- by Edgar Allan Poe
- Contents
- THE PURLOINED LETTER
- THE THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE
- A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM.
- VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY
- MESMERIC REVELATION
- THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR
- THE BLACK CAT.
- THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
- SILENCE—A FABLE
- THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH.
- THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO.
- THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE
- THE ISLAND OF THE FAY
- THE ASSIGNATION
- THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
- THE PREMATURE BURIAL
- THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM
- LANDOR’S COTTAGE
- WILLIAM WILSON
- THE TELL-TALE HEART.
- BERENICE
- ELEONORA
- NOTES TO THE SECOND VOLUME
www.gutenberg.org
# The Works of Edgar Allan Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe
The Raven Edition
VOLUME II.
Contents
| THE PURLOINED LETTER | | —- | | THE THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE | | A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM. | | VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY | | MESMERIC REVELATION | | THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR | | THE BLACK CAT. | | THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER | | SILENCE—A FABLE | | THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH. | | THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO. | | THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE | | THE ISLAND OF THE FAY | | THE ASSIGNATION | | THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM | | THE PREMATURE BURIAL | | THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM | | LANDOR’S COTTAGE | | WILLIAM WILSO | | THE TELL-TALE HEART. | | BERENICE | | ELEONORA | | NOTES TO THE SECOND VOLUME |
[Redactor’s Note—Some endnotes are by Poe and some were added by Griswold. In this volume the notes are at the end.]
THE PURLOINED LETTER
Nil sapientiæ odiosius acumine nimio.—.
At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was
enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company
with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or
book-closet, , No. 33, . For
one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any
casual observer, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with
the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber.
For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which had
formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the
evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending
the murder of Marie Rogêt. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a
coincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted
our old acquaintance, Monsieur G——, the Prefect of the Parisian
police.
We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the
entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him
for several years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose
for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so,
upon G.‘s saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the
opinion of my friend, about some official business which had occasioned a
great deal of trouble.
“If it is any point requiring reflection,” observed Dupin, as he forebore
to enkindle the wick, “we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark.”
“That is another of your odd notions,” said the Prefect, who had a fashion
of calling every thing “odd” that was beyond his comprehension, and thus
lived amid an absolute legion of “oddities.”
“Very true,” said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and
rolled towards him a comfortable chair.
“And what is the difficulty now?” I asked. “Nothing more in the
assassination way, I hope?”
“Oh no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very simple
indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well
ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it,
because it is so excessively odd.”
“Simple and odd,” said Dupin.
“Why, yes; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all been a
good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us
altogether.”
“Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault,”
said my friend.
“What nonsense you do talk!” replied the Prefect, laughing heartily.
“Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain,” said Dupin.
“Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?”
“A little too self-evident.”
“Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!” roared our visitor,
profoundly amused, “oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!”
“And what, after all, is the matter on hand?” I asked.
“Why, I will tell you,” replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, steady and
contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair. “I will tell you in
a few words; but, before I begin, let me caution you that this is an
affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I should most probably
lose the position I now hold, were it known that I confided it to any
one.”
“Proceed,” said I.
“Or not,” said Dupin.
“Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very high
quarter, that a certain document of the last importance has been
purloined from the royal apartments. The individual who purloined it is
known; this beyond a doubt; he was seen to take it. It is known, also,
that it still remains in his possession.”
“How is this known?” asked Dupin.
“It is clearly inferred,” replied the Prefect, “from the nature of the
document, and from the non-appearance of certain results which would at
once arise from its passing out of the robber’s possession; that is to
say, from his employing it as he must design in the end to employ it.”
“Be a little more explicit,” I said.
“Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a
certain power in a certain quarter where such power is immensely
valuable.” The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy.
“Still I do not quite understand,” said Dupin.
“No? Well; the disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be
nameless, would bring in question the honor of a personage of most exalted
station; and this fact gives the holder of the document an ascendancy over
the illustrious personage whose honor and peace are so jeopardized.”
“But this ascendancy,” I interposed, “would depend upon the robber’s
knowledge of the loser’s knowledge of the robber. Who would dare—”
“The thief,” said G., “is the Minister D——, who dares all things,
those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The method of the theft
was not less ingenious than bold. The document in question—a letter,
to be frank—had been received by the personage robbed while alone in
the royal boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the
entrance of the other exalted personage from whom especially it was her
wish to conceal it. After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a
drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The
address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus unexposed, the
letter escaped notice. At this juncture enters the Minister D——. His
lynx eye immediately perceives the paper, recognises the handwriting of
the address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and
fathoms her secret. After some business transactions, hurried through in
his ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in
question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close
juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some fifteen minutes,
upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he takes also from
the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw,
but, of course, dared not call attention to the act, in the presence of
the third personage who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped; leaving
his own letter—one of no importance—upon the table.”
“Here, then,” said Dupin to me, “you have precisely what you demand to
make the ascendancy complete—the robber’s knowledge of the loser’s
knowledge of the robber.”
“Yes,” replied the Prefect; “and the power thus attained has, for some
months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very dangerous
extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced, every day, of
the necessity of reclaiming her letter. But this, of course, cannot be
done openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to
me.”
“Than whom,” said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, “no more
sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined.”
“You flatter me,” replied the Prefect; “but it is possible that some such
opinion may have been entertained.”
“It is clear,” said I, “as you observe, that the letter is still in
possession of the minister; since it is this possession, and not any
employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the employment the
power departs.”
“True,” said G.; “and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first care was
to make thorough search of the minister’s hotel; and here my chief
embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching without his knowledge.
Beyond all things, I have been warned of the danger which would result
from giving him reason to suspect our design.”
“But,” said I, “you are quite au fait in these investigations. The
Parisian police have done this thing often before.”
“Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the minister
gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently absent from home all
night. His servants are by no means numerous. They sleep at a distance
from their master’s apartment, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily
made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or
cabinet in Paris. For three months a night has not passed, during the
greater part of which I have not been engaged, personally, in ransacking
the D—— Hotel. My honor is interested, and, to mention a great
secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I
had become fully satisfied that the thief is a more astute man than
myself. I fancy that I have investigated every nook and corner of the
premises in which it is possible that the paper can be concealed.”
“But is it not possible,” I suggested, “that although the letter may be in
possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he may have concealed
it elsewhere than upon his own premises?”
“This is barely possible,” said Dupin. “The present peculiar condition of
affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in which D—— is
known to be involved, would render the instant availability of the
document—its susceptibility of being produced at a moment’s notice—a
point of nearly equal importance with its possession.”
“Its susceptibility of being produced?” said I.
“That is to say, of being destroyed,” said Dupin.
“True,” I observed; “the paper is clearly then upon the premises. As for
its being upon the person of the minister, we may consider that as out of
the question.”
“Entirely,” said the Prefect. “He has been twice waylaid, as if by
footpads, and his person rigorously searched under my own inspection.”
“You might have spared yourself this trouble,” said Dupin. “D——, I
presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have anticipated
these waylayings, as a matter of course.”
“Not altogether a fool,” said G., “but then he’s a poet, which I take to
be only one remove from a fool.”
“True,” said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum,
“although I have been guilty of certain doggrel myself.”
“Suppose you detail,” said I, “the particulars of your search.”
“Why the fact is, we took our time, and we searched . I have
had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire building, room by
room; devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We examined, first, the
furniture of each apartment. We opened every possible drawer; and I
presume you know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a thing as
a secret drawer is impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a ‘secret’
drawer to escape him in a search of this kind. The thing is so plain.
There is a certain amount of bulk—of space—to be accounted for
in every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line
could not escape us. After the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions
we probed with the fine long needles you have seen me employ. From the
tables we removed the tops.”
“Why so?”
“Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of
furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article; then
the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and the top
replaced. The bottoms and tops of bedposts are employed in the same way.”
“But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?” I asked.
“By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wadding of
cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we were obliged to
proceed without noise.”
“But you could not have removed—you could not have taken to pieces
all articles of furniture in which it would have been possible to make a
deposit in the manner you mention. A letter may be compressed into a thin
spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a large
knitting-needle, and in this form it might be inserted into the rung of a
chair, for example. You did not take to pieces all the chairs?”
“Certainly not; but we did better—we examined the rungs of every
chair in the hotel, and, indeed the jointings of every description of
furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there been any
traces of recent disturbance we should not have failed to detect it
instantly. A single grain of gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as
obvious as an apple. Any disorder in the glueing—any unusual gaping
in the joints—would have sufficed to insure detection.”
“I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the plates,
and you probed the beds and the bed-clothes, as well as the curtains and
carpets.”
“That of course; and when we had absolutely completed every particle of
the furniture in this way, then we examined the house itself. We divided
its entire surface into compartments, which we numbered, so that none
might be missed; then we scrutinized each individual square inch
throughout the premises, including the two houses immediately adjoining,
with the microscope, as before.”
“The two houses adjoining!” I exclaimed; “you must have had a great deal
of trouble.”
“We had; but the reward offered is prodigious!”
“You include the grounds about the houses?”
“All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively little
trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and found it
undisturbed.”
“You looked among D——‘s papers, of course, and into the books of the
library?”
“Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only opened every
book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, not contenting
ourselves with a mere shake, according to the fashion of some of our
police officers. We also measured the thickness of every book-cover, with
the most accurate admeasurement, and applied to each the most jealous
scrutiny of the microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled
with, it would have been utterly impossible that the fact should have
escaped observation. Some five or six volumes, just from the hands of the
binder, we carefully probed, longitudinally, with the needles.”
“You explored the floors beneath the carpets?”
“Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards with the
microscope.”
“And the paper on the walls?”
“Yes.”
“You looked into the cellars?”
“We did.”
“Then,” I said, “you have been making a miscalculation, and the letter is
not upon the premises, as you suppose.”
“I fear you are right there,” said the Prefect. “And now, Dupin, what
would you advise me to do?”
“To make a thorough re-search of the premises.”
“That is absolutely needless,” replied G——. “I am not more sure that
I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the Hotel.”
“I have no better advice to give you,” said Dupin. “You have, of course,
an accurate description of the letter?”
“Oh yes!”—And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum-book,
proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and especially
of the external appearance of the missing document. Soon after finishing
the perusal of this description, he took his departure, more entirely
depressed in spirits than I had ever known the good gentleman before.
In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and found us
occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair and entered
into some ordinary conversation. At length I said,—
“Well, but G——, what of the purloined letter? I presume you have at
last made up your mind that there is no such thing as overreaching the
Minister?”
“Confound him, say I—yes; I made the re-examination, however, as
Dupin suggested—but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would be.”
“How much was the reward offered, did you say?” asked Dupin.
“Why, a very great deal—a very liberal reward—I don’t like to
say how much, precisely; but one thing I will say, that I wouldn’t mind
giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to any one who could
obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and more
importance every day; and the reward has been lately doubled. If it were
trebled, however, I could do no more than I have done.”
“Why, yes,” said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of his meerschaum,
“I really—think, G——, you have not exerted yourself—to
the utmost in this matter. You might—do a little more, I think, eh?”
“How?—in what way?”
“Why—puff, puff—you might—puff, puff—employ
counsel in the matter, eh?—puff, puff, puff. Do you remember the
story they tell of Abernethy?”
“No; hang Abernethy!”
“To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, a certain rich
miser conceived the design of spunging upon this Abernethy for a medical
opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary conversation in a
private company, he insinuated his case to the physician, as that of an
imaginary individual.
“‘We will suppose,’ said the miser, ‘that his symptoms are such and such;
now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take?’
“‘Take!’ said Abernethy, ‘why, take advice, to be sure.’”
“But,” said the Prefect, a little discomposed, “I am perfectly willing to
take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give fifty thousand francs
to any one who would aid me in the matter.”
“In that case,” replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a
check-book, “you may as well fill me up a check for the amount mentioned.
When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter.”
I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder-stricken. For
some minutes he remained speechless and motionless, looking incredulously
at my friend with open mouth, and eyes that seemed starting from their
sockets; then, apparently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a
pen, and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and
signed a check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across the table
to Dupin. The latter examined it carefully and deposited it in his
pocket-book; then, unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter and gave
it to the Prefect. This functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy,
opened it with a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and
then, scrambling and struggling to the door, rushed at length
unceremoniously from the room and from the house, without having uttered a
syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check.
When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.
“The Parisian police,” he said, “are exceedingly able in their way. They
are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly versed in the
knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, when G——
detailed to us his mode of searching the premises at the Hotel D——, I
felt entire confidence in his having made a satisfactory investigation—so
far as his labors extended.”
“So far as his labors extended?” said I.
“Yes,” said Dupin. “The measures adopted were not only the best of their
kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the letter been
deposited within the range of their search, these fellows would, beyond a
question, have found it.”
I merely laughed—but he seemed quite serious in all that he said.
“The measures, then,” he continued, “were good in their kind, and well
executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to the case, and to
the man. A certain set of highly ingenious resources are, with the
Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to which he forcibly adapts his
designs. But he perpetually errs by being too deep or too shallow for the
matter in hand; and many a schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew
one about eight years of age, whose success at guessing in the game of
‘even and odd’ attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is
played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of these toys,
and demands of another whether that number is even or odd. If the guess is
right, the guesser wins one; if wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I
allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had some principle
of guessing; and this lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the
astuteness of his opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his
opponent, and, holding up his closed hand, asks, ‘are they even or odd?’
Our schoolboy replies, ‘odd,’ and loses; but upon the second trial he
wins, for he then says to himself, ‘the simpleton had them even upon the
first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him have
them odd upon the second; I will therefore guess odd;’—he guesses
odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton a degree above the first, he would
have reasoned thus: ‘This fellow finds that in the first instance I
guessed odd, and, in the second, he will propose to himself, upon the
first impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first
simpleton; but then a second thought will suggest that this is too simple
a variation, and finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I
will therefore guess even;’—he guesses even, and wins. Now this mode
of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his fellows termed ‘lucky,’—what,
in its last analysis, is it?”
“It is merely,” I said, “an identification of the reasoner’s intellect
with that of his opponent.”
“It is,” said Dupin; “and, upon inquiring of the boy by what means he
effected the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I
received answer as follows: ‘When I wish to find out how wise, or how
stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at
the moment, I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as
possible, in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see
what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or
correspond with the expression.’ This response of the schoolboy lies at
the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been attributed to
Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, to Machiavelli, and to Campanella.”
“And the identification,” I said, “of the reasoner’s intellect with that
of his opponent, depends, if I understand you aright, upon the accuracy
with which the opponent’s intellect is admeasured.”
“For its practical value it depends upon this,” replied Dupin; “and the
Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by default of this
identification, and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather through
non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they are engaged. They
consider only their own ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything
hidden, advert only to the modes in which they would have hidden it. They
are right in this much—that their own ingenuity is a faithful
representative of that of the mass; but when the cunning of the individual
felon is diverse in character from their own, the felon foils them, of
course. This always happens when it is above their own, and very usually
when it is below. They have no variation of principle in their
investigations; at best, when urged by some unusual emergency—by
some extraordinary reward—they extend or exaggerate their old modes
of practice, without touching their principles. What, for example, in this
case of D——, has been done to vary the principle of action? What is
all this boring, and probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the
microscope and dividing the surface of the building into registered square
inches—what is it all but an exaggeration of the application of the
one principle or set of principles of search, which are based upon the one
set of notions regarding human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the
long routine of his duty, has been accustomed? Do you not see he has taken
it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter,—not exactly
in a gimlet hole bored in a chair-leg—but, at least, in some
out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of thought which
would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a
chair-leg? And do you not see also, that such recherchés nooks for
concealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted
only by ordinary intellects; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal
of the article concealed—a disposal of it in this recherché manner,—is,
in the very first instance, presumable and presumed; and thus its
discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the
mere care, patience, and determination of the seekers; and where the case
is of importance—or, what amounts to the same thing in the political
eyes, when the reward is of magnitude,—the qualities in question
have never been known to fail. You will now understand what I meant in
suggesting that, had the purloined letter been hidden any where within the
limits of the Prefect’s examination—in other words, had the
principle of its concealment been comprehended within the principles of
the Prefect—its discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond
question. This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified; and
the remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the Minister
is a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets;
this the Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty of a non distributio medii
in thence inferring that all poets are fools.”
“But is this really the poet?” I asked. “There are two brothers, I know;
and both have attained reputation in letters. The Minister I believe has
written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He is a mathematician, and
no poet.”
“You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and mathematician,
he would reason well; as mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at
all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect.”
“You surprise me,” I said, “by these opinions, which have been
contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at naught
the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical reason has long been
regarded as the reason par excellence.”
“‘Il y a à parièr,’” replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, “‘que toute
idée publique, toute convention reçue est une sottise, car elle a convenue
au plus grand nombre.’ The mathematicians, I grant you, have done their
best to promulgate the popular error to which you allude, and which is
none the less an error for its promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a
better cause, for example, they have insinuated the term ‘analysis’ into
application to algebra. The French are the originators of this particular
deception; but if a term is of any importance—if words derive any
value from applicability—then ‘analysis’ conveys ‘algebra’ about as
much as, in Latin, ‘ambitus’ implies ‘ambition,’ ‘’ ‘religion,’ or
‘’ a set of men.”
“You have a quarrel on hand, I see,” said I, “with some of the algebraists
of Paris; but proceed.”
“I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason which is
cultivated in any especial form other than the abstractly logical. I
dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathematical study. The
mathematics are the science of form and quantity; mathematical reasoning
is merely logic applied to observation upon form and quantity. The great
error lies in supposing that even the truths of what is called pure
algebra, are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious
that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been received.
Mathematical axioms are not axioms of general truth. What is true of
relation—of form and quantity—is often grossly false in regard
to morals, for example. In this latter science it is very usually untrue
that the aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In chemistry also the
axiom fails. In the consideration of motive it fails; for two motives,
each of a given value, have not, necessarily, a value when united, equal
to the sum of their values apart. There are numerous other mathematical
truths which are only truths within the limits of relation. But the
mathematician argues, from his finite truths, through habit, as if they
were of an absolutely general applicability—as the world indeed
imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned ‘Mythology,’ mentions an
analogous source of error, when he says that ‘although the Pagan fables
are not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make inferences
from them as existing realities.’ With the algebraists, however, who are
Pagans themselves, the ‘Pagan fables’ are believed, and the inferences are
made, not so much through lapse of memory, as through an unaccountable
addling of the brains. In short, I never yet encountered the mere
mathematician who could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not
clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith that x+px was
absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen,
by way of experiment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur
where x+px is not altogether equal to q, and, having made him
understand what you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient,
for, beyond doubt, he will endeavor to knock you down.
“I mean to say,” continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his last
observations, “that if the Minister had been no more than a mathematician,
the Prefect would have been under no necessity of giving me this check. I
know him, however, as both mathematician and poet, and my measures were
adapted to his capacity, with reference to the circumstances by which he
was surrounded. I knew him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant.
Such a man, I considered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary
policial modes of action. He could not have failed to anticipate—and
events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate—the waylayings
to which he was subjected. He must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret
investigations of his premises. His frequent absences from home at night,
which were hailed by the Prefect as certain aids to his success, I
regarded only as ruses, to afford opportunity for thorough search to the
police, and thus the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which G——,
in fact, did finally arrive—the conviction that the letter was not
upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought, which I
was at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning the invariable
principle of policial action in searches for articles concealed—I
felt that this whole train of thought would necessarily pass through the
mind of the Minister. It would imperatively lead him to despise all the
ordinary nooks of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as
not to see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be
as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes, to the
gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he
would be driven, as a matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately
induced to it as a matter of choice. You will remember, perhaps, how
desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our first
interview, that it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on
account of its being so very self-evident.”
“Yes,” said I, “I remember his merriment well. I really thought he would
have fallen into convulsions.”
“The material world,” continued Dupin, “abounds with very strict analogies
to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has been given to the
rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may be made to strengthen an
argument, as well as to embellish a description. The principle of the vis
inertiæ, for example, seems to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It
is not more true in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty
set in motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is
commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that
intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and
more eventful in their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the
less readily moved, and more embarrassed and full of hesitation in the
first few steps of their progress. Again: have you ever noticed which of
the street signs, over the shop-doors, are the most attractive of
attention?”
“I have never given the matter a thought,” I said.
“There is a game of puzzles,” he resumed, “which is played upon a map. One
party playing requires another to find a given word—the name of
town, river, state or empire—any word, in short, upon the motley and
perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to
embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names;
but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one
end of the chart to the other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs
and placards of the street, escape observation by dint of being
excessively obvious; and here the physical oversight is precisely
analogous with the moral inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to
pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and too
palpably self-evident. But this is a point, it appears, somewhat above or
beneath the understanding of the Prefect. He never once thought it
probable, or possible, that the Minister had deposited the letter
immediately beneath the nose of the whole world, by way of best preventing
any portion of that world from perceiving it.
“But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and discriminating
ingenuity of D——; upon the fact that the document must always have
been at hand, if he intended to use it to good purpose; and upon the
decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect, that it was not hidden within
the limits of that dignitary’s ordinary search—the more satisfied I
became that, to conceal this letter, the Minister had resorted to the
comprehensive and sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at
all.
“Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles,
and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at the Ministerial hotel.
I found D—— at home, yawning, lounging, and dawdling, as usual, and
pretending to be in the last extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most
really energetic human being now alive—but that is only when nobody
sees him.
“To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the
necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and
thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly intent only upon
the conversation of my host.
“I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he sat, and
upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous letters and other papers,
with one or two musical instruments and a few books. Here, however, after
a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular
suspicion.
“At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery
fillagree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by a dirty blue
ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the
mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were
five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last was much
soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two, across the middle—as
if a design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless,
had been altered, or stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal,
bearing the D—— cipher conspicuously, and was addressed, in a
diminutive female hand, to D——, the minister, himself. It was thrust
carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the
uppermost divisions of the rack.
“No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I concluded it to be that of
which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all appearance, radically
different from the one of which the Prefect had read us so minute a
description. Here the seal was large and black, with the D—— cipher;
there it was small and red, with the ducal arms of the S—— family.
Here, the address, to the Minister, diminutive and feminine; there the
superscription, to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and
decided; the size alone formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the
radicalness of these differences, which was excessive; the dirt; the
soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the true
methodical habits of D——, and so suggestive of a design to delude the
beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the document—these things,
together with the hyper-obtrusive situation of this document, full in the
view of every visitor, and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions
to which I had previously arrived; these things, I say, were strongly
corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect.
“I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I maintained a most
animated discussion with the Minister upon a topic which I knew well had
never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention really
riveted upon the letter. In this examination, I committed to memory its
external appearance and arrangement in the rack; and also fell, at length,
upon a discovery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have
entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed them to be
more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the broken appearance
which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been once folded and
pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same
creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was
sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a
glove, inside out, re-directed, and re-sealed. I bade the Minister good
morning, and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the
table.
“The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite
eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus engaged,
however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard immediately beneath
the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful
screams, and the shoutings of a terrified mob. D—— rushed to a
casement, threw it open, and looked out. In the meantime, I stepped to the
card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a
fac-simile, (so far as regards externals,) which I had carefully prepared
at my lodgings—imitating the D—— cipher, very readily, by means
of a seal formed of bread.
“The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic behavior
of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women and
children. It proved, however, to have been without ball, and the fellow
was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard. When he had gone, D——
came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately upon securing
the object in view. Soon afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended
lunatic was a man in my own pay.”
“But what purpose had you,” I asked, “in replacing the letter by a
fac-simile? Would it not have been better, at the first visit, to have
seized it openly, and departed?”
“D——,” replied Dupin, “is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. His
hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his interests. Had I made
the wild attempt you suggest, I might never have left the Ministerial
presence alive. The good people of Paris might have heard of me no more.
But I had an object apart from these considerations. You know my political
prepossessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned.
For eighteen months the Minister has had her in his power. She has now him
in hers—since, being unaware that the letter is not in his
possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus will he
inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political destruction. His
downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than awkward. It is all very
well to talk about the facilis descensus Averni; but in all kinds of
climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy to get up than
to come down. In the present instance I have no sympathy—at least no
pity—for him who descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an
unprincipled man of genius. I confess, however, that I should like very
well to know the precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by
her whom the Prefect terms ‘a certain personage’ he is reduced to opening
the letter which I left for him in the card-rack.”
“How? did you put any thing particular in it?”
“Why—it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior blank—that
would have been insulting. D——, at Vienna once, did me an evil turn,
which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I should remember. So, as I
knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the person
who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clue. He is
well acquainted with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the
blank sheet the words—
“‘— — Un dessein si funeste,
S’il n’est digne d’Atrée, est digne de Thyeste.
They are to be found in Crébillon’s ‘Atrée.’”
THE THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE
Truth is stranger than fiction.—
Having had occasion, lately, in the course of some Oriental
investigations, to consult the Tellmenow Isitsöornot, a work which (like
the Zohar of Simeon Jochaides) is scarcely known at all, even in Europe;
and which has never been quoted, to my knowledge, by any American—if
we except, perhaps, the author of the “Curiosities of American
Literature”;—having had occasion, I say, to turn over some pages of
the first-mentioned very remarkable work, I was not a little astonished to
discover that the literary world has hitherto been strangely in error
respecting the fate of the vizier’s daughter, Scheherazade, as that fate
is depicted in the “Arabian Nights”; and that the there given,
if not altogether inaccurate, as far as it goes, is at least to blame in
not having gone very much farther.
For full information on this interesting topic, I must refer the
inquisitive reader to the “Isitsöornot” itself; but in the meantime, I
shall be pardoned for giving a summary of what I there discovered.
It will be remembered, that, in the usual version of the tales, a certain
monarch having good cause to be jealous of his queen, not only puts her to
death, but makes a vow, by his beard and the prophet, to espouse each
night the most beautiful maiden in his dominions, and the next morning to
deliver her up to the executioner.
Having fulfilled this vow for many years to the letter, and with a
religious punctuality and method that conferred great credit upon him as a
man of devout feeling and excellent sense, he was interrupted one
afternoon (no doubt at his prayers) by a visit from his grand vizier, to
whose daughter, it appears, there had occurred an idea.
Her name was Scheherazade, and her idea was, that she would either redeem
the land from the depopulating tax upon its beauty, or perish, after the
approved fashion of all heroines, in the attempt.
Accordingly, and although we do not find it to be leap-year (which makes
the sacrifice more meritorious), she deputes her father, the grand vizier,
to make an offer to the king of her hand. This hand the king eagerly
accepts—(he had intended to take it at all events, and had put off
the matter from day to day, only through fear of the vizier),—but,
in accepting it now, he gives all parties very distinctly to understand,
that, grand vizier or no grand vizier, he has not the slightest design of
giving up one iota of his vow or of his privileges. When, therefore, the
fair Scheherazade insisted upon marrying the king, and did actually marry
him despite her father’s excellent advice not to do any thing of the kind—when
she would and did marry him, I say, will I, nill I, it was with her
beautiful black eyes as thoroughly open as the nature of the case would
allow.
It seems, however, that this politic damsel (who had been reading
Machiavelli, beyond doubt), had a very ingenious little plot in her mind.
On the night of the wedding, she contrived, upon I forget what specious
pretence, to have her sister occupy a couch sufficiently near that of the
royal pair to admit of easy conversation from bed to bed; and, a little
before cock-crowing, she took care to awaken the good monarch, her husband
(who bore her none the worse will because he intended to wring her neck on
the morrow),—she managed to awaken him, I say, (although on account
of a capital conscience and an easy digestion, he slept well) by the
profound interest of a story (about a rat and a black cat, I think) which
she was narrating (all in an undertone, of course) to her sister. When the
day broke, it so happened that this history was not altogether finished,
and that Scheherazade, in the nature of things could not finish it just
then, since it was high time for her to get up and be bowstrung—a
thing very little more pleasant than hanging, only a trifle more genteel!
The king’s curiosity, however, prevailing, I am sorry to say, even over
his sound religious principles, induced him for this once to postpone the
fulfilment of his vow until next morning, for the purpose and with the
hope of hearing that night how it fared in the end with the black cat (a
black cat, I think it was) and the rat.
The night having arrived, however, the lady Scheherazade not only put the
finishing stroke to the black cat and the rat (the rat was blue) but
before she well knew what she was about, found herself deep in the
intricacies of a narration, having reference (if I am not altogether
mistaken) to a pink horse (with green wings) that went, in a violent
manner, by clockwork, and was wound up with an indigo key. With this
history the king was even more profoundly interested than with the other—and,
as the day broke before its conclusion (notwithstanding all the queen’s
endeavors to get through with it in time for the bowstringing), there was
again no resource but to postpone that ceremony as before, for twenty-four
hours. The next night there happened a similar accident with a similar
result; and then the next—and then again the next; so that, in the
end, the good monarch, having been unavoidably deprived of all opportunity
to keep his vow during a period of no less than one thousand and one
nights, either forgets it altogether by the expiration of this time, or
gets himself absolved of it in the regular way, or (what is more probable)
breaks it outright, as well as the head of his father confessor. At all
events, Scheherazade, who, being lineally descended from Eve, fell heir,
perhaps, to the whole seven baskets of talk, which the latter lady, we all
know, picked up from under the trees in the garden of Eden; Scheherazade,
I say, finally triumphed, and the tariff upon beauty was repealed.
Now, this conclusion (which is that of the story as we have it upon
record) is, no doubt, excessively proper and pleasant—but alas! like
a great many pleasant things, is more pleasant than true, and I am
indebted altogether to the “Isitsöornot” for the means of correcting the
error. “Le mieux,” says a French proverb, “est l’ennemi du bien,” and, in
mentioning that Scheherazade had inherited the seven baskets of talk, I
should have added that she put them out at compound interest until they
amounted to seventy-seven.
“My dear sister,” said she, on the thousand-and-second night, (I quote the
language of the “Isitsöornot” at this point, verbatim) “my dear sister,”
said she, “now that all this little difficulty about the bowstring has
blown over, and that this odious tax is so happily repealed, I feel that I
have been guilty of great indiscretion in withholding from you and the
king (who I am sorry to say, snores—a thing no gentleman would do)
the full conclusion of Sinbad the sailor. This person went through
numerous other and more interesting adventures than those which I related;
but the truth is, I felt sleepy on the particular night of their
narration, and so was seduced into cutting them short—a grievous
piece of misconduct, for which I only trust that Allah will forgive me.
But even yet it is not too late to remedy my great neglect—and as
soon as I have given the king a pinch or two in order to wake him up so
far that he may stop making that horrible noise, I will forthwith
entertain you (and him if he pleases) with the sequel of this very
remarkable story.”
Hereupon the sister of Scheherazade, as I have it from the “Isitsöornot,”
expressed no very particular intensity of gratification; but the king,
having been sufficiently pinched, at length ceased snoring, and finally
said, “Hum!” and then “Hoo!” when the queen, understanding these words
(which are no doubt Arabic) to signify that he was all attention, and
would do his best not to snore any more—the queen, I say, having
arranged these matters to her satisfaction, re-entered thus, at once, into
the history of Sinbad the sailor:
“‘At length, in my old age,’ [these are the words of Sinbad himself, as
retailed by Scheherazade]—‘at length, in my old age, and after
enjoying many years of tranquillity at home, I became once more possessed
of a desire of visiting foreign countries; and one day, without
acquainting any of my family with my design, I packed up some bundles of
such merchandise as was most precious and least bulky, and, engaging a
porter to carry them, went with him down to the sea-shore, to await the
arrival of any chance vessel that might convey me out of the kingdom into
some region which I had not as yet explored.
“‘Having deposited the packages upon the sands, we sat down beneath some
trees, and looked out into the ocean in the hope of perceiving a ship, but
during several hours we saw none whatever. At length I fancied that I
could hear a singular buzzing or humming sound; and the porter, after
listening awhile, declared that he also could distinguish it. Presently it
grew louder, and then still louder, so that we could have no doubt that
the object which caused it was approaching us. At length, on the edge of
the horizon, we discovered a black speck, which rapidly increased in size
until we made it out to be a vast monster, swimming with a great part of
its body above the surface of the sea. It came toward us with
inconceivable swiftness, throwing up huge waves of foam around its breast,
and illuminating all that part of the sea through which it passed, with a
long line of fire that extended far off into the distance.
“‘As the thing drew near we saw it very distinctly. Its length was equal
to that of three of the loftiest trees that grow, and it was as wide as
the great hall of audience in your palace, O most sublime and munificent
of the Caliphs. Its body, which was unlike that of ordinary fishes, was as
solid as a rock, and of a jetty blackness throughout all that portion of
it which floated above the water, with the exception of a narrow blood-red
streak that completely begirdled it. The belly, which floated beneath the
surface, and of which we could get only a glimpse now and then as the
monster rose and fell with the billows, was entirely covered with metallic
scales, of a color like that of the moon in misty weather. The back was
flat and nearly white, and from it there extended upwards of six spines,
about half the length of the whole body.
“‘This horrible creature had no mouth that we could perceive; but, as if to
make up for this deficiency, it was provided with at least four score of
eyes, that protruded from their sockets like those of the green
dragon-fly, and were arranged all around the body in two rows, one above
the other, and parallel to the blood-red streak, which seemed to answer
the purpose of an eyebrow. Two or three of these dreadful eyes were much
larger than the others, and had the appearance of solid gold.
“‘Although this beast approached us, as I have before said, with the
greatest rapidity, it must have been moved altogether by necromancy—for
it had neither fins like a fish nor web-feet like a duck, nor wings like
the seashell which is blown along in the manner of a vessel; nor yet did
it writhe itself forward as do the eels. Its head and its tail were shaped
precisely alike, only, not far from the latter, were two small holes that
served for nostrils, and through which the monster puffed out its thick
breath with prodigious violence, and with a shrieking, disagreeable noise.
“‘Our terror at beholding this hideous thing was very great, but it was
even surpassed by our astonishment, when upon getting a nearer look, we
perceived upon the creature’s back a vast number of animals about the size
and shape of men, and altogether much resembling them, except that they
wore no garments (as men do), being supplied (by nature, no doubt) with an
ugly uncomfortable covering, a good deal like cloth, but fitting so tight
to the skin, as to render the poor wretches laughably awkward, and put
them apparently to severe pain. On the very tips of their heads were
certain square-looking boxes, which, at first sight, I thought might have
been intended to answer as turbans, but I soon discovered that they were
excessively heavy and solid, and I therefore concluded they were
contrivances designed, by their great weight, to keep the heads of the
animals steady and safe upon their shoulders. Around the necks of the
creatures were fastened black collars, (badges of servitude, no doubt,)
such as we keep on our dogs, only much wider and infinitely stiffer, so
that it was quite impossible for these poor victims to move their heads in
any direction without moving the body at the same time; and thus they were
doomed to perpetual contemplation of their noses—a view puggish and
snubby in a wonderful, if not positively in an awful degree.
“‘When the monster had nearly reached the shore where we stood, it
suddenly pushed out one of its eyes to a great extent, and emitted from it
a terrible flash of fire, accompanied by a dense cloud of smoke, and a
noise that I can compare to nothing but thunder. As the smoke cleared
away, we saw one of the odd man-animals standing near the head of the
large beast with a trumpet in his hand, through which (putting it to his
mouth) he presently addressed us in loud, harsh, and disagreeable accents,
that, perhaps, we should have mistaken for language, had they not come
altogether through the nose.
“‘Being thus evidently spoken to, I was at a loss how to reply, as I could
in no manner understand what was said; and in this difficulty I turned to
the porter, who was near swooning through affright, and demanded of him
his opinion as to what species of monster it was, what it wanted, and what
kind of creatures those were that so swarmed upon its back. To this the
porter replied, as well as he could for trepidation, that he had once
before heard of this sea-beast; that it was a cruel demon, with bowels of
sulphur and blood of fire, created by evil genii as the means of
inflicting misery upon mankind; that the things upon its back were vermin,
such as sometimes infest cats and dogs, only a little larger and more
savage; and that these vermin had their uses, however evil—for,
through the torture they caused the beast by their nibbling and stingings,
it was goaded into that degree of wrath which was requisite to make it
roar and commit ill, and so fulfil the vengeful and malicious designs of
the wicked genii.
“This account determined me to take to my heels, and, without once even
looking behind me, I ran at full speed up into the hills, while the porter
ran equally fast, although nearly in an opposite direction, so that, by
these means, he finally made his escape with my bundles, of which I have
no doubt he took excellent care—although this is a point I cannot
determine, as I do not remember that I ever beheld him again.
“‘For myself, I was so hotly pursued by a swarm of the men-vermin (who had
come to the shore in boats) that I was very soon overtaken, bound hand and
foot, and conveyed to the beast, which immediately swam out again into the
middle of the sea.
“‘I now bitterly repented my folly in quitting a comfortable home to peril
my life in such adventures as this; but regret being useless, I made the
best of my condition, and exerted myself to secure the goodwill of the
man-animal that owned the trumpet, and who appeared to exercise authority
over his fellows. I succeeded so well in this endeavor that, in a few
days, the creature bestowed upon me various tokens of his favor, and in
the end even went to the trouble of teaching me the rudiments of what it
was vain enough to denominate its language; so that, at length, I was
enabled to converse with it readily, and came to make it comprehend the
ardent desire I had of seeing the world.
“‘Washish squashish squeak, Sinbad, hey-diddle diddle, grunt unt grumble,
hiss, fiss, whiss,’ said he to me, one day after dinner—but I beg a
thousand pardons, I had forgotten that your majesty is not conversant with
the dialect of the Cock-neighs (so the man-animals were called; I presume
because their language formed the connecting link between that of the
horse and that of the rooster). With your permission, I will translate.
‘Washish squashish,’ and so forth:—that is to say, ‘I am happy to
find, my dear Sinbad, that you are really a very excellent fellow; we are
now about doing a thing which is called circumnavigating the globe; and
since you are so desirous of seeing the world, I will strain a point and
give you a free passage upon back of the beast.’”
When the Lady Scheherazade had proceeded thus far, relates the
“Isitsöornot,” the king turned over from his left side to his right, and
said:
“It is, in fact, very surprising, my dear queen, that you omitted,
hitherto, these latter adventures of Sinbad. Do you know I think them
exceedingly entertaining and strange?”
The king having thus expressed himself, we are told, the fair Scheherazade
resumed her history in the following words:
“Sinbad went on in this manner with his narrative—‘I
thanked the man-animal for its kindness, and soon found myself very much
at home on the beast, which swam at a prodigious rate through the ocean;
although the surface of the latter is, in that part of the world, by no
means flat, but round like a pomegranate, so that we went—so to say—either
up hill or down hill all the time.’
“That I think, was very singular,” interrupted the king.
“Nevertheless, it is quite true,” replied Scheherazade.
“I have my doubts,” rejoined the king; “but, pray, be so good as to go on
with the story.”
“I will,” said the queen. “‘The beast,’ continued Sinbad to the caliph,
‘swam, as I have related, up hill and down hill until, at length, we
arrived at an island, many hundreds of miles in circumference, but which,
nevertheless, had been built in the middle of the sea by a colony of
little things like caterpillars.’” (1)
“Hum!” said the king.
“‘Leaving this island,’ said Sinbad—(for Scheherazade, it must be
understood, took no notice of her husband’s ill-mannered ejaculation)
‘leaving this island, we came to another where the forests were of solid
stone, and so hard that they shivered to pieces the finest-tempered axes
with which we endeavoured to cut them down.’” (2)
“Hum!” said the king, again; but Scheherazade, paying him no attention,
continued in the language of Sinbad.
“‘Passing beyond this last island, we reached a country where there was a
cave that ran to the distance of thirty or forty miles within the bowels
of the earth, and that contained a greater number of far more spacious and
more magnificent palaces than are to be found in all Damascus and Bagdad.
From the roofs of these palaces there hung myriads of gems, like
diamonds, but larger than men; and in among the streets of towers and
pyramids and temples, there flowed immense rivers as black as ebony, and
swarming with fish that had no eyes.’” (3)
“Hum!” said the king.
“‘We then swam into a region of the sea where we found a
lofty mountain, down whose sides there streamed torrents of melted metal,
some of which were twelve miles wide and sixty miles long (4); while
from an abyss on the summit, issued so vast a quantity of ashes that the
sun was entirely blotted out from the heavens, and it became darker than
the darkest midnight; so that when we were even at the distance of a
hundred and fifty miles from the mountain, it was impossible to see the
whitest object, however close we held it to our eyes.’” (5)
“Hum!” said the king.
“‘After quitting this coast, the beast continued his voyage until we met
with a land in which the nature of things seemed reversed—for we
here saw a great lake, at the bottom of which, more than a hundred feet
beneath the surface of the water, there flourished in full leaf a forest
of tall and luxuriant trees.’” (6)
“Hoo!” said the king.
“Some hundred miles farther on brought us to a climate where the
atmosphere was so dense as to sustain iron or steel, just as our own does
feather.’” (7)
“Fiddle de dee,” said the king.
“Proceeding still in the same direction, we presently arrived at the most
magnificent region in the whole world. Through it there meandered a
glorious river for several thousands of miles. This river was of
unspeakable depth, and of a transparency richer than that of amber. It was
from three to six miles in width; and its banks which arose on either side
to twelve hundred feet in perpendicular height, were crowned with
ever-blossoming trees and perpetual sweet-scented flowers, that made the
whole territory one gorgeous garden; but the name of this luxuriant land
was the Kingdom of Horror, and to enter it was inevitable death.’” (8)
“Humph!” said the king.
