boughs rustleling,
By a daisy whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature’s beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Something that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness—
The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves,
This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect
Walled about with disrespect;
From all these and this dull air
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.”
But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found in
Corbet’s “Farewell to the Fairies!” We copy a portion of Marvell’s “Maiden
lamenting for her Fawn,” which we prefer-not only as a specimen of the
elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in pathos,
exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness-to anything of its
species:
“It is a wondrous thing how fleet
’Twas on those little silver feet,
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race,
And when’t had left me far away
’Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For in the flaxen lilies’ shade
It like a bank of lilies laid;
Upon the roses it would feed
Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
And then to me ’twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip,
But all its chief delight was still
With roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.”
How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
pervades all.. It comes over the sweet melody of the words-over the
gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself-even over
the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the beauties
and good qualities of her favorite-like the cool shadow of a summer cloud
over a bed of lilies and violets, “and all sweet flowers.” The whole is
redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is an idea
conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness _of the little
nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on her
face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in the
few lines we have quoted the _wonder _of the little maiden at the
fleetness of her favorite-the “little silver feet”—the fawn
challenging his mistress to a race with “a pretty skipping grace,” running
on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her approach only to
fly from it again-can we not distinctly perceive all these things? How
exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
“And trod as if on the four winds!”
A vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
consider the garden of “my own,” so overgrown, entangled with roses and
lilies, as to be “a little wilderness”—the fawn loving to be there,
and there “only”—the maiden seeking it “where it _should _lie”—and
not being able to distinguish it from the flowers until “itself would
rise”—the lying among the lilies “like a bank of lilies”—the
loving to “fill itself with roses,”
“And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold,”
and these things being its “chief” delights-and then the pre-eminent
beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole only
renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence, the
artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more passionate
admiration of the bereaved child—
“Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within.”
* “Book of Gems,” Edited by S. C. Hall
POEMS
TO
THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX
THE AUTHOR OF
“THE DRAMA OF EXILE”—
TO
MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
OF ENGLAND
_I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME_
WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND WITH
THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM
1845 E.A.P.
PREFACE
These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
while going at random the “rounds of the press.” I am naturally anxious
that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me
to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or
very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me
from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier
circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has
been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in
reverence: they must not-they can not at will be excited, with an eye to
the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of man-kind.
E. A. P.
1845
POEMS OF LATER LIFE
THE RAVEN.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you “—here I opened wide the door;——
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never—nevermore.”
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplght gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
_She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent
thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—_is_ there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Published 1845.
THE BELLS.
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!—
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future!—how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet, the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy meaning of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:—
And their king it is who tolls:—
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pæan of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells—
Of the bells:—
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells:—
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells:—
To the tolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
1849.
ULALUME
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir:—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll—
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek,
In the ultimate climes of the Pole—
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the Boreal Pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—
Our memories were treacherous and sere;
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year—
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber,
(Though once we had journeyed down here)
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn—
As the star-dials hinted of morn—
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn—
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent,
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said—“She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs—
She revels in a region of sighs.
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skies—
To the Lethean peace of the skies—
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes—
Come up, through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.”
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust—
Her pallor I strangely mistrust—
Ah, hasten!—ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”
In terror she spoke; letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust—
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust—
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming.
Let us on, by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybillic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night—
See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright—
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista—
But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb:—
And I said—“What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume—
‘T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere—
As the leaves that were withering and sere—
And I cried—“It was surely October
On _this_ very night of last year,
That I journeyed—I journeyed down here!—
That I brought a dread burden down here—
On this night, of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—
This misty mid region of Weir:—
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”
1847.
TO HELEN
I saw thee once—once only—years ago:
I must not say how many—but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world an slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked-
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All—all expired save thee—save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them—they were the world to me!
I saw but them—saw only them for hours,
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition; yet how deep-
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained;
They would not go—they never yet have gone;
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since;
They follow me—they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers—yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle—
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still—two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
ANNABEL LEE.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;—
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
_I_ was a child and _She_ was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my ANNABEL LEE—
With a love that the wingéd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my ANNABEL LEE;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up, in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling
And killing my ANNABEL LEE.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:—
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the side of the sea.
1849.
A VALENTINE.
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure
Divine—a talisman—an amulet
That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure—
The words—the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—
Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best _you_ can do.
1846.
[To discover the names in this and the following poem read the first
letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth
and so on to the end.]
AN ENIGMA
“Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce,
“Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet—
Trash of all trash!—how _can_ a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.”
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles—ephemeral and _so_ transparent—
But _this_ is, now,—you may depend upon it—
Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within ‘t.
1847. TO MY MOTHER
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
1849.
[The above was addressed to the poet’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm—Ed.]
FOR ANNIE
Thank Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
_That_ torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead:—
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
1849.
TO F——.
Beloved! amid the earnest woes
That crowd around my earthly path—
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose)—
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.
And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuos sea—
Some ocean throbbing far and free
With storms—but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
Just o’re that one bright island smile.
1845.
TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love—a simple duty.
1845.
ELDORADO.
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old—
This knight so bold—
And o’er his heart a shadow
Fell, as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
‘Shadow,’ said he,
‘Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?’
‘Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,’
The shade replied,—
‘If you seek for Eldorado!’
1849.
EULALIE
I DWELT alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less—less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
And never a flake
That the vapour can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl—
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl.
Now Doubt—now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarté within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
1845.
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less _gone_?
_All_ that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
_One_ from the pitiless wave?
Is _all_ that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?.
1849
TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning—
Of all to whom thine absence is the night—
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope—for life—ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth—in Virtue—in Humanity—
Of all who, on Despair’s unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, “Let there be light!”
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes—
Of all who owe thee most—whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship—oh, remember
The truest—the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him—
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel’s.
1847.
TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words-two foreign soft dissyllables—
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”—
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wider, far diviner visions
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures”)
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I can not write-I can not speak or think—
Alas, I can not feel; for ’tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates-_thee only!_
1848.
THE CITY IN THE SEA.
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Wherethe good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of scultured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye—
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave—there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrown aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
1845.
THE SLEEPER.
At midnight in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top.
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the univeral valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her easement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
‘Neath which thy slumb’ring sould lies hid,
That o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thous no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come p’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone—
Some tomb fromout whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
1845.
BRIDAL BALLAD.
THE ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell—
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed _his_ who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.
But he spoke to re-asure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o’re me,
And to the church-yard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D’Elormie,
“Oh, I am happy now!”
And thus the words were spoken,
And this the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Behold the golden token
That _proves_ me happy now!
Would God I could awaken!
For I dream I know not how,
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,—
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.
1845.
NOTES
1. “The Raven” was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
York “Evening Mirror"-a paper its author was then assistant editor of. It
was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written by N.
P. Willis: “We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the
second number of the “American Review,” the following remarkable poem by
Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
‘fugitive poetry’ ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification,
and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and ‘pokerishness.’ It is
one of those ‘dainties bred in a book’ which we feed on. It will stick to
the memory of everybody who reads it.” In the February number of the
“American Review” the poem was published as by “Quarles,” and it was
introduced by the following note, evidently suggested if not written by
Poe himself.
[“The following lines from a correspondent-besides the deep, quaint strain
of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some ludicrous touches
amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless intended by the
author-appears to us one of the most felicitous specimens of unique
rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The resources of English
rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and sound, producing
corresponding diversities of effect, having been thoroughly studied, much
more perceived, by very few poets in the language. While the classic
tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, several
advantages for versification over our own, chiefly through greater
abundance of spondaic: feet, we have other and very great advantages of
sound by the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is nearly the only effect
of that kind which the ancients had in common with us. It will be seen
that much of the melody of ‘The Raven’ arises from alliteration, and the
studious use of similar sounds in unusual places. In regard to its
measure, it may be noted that if all the verses were like the second, they
might properly be placed merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon
form; but the presence in all the others of one line-mostly the second in
the verse” (stanza?)—“which flows continuously, with only an
aspirate pause in the middle, like that before the short line in the
Sapphic Adonic, while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of
sound with any part besides, gives the versification an entirely different
effect. We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
better understood.”—ED. “Am. Rev.”]
