The Works of Edgar Allan Poe _ Volume 5 Edgar Allan Poe 3143 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Works of Edgar Allan
Poe — Volume 5

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.

Title: The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5

Author: Edgar Allan Poe

Release date: April 1, 2000 [eBook #2151]
Most recently updated: August 31, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2151

Credits: David Widger
Revised by Richard Tonsing.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF
EDGAR ALLAN POE — VOLUME 5 ***

T h e Wo r k s o f E d g a r A l l a n
Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe
The Raven Edition
VOLUME V.

Contents

PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE
A TALE OF JERUSALEM
THE SPHINX
HOP-FROG
THE MAN OF THE CROWD
NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD
THOU ART THE MAN
WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING
BON-BON
SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE
OLD ENGLISH POETRY

POEMS
PREFACE
POEMS OF LATER LIFE
THE RAVEN
THE BELLS
ULALUME
TO HELEN
ANNABEL LEE
A VALENTINE
AN ENIGMA
FOR ANNIE
TO F——
TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD

ELDORADO
TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
O MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
THE CITY IN THE SEA
THE SLEEPER
NOTES

POEMS OF MANHOOD
LENORE
TO ONE IN PARADISE
THE COLISEUM
THE HAUNTED PALACE
THE CONQUEROR WORM
SILENCE
DREAM-LAND
HYMN
TO ZANTE
SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”
POEMS OF YOUTH
INTRODUCTION TO POEMS—1831
LETTER TO MR. B—.
SONNET—TO SCIENCE
AL AARAAF
TAMERLANE
TO HELEN
THE VALLEY OF UNREST
ISRAFEL
TO ——
TO ——
TO THE RIVER——
SONG
SPIRITS OF THE DEAD

A DREAM
ROMANCE
FAIRY-LAND
THE LAKE —— TO——
EVENING STAR
“THE HAPPIEST DAY.”
IMITATION
HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS
DREAMS
“IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE”
NOTES

DOUBTFUL POEMS
ALONE
TO ISADORE
THE VILLAGE STREET
THE FOREST REVERIE
NOTES

PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE.

In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture of their
residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but little sentiment
beyond marbles and colours. In France, meliora probant, deteriora
sequuntur—the people are too much a race of gadabouts to maintain those
household proprieties of which, indeed, they have a delicate appreciation, or
at least the elements of a proper sense. The Chinese and most of the eastern
races have a warm but inappropriate fancy. The Scotch are poor decorists.
The Dutch have, perhaps, an indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a
cabbage. In Spain they are all curtains—a nation of hangmen. The Russians
do not furnish. The Hottentots and Kickapoos are very well in their way.
The Yankees alone are preposterous.
How this happens, it is not difficult to see. We have no aristocracy of
blood, and having therefore as a natural, and indeed as an inevitable thing,
fashioned for ourselves an aristocracy of dollars, the display of wealth has
here to take the place and perform the office of the heraldic display in
monarchical countries. By a transition readily understood, and which might
have been as readily foreseen, we have been brought to merge in simple
show our notions of taste itself.
To speak less abstractly. In England, for example, no mere parade of
costly appurtenances would be so likely as with us, to create an impression
of the beautiful in respect to the appurtenances themselves—or of taste as
regards the proprietor:—this for the reason, first, that wealth is not, in
England, the loftiest object of ambition as constituting a nobility; and
secondly, that there, the true nobility of blood, confining itself within the
strict limits of legitimate taste, rather avoids than affects that mere
costliness in which a parvenu rivalry may at any time be successfully
attempted.
The people will imitate the nobles, and the result is a thorough diffusion
of the proper feeling. But in America, the coins current being the sole arms