“‘We left this kingdom in great haste, and, after some days, came to
another, where we were astonished to perceive myriads of monstrous animals
with horns resembling scythes upon their heads. These hideous beasts dig
for themselves vast caverns in the soil, of a funnel shape, and line the
sides of them with rocks, so disposed one upon the other that they fall
instantly, when trodden upon by other animals, thus precipitating them
into the monster’s dens, where their blood is immediately sucked, and
their carcasses afterwards hurled contemptuously out to an immense
distance from “the caverns of death.”’” (9)
“Pooh!” said the king.
“‘Continuing our progress, we perceived a district with vegetables that
grew not upon any soil but in the air. (10) There were others that sprang
from the substance of other vegetables; (11) others that derived their
substance from the bodies of living animals; (12) and then again, there
were others that glowed all over with intense fire; (13) others that
moved from place to place at pleasure, (14) and what was still more
wonderful, we discovered flowers that lived and breathed and moved their
limbs at will and had, moreover, the detestable passion of mankind for
enslaving other creatures, and confining them in horrid and solitary
prisons until the fulfillment of appointed tasks.’” (15)
“Pshaw!” said the king.
“‘Quitting this land, we soon arrived at another in which the bees and the
birds are mathematicians of such genius and erudition, that they give
daily instructions in the science of geometry to the wise men of the
empire. The king of the place having offered a reward for the solution of
two very difficult problems, they were solved upon the spot—the one
by the bees, and the other by the birds; but the king keeping their
solution a secret, it was only after the most profound researches and
labor, and the writing of an infinity of big books, during a long series
of years, that the men-mathematicians at length arrived at the identical
solutions which had been given upon the spot by the bees and by the
birds.’” (16)
“Oh my!” said the king.
“‘We had scarcely lost sight of this empire when we found ourselves close
upon another, from whose shores there flew over our heads a flock of fowls
a mile in breadth, and two hundred and forty miles long; so that, although
they flew a mile during every minute, it required no less than four hours
for the whole flock to pass over us—in which there were several
millions of millions of fowl.’” (17)
“Oh fy!” said the king.
“‘No sooner had we got rid of these birds, which occasioned us great
annoyance, than we were terrified by the appearance of a fowl of another
kind, and infinitely larger than even the rocs which I met in my former
voyages; for it was bigger than the biggest of the domes on your seraglio,
oh, most Munificent of Caliphs. This terrible fowl had no head that we
could perceive, but was fashioned entirely of belly, which was of a
prodigious fatness and roundness, of a soft-looking substance, smooth,
shining and striped with various colors. In its talons, the monster was
bearing away to his eyrie in the heavens, a house from which it had
knocked off the roof, and in the interior of which we distinctly saw human
beings, who, beyond doubt, were in a state of frightful despair at the
horrible fate which awaited them. We shouted with all our might, in the
hope of frightening the bird into letting go of its prey, but it merely
gave a snort or puff, as if of rage and then let fall upon our heads a
heavy sack which proved to be filled with sand!’”
“Stuff!” said the king.
“‘It was just after this adventure that we encountered a continent of
immense extent and prodigious solidity, but which, nevertheless, was
supported entirely upon the back of a sky-blue cow that had no fewer than
four hundred horns.’” (18)
“That, now, I believe,” said the king, “because I have read something of
the kind before, in a book.”
“‘We passed immediately beneath this continent, (swimming in between the
legs of the cow), and, after some hours, found ourselves in a wonderful
country indeed, which, I was informed by the man-animal, was his own
native land, inhabited by things of his own species. This elevated the
man-animal very much in my esteem, and in fact, I now began to feel
ashamed of the contemptuous familiarity with which I had treated him; for
I found that the man-animals in general were a nation of the most powerful
magicians, who lived with worms in their brain, (19) which, no doubt,
served to stimulate them by their painful writhings and wrigglings to the
most miraculous efforts of imagination!’”
“Nonsense!” said the king.
“‘Among the magicians, were domesticated several animals of very singular
kinds; for example, there was a huge horse whose bones were iron and whose
blood was boiling water. In place of corn, he had black stones for his
usual food; and yet, in spite of so hard a diet, he was so strong and
swift that he would drag a load more weighty than the grandest temple in
this city, at a rate surpassing that of the flight of most birds.’” (20)
“Twattle!” said the king.
“‘I saw, also, among these people a hen without feathers, but bigger than
a camel; instead of flesh and bone she had iron and brick; her blood, like
that of the horse, (to whom, in fact, she was nearly related,) was boiling
water; and like him she ate nothing but wood or black stones. This hen
brought forth very frequently, a hundred chickens in the day; and, after
birth, they took up their residence for several weeks within the stomach
of their mother.’” (21)
“Fal lal!” said the king.
“‘One of this nation of mighty conjurors created a man out of brass and
wood, and leather, and endowed him with such ingenuity that he would have
beaten at chess, all the race of mankind with the exception of the great
Caliph, Haroun Alraschid. (22) Another of these magi constructed (of like
material) a creature that put to shame even the genius of him who made it;
for so great were its reasoning powers that, in a second, it performed
calculations of so vast an extent that they would have required the united
labor of fifty thousand fleshy men for a year. (23) But a still more
wonderful conjuror fashioned for himself a mighty thing that was neither
man nor beast, but which had brains of lead, intermixed with a black
matter like pitch, and fingers that it employed with such incredible speed
and dexterity that it would have had no trouble in writing out twenty
thousand copies of the Koran in an hour, and this with so exquisite a
precision, that in all the copies there should not be found one to vary
from another by the breadth of the finest hair. This thing was of
prodigious strength, so that it erected or overthrew the mightiest empires
at a breath; but its powers were exercised equally for evil and for
good.’”
“Ridiculous!” said the king.
“‘Among this nation of necromancers there was also one who had in his
veins the blood of the salamanders; for he made no scruple of sitting down
to smoke his chibouc in a red-hot oven until his dinner was thoroughly
roasted upon its floor. (24) Another had the faculty of converting the
common metals into gold, without even looking at them during the process.
(25) Another had such a delicacy of touch that he made a wire so fine as
to be invisible. (26) Another had such quickness of perception that he
counted all the separate motions of an elastic body, while it was
springing backward and forward at the rate of nine hundred millions of
times in a second.’” (27)
“Absurd!” said the king.
“‘Another of these magicians, by means of a fluid that nobody ever yet
saw, could make the corpses of his friends brandish their arms, kick out
their legs, fight, or even get up and dance at his will. (28) Another had
cultivated his voice to so great an extent that he could have made himself
heard from one end of the world to the other. (29) Another had so long an
arm that he could sit down in Damascus and indite a letter at Bagdad—or
indeed at any distance whatsoever. (30) Another commanded the lightning
to come down to him out of the heavens, and it came at his call; and
served him for a plaything when it came. Another took two loud sounds and
out of them made a silence. Another constructed a deep darkness out of two
brilliant lights. (31) Another made ice in a red-hot furnace. (32)
Another directed the sun to paint his portrait, and the sun did. (33)
Another took this luminary with the moon and the planets, and having first
weighed them with scrupulous accuracy, probed into their depths and found
out the solidity of the substance of which they were made. But the whole
nation is, indeed, of so surprising a necromantic ability, that not even
their infants, nor their commonest cats and dogs have any difficulty in
seeing objects that do not exist at all, or that for twenty millions of
years before the birth of the nation itself had been blotted out from the
face of creation.’” (34)
“Preposterous!” said the king.
“‘The wives and daughters of these incomparably great and wise magi,’”
continued Scheherazade, without being in any manner disturbed by these
frequent and most ungentlemanly interruptions on the part of her husband—“‘the
wives and daughters of these eminent conjurers are every thing that is
accomplished and refined; and would be every thing that is interesting and
beautiful, but for an unhappy fatality that besets them, and from which
not even the miraculous powers of their husbands and fathers has,
hitherto, been adequate to save. Some fatalities come in certain shapes,
and some in others—but this of which I speak has come in the shape
of a crotchet.’”
“A what?” said the king.
“‘A crotchet’” said Scheherazade. “‘One of the evil genii, who are
perpetually upon the watch to inflict ill, has put it into the heads of
these accomplished ladies that the thing which we describe as personal
beauty consists altogether in the protuberance of the region which lies
not very far below the small of the back. Perfection of loveliness, they
say, is in the direct ratio of the extent of this lump. Having been long
possessed of this idea, and bolsters being cheap in that country, the days
have long gone by since it was possible to distinguish a woman from a
dromedary—’”
“Stop!” said the king—“I can’t stand that, and I won’t. You have
already given me a dreadful headache with your lies. The day, too, I
perceive, is beginning to break. How long have we been married?—my
conscience is getting to be troublesome again. And then that dromedary
touch—do you take me for a fool? Upon the whole, you might as well
get up and be throttled.”
These words, as I learn from the “Isitsöornot,” both grieved and
astonished Scheherazade; but, as she knew the king to be a man of
scrupulous integrity, and quite unlikely to forfeit his word, she
submitted to her fate with a good grace. She derived, however, great
consolation, (during the tightening of the bowstring,) from the reflection
that much of the history remained still untold, and that the petulance of
her brute of a husband had reaped for him a most righteous reward, in
depriving him of many inconceivable adventures.
A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM.
The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our
ways; nor are the models that we frame any way commensurate to the
vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, .
—.
We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the
old man seemed too much exhausted to speak.
“Not long ago,” said he at length, “and I could have guided you on this
route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past,
there happened to me an event such as never happened to mortal man—or
at least such as no man ever survived to tell of—and the six hours
of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You
suppose me a old man—but I am not. It took less than a
single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my
limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion,
and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this
little cliff without getting giddy?”
The “little cliff,” upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself
down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he
was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and
slippery edge—this “little cliff” arose, a sheer unobstructed
precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from
the world of crags beneath us. Nothing would have tempted me to within
half a dozen yards of its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the
perilous position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the
ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance upward at
the sky—while I struggled in vain to divest myself of the idea that
the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury of the
winds. It was long before I could reason myself into sufficient courage to
sit up and look out into the distance.
“You must get over these fancies,” said the guide, “for I have brought you
here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event
I mentioned—and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under
your eye.”
“We are now,” he continued, in that particularizing manner which
distinguished him—“we are now close upon the Norwegian coast—in
the sixty-eighth degree of latitude—in the great province of
Nordland—and in the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon
whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little
higher—hold on to the grass if you feel giddy—so—and
look out, beyond the belt of vapor beneath us, into the sea.”
I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so
inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer’s account
of the . A panorama more deplorably desolate no
human imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye
could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of
horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the
more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against its
white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. Just opposite the
promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five
or six miles out at sea, there was visible a small, bleak-looking island;
or, more properly, its position was discernible through the wilderness of
surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer the land, arose
another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed at
various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks.
The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island
and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time,
so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay
to under a double-reefed trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull
out of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only
a short, quick, angry cross dashing of water in every direction—as
well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little
except in the immediate vicinity of the rocks.
“The island in the distance,” resumed the old man, “is called by the
Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward
is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Hotholm, Keildhelm, Suarven, and
Buckholm. Farther off—between Moskoe and Vurrgh—are Otterholm,
Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These are the true names of the places—but
why it has been thought necessary to name them at all, is more than either
you or I can understand. Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in
the water?”
We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which we
had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no
glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old
man spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like
the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at
the same moment I perceived that what seamen term the
character of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current
which set to the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a
monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed—to its headlong
impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed
into ungovernable fury; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the
main uproar held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and
scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into
phrensied convulsion—heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating in
gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the
eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes except in
precipitous descents.
In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical
alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the
whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam
became apparent where none had been seen before. These streaks, at length,
spreading out to a great distance, and entering into combination, took
unto themselves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed
to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly—very suddenly—this
assumed a distinct and definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile
in diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of
gleaming spray; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the
terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a
smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at
an angle of some forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with
a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an
appalling voice, half shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty
cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven.
The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw
myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of
nervous agitation.
“This,” said I at length, to the old man—“this be nothing
else than the great whirlpool of the Maelström.”
“So it is sometimes termed,” said he. “We Norwegians call it the
Moskoe-ström, from the island of Moskoe in the midway.”
The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me for what
I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which is perhaps the most circumstantial of
any, cannot impart the faintest conception either of the magnificence, or
of the horror of the scene—or of the wild bewildering sense of which confounds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of
view the writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could
neither have been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There
are some passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be quoted
for their details, although their effect is exceedingly feeble in
conveying an impression of the spectacle.
“Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” he says, “the depth of the water is between
thirty-six and forty fathoms; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh)
this depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a
vessel, without the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even in
the calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up the country
between Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its
impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most
dreadful cataracts; the noise being heard several leagues off, and the
vortices or pits are of such an extent and depth, that if a ship comes
within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and carried down to the
bottom, and there beat to pieces against the rocks; and when the water
relaxes, the fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of
tranquility are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm
weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually
returning. When the stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by
a storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats,
yachts, and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before
they were within its reach. It likewise happens frequently, that whales
come too near the stream, and are overpowered by its violence; and then it
is impossible to describe their howlings and bellowings in their fruitless
struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempting to swim from
Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne down, while he
roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine
trees, after being absorbed by the current, rise again broken and torn to
such a degree as if bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom
to consist of craggy rocks, among which they are whirled to and fro. This
stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of the sea—it being
constantly high and low water every six hours. In the year 1645, early in
the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such noise and impetuosity
that the very stones of the houses on the coast fell to the ground.”
In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have
been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The
“forty fathoms” must have reference only to portions of the channel close
upon the shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the
Moskoe-ström must be immeasurably greater; and no better proof of this
fact is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into
the abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of
Helseggen. Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon
below, I could not help smiling at the simplicity with which the honest
Jonas Ramus records, as a matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of the
whales and the bears; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident
thing, that the largest ship of the line in existence, coming within the
influence of that deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a
feather the hurricane, and must disappear bodily and at once.
The attempts to account for the phenomenon—some of which, I
remember, seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal—now wore a
very different and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally received is
that this, as well as three smaller vortices among the Ferroe islands,
“have no other cause than the collision of waves rising and falling, at
flux and reflux, against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the
water so that it precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher
the flood rises, the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result of
all is a whirlpool or vortex, the prodigious suction of which is
sufficiently known by lesser experiments.”—These are the words of
the Encyclopædia Britannica. Kircher and others imagine that in the centre
of the channel of the Maelström is an abyss penetrating the globe, and
issuing in some very remote part—the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat
decidedly named in one instance. This opinion, idle in itself, was the one
to which, as I gazed, my imagination most readily assented; and,
mentioning it to the guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that,
although it was the view almost universally entertained of the subject by
the Norwegians, it nevertheless was not his own. As to the former notion
he confessed his inability to comprehend it; and here I agreed with him—for,
however conclusive on paper, it becomes altogether unintelligible, and
even absurd, amid the thunder of the abyss.
“You have had a good look at the whirl now,” said the old man, “and if you
will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and deaden the roar
of the water, I will tell you a story that will convince you I ought to
know something of the Moskoe-ström.”
I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded.
“Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged smack of about
seventy tons burthen, with which we were in the habit of fishing among the
islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at sea
there is good fishing, at proper opportunities, if one has only the
courage to attempt it; but among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen, we
three were the only ones who made a regular business of going out to the
islands, as I tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to
the southward. There fish can be got at all hours, without much risk, and
therefore these places are preferred. The choice spots over here among the
rocks, however, not only yield the finest variety, but in far greater
abundance; so that we often got in a single day, what the more timid of
the craft could not scrape together in a week. In fact, we made it a
matter of desperate speculation—the risk of life standing instead of
labor, and courage answering for capital.
“We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than
this; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take advantage of the
fifteen minutes’ slack to push across the main channel of the
Moskoe-ström, far above the pool, and then drop down upon anchorage
somewhere near Otterholm, or Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so
violent as elsewhere. Here we used to remain until nearly time for
slack-water again, when we weighed and made for home. We never set out
upon this expedition without a steady side wind for going and coming—one
that we felt sure would not fail us before our return—and we seldom
made a mis-calculation upon this point. Twice, during six years, we were
forced to stay all night at anchor on account of a dead calm, which is a
rare thing indeed just about here; and once we had to remain on the
grounds nearly a week, starving to death, owing to a gale which blew up
shortly after our arrival, and made the channel too boisterous to be
thought of. Upon this occasion we should have been driven out to sea in
spite of everything, (for the whirlpools threw us round and round so
violently, that, at length, we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had
not been that we drifted into one of the innumerable cross currents—here
to-day and gone to-morrow—which drove us under the lee of Flimen,
where, by good luck, we brought up.
“I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we
encountered ‘on the grounds’—it is a bad spot to be in, even in good
weather—but we made shift always to run the gauntlet of the
Moskoe-ström itself without accident; although at times my heart has been
in my mouth when we happened to be a minute or so behind or before the
slack. The wind sometimes was not as strong as we thought it at starting,
and then we made rather less way than we could wish, while the current
rendered the smack unmanageable. My eldest brother had a son eighteen
years old, and I had two stout boys of my own. These would have been of
great assistance at such times, in using the sweeps, as well as afterward
in fishing—but, somehow, although we ran the risk ourselves, we had
not the heart to let the young ones get into the danger—for, after
all is said and done, it a horrible danger, and that is the
truth.
“It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell
you occurred. It was on the tenth day of July, 18—, a day which the people
of this part of the world will never forget—for it was one in which
blew the most terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens. And
yet all the morning, and indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a
gentle and steady breeze from the south-west, while the sun shone
brightly, so that the oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what
was to follow.
“The three of us—my two brothers and myself—had crossed over
to the islands about two o’clock P. M., and had soon nearly loaded the
smack with fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty that day
than we had ever known them. It was just seven, , when
we weighed and started for home, so as to make the worst of the Ström at
slack water, which we knew would be at eight.
“We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time
spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw
not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback
by a breeze from over Helseggen. This was most unusual—something
that had never happened to us before—and I began to feel a little
uneasy, without exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but
could make no headway at all for the eddies, and I was upon the point of
proposing to return to the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the
whole horizon covered with a singular copper-colored cloud that rose with
the most amazing velocity.
“In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and we were
dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things,
however, did not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In
less than a minute the storm was upon us—in less than two the sky
was entirely overcast—and what with this and the driving spray, it
became suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack.
“Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. The
oldest seaman in Norway never experienced any thing like it. We had let
our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at the first
puff, both our masts went by the board as if they had been sawed off—the
mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it
for safety.
“Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It
had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow, and this
hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when about to cross the
Ström, by way of precaution against the chopping seas. But for this
circumstance we should have foundered at once—for we lay entirely
buried for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot
say, for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon
as I had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet
against the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a
ring-bolt near the foot of the fore-mast. It was mere instinct that
prompted me to do this—which was undoubtedly the very best thing I
could have done—for I was too much flurried to think.
“For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time
I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I
raised myself upon my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus
got my head clear. Presently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as
a dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some
measure, of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor
that had come over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to
be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and
my heart leaped for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard—but
the next moment all this joy was turned into horror—for he put his
mouth close to my ear, and screamed out the word ‘’
“No one ever will know what my feelings were at that moment. I shook from
head to foot as if I had had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what
he meant by that one word well enough—I knew what he wished to make
me understand. With the wind that now drove us on, we were bound for the
whirl of the Ström, and nothing could save us!
“You perceive that in crossing the Ström , we always went a
long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to
wait and watch carefully for the slack—but now we were driving right
upon the pool itself, and in such a hurricane as this! ‘To be sure,’ I
thought, ‘we shall get there just about the slack—there is some
little hope in that’—but in the next moment I cursed myself for
being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we
were doomed, had we been ten times a ninety-gun ship.
“By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps
we did not feel it so much, as we scudded before it, but at all events the
seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind, and lay flat and
frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too, had
come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as
pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift
of clear sky—as clear as I ever saw—and of a deep bright blue—and
through it there blazed forth the full moon with a lustre that I never
before knew her to wear. She lit up every thing about us with the greatest
distinctness—but, oh God, what a scene it was to light up!
“I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother—but, in some
manner which I could not understand, the din had so increased that I could
not make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my
voice in his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death,
and held up one of his fingers, as if to say
“At first I could not make out what he meant—but soon a hideous
thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not
going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears
as I flung it far away into the ocean.
“When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the
waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from
beneath her—which appears very strange to a landsman—and this
is what is called , in sea phrase.
“Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but presently
a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us
with it as it rose—up—up—as if into the sky. I would
not have believed that any wave could rise so high. And then down we came
with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge, that made me feel sick and dizzy, as
if I was falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we
were up I had thrown a quick glance around—and that one glance was
all sufficient. I saw our exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-Ström
whirlpool was about a quarter of a mile dead ahead—but no more like
the every-day Moskoe-Ström than the whirl as you now see it, is like a
mill-race. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to expect, I
should not have recognised the place at all. As it was, I involuntarily
closed my eyes in horror. The lids clenched themselves together as if in
a spasm.
“It could not have been more than two minutes afterward until we suddenly
felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp
half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a
thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring noise of the water was
completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek—such a sound as you
might imagine given out by the waste-pipes of many thousand steam-vessels,
letting off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that
always surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that another moment
would plunge us into the abyss, down which we could only see
indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we wore borne
along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim
like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was
next the whirl, and on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had left.
It stood like a huge writhing wall between us and the horizon.
“It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the
gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having
made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror
which unmanned me at first. I suppose it was despair that strung my
nerves.
“It may look like boasting—but what I tell you is truth—I
began to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner,
and how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my
own individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God’s
power. I do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea crossed my
mind. After a little while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity
about the whirl itself. I positively felt a to explore its
depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief
was that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore about
the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to
occupy a man’s mind in such extremity—and I have often thought
since, that the revolutions of the boat around the pool might have
rendered me a little light-headed.
“There was another circumstance which tended to restore my
self-possession; and this was the cessation of the wind, which could not
reach us in our present situation—for, as you saw yourself, the belt
of surf is considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this
latter now towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge. If you have
never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion
of mind occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and
strangle you, and take away all power of action or reflection. But we were
now, in a great measure, rid of these annoyances—just as
death-condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden
them while their doom is yet uncertain.
“How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say. We
careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating,
getting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then
nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never
let go of the ring-bolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a
small empty water-cask which had been securely lashed under the coop of
the counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept
overboard when the gale first took us. As we approached the brink of the
pit he let go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in
the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it was not
large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief
than when I saw him attempt this act—although I knew he was a madman
when he did it—a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care,
however, to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no difference
whether either of us held on at all; so I let him have the bolt, and went
astern to the cask. This there was no great difficulty in doing; for the
smack flew round steadily enough, and upon an even keel—only swaying
to and fro, with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely
had I secured myself in my new position, when we gave a wild lurch to
starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer
to God, and thought all was over.
“As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively
tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I
dared not open them—while I expected instant destruction, and
wondered that I was not already in my death-struggles with the water. But
moment after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had
ceased; and the motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before,
while in the belt of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along.
I took courage, and looked once again upon the scene.
“Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and admiration with
which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic,
midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference,
prodigious in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been
mistaken for ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun
around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the
rays of the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which I
have already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the
black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss.
“At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately. The
general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered
myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this
direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the manner in
which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite
upon an even keel—that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel
with that of the water—but this latter sloped at an angle of more
than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our beam-ends.
I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more
difficulty in maintaining my hold and footing in this situation, than if
we had been upon a dead level; and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed
at which we revolved.
“The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound
gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a thick
mist in which everything there was enveloped, and over which there hung a
magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Mussulmen
say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray,
was no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel,
as they all met together at the bottom—but the yell that went up to
the Heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to describe.
“Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had
carried us a great distance down the slope; but our farther descent was by
no means proportionate. Round and round we swept—not with any
uniform movement—but in dizzying swings and jerks, that sent us
sometimes only a few hundred yards—sometimes nearly the complete
circuit of the whirl. Our progress downward, at each revolution, was slow,
but very perceptible.
“Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were
thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the
embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were visible fragments of
vessels, large masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many
smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels
and staves. I have already described the unnatural curiosity which had
taken the place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I
drew nearer and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a
strange interest, the numerous things that floated in our company. I
have been delirious, for I even sought in
speculating upon the relative velocities of their several descents toward
the foam below. ‘This fir tree,’ I found myself at one time saying, ‘will
certainly be the next thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears,’—and
then I was disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship
overtook it and went down before. At length, after making several guesses
of this nature, and being deceived in all—this fact—the fact
of my invariable miscalculation, set me upon a train of reflection
that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more.
“It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more
exciting . This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from
present observation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter
that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown
forth by the Moskoe-ström. By far the greater number of the articles were
shattered in the most extraordinary way—so chafed and roughened as
to have the appearance of being stuck full of splinters—but then I
distinctly recollected that there were 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
—that the others had entered the whirl at
so late a period of the tide, or, for some reason, had descended so slowly
after entering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the
flood came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible,
in either instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level
of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in
more early, or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three important
observations. The first was, that, as a general rule, the larger the
bodies were, the more rapid their descent—the second, that, between
two masses of equal extent, the one spherical, and the other , the superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere—the
third, that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and
the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly.
Since my escape, I have had several conversations on this subject with an
old school-master of the district; and it was from him that I learned the
use of the words ‘cylinder’ and ‘sphere.’ He explained to me—although
I have forgotten the explanation—how what I observed was, in fact,
the natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments—and
showed me how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered
more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty
than an equally bulky body, of any form whatever. (*1)
“There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing
these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and
this was that, at every revolution, we passed something like a barrel, or
else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which
had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the
whirlpool, were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little
from their original station.
“I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to
the water cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter,
and to throw myself with it into the water. I attracted my brother’s
attention by signs, pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and
did everything in my power to make him understand what I was about to do.
I thought at length that he comprehended my design—but, whether this
was the case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move
from his station by the ring-bolt. It was impossible to reach him; the
emergency admitted of no delay; and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned
him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings
which secured it to the counter, and precipitated myself with it into the
sea, without another moment’s hesitation.
“The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself
who now tell you this tale—as you see that I escape—and
as you are already in possession of the mode in which this escape was
effected, and must therefore anticipate all that I have farther to say—I
will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or
thereabout, after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast
distance beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid
succession, and, bearing my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at
once and forever, into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was
attached sunk very little farther than half the distance between the
bottom of the gulf and the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a
great change took place in the character of the whirlpool. The slope of
the sides of the vast funnel became momently less and less steep. The
gyrations of the whirl grew, gradually, less and less violent. By degrees,
the froth and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed
slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full
moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found myself on the surface
of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot
where the pool of the Moskoe-ström . It was the hour of the
slack—but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects
of the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Ström, and
in a few minutes was hurried down the coast into the ‘grounds’ of the
fishermen. A boat picked me up—exhausted from fatigue—and (now
that the danger was removed) speechless from the memory of its horror.
Those who drew me on board were my old mates and daily companions—but
they knew me no more than they would have known a traveller from the
spirit-land. My hair which had been raven-black the day before, was as
white as you see it now. They say too that the whole expression of my
countenance had changed. I told them my story—they did not believe
it. I now tell it to —and I can scarcely expect you to put
more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden.”
VON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY
After the very minute and elaborate paper by Arago, to say nothing of the
summary in ‘Silliman’s Journal,’ with the detailed statement just
published by Lieutenant Maury, it will not be supposed, of course, that in
offering a few hurried remarks in reference to Von Kempelen’s discovery, I
have any design to look at the subject in a scientific point of view. My
object is simply, in the first place, to say a few words of Von Kempelen
himself (with whom, some years ago, I had the honor of a slight personal
acquaintance), since every thing which concerns him must necessarily, at
this moment, be of interest; and, in the second place, to look in a
general way, and speculatively, at the results of the discovery.
<br />
It may be as well, however, to premise the cursory observations which I
have to offer, by denying, very decidedly, what seems to be a general
impression (gleaned, as usual in a case of this kind, from the
newspapers), viz.: that this discovery, astounding as it unquestionably
is, is unanticipated.
<br />
By reference to the ‘Diary of Sir Humphrey Davy’ (Cottle and Munroe,
London, pp. 150), it will be seen at pp. 53 and 82, that this illustrious
chemist had not only conceived the idea now in question, but had actually
made no inconsiderable progress, experimentally, in the very identical
analysis now so triumphantly brought to an issue by Von Kempelen, who
although he makes not the slightest allusion to it, is, without doubt (I
say it unhesitatingly, and can prove it, if required), indebted to the
‘Diary’ for at least the first hint of his own undertaking.
<br />
The paragraph from the ‘Courier and Enquirer,’ which is now going the
rounds of the press, and which purports to claim the invention for a Mr.
Kissam, of Brunswick, Maine, appears to me, I confess, a little
apocryphal, for several reasons; although there is nothing either
impossible or very improbable in the statement made. I need not go into
details. My opinion of the paragraph is founded principally upon its
manner. It does not look true. Persons who are narrating facts, are seldom
so particular as Mr. Kissam seems to be, about day and date and precise
location. Besides, if Mr. Kissam actually did come upon the discovery he
says he did, at the period designated—nearly eight years ago—how
happens it that he took no steps, on the instant, to reap the immense
benefits which the merest bumpkin must have known would have resulted to
him individually, if not to the world at large, from the discovery? It
seems to me quite incredible that any man of common understanding could
have discovered what Mr. Kissam says he did, and yet have subsequently
acted so like a baby—so like an owl—as Mr. Kissam admits that
he did. By-the-way, who is Mr. Kissam? and is not the whole paragraph in
the ‘Courier and Enquirer’ a fabrication got up to ‘make a talk’? It must
be confessed that it has an amazingly moon-hoaxy-air. Very little
dependence is to be placed upon it, in my humble opinion; and if I were
not well aware, from experience, how very easily men of science are
mystified, on points out of their usual range of inquiry, I should be
profoundly astonished at finding so eminent a chemist as Professor Draper,
discussing Mr. Kissam’s (or is it Mr. Quizzem’s?) pretensions to the
discovery, in so serious a tone.
<br />
But to return to the ‘Diary’ of Sir Humphrey Davy. This pamphlet was not
designed for the public eye, even upon the decease of the writer, as any
person at all conversant with authorship may satisfy himself at once by
the slightest inspection of the style. At page 13, for example, near the
middle, we read, in reference to his researches about the protoxide of
azote: ‘In less than half a minute the respiration being continued,
diminished gradually and were succeeded by analogous to gentle pressure on
all the muscles.’ That the respiration was not ‘diminished,’ is not only
clear by the subsequent context, but by the use of the plural, ‘were.’ The
sentence, no doubt, was thus intended: ‘In less than half a minute, the
respiration [being continued, these feelings] diminished gradually, and
were succeeded by [a sensation] analogous to gentle pressure on all the
muscles.’ A hundred similar instances go to show that the MS. so
inconsiderately published, was merely a rough note-book, meant only for
the writer’s own eye, but an inspection of the pamphlet will convince
almost any thinking person of the truth of my suggestion. The fact is, Sir
Humphrey Davy was about the last man in the world to commit himself on
scientific topics. Not only had he a more than ordinary dislike to
quackery, but he was morbidly afraid of appearing empirical; so that,
however fully he might have been convinced that he was on the right track
in the matter now in question, he would never have spoken out, until he
had every thing ready for the most practical demonstration. I verily
believe that his last moments would have been rendered wretched, could he
have suspected that his wishes in regard to burning this ‘Diary’ (full of
crude speculations) would have been unattended to; as, it seems, they
were. I say ‘his wishes,’ for that he meant to include this note-book
among the miscellaneous papers directed ‘to be burnt,’ I think there can
be no manner of doubt. Whether it escaped the flames by good fortune or by
bad, yet remains to be seen. That the passages quoted above, with the
other similar ones referred to, gave Von Kempelen the hint, I do not in
the slightest degree question; but I repeat, it yet remains to be seen
whether this momentous discovery itself (momentous under any
circumstances) will be of service or disservice to mankind at large. That
Von Kempelen and his immediate friends will reap a rich harvest, it would
be folly to doubt for a moment. They will scarcely be so weak as not to
‘realize,’ in time, by large purchases of houses and land, with other
property of intrinsic value.
<br />
In the brief account of Von Kempelen which appeared in the ‘Home Journal,’
and has since been extensively copied, several misapprehensions of the
German original seem to have been made by the translator, who professes to
have taken the passage from a late number of the Presburg ‘Schnellpost.’
‘Viele’ has evidently been misconceived (as it often is), and what the
translator renders by ‘sorrows,’ is probably ‘lieden,’ which, in its true
version, ‘sufferings,’ would give a totally different complexion to the
whole account; but, of course, much of this is merely guess, on my part.
<br />
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 a notoriety as
he has attained, or attain in a few days, is not a small matter, as
times go.
<br />
“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 , since I have it from his own lips, that
he was born in Utica, in the State of New York, although both his parents,
I believe, are of Presburg descent. The family is connected, in some way,
with Mäelzel, of Automaton-chess-player memory. In person, he is short and
stout, with large, , blue eyes, sandy hair and whiskers, a wide but
pleasing mouth, fine teeth, and I think a Roman nose. There is some defect
in one of his feet. His address is frank, and his whole manner noticeable
for bonhomie. Altogether, he looks, speaks, and acts as little like ‘a
misanthrope’ as any man I ever saw. We were fellow-sojourners for a week
about six years ago, at Earl’s Hotel, in Providence, Rhode Island; and I
presume that I conversed with him, at various times, for some three or
four hours altogether. His principal topics were those of the day; and
nothing that fell from him led me to suspect his scientific attainments.
He left the hotel before me, intending to go to New York, and thence to
Bremen; it was in the latter city that his great discovery was first made
public; or, rather, it was there that he was first suspected of having
made it. This is about all that I personally know of the now immortal Von
Kempelen; but I have thought that even these few details would have
interest for the public.
<br />
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.
<br />
Von Kempelen had never been even tolerably well off during his residence
at Bremen; and often, it was well known, he had been put to extreme shifts
in order to raise trifling sums. When the great excitement occurred about
the forgery on the house of Gutsmuth & Co., suspicion was directed
toward Von Kempelen, on account of his having purchased a considerable
property in Gasperitch Lane, and his refusing, when questioned, to explain
how he became possessed of the purchase money. He was at length arrested,
but nothing decisive appearing against him, was in the end set at liberty.
The police, however, kept a strict watch upon his movements, and thus
discovered that he left home frequently, taking always the same road, and
invariably giving his watchers the slip in the neighborhood of that
labyrinth of narrow and crooked passages known by the flash name of the
‘Dondergat.’ Finally, by dint of great perseverance, they traced him to a
garret in an old house of seven stories, in an alley called Flatzplatz,—and,
coming upon him suddenly, found him, as they imagined, in the midst of his
counterfeiting operations. His agitation is represented as so excessive
that the officers had not the slightest doubt of his guilt. After
hand-cuffing him, they searched his room, or rather rooms, for it appears
he occupied all the mansarde.
<br />
Opening into the garret where they caught him, was a closet, ten feet by
eight, fitted up with some chemical apparatus, of which the object has not
yet been ascertained. In one corner of the closet was a very small
furnace, with a glowing fire in it, and on the fire a kind of duplicate
crucible—two crucibles connected by a tube. One of these crucibles
was nearly full of lead in a state of fusion, but not reaching up to the
aperture of the tube, which was close to the brim. The other crucible had
some liquid in it, which, as the officers entered, seemed to be furiously
dissipating in vapor. They relate that, on finding himself taken, Kempelen
seized the crucibles with both hands (which were encased in gloves that
afterwards turned out to be asbestic), and threw the contents on the tiled
floor. It was now that they hand-cuffed him; and before proceeding to
ransack the premises they searched his person, but nothing unusual was
found about him, excepting a paper parcel, in his coat-pocket, containing
what was afterward ascertained to be a mixture of antimony and some
unknown substance, in nearly, but not quite, equal proportions. All
attempts at analyzing the unknown substance have, so far, failed, but that
it will ultimately be analyzed, is not to be doubted.
<br />
Passing out of the closet with their prisoner, the officers went through a
sort of ante-chamber, in which nothing material was found, to the
chemist’s sleeping-room. They here rummaged some drawers and boxes, but
discovered only a few papers, of no importance, and some good coin, silver
and gold. At length, looking under the bed, they saw a large, common hair
trunk, without hinges, hasp, or lock, and with the top lying carelessly
across the bottom portion. Upon attempting to draw this trunk out from
under the bed, they found that, with their united strength (there were
three of them, all powerful men), they ‘could not stir it one inch.’ Much
astonished at this, one of them crawled under the bed, and looking into
the trunk, said:
<br />
‘No wonder we couldn’t move it—why it’s full to the brim of old bits
of brass!’
<br />
Putting his feet, now, against the wall so as to get a good purchase, and
pushing with all his force, while his companions pulled with all theirs,
the trunk, with much difficulty, was slid out from under the bed, and its
contents examined. The supposed brass with which it was filled was all in
small, smooth pieces, varying from the size of a pea to that of a dollar;
but the pieces were irregular in shape, although more or less
flat-looking, upon the whole, “very much as lead looks when thrown upon
the ground in a molten state, and there suffered to grow cool.” Now, not
one of these officers for a moment suspected this metal to be anything
brass. The idea of its being never entered their brains, of
course; how 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.
<br />
I need not go over the details of Von Kempelen’s confession (as far as it
went) and release, for these are familiar to the public. That he has
actually realized, in spirit and in effect, if not to the letter, the old
chimaera of the philosopher’s stone, no sane person is at liberty to
doubt. The opinions of Arago are, of course, entitled to the greatest
consideration; but he is by no means infallible; and what he says of
bismuth, in his report to the Academy, must be taken . The
simple truth is, that up to this period all analysis has failed; and until
Von Kempelen chooses to let us have the key to his own published enigma,
it is more than probable that the matter will remain, for years, in statu
quo. All that as yet can fairly be said to be known is, that ‘Pure gold
can be made at will, and very readily from lead in connection with certain
other substances, in kind and in proportions, unknown.’
<br />
Speculation, of course, is busy as to the immediate and ultimate results
of this discovery—a discovery which few thinking persons will
hesitate in referring to an increased interest in the matter of gold
generally, by the late developments in California; and this reflection
brings us inevitably to another—the exceeding inopportuneness of Von
Kempelen’s analysis. If many were prevented from adventuring to
California, by the mere apprehension that gold would so materially
diminish in value, on account of its plentifulness in the mines there, as
to render the speculation of going so far in search of it a doubtful one—what
impression will be wrought now, upon the minds of those about to emigrate,
and especially upon the minds of those actually in the mineral region, by
the announcement of this astounding discovery of Von Kempelen? a discovery
which declares, in so many words, that beyond its intrinsic worth for
manufacturing purposes (whatever that worth may be), gold now is, or at
least soon will be (for it cannot be supposed that Von Kempelen can long
retain his secret), of no greater value than lead, and of far inferior
value to silver. It is, indeed, exceedingly difficult to speculate
prospectively upon the consequences of the discovery, but one thing may be
positively maintained—that the announcement of the discovery six
months ago would have had material influence in regard to the settlement
of California.
<br />
In Europe, as yet, the most noticeable results have been a rise of two
hundred per cent. in the price of lead, and nearly twenty-five per cent.
that of silver.
MESMERIC REVELATION
Whatever doubt may still envelop the of mesmerism,
its startling 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 , 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 , or at least resemble them more nearly than they do the
phenomena of any other normal condition within our cognizance; that,
while in this state, the person so impressed employs only with effort,
and then feebly, the external organs of sense, yet perceives, with
keenly refined perception, and through channels supposed unknown,
matters beyond the scope of the physical organs; that, moreover, his
intellectual faculties are wonderfully exalted and invigorated; that his
sympathies with the person so impressing him are profound; and, finally,
that his susceptibility to the impression increases with its frequency,
while, in the same proportion, the peculiar phenomena elicited are more
extended and more .
I say that these—which are the laws of mesmerism in its
general features—it would be supererogation to demonstrate; nor shall I
inflict upon my readers so needless a demonstration; to-day. My purpose
at present is a very different one indeed. I am impelled, even in
the teeth of a world of prejudice, to detail without comment the very
remarkable substance of a colloquy, occurring between a sleep-waker and
myself.
I had been long in the habit of mesmerizing the person in question (Mr.
Vankirk), and the usual acute susceptibility and exaltation of the mesmeric
perception had supervened. For many months he had been laboring under confirmed
phthisis, the more distressing effects of which had been relieved by my
manipulations; and on the night of Wednesday, the fifteenth instant, I was
summoned to his bedside.
The invalid was suffering with acute pain in the region of the
heart, and breathed with great difficulty, having all the ordinary
symptoms of asthma. In spasms such as these he had usually found relief
from the application of mustard to the nervous centres, but to-night
this had been attempted in vain.
As I entered his room he greeted me with a cheerful smile, and
although evidently in much bodily pain, appeared to be, mentally, quite
at ease.
“I sent for you to-night,” he said, “not so much to administer
to my bodily ailment, as to satisfy me concerning certain psychal
impressions which, of late, have occasioned me much anxiety and
surprise. I need not tell you how sceptical I have hitherto been on the
topic of the soul’s immortality. I cannot deny that there has always
existed, as if in that very soul which I have been denying, a vague
half-sentiment of its own existence. But this half-sentiment at no
time amounted to conviction. With it my reason had nothing to do.
All attempts at logical inquiry resulted, indeed, in leaving me more
sceptical than before. I had been advised to study Cousin. I studied
him in his own works as well as in those of his European and American
echoes. The ‘Charles Elwood’ of Mr. Brownson, for example, was placed
in my hands. I read it with profound attention. Throughout I found it
logical, but the portions which were not logical were unhappily
the initial arguments of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his
summing up it seemed evident to me that the reasoner had not even
succeeded in convincing himself. His end had plainly forgotten his
beginning, like the government of Trinculo. In short, I was not long in
perceiving that if man is to be intellectually convinced of his own
immortality, he will never be so convinced by the mere abstractions
which have been so long the fashion of the moralists of England, of
France, and of Germany. Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no
hold on the mind. Here upon earth, at least, philosophy, I am persuaded,
will always in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as things. The
will may assent—the soul—the intellect, never.