2. The bibliographical history of “The Bells” is curious. The subject, and
some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet’s
friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
headed it, “The Bells, By Mrs. M. A. Shew.” This draft, now the editor’s
property, consists of only seventeen lines, and read thus:
I.
The bells!-ah, the bells!
The little silver bells!
How fairy-like a melody there floats
From their throats—
From their merry little throats—
From the silver, tinkling throats
Of the bells, bells, bells—
Of the bells!
II.
The bells!-ah, the bells!
The heavy iron bells!
How horrible a monody there floats
From their throats—
From their deep-toned throats—
From their melancholy throats!
How I shudder at the notes Of the bells, bells, bells—
Of the bells!
In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it to
the editor of the “Union Magazine.” It was not published. So, in the
following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current version,
was sent, and in the following October was published in the “Union
Magazine.”
3. This poem was first published in Colton’s “American Review” for
December, 1847, as “To—Ulalume: a Ballad.” Being reprinted
immediately in the “Home Journal,” it was copied into various publications
with the name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to
him. When first published, it contained the following additional stanza
which Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman, wisely
suppressed:
Said we then—we two, then—“Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—
To bar up our path and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds—
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls—
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls?”
4. “To Helen!” (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published until November,
1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
“Union Magazine,” and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or
desire of Poe, of the line, “Oh, God! oh, Heaven—how my heart beats
in coupling those two words.”
5. “Annabel Lee” was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
of the poet’s undying love for his deceased bride, although at least one
of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
copy of the ballad to the “Union Magazine,” in which publication it
appeared in January, 1850, three months after the author’s death. While
suffering from “hope deferred” as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
“Annabel Lee” to the editor of the “Southern Literary Messenger,” who
published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after Poe’s
death. In the meantime the poet’s own copy, left among his papers, passed
into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he quoted the
poem in an obituary of Poe, in the New York “Tribune,” before any one else
had an opportunity of publishing it.
6. “A Valentine,” one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
have been written early in 1846.
7. “An Enigma,” addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewis (“Stella”), was sent to
that lady in a letter, in November, 1847, and the following March appeared
in Sartain’s “Union Magazine.”
8. The sonnet, “To My Mother” (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
the short-lived “Flag of our Union,” early in 1849,’ but does not appear
to have been issued until after its author’s death, when it appeared in
the “Leaflets of Memory” for 1850.
9. “For Annie” was first published in the “Flag of our Union,” in the
spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the “Home Journal.”
10. “To F——” (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the
“Broadway journal” for April, 1845. These lines are but slightly varied
from those inscribed “To Mary,” in the “Southern Literary Messenger” for
July, 1835, and subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed,
in “Graham’s Magazine” for March, 1842, as “To One Departed.”
11. “To F——s S. O—d,” a portion of the poet’s triune
tribute to Mrs. Osgood, was published in the “Broadway Journal” for
September, 1845. The earliest version of these lines appeared in the
“Southern Literary Messenger” for September, 1835, as “Lines written in an
Album,” and was addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor’s daughter.
Slightly revised, the poem reappeared in Burton’s “Gentleman’s Magazine”
for August, 1839, as “To—.”
12. Although “Eldorado” was published during Poe’s lifetime, in 1849, in
the “Flag of our Union,” it does not appear to have ever received the
author’s finishing touches.
POEMS OF MANHOOD
LENORE
Ah broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy De Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?—weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
“And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died!
“How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung
“By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue
“That did to death the innocent that died, and died so young?”
_Peccavimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel so wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride—
For her, the fair and _debonair_, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—
The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.
“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
“But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!
“Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
“Should catch the note, as it doth float—up from the damned Earth.
“To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—
“From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—
“From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”
TO ONE IN PARADISE.
Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!”—but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o’er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.
1835.
THE COLISEUM.
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length—at length—after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—
O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wanlight—wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—
These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—
These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“not all!
“Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
“From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
“As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
“We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
“With a despotic sway all giant minds.
“We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
“Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
“Not all the magic of our high renown—
“Not all the wonder that encircles us—
“Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
“Not all the memories that hang upon
“And cling around about us as a garment,
“Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
1833.
THE HAUNTED PALACE.
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odour went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute’s well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never sorrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, lie a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh—but smile no more.
1838.
THE CONQUEROR WORM.
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
1838.
SILENCE
There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a two-fold _Silence_—sea and shore—
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o’ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name’s “No More.”
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!
1840.
DREAM-LAND
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE—out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titian woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,—
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—
By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the grey woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’Tis—oh ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
1844.
HYMN
At morn—at noon—at twilight dim—
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo—in good and ill—
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
1835.
TO ZANTE
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No _more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
Transfomring all! Thy charms shall please _no more_—
Thy memory _no more! _Accursed ground
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
“Isoa d’oro! Fior di Levante!”
1837.
SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”
AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
I.
Rome.—A Hall in a Palace Alessandra and Castiglione.
Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione.
Castiglione. Sad!—not I.
Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
Thy happiness!—what ails thee, cousin of mine?
Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
Cas. Did I sign?
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly—a most silly fashion I have
When I am very happy. Did I sigh? (sighing.)
Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these
Will ruin thee! thou art already altered—
Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.
Cas. (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep
sorrow—
Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.
Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born—
Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir
And Alessandra’s husband.
Cas. I will drop them.
Aless. Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more
To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain
For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends
Upon appearances.
Cas. I’ll see to it.
Aless. Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,
To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest
In dignity.
Cas. Much, much, oh! much I want
In proper dignity.
Aless.(haughtily) Thou mockest me, sir!
Cas. (abstractedly.) Sweet, gentle Lalage!
Aless. Heard I aright?
I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage!
Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming?
he’s not well!
What ails thee, sir?
Cas. (startling.) Cousin! fair cousin!—madam!
I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!
Enter Di Broglio.
Di Broglio. My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey?—what’s the
matter? (observing Alessandra)
I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
I’ve news for you both. Politian is expected
Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester!
We’ll have him at the wedding. ’Tis his first visit
To the imperial city.
Aless. What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
Di Brog. The same, my love.
We’ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy
Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We’ll have him at the wedding.
Aless. I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not?
And little given to thinking.
Di Brog. Far from it, love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
Learned as few are learned.
Aless. ’Tis very strange!
I have known men have seen Politian
And sought his company. They speak of him
As of one who entered madly into life,
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
Cas. Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian
And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he.
He is a dreamer and a man shut out
From common passions.
Di Brog. Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a melancholy man? (exeunt.)
II
ROME. A Lady’s apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a
hand mirror. In the background Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly
upon a chair.
Lal. [Lalage] Jacinta! is it thou?
Jac. [Jacinta] (pertly.) Yes, Ma’am, I’m here.
Lal. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
Sit down!—Let not my presence trouble you—
Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble.
Jac. (aside.) ’Tis time.
(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her
elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look.
Lalage continues to read. )
Lal. “It in another climate, so he said,
“Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”
(pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes)
“No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—
“But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
“Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.”
O, beautiful!—most beautiful—how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
O happy land (pauses) She died!—the maiden died!
A still more happy maiden who couldst die!
Jacinta!
(Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.)
Again!—a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—
“She died full young”—one Bossola answers him—
“I think not so—her infelicity
“Seemed to have years too many”—Ah luckless lady!
