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The Works Of Edgar Allan Poe
Volume 2
By
Edgar Allan Poe
Contents
THE
THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE.
VON
KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY
THE
FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>THE PURLOINED LETTER<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
Nil sapientiae
odiosius acumine nimio.
=
&nb=
sp;
Seneca.
At Paris, ju=
st
after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofo=
ld
luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste
Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au troisiême, No. =
33,
Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintai=
ned
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, a=
nd
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 h=
ad
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 ca=
lled
to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about some offici=
al
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 visiter with a pipe, and rolled
towards him a comfortable chair.
"And wh=
at
is the difficulty now?" I asked. "Nothing more in the assassinati=
on
way, I hope?"
"Oh no;
nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very simple indeed, an=
d 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, y=
es;
and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all been a good deal puz=
zled
because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether."
"Perhap=
s 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, go=
od
heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?"
"A litt=
le
too self-evident."
"Ha! ha!
ha--ha! ha! ha!--ho! ho! ho!" roared our visiter, profoundly amused,
"oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!"
"And wh=
at,
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."
"Procee=
d,"
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 d=
ocument,
and from the non-appearance of certain results which would at once arise fr=
om
its passing out of the robber's possession; that is to say, from his employ=
ing
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 powe=
r 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? We=
ll;
the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be nameless, wo=
uld
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 th=
is
ascendancy," I interposed, "would depend upon the robber's knowle=
dge
of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who would dare--"
"The
thief," said G., "is the Minister D--, who dares all things, thos=
e unbecoming
as well as those becoming a man. The method of the theft was not less ingen=
ious
than bold. The document in question--a letter, to be frank--had been receiv=
ed
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 w=
as,
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 attent=
ion
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 m=
ake
the ascendancy complete--the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of=
the
robber."
"Yes,&q=
uot;
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 sa=
gacious
agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined."
"You
flatter me," replied the Prefect; "but it is possible that some s=
uch
opinion may have been entertained."
"It is
clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still in poss=
ession
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.&quo=
t;
"True,&=
quot;
said G.; "and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first care was to m=
ake
thorough search of the minister's hotel; and here my chief embarrassment la=
y 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 susp=
ect
our design."
"But,&q=
uot;
said I, "you are quite au fait in these investigations. The Parisian
police have done this thing often before."
"O 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 apartmen=
t,
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 mont=
hs a
night has not passed, during the greater part of which I have not been enga=
ged,
personally, in ransacking the D-- Hotel. My honor is interested, and, to me=
ntion
a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search unt=
il 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 whi=
ch
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 t=
o be
involved, would render the instant availability of the document--its
susceptibility of being produced at a moment's notice--a point of nearly eq=
ual
importance with its possession."
"Its
susceptibility of being produced?" said I.
"That i=
s to
say, of being destroyed," said Dupin.
"True,&=
quot;
I observed; "the paper is clearly then upon the premises. As for its b=
eing
upon the person of the minister, we may consider that as out of the
question."
"Entire=
ly,"
said the Prefect. "He has been twice waylaid, as if by footpads, and h=
is
person rigorously searched under my own inspection."
"You mi=
ght
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,&=
quot;
said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from
his meerscha=
um,
"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 every where. I have had long
experience in these affairs. I took the entire building, room by room; devo=
ting
the nights of a whole week to each. We examined, first, the furniture of ea=
ch
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 impossibl=
e.
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 spa=
ce--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 tabl=
es
we removed the tops."
"Why
so?"
"Someti=
mes
the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of furniture, is remo=
ved
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 co=
uld
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 man=
ner
you mention. A letter may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differ=
ing
much in shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it mig=
ht
be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not take to piec=
es
all the chairs?"
"Certai=
nly
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 sho=
uld
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 pres=
ume
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 furnitur=
e 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 lo=
oked
among D--'s papers, of course, and into the books of the library?"
"Certai=
nly;
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 t=
he
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 fr=
om
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.&q=
uot;
"You lo=
oked
into the cellars?"
"We
did."
"Then,&=
quot;
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 y=
ou
advise me to do?"
"To mak=
e a
thorough re-search of the premises."
"That is
absolutely needless," replied G--. "I am not more sure that I bre=
athe
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 pa=
id
us another visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pi=
pe
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?"
"Confou=
nd
him, say I--yes; I made the re-examination, however, as Dupin suggested--bu=
t it
was all labor lost, as I knew it would be."
"How mu=
ch
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 individ=
ual
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 rewa=
rd
has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more th=
an 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--p=
uff,
puff--you might--puff, puff--employ counsel in the matter, eh?--puff, puff,
puff. Do you remember the story they tell of Abernethy?"
"No; ha=
ng
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 wi=
ll
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,&q=
uot;
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 astoun=
ded.
The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder-stricken. For some minutes he remai=
ned
speechless and motionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mou=
th,
and eyes that seemed starting from their sockets; then, apparently recoveri=
ng
himself in some measure, he seized a pen, and after several pauses and vaca=
nt
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 deposite=
d 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 j=
oy,
opened it with a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and t=
hen,
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. Th=
ey
are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge
which their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, when G-- detailed to us his
made 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,&q=
uot;
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 fou=
nd
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 hol=
ds
in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another whether that num=
ber
is even or odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one; if wrong, he l=
oses
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 admeasurem=
ent
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 fell=
ow
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 tha=
t 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 i=
ts
last analysis, is it?"
"It is
merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's intellect w=
ith
that of his opponent."
"It
is," said Dupin; "and, upon inquiring, of the boy by what means h=
e effected
the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I received answ=
er
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 i=
n my
mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression.' This resp=
onse
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 w=
hich
the opponent's intellect is admeasured."
"For its
practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin; "and the Pr=
efect
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 ide=
as
of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden, advert only to the mod=
es
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 t=
heir
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 ingenui=
ty,
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 w=
hich
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 ve=
ry
first instance, presumable and presumed; and thus its discovery depends, no=
t 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 policial eyes, when the reward is of
magnitude,--the qualities in question have never been known to fail. You wi=
ll
now understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined letter be=
en
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 i=
s a
fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets; this t=
he
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 contrad=
icted
by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at naught the well-digest=
ed
idea of centuries. The mathematical reason has long been regarded as the re=
ason
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, hav=
e 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 fr=
om
applicability--then 'analysis' conveys 'algebra' about as much as, in Latin,
'ambitus' implies 'ambition,' 'religio' 'religion,' or 'homines honesti,' a=
set
of honorablemen."
"You ha=
ve a
quarrel on hand, I see," said I, "with some of the algebraists of
Paris; but proceed."
"I disp=
ute
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 tru=
ths
of what is called pure algebra, are abstract or general truths. And this er=
ror
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 aggregat=
ed
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, h=
ave
not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the sum of their values apa=
rt.
There are numerous other mathematical truths which are only truths within t=
he
limits of relation. But the mathematician argues, from his finite truths,
through habit, as if they were of an absolutely general applicability--as t=
he
world indeed imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned 'Mythology,'
mentions an analogous source of error, when he says that 'although the Paga=
n 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, n=
ot
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 p=
oint
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 belie=
ve 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, f=
or,
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 Prefe=
ct
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 mu=
st
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 ai=
ds
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 convicti=
on
to which G--, in fact, did finally arrive--the conviction that the letter w=
as
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 m=
ost 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, pe=
rhaps,
how desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our first interv=
iew,
that it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of i=
ts
being so very self-evident."
"Yes,&q=
uot;
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 analo=
gies
to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has been given to the rheto=
rical
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 t=
rue
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 capaci=
ty,
while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their movements th=
an
those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more embarrass=
ed 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 pa=
rty
playing requires another to find a given word--the name of town, river, sta=
te
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 wo=
rds
as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. Th=
ese,
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 lette=
r 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 intend=
ed
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 ordin=
ary
search--the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this letter, the Minis=
ter
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 h=
ome,
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 n=
ow
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 w=
hole
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 whi=
ch
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 len=
gth
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 ha=
d a large
black seal, bearing the D-- cipher very conspicuously, and was addressed, i=
n a
diminutive female hand, to D--, the minister, himself. It was thrust
carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the uppermo=
st
divisions of the rack.
"No soo=
ner
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 d=
irt;
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 behol=
der
into an idea of the worthlessness of the document; these things, together w=
ith
the hyper-obtrusive situation of this document, full in the view of every
visiter, 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 ne=
ver
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 s=
et
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 reverse=
d direction,
in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This disco=
very
was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a gl=
ove,
inside out, re-directed, and re-sealed. I bade the Minister good morning, a=
nd
took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table.
"The ne=
xt
morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite eagerly, the
conversation of the preceding day. While thus engaged, however, a loud repo=
rt,
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 terrif=
ied 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 prepa=
red
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 prov=
ed,
however, to have been without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his w=
ay
as a lunatic or a drunkard. When he had gone, D-- came from the window, whi=
ther
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 wh=
at
purpose had you," I asked, "in replacing the letter by a fac-simi=
le?
Would it not have been better, at the first visit, to have seized it openly,
and departed?"
"D--,&q=
uot;
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 go=
od
people of Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart f=
rom
these considerations. You know my political prepossessions. In this matter,=
I
act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For eighteen months the Minister h=
as
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 i=
t was.
Thus will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political destructi=
on.
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 climbi=
ng,
as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy to get up than to come dow=
n.
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 characte=
r 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? d=
id
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 Crebillon's 'Atrée.'"
=
Truth is stranger than fiction.
=
&nb=
sp;
OLD SAYING.
HAVING had
occasion, lately, in the course of some Oriental investigations, to consult=
the
Tellmenow Isitsoornot, 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 no=
t a
little astonished to discover that the literary world has hitherto been
strangely in error respecting the fate of the vizier's daughter, Scheheraza=
de,
as that fate is depicted in the "Arabian Nights"; and that the
denouement 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 "Isitsoornot" 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 havi=
ng
good cause to be jealous of his queen, not only puts her to death, but make=
s 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 fulfi=
lled
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 t=
ake
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 distin=
ctly
to understand, that, grand vizier or no grand vizier, he has not the slight=
est
design of giving up one iota of his vow or of his privileges. When, therefo=
re, the
fair Scheherazade insisted upon marrying the king, and did actually marry h=
im
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 b=
lack
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 c=
are
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 digest=
ion,
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 h=
er
sister. When the day broke, it so happened that this history was not altoge=
ther
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 thi=
ng
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 th=
at
night how it fared in the end with the black cat (a black cat, I think it w=
as)
and the rat.
The night ha=
ving
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 win=
gs)
that went, in a violent manner, by clockwork, and was wound up with an indi=
go
key. With this history the king was even more profoundly interested than wi=
th
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), the=
re
was again no resource but to postpone that ceremony as before, for twenty-f=
our
hours. The next night there happened a similar accident with a similar resu=
lt;
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 regul=
ar
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 do=
ubt,
excessively proper and pleasant--but alas! like a great many pleasant thing=
s,
is more pleasant than true, and I am indebted altogether to the
"Isitsoornot" 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 sho=
uld
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 lang=
uage
of the "Isitsoornot" at this point, verbatim) "my dear siste=
r,"
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 interes=
ting
adventures than those which I related; but the truth is, I felt sleepy on t=
he particular
night of their narration, and so was seduced into cutting them short--a gri=
evous
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 ha=
ve
given the king a pinch or two in order to wake him up so far that he may st=
op
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 "Isitsoornot,"
expressed no very particular intensity of gratification; but the king, havi=
ng
been sufficiently pinched, at length ceased snoring, and finally said,
"hum!" and then "hoo!" when the queen, understanding th=
ese
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 histo=
ry
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 a=
nd
least bulky, and, engaged 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 o=
ut
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 seve=
ral
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 loud=
er,
so that we could have no doubt that the object which caused it was approach=
ing
us. At length, on the edge of the horizon, we discovered a black speck, whi=
ch
rapidly increased in size until we made it out to be a vast monster, swimmi=
ng with
a great part of its body above the surface of the sea. It came toward us wi=
th
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.
"'The
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.
"'Altho=
ugh
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 a=
long
in the manner of a vessel; nor yet did it writhe itself forward as do the e=
els.
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 seve=
re
pain. On the very tips of their heads were certain square-looking boxes, wh=
ich,
at first sight, I thought might have been intended to answer as turbans, bu=
t I
soon discovered that they were excessively heavy and solid, and I therefore
concluded they were contrivances designed, by their great weight, to keep t=
he 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,) suc=
h 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 mistak=
en
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 ma=
nner
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 w=
hat
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; tha=
t 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 lar=
ger
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 equa=
lly
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 bestow=
ed
upon me various tokens of his favor, and in the end even went to the troubl=
e 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.
"'Washi=
sh
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 langua=
ge
formed the connecting link between that of the horse and that of the rooste=
r).
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 cal=
led 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 "Isitsoornot," t=
he
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 lat=
ter
adventures of Sinbad. Do you know I think them exceedingly entertaining and
strange?"
The king hav=
ing
thus expressed himself, we are told, the fair Scheherazade resumed her hist=
ory
in the following words:
"Sinbad
went on in this manner with his narrative to the caliph--'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 surf=
ace
of the latter is, in that part of the world, by no means flat, but round li=
ke 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.
"Nevert=
heless,
it is quite true," replied Scheherazade.
"I have=
my
doubts," rejoined the king; "but, pray, be so good as to go on wi=
th
the story."
"I
will," said the queen. "'The beast,' continued Sinbad to the cali=
ph, '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, h=
ad
been built in the middle of the sea by a colony of little things like
caterpillars'" (*1)
"Hum!&q=
uot;
said the king.
"'Leavi=
ng
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!&q=
uot;
said the king, again; but Scheherazade, paying him no attention, continued =
in
the language of Sinbad.
"'Passi=
ng
beyond this last island, we reached a country where there was a cave that r=
an
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, liked diamonds, but larger than m=
en;
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!&q=
uot;
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, s=
ome
of which were twelve miles wide and sixty miles long (*4); while from an ab=
yss
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 midnigh=
t;
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 hel=
d it
to our eyes.'" (*5)
"Hum!&q=
uot;
said the king.
"'After
quitting this coast, the beast continued his voyage until we met with a lan=
d 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 wa=
ter,
there flourished in full leaf a forest of tall and luxuriant trees.'" =
(*6)
"Hoo!&q=
uot;
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.
"Procee=
ding
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; b=
ut
the name of this luxuriant land was the Kingdom of Horror, and to enter it =
was
inevitable death'" (*8)
"Humph!=
"
said the king.
"'We le=
ft
this kingdom in great haste, and, after some days, came to another, where we
were astonished to perceive myriads of monstrous animals with horns resembl=
ing
scythes upon their heads. These hideous beasts dig for themselves vast cave=
rns
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!&=
quot;
said the king.
"'Conti=
nuing
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 a=
nd
breathed and moved their limbs at will and had, moreover, the detestable
passion of mankind for enslaving other creatures, and confining them in hor=
rid
and solitary prisons until the fulfillment of appointed tasks.'" (*15)=
"Pshaw!=
"
said the king.