“I repeat, then, that I only half felt, and never intellectually
believed. But latterly there has been a certain deepening of the
feeling, until it has come so nearly to resemble the acquiescence of
reason, that I find it difficult to distinguish between the two. I am
enabled, too, plainly to trace this effect to the mesmeric influence.
I cannot better explain my meaning than by the hypothesis that the
mesmeric exaltation enables me to perceive a train of ratiocination
which, in my abnormal existence, convinces, but which, in full
accordance with the mesmeric phenomena, does not extend, except through
its , into my normal condition. In sleep-waking, the reasoning
and its conclusion—the cause and its effect—are present together. In
my natural state, the cause vanishing, the effect only, and perhaps only
partially, remains.
“These considerations have led me to think that some good
results might ensue from a series of well-directed questions
propounded to me while mesmerized. You have often observed the profound
self-cognizance evinced by the sleep-waker—the extensive knowledge he
displays upon all points relating to the mesmeric condition itself; and
from this self-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of
a catechism.”
I consented of course to make this experiment. A few passes
threw Mr. Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep. His breathing became
immediately more easy, and he seemed to suffer no physical uneasiness.
The following conversation then ensued:—V. in the dialogue representing
the patient, and P. myself.
Are you asleep?
Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly.
[] Do you sleep now?
Yes.
How do you think your present illness will result?
[.]
I must die.
Does the idea of death afflict you?
[.] No—no!
Are you pleased with the prospect?
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.
I wish you would explain yourself, Mr. Vankirk.
I am willing to do so, but it requires more effort than I feel
able to make. You do not question me properly.
What then shall I ask?
You must begin at the beginning.
The beginning! But where is the beginning?
You know that the beginning is GOD. [.]
What then, is God?
[] I cannot tell.
Is not God spirit?
While I was awake I knew what you meant by “spirit,” but now it
seems only a word—such, for instance, as truth, beauty—a
quality, I mean.
Is not God immaterial?
There is no immateriality—it is a mere word. That which is
not matter, is not at all—unless qualities are things.
Is God, then, material?
No. []
What, then, is he?
[] I see—but it
is a thing difficult to tell. [] He is not
spirit, for he exists. Nor is he matter, as . But
there are of matter of which man knows nothing; the
grosser impelling the finer, the finer pervading the grosser. The
atmosphere, for example, impels the electric principle, while the electric
principle permeates the atmosphere. These gradations of matter increase in
rarity or fineness, until we arrive at a matter —without
particles—indivisible— 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 all
things within itself. This matter is God. What men attempt to embody in
the word “thought,” is this matter in motion.
The metaphysicians maintain that all action is reducible to
motion and thinking, and that the latter is the origin of the former.
Yes; and I now see the confusion of idea. Motion is the action
of , not of . The unparticled matter, or
God, in quiescence, is (as nearly as we can conceive it) what men call
mind. And the power of self-movement (equivalent in effect to human
volition) is, in the unparticled matter, the result of its unity and
omniprevalence; I know not, and now clearly see that I shall
never know. But the unparticled matter, set in motion by a law, or
quality, existing within itself, is thinking.
Can you give me no more precise idea of what you term the
unparticled matter?
The matters of which man is cognizant escape the senses in
gradation. We have, for example, a metal, a piece of wood, a drop of
water, the atmosphere, a gas, caloric, electricity, the luminiferous
ether. Now we call all these things matter, and embrace all matter in one
general definition; but in spite of this, there can be no two ideas more
essentially distinct than that which we attach to a metal, and that which
we attach to the luminiferous ether. When we reach the latter, we feel an
almost irresistible inclination to class it with spirit, or with nihility.
The only consideration which restrains us is our conception of its atomic
constitution; and here, even, we have to seek aid from our notion of an
atom, as something possessing in infinite minuteness, solidity,
palpability, weight. Destroy the idea of the atomic constitution and we
should no longer be able to regard the ether as an entity, or at least as
matter. For want of a better word we might term it spirit. Take, now, a
step beyond the luminiferous ether—conceive a matter as much more
rare than the ether, as this ether is more rare than the metal, and we
arrive at once (in spite of all the school dogmas) at a unique mass—an
unparticled matter. For although we may admit infinite littleness in the
atoms themselves, the infinitude of littleness in the spaces between them
is an absurdity. There will be a point—there will be a degree of
rarity, at which, if the atoms are sufficiently numerous, the interspaces
must vanish, and the mass absolutely coalesce. But the consideration of
the atomic constitution being now taken away, the nature of the mass
inevitably glides into what we conceive of spirit. It is clear, however,
that it is as fully matter as before. The truth is, it is impossible to
conceive spirit, since it is impossible to imagine what is not. When we
flatter ourselves that we have formed its conception, we have merely
deceived our understanding by the consideration of infinitely rarified
matter.
There seems to me an insurmountable objection to the idea of
absolute coalescence;—and that is the very slight resistance
experienced by the heavenly bodies in their revolutions through space—a
resistance now ascertained, it is true, to exist in 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.
Your objection is answered with an ease which is nearly in the
ratio of its apparent unanswerability.—As regards the progress of
the star, it can make no difference whether the star passes through the
ether . There is no astronomical error more
unaccountable than that which reconciles the known retardation of the
comets with the idea of their passage through an ether: for, however rare
this ether be supposed, it would put a stop to all sidereal revolution in
a very far briefer period than has been admitted by those astronomers who
have endeavored to slur over a point which they found it impossible to
comprehend. The retardation actually experienced is, on the other hand,
about that which might be expected from the 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.
But in all this—in this identification of mere matter with
God—is there nothing of irreverence? [.]
Can you say matter should be less reverenced than
mind? But you forget that the matter of which I speak is, in all respects,
the very “mind” or “spirit” of the schools, so far as regards its high
capacities, and is, moreover, the “matter” of these schools at the same
time. God, with all the powers attributed to spirit, is but the perfection
of matter.
You assert, then, that the unparticled matter, in motion, is
thought?
In general, this motion is the universal thought of the
universal mind. This thought creates. All created things are but the
thoughts of God.
You say, “in general.”
Yes. The universal mind is God. For new individualities,
is necessary.
But you now speak of “mind” and “matter” as do the
metaphysicians.
Yes—to avoid confusion. When I say “mind,” I mean the
unparticled or ultimate matter; by “matter,” I intend all else.
You were saying that “for new individualities matter is
necessary.”
Yes; for mind, existing unincorporate, is merely God. To create
individual, thinking beings, it was necessary to incarnate portions of the
divine mind. Thus man is individualized. Divested of corporate
investiture, he were God. Now, the particular motion of the incarnated
portions of the unparticled matter is the thought of man; as the motion of
the whole is that of God.
You say that divested of the body man will be God?
[] I could not have said this; it
is an absurdity.
[] You say that
“divested of corporate investiture man were God.”
And this is true. Man thus divested God—would
be unindividualized. But he can never be thus divested—at least
never —else we must imagine an action of God returning
upon itself—a purposeless and futile action. Man is a creature.
Creatures are thoughts of God. It is the nature of thought to be
irrevocable.
I do not comprehend. You say that man will never put off the
body?
I say that he will never be bodiless.
Explain.
There are two bodies—the rudimental and the complete;
corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What
we call “death,” is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation
is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate,
immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.
But of the worm’s metamorphosis we are palpably cognizant.
, 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.
You have often said that the mesmeric state very nearly
resembles death. How is this?
When I say that it resembles death, I mean that it resembles the
ultimate life; for when I am entranced the senses of my rudimental life
are in abeyance, and I perceive external things directly, without organs,
through a medium which I shall employ in the ultimate, unorganized life.
Unorganized?
Yes; organs are contrivances by which the individual is brought
into sensible relation with particular classes and forms of matter, to the
exclusion of other classes and forms. The organs of man are adapted to his
rudimental condition, and to that only; his ultimate condition, being
unorganized, is of unlimited comprehension in all points but one—the
nature of the volition of God—that is to say, the motion of the
unparticled matter. You will have a distinct idea of the ultimate body by
conceiving it to be entire brain. This it is ; but a conception
of this nature will bring you near a comprehension of what it . A
luminous body imparts vibration to the luminiferous ether. The vibrations
generate similar ones within the retina; these again communicate similar
ones to the optic nerve. The nerve conveys similar ones to the brain; the
brain, also, similar ones to the unparticled matter which permeates it.
The motion of this latter is thought, of which perception is the first
undulation. This is the mode by which the mind of the rudimental life
communicates with the external world; and this external world is, to the
rudimental life, limited, through the idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in
the ultimate, unorganized life, the external world reaches the whole body,
(which is of a substance having affinity to brain, as I have said,) with
no other intervention than that of an infinitely rarer ether than even the
luminiferous; and to this ether—in unison with it—the whole
body vibrates, setting in motion the unparticled matter which permeates
it. It is to the absence of idiosyncratic organs, therefore, that we must
attribute the nearly unlimited perception of the ultimate life. To
rudimental beings, organs are the cages necessary to confine them until
fledged.
You speak of rudimental “beings.” Are there other rudimental
thinking beings than man?
The multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into nebulæ,
planets, suns, and other bodies which are neither nebulæ, suns, nor
planets, is for the sole purpose of supplying for the
idiosyncrasy of the organs of an infinity of rudimental beings. But for
the necessity of the rudimental, prior to the ultimate life, there would
have been no bodies such as these. Each of these is tenanted by a distinct
variety of organic, rudimental, thinking creatures. In all, the organs
vary with the features of the place tenanted. At death, or metamorphosis,
these creatures, enjoying the ultimate life—immortality—and
cognizant of all secrets but , act all things and pass
everywhere by mere volition:—indwelling, not the stars, which to us
seem the sole palpabilities, and for the accommodation of which we blindly
deem space created—but that SPACE itself—that infinity of
which the truly substantive vastness swallows up the star-shadows—blotting
them out as non-entities from the perception of the angels.
You say that “but for the of the rudimental
life” there would have been no stars. But why this necessity?
In the inorganic life, as well as in the inorganic matter
generally, there is nothing to impede the action of one simple
law—the Divine Volition. With the view of producing impediment, the
organic life and matter, (complex, substantial, and law-encumbered,) were
contrived.
But again—why need this impediment have been produced?
The result of law inviolate is perfection—right—negative
happiness. The result of law violate is imperfection, wrong, positive
pain. Through the impediments afforded by the number, complexity, and
substantiality of the laws of organic life and matter, the violation of
law is rendered, to a certain extent, practicable. Thus pain, which in the
inorganic life is impossible, is possible in the organic.
But to what good end is pain thus rendered possible?
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. 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.
Still, there is one of your expressions which I find it
impossible to comprehend—“the truly vastness of
infinity.”
This, probably, is because you have no sufficiently generic
conception of the term “” itself. We must not regard it as
a quality, but as a sentiment:—it is the perception, in thinking
beings, of the adaptation of matter to their organization. There are many
things on the Earth, which would be nihility to the inhabitants of Venus—many
things visible and tangible in Venus, which we could not be brought to
appreciate as existing at all. But to the inorganic beings—to the
angels—the whole of the unparticled matter is substance—that
is to say, the whole of what we term “space” is to them the truest
substantiality;—the stars, meantime, through what we consider their
materiality, escaping the angelic sense, just in proportion as the
unparticled matter, through what we consider its immateriality, eludes the
organic.
As the sleep-waker pronounced these latter words, in a feeble tone, I
observed on his countenance a singular expression, which somewhat alarmed
me, and induced me to awake him at once. No sooner had I done this, than,
with a bright smile irradiating all his features, he fell back upon his
pillow and expired. I noticed that in less than a minute afterward his
corpse had all the stern rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldness
of ice. Thus, ordinarily, should it have appeared, only after long
pressure from Azrael’s hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, during the
latter portion of his discourse, been addressing me from out the region of
the shadows?
THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR
Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that
the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would
have been a miracle had it not—especially under the circumstances. Through
the desire of all parties concerned, to keep the affair from the public,
at least for the present, or until we had farther opportunities for
investigation—through our endeavors to effect this—a garbled
or exaggerated account made its way into society, and became the source of
many unpleasant misrepresentations; and, very naturally, of a great deal
of disbelief.
<br />
It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts—as far as I
comprehend them myself. They are, succinctly, these:
<br />
My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn to the
subject of Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago it occurred to me, quite
suddenly, that in the series of experiments made hitherto, there had been
a very remarkable and most unaccountable omission:—no person had as
yet been mesmerized in articulo mortis. It remained to be seen, first,
whether, in such condition, there existed in the patient any
susceptibility to the magnetic influence; secondly, whether, if any
existed, it was impaired or increased by the condition; thirdly, to what
extent, or for how long a period, the encroachments of Death might be
arrested by the process. There were other points to be ascertained, but
these most excited my curiosity—the last in especial, from the
immensely important character of its consequences.
<br />
In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test these
particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest Valdemar, the
well-known compiler of the “Bibliotheca Forensica,” and author (under the
nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the Polish versions of “Wallenstein” and
“Gargantua.” M. Valdemar, who has resided principally at Harlem, N.Y.,
since the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extreme
spareness of his person—his lower limbs much resembling those of
John Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in violent
contrast to the blackness of his hair—the latter, in consequence,
being very generally mistaken for a wig. His temperament was markedly
nervous, and rendered him a good subject for mesmeric experiment. On two
or three occasions I had put him to sleep with little difficulty, but was
disappointed in other results which his peculiar constitution had
naturally led me to anticipate. His will was at no period positively, or
thoroughly, under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance, I could
accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always attributed my
failure at these points to the disordered state of his health. For some
months previous to my becoming acquainted with him, his physicians had
declared him in a confirmed phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak
calmly of his approaching dissolution, as of a matter neither to be
avoided nor regretted.
<br />
When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it was of
course very natural that I should think of M. Valdemar. I knew the steady
philosophy of the man too well to apprehend any scruples from him; and he
had no relatives in America who would be likely to interfere. I spoke to
him frankly upon the subject; and, to my surprise, his interest seemed
vividly excited. I say to my surprise, for, although he had always yielded
his person freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any
tokens of sympathy with what I did. His disease was of that character
which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of its
termination in death; and it was finally arranged between us that he would
send for me about twenty-four hours before the period announced by his
physicians as that of his decease.
<br />
It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M. Valdemar
himself, the subjoined note:
<br />
M D P——,
<br />
You may as well come now. D—— and F—— are agreed
that I cannot hold out beyond to-morrow midnight; and I think they have
hit the time very nearly.
<br />
V
<br />
I received this note within half an hour after it was written, and in
fifteen minutes more I was in the dying man’s chamber. I had not seen him
for ten days, and was appalled by the fearful alteration which the brief
interval had wrought in him. His face wore a leaden hue; the eyes were
utterly lustreless; and the emaciation was so extreme that the skin had
been broken through by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive.
The pulse was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very
remarkable manner, both his mental power and a certain degree of physical
strength. He spoke with distinctness—took some palliative medicines
without aid—and, when I entered the room, was occupied in penciling
memoranda in a pocket-book. He was propped up in the bed by pillows.
Doctors D—— and F—— were in attendance.
<br />
After pressing Valdemar’s hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and obtained
from them a minute account of the patient’s condition. The left lung had
been for eighteen months in a semi-osseous or cartilaginous state, and
was, of course, entirely useless for all purposes of vitality. The right,
in its upper portion, was also partially, if not thoroughly, ossified,
while the lower region was merely a mass of purulent tubercles, running
one into another. Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one
point, permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These appearances
in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date. The ossification had
proceeded with very unusual rapidity; no sign of it had been discovered a
month before, and the adhesion had only been observed during the three
previous days. Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of
aneurism of the aorta; but on this point the osseous symptoms rendered an
exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of both physicians that M.
Valdemar would die about midnight on the morrow (Sunday). It was then
seven o’clock on Saturday evening.
<br />
On quitting the invalid’s bed-side to hold conversation with myself,
Doctors D—— and F—— had bidden him a final
farewell. It had not been their intention to return; but, at my request,
they agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night.
<br />
When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the subject of his
approaching dissolution, as well as, more particularly, of the experiment
proposed. He still professed himself quite willing and even anxious to
have it made, and urged me to commence it at once. A male and a female
nurse were in attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty
to engage in a task of this character with no more reliable witnesses than
these people, in case of sudden accident, might prove. I therefore
postponed operations until about eight the next night, when the arrival of
a medical student with whom I had some acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L—l,)
relieved me from farther embarrassment. It had been my design, originally,
to wait for the physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by the
urgent entreaties of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I
had not a moment to lose, as he was evidently sinking fast.
<br />
Mr. L—l was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take
notes of all that occurred, and it is from his memoranda that what I now
have to relate is, for the most part, either condensed or copied verbatim.
<br />
It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient’s hand, I
begged him to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr. L—l, whether
he (M. Valdemar) was entirely willing that I should make the experiment of
mesmerizing him in his then condition.
<br />
He replied feebly, yet quite audibly, “Yes, I wish to be. I fear
you have mesmerized”—adding immediately afterwards: “I
fear you have deferred it too long.”
<br />
While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already found most
effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first
lateral stroke of my hand across his forehead; but although I exerted all
my powers, no further perceptible effect was induced until some minutes
after ten o’clock, when Doctors D—— and F—— called, according to
appointment. I explained to them, in a few words, what I designed, and as
they opposed no objection, saying that the patient was already in the
death agony, I proceeded without hesitation—exchanging, however, the
lateral passes for downward ones, and directing my gaze entirely into the
right eye of the sufferer.
<br />
By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was stertorous,
and at intervals of half a minute.
<br />
This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At the
expiration of this period, however, a natural although a very deep sigh
escaped the bosom of the dying man, and the stertorous breathing ceased—that
is to say, its stertorousness was no longer apparent; the intervals were
undiminished. The patient’s extremities were of an icy coldness.
<br />
At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of the
mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed for that
expression of uneasy inward examination which is never seen except in
cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite impossible to mistake. With a
few rapid lateral passes I made the lids quiver, as in incipient sleep,
and with a few more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied,
however, with this, but continued the manipulations vigorously, and with
the fullest exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the
limbs of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy position.
The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so, and reposed on the
bed at a moderate distance from the loin. The head was very slightly
elevated.
<br />
When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the
gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar’s condition. After a few
experiments, they admitted him to be an unusually perfect state of
mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians was greatly excited.
Dr. D—— resolved at once to remain with the patient all night,
while Dr. F—— took leave with a promise to return at daybreak.
Mr. L—l and the nurses remained.
<br />
We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three o’clock in the
morning, when I approached him and found him in precisely the same
condition as when Dr. F—— went away—that is to say, he lay in
the same position; the pulse was imperceptible; the breathing was gentle
(scarcely noticeable, unless through the application of a mirror to the
lips); the eyes were closed naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as
cold as marble. Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of
death.
<br />
As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to influence his
right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro
above his person. In such experiments with this patient, I had never
perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had little thought of
succeeding now; but to my astonishment, his arm very readily, although
feebly, followed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to
hazard a few words of conversation.
<br />
“M. Valdemar,” I said, “are you asleep?” He made no answer, but I
perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the
question, again and again. At its third repetition, his whole frame was
agitated by a very slight shivering; the eyelids unclosed themselves so
far as to display a white line of the ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and
from between them, in a barely audible whisper, issued the words:
<br />
“Yes;—asleep now. Do not wake me!—let me die so!”
<br />
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:
<br />
“Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?”
<br />
The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before:
<br />
“No pain—I am dying.”
<br />
I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then, and nothing
more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F——, who came a little
before sunrise, and expressed unbounded astonishment at finding the
patient still alive. After feeling the pulse and applying a mirror to the
lips, he requested me to speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying:
<br />
“M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?”
<br />
As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during the
interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At
my fourth repetition of the question, he said very faintly, almost
inaudibly:
<br />
“Yes; still asleep—dying.”
<br />
It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians, that M.
Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his present
apparently tranquil condition, until death should supervene—and
this, it was generally agreed, must now take place within a few minutes. I
concluded, however, to speak to him once more, and merely repeated my
previous question.
<br />
While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of the
sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the pupils
disappearing upwardly; the skin generally assumed a cadaverous hue,
resembling not so much parchment as white paper; and the circular hectic
spots which, hitherto, had been strongly defined in the centre of each
cheek, went out at once. I use this expression, because the suddenness of
their departure put me in mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of
a candle by a puff of the breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed
itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered completely;
while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk, leaving the mouth widely
extended, and disclosing in full view the swollen and blackened tongue. I
presume that no member of the party then present had been unaccustomed to
death-bed horrors; but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of
M. Valdemar at this moment, that there was a general shrinking back from
the region of the bed.
<br />
I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which every
reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my business,
however, simply to proceed.
<br />
There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar; and
concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the charge of the
nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was observable in the tongue. This
continued for perhaps a minute. At the expiration of this period, there
issued from the distended and motionless jaws a voice—such as it
would be madness in me to attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or
three epithets which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I
might say, for example, that the sound was harsh, and broken and hollow;
but the hideous whole is indescribable, for the simple reason that no
similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of humanity. There were two
particulars, nevertheless, which I thought then, and still think, might
fairly be stated as characteristic of the intonation—as well adapted
to convey some idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the
voice seemed to reach our ears—at least mine—from a vast
distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place,
it impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make myself
comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of
touch.
<br />
I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that the sound
was one of distinct—of even wonderfully, thrillingly distinct—syllabification.
M. Valdemar spoke—obviously in reply to the question I had
propounded to him a few minutes before. I had asked him, it will be
remembered, if he still slept. He now said:
<br />
“Yes;—no;—I have been sleeping—and now—now—I
am dead.”
<br />
No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the
unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were
so well calculated to convey. Mr. L—l (the student) swooned. The
nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not be induced to return.
My own impressions I would not pretend to render intelligible to the
reader. For nearly an hour, we busied ourselves, silently—without
the utterance of a word—in endeavors to revive Mr. L—l. When
he came to himself, we addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M.
Valdemar’s condition.
<br />
It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the
exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respiration. An
attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that
this limb was no farther subject to my will. I endeavored in vain to make
it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of
the mesmeric influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the
tongue, whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be
making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition. To
queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed utterly
insensible—although I endeavored to place each member of the company
in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have now related all that
is necessary to an understanding of the sleep-waker’s state at this epoch.
Other nurses were procured; and at ten o’clock I left the house in company
with the two physicians and Mr. L—l.
<br />
In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition
remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the
propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had little difficulty
in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by so doing. It was
evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death) had been
arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken
M. Valdemar would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy,
dissolution.
<br />
From this period until the close of last week—an interval of nearly
seven months—we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar’s
house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other friends. All this
time the sleeper-waker remained as I have last described him. The
nurses’ attentions were continual.
<br />
It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of
awakening, or attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate
result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much
discussion in private circles—to so much of what I cannot help
thinking unwarranted popular feeling.
<br />
For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made
use of the customary passes. These, for a time, were unsuccessful. The
first indication of revival was afforded by a partial descent of the iris.
It was observed, as especially remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil
was accompanied by the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from
beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.
<br />
It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient’s arm,
as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F—— then intimated a
desire to have me put a question. I did so, as follows:
<br />
“M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?”
<br />
There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks; the
tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the
jaws and lips remained rigid as before), and at length the same hideous
voice which I have already described, broke forth:
<br />
“For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!—put me to sleep—or,
quick!—waken me!—quick!—I say to you that I am dead!”
<br />
I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to
do. At first I made an endeavor to recompose the patient; but, failing in
this through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as
earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I
should be successful—or at least I soon fancied that my success
would be complete—and I am sure that all in the room were prepared
to see the patient awaken.
<br />
For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human
being could have been prepared.
<br />
As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead! dead!”
absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer,
his whole frame at once—within the space of a single minute, or even
less, shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands.
Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of
loathsome—of detestable putrescence.
THE BLACK CAT.
For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I
neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in
a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and
very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would
unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world,
plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household
events. In their consequences, these events have terrified—have
tortured—have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them.
To me, they have presented little but horror—to many they will seem
less terrible than . Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect
may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place—some
intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own,
which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more
than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
<br />
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my
disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me
the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was
indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent
most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing
them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and in my
manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To
those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I
need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of
the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and
self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him
who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer
fidelity of mere .
<br />
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not
uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she
lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had
birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and .
<br />
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black,
and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence,
my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made
frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black
cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever upon
this point—and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than
that it happens, just now, to be remembered.
<br />
Pluto—this was the cat’s name—was my favorite pet and
playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the
house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following
me through the streets.
<br />
Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my
general temperament and character—through the instrumentality of the
Fiend Intemperance—had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical
alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable,
more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use
intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal
violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my
disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however,
I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as
I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog,
when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my
disease grew upon me—for what disease is like Alcohol!—and at
length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat
peevish—even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
<br />
One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about
town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in
his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with
his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no
longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body
and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre
of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it,
grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes
from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable
atrocity.
<br />
When reason returned with the morning—when I had slept off the fumes
of the night’s debauch—I experienced a sentiment half of horror,
half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at
best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I
again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the
deed.
<br />
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye
presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared
to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be
expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old
heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part
of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave
place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable
overthrow, the spirit of P. Of this spirit
philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives,
than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human
heart—one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments,
which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred
times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other
reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual
inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is
, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of
perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable
longing of the soul —to offer violence to its
own nature—to do wrong for the wrong’s sake only—that
urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted
upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose
about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree;—hung it with the
tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my
heart;—hung it I knew that it had loved me, and
I felt it had given me no reason of offence;—hung it
I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin—a
deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place
it—if such a thing wore possible—even beyond the reach of the
infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
<br />
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused
from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The
whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a
servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The
destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I
resigned myself thenceforward to despair.
<br />
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and
effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain
of facts—and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On
the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one
exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall,
not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against
which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great
measure, resisted the action of the fire—a fact which I attributed
to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were
collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of
it with very minute and eager attention. The words “strange!” “singular!”
and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw,
as if graven in upon the white surface, the figure of a
gigantic . The impression was given with an accuracy truly
marvellous. There was a rope about the animal’s neck.
<br />
When I first beheld this apparition—for I could scarcely regard it
as less—my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length
reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a
garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been
immediately filled by the crowd—by some one of whom the animal must
have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my
chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from
sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty
into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with
the flames, and the from the carcass, had then accomplished
the portraiture as I saw it.
<br />
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my
conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail
to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself
of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into
my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so
far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the
vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same
species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its
place.
<br />
One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy, my
attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head
of one of the immense hogsheads of gin, or of rum, which constituted the
chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top
of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the
fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached
it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat—a very large one—fully
as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one.
Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had
a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole
region of the breast. Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred
loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice.
This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once
offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to
it—knew nothing of it—had never seen it before.
<br />
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.
<br />
For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was
just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but—I know not how or
why it was—its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and
annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose
into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of
shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me
from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or
otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually—very gradually—I
came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from
its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.
<br />
What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the
morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been
deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it
to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that
humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the
source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.
<br />
With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to
increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be
difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch
beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome
caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly
throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress,
clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to
destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a
memory of my former crime, but chiefly—let me confess it at once—by
absolute dread of the beast.
<br />
This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil—and yet I should
be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own—yes,
even in this felon’s cell, I am almost ashamed to own—that the
terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened
by one of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife
had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of
white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible
difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The
reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally
very indefinite; but, by slow degrees—degrees nearly imperceptible,
and which for a long time my reason struggled to reject as fanciful—it
had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the
representation of an object that I shudder to name—and for this,
above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the
monster —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!
<br />
And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity.
And —whose fellow I had contemptuously
destroyed— to work out for —for
me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God—so much of
insufferable woe! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of
rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone,
and in the latter I started hourly from dreams of unutterable fear to
find the hot breath of upon my face, and its vast weight—an
incarnate nightmare that I had no power to shake off—incumbent
eternally upon my
<br />
Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the
good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates—the
darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper
increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the
sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now
blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas, was the most usual
and the most patient of sufferers.
<br />
One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of
the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat
followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong,
exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my wrath,
the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at
the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it
descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife.
Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew
my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon
the spot, without a groan.
<br />
This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire
deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not
remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of
being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one
period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and
destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in
the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well
in the yard—about packing it in a box, as if merchandise, with the
usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house.
Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of
these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar—as the monks of the
middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.
<br />
For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were
loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough
plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from
hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a
false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble
the red of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the
bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before,
so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in this calculation
I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks,
and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped
it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole
structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair,
with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be
distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the
new brickwork. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right.
The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been
disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care.
I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself: “Here at least,
then, my labor has not been in vain.”
<br />
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much
wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death.
Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no
doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed
at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my
present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the
blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature
occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night; and
thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I
soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder
upon my soul!
<br />
The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once
again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the
premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme!
The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had
been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been
instituted—but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon
my future felicity as secured.
<br />
Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very
unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous
investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of
my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers
bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner
unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into
the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of
one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I
folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police
were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was
too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of
triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.
<br />
“Gentlemen,” I said at last, as the party ascended the steps,
“I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health,
and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this—this is a
very well-constructed house.” (In the rabid desire to say something
easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.)—“I may say an
well-constructed house. These walls—are you
going, gentlemen?—these walls are solidly put together;” and
here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane
which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind
which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
<br />
But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No
sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was
answered by a voice from within the tomb!—by a cry, at first muffled
and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into
one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman—a
howl—a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as
might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the
damned in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.
<br />
Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the
opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained
motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen
stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already
greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the
spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of
fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and
whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the
monster up within the tomb!
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER
Son cœur est un luth suspendu;<br />
Sitôt qu’on le touche il résonne..
—.
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the
year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been
passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country;
and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within
view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was—but,
with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom
pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by
any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the
mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or
terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and
the simple landscape features of the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon
the vacant eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—and upon a
few white trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul
which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the
after-dream of the reveller upon opium—the bitter lapse into
everyday life—the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an
iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed
dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture
into aught of the sublime. What was it—I paused to think—what
was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It
was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies
that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the
unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there
combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus
affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations
beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different
arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the
picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its
capacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my
horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in
unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down—but with a shudder
even more thrilling than before—upon the remodelled and inverted
images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and
eye-like windows.
Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself a sojourn
of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my boon
companions in boyhood; but many years had elapsed since our last meeting.
A letter, however, had lately reached me in a distant part of the country—a
letter from him—which, in its wildly importunate nature, had
admitted of no other than a personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of
nervous agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily illness—of a
mental disorder which oppressed him—and of an earnest desire to see
me, as his best, and indeed his only personal friend, with a view of
attempting, by the cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his
malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much more, was said—it
was the apparent that went with his request—which
allowed me no room for hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed forthwith what
I still considered a very singular summons.
Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet I really knew
little of my friend. His reserve had been always excessive and habitual. I
was aware, however, that his very ancient family had been noted, time out
of mind, for a peculiar sensibility of temperament, displaying itself,
through long ages, in many works of exalted art, and manifested, of late,
in repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as in a
passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps even more than to the
orthodox and easily recognisable beauties, of musical science. I had
learned, too, the very remarkable fact, that the stem of the Usher race,
all time-honored as it was, had put forth, at no period, any enduring
branch; in other words, that the entire family lay in the direct line of
descent, and had always, with very trifling and very temporary variation,
so lain. It was this deficiency, I considered, while running over in
thought the perfect keeping of the character of the premises with the
accredited character of the people, and while speculating upon the
possible influence which the one, in the long lapse of centuries, might
have exercised upon the other—it was this deficiency, perhaps, of
collateral issue, and the consequent undeviating transmission, from sire
to son, of the patrimony with the name, which had, at length, so
identified the two as to merge the original title of the estate in the
quaint and equivocal appellation of the “House of Usher”—an
appellation which seemed to include, in the minds of the peasantry who
used it, both the family and the family mansion.
I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish experiment—that
of looking down within the tarn—had been to deepen the first
singular impression. There can be no doubt that the consciousness of the
rapid increase of my superstition—for why should I not so term it?—served
mainly to accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the
paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might
have been for this reason only, that, when I again uplifted my eyes to the
house itself, from its image in the pool, there grew in my mind a strange
fancy—a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but mention it to show
the vivid force of the sensations which oppressed me. I had so worked upon
my imagination as really to believe that about the whole mansion and
domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate
vicinity—an atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven,
but which had reeked up from the decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the
silent tarn—a pestilent and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly
discernible, and leaden-hued.
Shaking off from my spirit what have been a dream, I scanned
more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature
seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had
been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine
tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any
extraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and
there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect
adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the individual stones.
In this there was much that reminded me of the specious totality of old
wood-work which has rotted for long years in some neglected vault, with no
disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of
extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of instability.
Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a barely
perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of the building in
front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag direction, until it became
lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.
Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house. A
servant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the
hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted me, in silence, through
many dark and intricate passages in my progress to the of
his master. Much that I encountered on the way contributed, I know not
how, to heighten the vague sentiments of which I have already spoken.
While the objects around me—while the carvings of the ceilings, the
sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and the
phantasmagoric armorial trophies which rattled as I strode, were but
matters to which, or to such as which, I had been accustomed from my
infancy—while I hesitated not to acknowledge how familiar was all
this—I still wondered to find how unfamiliar were the fancies which
ordinary images were stirring up. On one of the staircases, I met the
physician of the family. His countenance, I thought, wore a mingled
expression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation
and passed on. The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the
presence of his master.
The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The windows
were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black
oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of
encrimsoned light made their way through the trellissed panes, and served
to render sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects around; the
eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the
chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark
draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse,
comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay
scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that
I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and
irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all.
Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been lying at
full length, and greeted me with a vivacious warmth which had much in it,
I at first thought, of an overdone cordiality—of the constrained
effort of the man of the world. A glance, however, at his
countenance, convinced me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for
some moments, while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of
pity, half of awe. Surely, man had never before so terribly altered, in so
brief a period, as had Roderick Usher! It was with difficulty that I could
bring myself to admit the identity of the wan being before me with the
companion of my early boyhood. Yet the character of his face had been at
all times remarkable. A cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large,
liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very
pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew
model, but with a breadth of nostril unusual in similar formations; a
finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a want of
moral energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and tenuity; these
features, with an inordinate expansion above the regions of the temple,
made up altogether a countenance not easily to be forgotten. And now in
the mere exaggeration of the prevailing character of these features, and
of the expression they were wont to convey, lay so much of change that I
doubted to whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now
miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things startled and even awed me.
The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all unheeded, and as, in
its wild gossamer texture, it floated rather than fell about the face, I
could not, even with effort, connect its Arabesque expression with any
idea of simple humanity.
In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an incoherence—an
inconsistency; and I soon found this to arise from a series of feeble and
futile struggles to overcome an habitual trepidancy—an excessive
nervous agitation. For something of this nature I had indeed been
prepared, no less by his letter, than by reminiscences of certain boyish
traits, and by conclusions deduced from his peculiar physical conformation
and temperament. His action was alternately vivacious and sullen. His
voice varied rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the animal spirits
seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species of energetic concision—that
abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and hollow-sounding enunciation—that
leaden, self-balanced and perfectly modulated guttural utterance, which
may be observed in the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable eater of opium,
during the periods of his most intense excitement.
It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his earnest desire
to see me, and of the solace he expected me to afford him. He entered, at
some length, into what he conceived to be the nature of his malady. It
was, he said, a constitutional and a family evil, and one for which he
despaired to find a remedy—a mere nervous affection, he immediately
added, which would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a
host of unnatural sensations. Some of these, as he detailed them,
interested and bewildered me; although, perhaps, the terms, and the
general manner of the narration had their weight. He suffered much from a
morbid acuteness of the senses; the most insipid food was alone endurable;
he could wear only garments of certain texture; the odors of all flowers
were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint light; and there
were but peculiar sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did
not inspire him with horror.
To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden slave. “I shall
perish,” said he, “I must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and
not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the future, not in
themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even
the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable
agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its
absolute effect—in terror. In this unnerved—in this pitiable
condition—I feel that the period will sooner or later arrive when I
must abandon life and reason together, in some struggle with the grim
phantasm, FEAR.”
I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and equivocal hints,
another singular feature of his mental condition. He was enchained by
certain superstitious impressions in regard to the dwelling which he
tenanted, and whence, for many years, he had never ventured forth—in
regard to an influence whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms
too shadowy here to be re-stated—an influence which some
peculiarities in the mere form and substance of his family mansion, had,
by dint of long sufferance, he said, obtained over his spirit—an
effect which the of the gray walls and turrets, and of the
dim tarn into which they all looked down, had, at length, brought about
upon the of his existence.
He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the peculiar
gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to a more natural and far
more palpable origin—to the severe and long-continued illness—indeed
to the evidently approaching dissolution—of a tenderly beloved
sister—his sole companion for long years—his last and only
relative on earth. “Her decease,” he said, with a bitterness which I can
never forget, “would leave him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last
of the ancient race of the Ushers.” While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for
so was she called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the
apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, disappeared. I
regarded her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread—and
yet I found it impossible to account for such feelings. A sensation of
stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her retreating steps. When a
door, at length, closed upon her, my glance sought instinctively and
eagerly the countenance of the brother—but he had buried his face in
his hands, and I could only perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness
had overspread the emaciated fingers through which trickled many
passionate tears.
The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of her
physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of the person, and
frequent although transient affections of a partially cataleptical
character, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she had steadily borne up
against the pressure of her malady, and had not betaken herself finally to
bed; but, on the closing in of the evening of my arrival at the house, she
succumbed (as her brother told me at night with inexpressible agitation)
to the prostrating power of the destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse
I had obtained of her person would thus probably be the last I should
obtain—that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no
more.
For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either Usher or
myself; and during this period I was busied in earnest endeavors to
alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We painted and read together; or I
listened, as if in a dream, to the wild improvisations of his speaking
guitar. And thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more
unreservedly into the recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I
perceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which
darkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon all
objects of the moral and physical universe, in one unceasing radiation of
gloom.
I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours I thus spent
alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any
attempt to convey an idea of the exact character of the studies, or of the
occupations, in which he involved me, or led me the way. An excited and
highly distempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His long
improvised dirges will ring forever in my ears. Among other things, I hold
painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification of the
wild air of the last waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings over which his
elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses
at which I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not
why—from these paintings (vivid as their images now are before me)
I would in vain endeavor to educe more than a small portion which should
lie within the compass of merely written words. By the utter simplicity,
by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and overawed attention. If
ever mortal painted an idea, that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at
least—in the circumstances then surrounding me—there arose out
of the pure abstractions which the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon
his canvass, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I
ever yet in the contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete
reveries of Fuseli.
One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not so
rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be shadowed forth, although
feebly, in words. A small picture presented the interior of an immensely
long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white, and
without interruption or device. Certain accessory points of the design
served well to convey the idea that this excavation lay at an exceeding
depth below the surface of the earth. No outlet was observed in any
portion of its vast extent, and no torch, or other artificial source of
light was discernible; yet a flood of intense rays rolled throughout, and
bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappropriate splendor.
I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve which
rendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of
certain effects of stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow
limits to which he thus confined himself upon the guitar, which gave
birth, in great measure, to the fantastic character of his performances.
But the fervid of his could not be so
accounted for. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as in
the words of his wild fantasias (for he not unfrequently accompanied
himself with rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that intense
mental collectedness and concentration to which I have previously alluded
as observable only in particular moments of the highest artificial
excitement. The words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily remembered.
I was, perhaps, the more forcibly impressed with it, as he gave it,
because, in the under or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I
perceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness on the part of
Usher of the tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses,
which were entitled “The Haunted Palace,” ran very nearly, if not
accurately, thus:
I.
In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
II.<br />
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,<br />
On its roof did float and flow;<br />
(This—all this—was in the olden<br />
Time long ago)<br />
And every gentle air that dallied,<br />
In that sweet day,<br />
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,<br />
A winged odor went away.
III.<br />
Wanderers in that happy valley<br />
Through two luminous windows saw<br />
Spirits moving musically<br />
To a lute’s well-tunéd law,<br />
Round about a throne, where sitting<br />
(Porphyrogene!)<br />
In state his glory well befitting,<br />
The ruler of the realm was seen.
IV.<br />
And all with pearl and ruby glowing<br />
Was the fair palace door,<br />
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,<br />
And sparkling evermore,<br />
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty<br />
Was but to sing,<br />
In voices of surpassing beauty,<br />
The wit and wisdom of their king.
V.<br />
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,<br />
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;<br />
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow<br />
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)<br />
And, round about his home, the glory<br />
That blushed and bloomed<br />
Is but a dim-remembered story<br />
Of the old time entombed.
VI.<br />
And travellers now within that valley,<br />
Through the red-litten windows, see<br />
Vast forms that move fantastically<br />
To a discordant melody;<br />
While, like a rapid ghastly river,<br />
Through the pale door,<br />
A hideous throng rush out forever,<br />
And laugh—but smile no more.<br />
I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad, led us into a
train of thought wherein there became manifest an opinion of Usher’s which
I mention not so much on account of its novelty, (for other men * have
thought thus,) as on account of the pertinacity with which he maintained
it. This opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience of all
vegetable things. But, in his disordered fancy, the idea had assumed a
more daring character, and trespassed, under certain conditions, upon the
kingdom of inorganization. I lack words to express the full extent, or the
earnest of his persuasion. The belief, however, was
connected (as I have previously hinted) with the gray stones of the home
of his forefathers. The conditions of the sentience had been here, he
imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of these stones—in
the order of their arrangement, as well as in that of the many
which overspread them, and of the decayed trees which stood around—above
all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and in its
reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence—the
evidence of the sentience—was to be seen, he said, (and I here
started as he spoke,) in the gradual yet certain condensation of an
atmosphere of their own about the waters and the walls. The result was
discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet importunate and terrible
influence which for centuries had moulded the destinies of his family, and
which made 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.