Jacinta! (still no answer)
Here ‘s a far sterner story,
But like—oh, very like in its despair—
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts—losing at length her own.
She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids
Lean over and weep—two gentle maids
With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion!
Rainbow and Dove!——Jacinta!
Jac. (pettishly.) Madam, what is it?
Lal. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
As go down in the library and bring me
The Holy Evangelists.
Jac. Pshaw! (exit.)
Lal. If there be balm
For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there!
Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
Will there be found—“dew sweeter far than that
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.”
(re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.)
There, ma’am, ‘s the book. Indeed she is very troublesome. (aside.)
Lal. (astonished.) What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught
To grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry.
For thou hast served me long and ever been
Trust-worthy and respectful. (resumes her reading.)
Jac. I can’t believe
She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all. (aside.)
Lal. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
How fares good Ugo?—and when is it to be?
Can I do aught?—is there no farther aid
Thou needest, Jacinta?
Jac. Is there no farther aid!
That’s meant for me. (aside) I’m sure, madam, you need not
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
Lal. Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta,
I thought not of the jewels.
Jac. Oh! perhaps not!
But then I might have sworn it. After all,
There ‘s Ugo says the ring is only paste,
For he ‘s sure the Count Castiglione never
Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
And at the best I’m certain, Madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it. (exit.)
(Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—after a
short pause raises it.)
Lal. Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this?
Thy servant maid!—but courage!—’tis but a viper
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
(taking up the mirror)
Ha! here at least ‘s a friend—too much a friend
In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee.
Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not
Though it be rife with woe: It answers me.
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
And Beauty long deceased—remembers me
Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope,
Inurned and entombed:—now, in a tone
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true—thou liest not!
Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break—
Castiglione lied who said he loved—
Thou true—he false!—false!—false!
(While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and approaches
unobserved.)
Monk. Refuge thou hast,
Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
Lal. (arising hurriedly.) I cannot pray!—My soul is at war
with God!
The frightful sounds of merriment below
Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray—
The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!
Monk. Think of thy precious soul!
Lal. Think of my early days!—think of my father
And mother in Heaven think of our quiet home,
And the rivulet that ran before the door!
Think of my little sisters!—think of them!
And think of me!—think of my trusting love
And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think
Of my unspeakable misery!—begone!
Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer
And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
And vows before the throne?
Monk. I did.
Lal. Lal. ’Tis well.
There is a vow were fitting should be made—
A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
A solemn vow!
Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well!
Lal. Father, this zeal is anything but well!
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
A crucifix whereon to register
This sacred vow? (he hands her his own)
Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no! (shuddering)
Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man,
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,—
I have a crucifix Methinks ’twere fitting
The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed—
And the deed’s register should tally, father!
(draws a cross-handled dagger, and raises it on high)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in Heaven!
Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter,
And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid—
Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine!
Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash!
Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not!
Lal. ’Tis sworn!
III.
An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar.
Baldazzar.———Arouse thee now, Politian!
Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, shalt not
Give away unto these humors. Be thyself!
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
And live, for now thou diest!
Politian. Not so, Baldazzar! Surely I live.
Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus.
Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend.
Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my, forefathers I did inherit,
Which with my mother’s milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir!
Bal. To the field, then—to the field—
To the senate or the field.
Pol. Alas! Alas!
There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp hath followed me even there!
There is—what voice was that?
Bal. I heard it not.
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.
Pol. Then I but dreamed.
Bal. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp—the court,
Befit thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls—
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.
Pol. It is a phantom voice!
Didst thou not hear it then?
Bal. I heard it not.
Pol. Thou heardst it not!—Baldazaar, speak no more
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile!
We have been boys together—schoolfellows—
And now are friends—yet shall not be so long—
For in the eternal city thou shalt do me
A kind and gentle office, and a Power—
A Power august, benignant and supreme—
Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
Unto thy friend.
Bal. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
I will not understand.
Pol. Yet now as Fate
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
I cannot die, having within my heart
So keen a relish for the beautiful
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
Is balmier now than it was wont to be—
Rich melodies are floating in the winds—
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth—
And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
Sitteth in Heaven.—Hist! hist! thou canst not say
Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar?
Bal. Indeed I hear not.
Pol. Not hear it!—listen now!—listen!—the faintest sound
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
A lady’s voice!—and sorrow in the tone!
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
Again!—again!—how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
Surely I never heard—yet it were well
Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
In earlier days!
Bal. I myself hear it now.
Be still!—the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
Proceeds from yonder lattice—which you may see
Very plainly through the window—it belongs,
Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
The singer is undoubtedly beneath
The roof of his Excellency—and perhaps
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
As the betrothed of Castiglione,
His son and heir.
Pol. Be still!—it comes again!
Voice “And is thy heart so strong
(very faintly) As for to leave me thus
Who hath loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay—say nay!”
Bal. The song is English, and I oft have heard it
In merry England—never so plaintively—
Hist! hist! it comes again!
Voice “Is it so strong
(more loudly) As for to leave me thus
Who hath loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay—say nay!”
Bal. ’Tis hushed and all is still!
Pol. All is not still!
Bal. Let us go down.
Pol. Go down, Baldazzar, go!
Bal. The hour is growing late—the Duke awaits use—
Thy presence is expected in the hall
Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
Voice “Who hath loved thee so long
(distinctly) In wealth and woe among,
And is thy heart so strong?
Say nay—say nay!”
Bal. Let us descend!—’tis time. Politian, give
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember
Pol. Remember? I do. Lead on! I do remember.
(going.)
Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice—
“To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
Once more that silent tongue.”
Bal. Let me beg you, sir,
Descend with me—the Duke may be offended.
Let us go down, I pray you.
(Voice loudly) Say nay!—say nay!
Pol. (aside) ’Tis strange!—’tis very strange—methought the
voice
Chimed in with my desires, and bade me stay!
(approaching the window.)
Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate,
Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
Apology unto the Duke for me;
I go not down to-night.
Bal. Your lordship’s pleasure
Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
Pol. Good-night, my friend, good-night.
IV.
The gardens of a Palace—Moonlight Lalage and Politian.
Lalge. And dost thou speak of love
To me, Politian?—dost thou speak of love
To Lalage?—ah, woe—ah, woe is me!
This mockery is most cruel—most cruel indeed!
Politian. Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears
Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage—
Be comforted! I know—I know it all,
And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest
And beautiful Lalage!—turn here thine eyes!
Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
Thou askest me that—and thus I answer thee—
Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (kneeling.)
Sweet Lalage, I love thee—love thee—love thee;
Thro’ good and ill—thro’ weal and wo I love thee.
Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
Not on God’s altar, in any time or clime,
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
Within my spirit for thee. And do I love? (arising.)
Even for thy woes I love thee—even for thy woes-
Thy beauty and thy woes.
Lal. Alas, proud Earl,
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
How, in thy father’s halls, among the maidens
Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
Thy wife, and with a tainted memory-
MY seared and blighted name, how would it tally
With the ancestral honors of thy house,
And with thy glory?
Pol. Speak not to me of glory!
I hate—I loathe the name; I do abhor
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
Art thou not Lalage and I Politian?
Do I not love—art thou not beautiful-
What need we more? Ha! glory!—now speak not of it.
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn-
By all my wishes now—my fears hereafter-
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven-
There is no deed I would more glory in,
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
And trample it under foot. What matters it-
What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
That we go down unhonored and forgotten
Into the dust—so we descend together.
Descend together—and then—and then, perchance-
Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
Pol. And then, perchance
Arise together, Lalage, and roam
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
And still-
Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
Pol. And still together—together.
Lal. Now Earl of Leicester!
Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts
I feel thou lovest me truly.
Pol. Oh, Lalage!
(throwing himself upon his knee.)
And lovest thou me?