"'Quitt=
ing
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 instructi=
ons
in the science of geometry to the wise men of the empire. The king of the p=
lace
having offered a reward for the solution of two very difficult problems, th=
ey
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 profou=
nd researches
and labor, and the writing of an infinity of big books, during a long serie=
s of
years, that the men-mathematicians at length arrived at the identical solut=
ions
which had been given upon the spot by the bees and by the birds.'" (*1=
6)
"Oh
my!" said the king.
"'We had
scarcely lost sight of this empire when we found ourselves close upon anoth=
er,
from whose shores there flew over our heads a flock of fowls a mile in brea=
dth,
and two hundred and forty miles long; so that, although they flew a mile du=
ring
every minute, it required no less than four hours for the whole flock to pa=
ss
over us--in which there were several millions of millions of fowl.'" (=
*17)
"Oh
fy!" said the king.
"'No so=
oner
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 bigg=
er
than the biggest of the domes on your seraglio, oh, most Munificent of Cali=
phs.
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 f=
rom
which it had knocked off the roof, and in the interior of which we distinct=
ly 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 hop=
e of
frightening the bird into letting go of its prey, but it merely gave a snor=
t or
puff, as if of rage and then let fall upon our heads a heavy sack which pro=
ved
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 t=
he
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 pa=
ssed
immediately beneath this continent, (swimming in between the legs of the co=
w),
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 thing=
s 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 whic=
h 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) whi=
ch, no
doubt, served to stimulate them by their painful writhings and wrigglings to
the most miraculous efforts of imagination!'"
"Nonsen=
se!"
said the king.
"'Among=
the
magicians, were domesticated several animals of very singular kinds; for ex=
ample,
there was a huge horse whose bones were iron and whose blood was boiling wa=
ter.
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)
"Twattl=
e!"
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 t=
he
horse, (to whom, in fact, she was nearly related,) was boiling water; and l=
ike
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 t=
heir
residence for several weeks within the stomach of their mother.'" (*21=
)
"Fa!
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, Haro=
un
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 thou=
sand
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 employ=
ed
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 exquis=
ite
a precision, that in all the copies there should not be found one to vary f=
rom
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.'"
"Ridicu=
lous!"
said the king.
"'Among
this nation of necromancers there was also one who had in his veins the blo=
od
of the salamanders; for he made no scruple of sitting down to smoke his chi=
bouc
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 to=
uch
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 elas=
tic 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.
"'Anoth=
er
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 t=
o so
great an extent that he could have made himself heard from one end of the w=
orld
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 whatsoeve=
r.
(*30) Another commanded the lightning to come down to him out of the heaven=
s,
and it came at his call; and served him for a plaything when it came. Anoth=
er
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 f=
ound
out the solidity of the substance of which they were made. But the whole na=
tion
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 befo=
re
the birth of the nation itself had been blotted out from the face of
creation."' (*34)
Analogous
experiments in respect to sound produce analogous results.
"Prepos=
terous!"
said the king.
"'The w=
ives
and daughters of these incomparably great and wise magi,'" continued
Scheherazade, without being in any manner disturbed by these frequent and m=
ost
ungentlemanly interruptions on the part of her husband--"'the wives and
daughters of these eminent conjurers are every thing that is accomplished a=
nd
refined; and would be every thing that is interesting and beautiful, but fo=
r 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 pe=
rpetually
upon the watch to inflict ill, has put it into the heads of these accomplis=
hed
ladies that the thing which we describe as personal beauty consists altoget=
her
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 possib=
le
to distinguish a woman from a dromedary-'"
"Stop!&=
quot;
said the king--"I can't stand that, and I won't. You have already give=
n 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 "Isitsoornot," 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 go=
od
grace. She derived, however, great consolation, (during the tightening of t=
he
bowstring,) from the reflection that much of the history remained still unt=
old,
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.
The ways of God in Nature, as in
Providence, are not as our ways; nor are the models that we frame a=
ny way
commensurate to the vas=
tness,
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 lo=
ng
ago," said he at length, "and I could have guided you on this rou=
te
as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happ=
ened
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 b=
lack
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 scarce=
ly
look over this little cliff without getting giddy?"
The "li=
ttle
cliff," upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself down to re=
st
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--t=
his
"little cliff" arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice of black shi=
ning
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, tha=
t I
fell at full length upon the ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dar=
ed
not even glance upward at the sky--while I struggled in vain to divest myse=
lf
of the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from t=
he
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 mu=
st
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 men=
tioned--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 hu=
e 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 beetl=
ing
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 pla=
ced,
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 appearan=
ce
of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island and the shore, h=
ad
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-ree=
fed
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 das=
hing
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 is=
land
in the distance," resumed the old man, "is called by the Norwegia=
ns
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 anyth=
ing?
Do you see any change in the water?"
We had now b=
een
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 h=
ad
burst upon us from the summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a lo=
ud
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 seam=
en
term the chopping character of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing i=
nto
a current which set to the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acqui=
red a
monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed--to its headlong impetuo=
sity.
In five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernab=
le
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 min=
utes
more, there came over the scene another radical alteration. The general sur=
face
grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, whi=
le
prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where none had been seen before.
These streaks, at length, spreading out to a great distance, and entering i=
nto combination,
took unto themselves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seem=
ed
to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly--very suddenly--this assume=
d a
distinct and definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in diamete=
r.
The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray; bu=
t no
particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose inter=
ior,
as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wal=
l of
water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some forty-five degrees, spee=
ding
dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending f=
orth
to the winds an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar, such as not even t=
he
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,&=
quot;
said I at length, to the old man--"this can be nothing else than the g=
reat
whirlpool of the Maelström."
"So it =
is
sometimes termed," said he. "We Norwegians call it the Moskoe-str=
öm,
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 surv=
eyed
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) th=
is
depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a vessel, with=
out
the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even in the calmest weath=
er.
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 a=
nd
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 thes=
e intervals
of tranquility are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weath=
er,
and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When t=
he
stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it is danger=
ous
to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carr=
ied
away by not guarding against it before they were within its reach. It likew=
ise
happens frequently, that whales come too near the stream, and are overpower=
ed
by its violence; and then it is impossible to describe their howlings and b=
ellowings
in their fruitless struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempti=
ng 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 s=
uch
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 stre=
am
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 Sexage=
sima
Sunday, it raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of th=
e 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 ca=
n be
obtained from even the sidelong glance into the abyss of the whirl which ma=
y 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 wi=
th
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 a=
s 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 unsatisfac=
tory
aspect. The idea generally received is that this, as well as three smaller
vortices among the Ferroe islands, "have no other cause than the colli=
sion
of waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux, against a ridge of rocks a=
nd 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 natur=
al 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 centr=
e 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 decide=
dly
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 guid=
e, 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 o=
wn.
As to the former notion he confessed his inability to comprehend it; and he=
re I
agreed with him--for, however conclusive on paper, it becomes altogether un=
intelligible,
and even absurd, amid the thunder of the abyss.
"You ha=
ve
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 somet=
hing
of the Moskoe-ström."
I placed mys=
elf
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 fishin=
g,
at proper opportunities, if one has only the courage to attempt it; but amo=
ng
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 grou=
nds
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 cho=
ice
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 ma=
de it
a matter of desperate speculation--the risk of life standing instead of lab=
or,
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' sl=
ack
to push across the main channel of the Moskoe-ström, far above the poo=
l,
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 un=
til
nearly time for slack-water again, when we weighed and made for home. We ne=
ver
set out upon this expedition without a steady side wind for going and comin=
g--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 w=
eek,
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 sho=
uld
have been driven out to sea in spite of everything, (for the whirlpools thr=
ew
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 le=
e 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 mi=
nute
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 gre=
at
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 h=
eart
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 t=
he
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 fr=
om
the south-west, while the sun shone brightly, so that the oldest seaman amo=
ng
us could not have foreseen what was to follow.
"The th=
ree
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 ov=
er
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 minu=
te
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 n=
ot
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 bo=
at
was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It had a comp=
lete
flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow, and this hatch it had alw=
ays
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 h=
ave
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 m=
ere instinct
that prompted me to do this--which was undoubtedly the very best thing I co=
uld
have done--for I was too much flurried to think.
"For so=
me
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 mys=
elf
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 collec=
t 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 f=
oot
as if I had had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what he meant by t=
hat
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, a=
nd
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 the=
re
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 f=
irst
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. Arou=
nd
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 cou=
ld
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. Present=
ly
he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his finger,=
as
if to say 'listen! '
"At fir=
st I
could not make out what he meant--but soon a hideous thought flashed upon m=
e. I
dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I glanced at its face by t=
he
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 st=
rong
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 s=
ea
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 plun=
ge, that
made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty mountain-t=
op
in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a quick glance around--and th=
at
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 expe=
ct,
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 cou=
ld
not have been more than two minutes afterward until we suddenly felt the wa=
ves
subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp half turn to lar=
board,
and then shot off in its new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same mome=
nt
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 m=
any
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 al=
ong.
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 l=
ike
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 h=
ope
no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which unmanned me at firs=
t. 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 possess=
ed
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 princ=
ipal
grief was that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore ab=
out
the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to occup=
y a
man's mind in such extremity--and I have often thought since, that the revo=
lutions
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 w=
as
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 ga=
le,
you can form no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by the wind and sp=
ray
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 ann=
oyances--just
us death-condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden
them while their doom is yet uncertain.
"How of=
ten
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 m=
ore
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 de=
ck
that had not been swept overboard when the gale first took us. As we approa=
ched
the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, f=
rom 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 th=
an
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 conte=
st
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. Th=
is 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, wh=
en
we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I mu=
ttered
a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over.
"As I f=
elt
the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively tightened my hold u=
pon
the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I dared not open them--whi=
le 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 li=
ved.
The sense of falling had ceased; and the motion of the vessel seemed much a=
s 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 g=
azed
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 inm=
ost recesses
of the abyss.
"At fir=
st 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 s=
ay,
her deck lay in a plane parallel with that of the water--but this latter sl=
oped
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 scarcel=
y 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 whic=
h we
revolved.
"The ra=
ys
of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound gulf; but stil=
l 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 o=
nly
pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt occasi=
oned
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 fi=
rst
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 pi=
eces
of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels and staves. I have already descri=
bed
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 spe=
culating
upon the relative velocities of their several descents toward the foam belo=
w.
'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 disappoi=
nted
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 b=
eat
heavily once more.
"It was=
not
a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more exciting hope. T=
his
hope arose partly from memory, and partly from present observation. I calle=
d 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 splin=
ters--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 per=
iod
of the tide, or, for some reason, had descended so slowly after entering, t=
hat
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 undergoin=
g 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--t=
he
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 co=
nsequence
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 y=
ard
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 n=
ow
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 th=
at
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, wi=
th 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 mys=
elf
with it into the sea, without another moment's hesitation.
"The re=
sult
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 possessi=
on
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, plung=
ed
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 g=
reat
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 w=
hirl
grew, gradually, less and less violent. By degrees, the froth and the rainb=
ow
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-strö=
;m 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 cha=
nnel
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."
AFTER THE ve=
ry
minute and elaborate paper by Arago, to say nothing of the summary in
'Silliman's Journal,' with the detailed statement just published by Lieuten=
ant
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 ag=
o, I
had the honor of a slight personal acquaintance), since every thing which c=
oncerns
him must necessarily, at this moment, be of interest; and, in the second pl=
ace,
to look in a general way, and speculatively, at the results of the discover=
y.
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 discove=
ry,
astounding as it unquestionably is, is unanticipated.
By reference=
to
the 'Diary of Sir Humphrey Davy' (Cottle and Munroe, London, pp. 150), it w=
ill
be seen at pp. 53 and 82, that this illustrious chemist had not only concei=
ved
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 requir=
ed),
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 state=
ment
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 narrati=
ng
facts, are seldom so particular as Mr. Kissam seems to be, about day and da=
te
and precise location. Besides, if Mr. Kissam actually did come upon the dis=
covery
he says he did, at the period designated--nearly eight years ago--how happe=
ns
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 incredi=
ble
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 wh=
ole paragraph
in the 'Courier and Enquirer' a fabrication got up to 'make a talk'? It mus=
t be
confessed that it has an amazingly moon-hoaxy-air. Very little dependence i=
s 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 retur=
n to
the 'Diary' of Sir Humphrey Davy. This pamphlet was not designed for the pu=
blic
eye, even upon the decease of the writer, as any person at all conversant w=
ith
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 h=
is
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 Da=
vy
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 bur=
ning
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 th=
ere
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 sligh=
test
degree question; but I repeat, it yet remains to be seen whether this momen=
tous
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 b=
e so
weak as not to 'realize,' in time, by large purchases of houses and land, w=
ith
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 f=
rom
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 wi=
ll
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 Maelzel, 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 te=
eth,
and I think a Roman nose. There is some defect in one of his feet. His addr=
ess
is frank, and his whole manner noticeable for bonhomie. Altogether, he look=
s,
speaks, and acts as little like 'a misanthrope' as any man I ever saw. We w=
ere fellow-sojouners
for a week about six years ago, at Earl's Hotel, in Providence, Rhode Islan=
d;
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 noth=
ing
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 ofte=
n,
it was well known, he had been put to extreme shifts in order to raise trif=
ling
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 purcha=
se
money. He was at length arrested, but nothing decisive appearing against hi=
m,
was in the end set at liberty. The police, however, kept a strict watch upo=
n 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,--an=
d,
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 h=
im,
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 wi=
th
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 i=
t,
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. T=
he
other crucible had some liquid in it, which, as the officers entered, seeme=
d to
be furiously dissipating in vapor. They relate that, on finding himself tak=
en,
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 t=
iled
floor. It was now that they hand-cuffed him; and before proceeding to ransa=
ck
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 near=
ly,
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 on=
ly a
few papers, of no importance, and some good coin, silver and gold. At lengt=
h,
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), th=
ey
'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 an 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, 've=
ry
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 suspect=
ed
this metal to be any thing but brass. The idea of its being gold never ente=
red 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 relea=
se,
for these are familiar to the public. That he has actually realized, in spi=
rit
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 anal=
ysis
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, tha=
t 'Pure
gold can be made at will, and very readily from lead in connection with cer=
tain
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 incre=
ased
interest in the matter of gold generally, by the late developments in
California; and this reflection brings us inevitably to another--the exceed=
ing
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 doubt=
ful
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 t=
he
announcement of this astounding discovery of Von Kempelen? a discovery which
declares, in so many words, that beyond its intrinsic worth for manufacturi=
ng
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), o=
f no
greater value than lead, and of far inferior value to silver. It is, indeed,
exceedingly difficult to speculate prospectively upon the consequences of t=
he 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.
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 nor=
mal
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 invigorate=
d;
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 a=
re
more extended and more pronounced.