<br />
Our books—the books which, for years, had formed no small portion of
the mental existence of the invalid—were, as might be supposed, in
strict keeping with this character of phantasm. We pored together over
such works as the Ververt et Chartreuse of Gresset; the Belphegor of
Machiavelli; the Heaven and Hell of Swedenborg; the Subterranean Voyage of
Nicholas Klimm by Holberg; the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean
D’Indaginé, and of De la Chambre; the Journey into the Blue Distance of
Tieck; and the City of the Sun of Campanella. One favorite volume was a
small octavo edition of the , 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 .
<br />
I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of its
probable influence upon the hypochondriac, when, one evening, having
informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no more, he stated his
intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight, (previously to its
final interment,) in one of the numerous vaults within the main walls of
the building. The worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular
proceeding, was one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. The
brother had been led to his resolution (so he told me) by consideration of
the unusual character of the malady of the deceased, of certain obtrusive
and eager inquiries on the part of her medical men, and of the remote and
exposed situation of the burial-ground of the family. I will not deny that
when I called to mind the sinister countenance of the person whom I met
upon the staircase, on the day of my arrival at the house, I had no desire
to oppose what I regarded as at best but a harmless, and by no means an
unnatural, precaution.
<br />
At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the arrangements for
the temporary entombment. The body having been encoffined, we two alone
bore it to its rest. The vault in which we placed it (and which had been
so long unopened that our torches, half smothered in its oppressive
atmosphere, gave us little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp,
and entirely without means of admission for light; lying, at great depth,
immediately beneath that portion of the building in which was my own
sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in remote feudal times,
for the worst purposes of a donjon-keep, and, in later days, as a place of
deposit for powder, or some other highly combustible substance, as a
portion of its floor, and the whole interior of a long archway through
which we reached it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of
massive iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight
caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it moved upon its hinges.
<br />
Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this region of
horror, we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and
looked upon the face of the tenant. A striking similitude between the
brother and sister now first arrested my attention; and Usher, divining,
perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I learned
that the deceased and himself had been twins, and that sympathies of a
scarcely intelligible nature had always existed between them. Our glances,
however, rested not long upon the dead—for we could not regard her
unawed. The disease which had thus entombed the lady in the maturity of
youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical
character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and the face, and
that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in
death. We replaced and screwed down the lid, and, having secured the door
of iron, made our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy apartments
of the upper portion of the house.
<br />
And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable change
came over the features of the mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary
manner had vanished. His ordinary occupations were neglected or forgotten.
He roamed from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless
step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if possible, a more
ghastly hue—but the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone out.
The once occasional huskiness of his tone was heard no more; and a
tremulous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually characterized his
utterance. There were times, indeed, when I thought his unceasingly
agitated mind was laboring with some oppressive secret, to divulge which
he struggled for the necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to
resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld
him gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the profoundest
attention, as if listening to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder that
his condition terrified—that it infected me. I felt creeping upon
me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic
yet impressive superstitions.
<br />
It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the seventh
or eighth day after the placing of the lady Madeline within the donjon,
that I experienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep came not near my
couch—while the hours waned and waned away. I struggled to reason
off the nervousness which had dominion over me. I endeavored to believe
that much, if not all of what I felt, was due to the bewildering influence
of the gloomy furniture of the room—of the dark and tattered
draperies, which, tortured into motion by the breath of a rising tempest,
swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled uneasily about the
decorations of the bed. But my efforts were fruitless. An irrepressible
tremor gradually pervaded my frame; and, at length, there sat upon my very
heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp
and a struggle, I uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly
within the intense darkness of the chamber, harkened—I know not why,
except that an instinctive spirit prompted me—to certain low and
indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at long
intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense sentiment of
horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my clothes with haste
(for I felt that I should sleep no more during the night), and endeavored
to arouse myself from the pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by
pacing rapidly to and fro through the apartment.
<br />
I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an
adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently recognised it as
that of Usher. In an instant afterward he rapped, with a gentle touch, at
my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His countenance was, as usual,
cadaverously wan—but, moreover, there was a species of mad hilarity
in his eyes—an evidently restrained 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.
<br />
“And you have not seen it?” he said abruptly, after having stared about
him for some moments in silence—“you have not then seen it?—but,
stay! you shall.” Thus speaking, and having carefully shaded his lamp, he
hurried to one of the casements, and threw it freely open to the storm.
<br />
The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our feet. It
was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly
singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind had apparently
collected its force in our vicinity; for there were frequent and violent
alterations in the direction of the wind; and the exceeding density of the
clouds (which hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the house) did
not prevent our perceiving the life-like velocity with which they flew
careering from all points against each other, without passing away into
the distance. I say that even their exceeding density did not prevent our
perceiving this—yet we had no glimpse of the moon or stars—nor
was there any flashing forth of the lightning. But the under surfaces of
the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial objects
immediately around us, were glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly
luminous and distinctly visible gaseous exhalation which hung about and
enshrouded the mansion.
<br />
“You must not—you shall not behold this!” said I, shudderingly, to
Usher, as I led him, with a gentle violence, from the window to a seat.
“These appearances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical phenomena
not uncommon—or it may be that they have their ghastly origin in the
rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement;—the air is
chilling and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favorite
romances. I will read, and you shall listen;—and so we will pass
away this terrible night together.”
<br />
The antique volume which I had taken up was the “Mad Trist” of Sir
Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favorite of Usher’s more in sad
jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth and
unimaginative prolixity which could have had interest for the lofty and
spiritual ideality of my friend. It was, however, the only book
immediately at hand; and I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which
now agitated the hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history of
mental disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of
the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by the wild
overstrained air of vivacity with which he harkened, or apparently
harkened, to the words of the tale, I might well have congratulated myself
upon the success of my design.
<br />
I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethelred, the
hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for peaceable admission into the
dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance by force. Here,
it will be remembered, the words of the narrative run thus:
<br />
“And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was now
mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine which he had
drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the hermit, who, in sooth,
was of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, feeling the rain upon his
shoulders, and fearing the rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace
outright, and, with blows, made quickly room in the plankings of the door
for his gauntleted hand; and now pulling therewith sturdily, he so
cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and
hollow-sounding wood alarummed and reverberated throughout the forest.”
<br />
At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment, paused;
for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that my excited fancy
had deceived me)—it appeared to me that, from some very remote
portion of the mansion, there came, indistinctly, to my ears, what might
have been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled
and dull one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir
Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, beyond doubt, the
coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid the rattling
of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary commingled noises of the
still increasing storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which
should have interested or disturbed me. I continued the story:
<br />
“But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore
enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but, in
the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious demeanor, and of a
fiery tongue, which sate in guard before a palace of gold, with a floor of
silver; and upon the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this
legend enwritten—
<br />
Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;<br />
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win;
And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the dragon,
which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with a shriek so
horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that Ethelred had fain to close
his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise of it, the like whereof
was never before heard.”
Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild amazement—for
there could be no doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did actually
hear (although from what direction it proceeded I found it impossible to
say) a low and apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual
screaming or grating sound—the exact counterpart of what my fancy
had already conjured up for the dragon’s unnatural shriek as described by
the romancer.
Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second and most
extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which
wonder and extreme terror were predominant, I still retained sufficient
presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any observation, the sensitive
nervousness of my companion. I was by no means certain that he had noticed
the sounds in question; although, assuredly, a strange alteration had,
during the last few minutes, taken place in his demeanor. From a position
fronting my own, he had gradually brought round his chair, so as to sit
with his face to the door of the chamber; and thus I could but partially
perceive his features, although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were
murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his breast—yet I knew
that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I
caught a glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at
variance with this idea—for he rocked from side to side with a
gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all
this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded:
“And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of the
dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of
the enchantment which was upon it, removed the carcass from out of the way
before him, and approached valorously over the silver pavement of the
castle to where the shield was upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not
for his full coming, but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with
a mighty great and terrible ringing sound.”
No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than—as if a shield of
brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of silver—I
became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous, yet
apparently muffled reverberation. Completely unnerved, I leaped to my
feet; but the measured rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed
to the chair in which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and
throughout his whole countenance there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I
placed my hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong shudder over his
whole person; a sickly smile quivered about his lips; and I saw that he
spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my
presence. Bending closely over him, I at length drank in the hideous
import of his words.
“Not hear it?—yes, I hear it, and 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
not speak! Said I not that my
senses were acute? I tell you that I heard her first feeble
movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them—many, many days ago—yet
I dared not— And now—to-night—Ethelred—ha!
ha!—the breaking of the hermit’s door, and the death-cry of the
dragon, and the clangor of the shield!—say, rather, the rending of
her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her
struggles within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh whither shall I
fly? Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my
haste? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not distinguish
that heavy and horrible beating of her heart? Madman!”—here he
sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the
effort he were giving up his soul—“”
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 stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the lady
Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence
of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her emaciated frame. For a
moment she remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the threshold—then,
with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the person of her
brother, and in her violent and now final death-agonies, bore him to the
floor a corpse, and a victim to the terrors he had anticipated.
From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The storm was
still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway.
Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned to see
whence a gleam so unusual could have issued; for the vast house and its
shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, setting,
and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly through that once
barely-discernible fissure, of which I have before spoken as extending
from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base. While I
gazed, this fissure rapidly widened—there came a fierce breath of
the whirlwind—the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my
sight—my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder—there
was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters—and
the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the
fragments of the “.”
SILENCE—A FABLE
“The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags and caves .”
“Listen to me,” said the Demon as he placed his hand upon my head. “The
region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the
river Zaire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.
“The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow not
onwards to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red eye
of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles on
either side of the river’s oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their
everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from
among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh one unto
the other.
“But there is a boundary to their realm—the boundary of the dark,
horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the low
underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout the
heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither with
a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits, one by one, drop
everlasting dews. And at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing
in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the
gray clouds rush westwardly forever, until they roll, a cataract, over the
fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And
by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither quiet nor silence.
“It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having
fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the
rain fell upon my head—and the lilies sighed one unto the other in
the solemnity of their desolation.
“And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood by
the shore of the river, and was lighted by the light of the moon. And the
rock was gray, and ghastly, and tall,—and the rock was gray. Upon
its front were characters engraven in the stone; and I walked through the
morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might
read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decypher them. And I
was going back into the morass, when the moon shone with a fuller red, and
I turned and looked again upon the rock, and upon the characters, and
the characters were .
“And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the rock;
and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the actions
of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and was wrapped up
from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines
of his figure were indistinct—but his features were the features of
a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon,
and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow
was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and, in the few
furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness, and
disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.
“And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter
of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled
in the solitude;—but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock.
“And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon the
dreary river Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the pale
legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of the
water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I lay
close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man
trembled in the solitude;—but the night waned and he sat upon the
rock.
“Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in among
the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami which dwelt
among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the hippopotami heard my
call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared
loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close within my covert
and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;—but
the night waned and he sat upon the rock.
“Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
tempest gathered in the heaven where, before, there had been no wind. And
the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest—and the
rain beat upon the head of the man—and the floods of the river came
down—and the river was tormented into foam—and the
water-lilies shrieked within their beds—and the forest crumbled
before the wind—and the thunder rolled—and the lightning fell—and
the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within my covert and
observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;—but
the night waned and he sat upon the rock.
“Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder,
and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed, and were
still. And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven—and
the thunder died away—and the lightning did not flash—and the
clouds hung motionless—and the waters sunk to their level and
remained—and the trees ceased to rock—and the water-lilies
sighed no more—and the murmur was heard no longer from among them,
nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I
looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were changed; and
the characters were .
“And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand, and
stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice throughout
the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were
. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled afar
off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more.”
Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi—in the
iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious
histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty sea—and
of the Genii that over-ruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven.
There was much lore too in the sayings which were said by the Sybils; and
holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
Dodona—but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the Demon told me as
he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell back
within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh with the
Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx which
dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at the feet
of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH.
The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever
been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the
redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden
dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The
scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim,
were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of
his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the
disease, were the incidents of half an hour.
<br />
But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his
dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand
hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his
court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his
castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the
creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and
lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers,
having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.
They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden
impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply
provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to
contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime
it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the
appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori,
there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there
was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”
<br />
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.
<br />
It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the
rooms in which it was held. There were seven—an imperial suite. In
many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while
the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that
the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very
different; as might have been expected from the duke’s love of the
bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision
embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at
every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the
right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic
window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the
suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in
accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into
which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in
blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was
purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple.
The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was
furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the
sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black
velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls,
falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in
this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the
decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep blood color. Now in
no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the
profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended
from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or
candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed
the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a
brazier of fire that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so
glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy
and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the effect
of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the
blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a
look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of
the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.
<br />
It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall,
a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull,
heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the
face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of
the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly
musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an
hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause,
momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the
waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief
disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock
yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged
and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie
or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at
once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled
as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each
to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no
similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes (which
embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies),
there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same
disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.
<br />
But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The
tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and
effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold
and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some
who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was
necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.
<br />
He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven
chambers, upon occasion of this great fête; and it was his own guiding
taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were
grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm—much
of what has been since seen in “Hernani.” There were arabesque figures
with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as
the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton,
much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that
which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there
stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these—the dreams—writhed
in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the
orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the
ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a
moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The
dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die
away—they have endured but an instant—and a light,
half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the
music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than
ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the
rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of
the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is
waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored
panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose
foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony
a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears
who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.
<br />
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat
feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at
length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then
the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were
quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But
now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and
thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time,
into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus,
too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime
had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd
who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure
which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the
rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there
arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of
disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror, and
of disgust.
<br />
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be
supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In
truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the
figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of
even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of
the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the
utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters
of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply
to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor
propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head
to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the
visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened
corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the
cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the
mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type
of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad
brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet
horror.
<br />
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with
a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked
to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first
moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the
next, his brow reddened with rage.
<br />
“Who dares?” he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him—“who
dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him—that
we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!”
<br />
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero
as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and
clearly—for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had
become hushed at the waving of his hand.
<br />
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale
courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing
movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment
was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made
closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which
the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were
found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed
within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if
with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he
made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step
which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to
the purple—through the purple to the green—through the green
to the orange—through this again to the white—and even thence
to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was
then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame
of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers,
while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon
all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid
impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when
the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned
suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the
dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly
afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning
the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw
themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall
figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock,
gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and
corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted
by any tangible form.
<br />
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a
thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the
blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing
posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of
the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness
and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO.
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when
he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature
of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat.
I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled—but
the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of
risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is
unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally
unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who
has done the wrong.
<br />
It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato
cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his
face, and he did not perceive that my smile was at the thought
of his immolation.
<br />
He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in other regards
he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his
connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For
the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity—to
practise imposture upon the British and Austrian . In
painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack—but
in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not
differ from him materially: I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself,
and bought largely whenever I could.
<br />
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival
season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive
warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a
tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the
conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I
should never have done wringing his hand.
<br />
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.”
<br />
“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the
carnival!”
<br />
“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full
Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be
found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.”
<br />
“Amontillado!”
<br />
“I have my doubts.”
<br />
“Amontillado!”
<br />
“And I must satisfy them.”
<br />
“Amontillado!”
<br />
“As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical
turn, it is he. He will tell me—”
<br />
“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”
<br />
“And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.”
<br />
“Come, let us go.”
<br />
“Whither?”
<br />
“To your vaults.”
<br />
“My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you
have an engagement. Luchesi—”
<br />
“I have no engagement;—come.”
<br />
“My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I
perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are
encrusted with nitre.”
<br />
“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.”
<br />
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of
black silk, and drawing a closely about my person, I
suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
<br />
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.
<br />
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato,
bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the
vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be
cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and
stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
<br />
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as
he strode.
<br />
“The pipe,” said he.
<br />
“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white web-work which gleams
from these cavern walls.”
<br />
He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that
distilled the rheum of intoxication.
<br />
“Nitre?” he asked, at length.
<br />
“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?”
<br />
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh!
ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!”
<br />
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
<br />
“It is nothing,” he said, at last.
<br />
“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious.
You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was.
You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you
will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi—”
<br />
“Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I
shall not die of a cough.”
<br />
“True—true,” I replied; “and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming
you unnecessarily—but you should use all proper caution. A draught
of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”
<br />
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of
its fellows that lay upon the mould.
<br />
“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.
<br />
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me
familiarly, while his bells jingled.
<br />
“I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.”
<br />
“And I to your long life.”
<br />
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
<br />
“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”
<br />
“The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”
<br />
“I forget your arms.”
<br />
“A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent
rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.”
<br />
“And the motto?”
<br />
“.”
<br />
“Good!” he said.
<br />
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew
warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with
casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the
catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by
an arm above the elbow.
<br />
“The nitre!” I said: “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the
vaults. We are below the river’s bed. The drops of moisture trickle among
the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough—”
<br />
“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another draught of the
Medoc.”
<br />
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.
<br />
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement—a grotesque
one.
<br />
“You do not comprehend?” he said.
<br />
“Not I,” I replied.
<br />
“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”
<br />
“How?”
<br />
“You are not of the masons.”
<br />
“Yes, yes,” I said, “yes, yes.”
<br />
“You? Impossible! A mason?”
<br />
“A mason,” I replied.
<br />
“A sign,” he said.
<br />
“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my
.
<br />
“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to
the Amontillado.”
<br />
“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.
<br />
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.
<br />
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry
into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not
enable us to see.
<br />
“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi—”
<br />
“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily
forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had
reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by
the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him
to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each
other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short
chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it
was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded
to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
<br />
“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the
nitre. Indeed it is damp. Once more let me you
to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render
you all the little attentions in my power.”
<br />
“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his
astonishment.
<br />
“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”
<br />
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I
have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of
building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my
trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
<br />
I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that
the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The
earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of
the recess. It was the cry of a drunken man. There was then a
long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the
fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise
lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with
the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones.
When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished
without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall
was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding
the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure
within.
<br />
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat
of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief
moment I hesitated—I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to
grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured
me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt
satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who
clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them in volume and
in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.
<br />
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed
the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the
last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and
plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its
destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that
erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I
had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice
said—
<br />
“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!”
<br />
“The Amontillado!” I said.
<br />
“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.”
<br />
“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”
<br />
“”
<br />
“Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”
<br />
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I
called aloud—
<br />
“Fortunato!”
<br />
No answer. I called again—
<br />
“Fortunato!”
<br />
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let
it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells.
My heart grew sick—on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I
hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its
position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old
rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.
THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE
In the consideration of the faculties and impulses—of the prima
mobilia of the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make room for
a propensity which, although obviously existing as a radical, primitive,
irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the moralists
who have preceded them. In the pure arrogance of the reason, we have all
overlooked it. We have suffered its existence to escape our senses, solely
through want of belief—of faith;—whether it be faith in
Revelation, or faith in the Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurred to
us, simply because of its supererogation. We saw no need of the impulse—for
the propensity. We could not perceive its necessity. We could not
understand, that is to say, we could not have understood, had the notion
of this primum mobile ever obtruded itself;—we could not have
understood in what manner it might be made to further the objects of
humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be denied that phrenology
and, in great measure, all metaphysicianism have been concocted a priori.
The intellectual or logical man, rather than the understanding or
observant man, set himself to imagine designs—to dictate purposes to
God. Having thus fathomed, to his satisfaction, the intentions of Jehovah,
out of these intentions he built his innumerable systems of mind. In the
matter of phrenology, for example, we first determined, naturally enough,
that it was the design of the Deity that man should eat. We then assigned
to man an organ of alimentiveness, and this organ is the scourge with
which the Deity compels man, will-I nill-I, into eating. Secondly, having
settled it to be God’s will that man should continue his species, we
discovered an organ of amativeness, forthwith. And so with combativeness,
with ideality, with causality, with constructiveness,—so, in short,
with every organ, whether representing a propensity, a moral sentiment, or
a faculty of the pure intellect. And in these arrangements of the
Principia of human action, the Spurzheimites, whether right or wrong, in
part, or upon the whole, have but followed, in principle, the footsteps of
their predecessors; deducing and establishing every thing from the
preconceived destiny of man, and upon the ground of the objects of his
Creator.
<br />
It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify (if
classify we must) upon the basis of what man usually or occasionally did,
and was always occasionally doing, rather than upon the basis of what we
took it for granted the Deity intended him to do. If we cannot comprehend
God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that
call the works into being? If we cannot understand him in his objective
creatures, how then in his substantive moods and phases of creation?
<br />
Induction, , would have brought phrenology to admit, as an
innate and primitive principle of human action, a paradoxical something,
which we may call , for want of a more characteristic term. In
the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a without motive, a motive not
. Through its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or,
if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far
modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we act, for
the reason that we should . 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 which impels us, and
alone impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming tendency to
do wrong for the wrong’s sake, admit of analysis, or resolution into
ulterior elements. It is a radical, a primitive impulse—elementary. It
will be said, I am aware, that when we persist in acts because we feel we
should not persist in them, our conduct is but a modification of that
which ordinarily springs from the combativeness of phrenology. But a
glance will show the fallacy of this idea. The phrenological combativeness
has for its essence, the necessity of self-defence. It is our safeguard
against injury. Its principle regards our well-being; and thus the desire
to be well is excited simultaneously with its development. It follows,
that the desire to be well must be excited simultaneously with any
principle which shall be merely a modification of combativeness, but in
the case of that something which I term perverseness, the desire to be
well is not only not aroused, but a strongly antagonistical sentiment
exists.
<br />
An appeal to one’s own heart is, after all, the best reply to the
sophistry just noticed. No one who trustingly consults and thoroughly
questions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the entire radicalness of
the propensity in question. It is not more incomprehensible than
distinctive. There lives no man who at some period has not been tormented,
for example, by an earnest desire to tantalize a listener by
circumlocution. The speaker is aware that he displeases; he has every
intention to please, he is usually curt, precise, and clear; the most
laconic and luminous language is struggling for utterance upon his tongue;
it is only with difficulty that he restrains himself from giving it flow;
he dreads and deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses; yet, the
thought strikes him, that by certain involutions and parentheses this
anger may be engendered. That single thought is enough. The impulse
increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable
longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the
speaker, and in defiance of all consequences) is indulged.
<br />
We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it
will be ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life
calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and action. We glow, we are
consumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of
whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be
undertaken to-day, and yet we put it off until to-morrow; and why? There
is no answer, except that we feel perverse, using the word with no
comprehension of the principle. To-morrow arrives, and with it a more
impatient anxiety to do our duty, but with this very increase of anxiety
arrives, also, a nameless, a positively fearful, because unfathomable,
craving for delay. This craving gathers strength as the moments fly. The
last hour for action is at hand. We tremble with the violence of the
conflict within us,—of the definite with the indefinite—of the
substance with the shadow. But, if the contest have proceeded thus far, it
is the shadow which prevails,—we struggle in vain. The clock
strikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is the
chanticleer-note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It flies—it
disappears—we are free. The old energy returns. We will labor now.
Alas, it is too late!
<br />
We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we
grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger.
Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness and
horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling. By gradations, still
more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the vapor from the
bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights. But out of
this our cloud upon the precipice’s edge, there grows into palpability, a
shape, far more terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and yet
it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one which chills the very
marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the delight of its horror. It
is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping
precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall—this
rushing annihilation—for the very reason that it involves that one
most ghastly and loathsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of
death and suffering which have ever presented themselves to our
imagination—for this very cause do we now the most vividly desire
it. And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore
do we the most impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so
demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a
precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge, for a moment, in any
attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us
to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no
friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate
ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed.
<br />
Examine these similar actions as we will, we shall find them resulting
solely from the spirit of the Perverse. We perpetrate them because we feel
that we should not. Beyond or behind this there is no intelligible
principle; and we might, indeed, deem this perverseness a direct
instigation of the Arch-Fiend, were it not occasionally known to operate
in furtherance of good.
<br />
I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your
question—that I may explain to you why I am here—that I may
assign to you something that shall have at least the faint aspect of a
cause for my wearing these fetters, and for my tenanting this cell of the
condemned. Had I not been thus prolix, you might either have
misunderstood me altogether, or, with the rabble, have fancied me mad. As
it is, you will easily perceive that I am one of the many uncounted
victims of the Imp of the Perverse.
<br />
It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a more
thorough deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered upon the means of
the murder. I rejected a thousand schemes, because their accomplishment
involved a of detection. At length, in reading some French memoirs,
I found an account of a nearly fatal illness that occurred to Madame
Pilau, through the agency of a candle accidentally poisoned. The idea
struck my fancy at once. I knew my victim’s habit of reading in bed. I
knew, too, that his apartment was narrow and ill-ventilated. But I need
not vex you with impertinent details. I need not describe the easy
artifices by which I substituted, in his bed-room candle-stand, a
wax-light of my own making for the one which I there found. The next
morning he was discovered dead in his bed, and the coroner’s verdict was—“Death
by the visitation of God.”
<br />
Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea of
detection never once entered my brain. Of the remains of the fatal taper I
had myself carefully disposed. I had left no shadow of a clew by which it
would be possible to convict, or even to suspect me of the crime. It is
inconceivable how rich a sentiment of satisfaction arose in my bosom as I
reflected upon my absolute security. For a very long period of time I was
accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It afforded me more real delight
than all the mere worldly advantages accruing from my sin. But there
arrived at length an epoch, from which the pleasurable feeling grew, by
scarcely perceptible gradations, into a haunting and harassing thought. It
harassed because it haunted. I could scarcely get rid of it for an
instant. It is quite a common thing to be thus annoyed with the ringing in
our ears, or rather in our memories, of the burthen of some ordinary song,
or some unimpressive snatches from an opera. Nor will we be the less
tormented if the song in itself be good, or the opera air meritorious. In
this manner, at last, I would perpetually catch myself pondering upon my
security, and repeating, in a low undertone, the phrase, “I am safe.”
<br />
One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in the act
of murmuring, half aloud, these customary syllables. In a fit of
petulance, I remodelled them thus: “I am safe—I am safe—yes—if
I be not fool enough to make open confession!”
<br />
No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to my
heart. I had had some experience in these fits of perversity (whose
nature I have been at some trouble to explain), and I remembered well that
in no instance I had successfully resisted their attacks. And now my own
casual self-suggestion that I might possibly be fool enough to confess the
murder of which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of
him whom I had murdered—and beckoned me on to death.
<br />
At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul. I
walked vigorously—faster—still faster—at length I ran. I
felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every succeeding wave of thought
overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too well understood
that to think, in my situation, was to be lost. I still quickened my pace.
I bounded like a madman through the crowded thoroughfares. At length, the
populace took the alarm, and pursued me. I felt then the consummation of
my fate. Could I have torn out my tongue, I would have done it, but a
rough voice resounded in my ears—a rougher grasp seized me by the
shoulder. I turned—I gasped for breath. For a moment I experienced
all the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and giddy; and
then some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad palm upon
the back. The long imprisoned secret burst forth from my soul.
<br />
They say that I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with marked
emphasis and passionate hurry, as if in dread of interruption before
concluding the brief but pregnant sentences that consigned me to the
hangman and to hell.
<br />
Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicial conviction,
I fell prostrate in a swoon.
<br />
But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am
To-morrow I shall be fetterless!—
THE ISLAND OF THE FAY
Nullus enim locus sine genio est.—.
“La musique,” says Marmontel, in those “Contes Moraux” (1) which in all
our translations, we have insisted upon calling “Moral Tales,” as if in
mockery of their spirit—“la musique est le seul des talents qui
jouissent de lui-même; tous les autres veulent des temoins.” He here
confounds the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for
creating them. No more than any other talent, is that for music
susceptible of complete enjoyment, where there is no second party to
appreciate its exercise. And it is only in common with other talents that
it produces effects which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which
the raconteur has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in
its expression to his national love of point, is, doubtless, the very
tenable one that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly
estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition, in this form,
will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake, and
for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach
of fallen mortality and perhaps only one—which owes even more than
does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness
experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man who
would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude behold
that glory. To me, at least, the presence—not of human life only,
but of life in any other form than that of the green things which grow
upon the soil and are voiceless—is a stain upon the landscape—is
at war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark
valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the
forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains
that look down upon all,—I love to regard these as themselves but
the colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole—a whole
whose form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and most inclusive of
all; whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the
moon, whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity, whose
thought is that of a God; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies
are lost in immensity, whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our own
cognizance of the animalculae which infest the brain—a being which
we, in consequence, regard as purely inanimate and material much in the
same manner as these animalculae must thus regard us.
Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every hand—notwithstanding
the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood—that space, and
therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in the eyes of the
Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those best adapted for
the evolution, without collision, of the greatest possible number of
bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such as, within a given
surface, to include the greatest possible amount of matter;—while
the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate a denser
population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces otherwise
arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object with God,
that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of matter to
fill it. And since we see clearly that the endowment of matter with
vitality is a principle—indeed, as far as our judgments extend, the
leading principle in the operations of Deity,—it is scarcely logical
to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we daily trace
it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find cycle within
cycle without end,—yet all revolving around one far-distant centre
which is the God-head, may we not analogically suppose in the same manner,
life within life, the less within the greater, and all within the Spirit
Divine? In short, we are madly erring, through self-esteem, in believing
man, in either his temporal or future destinies, to be of more moment in
the universe than that vast “clod of the valley” which he tills and
contemns, and to which he denies a soul for no more profound reason than
that he does not behold it in operation. (2)
These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a tinge
of what the everyday world would not fail to term fantastic. My wanderings
amid such scenes have been many, and far-searching, and often solitary;
and the interest with which I have strayed through many a dim, deep
valley, or gazed into the reflected Heaven of many a bright lake, has been
an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have strayed and gazed
alone. What flippant Frenchman was it who said in allusion to the
well-known work of Zimmerman, that, “la solitude est une belle chose; mais
il faut quelqu’un pour vous dire que la solitude est une belle chose?” The
epigram cannot be gainsayed; but the necessity is a thing that does not
exist.
It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarn
writhing or sleeping within all—that I chanced upon a certain
rivulet and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
myself upon the turf, beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only
should I look upon it—such was the character of phantasm which it
wore.
On all sides—save to the west, where the sun was about sinking—arose
the verdant walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply in
its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no exit
from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of the trees
to the east—while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to me as I
lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly and
continuously into the valley, a rich golden and crimson waterfall from the
sunset fountains of the sky.
About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one small
circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the stream.
So blended bank and shadow there
That each seemed pendulous in air—
so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to say
at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal dominion
began.
My position enabled me to include in a single view both the eastern and
western extremities of the islet; and I observed a singularly-marked
difference in their aspects. The latter was all one radiant harem of
garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eyes of the slant
sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was short, springy,
sweet-scented, and asphodel-interspersed. The trees were lithe, mirthful,
erect—bright, slender, and graceful,—of Eastern figure and
foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a deep
sense of life and joy about all; and although no airs blew from out the
heavens, yet every thing had motion through the gentle sweepings to and
fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for tulips
with wings. (*4)
The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade. A
sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things. The
trees were dark in color, and mournful in form and attitude, wreathing
themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes that conveyed ideas of
mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the deep tint of the
cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly, and hither and
thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and
not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were not; although over
and all about them the rue and the rosemary clambered. The shade of the
trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself therein,
impregnating the depths of the element with darkness. I fancied that each
shadow, as the sun descended lower and lower, separated itself sullenly
from the trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed by the stream;
while other shadows issued momently from the trees, taking the place of
their predecessors thus entombed.
This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it, and I
lost myself forthwith in revery. “If ever island were enchanted,” said I
to myself, “this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?—or
do they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In
dying, do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God,
little by little, their existence, as these trees render up shadow after
shadow, exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree
is to the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it
preys upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?”
As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to rest,
and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing upon
their bosom large, dazzling, white flakes of the bark of the
sycamore—flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased—while I
thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays
about whom I had been pondering made its way slowly into the darkness from
out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in a
singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an oar.
While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude seemed
indicative of joy—but sorrow deformed it as she passed within the
shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
re-entered the region of light. “The revolution which has just been made
by the Fay,” continued I, musingly, “is the cycle of the brief year of her
life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She is a
year nearer unto Death; for I did not fail to see that, as she came into
the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the dark
water, making its blackness more black.”
And again the boat appeared and the Fay; but about the attitude of the
latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy. She
floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened
momently) and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the
circuit of the island, (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at
each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person, while
it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each passage
into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became whelmed in
a shadow more black. But at length when the sun had utterly departed, the
Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went disconsolately with her
boat into the region of the ebony flood—and that she issued thence at all
I cannot say, for darkness fell over all things and I beheld her magical
figure no more.
THE ASSIGNATION
Stay for me there! I will not fail.<br />
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
(.)
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 —squandering away a life
of magnificent meditation in that city of dim visions, thine own
Venice—which is a star-beloved Elysium of the sea, and the wide
windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a deep and bitter
meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes! I repeat it—as
thou . There are surely other worlds than
this—other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude—other
speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call
thy conduct into question? who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or
denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but the
overflowings of thine everlasting energies?
It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the , that I met for the third or fourth time the person of whom I
speak. It is with a confused recollection that I bring to mind the
circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember—ah! how should I
forget?—the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of woman,
and the Genius of Romance that stalked up and down the narrow canal.
It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazza had sounded
the fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of the Campanile lay
silent and deserted, and the lights in the old Ducal Palace were dying
fast away. I was returning home from the Piazetta, by way of the Grand
Canal. But as my gondola arrived opposite the mouth of the canal San
Marco, a female voice from its recesses broke suddenly upon the night, in
one wild, hysterical, and long continued shriek. Startled at the sound, I
sprang upon my feet: while the gondolier, letting slip his single oar,
lost it in the pitchy darkness beyond a chance of recovery, and we were
consequently left to the guidance of the current which here sets from the
greater into the smaller channel. Like some huge and sable-feathered
condor, we were slowly drifting down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a
thousand flambeaux flashing from the windows, and down the staircases of
the Ducal Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom into a livid and
preternatural day.
A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had fallen from an
upper window of the lofty structure into the deep and dim canal. The quiet
waters had closed placidly over their victim; and, although my own gondola
was the only one in sight, many a stout swimmer, already in the stream,
was seeking in vain upon the surface, the treasure which was to be found,
alas! only within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble flagstones at the
entrance of the palace, and a few steps above the water, stood a figure
which none who then saw can have ever since forgotten. It was the Marchesa
Aphrodite—the adoration of all Venice—the gayest of the gay—the
most lovely where all were beautiful—but still the young wife of the
old and intriguing Mentoni, and the mother of that fair child, her first
and only one, who now, deep beneath the murky water, was thinking in
bitterness of heart upon her sweet caresses, and exhausting its little
life in struggles to call upon her name.
She stood alone. Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the black
mirror of marble beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more than half loosened
for the night from its ball-room array, clustered, amid a shower of
diamonds, round and round her classical head, in curls like those of the
young hyacinth. A snowy-white and gauze-like drapery seemed to be nearly
the sole covering to her delicate form; but the mid-summer and midnight
air was hot, sullen, and still, and no motion in the statue-like form
itself, stirred even the folds of that raiment of very vapor which hung
around it as the heavy marble hangs around the Niobe. Yet—strange to
say!—her large lustrous eyes were not turned downwards upon that
grave wherein her brightest hope lay buried—but riveted in a widely
different direction! The prison of the Old Republic is, I think, the
stateliest building in all Venice—but how could that lady gaze so
fixedly upon it, when beneath her lay stifling her only child? Yon dark,
gloomy niche, too, yawns right opposite her chamber window—what,
then, there be in its shadows—in its architecture—in
its ivy-wreathed and solemn cornices—that the Marchesa di Mentoni
had not wondered at a thousand times before? Nonsense!—Who does not
remember that, at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror,
multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable far-off
places, the woe which is close at hand?
Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the water-gate,
stood, in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of Mentoni himself. He was
occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, and seemed to
the very death, as at intervals he gave directions for the recovery of his
child. Stupefied and aghast, I had myself no power to move from the
upright position I had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and must
have presented to the eyes of the agitated group a spectral and ominous
appearance, as with pale countenance and rigid limbs, I floated down among
them in that funereal gondola.
All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the search were
relaxing their exertions, and yielding to a gloomy sorrow. There seemed
but little hope for the child; (how much less than for the mother!) but
now, from the interior of that dark niche which has been already mentioned
as forming a part of the Old Republican prison, and as fronting the
lattice of the Marchesa, a figure muffled in a cloak, stepped out within
reach of the light, and, pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy
descent, plunged headlong into the canal. As, in an instant afterwards, he
stood with the still living and breathing child within his grasp, upon the
marble flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak, heavy with the
drenching water, became unfastened, and, falling in folds about his feet,
discovered to the wonder-stricken spectators the graceful person of a very
young man, with the sound of whose name the greater part of Europe was
then ringing.
No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now receive her
child—she will press it to her heart—she will cling to its
little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas! arms
have taken it from the stranger— arms have taken it
away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the Marchesa!
Her lip—her beautiful lip trembles; tears are gathering in her eyes—those
eyes which, like Pliny’s acanthus, are “soft and almost liquid.” Yes!
tears are gathering in those eyes—and see! the entire woman thrills
throughout the soul, and the statue has started into life! The pallor of
the marble countenance, the swelling of the marble bosom, the very purity
of the marble feet, we behold suddenly flushed over with a tide of
ungovernable crimson; and a slight shudder quivers about her delicate
frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich silver lilies in the
grass.
Why that lady blush! To this demand there is no answer—except
that, having left, in the eager haste and terror of a mother’s heart, the
privacy of her own , she has neglected to enthral her tiny
feet in their slippers, and utterly forgotten to throw over her Venetian
shoulders that drapery which is their due. What other possible reason
could there have been for her so blushing?—for the glance of those
wild appealing eyes?—for the unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom?—for
the convulsive pressure of that trembling hand?—that hand which
fell, as Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally, upon the hand of
the stranger. What reason could there have been for the low—the
singularly low tone of those unmeaning words which the lady uttered
hurriedly in bidding him adieu? “Thou hast conquered,” she said, or the
murmurs of the water deceived me; “thou hast conquered—one hour
after sunrise—we shall meet—so let it be!”
The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away within the palace, and
the stranger, whom I now recognized, stood alone upon the flags. He shook
with inconceivable agitation, and his eye glanced around in search of a
gondola. I could not do less than offer him the service of my own; and he
accepted the civility. Having obtained an oar at the water-gate, we
proceeded together to his residence, while he rapidly recovered his
self-possession, and spoke of our former slight acquaintance in terms of
great apparent cordiality.
<br />
There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being minute. The
person of the stranger—let me call him by this title, who to all the
world was still a stranger—the person of the stranger is one of
these subjects. In height he might have been below rather than above the
medium size: although there were moments of intense passion when his frame
actually and belied the assertion. The light, almost
slender symmetry of his figure, promised more of that ready activity which
he evinced at the Bridge of Sighs, than of that Herculean strength which
he has been known to wield without an effort, upon occasions of more
dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity—singular,
wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to intense
and brilliant jet—and a profusion of curling, black hair, from which
a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed forth at intervals all light and
ivory—his were features than which I have seen none more classically
regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his
countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which all men have seen at
some period of their lives, and have never afterwards seen again. It had
no peculiar, it had no settled predominant expression to be fastened
upon the memory; a countenance seen and instantly forgotten, but
forgotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of recalling it to mind.
Not that the spirit of each rapid passion failed, at any time, to throw
its own distinct image upon the mirror of that face—but that the
mirror, mirror-like, retained no vestige of the passion, when the passion
had departed.
<br />
Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me, in what I
thought an urgent manner, to call upon him 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.
<br />
I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of his possessions
in terms which I had even ventured to call terms of ridiculous
exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not bring myself to believe
that the wealth of any subject in Europe could have supplied the princely
magnificence which burned and blazed around.
<br />
Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still brilliantly
lighted up. I judge from this circumstance, as well as from an air of
exhaustion in the countenance of my friend, that he had not retired to bed
during the whole of the preceding night. In the architecture and
embellishments of the chamber, the evident design had been to dazzle and
astound. Little attention had been paid to the of what is
technically called , or to the proprieties of nationality.
The eye wandered from object to object, and rested upon none—neither
the of the Greek painters, nor the sculptures of the
best Italian days, nor the huge carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich
draperies in every part of the room trembled to the vibration of low,
melancholy music, whose origin was not to be discovered. The senses were
oppressed by mingled and conflicting perfumes, reeking up from strange
convolute censers, together with multitudinous flaring and flickering
tongues of emerald and violet fire. The rays of the newly risen sun poured
in upon the whole, through windows, formed each of a single pane of
crimson-tinted glass. Glancing to and fro, in a thousand reflections, from
curtains which rolled from their cornices like cataracts of molten silver,
the beams of natural glory mingled at length fitfully with the artificial
light, and lay weltering in subdued masses upon a carpet of rich,
liquid-looking cloth of Chili gold.