Lal. Hist! hush! within the gloom
Of yonder trees methought a figure passed-
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless-
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
(walks across and returns.)
I was mistaken—’twas but a giant bough
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
Pol. My Lalage—my love! why art thou moved?
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience’ self,
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
Is chilly—and these melancholy boughs
Throw over all things a gloom.
Lal. Politian!
Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
With which all tongues are busy—a land new found—
Miraculously found by one of Genoa—
A thousand leagues within the golden west?
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
Of Heaven untrammelled flow—which air to breathe
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
In days that are to come?
Pol. O, wilt thou—wilt thou
Fly to that Paradise—my Lalage, wilt thou
Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
And life shall then be mine, for I will live
For thee, and in thine eyes—and thou shalt be
No more a mourner—but the radiant Joys
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
My all;—oh, wilt thou—wilt thou, Lalage,
Fly thither with me?
Lal. A deed is to be done—
Castiglione lives!
Pol. And he shall die! (exit)
Lal. (after a pause.) And—he—shall—die!—alas!
Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian!
Thou art not gone—thou are not gone, Politian!
I feel thou art not gone—yet dare not look,
Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go
With those words upon thy lips—O, speak to me!
And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word,
To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence,
To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate
My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone-
O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go!
I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.
Villain, thou art not gone—thou mockest me!
And thus I clutch thee—thus!—He is gone, he is gone
Gone—gone. Where am I?—’tis well—’tis very well!
So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure,
’Tis well, ’tis very well—alas! alas!
V.
The suburbs. Politian alone.
Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint,
And much I fear me ill—it will not do
To die ere I have lived!—Stay, stay thy hand,
O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!
O pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
Give me to live yet—yet a little while:
’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late
Demanded but to die!—what sayeth the Count?
Enter Baldazzar.
Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
Between the Earl Politian and himself.
He doth decline your cartel.
Pol. What didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen!—what said the Count?
Bal. That he, Castiglione’ not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
Cannot accept the challenge.
Pol. It is most true—
All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say?
Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:
The Count Castiglione will not fight,
Having no cause for quarrel.
Pol. Now this is true-
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do me
A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain?—thus much, I prythee, say
Unto the Count—it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.
Bal. My lord!—my friend!-
Pol. (aside.) ’Tis he!—he comes himself? (aloud) Thou reasonest
well.
I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message-
Well!—I will think of it—I will not send it.
Now prythee, leave me—hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.
Bal. I go—to-morrow we meet,
Do we not?—at the Vatican.
Pol. At the Vatican. (exit
Bal.)
Enter Castigilone.
Cas. The Earl of Leicester here!
Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not? that I am here.
Cas. My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake—misunderstanding—
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am I right?
’Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we all
Do err at times.
Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
Cas. Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl! (draws.)
Pol. (drawing.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!
Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage)
Of Lalage!
Hold off—thy sacred hand!—avaunt, I say!
Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed I dare not.
Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus?—now this is well;
Didst say thou darest not? Ha!
Cas. I dare not—dare not—
Hold off thy hand—with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—
I cannot—dare not.
Pol. Now by my halidom
I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe thee!
Cas. Ha!—coward!—this may not be!
(clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but his purpose
is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of
the Earl)
Alas! my lord,
It is—it is—most true. In such a cause
I am the veriest coward. O pity me!
Pol. (greatly softened.) Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee.
Cas. And Lalage-
Pol. Scoundrel!—arise and die!
Cas. It needeth not be—thus—thus—O let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home—
(baring his bosom.)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon-
Strike home. I will not fight thee.
Pol. Now, s’ Death and Hell!
Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir,
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets—before
The eyes of the citizens. I’ll follow thee
Like an avenging spirit I’ll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest-
Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain,—I’ll taunt thee,
Dost hear? with cowardice—thou wilt not fight me?
Thou liest! thou shalt! (exit.)
Cas. Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
{In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29.
—ED}
NOTE
29. Such portions of “Politian” as are known to the public first saw the
light of publicity in the “Southern Literary Messenger” for December,
1835, and January, 1836, being styled “Scenes from Politian: an
unpublished drama.” These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
collection of Poems, by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
considered just to the poet’s memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
and unrevised production of its author’s earlier days of literary labor;
and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
Castiglione her betrothed.
Duke. Why do you laugh?
Castiglione. Indeed
I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember!
We were walking in the garden.
Duke, Perfectly.
I do remember it-what of it-what then?
Cas. 0 nothing-nothing at all.
Duke. Nothing at all!
It is most singular that you should laugh
‘At nothing at all!
Cas. Most singular-singular!
Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind
As tell me, sir, at once what ’tis you mean.
What are you talking of?
Cas. Was it not so?
We differed in opinion touching him.
Duke. Him!—Whom?
Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes!—is it he you mean?
We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
The words you used were that the Earl you knew
Was neither learned nor mirthful.
Cas. Ha! ha!—now did I?
Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
You were wrong, it being not the character
Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be
A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
Too positive again.
Cas. ’Tis singular!
Most singular! I could not think it possible
So little time could so much alter one!
To say the truth about an hour ago,
As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
All arm in arm, we met this very man
The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,
Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!
Such an account he gave me of his journey!
’Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told
Of his caprices and his merry freaks
Along the road-such oddity-such humor—
Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment
Set off too in such full relief by the grave
Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,
Was gravity itself—
Duke. Did I not tell you?
Cas. You did-and yet ’tis strange! but true as strange,
How much I was mistaken! I always thought
The Earl a gloomy man.
Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
It can not be the Earl?
Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! ’Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning
Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!
(Enter Politian and Baldazzar.)
My lord, a second welcome let me give you
To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily.]
That, his friend
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
So please you, for Your Grace.
Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome
To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
Most seasonable. The wedding—
Politian. Touching those letters, sir,
Your son made mention of—your son, is he not?
Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here—
Baldazzar! ah!—my friend Baldazzar here
Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
Duke. Retire!—So soon?
Came What ho! Benito! Rupert!
His lordship’s chambers-show his lordship to them!
His lordship is unwell. (Enter Benito.)
Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian.)
Duke. Retire! Unwell!
Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me
’Tis as you say—his lordship is unwell.
The damp air of the evening-the fatigue
Of a long journey—the—indeed I had better
Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
I will return anon.
Duke. Return anon!
Now this is very strange! Castiglione!
This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
You surely were mistaken in what you said
Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!—which of us said
Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt.)
POEMS OF YOUTH
INTRODUCTION TO POEMS—1831
_LETTER TO MR. B—._
“WEST POINT, 1831.
“Dear B......... Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy
a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
‘Al Aaraaf’ and ‘Tamerlane’ with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor have
I hesitated to insert from the ‘Minor Poems,’ now omitted, whole lines,
and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and the
trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they may have some
chance of being seen by posterity.
“It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one who
is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and _mine _of
poetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just the
critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are but few
B-’s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world’s good opinion
as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here observe,
‘Shakespeare is in possession of the world’s good opinion, and yet
Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world judge
correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?’ The
difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word ‘judgment’ or ‘opinion.’
The opinion is the world’s, truly, but it may be called theirs as a man
would call a book his, having bought it; he did not write the book, but it
is his; they did not originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for
example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet-yet the fool has never read
Shakespeare. But the fool’s neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of
the mind, whose head (that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far
above the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean
his everyday actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means
of which that superiority is ascertained, which but for them would never
have been discovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great
poet—the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion.
_This neighbor’s own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one
above him, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel
around the summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands
upon the pinnacle.
“You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer. He
is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit of
the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law or
empire-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the mystic
characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so many
letters of recommendation.
