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Title: The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, Volume 2
Author: Edgar Allan Poe
Release Date: April, 2000 [eBook #2148]
[Most recently updated: November 18, 2021]
Language: English
Produced by: David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, VOL. 2 ***
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe
The Raven Edition
VOLUME II.
Contents
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
[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_
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