of the aristocracy, their display may be said, in general, to be the sole means
of the aristocratic distinction; and the populace, looking always upward for
models, are insensibly led to confound the two entirely separate ideas of
magnificence and beauty. In short, the cost of an article of furniture has at
length come to be, with us, nearly the sole test of its merit in a decorative
point of view—and this test, once established, has led the way to many
analogous errors, readily traceable to the one primitive folly.
There could be nothing more directly offensive to the eye of an artist than
the interior of what is termed in the United States—that is to say, in
Appallachia—a well-furnished apartment. Its most usual defect is a want of
keeping. We speak of the keeping of a room as we would of the keeping of
a picture—for both the picture and the room are amenable to those
undeviating principles which regulate all varieties of art; and very nearly
the same laws by which we decide on the higher merits of a painting,
suffice for decision on the adjustment of a chamber.
A want of keeping is observable sometimes in the character of the several
pieces of furniture, but generally in their colours or modes of adaptation to
use Very often the eye is offended by their inartistic arrangement. Straight
lines are too prevalent—too uninterruptedly continued—or clumsily
interrupted at right angles. If curved lines occur, they are repeated into
unpleasant uniformity. By undue precision, the appearance of many a fine
apartment is utterly spoiled.
Curtains are rarely well disposed, or well chosen in respect to other
decorations. With formal furniture, curtains are out of place; and an
extensive volume of drapery of any kind is, under any circumstance,
irreconcilable with good taste—the proper quantum, as well as the proper
adjustment, depending upon the character of the general effect.
Carpets are better understood of late than of ancient days, but we still
very frequently err in their patterns and colours. The soul of the apartment
is the carpet. From it are deduced not only the hues but the forms of all
objects incumbent. A judge at common law may be an ordinary man; a good
judge of a carpet must be a genius. Yet we have heard discoursing of
carpets, with the air “d’un mouton qui reve,” fellows who should not and
who could not be entrusted with the management of their own moustaches.
Every one knows that a large floor may have a covering of large figures,
and that a small one must have a covering of small—yet this is not all the

knowledge in the world. As regards texture, the Saxony is alone admissible.
Brussels is the preterpluperfect tense of fashion, and Turkey is taste in its
dying agonies. Touching pattern—a carpet should not be bedizzened out
like a Riccaree Indian—all red chalk, yellow ochre, and cock’s feathers. In
brief—distinct grounds, and vivid circular or cycloid figures, of no
meaning, are here Median laws. The abomination of flowers, or
representations of well-known objects of any kind, should not be endured
within the limits of Christendom. Indeed, whether on carpets, or curtains, or
tapestry, or ottoman coverings, all upholstery of this nature should be
rigidly Arabesque. As for those antique floor-cloth & still occasionally seen
in the dwellings of the rabble—cloths of huge, sprawling, and radiating
devises, stripe-interspersed, and glorious with all hues, among which no
ground is intelligible—these are but the wicked invention of a race of time-
servers and money-lovers—children of Baal and worshippers of Mammon
—Benthams, who, to spare thought and economize fancy, first cruelly
invented the Kaleidoscope, and then established joint-stock companies to
twirl it by steam.
Glare is a leading error in the philosophy of American household
decoration—an error easily recognised as deduced from the perversion of
taste just specified. We are violently enamoured of gas and of glass. The
former is totally inadmissible within doors. Its harsh and unsteady light
offends. No one having both brains and eyes will use it. A mild, or what
artists term a cool light, with its consequent warm shadows, will do
wonders for even an ill-furnished apartment. Never was a more lovely
thought than that of the astral lamp. We mean, of course, the astral lamp
proper—the lamp of Argand, with its original plain ground-glass shade, and
its tempered and uniform moonlight rays. The cut-glass shade is a weak
invention of the enemy. The eagerness with which we have adopted it,
partly on account of its flashiness, but principally on account of its greater
rest, is a good commentary on the proposition with which we began. It is
not too much to say, that the deliberate employer of a cut-glass shade, is
either radically deficient in taste, or blindly subservient to the caprices of
fashion. The light proceeding from one of these gaudy abominations is
unequal broken, and painful. It alone is sufficient to mar a world of good
effect in the furniture subjected to its influence. Female loveliness, in
especial, is more than one-half disenchanted beneath its evil eye.