“I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent would
be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet would, I
grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would infallibly bias his
little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is indeed a poet, could not,
I think, fail of making-a just critique; whatever should be deducted on
the score of self-love might be replaced on account of his intimate
acquaintance with the subject; in short, we have more instances of false
criticism than of just where one’s own writings are the test, simply
because we have more bad poets than good. There are, of course, many
objections to what I say: Milton is a great example of the contrary; but
his opinion with respect to the ‘Paradise Regained’ is by no means fairly
ascertained. By what trivial circumstances men are often led to assert
what they do not really believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended
to posterity. But, in fact, the ‘Paradise Regained’ is little, if at all,
inferior to the ‘Paradise Lost,’ and is only supposed so to be because men
do not like epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and, reading
those of Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the
first to derive any pleasure from the second.
“I dare say Milton preferred ‘Comus’ to either-. if so-justly.
“As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
the most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy of what is
called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have been
induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal refutation
of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of supererogation. The
wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and Southey, but,
being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically exemplifled.
“Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
philosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is, or
should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our existence
is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our existence,
everything connected with our existence, should be still happiness.
Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and happiness is
another name for pleasure;-therefore the end of instruction should be
pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion implies precisely the
reverse.
“To proceed: _ceteris paribus,_ he who pleases is of more importance
to his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the means
of obtaining.
“I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume themselves
so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they refer to
instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere respect for
their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for their judgment;
contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since their writings are
professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the many who stand in
need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt be tempted to think of
the devil in ‘Melmoth.’ who labors indefatigably, through three octavo
volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls, while any
common devil would have demolished one or two thousand.
“Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study-not a passion-it
becomes the metaphysician to reason-but the poet to protest.
Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in
contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination-intellect
with the passions-or age with poetry.
“‘Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls must dive below,’
are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth lies
in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpable palaces
where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding—the
goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith—that moral
mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of
a man.
“We see an instance of Coleridge’s liability to err, in his ‘Biographia
Literaria’—professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact,
a treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. _He goes wrong by
reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in
the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely
sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray-while he who
surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
useful to us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.
“As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
feelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in
his writings-(and delicacy is the poet’s own kingdom-his _El Dorado)-but
they _have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at
best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know that a few
straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier.
“He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently is
too correct. This may not be understood-but the old Goths of Germany would
have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to their
State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that they might
not be deficient in formality—drunk lest they should be destitute of
vigor.
“The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration
of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full of such
assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at random)—‘Of
genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done,
and what was never done before;’-indeed? then it follows that in doing
what is unworthy to be done, or what _has _been done before, no
genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act,
pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pickpocket,
in point of genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with William
Wordsworth, the poet.
“Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian’s
or Macpherson’s can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to
prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the
controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds descend to such
absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor
of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the
beginning of the epic poem ‘Temora.’ ‘The blue waves of Ullin roll in
light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty heads
in the breeze.’ And this this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where all is
alive and panting with immortality-this, William Wordsworth, the author of
‘Peter Bell,’ has _selected _for his contempt. We shall see what
better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
“‘And now she’s at the pony’s tail,
And now she’s at the pony’s head,
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty shed....
She pats the pony, where or when
She knows not.... happy Betty Foy!
Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!’
Secondly:
“‘The dew was falling fast, the-stars began to blink;
I heard a voice: it said-“Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
And, looking o’er the hedge, be-fore me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a-maiden at its side.
No other sheep was near,—the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was-tether’d to a stone.’
“Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we will believe it, indeed we
will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a
sheep from the bottom of my heart.
“But there are occasions, dear B-, there are occasions when even
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
extract from his preface:-
“‘Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modem writers, if
they persist in reading this book to a conclusion _(impossible!) will,
_no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!)
they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will be induced to
inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to
assume that title.’ Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
“Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and the
bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a
tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
“Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His towering intellect!
his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself, _‘Tai trouvé
souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce
qu’elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu’elles nient,’ and _to employ
his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he
has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a
mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its
perfume upon the night alone. In reading that man’s poetry, I tremble like
one who stands upon a volcano, conscious from the very darkness bursting
from the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.
“What is poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! ‘Give me,’ I demanded of a
scholar some time ago, ‘give me a definition of poetry.’ _‘Trèsvolontiers;’
_and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr. Johnson, and
overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal Shakespeare! I
imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity of
that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B-, think of poetry, and
then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of all that is airy and
fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and unwieldy; think of his
huge bulk, the Elephant! and then-and then think of the ‘Tempest’—the
‘Midsummer-Night’s Dream’—Prospero Oberon—and Titania!
“A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for its
_immediate _object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
its object, an _indefinite _instead of a _definite _pleasure,
being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
perceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations, to
which end music is an _essential, since _the comprehension of sweet
sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the
idea, wi thout the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
“What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his soul?
“To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B—, what you, no doubt,
perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
contempt. That they have followers proves nothing-
“‘No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.
SONNET—TO SCIENCE
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thous not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
AL AARAAF (*)
PART I.
O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty’s eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy—
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill—
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy’s voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell—
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours—
Yet all the beauty—all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers—
Adorn yon world afar, afar—
The wandering star.
’Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns—a temporary rest—
An oasis in desert of the blest.
* A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
suddenly in the heavens—attained, in a few days, a
brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter—then as suddenly
disappeared, and has never been seen since.
Away—away—‘mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o’er th’ unchained soul—
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin’d eminence—
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
And late to ours, the favour’d one of God—
But, now, the ruler of an anchor’d realm,
She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro’ many a startled star,
Like woman’s hair ‘mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She look’d into Infinity—and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled—
Fit emblems of the model of her world—
Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light—
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal’d air in color bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear’d the head
*On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of—deep pride—
**Of her who lov’d a mortal—and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Uprear’d its purple stem around her knees:
* On Santa Maura—olim Deucadia.
**And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam’d—
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham’d
All other loveliness: its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp’d from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten’d, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
**And Clytia pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
***And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth—
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
* This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.
** Clytia—The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
better-known term, the turnsol—which continually turns
towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from
which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh its
flowers during the most violent heat of the day.—_B. de St.
Pierre_.
*** There is cultivated in the king’s garden at Paris, a
species of serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large
and beautiful flower exhales a strong odour of the vanilla,
during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It
does not blow till towards the month of July—you then
perceive it gradually open its petals—expand them—fade
and die.—_St. Pierre_.
*And Valisnerian lotus thither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
**And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante!
***And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river—
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
****To bear the Goddess’ song, in odors, up to Heaven:
“Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue—
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar—
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride, and from their throne
To be drudges till the last—
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part—
* There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of
three or four feet—thus preserving its head above water
in the swellings of the river.
** The Hyacinth.
*** It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first
seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges—and
that he still loves the cradle of his childhood.
**** And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of the saints.
—Rev. St. John.
Who livest—_that_ we know—
In Eternity—we feel—
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho’ the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream’d for thy Infinity
*A model of their own—
Thy will is done, Oh, God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro’ many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to thee—
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne—
* The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
having a really human form.—_Vide Clarke’s Sermons_, vol.
1, page 26, fol. edit.
The drift of Milton’s argument, leads him to employ language
which would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their
doctrine; but it will be seen immediately, that he guards
himself against the charge of having adopted one of the most
ignorant errors of the dark ages of the church.—_Dr.
Sumner’s Notes on Milton’s Christian Doctrine_.
This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary,
could never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of
Mesopotamia, was condemned for the opinion, as heretical. He
lived in the beginning of the fourth century. His disciples
were called Anthropmorphites.—_Vide Du Pin_.
Among Milton’s poems are these lines:—
Dicite sacrorum præsides nemorum Deæ, &c.
Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,
Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.—And afterwards,
Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit
Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, &c.
*By winged Fantasy,
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven.”
She ceas’d—and buried then her burning cheek
Abash’d, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervour of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr’d not—breath’d not—for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.”