I say that these--which are the law=
s of
mesmerism in its general features--it would be supererogation to demonstrat=
e;
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 t=
he
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 distres=
sing
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 acut=
e 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 b=
e,
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 m=
uch
anxiety and surprise. I need not tell you how sceptical I have hitherto bee=
n on
the topic of the soul's immortality. I cannot deny that there has always ex=
isted,
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 convictio=
n.
With it my reason had nothing to do. All attempts at logical inquiry result=
ed,
indeed, in leaving me more sceptical than before. I had been advised to stu=
dy
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 pla=
ced 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 argum=
ents
of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his summing up it seemed evident t=
o 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 whi=
ch
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 h=
alf
felt, and never intellectually believed. But latterly there has been a cert=
ain
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 influe=
nce.
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 mesme=
ric
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 knowledg=
e 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 thre=
w 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 will=
ing
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 e=
very
sign of the most profound veneration.]
P. What then=
is
God?
V. [Hesitati=
ng
for many minutes.] I cannot tell.
P. Is not God
spirit?
V. While I w=
as
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, t=
hen,
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. [Anoth=
er
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 nothin=
g;
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 partic=
les--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 thinkin=
g.
The unparticled matter, or God, in quiescence, is (as nearly as we can conc=
eive
it) what men call mind. And the power of self-movement (equivalent in effec=
t 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 wi=
thin
itself, is thinking.
P. Can you g=
ive
me no more precise idea of what you term the unparticled matter?
V. The matte=
rs
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 t=
his,
there can be no two ideas more essentially distinct than that which we atta=
ch
to a metal, and that which we attach to the luminiferous ether. When we rea=
ch
the latter, we feel an almost irresistible inclination to class it with spi=
rit,
or with nihility. The only consideration which restrains us is our concepti=
on of
its atomic constitution; and here, even, we have to seek aid from our notio=
n of
an atom, as something possessing in infinite minuteness, solidity, palpabil=
ity,
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 luminifer=
ous
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 impossib=
le
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 see=
ms
to me an insurmountable objection to the idea of absolute coalescence;--and
that is the very slight resistance experienced by the heavenly bodies in th=
eir
revolutions through space--a resistance now ascertained, it is true, to exi=
st
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 appa=
rent
unanswerability.--As regards the progress of the star, it can make no
difference whether the star passes through the ether or the ether through i=
t.
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 o=
ther
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 f=
ully
comprehended my meaning.]
V. Can you s= ay why matter should be less reverenced than mind? But you forget that the mat= ter of which I speak is, in all respects, the very "mind" or "spirit" of the schools, so far as regards its high capacities, a= nd 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.<= o:p>
P. You asser=
t,
then, that the unparticled matter, in motion, is thought?
V. In genera=
l,
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 n= ow speak of "mind" and "matter" as do the metaphysicians.<= o:p>
V. Yes--to a=
void
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 t=
he
thought of man; as the motion of the whole is that of God.
P. You say t=
hat
divested of the body man will be God?
V. [After mu=
ch
hesitation.] I could not have said this; it is an absurdity.
P. [Referrin=
g 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 act=
ion
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 tha=
t he
will never be bodiless.
P. Explain.<= o:p>
V. There are=
two
bodies--the rudimental and the complete; corresponding with the two conditi=
ons
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 wh=
en I
am entranced the senses of my rudimental life are in abeyance, and I percei=
ve
external things directly, without organs, through a medium which I shall em=
ploy
in the ultimate, unorganized life.
P. Unorganiz=
ed?
V. Yes; orga=
ns
are contrivances by which the individual is brought into sensible relation =
with
particular classes and forms of matter, to the exclusion of other classes a=
nd
forms. The organs of man are adapted to his rudimental condition, and to th=
at
only; his ultimate condition, being unorganized, is of unlimited comprehens=
ion
in all points but one--the nature of the volition of God--that is to say, t=
he
motion of the unparticled matter. You will have a distinct idea of the ulti=
mate
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 b=
ody
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 latte=
r is
thought, of which perception is the first undulation. This is the mode by w=
hich
the mind of the rudimental life communicates with the external world; and t=
his
external world is, to the rudimental life, limited, through the idiosyncras=
y of
its organs. But in the ultimate, unorganized life, the external world reach=
es
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 th=
an
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 i=
s to
the absence of idiosyncratic organs, therefore, that we must attribute the
nearly unlimited perception of the ultimate life. To rudimental beings, org=
ans are
the cages necessary to confine them until fledged.
P. You speak=
of
rudimental "beings." Are there other rudimental thinking beings t=
han
man?
V. The
multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into nebulæ, planets, sun=
s,
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, pri=
or
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--immor=
tality--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 fr=
om
the perception of the angels.
P. You say t=
hat
"but for the necessity of the rudimental life" there would have b=
een
no stars. But why this necessity?
V. In the
inorganic life, as well as in the inorganic matter generally, there is noth=
ing
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 resul=
t of
law inviolate is perfection--right--negative happiness. The result of law
violate is imperfection, wrong, positive pain. Through the impediments affo=
rded
by the number, complexity, and substantiality of the laws of organic life a=
nd
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 wh=
at
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, th=
ere
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--th=
at
is to say, the whole of what we term "space" is to them the trues=
t 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 featu=
res,
he fell back upon his pillow and expired. I noticed that in less than a min=
ute afterward
his corpse had all the stern rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldnes=
s of
ice. Thus, ordinarily, should it have appeared, only after long pressure fr=
om
Azrael's hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, during the latter portion of hi=
s discourse,
been addressing me from out the region of the shadows? THE FACTS IN THE CAS=
E OF
M. VALDEMAR
OF course I
shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that the extraordin=
ary
case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would have been a miracle ha=
d 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 naturall=
y,
of a great deal of disbelief.
It is now
rendered necessary that I give the facts--as far as I comprehend them mysel=
f.
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, th=
at
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 encroachm=
ents
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 Harlaem,
N.Y., since the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extr=
eme
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 h=
im
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 cla=
irvoyance,
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 mon=
ths
previous to my becoming acquainted with him, his physicians had declared hi=
m 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 ide=
as
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 w=
as if
that character which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epo=
ch
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 ra=
ther
more than seven months since I received, from M. Valdemar himself, the
subjoined note:
My DEAR P---=
,
You may as w=
ell
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.
I received t=
his
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 ap=
palled
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 cert=
ain
degree of physical strength. He spoke with distinctness--took some palliati=
ve medicines
without aid--and, when I entered the room, was occupied in penciling memora=
nda
in a pocket-book. He was propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D---- and
F---- were in attendance.
After pressi=
ng
Valdemar's hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and obtained from them a min=
ute
account of the patient's condition. The left lung had been for eighteen mon=
ths
in a semi-osseous or cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely usel=
ess
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 per=
forations
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
discovered a month before, and the adhesion had only been observed during t=
he
three previous days. Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspect=
ed
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. V=
aldemar
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 nigh=
t.
When they ha=
d gone,
I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the subject of his approaching dissoluti=
on,
as well as, more particularly, of the experiment proposed. He still profess=
ed
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 accide=
nt,
might prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the next ni=
ght,
when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had some acquaintance, (M=
r. 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 occurre=
d,
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 ab=
out
five minutes of eight when, taking the patient's hand, I begged him to stat=
e,
as distinctly as he could, to Mr. L--l, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entire=
ly
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, "deferred it too
long."
While he spo=
ke
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 farther
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 t=
he
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 conditi=
on
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 t=
he
dying man, and the stertorous breathing ceased--that is to say, its stertor=
ousness
was no longer apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient's
extremities were of an icy coldness.
At five minu=
tes
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 vigo=
rously,
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 a=
t 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 pre=
sent
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 t=
he
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, whe=
n 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; a=
nd
the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble. Still, the general appearance
was certainly not that of death.
As I approac=
hed
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 perso=
n.
In such experiments with this patient had never perfectly succeeded before,=
and
assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but to my astonishment, h=
is
arm very readily, although feebly, followed every direction I assigned it w=
ith
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 slig=
ht
shivering; the eyelids unclosed themselves so far as to display a white lin=
e of
the ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a barely aud=
ible
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 n=
ow
was immediate, but even less audible than before: "No pain--I am
dying."
I did not th=
ink
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, s=
ome
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 t=
he
question, he said very faintly, almost inaudibly:
"Yes; s=
till
asleep--dying."
It was now t=
he
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 t=
ake
place within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once more,
and merely repeated my previous question.
While I spok=
e,
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 whi=
te
paper; and the circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly def=
ined
in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use this expression, becau=
se
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, writh=
ed
itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered completely; whi=
le
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 t=
hat
I have reached a point of this narrative at which every reader will be star=
tled
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 a=
nd
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 conside=
red
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 t=
he
simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of human=
ity.
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 plac=
e,
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 m=
e (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--sylla=
bification.
M. Valdemar spoke--obviously in reply to the question I had propounded to h=
im a
few minutes before. I had asked him, it will be remembered, if he still sle=
pt.
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 calcula=
ted
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 mirro=
r 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 questi=
on. He
seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient voliti=
on.
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. Oth=
er
nurses were procured; and at ten o'clock I left the house in company with t=
he
two physicians and Mr. L--l.
In the after=
noon
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 pe=
riod
until the close of last week--an interval of nearly seven months--we contin=
ued
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 Fr=
iday
last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening or attemp=
ting
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--t=
o so
much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.
For the purp=
ose
of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made use of the custom=
ary
passes. These, for a time, were unsuccessful. The first indication of reviv=
al
was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especial=
ly
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 heretofo=
re.
I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F--then intimated a desire to have me pu=
t 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 r=
igid
as before;) and at length the same hideous voice which I have already
described, broke forth:
"For Go=
d's
sake!--quick!--quick!--put me to sleep--or, quick!--waken me!--quick!--I sa=
y to
you that I am dead!"
I was thorou=
ghly
unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made=
an
endeavor to re-compose the patient; but, failing in this through total abey=
ance
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 fan=
cied
that my success would be complete--and I am sure that all in the room were
prepared to see the patient awaken.
For what rea=
lly
occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have b=
een
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, be=
fore
that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome--of detesta=
ble
putridity.
FOR the most
wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect n=
or
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 n=
ot
dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immedi=
ate
purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comm=
ent,
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 logi=
cal,
and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstanc=
es I
detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural
causes and effects.
From my infa=
ncy
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 var=
iety
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 grow=
th,
and in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasur=
e.
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 w=
ho
has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fideli=
ty
of mere Man.
I married ea=
rly,
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 procu=
ring
those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabb=
its,
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 anc=
ient
popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not t=
hat
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 th=
at I
could prevent him from following me through the streets.
Our friendsh=
ip
lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperam=
ent
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 t=
he
change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Plut=
o,
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 t=
he
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 Pl=
uto
began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
One night,
returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fanci=
ed
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 thro=
at,
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 equivoc=
al
feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and =
soon
drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meant=
ime
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 philo=
sophy
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 unfa=
thomable
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 morni=
ng,
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 beca=
use 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 immo=
rtal
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 esc=
ape
from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wea=
lth
was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.
I am above t=
he
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 no=
t to
leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I vis=
ited
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 att=
ributed
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 a=
nd
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 win=
dow,
into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me f=
rom
sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty i=
nto
the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the
flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portrai=
ture
as I saw it.
Although I t=
hus
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 stupified, 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 han=
d.
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 m=
ade
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 p=
art,
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 fond=
ness
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 week=
s,
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 i=
ts 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 ha=
ve
already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which h=
ad
once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and
purest pleasures.
With my aver=
sion
to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It foll=
owed
my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the rea=
der
comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upo=
n 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 s=
harp
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 doi=
ng, partly
by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly--let me confess it at once--by
absolute dread of the beast.
This dread w=
as
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 w=
ould
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 o=
ne I
had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had=
been
originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees--degrees nearly impercepti=
ble,
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 wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of R=
est
any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in t=
he
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 Night-M=
are
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 evi=
l 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 uncomplaini=
ng
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 buil=
ding
which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the ste=
ep
stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplift=
ing
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 arre=
sted
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 brai=
n.
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 deliber=
ated
about casting it in the well in the yard--about packing it in a box, as if =
merchandize,
with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the ho=
use.
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 constructe=
d,
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 h=
ad
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 suspicio=
us.
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, w=
ith
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 wa=
ll
did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubb=
ish
on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumpha=
ntly,
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 prev=
ious
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 it=
s appearance
during the night--and thus for one night at least, since its introduction i=
nto
the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden =
of
murder upon my soul!
The second a=
nd
the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathe=
d 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 be=
en
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 fou=
rth
day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, in=
to
the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premis=
es.
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 e=
nd
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 hea=
rt 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.
"Gentle=
men,"
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 a=
re
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 sobb=
ing
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 ho=
rror
and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly
from the throats of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult =
in
the damnation.
Of my own th=
oughts
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, sto=
od
erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended m=
outh
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 wa=
lled
the monster up within the tomb!
Son coeur est un=
luth
suspendu; Sitôt=
qu'on
le touche il rèsonne..
=
&nb=
sp;
De Béranger.
DURING the w=
hole
of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clou=
ds
hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horsebac=
k,
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 hous=
e,
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 trunk=
s 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 unredee=
med 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 co=
uld
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 th=
e 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 i=
ts
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 mala=
dy.
It was the manner in which all this, and much more, was said--it was the ap=
parent
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 summ=
ons.
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 is=
sue,
and the consequent undeviating transmission, from sire to son, of the patri=
mony
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 wi=
thin
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 te=
rror
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 m=
ind
a strange fancy--a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but mention it to sh=
ow
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 th=
ere
hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity--an
atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which had reek=
ed
up from the decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn--a pestil=
ent
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 asp=
ect
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 mason=
ry
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. Perh=
aps
the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a barely perceptib=
le
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 wat=
ers
of the tarn.
Noticing the=
se
things, I rode over a short causeway to the house. A servant in waiting too=
k my
horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy s=
tep,
thence conducted me, in silence, through many dark and intricate passages i=
n 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 ha=
ve
already spoken. While the objects around me--while the carvings of the
ceilings, the sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the flo=
ors,
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 infanc=
y--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 accost=
ed
me with trepidation and passed on. The valet now threw open a door and ushe=
red me
into the presence of his master.