In the matter of glass, generally, we proceed upon false principles. Its
leading feature is glitter—and in that one word how much of all that is
detestable do we express! Flickering, unquiet lights, are sometimes pleasing
—to children and idiots always so—but in the embellishment of a room
they should be scrupulously avoided. In truth, even strong steady lights are
inadmissible. The huge and unmeaning glass chandeliers, prism-cut, gas-
lighted, and without shade, which dangle in our most fashionable drawing-
rooms, may be cited as the quintessence of all that is false in taste or
preposterous in folly.
The rage for glitter-because its idea has become as we before observed,
confounded with that of magnificence in the abstract—has led us, also, to
the exaggerated employment of mirrors. We line our dwellings with great
British plates, and then imagine we have done a fine thing. Now the
slightest thought will be sufficient to convince any one who has an eye at
all, of the ill effect of numerous looking-glasses, and especially of large
ones. Regarded apart from its reflection, the mirror presents a continuous,
flat, colourless, unrelieved surface,—a thing always and obviously
unpleasant. Considered as a reflector, it is potent in producing a monstrous
and odious uniformity: and the evil is here aggravated, not in merely direct
proportion with the augmentation of its sources, but in a ratio constantly
increasing. In fact, a room with four or five mirrors arranged at random, is,
for all purposes of artistic show, a room of no shape at all. If we add to this
evil, the attendant glitter upon glitter, we have a perfect farrago of
discordant and displeasing effects. The veriest bumpkin, on entering an
apartment so bedizzened, would be instantly aware of something wrong,
although he might be altogether unable to assign a cause for his
dissatisfaction. But let the same person be led into a room tastefully
furnished, and he would be startled into an exclamation of pleasure and
surprise.
It is an evil growing out of our republican institutions, that here a man of
large purse has usually a very little soul which he keeps in it. The
corruption of taste is a portion or a pendant of the dollar-manufacture. As
we grow rich, our ideas grow rusty. It is, therefore, not among our
aristocracy that we must look (if at all, in Appallachia), for the spirituality
of a British boudoir. But we have seen apartments in the tenure of
Americans of moderns [possibly “modest” or “moderate”] means, which, in
negative merit at least, might vie with any of the or-molu’d cabinets of our

friends across the water. Even now, there is present to our mind’s eye a
small and not, ostentatious chamber with whose decorations no fault can be
found. The proprietor lies asleep on a sofa—the weather is cool—the time
is near midnight: we will make a sketch of the room during his slumber.
It is oblong—some thirty feet in length and twenty-five in breadth—a
shape affording the best(ordinary) opportunities for the adjustment of
furniture. It has but one door—by no means a wide one—which is at one
end of the parallelogram, and but two windows, which are at the other.
These latter are large, reaching down to the floor—have deep recesses—and
open on an Italian veranda. Their panes are of a crimson-tinted glass, set in
rose-wood framings, more massive than usual. They are curtained within
the recess, by a thick silver tissue adapted to the shape of the window, and
hanging loosely in small volumes. Without the recess are curtains of an
exceedingly rich crimson silk, fringed with a deep network of gold, and
lined with silver tissue, which is the material of the exterior blind. There are
no cornices; but the folds of the whole fabric (which are sharp rather than
massive, and have an airy appearance), issue from beneath a broad
entablature of rich giltwork, which encircles the room at the junction of the
ceiling and walls. The drapery is thrown open also, or closed, by means of a
thick rope of gold loosely enveloping it, and resolving itself readily into a
knot; no pins or other such devices are apparent. The colours of the curtains
and their fringe—the tints of crimson and gold—appear everywhere in
profusion, and determine the character of the room. The carpet—of Saxony
material—is quite half an inch thick, and is of the same crimson ground,
relieved simply by the appearance of a gold cord (like that festooning the
curtains) slightly relieved above the surface of the ground, and thrown upon
it in such a manner as to form a succession of short irregular curves—one
occasionally overlaying the other. The walls are prepared with a glossy
paper of a silver gray tint, spotted with small Arabesque devices of a fainter
hue of the prevalent crimson. Many paintings relieve the expanse of paper.
These are chiefly landscapes of an imaginative cast—such as the fairy
grottoes of Stanfield, or the lake of the Dismal Swamp of Chapman. There
are, nevertheless, three or four female heads, of an ethereal beauty-portraits
in the manner of Sully. The tone of each picture is warm, but dark. There
are no “brilliant effects.” Repose speaks in all. Not one is of small size.
Diminutive paintings give that spotty look to a room, which is the blemish
of so many a fine work of Art overtouched. The frames are broad but not