<br />
“Ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!”—laughed the proprietor,
motioning me to a seat as I entered the room, and throwing himself back
at full-length upon an ottoman. “I see,” said he, perceiving
that I could not immediately reconcile myself to the 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 astonished. Besides, some things
are so completely ludicrous, that a man 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 of Ravisius
Textor, there is a long list of characters who came to the same
magnificent end. Do you know, however,” continued he musingly,
“that at Sparta (which is now Palæochori,) at Sparta, I say, to the
west of the citadel, among a chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is a kind
of , upon which are still legible the letters
ΛΑΞΜ. They are undoubtedly part of
ΓΕΛΑΞΜΑ. Now, at Sparta were a
thousand temples and shrines to a thousand different divinities. How
exceedingly strange that the altar of Laughter should have survived all
the others! But in the present instance,” he resumed, with a
singular alteration of voice and manner, “I have no right to be
merry at your expense. You might well have been amazed. Europe cannot
produce anything so fine as this, my little regal cabinet. My other
apartments are by no means of the same order—mere of
fashionable insipidity. This is better than fashion—is it not? Yet
this has but to be seen to become the rage—that is, with those who
could afford it at the cost of their entire patrimony. I have guarded,
however, against any such profanation. With one exception, you are the
only human being besides myself and my , who has been
admitted within the mysteries of these imperial precincts, since they
have been bedizened as you see!”
<br />
I bowed in acknowledgment—for the overpowering sense of splendor and
perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity of his
address and manner, prevented me from expressing, in words, my
appreciation of what I might have construed into a compliment.
<br />
“Here,” he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered around
the apartment, “here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue, and from
Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen, as you see, with little
deference to the opinions of Virtu. They are all, however, fitting
tapestry for a chamber such as this. Here, too, are some
of the unknown great; and here, unfinished designs by men, celebrated in
their day, whose very names the perspicacity of the academies has left to
silence and to me. What think you,” said he, turning abruptly as he spoke—“what
think you of this Madonna della Pieta?”
<br />
“It is Guido’s own!” I said, with all the enthusiasm of my nature, for I
had been poring intently over its surpassing loveliness. “It is Guido’s
own!—how you have obtained it?—she is undoubtedly
in painting what the Venus is in sculpture.”
<br />
“Ha!” said he thoughtfully, “the Venus—the beautiful Venus?—the
Venus of the Medici?—she of the diminutive head and the gilded hair?
Part of the left arm (here his voice dropped so as to be heard with
difficulty,) and all the right, are restorations; and in the coquetry of
that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence of all affectation. Give
the Canova! The Apollo, too, is a copy—there can be no doubt of it—blind
fool that I am, who cannot behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo! I
cannot help—pity me!—I cannot help preferring the Antinous.
Was it not Socrates who said that the statuary found his statue in the
block of marble? Then Michael Angelo was by no means original in his
couplet—
<br />
‘Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto<br />
Che un marmo solo in se non circunscriva.’”
It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the true
gentleman, we are always aware of a difference from the bearing of the
vulgar, without being at once precisely able to determine in what such
difference consists. Allowing the remark to have applied in its full force
to the outward demeanor of my acquaintance, I felt it, on that eventful
morning, still more fully applicable to his moral temperament and
character. Nor can I better define that peculiarity of spirit which seemed
to place him so essentially apart from all other human beings, than by
calling it a of intense and continual thought, pervading even
his most trivial actions—intruding upon his moments of dalliance—and
interweaving itself with his very flashes of merriment—like adders
which writhe from out the eyes of the grinning masks in the cornices
around the temples of Persepolis.
I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the mingled tone
of levity and solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon matters of
little importance, a certain air of trepidation—a degree of nervous
in action and in speech—an unquiet excitability of
manner which appeared to me at all times unaccountable, and upon some
occasions even filled me with alarm. Frequently, too, pausing in the
middle of a sentence whose commencement he had apparently forgotten, he
seemed to be listening in the deepest attention, as if either in momentary
expectation of a visitor, or to sounds which must have had existence in
his imagination alone.
It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent abstraction,
that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholar Politian’s beautiful
tragedy “The Orfeo,” (the first native Italian tragedy,) which lay near me
upon an ottoman, I discovered a passage underlined in pencil. It was a
passage towards the end of the third act—a passage of the most
heart-stirring excitement—a passage which, although tainted with
impurity, no man shall read without a thrill of novel emotion—no
woman without a sigh. The whole page was blotted with fresh tears; and,
upon the opposite interleaf, were the following English lines, written in
a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my acquaintance,
that I had some difficulty in recognising it as his own:—
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers;
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“Onward!”—but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies,
Mute—motionless—aghast!
For alas! alas! with me
The light of life is o’er.
“No more—no more—no more,”
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore,)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
Now all my hours are trances;
And all my nightly dreams
Are where the dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams,
In what ethereal dances,
By what Italian streams.
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o’er the billow,
From Love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow!—
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow!
That these lines were written in English—a language with which I had
not believed their author acquainted—afforded me little matter for
surprise. I was too well aware of the extent of his acquirements, and of
the singular pleasure he took in concealing them from observation, to be
astonished at any similar discovery; but the place of date, I must
confess, occasioned me no little amazement. It had been originally written
, and afterwards carefully overscored—not, however, so
effectually as to conceal the word from a scrutinizing eye. I say, this
occasioned me no little amazement; for I well remember that, in a former
conversation with a friend, I particularly inquired if he had at any time
met in London the Marchesa di Mentoni, (who for some years previous to her
marriage had resided in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not,
gave me to understand that he had never visited the metropolis of Great
Britain. I might as well here mention, that I have more than once heard,
(without, of course, giving credit to a report involving so many
improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak, was not only by birth,
but in education, an .
“There is one painting,” said he, without being aware of my notice
of the tragedy—“there is still one painting which you have not
seen.” And throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full-length portrait
of the Marchesa Aphrodite.
Human art could have done no more in the delineation of her superhuman beauty.
The same ethereal figure which stood before me the preceding night upon the
steps of the Ducal Palace, stood before me once again. But in the expression of
the countenance, which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked
(incomprehensible anomaly!) that fitful stain of melancholy which will ever be
found inseparable from the perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay
folded over her bosom. With her left she pointed downward to a curiously
fashioned vase. One small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely touched the earth;
and, scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which seemed to encircle
and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair of the most delicately imagined
wings. My glance fell from the painting to the figure of my friend, and the
vigorous words of Chapman’s , quivered
instinctively upon my lips:
“He is up
There like a Roman statue! He will stand
Till Death hath made him marble!”
“Come,” he said at length, turning towards a table of richly enamelled and
massive silver, upon which were a few goblets fantastically stained,
together with two large Etruscan vases, fashioned in the same
extraordinary model as that in the foreground of the portrait, and filled
with what I supposed to be Johannisberger. “Come,” he said, abruptly, “let
us drink! It is early—but let us drink. It is early,”
he continued, musingly, as a cherub with a heavy golden hammer made the
apartment ring with the first hour after sunrise: “It is
early—but what matters it? let us drink! Let us pour out an offering
to yon solemn sun which these gaudy lamps and censers are so eager to
subdue!” And, having made me pledge him in a bumper, he swallowed in rapid
succession several goblets of the wine.
“To dream,” he continued, resuming the tone of his desultory conversation,
as he held up to the rich light of a censer one of the magnificent vases—“to
dream has been the business of my life. I have therefore framed for
myself, as you see, a bower of dreams. In the heart of Venice could I have
erected a better? You behold around you, it is true, a medley of
architectural embellishments. The chastity of Ionia is offended by
antediluvian devices, and the sphynxes of Egypt are outstretched upon
carpets of gold. Yet the effect is incongruous to the timid alone.
Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the bugbears which
terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent. Once I was
myself a decorist; but that sublimation of folly has palled upon my soul.
All this is now the fitter for my purpose. Like these arabesque censers,
my spirit is writhing in fire, and the delirium of this scene is
fashioning me for the wilder visions of that land of real dreams whither I
am now rapidly departing.” He here paused abruptly, bent his head to his
bosom, and seemed to listen to a sound which I could not hear. At length,
erecting his frame, he looked upwards, and ejaculated the lines of the
Bishop of Chichester:
In the next instant, confessing the power of the wine, he threw himself at
full-length upon an ottoman.
A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock at the
door rapidly succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a second
disturbance, when a page of Mentoni’s household burst into the room, and
faltered out, in a voice choking with emotion, the incoherent words, “My
mistress!—my mistress!—Poisoned!—poisoned! Oh, beautiful—oh,
beautiful Aphrodite!”
Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse the sleeper to
a sense of the startling intelligence. But his limbs were rigid—his
lips were livid—his lately beaming eyes were riveted in .
I staggered back towards the table—my hand fell upon a cracked and
blackened goblet—and a consciousness of the entire and terrible
truth flashed suddenly over my soul.
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM
Impia tortorum longos hic turba furores<br />
Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.<br />
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,<br />
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.
[.]
I was sick—sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at
length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were
leaving me. The sentence—the dread sentence of death—was the
last of distinct accentuation which reached my ears. After that, the sound
of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum.
It conveyed to my soul the idea of —perhaps from its
association in fancy with the burr of a mill wheel. This only for a brief
period, for presently I heard no more. Yet, for a while, I saw—but with
how terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the black-robed judges.
They appeared to me white—whiter than the sheet upon which I trace
these words—and thin even to grotesqueness; thin with the intensity
of their expression of firmness—of immoveable resolution—of
stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the decrees of what to me was
Fate, were still issuing from those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly
locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered
because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious
horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies
which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my vision fell upon
the seven tall candles upon the table. At first they wore the aspect of
charity, and seemed white and slender angels who would save me; but then,
all at once, there came a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt
every fibre in my frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic
battery, while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of
flame, and I saw that from them there would be no help. And then there
stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet
rest there must be in the grave. The thought came gently and stealthily,
and it seemed long before it attained full appreciation; but just as my
spirit came at length properly to feel and entertain it, the figures of
the judges vanished, as if magically, from before me; the tall candles
sank into nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the blackness of
darkness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a mad rushing
descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and stillness, night were
the universe.
I had swooned; but still will not say that all of consciousness was lost.
What of it there remained I will not attempt to define, or even to
describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest slumber—no! In
delirium—no! In a swoon—no! In death—no! even in the
grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from
the most profound of slumbers, we break the gossamer web of some dream.
Yet in a second afterward, (so frail may that web have been) we remember
not that we have dreamed. In the return to life from the swoon there are
two stages; first, that of the sense of mental or spiritual; secondly,
that of the sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upon
reaching the second stage, we could recall the impressions of the first,
we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of the gulf beyond.
And that gulf is—what? How at least shall we distinguish its shadows
from those of the tomb? But if the impressions of what I have termed the
first stage are not, at will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they
not come unbidden, while we marvel whence they come? He who has never
swooned, is not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar faces in
coals that glow; is not he who beholds floating in mid-air the sad visions
that the many may not view; is not he who ponders over the perfume of some
novel flower; is not he whose brain grows bewildered with the meaning
of some musical cadence which has never before arrested his attention.
Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest struggles
to regather some token of the state of seeming nothingness into which my
soul had lapsed, there have been moments when I have dreamed of success;
there have been brief, very brief periods when I have conjured up
remembrances which the lucid reason of a later epoch assures me could have
had reference only to that condition of seeming unconsciousness. These
shadows of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore
me in silence down—down—still down—till a hideous
dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the
descent. They tell also of a vague horror at my heart, on account of that
heart’s unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden motionlessness
throughout all things; as if those who bore me (a ghastly train!) had
outrun, in their descent, the limits of the limitless, and paused from the
wearisomeness of their toil. After this I call to mind flatness and
dampness; and then all is madness—the madness of a memory which
busies itself among forbidden things.
Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound—the
tumultuous motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its beating.
Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again sound, and motion, and
touch—a tingling sensation pervading my frame. Then the mere
consciousness of existence, without thought—a condition which lasted
long. Then, very suddenly, thought, and shuddering terror, and earnest
endeavor to comprehend my true state. Then a strong desire to lapse into
insensibility. Then a rushing revival of soul and a successful effort to
move. And now a full memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable
draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then entire
forgetfulness of all that followed; of all that a later day and much
earnestness of endeavor have enabled me vaguely to recall.
So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back, unbound.
I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon something damp and hard.
There I suffered it to remain for many minutes, while I strove to imagine
where and what I could be. I longed, yet dared not to employ my vision. I
dreaded the first glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to
look upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be
nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I quickly
unclosed my eyes. My worst thoughts, then, were confirmed. The blackness
of eternal night encompassed me. I struggled for breath. The intensity of
the darkness seemed to oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was
intolerably close. I still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise my
reason. I brought to mind the inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted
from that point to deduce my real condition. The sentence had passed; and
it appeared to me that a very long interval of time had since elapsed. Yet
not for a moment did I suppose myself actually dead. Such a supposition,
notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is altogether inconsistent with
real existence;—but where and in what state was I? The condemned to
death, I knew, perished usually at the autos-da-fe, and one of these had
been held on the very night of the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to
my dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not take place for
many months? This I at once saw could not be. Victims had been in
immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all the condemned cells
at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was not altogether excluded.
A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my heart, and
for a brief period, I once more relapsed into insensibility. Upon
recovering, I at once started to my feet, trembling convulsively in every
fibre. I thrust my arms wildly above and around me in all directions. I
felt nothing; yet dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded by the
walls of a tomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big
beads upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew at length intolerable,
and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms extended, and my eyes
straining from their sockets, in the hope of catching some faint ray of
light. I proceeded for many paces; but still all was blackness and
vacancy. I breathed more freely. It seemed evident that mine was not, at
least, the most hideous of fates.
And now, as I still continued to step cautiously onward, there came
thronging upon my recollection a thousand vague rumors of the horrors of
Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange things narrated—fables
I had always deemed them—but yet strange, and too ghastly to repeat,
save in a whisper. Was I left to perish of starvation in this subterranean
world of darkness; or what fate, perhaps even more fearful, awaited me?
That the result would be death, and a death of more than customary
bitterness, I knew too well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode
and the hour were all that occupied or distracted me.
My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid obstruction. It was
a wall, seemingly of stone masonry—very smooth, slimy, and cold. I
followed it up; stepping with all the careful distrust with which certain
antique narratives had inspired me. This process, however, afforded me no
means of ascertaining the dimensions of my dungeon; as I might make its
circuit, and return to the point whence I set out, without being aware of
the fact; so perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I therefore sought the
knife which had been in my pocket, when led into the inquisitorial
chamber; but it was gone; my clothes had been exchanged for a wrapper of
coarse serge. I had thought of forcing the blade in some minute crevice of
the masonry, so as to identify my point of departure. The difficulty,
nevertheless, was but trivial; although, in the disorder of my fancy, it
seemed at first insuperable. I tore a part of the hem from the robe and
placed the fragment at full length, and at right angles to the wall. In
groping my way around the prison, I could not fail to encounter this rag
upon completing the circuit. So, at least I thought: but I had not counted
upon the extent of the dungeon, or upon my own weakness. The ground was
moist and slippery. I staggered onward for some time, when I stumbled and
fell. My excessive fatigue induced me to remain prostrate; and sleep soon
overtook me as I lay.
Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I found beside me a loaf and a
pitcher with water. I was too much exhausted to reflect upon this
circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity. Shortly afterward, I resumed
my tour around the prison, and with much toil came at last upon the
fragment of the serge. Up to the period when I fell I had counted
fifty-two paces, and upon resuming my walk, I had counted forty-eight
more—when I arrived at the rag. There were in all, then, a hundred
paces; and, admitting two paces to the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be
fifty yards in circuit. I had met, however, with many angles in the wall,
and thus I could form no guess at the shape of the vault, for vault I
could not help supposing it to be.
I had little object—certainly no hope—in these researches; but
a vague curiosity prompted me to continue them. Quitting the wall, I
resolved to cross the area of the enclosure. At first I proceeded with
extreme caution, for the floor, although seemingly of solid material, was
treacherous with slime. At length, however, I took courage, and did not
hesitate to step firmly; endeavoring to cross in as direct a line as
possible. I had advanced some ten or twelve paces in this manner, when the
remnant of the torn hem of my robe became entangled between my legs. I
stepped on it, and fell violently on my face.
In the confusion attending my fall, I did not immediately apprehend a
somewhat startling circumstance, which yet, in a few seconds afterward,
and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my attention. It was this: my
chin rested upon the floor of the prison, but my lips and the upper
portion of my head, although seemingly at a less elevation than the chin,
touched nothing. At the same time my forehead seemed bathed in a clammy
vapor, and the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I
put forward my arm, and shuddered to find that I had fallen at the very
brink of a circular pit, whose extent, of course, I had no means of
ascertaining at the moment. Groping about the masonry just below the
margin, I succeeded in dislodging a small fragment, and let it fall into
the abyss. For many seconds I hearkened to its reverberations as it dashed
against the sides of the chasm in its descent; at length there was a
sullen plunge into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the same moment
there came a sound resembling the quick opening, and as rapid closing of a
door overhead, while a faint gleam of light flashed suddenly through the
gloom, and as suddenly faded away.
I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared for me, and congratulated
myself upon the timely accident by which I had escaped. Another step
before my fall, and the world had seen me no more. And the death just
avoided, was of that very character which I had regarded as fabulous and
frivolous in the tales respecting the Inquisition. To the victims of its
tyranny, there was the choice of death with its direst physical agonies,
or death with its most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved for the
latter. By long suffering my nerves had been unstrung, until I trembled at
the sound of my own voice, and had become in every respect a fitting
subject for the species of torture which awaited me.
Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to the wall—resolving there
to perish rather than risk the terrors of the wells, of which my
imagination now pictured many in various positions about the dungeon. In
other conditions of mind I might have had courage to end my misery at once
by a plunge into one of these abysses; but now I was the veriest of
cowards. Neither could I forget what I had read of these pits—that
the sudden extinction of life formed no part of their most horrible plan.
Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long hours, but at length I
again slumbered. Upon arousing, I found by my side, as before, a loaf and
a pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed me, and I emptied the vessel
at a draught. It must have been drugged—for scarcely had I drunk, before
I became irresistibly drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me—a sleep like
that of death. How long it lasted of course, I know not; but when, once
again, I unclosed my eyes, the objects around me were visible. By a wild
sulphurous lustre, the origin of which I could not at first determine, I
was enabled to see the extent and aspect of the prison.
In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The whole circuit of its walls
did not exceed twenty-five yards. For some minutes this fact occasioned me
a world of vain trouble; vain indeed! for what could be of less
importance, under the terrible circumstances which environed me, then the
mere dimensions of my dungeon? But my soul took a wild interest in
trifles, and I busied myself in endeavors to account for the error I had
committed in my measurement. The truth at length flashed upon me. In my
first attempt at exploration I had counted fifty-two paces, up to the
period when I fell; I must then have been within a pace or two of the
fragment of serge; in fact, I had nearly performed the circuit of the
vault. I then slept—and, upon awaking, I must have returned upon my steps—thus
supposing the circuit nearly double what it actually was. My confusion of
mind prevented me from observing that I began my tour with the wall to the
left, and ended it with the wall to the right.
I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of the enclosure. In
feeling my way I had found many angles, and thus deduced an idea of great
irregularity; so potent is the effect of total darkness upon one arousing
from lethargy or sleep! The angles were simply those of a few slight
depressions, or niches, at odd intervals. The general shape of the prison
was square. What I had taken for masonry seemed now to be iron, or some
other metal, in huge plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned the
depression. The entire surface of this metallic enclosure was rudely
daubed in all the hideous and repulsive devices to which the charnel
superstition of the monks has given rise. The figures of fiends in aspects
of menace, with skeleton forms, and other more really fearful images,
overspread and disfigured the walls. I observed that the outlines of these
monstrosities were sufficiently distinct, but that the colors seemed faded
and blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmosphere. I now noticed
the floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned the circular pit
from whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the only one in the dungeon.
All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort—for my personal
condition had been greatly changed during slumber. I now lay upon my
back, and at full length, on a species of low framework of wood. To this
I was securely bound by a long strap resembling a surcingle. It passed in
many convolutions about my limbs and body, leaving at liberty only my
head, and my left arm to such extent that I could, by dint of much
exertion, supply myself with food from an earthen dish which lay by my
side on the floor. I saw, to my horror, that the pitcher had been
removed. I say to my horror—for I was consumed with intolerable
thirst. This thirst it appeared to be the design of my persecutors to
stimulate—for the food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned.
Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. It was some thirty or
forty feet overhead, and constructed much as the side walls. In one of its
panels a very singular figure riveted my whole attention. It was the
painted figure of Time as he is commonly represented, save that, in lieu
of a scythe, he held what, at a casual glance, I supposed to be the
pictured image of a huge pendulum such as we see on antique clocks. There
was something, however, in the appearance of this machine which caused me
to regard it more attentively. While I gazed directly upward at it (for
its position was immediately over my own) I fancied that I saw it in
motion. In an instant afterward the fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was
brief, and of course slow. I watched it for some minutes, somewhat in
fear, but more in wonder. Wearied at length with observing its dull
movement, I turned my eyes upon the other objects in the cell.
A slight noise attracted my notice, and, looking to the floor, I saw
several enormous rats traversing it. They had issued from the well, which
lay just within view to my right. Even then, while I gazed, they came up
in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, allured by the scent of the
meat. From this it required much effort and attention to scare them away.
It might have been half an hour, perhaps even an hour, (for I could take
but imperfect note of time) before I again cast my eyes upward. What I
then saw confounded and amazed me. The sweep of the pendulum had increased
in extent by nearly a yard. As a natural consequence, its velocity was
also much greater. But what mainly disturbed me was the idea that had
perceptibly descended. I now observed—with what horror it is
needless to say—that its nether extremity was formed of a crescent
of glittering steel, about a foot in length from horn to horn; the horns
upward, and the under edge evidently as keen as that of a razor. Like a
razor also, it seemed massy and heavy, tapering from the edge into a solid
and broad structure above. It was appended to a weighty rod of brass, and
the whole hissed as it swung through the air.
I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me by monkish ingenuity in
torture. My cognizance of the pit had become known to the inquisitorial
agents—, whose horrors had been destined for so bold a
recusant as myself—the pit, typical of hell, and regarded by rumor
as the Ultima Thule of all their punishments. The plunge into this pit I
had avoided by the merest of accidents, I knew that surprise, or
entrapment into torment, formed an important portion of all the
grotesquerie of these dungeon deaths. Having failed to fall, it was no
part of the demon plan to hurl me into the abyss; and thus (there being no
alternative) a different and a milder destruction awaited me. Milder! I
half smiled in my agony as I thought of such application of such a term.
What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than mortal,
during which I counted the rushing vibrations of the steel! Inch by inch—line
by line—with a descent only appreciable at intervals that seemed
ages—down and still down it came! Days passed—it might have
been that many days passed—ere it swept so closely over me as to fan
me with its acrid breath. The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into
my nostrils. I prayed—I wearied heaven with my prayer for its more
speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, and struggled to force myself
upward against the sweep of the fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly
calm, and lay smiling at the glittering death, as a child at some rare
bauble.
There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief; for, upon
again lapsing into life there had been no perceptible descent in the
pendulum. But it might have been long; for I knew there were demons who
took note of my swoon, and who could have arrested the vibration at
pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt very—oh! inexpressibly—sick
and weak, as if through long inanition. Even amid the agonies of that
period, the human nature craved food. With painful effort I outstretched
my left arm as far as my bonds permitted, and took possession of the small
remnant which had been spared me by the rats. As I put a portion of it
within my lips, there rushed to my mind a half formed thought of joy—of
hope. Yet what business had with hope? It was, as I say, a half formed
thought—man has many such, which are never completed. I felt that it
was of joy—of hope; but felt also that it had perished in its
formation. In vain I struggled to perfect—to regain it. Long
suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an
imbecile—an idiot.
The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles to my length. I saw that
the crescent was designed to cross the region of the heart. It would fray
the serge of my robe—it would return and repeat its operations—again—and
again. Notwithstanding its terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more)
and the hissing vigor of its descent, sufficient to sunder these very
walls of iron, still the fraying of my robe would be all that, for several
minutes, it would accomplish. And at this thought I paused. I dared not go
farther than this reflection. I dwelt upon it with a pertinacity of
attention—as if, in so dwelling, I could arrest here the descent of
the steel. I forced myself to ponder upon the sound of the crescent as it
should pass across the garment—upon the peculiar thrilling sensation
which the friction of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered upon all
this frivolity until my teeth were on edge.
Down—steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied pleasure in
contrasting its downward with its lateral velocity. To the right—to
the left—far and wide—with the shriek of a damned spirit! to
my heart with the stealthy pace of the tiger! I alternately laughed and
howled as the one or the other idea grew predominant.
Down—certainly, relentlessly down! It vibrated within three inches
of my bosom! I struggled violently, furiously, to free my left arm. This
was free only from the elbow to the hand. I could reach the latter, from
the platter beside me, to my mouth, with great effort, but no farther.
Could I have broken the fastenings above the elbow, I would have seized
and attempted to arrest the pendulum. I might as well have attempted to
arrest an avalanche!
Down—still unceasingly—still inevitably down! I gasped and
struggled at each vibration. I shrunk convulsively at its every sweep. My
eyes followed its outward or upward whirls with the eagerness of the most
unmeaning despair; they closed themselves spasmodically at the descent,
although death would have been a relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I
quivered in every nerve to think how slight a sinking of the machinery
would precipitate that keen, glistening axe upon my bosom. It was hope
that prompted the nerve to quiver—the frame to shrink. It was hope—the
hope that triumphs on the rack—that whispers to the death-condemned
even in the dungeons of the Inquisition.
I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would bring the steel in actual
contact with my robe, and with this observation there suddenly came over
my spirit all the keen, collected calmness of despair. For the first time
during many hours—or perhaps days—I thought. It now occurred
to me that the bandage, or surcingle, which enveloped me, was unique. I
was tied by no separate cord. The first stroke of the razorlike crescent
athwart any portion of the band, would so detach it that it might be
unwound from my person by means of my left hand. But how fearful, in that
case, the proximity of the steel! The result of the slightest struggle how
deadly! Was it likely, moreover, that the minions of the torturer had not
foreseen and provided for this possibility? Was it probable that the
bandage crossed my bosom in the track of the pendulum? Dreading to find my
faint, and, as it seemed, my last hope frustrated, I so far elevated my
head as to obtain a distinct view of my breast. The surcingle enveloped my
limbs and body close in all directions—save in the path of the
destroying crescent.
Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its original position, when there
flashed upon my mind what I cannot better describe than as the unformed
half of that idea of deliverance to which I have previously alluded, and
of which a moiety only floated indeterminately through my brain when I
raised food to my burning lips. The whole thought was now present—feeble,
scarcely sane, scarcely definite,—but still entire. I proceeded at
once, with the nervous energy of despair, to attempt its execution.
For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low framework upon which I
lay had been literally swarming with rats. They were wild, bold,
ravenous—their red eyes glaring upon me as if they waited but for
motionlessness on my part to make me their prey. “To what food,” I
thought, “have they been accustomed in the well?”
They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to prevent them, all but a
small remnant of the contents of the dish. I had fallen into an habitual
see-saw, or wave of the hand about the platter; and, at length, the
unconscious uniformity of the movement deprived it of effect. In their
voracity the vermin frequently fastened their sharp fangs in my fingers.
With the particles of the oily and spicy viand which now remained, I
thoroughly rubbed the bandage wherever I could reach it; then, raising my
hand from the floor, I lay breathlessly still.
At first the ravenous animals were startled and terrified at the change—at
the cessation of movement. They shrank alarmedly back; many sought the
well. But this was only for a moment. I had not counted in vain upon their
voracity. Observing that I remained without motion, one or two of the
boldest leaped upon the frame-work, and smelt at the surcingle. This
seemed the signal for a general rush. Forth from the well they hurried in
fresh troops. They clung to the wood—they overran it, and leaped in
hundreds upon my person. The measured movement of the pendulum disturbed
them not at all. Avoiding its strokes they busied themselves with the
anointed bandage. They pressed—they swarmed upon me in ever
accumulating heaps. They writhed upon my throat; their cold lips sought my
own; I was half stifled by their thronging pressure; disgust, for which
the world has no name, swelled my bosom, and chilled, with a heavy
clamminess, my heart. Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle would
be over. Plainly I perceived the loosening of the bandage. I knew that in
more than one place it must be already severed. With a more than human
resolution I lay still.
Nor had I erred in my calculations—nor had I endured in vain. I at
length felt that I was free. The surcingle hung in ribands from my body.
But the stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon my bosom. It had
divided the serge of the robe. It had cut through the linen beneath. Twice
again it swung, and a sharp sense of pain shot through every nerve. But
the moment of escape had arrived. At a wave of my hand my deliverers
hurried tumultuously away. With a steady movement—cautious,
sidelong, shrinking, and slow—I slid from the embrace of the bandage
and beyond the reach of the scimitar. For the moment, at least, I was
free.
Free!—and in the grasp of the Inquisition! I had scarcely stepped
from my wooden bed of horror upon the stone floor of the prison, when the
motion of the hellish machine ceased and I beheld it drawn up, by some
invisible force, through the ceiling. This was a lesson which I took
desperately to heart. My every motion was undoubtedly watched. Free!—I
had but escaped death in one form of agony, to be delivered unto worse
than death in some other. With that thought I rolled my eves nervously
around on the barriers of iron that hemmed me in. Something unusual—some
change which, at first, I could not appreciate distinctly—it was
obvious, had taken place in the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy
and trembling abstraction, I busied myself in vain, unconnected
conjecture. During this period, I became aware, for the first time, of the
origin of the sulphurous light which illumined the cell. It proceeded from
a fissure, about half an inch in width, extending entirely around the
prison at the base of the walls, which thus appeared, and were, completely
separated from the floor. I endeavored, but of course in vain, to look
through the aperture.
As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the alteration in the chamber
broke at once upon my understanding. I have observed that, although the
outlines of the figures upon the walls were sufficiently distinct, yet the
colors seemed blurred and indefinite. These colors had now assumed, and
were momentarily assuming, a startling and most intense brilliancy, that
gave to the spectral and fiendish portraitures an aspect that might have
thrilled even firmer nerves than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild and ghastly
vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand directions, where none had been
visible before, and gleamed with the lurid lustre of a fire that I could
not force my imagination to regard as unreal.
—Even while I breathed there came to my nostrils the breath
of the vapour of heated iron! A suffocating odour pervaded the prison! A
deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes that glared at my agonies! A
richer tint of crimson diffused itself over the pictured horrors of blood.
I panted! I gasped for breath! There could be no doubt of the design of my
tormentors—oh! most unrelenting! oh! most demoniac of men! I shrank
from the glowing metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the thought of the
fiery destruction that impended, the idea of the coolness of the well came
over my soul like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I threw my straining
vision below. The glare from the enkindled roof illumined its inmost
recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse to comprehend the
meaning of what I saw. At length it forced—it wrestled its way into
my soul—it burned itself in upon my shuddering reason. Oh! for
a voice to speak!—oh! horror!—oh! any horror but this! With a
shriek, I rushed from the margin, and buried my face in my hands—weeping
bitterly.
The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up, shuddering as with
a fit of the ague. There had been a second change in the cell—and
now the change was obviously in the form. As before, it was in vain that
I, at first, endeavoured to appreciate or understand what was taking
place. But not long was I left in doubt. The Inquisitorial vengeance had
been hurried by my two-fold escape, and there was to be no more dallying
with the King of Terrors. The room had been square. I saw that two of its
iron angles were now acute—two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful
difference quickly increased with a low rumbling or moaning sound. In an
instant the apartment had shifted its form into that of a lozenge. But the
alteration stopped not here—I neither hoped nor desired it to stop. I
could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal
peace. “Death,” I said, “any death but that of the pit!” Fool! might I
have not known that into the pit it was the object of the burning iron to
urge me? Could I resist its glow? or, if even that, could I withstand its
pressure? And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a rapidity
that left me no time for contemplation. Its centre, and of course, its
greatest width, came just over the yawning gulf. I shrank back—but
the closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward. At length for my seared
and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm
floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found
vent in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that I
tottered upon the brink—I averted my eyes—
There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as of
many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The
fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched arm caught my own as I fell,
fainting, into the abyss. It was that of General Lasalle. The French army
had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.
THE PREMATURE BURIAL
There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which
are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These
the mere romanticist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or to
disgust. They are with propriety handled only when the severity and
majesty of Truth sanctify and sustain them. We thrill, for example, with
the most intense of “pleasurable pain” over the accounts of the Passage of
the Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague at London, of the
Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the stifling of the hundred and
twenty-three prisoners in the Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these
accounts it is the fact——it is the reality——it is
the history which excites. As inventions, we should regard them with
simple abhorrence.
<br />
I have mentioned some few of the more prominent and august calamities on
record; but in these it is the extent, not less than the character of the
calamity, which so vividly impresses the fancy. I need not remind the
reader that, from the long and weird catalogue of human miseries, I might
have selected many individual instances more replete with essential
suffering than any of these vast generalities of disaster. The true
wretchedness, indeed—the ultimate woe——is particular,
not diffuse. That the ghastly extremes of agony are endured by man the
unit, and never by man the mass——for this let us thank a
merciful God!
<br />
To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most terrific of these
extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of mere mortality. That it has
frequently, very frequently, so fallen will scarcely be denied by those
who think. The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy
and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
We know that there are diseases in which occur total cessations of all the
apparent functions of vitality, and yet in which these cessations are
merely suspensions, properly so called. They are only temporary pauses in
the incomprehensible mechanism. A certain period elapses, and some unseen
mysterious principle again sets in motion the magic pinions and the wizard
wheels. The silver cord was not for ever loosed, nor the golden bowl
irreparably broken. But where, meantime, was the soul?
<br />
Apart, however, from the inevitable conclusion, that such causes
must produce such effects——that the well-known occurrence of
such cases of suspended animation must naturally give rise, now and then,
to premature interments—apart from this consideration, we have the
direct testimony of medical and ordinary experience to prove that a vast
number of such interments have actually taken place. I might refer at
once, if necessary, to a hundred well-authenticated instances. One of very
remarkable character, and of which the circumstances may be fresh in the
memory of some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago, in the
neighboring city of Baltimore, where it occasioned a painful, intense, and
widely-extended excitement. The wife of one of the most respectable
citizens—a lawyer of eminence and a member of Congress—was
seized with a sudden and unaccountable illness, which completely baffled
the skill of her physicians. After much suffering she died, or was
supposed to die. No one suspected, indeed, or had reason to suspect, that
she was not actually dead. She presented all the ordinary appearances of
death. The face assumed the usual pinched and sunken outline. The lips
were of the usual marble pallor. The eyes were lustreless. There was no
warmth. Pulsation had ceased. For three days the body was preserved
unburied, during which it had acquired a stony rigidity. The funeral, in
short, was hastened, on account of the rapid advance of what was supposed
to be decomposition.
<br />
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.
<br />
A careful investigation rendered it evident that she had revived within
two days after her entombment; that her struggles within the coffin had
caused it to fall from a ledge, or shelf to the floor, where it was so
broken as to permit her escape. A lamp which had been accidentally left,
full of oil, within the tomb, was found empty; it might have been
exhausted, however, by evaporation. On the uttermost of the steps which
led down into the dread chamber was a large fragment of the coffin, with
which, it seemed, that she had endeavored to arrest attention by striking
the iron door. While thus occupied, she probably swooned, or possibly
died, through sheer terror; and, in failing, her shroud became entangled
in some iron-work which projected interiorly. Thus she remained, and
thus she rotted, erect.
<br />
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 , or journalist of Paris. His talents and general
amiability had recommended him to the notice of the heiress, by whom he
seems to have been truly beloved; but her pride of birth decided her,
finally, to reject him, and to wed a Monsieur Renelle, a banker and a
diplomatist of some eminence. After marriage, however, this gentleman
neglected, and, perhaps, even more positively ill-treated her. Having
passed with him some wretched years, she died—at least her
condition so closely resembled death as to deceive every one who saw her.
She was buried——not in a vault, but in an ordinary grave in
the village of her nativity. Filled with despair, and still inflamed by
the memory of a profound attachment, the lover journeys from the capital
to the remote province in which the village lies, with the romantic
purpose of disinterring the corpse, and possessing himself of its
luxuriant tresses. He reaches the grave. At midnight he unearths the
coffin, opens it, and is in the act of detaching the hair, when he is
arrested by the unclosing of the beloved eyes. In fact, the lady had been
buried alive. Vitality had not altogether departed, and she was aroused by
the caresses of her lover from the lethargy which had been mistaken for
death. He bore her frantically to his lodgings in the village. He employed
certain powerful restoratives suggested by no little medical learning. In
fine, she revived. She recognized her preserver. She remained with him
until, by slow degrees, she fully recovered her original health. Her
woman’s heart was not adamant, and this last lesson of love sufficed to
soften it. She bestowed it upon Bossuet. She returned no more to her
husband, but, concealing from him her resurrection, fled with her lover to
America. Twenty years afterward, the two returned to France, in the
persuasion that time had so greatly altered the lady’s appearance that her
friends would be unable to recognize her. They were mistaken, however,
for, at the first meeting, Monsieur Renelle did actually recognize and
make claim to his wife. This claim she resisted, and a judicial tribunal
sustained her in her resistance, deciding that the peculiar circumstances,
with the long lapse of years, had extinguished, not only equitably, but
legally, the authority of the husband.
<br />
The “Chirurgical Journal” of Leipsic, a periodical of high authority
and merit, which some American bookseller would do well to translate and
republish, records in a late number a very distressing event of the
character in question.
<br />
An officer of artillery, a man of gigantic stature and of robust health,
being thrown from an unmanageable horse, received a very severe contusion
upon the head, which rendered him insensible at once; the skull was
slightly fractured, but no immediate danger was apprehended. Trepanning
was accomplished successfully. He was bled, and many other of the ordinary
means of relief were adopted. Gradually, however, he fell into a more and
more hopeless state of stupor, and, finally, it was thought that he died.
<br />
The weather was warm, and he was buried with indecent haste in one of the
public cemeteries. His funeral took place on Thursday. On the Sunday
following, the grounds of the cemetery were, as usual, much thronged with
visitors, and about noon an intense excitement was created by the
declaration of a peasant that, while sitting upon the grave of the
officer, he had distinctly felt a commotion of the earth, as if occasioned
by some one struggling beneath. At first little attention was paid to the
man’s asseveration; but his evident terror, and the dogged obstinacy with
which he persisted in his story, had at length their natural effect upon
the crowd. Spades were hurriedly procured, and the grave, which was
shamefully shallow, was in a few minutes so far thrown open that the head
of its occupant appeared. He was then seemingly dead; but he sat nearly
erect within his coffin, the lid of which, in his furious struggles, he
had partially uplifted.
<br />
He was forthwith conveyed to the nearest hospital, and there pronounced to
be still living, although in an asphytic condition. After some hours he
revived, recognized individuals of his acquaintance, and, in broken
sentences spoke of his agonies in the grave.
<br />
From what he related, it was clear that he must have been conscious of
life for more than an hour, while inhumed, before lapsing into
insensibility. The grave was carelessly and loosely filled with an
exceedingly porous soil; and thus some air was necessarily admitted. He
heard the footsteps of the crowd overhead, and endeavored to make himself
heard in turn. It was the tumult within the grounds of the cemetery, he
said, which appeared to awaken him from a deep sleep, but no sooner was he
awake than he became fully aware of the awful horrors of his position.
<br />
This patient, it is recorded, was doing well and seemed to be in a fair
way of ultimate recovery, but fell a victim to the quackeries of medical
experiment. The galvanic battery was applied, and he suddenly expired in
one of those ecstatic paroxysms which, occasionally, it superinduces.
<br />
The mention of the galvanic battery, nevertheless, recalls to my memory a
well known and very extraordinary case in point, where its action proved
the means of restoring to animation a young attorney of London, who had
been interred for two days. This occurred in 1831, and created, at the
time, a very profound sensation wherever it was made the subject of
converse.
<br />
The patient, Mr. Edward Stapleton, had died, apparently of typhus fever,
accompanied with some anomalous symptoms which had excited the curiosity
of his medical attendants. Upon his seeming decease, his friends were
requested to sanction a post-mortem examination, but declined to permit
it. As often happens, when such refusals are made, the practitioners
resolved to disinter the body and dissect it at leisure, in private.
Arrangements were easily effected with some of the numerous corps of
body-snatchers, with which London abounds; and, upon the third night after
the funeral, the supposed corpse was unearthed from a grave eight feet
deep, and deposited in the opening chamber of one of the private
hospitals.
<br />
An incision of some extent had been actually made in the abdomen, when the
fresh and undecayed appearance of the subject suggested an application of
the battery. One experiment succeeded another, and the customary effects
supervened, with nothing to characterize them in any respect, except, upon
one or two occasions, a more than ordinary degree of life-likeness in the
convulsive action.
<br />
It grew late. The day was about to dawn; and it was thought expedient, at
length, to proceed at once to the dissection. A student, however, was
especially desirous of testing a theory of his own, and insisted upon
applying the battery to one of the pectoral muscles. A rough gash was
made, and a wire hastily brought in contact, when the patient, with a
hurried but quite unconvulsive movement, arose from the table, stepped
into the middle of the floor, gazed about him uneasily for a few seconds,
and then—spoke. What he said was unintelligible, but words were
uttered; the syllabification was distinct. Having spoken, he fell heavily
to the floor.
<br />
For some moments all were paralyzed with awe—but the urgency of the
case soon restored them their presence of mind. It was seen that Mr.
Stapleton was alive, although in a swoon. Upon exhibition of ether he
revived and was rapidly restored to health, and to the society of his
friends—from whom, however, all knowledge of his resuscitation was
withheld, until a relapse was no longer to be apprehended. Their wonder—their
rapturous astonishment—may be conceived.