The room in
which I found myself was very large and lofty. The windows were long, narro=
w,
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 instrum=
ents
lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt t=
hat
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, w=
hile
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 t=
he
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 cadaverousnes=
s of
complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips some=
what
thin and very pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a de=
licate
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 won=
t to
convey, lay so much of change that I doubted to whom I spoke. The now ghast=
ly
pallor of the skin, and the now miraculous lustre of the eye, above all thi=
ngs startled
and even awed me. The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all unhee=
ded,
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 manne=
r 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 someth=
ing
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 e=
nunciation--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 nerv=
ous
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 anomal=
ous
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 influe=
nce
whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here to be
re-stated--an influence which some peculiarities in the mere form and subst=
ance
of his family mansion, had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, obtained o=
ver
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 th=
us
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 f=
or
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.&quo=
t;
While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she called) passed slowly thr=
ough
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 sensat=
ion
of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her retreating steps. When a do=
or,
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 transie= nt affections of a partially cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosi= s. 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 o= f my arrival at the house, she succumbed (as her brother told me at night with i= nexpressible 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 shou= ld obtain--that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no more.<= o:p>
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 t=
he
wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a closer and still
closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into the recesses of his spir=
it,
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 (vi=
vid
as their images now are before me) I would in vain endeavor to educe more t=
han
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 over=
awed
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 t=
he
pure abstractions which the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his canva=
ss,
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 sp=
irit
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 out=
let
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 rol=
led
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 mu=
sic
intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects of strin=
ged
instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined
himself upon the guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the fantast=
ic
character of his performances. But the fervid facility of his impromptus co=
uld
not be so accounted for. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as we=
ll
as in the words of his wild fantasias (for he not unfrequently accompanied
himself with rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that intense ment=
al 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 up=
on
her throne. The verses, which were entitled "The Haunted Palace,"=
ran
very nearly, if not accurately, thus:
=
&nb=
sp;
I. In the gree=
nest
of our valleys, =
By
good angels tenanted, Once a fair=
and
stately palace-- =
Radiant
palace--reared its head. In the mona=
rch
Thought's dominion-- =
It
stood there! Never seraph
spread a pinion =
Over
fabric half so fair. =
&nb=
sp; II.
Banne=
rs
yellow, glorious, golden, =
On
its roof did float and flow; (This--all
this--was in the olden =
Time
long ago) And every g=
entle
air that dallied, =
In
that sweet day, Along the
ramparts plumed and pallid, =
A
winged odor went away. =
&nb=
sp; III.
Wande=
rers
in that happy valley =
Through
two luminous windows saw Spirits mov=
ing
musically =
To
a lute's well-tunéd law, Round about=
a
throne, where sitting =
(Porphyrogene!)
In st=
ate
his glory well befitting, =
The
ruler of the realm was seen. =
&nb=
sp; IV.
And all with pear=
l and
ruby glowing =
Was
the fair palace door, Through whi=
ch
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. =
&nb=
sp; V.
But e=
vil
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. =
&nb=
sp; VI.
And
travellers now within that valley, =
Through
the red-litten windows, see =
span> Vast forms that move
fantastically =
To
a discordant melody; While, like=
a
rapid ghastly river, =
Through
the pale door, A hideous t=
hrong
rush out forever, =
And
laugh--but smile no more.
I well remem=
ber
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 accou=
nt
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 disord=
ered
fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under
certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inorganization. I lack words to exp=
ress
the full extent, or the earnest abandon of his persuasion. The belief, howe=
ver,
was connected (as I have previously hinted) with the gray stones of the hom=
e 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 the=
ir
arrangement, as well as in that of the many fungi which overspread them, an=
d 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 s=
aid,
(and I here started as he spoke,) in the gradual yet certain condensation o=
f an
atmosphere of their own about the waters and the walls. The result was
discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet importunate and terrible influe=
nce
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--t=
he
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 charac=
ter
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; t=
he
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 Vigili=
ae
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 vaul=
ts
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 des=
ire
to oppose what I regarded as at best but a harmless, and by no means an
unnatural, precaution.
At the reque=
st
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 re=
st.
The vault in which we placed it (and which had been so long unopened that o=
ur
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 portio=
n 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 copp=
er.
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 depos=
ited
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 exi=
sted
between them. Our glances, however, rested not long upon the dead--for we c=
ould
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 catalep=
tical
character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and the face, and th=
at
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, ma=
de
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 vanis=
hed.
His ordinary occupations were neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chambe=
r to
chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless step. The pallor of his
countenance had assumed, if possible, a more ghastly hue--but the luminousn=
ess
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 divu=
lge
which he struggled for the necessary courage. At times, again, I was oblige=
d 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 h=
is
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 ho=
urs
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 f=
elt,
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 unea=
sily
about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were fruitless. An irrepre=
ssible
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 a=
nd 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 unendurabl=
e, I
threw on my clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no more duri=
ng
the night), and endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable condition int=
o 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 arres=
ted
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 hurrie=
d 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 ter=
ror
and its beauty. A whirlwind had apparently collected its force in our vicin=
ity;
for there were frequent and violent alterations in the direction of the win=
d;
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 passi=
ng 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, w=
ere
glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible
gaseous exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the mansion.
"You mu=
st
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 uncomm=
on--or
it may be that they have their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the tar=
n.
Let us close this casement;--the air is chilling and dangerous to your fram=
e.
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 idealit=
y of
my friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand; and I indulg=
ed 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) ev=
en
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 congratula=
ted myself
upon the success of my design.
I had arrive=
d 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 herm=
it,
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 with=
al,
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 a=
nd
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 reverberat=
ed
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 dece=
ived
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 its=
elf,
had nothing, surely, which should have interested or disturbed me. I contin=
ued
the story:
"But th=
e good
champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore enraged and amaze=
d to
perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dr=
agon
of a scaly and prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in gu=
ard
before a palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and upon the wall there hu=
ng a
shield of shining brass with this legend enwritten--
Who entereth her=
ein, 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 apparen=
tly
distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or grating
sound--the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already conjured up for t=
he
dragon's unnatural shriek as described by the romancer.
Oppressed, a=
s I
certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second and most extraordinary
coincidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extr=
eme
terror were predominant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind to av=
oid
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 pla=
ce
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 y=
et
constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all this, I resum=
ed
the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded:
"And no=
w,
the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of the dragon, bethinki=
ng
himself of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the enchantment whi=
ch
was upon it, removed the carcass from out of the way before him, and approa=
ched
valorously over the silver pavement of the castle to where the shield was u=
pon
the wall; which in sooth t fe=
et
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 reverber=
ation.
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 st=
rong
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 unconsciou=
s of
my presence. Bending closely over him, I at length drank in the hideous imp=
ort
of his words.
"Not he=
ar
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 copp=
ered
archway of the vault! Oh whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon?
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 w=
hite
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 s=
hot
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 sig=
ht--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
ALCMAN. The moun=
tain
pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags and caves are s=
ilent.
"LISTEN=
to
me," said the Demon as he placed his hand upon my head. "The regi=
on
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 wa=
ters
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 rive=
r'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 ghast=
ly
necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads. And there is an indistin=
ct
murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of subterrene wate=
r.
And they sigh one unto the other.
"But th=
ere
is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark, horrible, lofty for=
est.
There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the low underwood is agitated
continually. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And the tall prime=
val
trees rock eternally hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. A=
nd
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 t=
hey roll,
a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throug=
hout
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, a=
ll
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, unt=
il 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 m=
oon
shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock, and u=
pon
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 uncov=
ered
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 sorr=
ow,
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 up=
on
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 cri=
mson
moon. And I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the action=
s 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 ri=
ver
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 t=
he
actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;--but the night wa=
ned
and he sat upon the rock.
"Then I
cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful tempest gathe=
red
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 crumb=
led
before the wind--and the thunder rolled--and the lightning fell--and the ro=
ck
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 wa=
ned
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 sigh=
s of
the water-lilies. And they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ce=
ased
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 sun=
k 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 t=
he characters
of the rock, and they were changed;--and the characters were SILENCE.
"And mi=
ne
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 u=
pon
the rock and listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitab=
le
desert, and the characters upon the rock were SILENCE. And the man shuddere=
d,
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 volume=
s 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 w=
ere
said by the Sybils; and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leav=
es
that trembled around Dodona--but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the Dem=
on
told me as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the mo=
st 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 "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 pro=
fuse
bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body a=
nd
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 Prin=
ce
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 retir=
ed
to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensi=
ve
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 ampl=
y 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, t=
here
were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security we=
re
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 wh=
ich
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 b=
ack
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 expe=
cted
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 effe=
ct.
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 t=
he
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 cham=
ber
only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. T=
he
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 wa=
s no
light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chamber=
s.
But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each
window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that protected 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 th=
is
apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic cloc=
k 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 c=
lear
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 wer=
e constrained
to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and t=
hus
the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief discon=
cert
of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it w=
as
observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed t=
heir
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 la=
pse
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 spit=
e of
these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke we=
re
peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the deco=
ra
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 followe=
rs
felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be =
sure
that he was not.
He had direc=
ted,
in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occa=
sion
of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given charac=
ter
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. The=
re
was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, somethi=
ng
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 vo=
ice
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 f=
rom
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 drape=
ry
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 ot=
her
apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of l=
ife.
And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sound=
ing
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 crep=
t,
with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who r=
evelled.
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 cro=
wd
who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure wh=
ich
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 disapprobati=
on
and surprise--then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.
In an assemb=
ly
of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordina=
ry
appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade licen=
se
of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Herod=
ed
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 equ=
ally
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 Dea=
th.
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 eye=
s 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 w=
ith
rage.
"Who
dares?" he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him--&quo=
t;who
dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him--th=
at
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 th=
ese
words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly--for the pri=
nce
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 sid=
e.
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; an=
d,
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 sole=
mn
and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the b=
lue
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 h=
im
on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a dra=
wn dagger,
and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of t=
he
retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the ve=
lvet
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 th=
rew
themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall fi=
gure
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 t=
heir
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 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 pun=
ish,
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 u=
nderstood,
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 respect=
ed
and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Ital=
ians
have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopte=
d to
suit the time and opportunity--to practise imposture upon the British and
Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his country=
men,
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 ha=
nd.
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?&q=
uot;
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 Amont=
illado
price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I=
was
fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amonti=
llado!"
"I have=
my
doubts."
"Amonti=
llado!"
"And I =
must
satisfy them."
"Amonti=
llado!"
"As you=
are
engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is h=
e.
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."
"Whithe=
r?"
"To your
vaults."
"My fri=
end,
no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagem=
ent.
Luchesi--"
"I have=
no
engagement;--come."
"My fri=
end,
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.&qu=
ot;
Thus speakin=
g,
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 sever=
al
suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a lo=
ng
and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We cam=
e 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! u= gh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!"<= o:p>
My poor frie=
nd
found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is
nothing," he said, at last.
"Come,&=
quot;
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 Med=
oc
will defend us from the damps."
Here I knock=
ed
off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that l=
ay
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 too=
k my
arm, and we proceeded.
"These
vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."<= o:p>
"I forg=
et
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!&=
quot;
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, a=
nd
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 v=
aults.
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 t=
he
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 y=
ou
are not of the brotherhood."
"How?&q=
uot;
"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 t=
o 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 va=
in
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.
"Procee=
d,"
I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi--"
"He is =
an
ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, w=
hile
I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extre=
mity
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 sur=
face
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 i=
t.
He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from
the recess.
"Pass y=
our
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 astonis=
hment.
"True,&=
quot;
I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said th=
ese
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 mort=
ar.
With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to w=
all
up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarce=
ly
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 seco=
nd
tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibration=
s 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 u=
pon
the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and fi=
nished
without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall w=
as
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 with=
in.
A succession=
of
loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained f=
orm,
seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated--I tremb=
led.
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, t=
he
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 recognisin=
g 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,&q=
uot;
I said, "let us be gone."
"For the
love of God, Montressor!"
"Yes,&q=
uot;
I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these
words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud--
"Fortun=
ato!"
No answer. I
called again--
"Fortun=
ato!"
No answer st=
ill.
I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. The=
re
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!
IN THE
consideration of the faculties and impulses--of the prima mobilia of the hu=
man
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 i=
ts
existence to escape our senses, solely through want of belief--of
faith;--whether it be faith in Revelation, or faith in the Kabbala. The ide=
a 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 necessit=
y.
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 humani=
ty,
either temporal or eternal. It cannot be denied that phrenology and, in gre=
at
measure, all metaphysicianism have been concocted a priori. The intellectua=
l 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 h=
is
innumerable systems of mind. In the matter of phrenology, for example, we f=
irst
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 or=
gan
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 sentime=
nt,
or a faculty of the pure intellect. And in these arrangements of the Princi=
pia
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 occasiona=
lly
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 t=
hen
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 primit=
ive
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 propositio=
n as
to say, that through its promptings we act, for the reason that we should n=
ot.
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 overwhelmi=
ng 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 m=
odification
of combativeness, but in the case of that something which I term perversene=
ss,
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 tantali=
ze 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 on=
ly
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. T=
hat
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 de=
ep
regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequence=
s)
is indulged.
We have a ta=
sk
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, f=
or
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 perve=
rse,
using the word with no comprehension of the principle. To-morrow arrives, a=
nd
with it a more impatient anxiety to do our duty, but with this very increas=
e of
anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a positively fearful, because unfathomab=
le, 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 strug=
gle
in vain. The clock strikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same ti=
me,
it is the chanticleer--note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It f=
lies--it
disappears--we are free. The old energy returns. We will labor now. Alas, i=
t is
too late!
We stand upon
the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss--we grow sick and dizzy. O=
ur
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 assu=
mes
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 d=
emon
of a tale, and yet it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one whi=
ch
chills the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the delight of i=
ts
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 rus=
hing
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 sufferi=
ng
which have ever presented themselves to our imagination--for this very caus=
e 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 b=
e 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 sp=
irit
of the Perverse. We perpetrate them because we feel that we should not. Bey=
ond
or behind this there is no intelligible principle; and we might, indeed, de=
em
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 le=
ast
the faint aspect of a cause for my wearing these fetters, and for my tenant=
ing
this cell of the condemned. Had I not been thus prolix, you might either ha=
ve
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 imposs=
ible
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 detecti=
on.
At length, in reading some French Memoirs, I found an account of a nearly f=
atal
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 ea=
sy
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 t=
he
visitation of God."
Having inher=
ited
his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea of detection never on=
ce
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, int=
o 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 bur=
then
of some ordinary song, or some unimpressive snatches from an opera. Nor wil=
l 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, whi=
lst
sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in the act of murmuring, ha=
lf
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 ha=
d I
spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to my heart. I had had s=
ome
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 desir=
e to
shriek aloud. Every succeeding wave of thought overwhelmed me with new terr=
or,
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 cro=
wded
thoroughfares. At length, the populace took the alarm, and pursued me. I fe=
lt
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 in=
visible
fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad palm upon the back. The long
imprisoned secret burst forth from my soul.
They say tha=
t I
spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with marked emphasis and passionate
hurry, as if in dread of interruption before concluding the brief, but preg=
nant
sentences that consigned me to the hangman and to hell.
Having relat=
ed
all that was necessary for the fullest judicial conviction, I fell prostrat=
e in
a swoon.
But why shal=
l I
say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am here! To-morrow I shall be
fetterless!--but where?
Nullus enim locu=
s sine
genio est.--Servius.