deep, and richly carved, without being dulled or filagreed. They have the
whole lustre of burnished gold. They lie flat on the walls, and do not hang
off with cords. The designs themselves are often seen to better advantage in
this latter position, but the general appearance of the chamber is injured.
But one mirror—and this not a very large one—is visible. In shape it is
nearly circular—and it is hung so that a reflection of the person can be
obtained from it in none of the ordinary sitting-places of the room. Two
large low sofas of rosewood and crimson silk, gold-flowered, form the only
seats, with the exception of two light conversation chairs, also of rose-
wood. There is a pianoforte (rose-wood, also), without cover, and thrown
open. An octagonal table, formed altogether of the richest gold-threaded
marble, is placed near one of the sofas. This is also without cover—the
drapery of the curtains has been thought sufficient. Four large and gorgeous
Sevres vases, in which bloom a profusion of sweet and vivid flowers,
occupy the slightly rounded angles of the room. A tall candelabrum, bearing
a small antique lamp with highly perfumed oil, is standing near the head of
my sleeping friend. Some light and graceful hanging shelves, with golden
edges and crimson silk cords with gold tassels, sustain two or three hundred
magnificently bound books. Beyond these things, there is no furniture, if we
except an Argand lamp, with a plain crimson-tinted ground glass shade,
which depends from He lofty vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold chain,
and throws a tranquil but magical radiance over all.

A TALE OF JERUSALEM

Intensos rigidam in frontem ascendere canos
Passus erat——
—Lucan—De Catone

——a bristly bore. Translation.

“Let us hurry to the walls,” said Abel-Phittim to Buzi-Ben-Levi and
Simeon the Pharisee, on the tenth day of the month Thammuz, in the year of
the world three thousand nine hundred and forty-one—“let us hasten to the
ramparts adjoining the gate of Benjamin, which is in the city of David, and
overlooking the camp of the uncircumcised; for it is the last hour of the
fourth watch, being sunrise; and the idolaters, in fulfilment of the promise
of Pompey, should be awaiting us with the lambs for the sacrifices.”
Simeon, Abel-Phittim, and Duzi-Ben-Levi were the Gizbarim, or sub-
collectors of the offering, in the holy city of Jerusalem.
“Verily,” replied the Pharisee; “let us hasten: for this generosity in the
heathen is unwonted; and fickle-mindedness has ever been an attribute of
the worshippers of Baal.”
“That they are fickle-minded and treacherous is as true as the
Pentateuch,” said Buzi-Ben-Levi, “but that is only toward the people of
Adonai. When was it ever known that the Ammonites proved wanting to
their own interests? Methinks it is no great stretch of generosity to allow us
lambs for the altar of the Lord, receiving in lieu thereof thirty silver shekels
per head!”
“Thou forgettest, however, Ben-Levi,” replied Abel-Phittim, “that the
Roman Pompey, who is now impiously besieging the city of the Most High,
has no assurity that we apply not the lambs thus purchased for the altar, to
the sustenance of the body, rather than of the spirit.”