<br />
The most thrilling peculiarity of this incident, nevertheless, is involved
in what Mr. S. himself asserts. He declares that at no period was he
altogether insensible—that, dully and confusedly, he was aware of
everything which happened to him, from the moment in which he was
pronounced dead by his physicians, to that in which he fell swooning to
the floor of the hospital. “I am alive,” were the uncomprehended words
which, upon recognizing the locality of the dissecting-room, he had
endeavored, in his extremity, to utter.
<br />
It were an easy matter to multiply such histories as these—but I
forbear—for, indeed, we have no need of such to establish the fact
that premature interments occur. When we reflect how very rarely, from the
nature of the case, we have it in our power to detect them, we must admit
that they may frequently occur without our cognizance. Scarcely, in truth,
is a graveyard ever encroached upon, for any purpose, to any great extent,
that skeletons are not found in postures which suggest the most fearful of
suspicions.
<br />
Fearful indeed the suspicion—but more fearful the doom! It may be
asserted, without hesitation, that no event is so terribly well adapted to
inspire the supremeness of bodily and of mental distress, as is burial
before death. The unendurable oppression of the lungs—the stifling
fumes from the damp earth—the clinging to the death garments—the
rigid embrace of the narrow house—the blackness of the absolute
Night—the silence like a sea that overwhelms—the unseen but
palpable presence of the Conqueror Worm—these things, with the
thoughts of the air and grass above, with memory of dear friends who would
fly to save us if but informed of our fate, and with consciousness that of
this fate they can never be informed—that our hopeless portion is
that of the really dead—these considerations, I say, carry into the
heart, which still palpitates, a degree of appalling and intolerable
horror from which the most daring imagination must recoil. We know of
nothing so agonizing upon Earth—we can dream of nothing half so
hideous in the realms of the nethermost Hell. And thus all narratives upon
this topic have an interest profound; an interest, nevertheless, which,
through the sacred awe of the topic itself, very properly and very
peculiarly depends upon our conviction of the truth of the matter
narrated. What I have now to tell is of my own actual knowledge—of
my own positive and personal experience.
<br />
For several years I had been subject to attacks of the singular disorder
which physicians have agreed to term catalepsy, in default of a more
definitive title. Although both the immediate and the predisposing causes,
and even the actual diagnosis, of this disease are still mysterious, its
obvious and apparent character is sufficiently well understood. Its
variations seem to be chiefly of degree. Sometimes the patient lies, for a
day only, or even for a shorter period, in a species of exaggerated
lethargy. He is senseless and externally motionless; but the pulsation of
the heart is still faintly perceptible; some traces of warmth remain; a
slight color lingers within the centre of the cheek; and, upon application
of a mirror to the lips, we can detect a torpid, unequal, and vacillating
action of the lungs. Then again the duration of the trance is for weeks—even
for months; while the closest scrutiny, and the most rigorous medical
tests, fail to establish any material distinction between the state of the
sufferer and what we conceive of absolute death. Very usually he is saved
from premature interment solely by the knowledge of his friends that he
has been previously subject to catalepsy, by the consequent suspicion
excited, and, above all, by the non-appearance of decay. The advances of
the malady are, luckily, gradual. The first manifestations, although
marked, are unequivocal. The fits grow successively more and more
distinctive, and endure each for a longer term than the preceding. In this
lies the principal security from inhumation. The unfortunate whose first
attack should be of the extreme character which is occasionally seen,
would almost inevitably be consigned alive to the tomb.
<br />
My own case differed in no important particular from those mentioned in
medical books. Sometimes, without any apparent cause, I sank, little by
little, into a condition of semi-syncope, or half swoon; and, in this
condition, without pain, without ability to stir, or, strictly speaking,
to think, but with a dull lethargic consciousness of life and of the
presence of those who surrounded my bed, I remained, until the crisis of
the disease restored me, suddenly, to perfect sensation. At other times I
was quickly and impetuously smitten. I grew sick, and numb, and chilly,
and dizzy, and so fell prostrate at once. Then, for weeks, all was void,
and black, and silent, and Nothing became the universe. Total annihilation
could be no more. From these latter attacks I awoke, however, with a
gradation slow in proportion to the suddenness of the seizure. Just as the
day dawns to the friendless and houseless beggar who roams the streets
throughout the long desolate winter night—just so tardily—just
so wearily—just so cheerily came back the light of the Soul to me.
<br />
Apart from the tendency to trance, however, my general health appeared to
be good; nor could I perceive that it was at all affected by the one
prevalent malady—unless, indeed, an idiosyncrasy in my ordinary
sleep may be looked upon as superinduced. Upon awaking from slumber, I
could never gain, at once, thorough possession of my senses, and always
remained, for many minutes, in much bewilderment and perplexity—the
mental faculties in general, but the memory in especial, being in a
condition of absolute abeyance.
<br />
In all that I endured there was no physical suffering but of moral
distress an infinitude. My fancy grew charnel, I talked “of worms, of
tombs, and epitaphs.” I was lost in reveries of death, and the idea of
premature burial held continual possession of my brain. The ghastly Danger
to which I was subjected haunted me day and night. In the former, the
torture of meditation was excessive—in the latter, supreme. When the
grim Darkness overspread the Earth, then, with every horror of thought, I
shook—shook as the quivering plumes upon the hearse. When Nature
could endure wakefulness no longer, it was with a struggle that I
consented to sleep—for I shuddered to reflect that, upon awaking, I
might find myself the tenant of a grave. And when, finally, I sank into
slumber, it was only to rush at once into a world of phantasms, above
which, with vast, sable, overshadowing wing, hovered, predominant, the one
sepulchral Idea.
<br />
From the innumerable images of gloom which thus oppressed me in dreams, I
select for record but a solitary vision. Methought I was immersed in a
cataleptic trance of more than usual duration and profundity. Suddenly
there came an icy hand upon my forehead, and an impatient, gibbering voice
whispered the word “Arise!” within my ear.
<br />
I sat erect. The darkness was total. I could not see the figure of him who
had aroused me. I could call to mind neither the period at which I had
fallen into the trance, nor the locality in which I then lay. While I
remained motionless, and busied in endeavors to collect my thought, the
cold hand grasped me fiercely by the wrist, shaking it petulantly, while
the gibbering voice said again:
<br />
“Arise! did I not bid thee arise?”
<br />
“And who,” I demanded, “art thou?”
<br />
“I have no name in the regions which I inhabit,” replied the voice,
mournfully; “I was mortal, but am fiend. I was merciless, but am pitiful.
Thou dost feel that I shudder. My teeth chatter as I speak, yet it
is not with the chilliness of the night—of the night without end.
But this hideousness is insufferable. How canst thou tranquilly sleep? I
cannot rest for the cry of these great agonies. These sights are more than
I can bear. Get thee up! Come with me into the outer Night, and let me
unfold to thee the graves. Is not this a spectacle of woe?—Behold!”
<br />
I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the wrist, had
caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind; and from each issued
the faint phosphoric radiance of decay; so that I could see into the
innermost recesses, and there view the shrouded bodies in their sad and
solemn slumbers with the worm. But alas! the real sleepers were fewer, by
many millions, than those who slumbered not at all; and there was a feeble
struggling; and there was a general sad unrest; and from out the depths of
the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling from the garments of
the buried. And of those who seemed tranquilly to repose, I saw that a
vast number had changed, in a greater or less degree, the rigid and uneasy
position in which they had originally been entombed. And the voice again
said to me as I gazed:
<br />
“Is it not—oh! is it a pitiful sight?” But, before I could
find words to reply, the figure had ceased to grasp my wrist, the
phosphoric lights expired, and the graves were closed with a sudden
violence, while from out them arose a tumult of despairing cries, saying
again: “Is it not—O, God, is it a very pitiful sight?”
<br />
Phantasies such as these, presenting themselves at night, extended their
terrific influence far into my waking hours. My nerves became thoroughly
unstrung, and I fell a prey to perpetual horror. I hesitated to ride, or
to walk, or to indulge in any exercise that would carry me from home. In
fact, I no longer dared trust myself out of the immediate presence of
those who were aware of my proneness to catalepsy, lest, falling into one
of my usual fits, I should be buried before my real condition could be
ascertained. I doubted the care, the fidelity of my dearest friends. I
dreaded that, in some trance of more than customary duration, they might
be prevailed upon to regard me as irrecoverable. I even went so far as to
fear that, as I occasioned much trouble, they might be glad to consider
any very protracted attack as sufficient excuse for getting rid of me
altogether. It was in vain they endeavored to reassure me by the most
solemn promises. I exacted the most sacred oaths, that under no
circumstances they would bury me until decomposition had so materially
advanced as to render farther preservation impossible. And, even then, my
mortal terrors would listen to no reason—would accept no
consolation. I entered into a series of elaborate precautions. Among other
things, I had the family vault so remodelled as to admit of being readily
opened from within. The slightest pressure upon a long lever that extended
far into the tomb would cause the iron portal to fly back. There were
arrangements also for the free admission of air and light, and convenient
receptacles for food and water, within immediate reach of the coffin
intended for my reception. This coffin was warmly and softly padded, and
was provided with a lid, fashioned upon the principle of the vault-door,
with the addition of springs so contrived that the feeblest movement of
the body would be sufficient to set it at liberty. Besides all this, there
was suspended from the roof of the tomb, a large bell, the rope of which,
it was designed, should extend through a hole in the coffin, and so be
fastened to one of the hands of the corpse. But, alas? what avails the
vigilance against the Destiny of man? Not even these well-contrived
securities sufficed to save from the uttermost agonies of living
inhumation, a wretch to these agonies foredoomed!
<br />
There arrived an epoch—as often before there had arrived—in
which I found myself emerging from total unconsciousness into the first
feeble and indefinite sense of existence. Slowly—with a tortoise
gradation—approached the faint gray dawn of the psychal day. A
torpid uneasiness. An apathetic endurance of dull pain. No care—no
hope—no effort. Then, after a long interval, a ringing in the ears;
then, after a lapse still longer, a prickling or tingling sensation in the
extremities; then a seemingly eternal period of pleasurable quiescence,
during which the awakening feelings are struggling into thought; then a
brief re-sinking into non-entity; then a sudden recovery. At length the
slight quivering of an eyelid, and immediately thereupon, an electric
shock of a terror, deadly and indefinite, which sends the blood in
torrents from the temples to the heart. And now the first positive effort
to think. And now the first endeavor to remember. And now a partial and
evanescent success. And now the memory has so far regained its dominion,
that, in some measure, I am cognizant of my state. I feel that I am not
awaking from ordinary sleep. I recollect that I have been subject to
catalepsy. And now, at last, as if by the rush of an ocean, my shuddering
spirit is overwhelmed by the one grim Danger—by the one spectral and
ever-prevalent idea.
<br />
For some minutes after this fancy possessed me, I remained without motion.
And why? I could not summon courage to move. I dared not make the effort
which was to satisfy me of my fate—and yet there was something at my
heart which whispered me it was sure. Despair—such as no other
species of wretchedness ever calls into being—despair alone urged
me, after long irresolution, to uplift the heavy lids of my eyes. I
uplifted them. It was dark—all dark. I knew that the fit was over. I
knew that the crisis of my disorder had long passed. I knew that I had now
fully recovered the use of my visual faculties—and yet it was dark—all
dark—the intense and utter raylessness of the Night that endureth
for evermore.
<br />
I endeavored to shriek; and my lips and my parched tongue moved
convulsively together in the attempt—but no voice issued from the
cavernous lungs, which oppressed as if by the weight of some incumbent
mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the heart, at every elaborate and
struggling inspiration.
<br />
The movement of the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me that they
were bound up, as is usual with the dead. I felt, too, that I lay upon
some hard substance; and by something similar my sides were, also, closely
compressed. So far, I had not ventured to stir any of my limbs—but
now I violently threw up my arms, which had been lying at length, with the
wrists crossed. They struck a solid wooden substance, which extended above
my person at an elevation of not more than six inches from my face. I
could no longer doubt that I reposed within a coffin at last.
<br />
And now, amid all my infinite miseries, came sweetly the cherub Hope—for
I thought of my precautions. I writhed, and made spasmodic exertions to
force open the lid: it would not move. I felt my wrists for the bell-rope:
it was not to be found. And now the Comforter fled for ever, and a still
sterner Despair reigned triumphant; for I could not help perceiving the
absence of the paddings which I had so carefully prepared—and then,
too, there came suddenly to my nostrils the strong peculiar odor of moist
earth. The conclusion was irresistible. I was not within the vault. I had
fallen into a trance while absent from home—while among strangers—when,
or how, I could not remember—and it was they who had buried me as a
dog—nailed up in some common coffin—and thrust deep, deep, and
for ever, into some ordinary and nameless grave.
<br />
As this awful conviction forced itself, thus, into the innermost chambers
of my soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in this second
endeavor I succeeded. A long, wild, and continuous shriek, or yell of
agony, resounded through the realms of the subterranean Night.
<br />
“Hillo! hillo, there!” said a gruff voice, in reply.
<br />
“What the devil’s the matter now!” said a second.
<br />
“Get out o’ that!” said a third.
<br />
“What do you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a
cattymount?” said a fourth; and hereupon I was seized and shaken without
ceremony, for several minutes, by a junto of very rough-looking
individuals. They did not arouse me from my slumber—for I was wide
awake when I screamed—but they restored me to the full possession of
my memory.
<br />
This adventure occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied by a
friend, I had proceeded, upon a gunning expedition, some miles down the
banks of the James River. Night approached, and we were overtaken by a
storm. The cabin of a small sloop lying at anchor in the stream, and laden
with garden mould, afforded us the only available shelter. We made the
best of it, and passed the night on board. I slept in one of the only two
berths in the vessel—and the berths of a sloop of sixty or twenty
tons need scarcely be described. That which I occupied had no bedding of
any kind. Its extreme width was eighteen inches. The distance of its
bottom from the deck overhead was precisely the same. I found it a matter
of exceeding difficulty to squeeze myself in. Nevertheless, I slept
soundly, and the whole of my vision—for it was no dream, and no
nightmare—arose naturally from the circumstances of my position—from
my ordinary bias of thought—and from the difficulty, to which I have
alluded, of collecting my senses, and especially of regaining my memory,
for a long time after awaking from slumber. The men who shook me were the
crew of the sloop, and some laborers engaged to unload it. From the load
itself came the earthly smell. The bandage about the jaws was a silk
handkerchief in which I had bound up my head, in default of my customary
nightcap.
<br />
The tortures endured, however, were indubitably quite equal for the time,
to those of actual sepulture. They were fearfully—they were
inconceivably hideous; but out of Evil proceeded Good; for their very
excess wrought in my spirit an inevitable revulsion. My soul acquired tone—acquired
temper. I went abroad. I took vigorous exercise. I breathed the free air
of Heaven. I thought upon other subjects than Death. I discarded my
medical books. “Buchan” I burned. I read no “Night Thoughts”—no
fustian about churchyards—no bugaboo tales—such as this. In
short, I became a new man, and lived a man’s life. From that memorable
night, I dismissed forever my charnel apprehensions, and with them
vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which, perhaps, they had been less
the consequence than the cause.
<br />
There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our
sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell—but the imagination
of man is no Carathis, to explore with impunity its every cavern. Alas!
the grim legion of sepulchral terrors cannot be regarded as altogether
fanciful—but, like the Demons in whose company Afrasiab made his
voyage down the Oxus, they must sleep, or they will devour us—they
must be suffered to slumber, or we perish.
THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM
The garden like a lady fair was cut,
That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut.
The azure fields of Heaven were ’sembled right
In a large round, set with the flowers of light.
The flowers de luce, and the round sparks of dew
That hung upon their azure leaves did shew
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the evening blue.
—.
From his cradle to his grave a gale of prosperity bore my friend Ellison
along. Nor do I use the word prosperity in its mere worldly sense. I mean
it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom I speak seemed born
for the purpose of foreshadowing the doctrines of Turgot, Price,
Priestley, and Condorcet—of exemplifying by individual instance what
has been deemed the chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence
of Ellison I fancy that I have seen refuted the dogma, that in man’s very
nature lies some hidden principle, the antagonist of bliss. An anxious
examination of his career has given me to understand that in general, from
the violation of a few simple laws of humanity arises the wretchedness of
mankind—that as a species we have in our possession the as yet
unwrought elements of content—and that, even now, in the present
darkness and madness of all thought on the great question of the social
condition, it is not impossible that man, the individual, under certain
unusual and highly fortuitous conditions, may be happy.
With opinions such as these my young friend, too, was fully imbued, and
thus it is worthy of observation that the uninterrupted enjoyment which
distinguished his life was, in great measure, the result of preconcert. It
is indeed evident that with less of the instinctive philosophy which, now
and then, stands so well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would
have found himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary success of his
life, into the common vortex of unhappiness which yawns for those of
pre-eminent endowments. But it is by no means my object to pen an essay on
happiness. The ideas of my friend may be summed up in a few words. He
admitted but four elementary principles, or more strictly, conditions of
bliss. That which he considered chief was (strange to say!) the simple and
purely physical one of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he
said, “attainable by other means is scarcely worth the name.” He instanced
the ecstasies of the fox-hunter, and pointed to the tillers of the earth,
the only people who, as a class, can be fairly considered happier than
others. His second condition was the love of woman. His third, and most
difficult of realization, was the contempt of ambition. His fourth was an
object of unceasing pursuit; and he held that, other things being equal,
the extent of attainable happiness was in proportion to the spirituality
of this object.
Ellison was remarkable in the continuous profusion of good gifts lavished
upon him by fortune. In personal grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His
intellect was of that order to which the acquisition of knowledge is less
a labor than an intuition and a necessity. His family was one of the most
illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most devoted of
women. His possessions had been always ample; but on the attainment of his
majority, it was discovered that one of those extraordinary freaks of fate
had been played in his behalf which startle the whole social world amid
which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the moral
constitution of those who are their objects.
It appears that about a hundred years before Mr. Ellison’s coming of age,
there had died, in a remote province, one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This
gentleman had amassed a princely fortune, and, having no immediate
connections, conceived the whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for
a century after his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the
various modes of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the
nearest of blood, bearing the name of Ellison, who should be alive at the
end of the hundred years. Many attempts had been made to set aside this
singular bequest; their ex post facto character rendered them abortive;
but the attention of a jealous government was aroused, and a legislative
act finally obtained, forbidding all similar accumulations. This act,
however, did not prevent young Ellison from entering into possession, on
his twenty-first birthday, as the heir of his ancestor Seabright, of a
fortune of four hundred and fifty millions of dollars. (*1)
When it had become known that such was the enormous wealth inherited,
there were, of course, many speculations as to the mode of its disposal.
The magnitude and the immediate availability of the sum bewildered all who
thought on the topic. The possessor of any appreciable amount of money
might have been imagined to perform any one of a thousand things. With
riches merely surpassing those of any citizen, it would have been easy to
suppose him engaging to supreme excess in the fashionable extravagances of
his time—or busying himself with political intrigue—or aiming
at ministerial power—or purchasing increase of nobility—or
collecting large museums of virtu—or playing the munificent patron
of letters, of science, of art—or endowing, and bestowing his name
upon extensive institutions of charity. But for the inconceivable wealth
in the actual possession of the heir, these objects and all ordinary
objects were felt to afford too limited a field. Recourse was had to
figures, and these but sufficed to confound. It was seen that, even at
three per cent., the annual income of the inheritance amounted to no less
than thirteen millions and five hundred thousand dollars; which was one
million and one hundred and twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six
thousand nine hundred and eighty-six per day; or one thousand five hundred
and forty-one per hour; or six and twenty dollars for every minute that
flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly broken up. Men
knew not what to imagine. There were some who even conceived that Mr.
Ellison would divest himself of at least one-half of his fortune, as of
utterly superfluous opulence—enriching whole troops of his relatives
by division of his superabundance. To the nearest of these he did, in
fact, abandon the very unusual wealth which was his own before the
inheritance.
I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made up his
mind on a point which had occasioned so much discussion to his friends.
Nor was I greatly astonished at the nature of his decision. In regard to
individual charities he had satisfied his conscience. In the possibility
of any improvement, properly so called, being effected by man himself in
the general condition of man, he had (I am sorry to confess it) little
faith. Upon the whole, whether happily or unhappily, he was thrown back,
in very great measure, upon self.
In the widest and noblest sense he was a poet. He comprehended, moreover,
the true character, the august aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of
the poetic sentiment. The fullest, if not the sole proper satisfaction of
this sentiment he instinctively felt to lie in the creation of novel forms
of beauty. Some peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the
nature of his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism all
his ethical speculations; and it was this bias, perhaps, which led him to
believe that the most advantageous at least, if not the sole legitimate
field for the poetic exercise, lies in the creation of novel moods of
purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened he became neither musician
nor poet—if we use this latter term in its every-day acceptation. Or
it might have been that he neglected to become either, merely in pursuance
of his idea that in contempt of ambition is to be found one of the
essential principles of happiness on earth. Is it not indeed, possible
that, while a high order of genius is necessarily ambitious, the highest
is above that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that
many far greater than Milton have contentedly remained “mute and
inglorious?” I believe that the world has never seen—and that,
unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest order of mind
into distasteful exertion, the world will never see—that full extent
of triumphant execution, in the richer domains of art, of which the human
nature is absolutely capable.
Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived more
profoundly enamored of music and poetry. Under other circumstances than
those which invested him, it is not impossible that he would have become a
painter. Sculpture, although in its nature rigorously poetical was too
limited in its extent and consequences, to have occupied, at any time,
much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all the provinces in which
the common understanding of the poetic sentiment has declared it capable
of expatiating. But Ellison maintained that the richest, the truest, and
most natural, if not altogether the most extensive province, had been
unaccountably neglected. No definition had spoken of the
landscape-gardener as of the poet; yet it seemed to my friend that the
creation of the landscape-garden offered to the proper Muse the most
magnificent of opportunities. Here, indeed, was the fairest field for the
display of imagination in the endless combining of forms of novel beauty;
the elements to enter into combination being, by a vast superiority, the
most glorious which the earth could afford. In the multiform and
multicolor of the flowers and the trees, he recognised the most direct and
energetic efforts of Nature at physical loveliness. And in the direction
or concentration of this effort—or, more properly, in its adaptation
to the eyes which were to behold it on earth—he perceived that he
should be employing the best means—laboring to the greatest
advantage—in the fulfilment, not only of his own destiny as poet,
but of the august purposes for which the Deity had implanted the poetic
sentiment in man.
“Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth.” In his
explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much toward solving what
has always seemed to me an enigma:—I mean the fact (which none but
the ignorant dispute) that no such combination of scenery exists in nature
as the painter of genius may produce. No such paradises are to be found in
reality as have glowed on the canvas of Claude. In the most enchanting of
natural landscapes, there will always be found a defect or an excess—many
excesses and defects. While the component parts may defy, individually,
the highest skill of the artist, the arrangement of these parts will
always be susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be
attained on the wide surface of the natural earth, from which an
artistical eye, looking steadily, will not find matter of offence in what
is termed the “composition” of the landscape. And yet how unintelligible
is this! In all other matters we are justly instructed to regard nature as
supreme. With her details we shrink from competition. Who shall presume to
imitate the colors of the tulip, or to improve the proportions of the lily
of the valley? The criticism which says, of sculpture or portraiture, that
here nature is to be exalted or idealized rather than imitated, is in
error. No pictorial or sculptural combinations of points of human
liveliness do more than approach the living and breathing beauty. In
landscape alone is the principle of the critic true; and, having felt its
truth here, it is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has led
him to pronounce it true throughout all the domains of art. Having, I say,
felt its truth here; for the feeling is no affectation or chimera. The
mathematics afford no more absolute demonstrations than the sentiments of
his art yields the artist. He not only believes, but positively knows,
that such and such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter constitute
and alone constitute the true beauty. His reasons, however, have not yet
been matured into expression. It remains for a more profound analysis than
the world has yet seen, fully to investigate and express them.
Nevertheless he is confirmed in his instinctive opinions by the voice of
all his brethren. Let a “composition” be defective; let an emendation be
wrought in its mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted
to every artist in the world; by each will its necessity be admitted. And
even far more than this; in remedy of the defective composition,
each insulated member of the fraternity would have suggested the identical
emendation.
I repeat that in landscape arrangements alone is the physical nature
susceptible of exaltation, and that, therefore, her susceptibility of
improvement at this one point, was a mystery I had been unable to solve.
My own thoughts on the subject had rested in the idea that the primitive
intention of nature would have so arranged the earth’s surface as to have
fulfilled at all points man’s sense of perfection in the beautiful, the
sublime, or the picturesque; but that this primitive intention had been
frustrated by the known geological disturbances—disturbances of form
and color—grouping, in the correction or allaying of which lies the
soul of art. The force of this idea was much weakened, however, by the
necessity which it involved of considering the disturbances abnormal and
unadapted to any purpose. It was Ellison who suggested that they were
prognostic of death. He thus explained:—Admit the earthly
immortality of man to have been the first intention. We have then the
primitive arrangement of the earth’s surface adapted to his blissful
estate, as not existent but designed. The disturbances were the
preparations for his subsequently conceived deathful condition.
“Now,” said my friend, “what we regard as exaltation of the landscape may
be really such, as respects only the moral or human point of view. Each
alteration of the natural scenery may possibly effect a blemish in the
picture, if we can suppose this picture viewed at large—in mass—from
some point distant from the earth’s surface, although not beyond the
limits of its atmosphere. It is easily understood that what might improve
a closely scrutinized detail, may at the same time injure a general or
more distantly observed effect. There may be a class of beings, human
once, but now invisible to humanity, to whom, from afar, our disorder may
seem order—our unpicturesqueness picturesque; in a word, the
earth-angels, for whose scrutiny more especially than our own, and for
whose death-refined appreciation of the beautiful, may have been set
in array by God the wide landscape-gardens of the hemispheres.”
In the course of discussion, my friend quoted some passages from a writer
on landscape-gardening who has been supposed to have well treated his
theme:
“There are properly but two styles of landscape-gardening, the natural and
the artificial. One seeks to recall the original beauty of the country, by
adapting its means to the surrounding scenery, cultivating trees in
harmony with the hills or plain of the neighboring land; detecting and
bringing into practice those nice relations of size, proportion, and color
which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to the
experienced student of nature. The result of the natural style of
gardening, is seen rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities—in
the prevalence of a healthy harmony and order—than in the creation
of any special wonders or miracles. The artificial style has as many
varieties as there are different tastes to gratify. It has a certain
general relation to the various styles of building. There are the stately
avenues and retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various
mixed old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic Gothic
or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said against the
abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a mixture of pure art in a
garden scene adds to it a great beauty. This is partly pleasing to the
eye, by the show of order and design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an
old moss-covered balustrade, calls up at once to the eye the fair forms
that have passed there in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is
an evidence of care and human interest.”
“From what I have already observed,” said Ellison, “you will understand
that I reject the idea, here expressed, of recalling the original beauty
of the country. The original beauty is never so great as that which may be
introduced. Of course, every thing depends on the selection of a spot with
capabilities. What is said about detecting and bringing into practice nice
relations of size, proportion, and color, is one of those mere vaguenesses
of speech which serve to veil inaccuracy of thought. The phrase quoted may
mean any thing, or nothing, and guides in no degree. That the true result
of the natural style of gardening is seen rather in the absence of all
defects and incongruities than in the creation of any special wonders or
miracles, is a proposition better suited to the grovelling apprehension of
the herd than to the fervid dreams of the man of genius. The negative
merit suggested appertains to that hobbling criticism which, in letters,
would elevate Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that virtue which
consists in the mere avoidance of vice appeals directly to the
understanding, and can thus be circumscribed in rule, the loftier virtue,
which flames in creation, can be apprehended in its results alone. Rule
applies but to the merits of denial—to the excellencies which
refrain. Beyond these, the critical art can but suggest. We may be
instructed to build a “Cato,” but we are in vain told how to conceive a
Parthenon or an “Inferno.” The thing done, however; the wonder
accomplished; and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The
sophists of the negative school who, through inability to create, have
scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What, in its
chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure reason, never
fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort admiration from their
instinct of beauty.
“The author’s observations on the artificial style,” continued Ellison,
“are less objectionable. A mixture of pure art in a garden scene adds to
it a great beauty. This is just; as also is the reference to the sense of
human interest. The principle expressed is incontrovertible—but
there may be something beyond it. There may be an object in keeping with
the principle—an object unattainable by the means ordinarily
possessed by individuals, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm to
the landscape-garden far surpassing that which a sense of merely human
interest could bestow. A poet, having very unusual pecuniary resources,
might, while retaining the necessary idea of art or culture, or, as our
author expresses it, of interest, so imbue his designs at once with extent
and novelty of beauty, as to convey the sentiment of spiritual
interference. It will be seen that, in bringing about such result, he
secures all the advantages of interest or design, while relieving his work
of the harshness or technicality of the worldly art. In the most rugged of
wildernesses—in the most savage of the scenes of pure nature—there
is apparent the art of a creator; yet this art is apparent to reflection
only; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling. Now let us
suppose this sense of the Almighty design to be one step depressed—to
be brought into something like harmony or consistency with the sense of
human art—to form an intermedium between the two:—let us
imagine, for example, a landscape whose combined vastness and
definitiveness—whose united beauty, magnificence, and strangeness,
shall convey the idea of care, or culture, or superintendence, on the part
of beings superior, yet akin to humanity—then the sentiment of
interest is preserved, while the art intervolved is made to assume the air
of an intermediate or secondary nature—a nature which is not God,
nor an emanation from God, but which still is nature in the sense of the
handiwork of the angels that hover between man and God.”
It was in devoting his enormous wealth to the embodiment of a vision such
as this—in the free exercise in the open air ensured by the personal
superintendence of his plans—in the unceasing object which these
plans afforded—in the high spirituality of the object—in the
contempt of ambition which it enabled him truly to feel—in the
perennial springs with which it gratified, without possibility of
satiating, that one master passion of his soul, the thirst for beauty,
above all, it was in the sympathy of a woman, not unwomanly, whose
loveliness and love enveloped his existence in the purple atmosphere of
Paradise, that Ellison thought to find, and found, exemption from the
ordinary cares of humanity, with a far greater amount of positive
happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De Staël.
I despair of conveying to the reader any distinct conception of the
marvels which my friend did actually accomplish. I wish to describe, but
am disheartened by the difficulty of description, and hesitate between
detail and generality. Perhaps the better course will be to unite the two
in their extremes.
Mr. Ellison’s first step regarded, of course, the choice of a locality,
and scarcely had he commenced thinking on this point, when the luxuriant
nature of the Pacific Islands arrested his attention. In fact, he had made
up his mind for a voyage to the South Seas, when a night’s reflection
induced him to abandon the idea. “Were I misanthropic,” he said, “such a
locale would suit me. The thoroughness of its insulation and seclusion,
and the difficulty of ingress and egress, would in such case be the charm
of charms; but as yet I am not Timon. I wish the composure but not the
depression of solitude. There must remain with me a certain control over
the extent and duration of my repose. There will be frequent hours in
which I shall need, too, the sympathy of the poetic in what I have done.
Let me seek, then, a spot not far from a populous city—whose
vicinity, also, will best enable me to execute my plans.”
In search of a suitable place so situated, Ellison travelled for several
years, and I was permitted to accompany him. A thousand spots with which I
was enraptured he rejected without hesitation, for reasons which satisfied
me, in the end, that he was right. We came at length to an elevated
table-land of wonderful fertility and beauty, affording a panoramic
prospect very little less in extent than that of Aetna, and, in Ellison’s
opinion as well as my own, surpassing the far-famed view from that
mountain in all the true elements of the picturesque.
“I am aware,” said the traveller, as he drew a sigh of deep delight after
gazing on this scene, entranced, for nearly an hour, “I know that here, in
my circumstances, nine-tenths of the most fastidious of men would rest
content. This panorama is indeed glorious, and I should rejoice in it but
for the excess of its glory. The taste of all the architects I have ever
known leads them, for the sake of ‘prospect,’ to put up buildings on
hill-tops. The error is obvious. Grandeur in any of its moods, but
especially in that of extent, startles, excites—and then fatigues,
depresses. For the occasional scene nothing can be better—for the
constant view nothing worse. And, in the constant view, the most
objectionable phase of grandeur is that of extent; the worst phase of
extent, that of distance. It is at war with the sentiment and with the
sense of seclusion—the sentiment and sense which we seek to humor in
‘retiring to the country.’ In looking from the summit of a mountain we
cannot help feeling abroad in the world. The heart-sick avoid distant
prospects as a pestilence.”
It was not until toward the close of the fourth year of our search that we
found a locality with which Ellison professed himself satisfied. It is, of
course, needless to say where was the locality. The late death of my
friend, in causing his domain to be thrown open to certain classes of
visitors, has given to Arnheim a species of secret and subdued if not
solemn celebrity, similar in kind, although infinitely superior in degree,
to that which so long distinguished Fonthill.
The usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visitor left the city
in the early morning. During the forenoon he passed between shores of a
tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed innumerable sheep, their
white fleeces spotting the vivid green of rolling meadows. By degrees the
idea of cultivation subsided into that of merely pastoral care. This
slowly became merged in a sense of retirement—this again in a
consciousness of solitude. As the evening approached, the channel grew
more narrow; the banks more and more precipitous; and these latter were
clothed in rich, more profuse, and more sombre foliage. The water
increased in transparency. The stream took a thousand turns, so that at no
moment could its gleaming surface be seen for a greater distance than a
furlong. At every instant the vessel seemed imprisoned within an enchanted
circle, having insuperable and impenetrable walls of foliage, a roof of
ultramarine satin, and no floor—the keel balancing itself with
admirable nicety on that of a phantom bark which, by some accident having
been turned upside down, floated in constant company with the substantial
one, for the purpose of sustaining it. The channel now became a gorge—although
the term is somewhat inapplicable, and I employ it merely because the
language has no word which better represents the most striking—not
the most distinctive—feature of the scene. The character of gorge
was maintained only in the height and parallelism of the shores; it was
lost altogether in their other traits. The walls of the ravine (through
which the clear water still tranquilly flowed) arose to an elevation of a
hundred and occasionally of a hundred and fifty feet, and inclined so much
toward each other as, in a great measure, to shut out the light of day;
while the long plume-like moss which depended densely from the
intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm an air of funereal
gloom. The windings became more frequent and intricate, and seemed often
as if returning in upon themselves, so that the voyager had long lost all
idea of direction. He was, moreover, enwrapt in an exquisite sense of the
strange. The thought of nature still remained, but her character seemed to
have undergone modification, there was a weird symmetry, a thrilling
uniformity, a wizard propriety in these her works. Not a dead branch—not
a withered leaf—not a stray pebble—not a patch of the brown
earth was anywhere visible. The crystal water welled up against the clean
granite, or the unblemished moss, with a sharpness of outline that
delighted while it bewildered the eye.
Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the gloom
deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the vessel brought
it suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a circular basin of very
considerable extent when compared with the width of the gorge. It was
about two hundred yards in diameter, and girt in at all points but one—that
immediately fronting the vessel as it entered—by hills equal in
general height to the walls of the chasm, although of a thoroughly
different character. Their sides sloped from the water’s edge at an angle
of some forty-five degrees, and they were clothed from base to summit—not
a perceptible point escaping—in a drapery of the most gorgeous
flower-blossoms; scarcely a green leaf being visible among the sea of
odorous and fluctuating color. This basin was of great depth, but so
transparent was the water that the bottom, which seemed to consist of a
thick mass of small round alabaster pebbles, was distinctly visible by
glimpses—that is to say, whenever the eye could permit itself not to
see, far down in the inverted heaven, the duplicate blooming of the hills.
On these latter there were no trees, nor even shrubs of any size. The
impressions wrought on the observer were those of richness, warmth, color,
quietude, uniformity, softness, delicacy, daintiness, voluptuousness, and
a miraculous extremeness of culture that suggested dreams of a new race of
fairies, laborious, tasteful, magnificent, and fastidious; but as the eye
traced upward the myriad-tinted slope, from its sharp junction with the
water to its vague termination amid the folds of overhanging cloud, it
became, indeed, difficult not to fancy a panoramic cataract of rubies,
sapphires, opals, and golden onyxes, rolling silently out of the sky.
The visitor, shooting suddenly into this bay from out the gloom of the
ravine, is delighted but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun,
which he had supposed to be already far below the horizon, but which now
confronts him, and forms the sole termination of an otherwise limitless
vista seen through another chasm-like rift in the hills.
But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far, and
descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque devices in
vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and beak of this boat
arise high above the water, with sharp points, so that the general form is
that of an irregular crescent. It lies on the surface of the bay with the
proud grace of a swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single feathery
paddle of satin-wood; but no oarsmen or attendant is to be seen. The guest
is bidden to be of good cheer—that the fates will take care of him.
The larger vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which
lies apparently motionless in the middle of the lake. While he considers
what course to pursue, however, he becomes aware of a gentle movement in
the fairy bark. It slowly swings itself around until its prow points
toward the sun. It advances with a gentle but gradually accelerated
velocity, while the slight ripples it creates seem to break about the
ivory side in divinest melody—seem to offer the only possible explanation
of the soothing yet melancholy music for whose unseen origin the
bewildered voyager looks around him in vain.
The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is
approached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen. To the right
arise a chain of lofty hills rudely and luxuriantly wooded. It is
observed, however, that the trait of exquisite cleanness where the bank
dips into the water, still prevails. There is not one token of the usual
river . To the left the character of the scene is softer and more
obviously artificial. Here the bank slopes upward from the stream in a
very gentle ascent, forming a broad sward of grass of a texture resembling
nothing so much as velvet, and of a brilliancy of green which would bear
comparison with the tint of the purest emerald. This plateau varies in
width from ten to three hundred yards; reaching from the river-bank to a
wall, fifty feet high, which extends, in an infinity of curves, but
following the general direction of the river, until lost in the distance
to the westward. This wall is of one continuous rock, and has been formed
by cutting perpendicularly the once rugged precipice of the stream’s
southern bank, but no trace of the labor has been suffered to remain. The
chiselled stone has the hue of ages, and is profusely overhung and
overspread with the ivy, the coral honeysuckle, the eglantine, and the
clematis. The uniformity of the top and bottom lines of the wall is fully
relieved by occasional trees of gigantic height, growing singly or in
small groups, both along the plateau and in the domain behind the wall,
but in close proximity to it; so that frequent limbs (of the black walnut
especially) reach over and dip their pendent extremities into the water.
Farther back within the domain, the vision is impeded by an impenetrable
screen of foliage.
These things are observed during the canoe’s gradual approach to what I
have called the gate of the vista. On drawing nearer to this, however, its
chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet from the bay is discovered to
the left—in which direction the wall is also seen to sweep, still
following the general course of the stream. Down this new opening the eye
cannot penetrate very far; for the stream, accompanied by the wall, still
bends to the left, until both are swallowed up by the leaves.
The boat, nevertheless, glides magically into the winding channel; and
here the shore opposite the wall is found to resemble that opposite the
wall in the straight vista. Lofty hills, rising occasionally into
mountains, and covered with vegetation in wild luxuriance, still shut in
the scene.
Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the
voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress apparently barred by a
gigantic gate or rather door of burnished gold, elaborately carved and
fretted, and reflecting the direct rays of the now fast-sinking sun with
an effulgence that seems to wreath the whole surrounding forest in flames.
This gate is inserted in the lofty wall; which here appears to cross the
river at right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the main
body of the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive curve to the
left, the wall following it as before, while a stream of considerable
volume, diverging from the principal one, makes its way, with a slight
ripple, under the door, and is thus hidden from sight. The canoe falls
into the lesser channel and approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are
slowly and musically expanded. The boat glides between them, and commences
a rapid descent into a vast amphitheatre entirely begirt with purple
mountains, whose bases are laved by a gleaming river throughout the full
extent of their circuit. Meantime the whole Paradise of Arnheim bursts
upon the view. There is a gush of entrancing melody; there is an
oppressive sense of strange sweet odor;—there is a dream-like
intermingling to the eye of tall slender Eastern trees—bosky
shrubberies—flocks of golden and crimson birds—lily-fringed
lakes—meadows of violets, tulips, poppies, hyacinths, and tuberoses—long
intertangled lines of silver streamlets—and, upspringing confusedly
from amid all, a mass of semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic architecture
sustaining itself by miracle in mid-air, glittering in the red sunlight
with a hundred oriels, minarets, and pinnacles; and seeming the phantom
handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the Genii and of
the Gnomes.
LANDOR’S COTTAGE
A Pendant to “The Domain of Arnheim”
During A pedestrian trip last summer, through one or two of the river
counties of New York, I found myself, as the day declined, somewhat
embarrassed about the road I was pursuing. The land undulated very
remarkably; and my path, for the last hour, had wound about and about so
confusedly, in its effort to keep in the valleys, that I no longer knew in
what direction lay the sweet village of B——, where I had
determined to stop for the night. The sun had scarcely shone—strictly
speaking—during the day, which nevertheless, had been unpleasantly
warm. A smoky mist, resembling that of the Indian summer, enveloped all
things, and of course, added to my uncertainty. Not that I cared much
about the matter. If I did not hit upon the village before sunset, or even
before dark, it was more than possible that a little Dutch farmhouse, or
something of that kind, would soon make its appearance—although, in
fact, the neighborhood (perhaps on account of being more picturesque than
fertile) was very sparsely inhabited. At all events, with my knapsack for
a pillow, and my hound as a sentry, a bivouac in the open air was just the
thing which would have amused me. I sauntered on, therefore, quite at ease—Ponto
taking charge of my gun—until at length, just as I had begun to
consider whether the numerous little glades that led hither and thither,
were intended to be paths at all, I was conducted by one of them into an
unquestionable carriage track. There could be no mistaking it. The traces
of light wheels were evident; and although the tall shrubberies and
overgrown undergrowth met overhead, there was no obstruction whatever
below, even to the passage of a Virginian mountain wagon—the most
aspiring vehicle, I take it, of its kind. The road, however, except in
being open through the wood—if wood be not too weighty a name for
such an assemblage of light trees—and except in the particulars of
evident wheel-tracks—bore no resemblance to any road I had before
seen. The tracks of which I speak were but faintly perceptible—having
been impressed upon the firm, yet pleasantly moist surface of—what
looked more like green Genoese velvet than any thing else. It was grass,
clearly—but grass such as we seldom see out of England—so
short, so thick, so even, and so vivid in color. Not a single impediment
lay in the wheel-route—not even a chip or dead twig. The stones that
once obstructed the way had been carefully —not thrown—along
the sides of the lane, so as to define its boundaries at bottom with a
kind of half-precise, half-negligent, and wholly picturesque definition.