"LA
MUSIQUE," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux" (*1) whic=
h 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-meme; tous les autres veulent des temoins." He here confounds t=
he
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 i=
t is
only in common with other talents that it produces effects which may be ful=
ly
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 i=
s 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 d=
oes
music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness experie=
nced
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 m=
e,
at least, the presence--not of human life only, but of life in any other fo=
rm
than that of the green things which grow upon the soil and are voiceless--i=
s 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 inclusiv=
e of
all; whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the mo=
on,
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 im=
mensity,
whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our own cognizance of the
animalculae which infest the brain--a being which we, in consequence, regar=
d as
purely inanimate and material much in the same manner as these animalculae =
must
thus regard us.
Our telescop=
es
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 bo=
dies
are accurately such as, within a given surface, to include the greatest pos=
sible
amount of matter;--while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to
accommodate a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surf=
aces
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 vitalit=
y 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&q=
uot;
which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul for no more prof=
ound
reason than that he does not behold it in operation. (*2)
These fancie=
s,
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 th=
at 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 u=
ne
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 wi=
thin
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 t=
he
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, a=
nd
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 upwar=
d)
there poured down noiselessly and continuously into the valley, a rich gold=
en
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 b=
ank
and shadow there
That each se=
emed
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 extremi=
ties
of the islet; and I observed a singularly-marked difference in their aspect=
s.
The latter was all one radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blus=
hed
beneath the eyes of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The
grass was short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The tre=
es
were lithe, mirthful, erect--bright, slender, and graceful,--of eastern fig=
ure
and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a de=
ep
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 wing=
s.
(*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 untime=
ly
death. The grass wore the deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its bl=
ades
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 clamber=
ed.
The shade of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itse=
lf 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 rema=
in
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 rath=
er
waste away mournfully, rendering unto God, little by little, their existenc=
e,
as these trees render up shadow after shadow, exhausting their substance un=
to
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 mu=
sed,
with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to rest, and eddying curren=
ts
careered round and round the island, bearing upon their bosom large, dazzli=
ng,
white flakes of the bark of the sycamore-flakes which, in their multiform
positions upon the water, a quick imagination might have converted into any
thing it pleased, while I thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of on=
e 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 ere=
ct in
a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an oar. W=
hile
within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude seemed indicat=
ive
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," cont=
inued
I, musingly, "is the cycle of the brief year of her life. She has floa=
ted
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 m=
ore
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 d=
own
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 utter=
ly
departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went disconsolate=
ly
with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and that she issued thenc=
e at
all I cannot say, for darkness fell over an things and I beheld her magical
figure no more.
Stay for me
there! I will not fail.=
To meet the=
e in
that hollow vale.
[Exequy on the d=
eath
of his wife, by Henry King, Bisho=
p 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 si=
lent
waters. Yes! I repeat it--as thou shouldst be. There are surely other world=
s 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 occupat=
ions
as a wasting away of life, which were but the overflowings of thine everlas=
ting
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 meetin=
g.
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 d=
own
the narrow canal.
It was a nig=
ht
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, a=
nd
the lights in the old Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I was returning ho=
me
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 l=
ivid
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 abys=
s.
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 al=
one.
Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the black mirror of marble ben=
eath
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 fo=
rm;
but the mid-summer and midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, and no moti=
on
in the statue-like form itself, stirred even the folds of that raiment of v=
ery vapor
which hung around it as the heavy marble hangs around the Niobe. Yet--stran=
ge
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 di=
rection!
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 l=
ay
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, mu=
ltiplies
the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-off places, the wo wh=
ich
is close at hand?
Many steps a=
bove
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 thrum=
ming
a guitar, and seemed ennuye to the very death, as at intervals he gave
directions for the recovery of his child. Stupified and aghast, I had mysel=
f 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 O=
ld
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, h=
is
cloak, heavy with the drenching water, became unfastened, and, falling in f=
olds
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 p=
ress
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 a=
rms
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 w=
oman
thrills throughout the soul, and the statue has started into life! The pall=
or 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 t=
hat
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 forgo=
tten
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 throbbi=
ng
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 t=
hose
unmeaning words which the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu?
"Thou hast conquered," she said, or the murmurs of the water dece=
ived
me; "thou hast conquered--one hour after sunrise--we shall meet--so le=
t it
be!"
* * * * *
The tumult h=
ad
subsided, the lights had died away within the palace, and the stranger, who=
m 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. Ha=
ving
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 sli=
ght
acquaintance in terms of great apparent cordiality.
There are so=
me
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 ha=
zel
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 an=
d 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 w=
hich
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 subjec=
t 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 j=
udge
from this circumstance, as well as from an air of exhaustion in the counten=
ance
of my friend, that he had not retired to bed during the whole of the preced=
ing
night. In the architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the evident
design had been to dazzle and astound. Little attention had been paid to th=
e 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 da=
ys,
nor the huge carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich draperies in every part of t=
he
room trembled to the vibration of low, melancholy music, whose origin was n=
ot
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, form=
ed
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 upo=
n 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 reconci=
le
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 Absur=
dities
of Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of characters who came to the same
magnificent end. Do you know, however," continued he musingly, "t=
hat
at Sparta (which is now Palæ; ochori,) at Sparta, I say, to the west =
of
the citadel, among a chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is a kind of socle, u=
pon
which are still legible the letters 7!=3D9. They are undoubtedly part of '+=
7!=3D9!.
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, wit=
h 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 anythi=
ng
so fine as this, my little regal cabinet. My other apartments are by no mea=
ns
of the same order--mere ultras of fashionable insipidity. This is better th=
an 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, howe=
ver,
against any such profanation. With one exception, you are the only human be=
ing
besides myself and my valet, who has been admitted within the mysteries of
these imperial precincts, since they have been bedizzened as you see!"=
I bowed in
acknowledgment--for the overpowering sense of splendor and perfume, and mus=
ic,
together with the unexpected eccentricity of his address and manner, preven=
ted
me from expressing, in words, my appreciation of what I might have construed
into a compliment.
"Here,&=
quot;
he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered around the apartm=
ent,
"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 su=
ch
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 t=
his
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!--h=
ow
could you have obtained it?--she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus =
is
in sculpture."
"Ha!&qu=
ot;
said he thoughtfully, "the Venus--the beautiful Venus?--the Venus of t=
he
Medici?--she of the diminutive head and the gilded hair? Part of the left a=
rm
(here his voice dropped so as to be heard with difficulty,) and all the rig=
ht,
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 fou=
nd
his statue in the block of marble? Then Michael Angelo was by no means orig=
inal
in his couplet--
'Non ha l'ottimo
artista alcun concetto Che un marm=
o 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 applica=
ble
to his moral temperament and character. Nor can I better define that
peculiarity of spirit which seemed to place him so essentially apart from a=
ll
other human beings, than by calling it a habit of intense and continual
thought, pervading even his most trivial actions--intruding upon his moment=
s 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. Frequentl=
y,
too, pausing in the middle of a sentence whose commencement he had apparent=
ly
forgotten, he seemed to be listening in the deepest attention, as if either=
in momentary
expectation of a visiter, 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 o=
ver
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 towa=
rds
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 Engl=
ish
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 a=
ll to
me, love, For which m=
y soul
did pine-- A green isl=
e in
the sea, love, A fountain =
and a
shrine, All
wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers; And all the
flowers were mine. Ah, dream t=
oo
bright to last! Ah, starry =
Hope,
that didst arise But to be
overcast! =
span>A
voice from out the Future cries, "Onwar=
d! "--but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ) my spirit hovering lies, Mute--motio=
nless--aghast!
For
alas! alas! with me The light o=
f life
is o'er. "No mo=
re--no
more--no more," (Such langu=
age
holds the solemn sea To the sand=
s upon
the shore,) Shall bloom=
the
thunder-blasted tree, Or the stri=
cken
eagle soar! Now all my =
hours
are trances; And all my
nightly dreams Are where t=
he
dark eye glances, And where t=
hy
footstep gleams, In what eth=
ereal
dances, By
what Italian streams. Alas! for that accursed time They bore t=
hee
o'er the billow, From Love to
titled age and crime, And an unho=
ly
pillow!-- From me, an=
d from
our misty clime, Where weeps=
the
silver willow!
That these l=
ines
were written in English--a language with which I had not believed their aut=
hor
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 conceal=
ing
them from observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery; but the p=
lace
of date, I must confess, occasioned me no little amazement. It had been
originally written London, and afterwards carefully overscored--not, howeve=
r,
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 resid=
ed
in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to understand tha=
t he
had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as (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 English=
man.
* * * * *
"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." A=
nd throwing
aside a drapery, he discovered a full-length portrait of the Marchesa
Aphrodite.
Human art could have done no more i=
n 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 bef=
ore
me once again. But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming =
all over
with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!) that fitful sta=
in
of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection of t=
he
beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her bosom. With her left she point=
ed
downward to a curiously fashioned vase. One small, fairy foot, alone visibl=
e,
barely touched the earth; and, scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosp=
here
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 fig=
ure
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 <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Till Death =
hath
made him marble!"
"Come,&=
quot;
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 ho=
ur
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 cense=
rs
are so eager to subdue!" And, having made me pledge him in a bumper, h=
e 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--&quo=
t;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 tim=
e,
are the bugbears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnif=
icent.
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 cense=
rs,
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 Chiches=
ter:
"Stay for me
there! I will not fail To meet the=
e 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 succeede=
d. 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!&quo=
t;
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 consciousnes=
s of
the entire and terrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>PIT AND THE PENDULUM<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
Impia tortorum l=
ongos
hic turba furores Sanguinis
innocui, non satiata, aluit. Sospite nunc
patria, fracto nunc funeris antro, Mors ubi di=
ra
fuit vita salusque patent.
[Quatrain composed for=
the
gates of a market to be erected upon the si=
te 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 reache=
d 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--pe=
rhaps
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 ap=
peared
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 s=
aw
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 mom=
ents
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 onc=
e,
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 grav=
e.
The thought came gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it attain=
ed
full appreciation; but just as my spirit came at length properly to feel an=
d 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, nig=
ht
were the universe.
I had swoone=
d;
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 the=
re
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 reachi=
ng
the second stage, we could recall the impressions of the first, we should f=
ind
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 t=
omb?
But if the impressions of what I have termed the first stage, are not, at w=
ill,
recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not come unbidden, while we mar=
vel
whence they come? He who has never swooned, is not he who finds strange pal=
aces
and wildly familiar faces in coals that glow; is not he who beholds floatin=
g in
mid-air the sad visions that the many may not view; is not he who ponders o=
ver
the perfume of some novel flower--is not he whose brain grows bewildered wi=
th the
meaning of some musical cadence which has never before arrested his attenti=
on.
Amid frequent
and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest struggles to regather so=
me
token of the state of seeming nothingness into which my soul had lapsed, th=
ere
have been moments when I have dreamed of success; there have been brief, ve=
ry
brief periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the lucid reason o=
f a
later epoch assures me could have had reference only to that condition of
seeming unconsciousness. These shadows of memory tell, indistinctly, of tal=
l 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 desc=
ent.
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 pervad=
ing
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 des=
ire 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 s=
able
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 b=
e. 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, b=
ut
that I grew aghast lest there should be nothing to see. At length, with a w=
ild
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 pas=
sed;
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 re=
al
existence;--but where and in what state was I? The condemned to death, I kn=
ew,
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 t=
he
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 id=
ea
now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my heart, and for a brief per=
iod,
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 abo=
ve
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 ev=
ery
pore, and stood in cold big beads upon my forehead. The agony of suspense g=
rew 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 ra=
y 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 mo=
st
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 dunge=
ons
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 pe=
rish
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 outstretc=
hed
hands at length encountered some solid obstruction. It was a wall, seemingl=
y 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 s=
et
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 ro=
be
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 up=
on
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 m=
e as
I lay.
Upon awaking,
and stretching forth an arm, I found beside me a loaf and a pitcher with wa=
ter.
I was too much exhausted to reflect upon this circumstance, but ate and dra=
nk
with avidity. Shortly afterward, I resumed my tour around the prison, and w=
ith
much toil came at last upon the fragment of the serge. Up to the period whe=
n 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, a=
nd
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 these researches; but a vague curiosity prompted =
me
to continue them. Quitting the wall, I resolved to cross the area of the en=
closure.
At first I proceeded with extreme caution, for the floor, although seemingl=
y of
solid material, was treacherous with slime. At length, however, I took cour=
age,
and did not hesitate to step firmly; endeavoring to cross in as direct a li=
ne
as possible. I had advanced some ten or twelve paces in this manner, when t=
he
remnant of the torn hem of my robe became entangled between my legs. I step=
ped
on it, and fell violently on my face.
In the confu=
sion
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 floo=
r of
the prison, but my lips and the upper portion of my head, although seemingl=
y at
a less elevation than the chin, touched nothing. At the same time my forehe=
ad
seemed bathed in a clammy vapor, and the peculiar smell of decayed fungus a=
rose
to my nostrils. I put forward my arm, and shuddered to find that I had fall=
en 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. F=
or
many seconds I hearkened to its reverberations as it dashed against the sid=
es
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 th=
e 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 w=
ith
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 e=
very
limb, I groped my way back to the wall; resolving there to perish rather th=
an
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 ha=
ve
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 terri=
ble
circumstances which environed me, then the mere dimensions of my dungeon? B=
ut
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 th=
e 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 m=
ind
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 devic=
es
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 fea=
rful
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 notic=
ed
the floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned the circular pit f=
rom
whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the only one in the dungeon.
All this I s=
aw
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 st=
rap
resembling a surcingle. It passed in many convolutions about my limbs and b=
ody,
leaving at liberty only my head, and my left arm to such extent that I coul=
d,
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 t=
he
dish was meat pungently seasoned.
Looking upwa=
rd,
I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. It was some thirty or forty feet overh=
ead,
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 ca=
sual
glance, I supposed to be the pictured image of a huge pendulum such as we s=
ee
on antique clocks. There was something, however, in the appearance of this
machine which caused me to regard it more attentively. While I gazed direct=
ly
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 turne=
d my
eyes upon the other objects in the cell.
A slight noi=
se
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 no=
te
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 ya=
rd.
As a natural consequence, its velocity was also much greater. But what main=
ly
disturbed me was the idea that had perceptibly descended. I now observed--w=
ith
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 w=
hole
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 accide=
nts,
I knew that surprise, or entrapment into torment, formed an important porti=
on
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 i=
t to
tell of the long, long hours of horror more than mortal, during which I cou=
nted
the rushing vibrations of the steel! Inch by inch--line by line--with a des=
cent
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 clos=
ely
over me as to fan me with its acrid breath. The odor of the sharp steel for=
ced
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 upwar=
d 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 laps=
ing
into life there had been no perceptible descent in the pendulum. But it mig=
ht
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 a=
mid
the agonies of that period, the human nature craved food. With painful effo=
rt 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 a=
ll
my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile--an idiot.