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
“Silence”—which is the merest word of all.
All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings—
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky!
** “What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run,
Link’d to a little system, and one sun—
Where all my love is folly and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath—
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho’ in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
* Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
Seinem Schosskinde
Der Phantasie.—_Göethe_.
** Sightless—too small to be seen—_Legge_.
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven.
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky—
*Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be
To ev’ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!”
Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve!—on Earth we plight
Our faith to one love—and one moon adore—
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain
**Her way—but left not yet her Therasæan reign.
* I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies;
—they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
centre, into innumerable radii.
** Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of
astonished mariners.
Part II.
HIGH on a mountain of enamell’d head—
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter’d “hope to be forgiven”
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven—
Of rosy head, that towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of night,
While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light—
Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’d air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
*Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die—
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown—
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look’d out above into the purple air,
* Some star which, from the ruin’d roof Of shak’d Olympus,
by mischance, did fall.—_Milton._
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow’d all the beauty twice again,
Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapp’d his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that greyish green
That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave
Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave—
And every sculptur’d cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peeréd out
Seem’d earthly in the shadow of his niche—
Achaian statues in a world so rich?
*Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis—
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
**Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave
Is now upon thee—but too late to save!
Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the grey twilight
* Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, “Je connois
bien l’admiration qu’inspirent ces ruines—mais un palais
erigé au pied d’une chaine des rochers sterils—peut il
être un chef d’oevure des arts!” [_Voila les arguments de M.
Voltaire_.]
** “Oh! the wave”—Ula Degusi is the Turkish appellation;
but, on its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or
Almotanah. There were undoubtedly more than two cities
engluphed in the “dead sea.” In the valley of Siddim were
five—Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of
Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteeen, (engulphed)
—but the last is out of all reason.
It is said, (Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau,
Maundrell, Troilo, D’Arvieux) that after an excessive drought, the
vestiges of columns, walls, &c. are seen above the surface. At _any_
season, such remains may be discovered by looking down into the
transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the existence of
many settlements in the space now usurped by the ‘Asphaltites.’
*That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago—
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim.
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud—
***Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?
But what is this?—it cometh—and it brings
A music with it—’tis the rush of wings—
A pause—and then a sweeping, falling strain
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe
She paus’d and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss’d her golden hair
And long’d to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
***Young flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night—and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
Yet silence came upon material things—
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings—
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
* Eyraco—Chaldea.
** I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
the darkness as it stole over the horizon.
*** Fairies use flowers for their charactery.—_Merry Wives
of Windsor_. [William Shakespeare]
“’Neath blue-bell or streamer—
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
*The moonbeam away—
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro’ the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like—eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now—
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours—
And shake from your tresses
Encumber’d with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too—
(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true love
That lull’d ye to rest!
Up!—shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the night—
It would weigh down your flight;
And true love caresses—
O! leave them apart!
* In Scripture is this passage—“The sun shall not harm
thee by day, nor the moon by night.” It is perhaps not
generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of
producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
to its rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently
alludes.
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
*Like the lone Albatross,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
Ligeia! whatever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep—
But the strains still arise
Which _thy_ vigilance keep—
The sound of the rain
Which leaps down to the flower,
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower—
**The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass
* The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.
** I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
now unable to obtain and quote from memory:—“The verie
essence and, as it were, springe-heade, and origine of all
musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of
the forest do make when they growe.”
Are the music of things—
But are modell’d, alas!—
Away, then my dearest,
O! hie thee away
To springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray—
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast—
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid—
Some have left the cool glade, and
* Have slept with the bee—
Arouse them my maiden,
On moorland and lea—
Go! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
The musical number
They slumber’d to hear—
For what can awaken
An angel so soon
* The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
moonlight. The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty
lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is,
however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud
Halcro—in whose mouth I admired its effect:
O! were there an island,
Tho’ ever so wild
Where woman might smile, and
No man be beguil’d, &c.
Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rythmical number
Which lull’d him to rest?”
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean thro’,
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight—
Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds, afar
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death—
Sweet was that error—ev’n with _us_ the breath
Of science dims the mirror of our joy—
To them ’twere the Simoom, and would destroy—
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife
With the last ecstacy of satiate life—
Beyond that death no immortality—
But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be”—
And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell—
*Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell!
* With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain
that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be
characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.
Un no rompido sueno—
Un dia puro—allegre—libre
Quiera—
Libre de amor—de zelo—
De odio—de esperanza—de rezelo.—_Luis Ponce de Leon_.
Sorrow is not excluded from “Al Aaraaf,” but it is that
sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and
which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The
passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit
attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures—
the price of which, to those souls who make choice of “Al
Aaraaf” as their residence after life, is final death and
annihilation.
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover—
O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
*Unguided Love hath fallen—‘mid “tears of perfect moan.”
He was a goodly spirit—he who fell:
A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well—
A gazer on the lights that shine above—
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? For each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair—
And they, and ev’ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of wo)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo—
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn’d it upon her—but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
“Iante, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
How lovely ’tis to look so far away!
* There be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon.—_Milton._
She seem’d not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourn’d to leave.
That eve—that eve—I should remember well—
The sun-ray dropp’d, in Lemnos, with a spell
On th’Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall—
And on my eye-lids—O the heavy light!
How drowsily it weigh’d them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O that light!—I slumber’d—Death, the while,
Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept—or knew that it was there.
The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon
*Was a proud temple call’d the Parthenon—
More beauty clung around her column’d wall
**Than ev’n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his tower,
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my view—
Tenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wish’d to be again of men.”
“My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee—
* It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot in Athens.
** Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.—_Marlowe._
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And women’s loveliness—and passionate love.”
“But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
*Fail’d, as my pennon’d spirit leapt aloft,
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurl’d—
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
And roll’d, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
And fell—not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours—
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.
“We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us
Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
She grants to us, as granted by her God—
But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl’d
Never his fairy wing o’er fairier world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea—
But when its glory swell’d upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye,
* Pennon—for pinion.—_Milton_.
We paus’d before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!”
Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
TAMERLANE
Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme—
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell’d in—
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope—that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I _can_ hope—Oh God! I can—
Its fount is holier—more divine—
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow’d from its wild pride into shame.
O! yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again—
O! craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
Th’ undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness—a knell.
I have not always been as now:
The fever’d diadem on my brow
I claim’d and won usurpingly—
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar—this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.
So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell
(Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me—with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy,
And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!—was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!
The rain came down upon my head
Unshelter’d—and the heavy wind
Was giantlike—so thou, my mind!—
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rush—
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires—with the captive’s prayer—
The hum of suiters—and the tone
Of flattery ‘round a sovereign’s throne.
My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp’d a tyranny which men
Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power;
My innate nature—be it so:
But, father, there liv’d one who, then,
Then—in my boyhood—when their fire
Burn’d with a still intenser glow,
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E’en _then_ who knew this iron heart
In woman’s weakness had a part.
I have no words—alas!—to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Are—shadows on th’ unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters—with their meaning—melt
To fantasies—with none.
O, she was worthy of all love!
Love—as in infancy was mine—
’Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my ev’ry hope and thought
Were incense—then a goodly gift,
For they were childish—and upright—
Pure—as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?
We grew in age—and love—together,
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather—
And, when the friendly sunshine smil’d,
And she would mark the opening skies,
_I_ saw no Heaven—but in her eyes.
Young Love’s first lesson is—the heart:
For ‘mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I’d throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears—
There was no need to speak the rest—
No need to quiet any fears
Of her—who ask’d no reason why,
But turn’d on me her quiet eye!
Yet _more_ than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone—
I had no being—but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth—the air—the sea—
Its joy—its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure—the ideal,
Dim, vanities of dreams by night—
And dimmer nothings which were real—
(Shadows—and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image, and—a name—a name!