Clumps of wild flowers grew everywhere, luxuriantly, in the interspaces.
What to make of all this, of course I knew not. Here was art undoubtedly—that
did not surprise me—all roads, in the ordinary sense, are works of
art; nor can I say that there was much to wonder at in the mere excess of
art manifested; all that seemed to have been done, might have been done
here—with such natural “capabilities” (as they have it in the books
on Landscape Gardening)—with very little labor and expense. No; it
was not the amount but the character of the art which caused me to take a
seat on one of the blossomy stones and gaze up and down this fairy-like
avenue for half an hour or more in bewildered admiration. One thing became
more and more evident the longer I gazed: an artist, and one with a most
scrupulous eye for form, had superintended all these arrangements. The
greatest care had been taken to preserve a due medium between the neat and
graceful on the one hand, and the pittoresque, in the true sense of the
Italian term, on the other. There were few straight, and no long
uninterrupted lines. The same effect of curvature or of color appeared
twice, usually, but not oftener, at any one point of view. Everywhere was
variety in uniformity. It was a piece of “composition,” in which the most
fastidiously critical taste could scarcely have suggested an emendation.
I had turned to the right as I entered this road, and now, arising, I
continued in the same direction. The path was so serpentine, that at no
moment could I trace its course for more than two or three paces in
advance. Its character did not undergo any material change.
Presently the murmur of water fell gently upon my ear—and in a few
moments afterward, as I turned with the road somewhat more abruptly than
hitherto, I became aware that a building of some kind lay at the foot of a
gentle declivity just before me. I could see nothing distinctly on account
of the mist which occupied all the little valley below. A gentle breeze,
however, now arose, as the sun was about descending; and while I remained
standing on the brow of the slope, the fog gradually became dissipated
into wreaths, and so floated over the scene.
As it came fully into view—thus gradually as I describe it—piece
by piece, here a tree, there a glimpse of water, and here again the summit
of a chimney, I could scarcely help fancying that the whole was one of the
ingenious illusions sometimes exhibited under the name of “vanishing
pictures.”
By the time, however, that the fog had thoroughly disappeared, the sun had
made its way down behind the gentle hills, and thence, as if with a slight
chassez to the south, had come again fully into sight, glaring with a
purplish lustre through a chasm that entered the valley from the west.
Suddenly, therefore—and as if by the hand of magic—this whole
valley and every thing in it became brilliantly visible.
The first , as the sun slid into the position described,
impressed me very much as I have been impressed, when a boy, by the
concluding scene of some well-arranged theatrical spectacle or melodrama.
Not even the monstrosity of color was wanting; for the sunlight came out
through the chasm, tinted all orange and purple; while the vivid green of
the grass in the valley was reflected more or less upon all objects from
the curtain of vapor that still hung overhead, as if loth to take its
total departure from a scene so enchantingly beautiful.
The little vale into which I thus peered down from under the fog canopy
could not have been more than four hundred yards long; while in breadth it
varied from fifty to one hundred and fifty or perhaps two hundred. It was
most narrow at its northern extremity, opening out as it tended
southwardly, but with no very precise regularity. The widest portion was
within eighty yards of the southern extreme. The slopes which encompassed
the vale could not fairly be called hills, unless at their northern face.
Here a precipitous ledge of granite arose to a height of some ninety feet;
and, as I have mentioned, the valley at this point was not more than fifty
feet wide; but as the visitor proceeded southwardly from the cliff, he
found on his right hand and on his left, declivities at once less high,
less precipitous, and less rocky. All, in a word, sloped and softened to
the south; and yet the whole vale was engirdled by eminences, more or less
high, except at two points. One of these I have already spoken of. It lay
considerably to the north of west, and was where the setting sun made its
way, as I have before described, into the amphitheatre, through a cleanly
cut natural cleft in the granite embankment; this fissure might have been
ten yards wide at its widest point, so far as the eye could trace it. It
seemed to lead up, up like a natural causeway, into the recesses of
unexplored mountains and forests. The other opening was directly at the
southern end of the vale. Here, generally, the slopes were nothing more
than gentle inclinations, extending from east to west about one hundred
and fifty yards. In the middle of this extent was a depression, level with
the ordinary floor of the valley. As regards vegetation, as well as in
respect to every thing else, the scene softened and sloped to the south.
To the north—on the craggy precipice—a few paces from the
verge—up sprang the magnificent trunks of numerous hickories, black
walnuts, and chestnuts, interspersed with occasional oak; and the strong
lateral branches thrown out by the walnuts especially, spread far over the
edge of the cliff. Proceeding southwardly, the explorer saw, at first, the
same class of trees, but less and less lofty and Salvatorish in character;
then he saw the gentler elm, succeeded by the sassafras and locust—these
again by the softer linden, red-bud, catalpa, and maple—these yet
again by still more graceful and more modest varieties. The whole face of
the southern declivity was covered with wild shrubbery alone—an
occasional silver willow or white poplar excepted. In the bottom of the
valley itself—(for it must be borne in mind that the vegetation
hitherto mentioned grew only on the cliffs or hillsides)—were to be
seen three insulated trees. One was an elm of fine size and exquisite
form: it stood guard over the southern gate of the vale. Another was a
hickory, much larger than the elm, and altogether a much finer tree,
although both were exceedingly beautiful: it seemed to have taken charge
of the northwestern entrance, springing from a group of rocks in the very
jaws of the ravine, and throwing its graceful body, at an angle of nearly
forty-five degrees, far out into the sunshine of the amphitheatre. About
thirty yards east of this tree stood, however, the pride of the valley,
and beyond all question the most magnificent tree I have ever seen,
unless, perhaps, among the cypresses of the Itchiatuckanee. It was a
triple-stemmed tulip-tree—the Liriodendron Tulipiferum—one of
the natural order of magnolias. Its three trunks separated from the parent
at about three feet from the soil, and diverging very slightly and
gradually, were not more than four feet apart at the point where the
largest stem shot out into foliage: this was at an elevation of about
eighty feet. The whole height of the principal division was one hundred
and twenty feet. Nothing can surpass in beauty the form, or the glossy,
vivid green of the leaves of the tulip-tree. In the present instance they
were fully eight inches wide; but their glory was altogether eclipsed by
the gorgeous splendor of the profuse blossoms. Conceive, closely
congregated, a million of the largest and most resplendent tulips! Only
thus can the reader get any idea of the picture I would convey. And then
the stately grace of the clean, delicately-granulated columnar stems, the
largest four feet in diameter, at twenty from the ground. The innumerable
blossoms, mingling with those of other trees scarcely less beautiful,
although infinitely less majestic, filled the valley with more than
Arabian perfumes.
The general floor of the amphitheatre was grass of the same character as
that I had found in the road; if anything, more deliciously soft, thick,
velvety, and miraculously green. It was hard to conceive how all this
beauty had been attained.
I have spoken of two openings into the vale. From the one to the northwest
issued a rivulet, which came, gently murmuring and slightly foaming, down
the ravine, until it dashed against the group of rocks out of which sprang
the insulated hickory. Here, after encircling the tree, it passed on a
little to the north of east, leaving the tulip tree some twenty feet to
the south, and making no decided alteration in its course until it came
near the midway between the eastern and western boundaries of the valley.
At this point, after a series of sweeps, it turned off at right angles and
pursued a generally southern direction meandering as it went—until
it became lost in a small lake of irregular figure (although roughly
oval), that lay gleaming near the lower extremity of the vale. This
lakelet was, perhaps, a hundred yards in diameter at its widest part. No
crystal could be clearer than its waters. Its bottom, which could be
distinctly seen, consisted altogether, of pebbles brilliantly white. Its
banks, of the emerald grass already described, rounded, rather than
sloped, off into the clear heaven below; and so clear was this heaven, so
perfectly, at times, did it reflect all objects above it, that where the
true bank ended and where the mimic one commenced, it was a point of no
little difficulty to determine. The trout, and some other varieties of
fish, with which this pond seemed to be almost inconveniently crowded, had
all the appearance of veritable flying-fish. It was almost impossible to
believe that they were not absolutely suspended in the air. A light birch
canoe that lay placidly on the water, was reflected in its minutest fibres
with a fidelity unsurpassed by the most exquisitely polished mirror. A
small island, fairly laughing with flowers in full bloom, and affording
little more space than just enough for a picturesque little building,
seemingly a fowl-house—arose from the lake not far from its northern
shore—to which it was connected by means of an inconceivably light-looking
and yet very primitive bridge. It was formed of a single, broad and thick
plank of the tulip wood. This was forty feet long, and spanned the
interval between shore and shore with a slight but very perceptible arch,
preventing all oscillation. From the southern extreme of the lake issued a
continuation of the rivulet, which, after meandering for, perhaps, thirty
yards, finally passed through the “depression” (already described) in the
middle of the southern declivity, and tumbling down a sheer precipice of a
hundred feet, made its devious and unnoticed way to the Hudson.
The lake was deep—at some points thirty feet—but the rivulet
seldom exceeded three, while its greatest width was about eight. Its
bottom and banks were as those of the pond—if a defect could have
been attributed, in point of picturesqueness, it was that of excessive
neatness.
The expanse of the green turf was relieved, here and there, by an
occasional showy shrub, such as the hydrangea, or the common snowball, or
the aromatic seringa; or, more frequently, by a clump of geraniums
blossoming gorgeously in great varieties. These latter grew in pots which
were carefully buried in the soil, so as to give the plants the appearance
of being indigenous. Besides all this, the lawn’s velvet was exquisitely
spotted with sheep—a considerable flock of which roamed about the
vale, in company with three tamed deer, and a vast number of
brilliantly-plumed ducks. A very large mastiff seemed to be in vigilant
attendance upon these animals, each and all.
Along the eastern and western cliffs—where, toward the upper portion
of the amphitheatre, the boundaries were more or less precipitous—grew
ivy in great profusion—so that only here and there could even a
glimpse of the naked rock be obtained. The northern precipice, in like
manner, was almost entirely clothed by grape-vines of rare luxuriance;
some springing from the soil at the base of the cliff, and others from
ledges on its face.
The slight elevation which formed the lower boundary of this little
domain, was crowned by a neat stone wall, of sufficient height to prevent
the escape of the deer. Nothing of the fence kind was observable
elsewhere; for nowhere else was an artificial enclosure needed:—any
stray sheep, for example, which should attempt to make its way out of the
vale by means of the ravine, would find its progress arrested, after a few
yards’ advance, by the precipitous ledge of rock over which tumbled the
cascade that had arrested my attention as I first drew near the domain. In
short, the only ingress or egress was through a gate occupying a rocky
pass in the road, a few paces below the point at which I stopped to
reconnoitre the scene.
I have described the brook as meandering very irregularly through the
whole of its course. Its two general directions, as I have said, were
first from west to east, and then from north to south. At the turn, the
stream, sweeping backward, made an almost circular loop, so as to form a
peninsula which was very nearly an island, and which included about the
sixteenth of an acre. On this peninsula stood a dwelling-house—and
when I say that this house, like the infernal terrace seen by Vathek,
“etait d’une architecture inconnue dans les annales de la terre,” I mean,
merely, that its tout ensemble struck me with the keenest sense of
combined novelty and propriety—in a word, of poetry—(for, than
in the words just employed, I could scarcely give, of poetry in the
abstract, a more rigorous definition)—and I do not mean that merely
outre was perceptible in any respect.
In fact nothing could well be more simple—more utterly unpretending
than this cottage. Its marvellous effect lay altogether in its artistic
arrangement as a picture. I could have fancied, while I looked at it, that
some eminent landscape-painter had built it with his brush.
The point of view from which I first saw the valley, was not altogether,
although it was nearly, the best point from which to survey the house. I
will therefore describe it as I afterwards saw it—from a position on
the stone wall at the southern extreme of the amphitheatre.
The main building was about twenty-four feet long and sixteen broad—certainly
not more. Its total height, from the ground to the apex of the roof, could
not have exceeded eighteen feet. To the west end of this structure was
attached one about a third smaller in all its proportions:—the line
of its front standing back about two yards from that of the larger house,
and the line of its roof, of course, being considerably depressed below
that of the roof adjoining. At right angles to these buildings, and from
the rear of the main one—not exactly in the middle—extended a
third compartment, very small—being, in general, one-third less than
the western wing. The roofs of the two larger were very steep—sweeping
down from the ridge-beam with a long concave curve, and extending at least
four feet beyond the walls in front, so as to form the roofs of two
piazzas. These latter roofs, of course, needed no support; but as they had
the air of needing it, slight and perfectly plain pillars were inserted at
the corners alone. The roof of the northern wing was merely an extension
of a portion of the main roof. Between the chief building and western wing
arose a very tall and rather slender square chimney of hard Dutch bricks,
alternately black and red:—a slight cornice of projecting bricks at
the top. Over the gables the roofs also projected very much:—in the
main building about four feet to the east and two to the west. The
principal door was not exactly in the main division, being a little to the
east—while the two windows were to the west. These latter did not
extend to the floor, but were much longer and narrower than usual—they
had single shutters like doors—the panes were of lozenge form, but
quite large. The door itself had its upper half of glass, also in lozenge
panes—a movable shutter secured it at night. The door to the west
wing was in its gable, and quite simple—a single window looked out
to the south. There was no external door to the north wing, and it also
had only one window to the east.
The blank wall of the eastern gable was relieved by stairs (with a
balustrade) running diagonally across it—the ascent being from the
south. Under cover of the widely projecting eave these steps gave access
to a door leading to the garret, or rather loft—for it was lighted
only by a single window to the north, and seemed to have been intended as
a store-room.
The piazzas of the main building and western wing had no floors, as is
usual; but at the doors and at each window, large, flat irregular slabs of
granite lay imbedded in the delicious turf, affording comfortable footing
in all weather. Excellent paths of the same material—not nicely
adapted, but with the velvety sod filling frequent intervals between the
stones, led hither and thither from the house, to a crystal spring about
five paces off, to the road, or to one or two out-houses that lay to the
north, beyond the brook, and were thoroughly concealed by a few locusts
and catalpas.
Not more than six steps from the main door of the cottage stood the dead
trunk of a fantastic pear-tree, so clothed from head to foot in the
gorgeous bignonia blossoms that one required no little scrutiny to
determine what manner of sweet thing it could be. From various arms of
this tree hung cages of different kinds. In one, a large wicker cylinder
with a ring at top, revelled a mocking bird; in another an oriole; in a
third the impudent bobolink—while three or four more delicate
prisons were loudly vocal with canaries.
The pillars of the piazza were enwreathed in jasmine and sweet
honeysuckle; while from the angle formed by the main structure and its
west wing, in front, sprang a grape-vine of unexampled luxuriance.
Scorning all restraint, it had clambered first to the lower roof—then
to the higher; and along the ridge of this latter it continued to writhe
on, throwing out tendrils to the right and left, until at length it fairly
attained the east gable, and fell trailing over the stairs.
The whole house, with its wings, was constructed of the old-fashioned
Dutch shingles—broad, and with unrounded corners. It is a
peculiarity of this material to give houses built of it the appearance of
being wider at bottom than at top—after the manner of Egyptian
architecture; and in the present instance, this exceedingly picturesque
effect was aided by numerous pots of gorgeous flowers that almost
encompassed the base of the buildings.
The shingles were painted a dull gray; and the happiness with which this
neutral tint melted into the vivid green of the tulip tree leaves that
partially overshadowed the cottage, can readily be conceived by an artist.
From the position near the stone wall, as described, the buildings were
seen at great advantage—for the southeastern angle was thrown
forward—so that the eye took in at once the whole of the two fronts,
with the picturesque eastern gable, and at the same time obtained just a
sufficient glimpse of the northern wing, with parts of a pretty roof to
the spring-house, and nearly half of a light bridge that spanned the brook
in the near vicinity of the main buildings.
I did not remain very long on the brow of the hill, although long enough
to make a thorough survey of the scene at my feet. It was clear that I had
wandered from the road to the village, and I had thus good traveller’s
excuse to open the gate before me, and inquire my way, at all events; so,
without more ado, I proceeded.
The road, after passing the gate, seemed to lie upon a natural ledge,
sloping gradually down along the face of the north-eastern cliffs. It led
me on to the foot of the northern precipice, and thence over the bridge,
round by the eastern gable to the front door. In this progress, I took
notice that no sight of the out-houses could be obtained.
As I turned the corner of the gable, the mastiff bounded towards me in
stern silence, but with the eye and the whole air of a tiger. I held him
out my hand, however, in token of amity—and I never yet knew the dog
who was proof against such an appeal to his courtesy. He not only shut his
mouth and wagged his tail, but absolutely offered me his paw—afterward
extending his civilities to Ponto.
As no bell was discernible, I rapped with my stick against the door, which
stood half open. Instantly a figure advanced to the threshold—that
of a young woman about twenty-eight years of age—slender, or rather
slight, and somewhat above the medium height. As she approached, with a
certain modest decision of step altogether indescribable. I said to
myself, “Surely here I have found the perfection of natural, in
contradistinction from artificial grace.” The second impression which she
made on me, but by far the more vivid of the two, was that of enthusiasm.
So intense an expression of romance, perhaps I should call it, or of
unworldliness, as that which gleamed from her deep-set eyes, had never so
sunk into my heart of hearts before. I know not how it is, but this
peculiar expression of the eye, wreathing itself occasionally into the
lips, is the most powerful, if not absolutely the sole spell, which rivets
my interest in woman. “Romance,” provided my readers fully comprehended
what I would here imply by the word—“romance” and “womanliness” seem
to me convertible terms: and, after all, what man truly loves in woman, is
simply her womanhood. The eyes of Annie (I heard some one from the
interior call her “Annie, darling!”) were “spiritual grey;” her hair, a
light chestnut: this is all I had time to observe of her.
At her most courteous of invitations, I entered—passing first into a
tolerably wide vestibule. Having come mainly to observe, I took notice
that to my right as I stepped in, was a window, such as those in front of
the house; to the left, a door leading into the principal room; while,
opposite me, an open door enabled me to see a small apartment, just the
size of the vestibule, arranged as a study, and having a large bow window
looking out to the north.
Passing into the parlor, I found myself with Mr. Landor—for this, I
afterwards found, was his name. He was civil, even cordial in his manner,
but just then, I was more intent on observing the arrangements of the
dwelling which had so much interested me, than the personal appearance of
the tenant.
The north wing, I now saw, was a bed-chamber, its door opened into the
parlor. West of this door was a single window, looking toward the brook.
At the west end of the parlor, were a fireplace, and a door leading into
the west wing—probably a kitchen.
Nothing could be more rigorously simple than the furniture of the parlor.
On the floor was an ingrain carpet, of excellent texture—a white
ground, spotted with small circular green figures. At the windows were
curtains of snowy white jaconet muslin: they were tolerably full, and hung
decisively, perhaps rather formally in sharp, parallel plaits to the floor—just
to the floor. The walls were prepared with a French paper of great
delicacy, a silver ground, with a faint green cord running zig-zag
throughout. Its expanse was relieved merely by three of Julien’s exquisite
lithographs a trois crayons, fastened to the wall without frames. One of
these drawings was a scene of Oriental luxury, or rather voluptuousness;
another was a “carnival piece,” spirited beyond compare; the third was a
Greek female head—a face so divinely beautiful, and yet of an
expression so provokingly indeterminate, never before arrested my
attention.
The more substantial furniture consisted of a round table, a few chairs
(including a large rocking-chair), and a sofa, or rather “settee;” its
material was plain maple painted a creamy white, slightly interstriped
with green; the seat of cane. The chairs and table were “to match,” but
the forms of all had evidently been designed by the same brain which
planned “the grounds;” it is impossible to conceive anything more
graceful.
On the table were a few books; a large, square, crystal bottle of some
novel perfume; a plain ground glass (not solar) lamp with an
Italian shade; and a large vase of resplendently-blooming flowers.
Flowers, indeed, of gorgeous colours and delicate odour formed the sole
mere decoration of the apartment. The fire-place was nearly filled with a
vase of brilliant geranium. On a triangular shelf in each angle of the
room stood also a similar vase, varied only as to its lovely contents. One
or two smaller bouquets adorned the mantel, and late violets clustered
about the open windows.
It is not the purpose of this work to do more than give in detail, a
picture of Mr. Landor’s residence—as I found it. How he made it what
it was—and why—with some particulars of Mr. Landor himself—may,
possibly form the subject of another article.
WILLIAM WILSON
What say of it? what say of grim,<br />
That spectre in my path?<br />
—
Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now
lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation. This has
been already too much an object for the scorn—for the horror—for
the detestation of my race. To the uttermost regions of the globe have not
the indignant winds bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all
outcasts most abandoned!—to the earth art thou not forever dead? to
its honors, to its flowers, to its golden aspirations?—and a cloud,
dense, dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes
and heaven?
I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my later years
of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. This epoch—these
later years—took unto themselves a sudden elevation in turpitude,
whose origin alone it is my present purpose to assign. Men usually grow
base by degrees. From me, in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a
mantle. From comparatively trivial wickedness I passed, with the stride of
a giant, into more than the enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance—what
one event brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate.
Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a softening
influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through the dim valley, for
the sympathy—I had nearly said for the pity—of my fellow men.
I would fain have them believe that I have been, in some measure, the
slave of circumstances beyond human control. I would wish them to seek out
for me, in the details I am about to give, some little oasis of fatality
amid a wilderness of error. I would have them allow—what they cannot
refrain from allowing—that, although temptation may have erewhile
existed as great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before—certainly,
never thus fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus suffered? Have
I not indeed been living in a dream? And am I not now dying a victim to
the horror and the mystery of the wildest of all sublunary visions?
I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable
temperament has at all times rendered them remarkable; and, in my earliest
infancy, I gave evidence of having fully inherited the family character.
As I advanced in years it was more strongly developed; becoming, for many
reasons, a cause of serious disquietude to my friends, and of positive
injury to myself. I grew self-willed, addicted to the wildest caprices,
and a prey to the most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and beset with
constitutional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could do but little
to check the evil propensities which distinguished me. Some feeble and
ill-directed efforts resulted in complete failure on their part, and, of
course, in total triumph on mine. Thenceforward my voice was a household
law; and at an age when few children have abandoned their leading-strings,
I was left to the guidance of my own will, and became, in all but name,
the master of my own actions.
My earliest recollections of a school-life, are connected with a large,
rambling, Elizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of England, where
were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees, and where all the houses
were excessively ancient. In truth, it was a dream-like and
spirit-soothing place, that venerable old town. At this moment, in fancy,
I feel the refreshing chilliness of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale
the fragrance of its thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with
undefinable delight, at the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking,
each hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky
atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay imbedded and asleep.
It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any manner
experience, to dwell upon minute recollections of the school and its
concerns. Steeped in misery as I am—misery, alas! only too real—I
shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight and temporary, in the
weakness of a few rambling details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and
even ridiculous in themselves, assume, to my fancy, adventitious
importance, as connected with a period and a locality when and where I
recognise the first ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so
fully overshadowed me. Let me then remember.
The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were extensive,
and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken
glass, encompassed the whole. This prison-like rampart formed the limit of
our domain; beyond it we saw but thrice a week—once every Saturday
afternoon, when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take brief
walks in a body through some of the neighbouring fields—and twice
during Sunday, when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the
morning and evening service in the one church of the village. Of this
church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of
wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote pew in the
gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he ascended the pulpit! This
reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, with robes so glossy
and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so
vast,—-could this be he who, of late, with sour visage, and in
snuffy habiliments, administered, ferule in hand, the Draconian laws of
the academy? Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution!
At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate. It was
riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron
spikes. What impressions of deep awe did it inspire! It was never opened
save for the three periodical egressions and ingressions already
mentioned; then, in every creak of its mighty hinges, we found a plenitude
of mystery—a world of matter for solemn remark, or for more solemn
meditation.
The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many capacious
recesses. Of these, three or four of the largest constituted the
play-ground. It was level, and covered with fine hard gravel. I well
remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor anything similar within it. Of
course it was in the rear of the house. In front lay a small parterre,
planted with box and other shrubs, but through this sacred division we
passed only upon rare occasions indeed—such as a first advent to
school or final departure thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend
having called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or
Midsummer holidays.
But the house!—how quaint an old building was this!—to me how
veritably a palace of enchantment! There was really no end to its windings—to
its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult, at any given time, to
say with certainty upon which of its two stories one happened to be. From
each room to every other there were sure to be found three or four steps
either in ascent or descent. Then the lateral branches were innumerable—inconceivable—and
so returning in upon themselves, that our most exact ideas in regard to
the whole mansion were not very far different from those with which we
pondered upon infinity. During the five years of my residence here, I was
never able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality lay the
little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or twenty
other scholars.
The school-room was the largest in the house—I could not help
thinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow, and dismally low, with
pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a remote and
terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight or ten feet,
comprising the sanctum, “during hours,” of our principal, the Reverend Dr.
Bransby. It was a solid structure, with massy door, sooner than open which
in the absence of the “Dominie,” we would all have willingly perished by
the . In other angles were two other similar boxes, far
less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of these
was the pulpit of the “classical” usher, one of the “English and
mathematical.” Interspersed about the room, crossing and recrossing in
endless irregularity, were innumerable benches and desks, black, ancient,
and time-worn, piled desperately with much-bethumbed books, and so
beseamed with initial letters, names at full length, grotesque figures,
and other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to have entirely lost what
little of original form might have been their portion in days long
departed. A huge bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room, and
a clock of stupendous dimensions at the other.
Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I passed, yet
not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third lustrum of my life. The
teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident to
occupy or amuse it; and the apparently dismal monotony of a school was
replete with more intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from
luxury, or my full manhood from crime. Yet I must believe that my first
mental development had in it much of the uncommon—even much of the
. Upon mankind at large the events of very early existence rarely
leave in mature age any definite impression. All is gray shadow—a
weak and irregular remembrance—an indistinct regathering of feeble
pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me this is not so. In childhood I
must have felt with the energy of a man what I now find stamped upon
memory in lines as vivid, as deep, and as durable as the of the
Carthaginian medals.
Yet in fact—in the fact of the world’s view—how little was
there to remember! The morning’s awakening, the nightly summons to bed;
the connings, the recitations; the periodical half-holidays, and
perambulations; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes, its
intrigues;—these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to
involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, an universe
of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring.
“”
In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my
disposition, soon rendered me a marked character among my schoolmates, and
by slow, but natural gradations, gave me an ascendancy over all not
greatly older than myself;—over all with a single exception. This
exception was found in the person of a scholar, who, although no relation,
bore the same Christian and surname as myself;—a circumstance, in
fact, little remarkable; for, notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was
one of those everyday appellations which seem, by prescriptive right, to
have been, time out of mind, the common property of the mob. In this
narrative I have therefore designated myself as William Wilson,—a
fictitious title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake alone, of
those who in school phraseology constituted “our set,” presumed to compete
with me in the studies of the class—in the sports and broils of the
play-ground—to refuse implicit belief in my assertions, and
submission to my will—indeed, to interfere with my arbitrary
dictation in any respect whatsoever. If there is on earth a supreme and
unqualified despotism, it is the despotism of a master-mind in boyhood
over the less energetic spirits of its companions.
Wilson’s rebellion was to me a source of the greatest embarrassment; the
more so as, in spite of the bravado with which in public I made a point of
treating him and his pretensions, I secretly felt that I feared him, and
could not help thinking the equality which he maintained so easily with
myself, a proof of his true superiority; since not to be overcome cost me
a perpetual struggle. Yet this superiority—even this equality—was
in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our associates, by some
unaccountable blindness, seemed not even to suspect it. Indeed, his
competition, his resistance, and especially his impertinent and dogged
interference with my purposes, were not more pointed than private. He
appeared to be destitute alike of the ambition which urged, and of the
passionate energy of mind which enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he
might have been supposed actuated solely by a whimsical desire to thwart,
astonish, or mortify myself; although there were times when I could not
help observing, with a feeling made up of wonder, abasement, and pique,
that he mingled with his injuries, his insults, or his contradictions, a
certain most inappropriate, and assuredly most unwelcome affectionateness
of manner. I could only conceive this singular behavior to arise from a
consummate self-conceit assuming the vulgar airs of patronage and
protection.
Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson’s conduct, conjoined with our
identity of name, and the mere accident of our having entered the school
upon the same day, which set afloat the notion that we were brothers,
among the senior classes in the academy. These do not usually inquire with
much strictness into the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or
should have said, that Wilson was not, in the most remote degree,
connected with my family. But assuredly if we had been brothers we must
have been twins; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby’s, I casually learned that
my namesake was born on the nineteenth of January, 1813—and this is
a somewhat remarkable coincidence; for the day is precisely that of my own
nativity.
It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety occasioned me
by the rivalry of Wilson, and his intolerable spirit of contradiction, I
could not bring myself to hate him altogether. We had, to be sure, nearly
every day a quarrel in which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory,
he, in some manner, contrived to make me feel that it was he who had
deserved it; yet a sense of pride on my part, and a veritable dignity on
his own, kept us always upon what are called “speaking terms,” while there
were many points of strong congeniality in our tempers, operating to awake
me in a sentiment which our position alone, perhaps, prevented from
ripening into friendship. It is difficult, indeed, to define, or even to
describe, my real feelings towards him. They formed a motley and
heterogeneous admixture;—some petulant animosity, which was not yet
hatred, some esteem, more respect, much fear, with a world of uneasy
curiosity. To the moralist it will be unnecessary to say, in addition,
that Wilson and myself were the most inseparable of companions.
It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing between us, which
turned all my attacks upon him, (and they were many, either open or
covert) into the channel of banter or practical joke (giving pain while
assuming the aspect of mere fun) rather than into a more serious and
determined hostility. But my endeavours on this head were by no means
uniformly successful, even when my plans were the most wittily concocted;
for my namesake had much about him, in character, of that unassuming and
quiet austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy of its own jokes, has
no heel of Achilles in itself, and absolutely refuses to be laughed at. I
could find, indeed, but one vulnerable point, and that, lying in a
personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from constitutional disease, would
have been spared by any antagonist less at his wit’s end than myself;—my
rival had a weakness in the faucal or guttural organs, which precluded him
from raising his voice at any time above a very low whisper. Of this
defect I did not fail to take what poor advantage lay in my power.
Wilson’s retaliations in kind were many; and there was one form of his
practical wit that disturbed me beyond measure. How his sagacity first
discovered at all that so petty a thing would vex me, is a question I
never could solve; but, having discovered, he habitually practised the
annoyance. I had always felt aversion to my uncourtly patronymic, and its
very common, if not plebeian praenomen. The words were venom in my ears;
and when, upon the day of my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to
the academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name, and doubly
disgusted with the name because a stranger bore it, who would be the cause
of its twofold repetition, who would be constantly in my presence, and
whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of the school business, must
inevitably, on account of the detestable coincidence, be often confounded
with my own.
The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every
circumstance tending to show resemblance, moral or physical, between my
rival and myself. I had not then discovered the remarkable fact that we
were of the same age; but I saw that we were of the same height, and I
perceived that we were even singularly alike in general contour of person
and outline of feature. I was galled, too, by the rumor touching a
relationship, which had grown current in the upper forms. In a word,
nothing could more seriously disturb me, (although I scrupulously
concealed such disturbance,) than any allusion to a similarity of mind,
person, or condition existing between us. But, in truth, I had no reason
to believe that (with the exception of the matter of relationship, and in
the case of Wilson himself,) this similarity had ever been made a subject
of comment, or even observed at all by our schoolfellows. That he observed
it in all its bearings, and as fixedly as I, was apparent; but that he
could discover in such circumstances so fruitful a field of annoyance, can
only be attributed, as I said before, to his more than ordinary
penetration.
His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in words
and in actions; and most admirably did he play his part. My dress it was
an easy matter to copy; my gait and general manner were, without
difficulty, appropriated; in spite of his constitutional defect, even my
voice did not escape him. My louder tones were, of course, unattempted,
but then the key—it was identical; .
How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me, (for it could not
justly be termed a caricature,) I will not now venture to describe. I had
but one consolation—in the fact that the imitation, apparently, was
noticed by myself alone, and that I had to endure only the knowing and
strangely sarcastic smiles of my namesake himself. Satisfied with having
produced in my bosom the intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret
over the sting he had inflicted, and was characteristically disregardful
of the public applause which the success of his witty endeavours might
have so easily elicited. That the school, indeed, did not feel his design,
perceive its accomplishment, and participate in his sneer, was, for many
anxious months, a riddle I could not resolve. Perhaps the gradation of his
copy rendered it not so readily perceptible; or, more possibly, I owed my
security to the master air of the copyist, who, disdaining the letter,
(which in a painting is all the obtuse can see,) gave but the full spirit
of his original for my individual contemplation and chagrin.
I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of patronage
which he assumed toward me, and of his frequent officious interference
with my will. This interference often took the ungracious character of
advice; advice not openly given, but hinted or insinuated. I received it
with a repugnance which gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this
distant day, let me do him the simple justice to acknowledge that I can
recall no occasion when the suggestions of my rival were on the side of
those errors or follies so usual to his immature age and seeming
inexperience; that his moral sense, at least, if not his general talents
and worldly wisdom, was far keener than my own; and that I might, to-day,
have been a better, and thus a happier man, had I less frequently rejected
the counsels embodied in those meaning whispers which I then but too
cordially hated and too bitterly despised.
As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme under his distasteful
supervision, and daily resented more and more openly what I considered his
intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in the first years of our
connexion as schoolmates, my feelings in regard to him might have been
easily ripened into friendship; but, in the latter months of my residence
at the academy, although the intrusion of his ordinary manner had, beyond
doubt, in some measure, abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar
proportion, partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one occasion he saw
this, I think, and afterwards avoided, or made a show of avoiding me.
It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an
altercation of violence with him, in which he was more than usually thrown
off his guard, and spoke and acted with an openness of demeanor rather
foreign to his nature, I discovered, or fancied I discovered, in his
accent, his air, and general appearance, a something which first startled,
and then deeply interested me, by bringing to mind dim visions of my
earliest infancy—wild, confused and thronging memories of a time
when memory herself was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the sensation
which oppressed me than by saying that I could with difficulty shake off
the belief of my having been acquainted with the being who stood before
me, at some epoch very long ago—some point of the past even
infinitely remote. The delusion, however, faded rapidly as it came; and I
mention it at all but to define the day of the last conversation I there
held with my singular namesake.
The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had several large
chambers communicating with each other, where slept the greater number of
the students. There were, however, (as must necessarily happen in a
building so awkwardly planned,) many little nooks or recesses, the odds
and ends of the structure; and these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby
had also fitted up as dormitories; although, being the merest closets,
they were capable of accommodating but a single individual. One of these
small apartments was occupied by Wilson.
One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and immediately
after the altercation just mentioned, finding every one wrapped in sleep,
I arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole through a wilderness of narrow
passages from my own bedroom to that of my rival. I had long been plotting
one of those ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I
had hitherto been so uniformly unsuccessful. It was my intention, now, to
put my scheme in operation, and I resolved to make him feel the whole
extent of the malice with which I was imbued. Having reached his closet, I
noiselessly entered, leaving the lamp, with a shade over it, on the
outside. I advanced a step, and listened to the sound of his tranquil
breathing. Assured of his being asleep, I returned, took the light, and
with it again approached the bed. Close curtains were around it, which, in
the prosecution of my plan, I slowly and quietly withdrew, when the bright
rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my eyes, at the same moment, upon
his countenance. I looked;—and a numbness, an iciness of feeling
instantly pervaded my frame. My breast heaved, my knees tottered, my whole
spirit became possessed with an objectless yet intolerable horror. Gasping
for breath, I lowered the lamp in still nearer proximity to the face. Were
these—these the lineaments of William Wilson? I saw, indeed, that
they were his, but I shook as if with a fit of the ague in fancying they
were not. What was there about them to confound me in this manner? I
gazed;—while my brain reeled with a multitude of incoherent
thoughts. Not thus he appeared—assuredly not thus—in the
vivacity of his waking hours. The same name! the same contour of person!
the same day of arrival at the academy! And then his dogged and
meaningless imitation of my gait, my voice, my habits, and my manner! Was
it, in truth, within the bounds of human possibility, that what I now saw
was the result, merely, of the habitual practice of this sarcastic
imitation? Awe-stricken, and with a creeping shudder, I extinguished the
lamp, passed silently from the chamber, and left, at once, the halls of
that old academy, never to enter them again.
After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I found
myself a student at Eton. The brief interval had been sufficient to
enfeeble my remembrance of the events at Dr. Bransby’s, or at least to
effect a material change in the nature of the feelings with which I
remembered them. The truth—the tragedy—of the drama was no
more. I could now find room to doubt the evidence of my senses; and seldom
called up the subject at all but with wonder at extent of human credulity,
and a smile at the vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily
possessed. Neither was this species of scepticism likely to be diminished
by the character of the life I led at Eton. The vortex of thoughtless
folly into which I there so immediately and so recklessly plunged, washed
away all but the froth of my past hours, engulfed at once every solid or
serious impression, and left to memory only the veriest levities of a
former existence.
I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable profligacy
here—a profligacy which set at defiance the laws, while it eluded
the vigilance of the institution. Three years of folly, passed without
profit, had but given me rooted habits of vice, and added, in a somewhat
unusual degree, to my bodily stature, when, after a week of soulless
dissipation, I invited a small party of the most dissolute students to a
secret carousal in my chambers. We met at a late hour of the night; for
our debaucheries were to be faithfully protracted until morning. The wine
flowed freely, and there were not wanting other and perhaps more dangerous
seductions; so that the gray dawn had already faintly appeared in the
east, while our delirious extravagance was at its height. Madly flushed
with cards and intoxication, I was in the act of insisting upon a toast of
more than wonted profanity, when my attention was suddenly diverted by the
violent, although partial unclosing of the door of the apartment, and by
the eager voice of a servant from without. He said that some person,
apparently in great haste, demanded to speak with me in the hall.
Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interruption rather delighted
than surprised me. I staggered forward at once, and a few steps brought me
to the vestibule of the building. In this low and small room there hung no
lamp; and now no light at all was admitted, save that of the exceedingly
feeble dawn which made its way through the semi-circular window. As I put
my foot over the threshold, I became aware of the figure of a youth about
my own height, and habited in a white kerseymere morning frock, cut in the
novel fashion of the one I myself wore at the moment. This the faint light
enabled me to perceive; but the features of his face I could not
distinguish. Upon my entering he strode hurriedly up to me, and, seizing
me by the arm with a gesture of petulant impatience, whispered the words
“William Wilson!” in my ear.
I grew perfectly sober in an instant.
There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the tremulous shake
of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my eyes and the light,
which filled me with unqualified amazement; but it was not this which had
so violently moved me. It was the pregnancy of solemn admonition in the
singular, low, hissing utterance; and, above all, it was the character,
the tone, the key, of those few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered
syllables, which came with a thousand thronging memories of bygone days,
and struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could
recover the use of my senses he was gone.
Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my disordered
imagination, yet was it evanescent as vivid. For some weeks, indeed, I
busied myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped in a cloud of morbid
speculation. I did not pretend to disguise from my perception the identity
of the singular individual who thus perseveringly interfered with my
affairs, and harassed me with his insinuated counsel. But who and what was
this Wilson?—and whence came he?—and what were his purposes?
Upon neither of these points could I be satisfied; merely ascertaining, in
regard to him, that a sudden accident in his family had caused his removal
from Dr. Bransby’s academy on the afternoon of the day in which I myself
had eloped. But in a brief period I ceased to think upon the subject; my
attention being all absorbed in a contemplated departure for Oxford.
Thither I soon went; the uncalculating vanity of my parents furnishing me
with an outfit and annual establishment, which would enable me to indulge
at will in the luxury already so dear to my heart,—to vie in
profuseness of expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of the wealthiest
earldoms in Great Britain.
Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional temperament broke
forth with redoubled ardor, and I spurned even the common restraints of
decency in the mad infatuation of my revels. But it were absurd to pause
in the detail of my extravagance. Let it suffice, that among spendthrifts
I out-Heroded Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel
follies, I added no brief appendix to the long catalogue of vices then
usual in the most dissolute university of Europe.
It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so utterly
fallen from the gentlemanly estate, as to seek acquaintance with the
vilest arts of the gambler by profession, and, having become an adept in
his despicable science, to practise it habitually as a means of increasing
my already enormous income at the expense of the weak-minded among my
fellow-collegians. Such, nevertheless, was the fact. And the very enormity
of this offence against all manly and honourable sentiment proved, beyond
doubt, the main if not the sole reason of the impunity with which it was
committed. Who, indeed, among my most abandoned associates, would not
rather have disputed the clearest evidence of his senses, than have
suspected of such courses, the gay, the frank, the generous William Wilson—the
noblest and most liberal commoner at Oxford—him whose follies (said
his parasites) were but the follies of youth and unbridled fancy—whose
errors but inimitable whim—whose darkest vice but a careless and
dashing extravagance?