The vibratio=
n 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 terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more) and the =
its
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 wou=
ld
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 t=
he
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--steadi=
ly
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 alternate=
ly
laughed and howled as the one or the other idea grew predominant.
Down--certai=
nly,
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 elbo=
w 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 vibratio=
n. I
shrunk convulsively at its every sweep. My eyes followed its outward or upw=
ard
whirls with the eagerness of the most unmeaning despair; they closed themse=
lves
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--t=
he hope
that triumphs on the rack--that whispers to the death-condemned even in the
dungeons of the Inquisition.
I saw that s=
ome
ten or twelve vibrations would bring the steel in actual contact with my ro=
be,
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 per=
haps
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 fearfu=
l,
in that case, the proximity of the steel! The result of the slightest strug=
gle
how deadly! Was it likely, moreover, that the minions of the torturer had n=
ot
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, a=
nd,
as it seemed, in last hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as to obta=
in 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 l=
ips.
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 hou=
rs
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 remna=
nt
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 t=
he
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 st=
ill.
At first the
ravenous animals were startled and terrified at the change--at the cessatio=
n of
movement. They shrank alarmedly back; many sought the well. But this was on=
ly
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-wo=
rk,
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 themse=
lves
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 hea=
rt.
Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle would be over. Plainly I perce=
ived
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 er=
red
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 rob=
e.
It had cut through the linen beneath. Twice again it swung, and a sharp sen=
se
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 t=
he
ceiling. This was a lesson which I took desperately to heart. My every moti=
on
was undoubtedly watched. Free!--I had but escaped death in one form of agon=
y,
to be delivered unto worse than death in some other. With that thought I ro=
lled
my eves nervously around on the barriers of iron that hemmed me in. Somethi=
ng 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, wh=
ich thus
appeared, and were, completely separated from the floor. I endeavored, but =
of
course in vain, to look through the aperture.
As I arose f=
rom
the attempt, the mystery of the alteration in the chamber broke at once upo=
n my
understanding. I have observed that, although the outlines of the figures u=
pon
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 fiendi=
sh
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 di=
rections,
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 heat=
ed
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 diff=
used
itself over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I gasped for breath! T=
here
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 br=
ink.
I threw my straining vision below. The glare from the enkindled roof illumi=
ned
its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse to compre=
hend
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 rap=
idly
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 obviousl=
y in
the form. As before, it was in vain that I, at first, endeavoured to apprec=
iate
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 w=
as
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 t=
he
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 i=
ron 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 t=
here
was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I strugg=
led
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.
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 Beresi=
na,
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 t=
he
reality----it is the history which excites. As inventions, we should regard
them with simple abhorrence.
I have menti=
oned
some few of the more prominent and august calamities on record; but in thes=
e 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 w=
eird
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, properl=
y 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, w=
as the
soul?
Apart, howev=
er,
from the inevitable conclusion, a priori that such causes must produce such
effects----that the well-known occurrence of such cases of suspended animat=
ion
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 tak=
en
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 citizen=
s-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 prese=
nted
all the ordinary appearances of death. The face assumed the usual pinched a=
nd
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 b=
ody
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 esc=
ape.
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 probab=
ly
swooned, or possibly died, through sheer terror; and, in failing, her shroud
became entangled in some iron--work which projected interiorly. Thus she re=
mained,
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, howev=
er,
this gentleman neglected, and, perhaps, even more positively ill-treated he=
r. 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 profou=
nd
attachment, the lover journeys from the capital to the remote province in w=
hich
the village lies, with the romantic purpose of disinterring the corpse, and
possessing himself of its luxuriant tresses. He reaches the grave. At midni=
ght
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 t=
wo
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 w=
ere
mistaken, however, for, at the first meeting, Monsieur Renelle did actually
recognize and make claim to his wife. This claim she resisted, and a judici=
al
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 republ=
ish,
records in a late number a very distressing event of the character in quest=
ion.
An officer of
artillery, a man of gigantic stature and of robust health, being thrown fro=
m 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 visiters, and about noon an int=
ense
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 up=
on
the crowd. Spades were hurriedly procured, and the grave, which was shamefu=
lly
shallow, was in a few minutes so far thrown open that the head of its occup=
ant
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 uplift=
ed.
He was forth=
with
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 agon=
ies
in the grave.
From what he
related, it was clear that he must have been conscious of life for more tha=
n 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 grou=
nds
of the cemetery, he said, which appeared to awaken him from a deep sleep, b=
ut 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 ecsta=
tic
paroxysms which, occasionally, it superinduces.
The mention =
of
the galvanic battery, nevertheless, recalls to my memory a well known and v=
ery
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. T=
his
occurred in 1831, and created, at the time, a very profound sensation where=
ver
it was made the subject of converse.
The patient,=
Mr.
Edward Stapleton, had died, apparently of typhus fever, accompanied with so=
me
anomalous symptoms which had excited the curiosity of his medical attendant=
s.
Upon his seeming decease, his friends were requested to sanction a post-mor=
tem
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 gra=
ve
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 undec=
ayed
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 occasi=
ons,
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 proc=
eed
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 unintelligibl=
e,
but words were uttered; the syllabification was distinct. Having spoken, he
fell heavily to the floor.
For some mom=
ents
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 heal=
th,
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 M=
r.
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 recognizi=
ng
the locality of the dissecting-room, he had endeavored, in his extremity, to
utter.
It were an e=
asy
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 pow=
er
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 inde=
ed
the suspicion--but more fearful the doom! It may be asserted, without hesit=
ation,
that no event is so terribly well adapted to inspire the supremeness of bod=
ily
and of mental distress, as is burial before death. The unendurable oppressi=
on
of the lungs--the stifling fumes from the damp earth--the clinging to the d=
eath
garments--the rigid embrace of the narrow house--the blackness of the absol=
ute
Night--the silence like a sea that overwhelms--the unseen but palpable pres=
ence
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 degr=
ee
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 narrativ=
es
upon this topic have an interest profound; an interest, nevertheless, which,
through the sacred awe of the topic itself, very properly and very peculiar=
ly 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 experie=
nce.
For several years I had been subject to attacks of the singular disorder which physicia= ns have agreed to term catalepsy, in default of a more definitive title. Altho= ugh both the immediate and the predisposing causes, and even the actual diagnos= is, 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, i= n a species of exaggerated lethargy. He is senseless and externally motionless;= but the pulsation of the heart is still faintly perceptible; some traces of war= mth remain; a slight color lingers within the centre of the cheek; and, upon ap= plication 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--ev= en 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 prema= ture 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 t= han 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.<= o:p>
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 hemi-syncope, or half swoon; and, in this condition, without p=
ain,
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 t=
he
tendency to trance, however, my general health appeared to be good; nor cou=
ld 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, thoro=
ugh
possession of my senses, and always remained, for many minutes, in much
bewilderment and perplexity;--the mental faculties in general, but the memo=
ry
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 contin=
ual
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 t=
he
latter, supreme. When the grim Darkness overspread the Earth, then, with ev=
ery
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, sab=
le,
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 tran=
ce
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 busi=
ed
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! Co=
me
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 th=
rown
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 the=
re
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 slumbe=
red
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 rustl=
ing 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 a=
gain
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 expir=
ed,
and the graves were closed with a sudden violence, while from out them aros=
e a
tumult of despairing cries, saying again: "Is it not--O, God, is it no=
t a
very pitiful sight?"
Phantasies s=
uch
as these, presenting themselves at night, extended their terrific influence=
far
into my waking hours. My nerves became thoroughly unstrung, and I fell a pr=
ey
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 my=
self
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 befo=
re
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 gl=
ad
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 so=
lemn
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 li=
sten
to no reason--would accept no consolation. I entered into a series of elabo=
rate
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 lo=
ng
lever that extended far into the tomb would cause the iron portal to fly ba=
ck. There
were arrangements also for the free admission of air and light, and conveni=
ent
receptacles for food and water, within immediate reach of the coffin intend=
ed
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 additi=
on
of springs so contrived that the feeblest movement of the body would be suf=
ficient
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 arrive=
d 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 existen=
ce.
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 ear=
s;
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-enti=
ty;
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 min=
utes
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 tha=
t 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 t=
he
attempt--but no voice issued from the cavernous lungs, which oppressed as i=
f by
the weight of some incumbent mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the hear=
t,
at every elaborate and struggling inspiration.
The movement=
of
the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me that they were bound up, a=
s 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, whi=
ch
had been lying at length, with the wrists crossed. They struck a solid wood=
en
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 las=
t.
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 whi=
ch 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-whi=
le
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 o=
nce
again struggled to cry aloud. And in this second endeavor I succeeded. A lo=
ng,
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 t=
he
devil's the matter now!" said a second.
"Get ou=
t o'
that!" said a third.
"What do
you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a cattymount?" sai=
d 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 adventu=
re
occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied by a friend, I had proceed=
ed,
upon a gunning expedition, some miles down the banks of the James River. Ni=
ght
approached, and we were overtaken by a storm. The cabin of a small sloop ly=
ing
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 sloo=
p 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 bot=
tom
from the deck overhead was precisely the same. I found it a matter of excee=
ding
difficulty to squeeze myself in. Nevertheless, I slept soundly, and the who=
le
of my vision--for it was no dream, and no nightmare--arose naturally from t=
he
circumstances of my position--from my ordinary bias of thought--and from the
difficulty, to which I have alluded, of collecting my senses, and especiall=
y 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 ac=
tual
sepulture. They were fearfully--they were inconceivably hideous; but out of
Evil proceeded Good; for their very excess wrought in my spirit an inevitab=
le
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 bur=
ned.
I read no "Night Thoughts"--no fustian about churchyards--no buga=
boo
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 wit=
h 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 Carath=
is,
to explore with impunity its every cavern. Alas! the grim legion of sepulch=
ral
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 t=
hey
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 f=
ields
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 u=
pon
their azure leaves did shew Like twinkl=
ing
stars that sparkle in the evening blue. Giles Fletc=
her.
FROM his cra=
dle
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 u=
nderstand
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 w=
as,
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 st=
ead
of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found himself precipitated, by the ve=
ry
extraordinary success of his life, into the common vortex of unhappiness wh=
ich
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,&quo=
t;
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 th=
an
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 wa=
s 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 possessi=
ons
had been always ample; but on the attainment of his majority, it was discov=
ered
that one of those extraordinary freaks of fate had been played in his behal=
f which
startle the whole social world amid which they occur, and seldom fail radic=
ally
to alter the moral constitution of those who are their objects.
It appears t=
hat
about a hundred years before Mr. Ellison's coming of age, there had died, i=
n 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 mad=
e to
set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character rendered the=
m 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 hundr=
ed
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 exc=
ess
in the fashionable extravagances of his time--or busying himself with polit=
ical
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 hund=
red
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 doll=
ars
for every minute that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroug=
hly
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, proper=
ly
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 happil=
y 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 charac=
ter,
the august aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment. T=
he
fullest, if not the sole proper satisfaction of this sentiment he instincti=
vely
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 th=
is bias,
perhaps, which led him to believe that the most advantageous at least, if n=
ot
the sole legitimate field for the poetic exercise, lies in the creation of
novel moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened he became neith=
er
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 Milt=
on have
contentedly remained "mute and inglorious?" I believe that the wo=
rld
has never seen--and that, unless through some series of accidents goading t=
he
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 beca=
me
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 consequenc=
es,
to have occupied, at any time, much of his attention. And I have now mentio=
ned
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-gar=
dener
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 sentime=
nt
in man.
"Its
adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth." In his expla=
nation
of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much toward solving what has always se=
emed
to me an enigma:--I mean the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute) tha=
t 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 sh=
ort,
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 re=
gard
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 portraitu=
re,
that here nature is to be exalted or idealized rather than imitated, is in
error. No pictorial or sculptural combinations of points of human livelines=
s do
more than approach the living and breathing beauty. In landscape alone is t=
he
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 th=
roughout
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 arr=
angements
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 exp=
ress
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 mem=
ber
of the fraternity would have suggested the identical emendation.
I repeat tha=
t in
landscape arrangements alone is the physical nature susceptible of exaltati=
on,
and that, therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this one point, w=
as a
mystery I had been unable to solve. My own thoughts on the subject had rest=
ed
in the idea that the primitive intention of nature would have so arranged t=
he
earth's surface as to have fulfilled at all points man's sense of perfectio=
n 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 t=
he 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,&q=
uot;
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 altera=
tion
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 ea=
sily
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 a=
far,
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 cours=
e of
discussion, my friend quoted some passages from a writer on landscape-garde=
ning
who has been supposed to have well treated his theme:
"There =
are
properly but two styles of landscape-gardening, the natural and the artific=
ial.
One seeks to recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its mea=
ns
to the surrounding scenery, cultivating trees in harmony with the hills or
plain of the neighboring land; detecting and bringing into practice those n=
ice
relations of size, proportion, and color which, hid from the common observe=
r,
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 ma=
ny
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 a=
nd
retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed old English
style, which bears some relation to the domestic Gothic or English Elizabet=
han architecture.
Whatever may be said against the abuses of the artificial landscape--garden=
ing,
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 mor=
al.
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 exhibiti=
on
of art is an evidence of care and human interest."
"From w=
hat
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 introdu=
ced.
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 s=
ize,
proportion, and color, is one of those mere vaguenesses of speech which ser=
ve
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 th=
an
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 critici=
sm
which, in letters, would elevate Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while t=
hat
virtue which consists in the mere avoidance of vice appeals directly to the
understanding, and can thus be circumscribed in rule, the loftier virtue, w=
hich
flames in creation, can be apprehended in its results alone. Rule applies b=
ut
to the merits of denial--to the excellencies which refrain. Beyond these, t=
he
critical art can but suggest. We may be instructed to build a "Cato,&q=
uot;
but we are in vain told how to conceive a Parthenon or an "Inferno.&qu=
ot;
The thing done, however; the wonder accomplished; and the capacity for appr=
ehension
becomes universal. The sophists of the negative school who, through inabili=
ty
to create, have scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause.
What, in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure reaso=
n,
never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort admiration from t=
heir
instinct of beauty.
"The
author's observations on the artificial style," continued Ellison, &qu=
ot;are
less objectionable. A mixture of pure art in a garden scene adds to it a gr=
eat
beauty. This is just; as also is the reference to the sense of human intere=
st.
The principle expressed is incontrovertible--but there may be something bey=
ond
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 wh=
ich
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 spiri=
tual
interference. It will be seen that, in bringing about such result, he secur=
es
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 s=
ense
of the Almighty design to be one step depressed--to be brought into somethi=
ng
like harmony or consistency with the sense of human art--to form an interme=
dium
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 in=
terest
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 emanati=
on
from God, but which still is nature in the sense of the handiwork of the an=
gels
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 f=
or
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 Stael.
I despair of
conveying to the reader any distinct conception of the marvels which my fri=
end
did actually accomplish. I wish to describe, but am disheartened by the
difficulty of description, and hesitate between detail and generality. Perh=
aps
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 voya=
ge
to the South Seas, when a night's reflection induced him to abandon the ide=
a.