Two separate—yet most intimate things.
I was ambitious—have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I mark’d a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmur’d at such lowly lot—
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapour of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro’
The minute—the hour—the day—oppress
My mind with double loveliness.
We walk’d together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look’d down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills—
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
And shouting with a thousand rills.
I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically—in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment’s converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelessly—
A mingled feeling with my own—
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem’d to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.
I wrapp’d myself in grandeur then,
And donn’d a visionary crown—
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me—
But that, among the rabble—men,
Lion ambition is chain’d down—
And crouches to a keeper’s hand—
Not so in deserts where the grand
The wild—the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.
Look ‘round thee now on Samarcand!—
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling—her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throne—
And who her sovereign? Timour—he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o’er empires haughtily
A diadem’d outlaw—
O! human love! thou spirit given,
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall’st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc wither’d plain,
And failing in thy power to bless
But leav’st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound
And beauty of so wild a birth—
Farewell! for I have won the Earth!
When Hope, the eagle that tower’d, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly—
And homeward turn’d his soften’d eye.
’Twas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev’ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly
But _cannot_ from a danger nigh.
What tho’ the moon—the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly—and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one—
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown—
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty—which is all.
I reach’d my home—my home no more—
For all had flown who made it so—
I pass’d from out its mossy door,
And, tho’ my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known—
O! I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart—a deeper wo—
Father, I firmly do believe—
I _know_—for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro’ Eternity—
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in ev’ry human path—
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trelliced rays from Heaven
No mote may shun—no tiniest fly
The light’ning of his eagle eye—
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love’s very hair?
1829.
TO HELEN
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
The weary way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I me thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy-land!
1831.
THE VALLEY OF UNREST
_Once_ it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
_Now_ each visitor shall confess
The sad valley’s restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless—
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye—
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:—from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:—from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
1831.
ISRAFEL*
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon
The enamoured moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven
And they say (the starry choir
And all the listening things)
That Israfeli’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings—
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
* And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lut, and
who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.—KORAN.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty—
Where Love’s a grown up God—
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassion’d song:
To thee the laurels belong
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long!
The extacies above
With thy burning measures suit—
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute—
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely—flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
1836.
TO ——
1
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds
Are lips—and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words—
2
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin’d
Then desolately fall,
O! God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall—
3
Thy heart—_thy_ heart!—I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of truth that gold can never buy—
Of the trifles that it may.
1829.
TO ——
I heed not that my earthly lot
Hath-little of Earth in it—
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:—
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my fate
Who am a passer-by.
1829.
TO THE RIVER——
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty—the unhidden heart—
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto’s daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks—
Which glistens then, and trembles—
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in my heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies—
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
1829.
SONG
I saw thee on thy bridal day—
When a burning blush came o’er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:
And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.
That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame—
As such it well may pass—
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!
Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush _would_ come o’er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee.
1827.
SPIRITS OF THE DEAD
1
Thy soul shall find itself alone
‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone—
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy:
2
Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee—and their will
Shall then overshadow thee: be still.
3
For the night—tho’ clear—shall frown—
And the stars shall look not down,
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given—
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever:
4
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish—
Now are visions ne’er to vanish—
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more—like dew-drop from the grass:
5
The breeze—the breath of God—is still—
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token—
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!—
1827.
A DREAM
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed—
But a waking dreams of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream—that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truths day-star?
1827.
ROMANCE
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—a most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say—
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon thy spirit flings—
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away—forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
1829.
FAIRY-LAND
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One, more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how deep!—O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like—almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before—
Videlicet a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
1831.
THE LAKE —— TO——
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide earth a spot
The which I could not love the less—
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that tower’d around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody—
Then—ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight—
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define—
Nor Love—although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining—
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
1827.
EVENING STAR
’Twas noontide of summer,
And midtime of night,
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, through the light
Of the brighter, cold moon.
‘Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold-too cold for me—
There passed, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night.,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
1827.
“THE HAPPIEST DAY.”
I
The happiest day-the happiest hour
My seared and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.
Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
But they have vanished long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been
But let them pass.
III
And pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may ev’n inherit
The venom thou hast poured on me
Be still my spirit!
IV
The happiest day-the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see-have ever seen
The brightest glance of pride and power
I feet have been:
V
But were that hope of pride and power
Now offered with the pain
Ev’n _then I _felt-that brightest hour
I would not live again:
VI
For on its wing was dark alloy
And as it fluttered-fell
An essence-powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.
1827.
IMITATION
A dark unfathom’d tide
Of interminable pride—
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild, and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision on my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it pass’d on
I care not tho’ it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.
1827.
HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS
Translation from the Greek
I
Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I’ll conceal
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.
II
Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home
Where Achilles and Diomed rest
III
In fresh myrtle my blade I’ll entwine,
Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny’s blood.
IV
Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty’s wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
Embalmed in their echoing songs!
1827.
DREAMS
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awak’ning, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow:
Yes! tho’ that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
’Twere better than the dull reality
Of waking life to him whose heart shall be,
And hath been ever, on the chilly earth,
A chaos of deep passion from his birth!
But should it be—that dream eternally
Continuing—as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood—should it thus be given,
’Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven!
For I have revell’d, when the sun was bright
In the summer sky; in dreamy fields of light,
And left unheedingly my very heart
In climes of mine imagining—apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought—what more could I have seen?
’Twas once & _only_ once & the wild hour
From my rememberance shall not pass—some power
Or spell had bound me—’twas the chilly wind
Came o’er me in the night & left behind
Its image on my spirit, or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly—or the stars—howe’er it was
That dream was as that night wind—let it pass.
I have been happy—tho’ but in a dream
I have been happy—& I love the theme—
Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life—
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings
To the delirious eye more lovely things
Of Paradise & Love—& all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
{From an earlier MS. Than in the book—ED.}
“IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE”
_How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature’s universal throne;
Her woods—her wilds—her mountains-the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_
I
IN youth I have known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held-as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light such for his spirit was fit
And yet that spirit knew-not in the hour
Of its own fervor-what had o’er it power.
II
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever* by the moonbeam that hangs o’er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told-or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o’er us pass
As dew of the night-time, o’er the summer grass?
III
Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye
To the loved object-so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be—(that object) hid
From us in life-but common-which doth lie
Each hour before us—but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
T’ awake us—’Tis a symbol and a token
IV
Of what in other worlds shall be—and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
Though not with Faith-with godliness—whose throne
With desperate energy ‘t hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
* Query “fervor”?—ED.
A PÆAN.
I.
How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?
II.
Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep!—oh! to dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!
III.
They loved her for her wealth—
And they hated her for her pride—
But she grew in feeble health,
And they _love_ her—that she died.
IV.
They tell me (while they speak
Of her “costly broider’d pall”)
That my voice is growing weak—
That I should not sing at all—
V.
Or that my tone should be
Tun’d to such solemn song
So mournfully—so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.
VI.
But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride.—
VII.
Of the dead—dead who lies
All perfum’d there,
With the death upon her eyes,
And the life upon her hair.
VIII.
Thus on the coffin loud and long
I strike—the murmur sent
Through the grey chambers to my song,
Shall be the accompaniment.
IX.
Thou died’st in thy life’s June—
But thou did’st not die too fair:
Thou did’st not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.
X.
From more than fiends on earth,
Thy life and love are riven,
To join the untainted mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven—
XII.
Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a Pæan of old days.