I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when there came
to the university a young parvenu nobleman, Glendinning—rich, said
report, as Herodes Atticus—his riches, too, as easily acquired. I
soon found him of weak intellect, and, of course, marked him as a fitting
subject for my skill. I frequently engaged him in play, and contrived,
with the gambler’s usual art, to let him win considerable sums, the more
effectually to entangle him in my snares. At length, my schemes being
ripe, I met him (with the full intention that this meeting should be final
and decisive) at the chambers of a fellow-commoner, (Mr. Preston,) equally
intimate with both, but who, to do him justice, entertained not even a
remote suspicion of my design. To give to this a better coloring, I had
contrived to have assembled a party of some eight or ten, and was
solicitously careful that the introduction of cards should appear
accidental, and originate in the proposal of my contemplated dupe himself.
To be brief upon a vile topic, none of the low finesse was omitted, so
customary upon similar occasions that it is a just matter for wonder how
any are still found so besotted as to fall its victim.
We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at length
effected the manoeuvre of getting Glendinning as my sole antagonist. The
game, too, was my favorite The rest of the company, interested in
the extent of our play, had abandoned their own cards, and were standing
around us as spectators. The , who had been induced by my artifices
in the early part of the evening, to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or
played, with a wild nervousness of manner for which his intoxication, I
thought, might partially, but could not altogether account. In a very
short period he had become my debtor to a large amount, when, having taken
a long draught of port, he did precisely what I had been coolly
anticipating—he proposed to double our already extravagant stakes.
With a well-feigned show of reluctance, and not until after my repeated
refusal had seduced him into some angry words which gave a color of pique
to my compliance, did I finally comply. The result, of course, did but
prove how entirely the prey was in my toils: in less than an hour he had
quadrupled his debt. For some time his countenance had been losing the
florid tinge lent it by the wine; but now, to my astonishment, I perceived
that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say to my astonishment.
Glendinning had been represented to my eager inquiries as immeasurably
wealthy; and the sums which he had as yet lost, although in themselves
vast, could not, I supposed, very seriously annoy, much less so violently
affect him. That he was overcome by the wine just swallowed, was the idea
which most readily presented itself; and, rather with a view to the
preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates, than from
any less interested motive, I was about to insist, peremptorily, upon a
discontinuance of the play, when some expressions at my elbow from among
the company, and an ejaculation evincing utter despair on the part of
Glendinning, gave me to understand that I had effected his total ruin
under circumstances which, rendering him an object for the pity of all,
should have protected him from the ill offices even of a fiend.
What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The pitiable
condition of my dupe had thrown an air of embarrassed gloom over all; and,
for some moments, a profound silence was maintained, during which I could
not help feeling my cheeks tingle with the many burning glances of scorn
or reproach cast upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even
own that an intolerable weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted
from my bosom by the sudden and extraordinary interruption which ensued.
The wide, heavy folding doors of the apartment were all at once thrown
open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and rushing impetuosity that
extinguished, as if by magic, every candle in the room. Their light, in
dying, enabled us just to perceive that a stranger had entered, about my
own height, and closely muffled in a cloak. The darkness, however, was now
total; and we could only feel that he was standing in our midst. Before
any one of us could recover from the extreme astonishment into which this
rudeness had thrown all, we heard the voice of the intruder.
“Gentlemen,” he said, in a low, distinct, and never-to-be-forgotten
whisper which thrilled to the very marrow of my bones, “Gentlemen, I make
no apology for this behaviour, because in thus behaving, I am but
fulfilling a duty. You are, beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character
of the person who has to-night won at a large sum of money from
Lord Glendinning. I will therefore put you upon an expeditious and
decisive plan of obtaining this very necessary information. Please to
examine, at your leisure, the inner linings of the cuff of his left
sleeve, and the several little packages which may be found in the somewhat
capacious pockets of his embroidered morning wrapper.”
While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have heard a
pin drop upon the floor. In ceasing, he departed at once, and as abruptly
as he had entered. Can I—shall I describe my sensations? Must
I say that I felt all the horrors of the damned? Most assuredly I had
little time given for reflection. Many hands roughly seized me upon the
spot, and lights were immediately reprocured. A search ensued. In the
lining of my sleeve were found all the court cards essential in ,
and, in the pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs, facsimiles of those
used at our sittings, with the single exception that mine were of the
species called, technically, arrondees; the honours being slightly convex
at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex at the sides. In this
disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary, at the length of the pack,
will invariably find that he cuts his antagonist an honor; while the
gambler, cutting at the breadth, will, as certainly, cut nothing for his
victim which may count in the records of the game.
Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have affected me less
than the silent contempt, or the sarcastic composure, with which it was
received.
“Mr. Wilson,” said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his feet an
exceedingly luxurious cloak of rare furs, “Mr. Wilson, this is your
property.” (The weather was cold; and, upon quitting my own room, I had
thrown a cloak over my dressing wrapper, putting it off upon reaching the
scene of play.) “I presume it is supererogatory to seek here (eyeing the
folds of the garment with a bitter smile) for any farther evidence of your
skill. Indeed, we have had enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of
quitting Oxford—at all events, of quitting instantly my chambers.”
Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I should
have resented this galling language by immediate personal violence, had
not my whole attention been at the moment arrested by a fact of the most
startling character. The cloak which I had worn was of a rare description
of fur; how rare, how extravagantly costly, I shall not venture to say.
Its fashion, too, was of my own fantastic invention; for I was fastidious
to an absurd degree of coxcombry, in matters of this frivolous nature.
When, therefore, Mr. Preston reached me that which he had picked up upon
the floor, and near the folding doors of the apartment, it was with an
astonishment nearly bordering upon terror, that I perceived my own already
hanging on my arm, (where I had no doubt unwittingly placed it,) and that
the one presented me was but its exact counterpart in every, in even the
minutest possible particular. The singular being who had so disastrously
exposed me, had been muffled, I remembered, in a cloak; and none had been
worn at all by any of the members of our party with the exception of
myself. Retaining some presence of mind, I took the one offered me by
Preston; placed it, unnoticed, over my own; left the apartment with a
resolute scowl of defiance; and, next morning ere dawn of day, commenced a
hurried journey from Oxford to the continent, in a perfect agony of horror
and of shame.
I fled in vain. My evil destiny pursued me as if in exultation, and
proved, indeed, that the exercise of its mysterious dominion had as yet
only begun. Scarcely had I set foot in Paris ere I had fresh evidence of
the detestable interest taken by this Wilson in my concerns. Years flew,
while I experienced no relief. Villain!—at Rome, with how untimely,
yet with how spectral an officiousness, stepped he in between me and my
ambition! At Vienna, too—at Berlin—and at Moscow! Where, in
truth, had I not bitter cause to curse him within my heart? From his
inscrutable tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a
pestilence; and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain.
And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit, would I
demand the questions “Who is he?—whence came he?—and what are
his objects?” But no answer was there found. And then I scrutinized, with
a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods, and the leading traits of
his impertinent supervision. But even here there was very little upon
which to base a conjecture. It was noticeable, indeed, that, in no one of
the multiplied instances in which he had of late crossed my path, had he
so crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those
actions, which, if fully carried out, might have resulted in bitter
mischief. Poor justification this, in truth, for an authority so
imperiously assumed! Poor indemnity for natural rights of self-agency so
pertinaciously, so insultingly denied!
I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very long period
of time, (while scrupulously and with miraculous dexterity maintaining his
whim of an identity of apparel with myself,) had so contrived it, in the
execution of his varied interference with my will, that I saw not, at any
moment, the features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least,
was but the veriest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an instant,
have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton—in the destroyer of my
honor at Oxford,—in him who thwarted my ambition at Rome, my revenge
at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or what he falsely termed my
avarice in Egypt,—that in this, my arch-enemy and evil genius, could
fail to recognise the William Wilson of my school boy days,—the
namesake, the companion, the rival,—the hated and dreaded rival at
Dr. Bransby’s? Impossible!—But let me hasten to the last eventful
scene of the drama.
Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domination. The
sentiment of deep awe with which I habitually regarded the elevated
character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent omnipresence and omnipotence
of Wilson, added to a feeling of even terror, with which certain other
traits in his nature and assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto,
to impress me with an idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and
to suggest an implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to his
arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up entirely to wine;
and its maddening influence upon my hereditary temper rendered me more and
more impatient of control. I began to murmur,—to hesitate,—to
resist. And was it only fancy which induced me to believe that, with the
increase of my own firmness, that of my tormentor underwent a proportional
diminution? Be this as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a
burning hope, and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and
desperate resolution that I would submit no longer to be enslaved.
It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18—, that I attended a
masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I had
indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the wine-table; and now
the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded rooms irritated me beyond
endurance. The difficulty, too, of forcing my way through the mazes of the
company contributed not a little to the ruffling of my temper; for I was
anxiously seeking, (let me not say with what unworthy motive) the young,
the gay, the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too
unscrupulous confidence she had previously communicated to me the secret
of the costume in which she would be habited, and now, having caught a
glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my way into her presence. At
this moment I felt a light hand placed upon my shoulder, and that
ever-remembered, low, damnable within my ear.
In an absolute phrenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who had thus
interrupted me, and seized him violently by the collar. He was attired, as
I had expected, in a costume altogether similar to my own; wearing a
Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt about the waist with a crimson belt
sustaining a rapier. A mask of black silk entirely covered his face.
“Scoundrel!” I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every syllable I
uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury, “scoundrel! impostor! accursed
villain! you shall not—you shall not dog me unto death! Follow me,
or I stab you where you stand!”—and I broke my way from the
ball-room into a small ante-chamber adjoining, dragging him
unresistingly with me as I went.
Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered against the
wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and commanded him to draw. He
hesitated but for an instant; then, with a slight sigh, drew in silence,
and put himself upon his defence.
The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of wild
excitement, and felt within my single arm the energy and power of a
multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer strength against the
wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy, plunged my sword, with brute
ferocity, repeatedly through and through his bosom.
At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I hastened to
prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned to my dying
antagonist. But what human language can adequately portray that
astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the spectacle then
presented to view? The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been
sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangements
at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror,—so at first
it seemed to me in my confusion—now stood where none had been
perceptible before; and, as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror,
mine own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced
to meet me with a feeble and tottering gait.
Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist—it was
Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of his dissolution. His
mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them, upon the floor. Not a thread
in all his raiment—not a line in all the marked and singular
lineaments of his face which was not, even in the most absolute identity,
mine own!
It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could have
fancied that I myself was speaking while he said:
THE TELL-TALE HEART.
True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am;
but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not
destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute.
I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in
hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how
calmly I can tell you the whole story.
<br />
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once
conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion
there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never
given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye!
yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with
a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by
degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of
the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
<br />
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you
should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with
what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I
went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week
before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch
of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an
opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed,
closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you
would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very,
very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me
an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see
him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this?
And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern
cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges
creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon
the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night
just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was
impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but
his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into
the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a
hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he
would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every
night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
<br />
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the
door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before
that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I
could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was,
opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret
deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me;
for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I
drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick
darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,)
and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept
pushing it on steadily, steadily.
<br />
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?”
<br />
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.
<br />
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal
terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was
the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when
overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at
midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom,
deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I
knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I
chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the
first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever
since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but
could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind
in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is
merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying
to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain.
All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black
shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful
influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although
he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the
room.
<br />
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie
down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the
lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily,
stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the
spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
<br />
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon
it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a
hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could
see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the
ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
<br />
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but
over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there came to my ears a
low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I
knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It
increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into
courage.
<br />
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the
lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the
eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker
and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror
must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do
you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at
the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house,
so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for
some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew
louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety
seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s
hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into
the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to
the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find
the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a
muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard
through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the
bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my
hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no
pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
<br />
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the
wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned,
and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the
corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
<br />
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and
deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so
cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could
have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no
stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for
that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!
<br />
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still
dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at
the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what
had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves,
with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard
by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused;
information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers)
had been deputed to search the premises.
<br />
I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The
shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was
absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them
search—search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed
them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my
confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest
from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect
triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the
corpse of the victim.
<br />
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was
singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted
of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished
them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still
they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—it
continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the
feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length,
I found that the noise was not within my ears.
<br />
No doubt I now grew pale;—but I talked more fluently,
and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could
I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch
makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the
officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but
the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high
key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why
would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides,
as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise
steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I
swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon
the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It
grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted
pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no,
no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were
making a mockery of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But
anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this
derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I
must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder!
louder!
<br />
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear
up the planks!—here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”
BERENICE
Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas
meas aliquar tulum fore levatas.—.
Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching
the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of
that arch—as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching
the wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived
a type of unloveliness?—from the covenant of peace, a simile of
sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out
of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of
to-day, or the agonies which , have their origin in the
ecstasies which .
My baptismal name is Egaeus; that of my family I will not mention. Yet
there are no towers in the land more time-honored than my gloomy, gray,
hereditary halls. Our line has been called a race of visionaries; and in
many striking particulars—in the character of the family mansion—in
the frescos of the chief saloon—in the tapestries of the dormitories—in
the chiselling of some buttresses in the armory—but more especially
in the gallery of antique paintings—in the fashion of the library
chamber—and, lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the library’s
contents—there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the
belief.
The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that chamber,
and with its volumes—of which latter I will say no more. Here died
my mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness to say that I had
not lived before—that the soul has no previous existence. You deny
it?—let us not argue the matter. Convinced myself, I seek not to
convince. There is, however, a remembrance of aerial forms—of
spiritual and meaning eyes—of sounds, musical yet sad—a
remembrance which will not be excluded; a memory like a shadow—vague,
variable, indefinite, unsteady; and like a shadow, too, in the
impossibility of my getting rid of it while the sunlight of my reason
shall exist.
In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking from the long night of what
seemed, but was not, nonentity, at once into the very regions of fairy
land—into a palace of imagination—into the wild dominions of
monastic thought and erudition—it is not singular that I gazed
around me with a startled and ardent eye—that I loitered away my
boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in reverie; but it
singular that as years rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me still
in the mansion of my fathers—it wonderful what stagnation
there fell upon the springs of my life—wonderful how total an
inversion took place in the character of my commonest thought. The
realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while
the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn, not the material of
my every-day existence, but in very deed that existence utterly and solely
in itself.
Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal halls.
Yet differently we grew—I, ill of health, and buried in gloom—she,
agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy; hers, the ramble on the
hill-side—mine the studies of the cloister; I, living within my own
heart, and addicted, body and soul, to the most intense and painful
meditation—she, roaming carelessly through life, with no thought of
the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the raven-winged hours.
Berenice!—I call upon her name—Berenice!—and from the
gray ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous recollections are startled at
the sound! Ah, vividly is her image before me now, as in the early days of
her light-heartedness and joy! Oh, gorgeous yet fantastic beauty! Oh,
sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim! Oh, Naiad among its fountains! And
then—then all is mystery and terror, and a tale which should not be
told. Disease—a fatal disease, fell like the simoon upon her frame;
and, even while I gazed upon her, the spirit of change swept over her,
pervading her mind, her habits, and her character, and, in a manner the
most subtle and terrible, disturbing even the identity of her person!
Alas! the destroyer came and went!—and the victim—where is
she? I knew her not—or knew her no longer as Berenice.
<br />
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 itself—trance very nearly resembling
positive dissolution, and from which her manner of recovery was in most
instances, startlingly abrupt. In the mean time my own disease—for I
have been told that I should call it by no other appellation—my own
disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and assumed finally a monomaniac
character of a novel and extraordinary form—hourly and momently
gaining vigor—and at length obtaining over me the most
incomprehensible ascendancy. This monomania, if I must so term it,
consisted in a morbid irritability of those properties of the mind in
metaphysical science termed the . 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 with which, in my case,
the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied and buried
themselves, in the contemplation of even the most ordinary objects of the
universe.
<br />
To muse for long unwearied hours, with my attention riveted to some
frivolous device on the margin, or in the typography of a book; to become
absorbed, for the better part of a summer’s day, in a quaint shadow
falling aslant upon the tapestry or upon the floor; to lose myself, for an
entire night, in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a
fire; to dream away whole days over the perfume of a flower; to repeat,
monotonously, some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent
repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind; to lose all
sense of motion or physical existence, by means of absolute bodily
quiescence long and obstinately persevered in: such were a few of the most
common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a condition of the mental
faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding
defiance to anything like analysis or explanation.
<br />
Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, earnest, and morbid attention
thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous, must not be
confounded in character with that ruminating propensity common to all
mankind, and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent imagination.
It was not even, as might be at first supposed, an extreme condition, or
exaggeration of such propensity, but primarily and essentially distinct
and different. In the one instance, the dreamer, or enthusiast, being
interested by an object usually frivolous, imperceptibly loses
sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions issuing
therefrom, until, at the conclusion of a day-dream , he finds the , or first cause of his
musings, entirely vanished and forgotten. In my case, the primary object
was , although assuming, through the medium of
my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance. Few deductions,
if any, were made; and those few pertinaciously returning in upon the
original object as a centre. The meditations were
pleasurable; and, at the termination of the reverie, the first cause, so
far from being out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated
interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word, the
powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as I have said
before, the , and are, with the day-dreamer, the .
<br />
My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate the
disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in their imaginative and
inconsequential nature, of the characteristic qualities of the disorder
itself. I well remember, among others, the treatise of the noble Italian,
Coelius Secundus Curio, “” St.
Austin’s great work, the “City of God;” and Tertullian’s “,” in which the paradoxical sentence “” occupied my undivided time, for many weeks of
laborious and fruitless investigation.
<br />
Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial things,
my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by Ptolemy
Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human violence, and
the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, trembled only to the touch
of the flower called Asphodel. And although, to a careless thinker, it
might appear a matter beyond doubt, that the alteration produced by her
unhappy malady, in the condition of Berenice, would afford me
many objects for the exercise of that intense and abnormal meditation
whose nature I have been at some trouble in explaining, yet such was not
in any degree the case. In the lucid intervals of my infirmity, her
calamity, indeed, gave me pain, and, taking deeply to heart that total
wreck of her fair and gentle life, I did not fail to ponder, frequently
and bitterly, upon the wonder-working means by which so strange a
revolution had been so suddenly brought to pass. But these reflections
partook not of the idiosyncrasy of my disease, and were such as would have
occurred, under similar circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind.
True to its own character, my disorder revelled in the less important but
more startling changes wrought in the frame of Berenice—in
the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal identity.
<br />
During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I had
never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with me,
of the heart, and my passions of
the mind. Through the gray of the early morning—among the trellised
shadows of the forest at noonday—and in the silence of my library at
night—she had flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her—not as
the living and breathing Berenice, but as the Berenice of a dream; not as
a being of the earth, earthy, but as the abstraction of such a being; not
as a thing to admire, but to analyze; not as an object of love, but as the
theme of the most abstruse although desultory speculation. And —now
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.
<br />
And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when, upon an
afternoon in the winter of the year—one of those unseasonably warm,
calm, and misty days which are the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon (*1),—I
sat, (and sat, as I thought, alone,) in the inner apartment of the
library. But, uplifting my eyes, I saw that Berenice stood before me.
<br />
Was it my own excited imagination—or the misty influence of the
atmosphere—or the uncertain twilight of the chamber—or the
gray draperies which fell around her figure—that caused in it so
vacillating and indistinct an outline? I could not tell. She spoke no
word; and I—not for worlds could I have uttered a syllable. An icy
chill ran through my frame; a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me;
a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and sinking back upon the chair, I
remained for some time breathless and motionless, with my eyes riveted
upon her person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige
of the former being lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning
glances at length fell upon the face.
<br />
The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and the once
jetty hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the hollow temples
with innumerable ringlets, now of a vivid yellow, and jarring
discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the reigning melancholy
of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and lustreless, and seemingly
pupilless, and I shrank involuntarily from their glassy stare to the
contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. They parted; and in a smile
of peculiar meaning, of the changed Berenice disclosed
themselves slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld them,
or that, having done so, I had died!
The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found that my
cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber of
my brain, had not, alas! departed, and would not be driven away, the white
and ghastly of the teeth. Not a speck on their surface—not
a shade on their enamel—not an indenture in their edges—but
what that period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I
saw them even more unequivocally than I beheld them .
The teeth!—the teeth!—they were here, and there, and
everywhere, and visibly and palpably before me; long, narrow, and
excessively white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very
moment of their first terrible development. Then came the full fury of my
, and I struggled in vain against its strange and
irresistible influence. In the multiplied objects of the external world I
had no thoughts but for the teeth. For these I longed with a phrenzied
desire. All other matters and all different interests became absorbed in
their single contemplation. They—they alone were present to the
mental eye, and they, in their sole individuality, became the essence of
my mental life. I held them in every light. I turned them in every
attitude. I surveyed their characteristics. I dwelt upon their
peculiarities. I pondered upon their conformation. I mused upon the
alteration in their nature. I shuddered as I assigned to them in
imagination a sensitive and sentient power, and even when unassisted by
the lips, a capability of moral expression. Of Mademoiselle Salle it has
been well said, “,” and of
Berenice I more seriously believed . —ah here was the idiotic thought that
destroyed me! —ah, 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.
<br />
And the evening closed in upon me thus—and then the darkness came,
and tarried, and went—and the day again dawned—and the mists
of a second night were now gathering around—and still I sat
motionless in that solitary room—and still I sat buried in
meditation—and still the of the teeth maintained
its terrible ascendancy, as, with the most vivid hideous distinctness, it
floated about amid the changing lights and shadows of the chamber. At
length there broke in upon my dreams a cry as of horror and dismay; and
thereunto, after a pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices,
intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow or of pain. I arose from my
seat, and throwing open one of the doors of the library, saw standing out
in the ante-chamber a servant maiden, all in tears, who told me that
Berenice was—no more! She had been seized with epilepsy in the early
morning, and now, at the closing in of the night, the grave was ready for
its tenant, and all the preparations for the burial were completed.
I found myself sitting in the library, and again sitting there alone. It
seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and exciting dream. I
knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware, that since the
setting of the sun, Berenice had been interred. But of that dreary period
which intervened I had no positive, at least no definite comprehension.
Yet its memory was replete with horror—horror more horrible from
being vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity. It was a fearful
page in the record my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous,
and unintelligible recollections. I strived to decypher them, but in vain;
while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and
piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears. I had
done a deed—what was it? I asked myself the question aloud, and the
whispering echoes of the chamber answered me,—“”
<br />
On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little box. It was
of no remarkable character, and I had seen it frequently before, for it
was the property of the family physician; but how came it ,
upon my table, and why did I shudder in regarding it? These things were in
no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the open
pages of a book, and to a sentence underscored therein. The words were the
singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn Zaiat:—“.” 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?
<br />
There came a light tap at the library door—and, pale as the tenant
of a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror,
and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low. What said
he?—some broken sentences I heard. He told of a wild cry disturbing
the silence of the night—of the gathering together of the household—of
a search in the direction of the sound; and then his tones grew
thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated grave—of a
disfigured body enshrouded, yet still breathing—still palpitating—!
<br />
He pointed to garments;—they were muddy and clotted with gore. I
spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand: it was indented with the
impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some object against
the wall. I looked at it for some minutes: it was a spade. With a shriek I
bounded to the table, and grasped the box that lay upon it. But I could
not force it open; and in my tremor, it slipped from my hands, and fell
heavily, and burst into pieces; and from it, with a rattling sound, there
rolled out some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with
thirty-two small, white and ivory-looking substances that were scattered
to and fro about the floor.
ELEONORA
Sub conservatione formæ specificæ salva anima.<br />
—.
I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men
have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness
is or is not the loftiest intelligence—whether much that is glorious—whether
all that is profound—does not spring from disease of thought—from
moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who
dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream
only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and
thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the
great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of
good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate,
however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the “light
ineffable,” and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer,
“agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi.”
We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two
distinct conditions of my mental existence—the condition of a lucid
reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events forming
the first epoch of my life—and a condition of shadow and doubt,
appertaining to the present, and to the recollection of what constitutes
the second great era of my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the
earlier period, believe; and to what I may relate of the later time, give
only such credit as may seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if doubt it
ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.
She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and distinctly
these remembrances, was the sole daughter of the only sister of my mother
long departed. Eleonora was the name of my cousin. We had always dwelled
together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.
No unguided footstep ever came upon that vale; for it lay away up among a
range of giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out the
sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its vicinity;
and, to reach our happy home, there was need of putting back, with force,
the foliage of many thousands of forest trees, and of crushing to death
the glories of many millions of fragrant flowers. Thus it was that we
lived all alone, knowing nothing of the world without the valley—I,
and my cousin, and her mother.
From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our
encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than
all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy
courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills
still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the “River of
Silence”; for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No
murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the
pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom,
stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old
station, shining on gloriously forever.
The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that glided
through devious ways into its channel, as well as the spaces that extended
from the margins away down into the depths of the streams until they
reached the bed of pebbles at the bottom,—these spots, not less than
the whole surface of the valley, from the river to the mountains that
girdled it in, were carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, short,
perfectly even, and vanilla-perfumed, but so besprinkled throughout with
the yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the ruby-red
asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to our hearts in loud tones, of
the love and of the glory of God.
And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like wildernesses of
dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall slender stems stood not
upright, but slanted gracefully toward the light that peered at noon-day
into the centre of the valley. Their mark was speckled with the vivid
alternate splendor of ebony and silver, and was smoother than all save the
cheeks of Eleonora; so that, but for the brilliant green of the huge
leaves that spread from their summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying
with the Zephyrs, one might have fancied them giant serpents of Syria
doing homage to their sovereign the Sun.
Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I with Eleonora
before Love entered within our hearts. It was one evening at the close of
the third lustrum of her life, and of the fourth of my own, that we sat,
locked in each other’s embrace, beneath the serpent-like trees, and looked
down within the water of the River of Silence at our images therein. We
spoke no words during the rest of that sweet day, and our words even upon
the morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the God Eros from that
wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us the fiery souls of
our forefathers. The passions which had for centuries distinguished our
race, came thronging with the fancies for which they had been equally
noted, and together breathed a delirious bliss over the Valley of the
Many-Colored Grass. A change fell upon all things. Strange, brilliant
flowers, star-shaped, burn out upon the trees where no flowers had been
known before. The tints of the green carpet deepened; and when, one by
one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up in place of them, ten
by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life arose in our paths; for the tall
flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, flaunted his
scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the river,
out of the bosom of which issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled,
at length, into a lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of
Æolus—sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. And now, too, a
voluminous cloud, which we had long watched in the regions of Hesper,
floated out thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and settling in
peace above us, sank, day by day, lower and lower, until its edges rested
upon the tops of the mountains, turning all their dimness into
magnificence, and shutting us up, as if forever, within a magic
prison-house of grandeur and of glory.
The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was a maiden
artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among the flowers. No
guile disguised the fervor of love which animated her heart, and she
examined with me its inmost recesses as we walked together in the Valley
of the Many-Colored Grass, and discoursed of the mighty changes which had
lately taken place therein.
At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad change which
must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only upon this one sorrowful
theme, interweaving it into all our converse, as, in the songs of the bard
of Schiraz, the same images are found occurring, again and again, in every
impressive variation of phrase.
She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom—that, like
the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only to die; but
the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a consideration which she
revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the banks of the River of
Silence. She grieved to think that, having entombed her in the Valley of
the Many-Colored Grass, I would quit forever its happy recesses,
transferring the love which now was so passionately her own to some maiden
of the outer and everyday world. And, then and there, I threw myself
hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to herself and to
Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any daughter of
Earth—that I would in no manner prove recreant to her dear memory,
or to the memory of the devout affection with which she had blessed me.
And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe to witness the pious
solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I invoked of Him and of her, a
saint in Helusion should I prove traitorous to that promise, involved a
penalty the exceeding great horror of which will not permit me to make
record of it here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my
words; and she sighed as if a deadly burthen had been taken from her
breast; and she trembled and very bitterly wept; but she made acceptance
of the vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it made easy to her the
bed of her death. And she said to me, not many days afterward, tranquilly
dying, that, because of what I had done for the comfort of her spirit she
would watch over me in that spirit when departed, and, if so it were
permitted her return to me visibly in the watches of the night; but, if
this thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise, that
she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her presence, sighing
upon me in the evening winds, or filling the air which I breathed with
perfume from the censers of the angels. And, with these words upon her
lips, she yielded up her innocent life, putting an end to the first epoch
of my own.
Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in Time’s path,
formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with the second era of my
existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over my brain, and I mistrust the
perfect sanity of the record. But let me on.—Years dragged
themselves along heavily, and still I dwelled within the Valley of the
Many-Colored Grass; but a second change had come upon all things. The
star-shaped flowers shrank into the stems of the trees, and appeared no
more. The tints of the green carpet faded; and, one by one, the ruby-red
asphodels withered away; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by
ten, dark, eye-like violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever
encumbered with dew. And Life departed from our paths; for the tall
flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us, but flew sadly
from the vale into the hills, with all the gay glowing birds that had
arrived in his company. And the golden and silver fish swam down through
the gorge at the lower end of our domain and bedecked the sweet river
never again. And the lulling melody that had been softer than the
wind-harp of Æolus, and more divine than all save the voice of Eleonora,
it died little by little away, in murmurs growing lower and lower, until
the stream returned, at length, utterly, into the solemnity of its
original silence. And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and,
abandoning the tops of the mountains to the dimness of old, fell back into
the regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold golden and gorgeous
glories from the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.
Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the sounds of
the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams of a holy perfume
floated ever and ever about the valley; and at lone hours, when my heart
beat heavily, the winds that bathed my brow came unto me laden with soft
sighs; and indistinct murmurs filled often the night air, and once—oh,
but once only! I was awakened from a slumber, like the slumber of death,
by the pressing of spiritual lips upon my own.
But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I longed
for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At length the
valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and I left it for ever
for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of the world.
I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have served
to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed so long in the
Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. The pomps and pageantries of a stately
court, and the mad clangor of arms, and the radiant loveliness of women,
bewildered and intoxicated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to
its vows, and the indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given
me in the silent hours of the night. Suddenly these manifestations they
ceased, and the world grew dark before mine eyes, and I stood aghast at
the burning thoughts which possessed, at the terrible temptations which
beset me; for there came from some far, far distant and unknown land, into
the gay court of the king I served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole
recreant heart yielded at once—at whose footstool I bowed down
without a struggle, in the most ardent, in the most abject worship of
love. What, indeed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley in
comparison with the fervor, and the delirium, and the spirit-lifting
ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my whole soul in tears at the
feet of the ethereal Ermengarde?—Oh, bright was the seraph
Ermengarde! and in that knowledge I had room for none other. Oh,
divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as I looked down into the depths of
her memorial eyes, I thought only of them—and of her.
I wedded—nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness
was not visited upon me. And once—but once again in the silence of
the night; there came through my lattice the soft sighs which had forsaken
me; and they modelled themselves into familiar and sweet voice, saying:
“Sleep in peace! for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in
taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved,
for reasons which shall be made known to thee in Heaven, of thy vows unto
Eleonora.”
NOTES TO THE SECOND VOLUME
Notes — Scheherazade
(*1) The coralites.
<br />
(*2) “One of the most remarkable natural curiosities in Texas is a
petrified forest, near the head of Pasigno river. It consists of several
hundred trees, in an erect position, all turned to stone. Some trees, now
growing, are partly petrified. This is a startling fact for natural
philosophers, and must cause them to modify the existing theory of
petrification.—.
<br />
This account, at first discredited, has since been corroborated by the
discovery of a completely petrified forest, near the head waters of the
Cheyenne, or Chienne river, which has its source in the Black Hills of the
rocky chain.
<br />
There is scarcely, perhaps, a spectacle on the surface of the globe more
remarkable, either in a geological or picturesque point of view than that
presented by the petrified forest, near Cairo. The traveller, having
passed the tombs of the caliphs, just beyond the gates of the city,
proceeds to the southward, nearly at right angles to the road across the
desert to Suez, and after having travelled some ten miles up a low barren
valley, covered with sand, gravel, and sea shells, fresh as if the tide
had retired but yesterday, crosses a low range of sandhills, which has for
some distance run parallel to his path. The scene now presented to him is
beyond conception singular and desolate. A mass of fragments of trees, all
converted into stone, and when struck by his horse’s hoof ringing like
cast iron, is seen to extend itself for miles and miles around him, in the
form of a decayed and prostrate forest. The wood is of a dark brown hue,
but retains its form in perfection, the pieces being from one to fifteen
feet in length, and from half a foot to three feet in thickness, strewed
so closely together, as far as the eye can reach, that an Egyptian donkey
can scarcely thread its way through amongst them, and so natural that,
were it in Scotland or Ireland, it might pass without remark for some
enormous drained bog, on which the exhumed trees lay rotting in the sun.
The roots and rudiments of the branches are, in many cases, nearly
perfect, and in some the worm-holes eaten under the bark are readily
recognizable. The most delicate of the sap vessels, and all the finer
portions of the centre of the wood, are perfectly entire, and bear to be
examined with the strongest magnifiers. The whole are so thoroughly
silicified as to scratch glass and are capable of receiving the highest
polish.— .
<br />
(*3) The Mammoth Cave of Kentucky.
<br />
(*4) In Iceland, 1783.
<br />
(*5) “During the eruption of Hecla, in 1766, clouds of this kind produced
such a degree of darkness that, at Glaumba, which is more than fifty
leagues from the mountain, people could only find their way by groping.
During the eruption of Vesuvius, in 1794, at Caserta, four leagues
distant, people could only walk by the light of torches. On the first of
May, 1812, a cloud of volcanic ashes and sand, coming from a volcano in
the island of St. Vincent, covered the whole of Barbadoes, spreading over
it so intense a darkness that, at mid-day, in the open air, one could not
perceive the trees or other objects near him, or even a white handkerchief
placed at the distance of six inches from the eye.
<br />
(*6) In the year 1790, in the Caraccas during an earthquake a portion of
the granite soil sank and left a lake eight hundred yards in diameter, and
from eighty to a hundred feet deep. It was a part of the forest of Aripao
which sank, and the trees remained green for several months under the
water.”—, p. 221
<br />
(*7) The hardest steel ever manufactured may, under the action of a
blowpipe, be reduced to an impalpable powder, which will float readily in
the atmospheric air.
<br />
(*8) The region of the Niger. See Simmona’s .
<br />
(*9) The —lion-ant. The term “monster” is equally applicable to
small abnormal things and to great, while such epithets as “vast” are
merely comparative. The cavern of the myrmeleon is vast in comparison with
the hole of the common red ant. A grain of silex is also a “rock.”
<br />
(*10) The of the family of the ,
grows with merely the surface of its roots attached to a tree or other
object, from which it derives no nutriment—subsisting altogether
upon air.
<br />
(*11) The such as the wonderful .
<br />
(*12) advocates a class of plants that grow upon living
animals—the . Of this class are the
and .
<br />
, presented the “National
Institute” with an insect from New Zealand, with the following
description: “‘, a decided caterpillar, or worm, is found
gnawing at the root of the tree, with a plant growing out of
its head. This most peculiar and extraordinary insect travels up both the
and trees, and entering into the top, eats its
way, perforating the trunk of the trees until it reaches the root, and
dies, or remains dormant, and the plant propagates out of its head; the
body remains perfect and entire, of a harder substance than when alive.
From this insect the natives make a coloring for tattooing.
<br />
(*13) In mines and natural caves we find a species of cryptogamous
that emits an intense phosphorescence.
<br />
(*14) The orchis, scabius and valisneria.
<br />
(*15) The corolla of this flower (), which
is tubular, but terminating upwards in a ligulate limb, is inflated into a
globular figure at the base. The tubular part is internally beset with
stiff hairs, pointing downwards. The globular part contains the pistil,
which consists merely of a germen and stigma, together with the
surrounding stamens. But the stamens, being shorter than the germen,
cannot discharge the pollen so as to throw it upon the stigma, as the
flower stands always upright till after impregnation. And hence, without
some additional and peculiar aid, the pollen must necessarily fan down to
the bottom of the flower. Now, the aid that nature has furnished in this
case, is that of the , a small insect, which
entering the tube of the corrolla in quest of honey, descends to the
bottom, and rummages about till it becomes quite covered with pollen; but
not being able to force its way out again, owing to the downward position
of the hairs, which converge to a point like the wires of a mouse-trap,
and being somewhat impatient of its confinement it brushes backwards and
forwards, trying every corner, till, after repeatedly traversing the
stigma, it covers it with pollen sufficient for its impregnation, in
consequence of which the flower soon begins to droop, and the hairs to
shrink to the sides of the tube, effecting an easy passage for the escape
of the insect.”—.
<br />
(*16) The bees—ever since bees were—have been constructing
their cells with just such sides, in just such number, and at just such
inclinations, as it has been demonstrated (in a problem involving the
profoundest mathematical principles) are the very sides, in the very
number, and at the very angles, which will afford the creatures the most
room that is compatible with the greatest stability of structure.
<br />
During the latter part of the last century, the question arose among
mathematicians—“to determine the best form that can be given to the
sails of a windmill, according to their varying distances from the
revolving vanes, and likewise from the centres of the revolution.” This
is an excessively complex problem, for it is, in other words, to find the
best possible position at an infinity of varied distances and at an
infinity of points on the arm. There were a thousand futile attempts to
answer the query on the part of the most illustrious mathematicians, and
when at length, an undeniable solution was discovered, men found that the
wings of a bird had given it with absolute precision ever since the first
bird had traversed the air.
<br />
(*17) He observed a flock of pigeons passing betwixt Frankfort and the
Indian territory, one mile at least in breadth; it took up four hours in
passing, which, at the rate of one mile per minute, gives a length of 240
miles; and, supposing three pigeons to each square yard, gives
2,230,272,000 Pigeons.—“
<br />
(*18) The earth is upheld by a cow of a blue color, having horns four
hundred in number.”—.
<br />
(*19) “The , or intestinal worms, have repeatedly been
observed in the muscles, and in the cerebral substance of men.”—See
Wyatt’s Physiology, p. 143.
<br />
(*20) On the Great Western Railway, between London and Exeter, a speed of
71 miles per hour has been attained. A train weighing 90 tons was whirled
from Paddington to Didcot (53 miles) in 51 minutes.
<br />
(*21) The
<br />
(*22) Mäelzel’s Automaton Chess-player.
<br />
(*23) Babbage’s Calculating Machine.
<br />
(*24) , and since him, a hundred others.
<br />
(*25) The Electrotype.
<br />
(*26) 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.
<br />
(*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.
<br />
(*28) Voltaic pile.
<br />
(*29) The Electro Telegraph Printing Apparatus.
<br />
(*30) The Electro telegraph transmits intelligence instantaneously—at
least at so far as regards any distance upon the earth.
<br />
(*31) Common experiments in Natural Philosophy. If two red rays from two
luminous points be admitted into a dark chamber so as to fall on a white
surface, and differ in their length by 0.0000258 of an inch, their
intensity is doubled. So also if the difference in length be any
whole-number multiple of that fraction. A multiple by 2 1/4, 3 1/4, &c.,
gives an intensity equal to one ray only; but a multiple by 2 1/2, 3 1/2,
&c., gives the result of total darkness. In violet rays similar
effects arise when the difference in length is 0.000157 of an inch; and
with all other rays the results are the same—the difference varying
with a uniform increase from the violet to the red.
<br />
“Analogous experiments in respect to sound produce analogous results.”
<br />
(*32) Place a platina crucible over a spirit lamp, and keep it a red heat;
pour in some sulphuric acid, which, though the most volatile of bodies at
a common temperature, will be found to become completely fixed in a hot
crucible, and not a drop evaporates—being surrounded by an
atmosphere of its own, it does not, in fact, touch the sides. A few drops
of water are now introduced, when the acid, immediately coming in contact
with the heated sides of the crucible, flies off in sulphurous acid vapor,
and so rapid is its progress, that the caloric of the water passes off
with it, which falls a lump of ice to the bottom; by taking advantage of
the moment before it is allowed to remelt, it may be turned out a lump of
ice from a red-hot vessel.
<br />
(*33) The Daguerreotype.
<br />
(*34) Although light travels 167,000 miles in a second, the distance of 61
Cygni (the only star whose distance is ascertained) is so inconceivably
great, that its rays would require more than ten years to reach the earth.
For stars beyond this, 20—or even 1000 years—would be a
moderate estimate. Thus, if they had been annihilated 20, or 1000 years
ago, we might still see them to-day by the light which started from their
surfaces 20 or 1000 years in the past time. That many which we see daily
are really extinct, is not impossible—not even improbable.
Notes—Maelstrom
(*1) See Archimedes, “.”—lib. 2.
Notes—Island of the Fay
(*1) Moraux is here derived from moeurs, and its meaning is “fashionable”
or more strictly “of manners.”
<br />
(*2) Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise “De Situ
Orbis,” says “either the world is a great animal, or” etc
<br />
(*3) Balzac—in substance—I do not remember the words
<br />
(*4) Florem putares nare per liquidum aethera.—P. Commire.
Notes — Domain of Arnheim
(*1) An incident, similar in outline to the one here imagined, occurred,
not very long ago, in England. The name of the fortunate heir was
Thelluson. I first saw an account of this matter in the “Tour” of Prince
Puckler Muskau, who makes the sum inherited ,
and justly observes that “in the contemplation of so vast a sum, and of
the services to which it might be applied, there is something even of the
sublime.” To suit the views of this article I have followed the Prince’s
statement, although a grossly exaggerated one. The germ, and in fact, the
commencement of the present paper was published many years ago—previous
to the issue of the first number of Sue’s admirable ,
which may possibly have been suggested to him by Muskau’s account.
Notes—Berenice
(*1) For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven days of
warmth, men have called this element and temperate time the nurse of the
beautiful Halcyon—
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