"Were I misanthropic," he said, "such a locale would suit me.
The thoroughness of its insulation and seclusion, and the difficulty of ing=
ress
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 wh=
at 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, th=
at
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 ex=
tent
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 picturesq=
ue.
"I am
aware," said the traveller, as he drew a sigh of deep delight after ga=
zing
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 ex=
cess
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 obvi=
ous.
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 t=
he
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 u=
ntil
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 visiters, has given to Arnheim a speci=
es
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 visiter 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 cultiva=
tion
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 even=
ing
approached, the channel grew more narrow, the banks more and more precipito=
us;
and these latter were clothed in rich, more profuse, and more sombre foliag=
e.
The water increased in transparency. The stream took a thousand turns, so t=
hat
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 w=
ord
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 crys=
tal water
welled up against the clean granite, or the unblemished moss, with a sharpn=
ess
of outline that delighted while it bewildered the eye.
Having threa=
ded
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 gir=
t 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-blosso=
ms;
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 e=
ye
could permit itself not to see, far down in the inverted heaven, the duplic=
ate
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, w=
armth,
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 wat=
er
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 visiter,
shooting suddenly into this bay from out the gloom of the ravine, is deligh=
ted
but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun, which he had supposed t=
o be
already far below the horizon, but which now confronts him, and forms the s=
ole
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 li=
ght
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 ermin=
ed
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 a=
lone
in the canoe, which lies apparently motionless in the middle of the lake. W=
hile
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 i=
ts
depths can be more distinctly seen. To the right arise a chain of lofty hil=
ls
rudely and luxuriantly wooded. It is observed, however, that the trait of
exquisite cleanness where the bank dips into the water, still prevails. The=
re
is not one token of the usual river debris. 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 tex=
ture
resembling nothing so much as velvet, and of a brilliancy of green which wo=
uld
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 wa=
ll,
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, bu=
t 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 th=
e domain
behind the wall, but in close proximity to it; so that frequent limbs (of t=
he
black walnut especially) reach over and dip their pendent extremities into =
the
water. Farther back within the domain, the vision is impeded by an impenetr=
able
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 cours=
e 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 straig=
ht
vista. Lofty hills, rising occasionally into mountains, and covered with
vegetation in wild luxuriance, still shut in the scene.
Floating gen=
tly
onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the voyager, after many sho=
rt
turns, finds his progress apparently barred by a gigantic gate or rather do=
or
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 ca=
noe
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 mountain=
s,
whose bases are laved by a gleaming river throughout the full extent of the=
ir
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--bo=
sky
shrubberies--flocks of golden and crimson birds--lily-fringed lakes--meadow=
s of
violets, tulips, poppies, hyacinths, and tuberoses--long intertangled lines=
of
silver streamlets--and, upspringing confusedly from amid all, a mass of sem=
i-Gothic,
semi-Saracenic architecture sustaining itself by miracle in mid-air, glitte=
ring
in the red sunlight with a hundred oriels, minarets, and pinnacles; and see=
ming
the phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the Ge=
nii
and of the Gnomes.
A Pendant to &qu=
ot;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 r=
oad
I was pursuing. The land undulated very remarkably; and my path, for the la=
st
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 ca=
red
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 char=
ge
of my gun--until at length, just as I had begun to consider whether the num=
erous
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 c=
ould
be no mistaking it. The traces of light wheels were evident; and although t=
he
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 surp=
rise
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 b=
ut
the character of the art which caused me to take a seat on one of the bloss=
omy
stones and gaze up and down this fairy--like avenue for half an hour or mor=
e 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 a=
ll
these arrangements. The greatest care had been taken to preserve a due medi=
um
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 lo=
ng
uninterrupted lines. The same effect of curvature or of color appeared twic=
e,
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 t=
hat
a building of some kind lay at the foot of a gentle declivity just before m=
e. 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 ab=
out
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 f=
ully
into view--thus gradually as I describe it--piece by piece, here a tree, th=
ere
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 it with a slight chassez to the sou=
th,
had come again fully into sight, glaring with a purplish lustre through a c=
hasm
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 co=
up
d'oeil, 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 v=
ale
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 extr=
eme.
The slopes which encompassed the vale could not fairly be called hills, unl=
ess
at their northern face. Here a precipitous ledge of granite arose to a heig=
ht
of some ninety feet; and, as I have mentioned, the valley at this point was=
not
more than fifty feet wide; but as the visiter 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 w=
ay,
as I have before described, into the amphitheatre, through a cleanly cut
natural cleft in the granite embankment; this fissure might have been ten y=
ards
wide at its widest point, so far as the eye could trace it. It seemed to le=
ad
up, up like a natural causeway, into the recesses of unexplored mountains a=
nd
forests. The other opening was directly at the southern end of the vale. He=
re, 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 vegetat=
ion,
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 e=
lm,
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 t=
o 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 exceedin=
gly
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 t=
he
sunshine of the amphitheatre. About thirty yards east of this tree stood,
however, the pride of the valley, and beyond all question the most magnific=
ent
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 separa=
ted
from the parent at about three feet from the soil, and diverging very sligh=
tly
and gradually, were not more than four feet apart at the point where the la=
rgest
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. Not=
hing
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--granulat=
ed 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 t=
han
Arabian perfumes.
The general
floor of the amphitheatre was grass of the same character as that I had fou=
nd
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 spoke=
n 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 fi=
gure
(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 ba=
nks,
of the emerald grass already described, rounded, rather than sloped, off in=
to
the clear heaven below; and so clear was this heaven, so perfectly, at time=
s,
did it reflect all objects above it, that where the true bank ended and whe=
re
the mimic one commenced, it was a point of no little difficulty to determin=
e.
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-f=
ish.
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 nort=
hern
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 p=
lank
of the tulip wood. This was forty feet long, and spanned the interval betwe=
en
shore and shore with a slight but very perceptible arch, preventing all osc=
illation.
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, wh=
ile
its greatest width was about eight. Its bottom and banks were as those of t=
he
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 varietie=
s.
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 w=
hich
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 gre=
at
profusion--so that only here and there could even a glimpse of the naked ro=
ck
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 crowne=
d 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 dr=
ew
near the domain. In short, the only ingress or egress was through a gate oc=
cupying
a rocky pass in the road, a few paces below the point at which I stopped to
reconnoitre the scene.
I have descr=
ibed
the brook as meandering very irregularly through the whole of its course. I=
ts
two general directions, as I have said, were first from west to east, and t=
hen
from north to south. At the turn, the stream, sweeping backward, made an al=
most
circular loop, so as to form a peninsula which was very nearly an island, a=
nd
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 s=
een
by Vathek, "etait d'une architecture inconnue dans les annales de la
terre," I mean, merely, that its tout ensemble struck me with the keen=
est
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 percepti=
ble
in any respect.
In fact noth=
ing
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-paint=
er
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 m=
ore.
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 standi=
ng
back about two yards from that of the larger house, and the line of its roo=
f,
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 exa=
ctly
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 r=
oofs
of two piazzas. These latter roofs, of course, needed no support; but as th=
ey
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, alternate=
ly
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 wes=
t.
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 wind=
ow
to the east.
The blank wa=
ll
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 gar=
ret,
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 d=
oors
and at each window, large, flat irregular slabs of granite lay imbedded in =
the
delicious turf, affording comfortable footing in all weather. Excellent pat=
hs
of the same material--not nicely adapted, but with the velvety sod filling
frequent intervals between the stones, led hither and thither from the hous=
e,
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 fanta=
stic
pear-tree, so clothed from head to foot in the gorgeous bignonia blossoms t=
hat
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 ano=
ther
an oriole; in a third the impudent bobolink--while three or four more delic=
ate
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 clamber=
ed
first to the lower roof--then to the higher; and along the ridge of this la=
tter
it continued to writhe on, throwing out tendrils to the right and left, unt=
il
at length it fairly attained the east gable, and fell trailing over the sta=
irs.
The whole ho=
use,
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 exceedin=
gly
picturesque effect was aided by numerous pots of gorgeous flowers that almo=
st
encompassed the base of the buildings.
The shingles
were painted a dull gray; and the happiness with which this neutral tint me=
lted
into the vivid green of the tulip tree leaves that partially overshadowed t=
he
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 t=
ook
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, w=
ith
parts of a pretty roof to the spring-house, and nearly half of a light brid=
ge
that spanned the brook in the near vicinity of the main buildings.
I did not re=
main
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 r=
oad
to the village, and I had thus good traveller's excuse to open the gate bef=
ore
me, and inquire my way, at all events; so, without more ado, I proceeded.
The road, af=
ter
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-ho=
uses
could be obtained.
As I turned =
the
corner of the gable, the mastiff bounded towards me in stern silence, but w=
ith
the eye and the whole air of a tiger. I held him out my hand, however, in t=
oken
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 w=
as
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 im=
pression
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 wom=
an. "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 womanho=
od. The
eyes of Annie (I heard some one from the interior call her "Annie, dar=
ling!")
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 enab=
led
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 h=
is
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 wi=
ng,
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 coul=
d 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 ci=
rcular
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 wi=
th a
French paper of great delicacy, a silver ground, with a faint green cord ru=
nning
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 expres=
sion
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; t=
he
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 la=
rge
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 triang=
ular
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 la=
te
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. Lando=
r'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.
What say of it? what s=
ay 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 ea=
rth
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 pre=
sent
purpose to assign. Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an instant,
all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From comparatively trivial wickednes=
s 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 wilder=
ness
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 y=
ears
it was more strongly developed; becoming, for many reasons, a cause of seri=
ous
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 infirmiti=
es
akin to my own, my parents could do but little to check the evil propensiti=
es
which distinguished me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts resulted in co=
mplete
failure on their part, and, of course, in total triumph on mine. Thenceforw=
ard
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 becam=
e,
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 excessi=
vely
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 chillin=
ess
of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thousand
shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight, at the deep hollow n=
ote
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. Th=
ese,
moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in themselves, assume, to my
fancy, adventitious importance, as connected with a period and a locality w=
hen and
where I recognise the first ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterw=
ards
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 s=
ame
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 de=
ep a
spirit of wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote pe=
w 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 academ=
y?
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 ha=
ving
called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or Midsummer
holy-days.
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 incomprehensib=
le
subdivisions. It was difficult, at any given time, to say with certainty up=
on
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 w=
ere
not very far different from those with which we pondered upon infinity. Dur=
ing
the five years of my residence here, I was never able to ascertain with
precision, in what remote locality lay the little sleeping apartment assign=
ed
to myself and some eighteen or twenty other scholars.
The school-r=
oom
was the largest in the house--I could not help thinking, in the world. It w=
as
very long, narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceil=
ing
of oak. In a remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of ei=
ght
or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, "during hours," of our
principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, with massy d=
oor,
sooner than open which in the absence of the "Dominic," 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, bla=
ck, 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 stupen=
dous
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 excite=
ment
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 outre. 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 feeb=
le
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 l=
ines
as vivid, as deep, and as durable as the exergues of the Carthaginian medal=
s.
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 bro=
ils,
its pastimes, its intrigues;--these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, we=
re
made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, an uni=
verse
of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring.
"Oh, le bon temps, que ce siecle de fer!"
In truth, the
ardor, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my disposition, soon render=
ed
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 p=
rescriptive
right, to have been, time out of mind, the common property of the mob. In t=
his
narrative I have therefore designated myself as William Wilson,--a fictitio=
us
title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake alone, of those who in
school phraseology constituted "our set," presumed to compete wit=
h 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 i=
s 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 thin=
king
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 thi=
s superiority--even
this equality--was in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our associat=
es,
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 appea=
red
to be destitute alike of the ambition which urged, and of the passionate en=
ergy
of mind which enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he might have been suppos=
ed
actuated solely by a whimsical desire to thwart, astonish, or mortify mysel=
f;
although there were times when I could not help observing, with a feeling m=
ade
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 w=
as
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 b=
een
brothers we must have been twins; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby's, I casua=
lly 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 myse=
lf
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, contri=
ved
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 call=
ed
"speaking terms," while there were many points of strong congenia=
lity
in our tempers, operating to awake me in a sentiment which our position alo=
ne, 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 do=
ubt
the anomalous state of affairs existing between us, which turned all my att=
acks
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 r=
ival
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 fall 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, havi=
ng
discovered, he habitually practised the annoyance. I had always felt aversi=
on
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 wo=
uld 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 w=
ith
my own.
The feeling =
of
vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every circumstance tending to s=
how
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 con=
cealed
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 th=
at
(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 bearin=
gs,
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, whi=
ch
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 we=
re,
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 t=
hat
I had to endure only the knowing and strangely sarcastic smiles of my names=
ake
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, di=
d 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, disdain=
ing
the letter, (which in a painting is all the obtuse can see,) gave but the f=
ull
spirit of his original for my individual contemplation and chagrin.
I have alrea=
dy
more than once spoken of the disgusting air of patronage which he assumed
toward me, and of his frequent officious interference withy my will. This
interference often took the ungracious character of advice; advice not open=
ly
given, but hinted or insinuated. I received it with a repugnance which gain=
ed
strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let me do him the si=
mple
justice to acknowledge that I can recall no occasion when the suggestions o=
f 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, t=
o-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 d=
aily
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 feel=
ings
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 o=
ccasion
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 discover=
ed,
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 memor=
ies
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 names=
ake.
The huge old
house, with its countless subdivisions, had several large chambers
communicating with each other, where slept the greater number of the studen=
ts.
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, a=
bout
the close of my fifth year at the school, and immediately after the alterca=
tion
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, t=
ook
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 t=
he
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 shoo=
k as
if with a fit of the ague in fancying they were not. What was there about t=
hem
to confound me in this manner? I gazed;--while my brain reeled with a multi=
tude
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 wit=
h 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 laps=
e of
some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I found myself a student at Et=
on.
The brief interval had been sufficient to enfeeble my remembrance of the ev=
ents
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 seld=
om called
up the subject at all but with wonder at extent of human credulity, and a s=
mile
at the vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily possessed. Neith=
er
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 memo=
ry
only the veriest levities of a former existence.
I do not wis=
h,
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 instit=
ution.
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 ho=
ur
of the night; for our debaucheries were to be faithfully protracted until
morning. The wine flowed freely, and there were not wanting other and perha=
ps
more dangerous seductions; so that the gray dawn had already faintly appear=
ed 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 viole=
nt,
although partial unclosing of the door of the apartment, and by the eager v=
oice
of a servant from without. He said that some person, apparently in great ha=
ste,
demanded to speak with me in the hall.