NOTES
30. On the “Poems written in Youth” little comment is needed. This section
includes the pieces printed for first volume of 1827 (which was
subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second published
volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in their revised
versions, and a few others collected from various sources. “Al Aaraaf”
first appeared, with the sonnet “To Silence” prefixed to it, in 1829, and
is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for 1831, however,
this poem, its author’s longest, was introduced by the following
twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in—all subsequent
collections:
AL AARAAF
Mysterious star!
Thou wert my dream
All a long summer night—
Be now my theme!
By this clear stream,
Of thee will I write;
Meantime from afar
Bathe me in light I
Thy world has not the dross of ours,
Yet all the beauty-all the flowers
That list our love or deck our bowers
In dreamy gardens, where do lie
Dreamy maidens all the day;
While the silver winds of Circassy
On violet couches faint away.
Little—oh “little dwells in thee”
Like unto what on earth we see:
Beauty’s eye is here the bluest
In the falsest and untruest—On the sweetest
air doth float
The most sad and solemn note—
If with thee be broken hearts,
Joy so peacefully departs,
That its echo still doth dwell,
Like the murmur in the shell.
Thou! thy truest type of grief
Is the gently falling leaf!
Thy framing is so holy
Sorrow is not melancholy.
31. The earliest version of “Tamerlane” was included in the suppressed
volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
least.
32. “To Helen” first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also “The Valley
of Unrest” (as “The Valley Nis”), “Israfel,” and one or two others of the
youthful pieces. The poem styled “Romance,” constituted the Preface of the
1829 volume, but with the addition of the following lines:
Succeeding years, too wild for song,
Then rolled like tropic storms along,
Where, through the garish lights that fly
Dying along the troubled sky,
Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
The blackness of the general Heaven,
That very blackness yet doth Ring
Light on the lightning’s silver wing.
For being an idle boy lang syne;
Who read Anacreon and drank wine,
I early found Anacreon rhymes
Were almost passionate sometimes—
And by strange alchemy of brain
His pleasures always turned to pain—
His naiveté to wild desire—
His wit to love-his wine to fire—
And so, being young and dipt in folly,
I fell in love with melancholy,
And used to throw my earthly rest
And quiet all away in jest—
I could not love except where Death
Was mingling his with Beauty’s breath—
Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,
Were stalking between her and me.
But now my soul hath too much room—
Gone are the glory and the gloom—
The black hath mellow’d into gray,
And all the fires are fading away.
My draught of passion hath been deep—
I revell’d, and I now would sleep
And after drunkenness of soul
Succeeds the glories of the bowl
An idle longing night and day
To dream my very life away.
But dreams—of those who dream as I,
Aspiringly, are damned, and die:
Yet should I swear I mean alone,
By notes so very shrilly blown,
To break upon Time’s monotone,
While yet my vapid joy and grief
Are tintless of the yellow leaf—
Why not an imp the graybeard hath,
Will shake his shadow in my path—
And e’en the graybeard will o’erlook
Connivingly my dreaming-book.
DOUBTFUL POEMS
ALONE
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—_I_ lov’d alone—
_Then_—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ‘round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
{This poem is no longer considered doubtful as it was in 1903. Liberty has
been taken to replace the book version with an earlier, perhaps more
original manuscript version—Ed}
TO ISADORE
I
Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
Whose shadows fall before
Thy lowly cottage door
Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves—
Within thy snowy claspeèd hand
The purple flowers it bore..
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymphs from Fairy-land—
Enchantress of the flowery wand,
Most beauteous Isadore!
II
And when I bade the dream
Upon thy spirit flee,
Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
Of Love’s serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
Enthralled my soul to thee!
III
Ah I ever I behold
Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
Blue as the languid skies
Hung with the sunset’s fringe of gold;
Now strangely clear thine image grows,
And olden memories
Are startled from their long repose
Like shadows on the silent snows
When suddenly the night-wind blows
Where quiet moonlight ties.
IV
Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds forever flown
Audible as the voice of streams
That murmur in some leafy dell,
I hear thy gentlest tone,
And Silence cometh with her spell
Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
When tremulous in dreams I tell
My love to thee alone!
V
In every valley heard,
Floating from tree to tree,
Less beautiful to, me,
The music of the radiant bird,
Than artless accents such as thine
Whose echoes never flee!
Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:—
For uttered in thy tones benign
(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!
THE VILLAGE STREET
In these rapid, restless shadows,
Once I walked at eventide,
When a gentle, silent maiden,
Wal ked in beauty at my side
She alone there walked beside me
All in beauty, like a bride.
Pallidly the moon was shining
On the dewy meadows nigh;
On the silvery, silent rivers,
On the mountains far and high
On the ocean’s star-lit waters,
Where the winds a-weary die.
Slowly, silently we wandered
From the open cottage door,
Underneath the elm’s long branches
To the pavement bending o’er;
Underneath the mossy willow
And the dying sycamore.
With the myriad stars in beauty
All bedight, the heavens were seen,
Radiant hopes were bright around me,
Like the light of stars serene;
Like the mellow midnight splendor
Of the Night’s irradiate queen.
Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
Like the distant murmured music
Of unquiet, lovely seas:
While the winds were hushed in slumber
In the fragrant flowers and trees.
Wondrous and unwonted beauty
Still adorning all did seem,
While I told my love in fables
‘Neath the willows by the stream;
Would the heart have kept unspoken
Love that was its rarest dream!
Instantly away we wandered
In the shadowy twilight tide,
She, the silent, scornful maiden,
Walking calmly at my side,
With a step serene and stately,
All in beauty, all in pride.
Vacantly I walked beside her.
On the earth mine eyes were cast;
Swift and keen there came unto me
Ritter memories of the past
On me, like the rain in Autumn
On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
Underneath the elms we parted,
By the lowly cottage door;
One brief word alone was uttered
Never on our lips before;
And away I walked forlornly,
Broken-hearted evermore.
Slowly, silently I loitered,
Homeward, in the night, alone;
Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
That my youth had never known;
Wild unrest, like that which cometh
When the Night’s first dream hath flown.
Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
Mad, discordant melodies,
And keen melodies like shadows
Haunt the moaning willow trees,
And the sycamores with laughter
Mock me in the nightly breeze.
Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
Through the sighing foliage streams;
And each morning, midnight shadow,
Shadow of my sorrow seems;
Strive, 0 heart, forget thine idol!
And, 0 soul, forget thy dreams!
THE FOREST REVERIE
’Tis said that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne’er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare flowers did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The love of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died—
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,—
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant flowers of song!
NOTES
Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe, and
not included among his known writings, the lines entitled “Alone” have the
chief claim to our notice. _Fac-simile _copies of this piece had been
in possession of the present editor some time previous to its publication
in “Scribner’s Magazine” for September, 1875; but as proofs of the
authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from
publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been adduced,
and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to guide us.
“Alone” is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of a Baltimore
lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the facsimile given in
“Scribner’s” is alleged to be of his handwriting. If the caligraphy be
Poe’s, it is different in all essential respects from all the many
specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of the writer of the
heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which the contributor of the
poem acknowledges to have been recently added. The lines, however, if not
by Poe, are the most successful imitation of his early mannerisms yet made
public, and, in the opinion of one well qualified to speak, “are not
unworthy on the whole of the parentage claimed for them.”
While Edgar Poe was editor of the “Broadway Journal,” some lines “To
Isadore” appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore no
signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy
questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared saying they were
by “A. Ide, junior.” Two previous poems had appeared in the “Broadway
journal” over the signature of “A. M. Ide,” and whoever wrote them was
also the author of the lines “To Isadore.” In order, doubtless, to give a
show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known works in his
journal over _noms de plume, _and as no other writings whatever can
be traced to any person bearing the name of “A. M. Ide,” it is not
impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may be by the
author of “The Raven.” Having been published without his usual elaborate
revision, Poe may have wished to _hide _his hasty work under an
assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection, so
the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be by
the author of “The Raven.”
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