Wildly excit=
ed
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 t=
he
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 w=
ay
through the semi-circular window. As I put my foot over the threshold, I be=
came
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 o=
f 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 perfe=
ctly
sober in an instant. There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in t=
he
tremulous shake of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my eyes and t=
he
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 up=
on
my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could recover the use o=
f 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 insinuat=
ed
counsel. But who and what was this Wilson?--and whence came he?--and what w=
ere
his purposes? Upon neither of these points could I be satisfied; merely asc=
ertaining,
in regard to him, that a sudden accident in his family had caused his remov=
al
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 attent=
ion
being all absorbed in a contemplated departure for Oxford. Thither I soon w=
ent;
the uncalculating vanity of my parents furnishing me with an outfit and ann=
ual
establishment, which would enable me to indulge at will in the luxury alrea=
dy
so dear to my heart,--to vie in profuseness of expenditure with the haughti=
est
heirs of the wealthiest earldoms in Great Britain.
Excited by s=
uch
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 appendi=
x to
the long catalogue of vices then usual in the most dissolute university of
Europe.
It could har=
dly
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 gam=
bler
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, neverthele=
ss,
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 abando=
ned associates,
would not rather have disputed the clearest evidence of his senses, than ha=
ve
suspected of such courses, the gay, the frank, the generous William Wilson-=
-the
noblest and most commoner at Oxford--him whose follies (said his parasites)
were but the follies of youth and unbridled fancy--whose errors but inimita=
ble
whim--whose darkest vice but a careless and dashing extravagance?
I had been n=
ow
two years successfully busied in this way, when there came to the universit=
y 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 bet=
ter colouring,
I had contrived to have assembled a party of some eight or ten, and was
solicitously careful that the introduction of cards should appear accidenta=
l,
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 ecarte! The rest of the company, interested in the extent of our p=
lay,
had abandoned their own cards, and were standing around us as spectators. T=
he
parvenu, who had been induced by my artifices in the early part of the even=
ing,
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 lar=
ge 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 complia=
nce,
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 inquir=
ies
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 Glendinni=
ng,
gave me to understand that I had effected his total ruin under circumstance=
s which,
rendering him an object for the pity of all, should have protected him from=
the
ill offices even of a fiend.
What now mig=
ht
have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The pitiable condition of my d=
upe
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 wei=
ght
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 t=
he apartment
were all at once thrown open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and rus=
hing
impetuosity that extinguished, as if by magic, every candle in the room. Th=
eir
light, in dying, enabled us just to perceive that a stranger had entered, a=
bout
my own height, and closely muffled in a cloak. The darkness, however, was n=
ow
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.
"Gentle=
men,"
he said, in a low, distinct, and never-to-be-forgotten whisper which thrill=
ed
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-nig=
ht
won at ecarte 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 le=
ft
sleeve, and the several little packages which may be found in the somewhat
capacious pockets of his embroidered morning wrapper."
While he spo=
ke,
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 han=
ds
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 ecarte, and, in the pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs,
facsimiles of those used at our sittings, with the single exception that mi=
ne
were of the species called, technically, arrondees; the honours being sligh=
tly convex
at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex at the sides. In this disposit=
ion,
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 pr=
operty."
(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, humb=
led
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 coxcom=
bry,
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 t=
he 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 ev=
en
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 w=
orn
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; plac=
ed
it, unnoticed, over my own; left the apartment with a resolute scowl of def=
iance;
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 va=
in.
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 s=
et
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 pestile=
nce;
and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain.
And again, a=
nd
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 supervisi=
on.
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 ha=
ve
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 b=
een
forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very long period of time, (while
scrupulously and with miraculous dexterity maintaining his whim of an ident=
ity
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 h=
is
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 fall to recognise the William Wilson of m=
y school
boy days,--the namesake, the companion, the rival,--the hated and dreaded r=
ival
at Dr. Bransby's? Impossible!--But let me hasten to the last eventful scene=
of
the drama.
Thus far I h=
ad
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 inspi=
red
me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me with an idea of my own utter weak=
ness
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 tha=
t,
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 inspira=
tion
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 Ro=
me,
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 crowd=
ed
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 o=
f my
temper; for I was anxiously seeking, (let me not say with what unworthy mot=
ive)
the young, the gay, the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. W=
ith
a too unscrupulous confidence she had previously communicated to me the sec=
ret
of the costume in which she would be habited, and now, having caught a glim=
pse
of her person, I was hurrying to make my way into her presence.--At this mo=
ment
I felt a light hand placed upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low,
damnable whisper within my ear.
In an absolu=
te
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 velve=
t,
begirt about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A mask of b=
lack
silk entirely covered his face.
"Scound=
rel!"
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-chamb=
er
adjoining--dragging him unresistingly with me as I went.
Upon enterin=
g, 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 insta=
nt;
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 mer=
cy,
plunged my sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly through and through his
bosom.
At that inst=
ant
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 langua=
ge
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 ey=
es
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 Wilso=
n;
but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have fancied that I myself=
was
speaking while he said:
"You ha=
ve
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.&quo=
t;
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>THE TELL-TALE HEART.<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
TRUE!--nervo=
us--very,
very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am m=
ad?
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 obser=
ve
how healthily--how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is imposs=
ible
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 o=
ld
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, ab=
out
midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it--oh so gently! And t=
hen,
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 th=
at 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; an=
d 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 ton=
e,
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 lo=
oked
in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eig=
hth
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 t=
he
extent of my own powers--of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelin=
gs
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 t=
he
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 fea=
r 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 ari=
ses
from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound wel=
l.
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 e=
ver
since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but cou=
ld not.
He had been saying to himself--"It is nothing but the wind in the chim=
ney--it
is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket w=
hich
has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself w=
ith
these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Deat=
h,
in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and envelo=
ped
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 resolve=
d 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 ra=
y,
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 chi=
lled
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 n=
ot
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 t=
he
beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a d=
rum
stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet=
I
refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionles=
s. I
tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hell=
ish
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 th=
at I
am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadf=
ul
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 o=
ld
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 w=
ould
trouble me no more.
If still you
think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precauti=
ons
I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hasti=
ly,
but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head a=
nd
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 h=
uman
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 m=
ade
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 dow=
n 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 offic=
e,
and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled,--f=
or
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, e=
re
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 rin=
ging
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 n=
ow
grew very pale;--but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Y=
et
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 trif=
les,
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 he=
avy
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 board=
s,
but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew
louder--louder--louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. W=
as
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 tho=
ught,
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 lon=
ger!
I felt that I must scream or die! and now--again!--hark! louder! louder!
louder! louder!
"Villai=
ns!"
I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!--tear up the planks!
here, here!--It is the beating of his hideous heart!"
Dicebant mihi so=
dales,
si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas aliqua=
ntulum
forelevatas.
=
&nb=
sp; --Ebn
Zaiat.
MISERY is
manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide hor=
izon
as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch--as distin=
ct
too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbo=
w!
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 consequ=
ence
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 towe=
rs
in the land more time-honored than my gloomy, gray, hereditary halls. Our l=
ine
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 fas=
hion
of the library chamber--and, lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the lib=
rary's
contents--there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the belief.
The recollec=
tions
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. Bu=
t 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 remembr=
ance
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 cham=
ber
was I born. Thus awaking from the long night of what seemed, but was not, n=
onentity,
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 th=
at I
gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye--that I loitered away my boy=
hood
in books, and dissipated my youth in reverie; but it is singular that as ye=
ars 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--wonder=
ful
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 t=
he
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 studie=
s 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 li=
fe,
with no thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the rav=
en-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 a=
ll
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 t=
he
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 t=
ime
my own disease--for I have been told that I should call it by no other appe=
llation--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 themselve=
s,
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 u=
pon
the floor; to lose myself, for an entire night, in watching the steady flam=
e 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 defi=
ance
to anything like analysis or explanation.
Yet let me n=
ot
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 indul=
ged
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 wi=
th
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 tho=
se
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 supernatural=
ly exaggerated
interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word, the po=
wers
of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as I have said before, t=
he
attentive, and are, with the day-dreamer, the speculative.
My books, at
this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate the disorder, partoo=
k,
it will be perceived, largely, in their imaginative and inconsequential nat=
ure,
of the characteristic qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember, am=
ong
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," occupie=
d 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 stead=
ily
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 Be=
renice,
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 wrec=
k of
her fair and gentle life, I did not fall 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 idiosync=
rasy
of my disease, and were such as would have occurred, under similar circumst=
ances,
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 he=
r.
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 ear=
ly
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 dre=
am;
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 wh=
ich
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 uncer=
tain
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 sylla=
ble.
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 form=
er
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 fantast=
ic
character, with the reigning melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were
lifeless, and lustreless, and seemingly pupilless, and I shrank involuntari=
ly
from their glassy stare to he contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. =
They
parted; and in a smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth of the changed Bereni=
ce
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 f=
rom
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 t=
he
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 behe=
ld 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 t=
he
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 va=
in
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 pow=
er,
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 idees. Des idees!--ah here was the idiotic thought that
destroyed me! Des idees!--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 even=
ing
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 float=
ed
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 m=
oanings
of sorrow or of pain. I arose from my seat, and throwing open one of the do=
ors
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 myse=
lf
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--ho=
rror
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 do=
ne a
deed--what was it? I asked myself the question aloud, and the whispering ec=
hoes
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 remarka=
ble
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 shudd=
er
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, cur=
as
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 so=
und;
and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violat=
ed
grave--of a disfigured body enshrouded, yet still breathing--still palpitat=
ing--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 s=
ome
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.
Sub conservatione
formae specificae salva anima.
=
&nb=
sp;
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 expen=
se
of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many thing=
s which
escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain gli=
mpses
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 exploratur=
i."
We will say,
then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two distinct conditi=
ons
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--a=
nd a
condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present, and to the
recollection of what constitutes the second great era of my being. Therefor=
e,
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 altogeth=
er,
or, if doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.
She whom I l=
oved
in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and distinctly these remembrances, w=
as
the sole daughter of the only sister of my mother long departed. Eleonora w=
as
the name of my cousin. We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical s=
un,
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 beetli=
ng
around about it, shutting out the sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No p=
ath 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, an=
d 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 Eleon=
ora;
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 do=
wn
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 wa=
ys
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, fr=
om
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 purp=
le 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 lo=
ng,
tremulous lines, dallying with the Zephyrs, one might have fancied them gia=
nt
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 lus=
trum
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 re=
st
of that sweet day, and our words even upon the morrow were tremulous and fe=
w.
We had drawn the God Eros from that wave, and now we felt that he had enkin=
dled
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 t=
he
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 Aeolus-sweeter than a=
ll
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 crims=
on
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 loveline=
ss
of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was a maiden artless and inno=
cent
as the brief life she had led among the flowers. No guile disguised the fer=
vor
of love which animated her heart, and she examined with me its inmost reces=
ses
as we walked together in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and discours=
ed
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 Schi=
raz,
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 passiona=
tely
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 he=
rself
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 t=
he
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 h=
ad
been taken from her breast; and she trembled and very bitterly wept; but sh=
e 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, tranquil=
ly
dying, that, because of what I had done for the comfort of her spirit she w=
ould
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 li=
fe,
putting an end to the first epoch of my own.
Thus far I h=
ave
faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in Times path, formed by the dea=
th
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 reco=
rd.
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 u=
pon
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, te=
n 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 Aeolus, 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 glori=
es
from the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.
Yet the prom=
ises
of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the sounds of the swinging of t=
he
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 fro=
m 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 whi=
ch
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 turbu=
lent
triumphs of the world.
I found myse=
lf
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 m=
ad
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 t=
he
indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in the silent h=
ours
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-lift=
ing
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 t=
hat
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;--n=
or
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."
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Notes --
Scherezade
(*1) The
coralites.
(*2) "O=
ne
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 petrifie=
d.
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 comple=
tely
petrified forest, near the head waters of the Cheyenne, or Chienne river, w=
hich
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, near=
ly
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 r=
ange
of sandhills, which has for some distance run parallel to his path. The sce=
ne
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 rin=
ging
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 Scotla=
nd
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 bea=
r 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 Mam=
moth
Cave of Kentucky.
(*4) In Icel=
and,
1783.
(*5)
"During the eruption of Hecla, in 1766, clouds of this kind produced s=
uch
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 erupt=
ion
of Vesuvius, in 1794, at Caserta, four leagues distant, people could only w=
alk
by the light of torches. On the first of May, 1812, a cloud of volcanic ash=
es
and sand, coming from a volcano in the island of St. Vincent, covered the w=
hole
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 ev=
en 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 sa=
nk
and left a lake eight hundred yards in diameter, and from eighty to a hundr=
ed
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 har=
dest
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 reg=
ion
of the Niger. See Simmona's Colonial Magazine.
(*9) The
Myrmeleon-lion-ant. The term "monster" is equally applicable to s=
mall
abnormal things and to great, while such epithets as "vast" are m=
erely
comparative. The cavern of the myrmeleon is vast in comparison with the hol=
e 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 t=
he
surface of its roots attached to a tree or other object, from which it deri=
ves
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 Epiz=
oae.
Of this class are the Fuci and Algae.
Mr. J. B.
Williams, of Salem, Mass., presented the "National Institute" wit=
h 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 to=
p,
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 bod=
y remains
perfect and entire, of a harder substance than when alive. From this insect=
the
natives make a coloring for tattooing.
(*13) In min=
es
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 impregnatio=
n.
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 hair=
s,
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 pol=
len
sufficient for its impregnation, in consequence of which the flower soon be=
gins
to droop, and the hairs to shrink to the sides of the tube, effecting an ea=
sy 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 su=
ch
sides, in just such number, and at just such inclinations, as it has been
demonstrated (in a problem involving the profoundest mathematical principle=
s)
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--&=
quot;to
determine the best form that can be given to the sails of a windmill, accor=
ding
to their varying distances from the revolving vanes, and likewise from the
centres of the revoloution." This is an excessively complex problem, f=
or
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 thou=
sand
futile attempts to answer the query on the part of the most illustrious mat=
hematicians,
and when at length, an undeniable solution was discovered, men found that t=
he
wings of a bird had given it with absolute precision ever since the first b=
ird
had traversed the air.
(*17) He
observed a flock of pigeons passing betwixt Frankfort and the Indian territ=
ory,
one mile at least in breadth; it took up four hours in passing, which, at t=
he
rate of one mile per minute, gives a length of 240 miles; and, supposing th=
ree
pigeons to each square yard, gives 2,230,272,000 Pigeons.--"Travels in
Canada and the United States," by Lieut. F. Hall.
(*18) The ea=
rth
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 h=
our
has been attained. A train weighing 90 tons was whirled from Paddington to
Didcot (53 miles) in 51 minutes.
(*21) The
Eccalobeion
(*22) Maelze=
l's
Automaton Chess-player.
(*23) Babbag=
e's
Calculating Machine.
(*24) Chaber=
t,
and since him, a hundred others.
(*25) The
Electrotype.
(*26) Wollas=
ton
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 fa=
r 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 m=
ultiple
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.
(*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 crucib=
le,
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) Althou=
gh
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 li=
ght which
started from their surfaces 20 or 1000 years in the past time. That many wh=
ich we
see daily are really extinct, is not impossible--not even improbable.