“Now, by the five corners of my beard!” shouted the Pharisee, who
belonged to the sect called The Dashers (that little knot of saints whose
manner of dashing and lacerating the feet against the pavement was long a
thorn and a reproach to less zealous devotees—a stumbling-block to less
gifted perambulators)—“by the five corners of that beard which, as a priest,
I am forbidden to shave!—have we lived to see the day when a
blaspheming and idolatrous upstart of Rome shall accuse us of
appropriating to the appetites of the flesh the most holy and consecrated
elements? Have we lived to see the day when—”
“Let us not question the motives of the Philistine,” interrupted Abel-
Phittim, “for to-day we profit for the first time by his avarice or by his
generosity; but rather let us hurry to the ramparts, lest offerings should be
wanting for that altar whose fire the rains of heaven can not extinguish, and
whose pillars of smoke no tempest can turn aside.”
That part of the city to which our worthy Gizbarim now hastened, and
which bore the name of its architect, King David, was esteemed the most
strongly fortified district of Jerusalem; being situated upon the steep and
lofty hill of Zion. Here, a broad, deep, circumvallatory trench, hewn from
the solid rock, was defended by a wall of great strength erected upon its
inner edge. This wall was adorned, at regular interspaces, by square towers
of white marble; the lowest sixty, and the highest one hundred and twenty
cubits in height. But, in the vicinity of the gate of Benjamin, the wall arose
by no means from the margin of the fosse. On the contrary, between the
level of the ditch and the basement of the rampart sprang up a perpendicular
cliff of two hundred and fifty cubits, forming part of the precipitous Mount
Moriah. So that when Simeon and his associates arrived on the summit of
the tower called Adoni-Bezek—the loftiest of all the turrets around about
Jerusalem, and the usual place of conference with the besieging army—they
looked down upon the camp of the enemy from an eminence excelling by
many feet that of the Pyramid of Cheops, and, by several, that of the temple
of Belus.
“Verily,” sighed the Pharisee, as he peered dizzily over the precipice, “the
uncircumcised are as the sands by the seashore—as the locusts in the
wilderness! The valley of the King hath become the valley of Adommin.”
“And yet,” added Ben-Levi, “thou canst not point me out a Philistine—
no, not one—from Aleph to Tau—from the wilderness to the battlements—

who seemeth any bigger than the letter Jod!”
“Lower away the basket with the shekels of silver!” here shouted a
Roman soldier in a hoarse, rough voice, which appeared to issue from the
regions of Pluto—“lower away the basket with the accursed coin which it
has broken the jaw of a noble Roman to pronounce! Is it thus you evince
your gratitude to our master Pompeius, who, in his condescension, has
thought fit to listen to your idolatrous importunities? The god Phœbus, who
is a true god, has been charioted for an hour—and were you not to be on the
ramparts by sunrise? Ædepol! do you think that we, the conquerors of the
world, have nothing better to do than stand waiting by the walls of every
kennel, to traffic with the dogs of the earth? Lower away! I say—and see
that your trumpery be bright in color and just in weight!”
“El Elohim!” ejaculated the Pharisee, as the discordant tones of the
centurion rattled up the crags of the precipice, and fainted away against the
temple—“El Elohim!—who is the god Phœbus?—whom doth the
blasphemer invoke? Thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi! who art read in the laws of the
Gentiles, and hast sojourned among them who dabble with the Teraphim!—
is it Nergal of whom the idolater speaketh?—or Ashimah?—or Nibhaz,—or
Tartak?—or Adramalech?—or Anamalech?—or Succoth-Benith?—or
Dagon?—or Belial?—or Baal-Perith?—or Baal-Peor?—or Baal-Zebub?”
“Verily it is neither—but beware how thou lettest the rope slip too rapidly
through thy fingers; for should the wicker-work chance to hang on the
projection of yonder crag, there will be a woful outpouring of the holy
things of the sanctuary.”
By the assistance of some rudely constructed machinery, the heavily
laden basket was now carefully lowered down among the multitude; and,
from the giddy pinnacle, the Romans were seen gathering confusedly round
it; but owing to the vast height and the prevalence of a fog, no distinct view
of their operations could be obtained.
Half an hour had already elapsed.
“We shall be too late!” sighed the Pharisee, as at the expiration of this
period he looked over into the abyss—“we shall be too late! we shall be
turned out of office by the Katholim.”
“No more,” responded Abel-Phittim—“no more shall we feast upon the
fat of the land—no longer shall our beards be odorous with frankincense—
our loins girded up with fine linen from the Temple.”

“Raca!” swore Ben-Levi, “Raca! do they mean to defraud us of the
purchase money? or, Holy Moses! are they weighing the shekels of the
tabernacle?”
“They have given the signal at last!” cried the Pharisee—“they have
given the signal at last! pull away, Abel-Phittim!—and thou, Buzi-Ben-
Levi, pull away!—for verily the Philistines have either still hold upon the
basket, or the Lord hath softened their hearts to place therein a beast of
good weight!” And the Gizbarim pulled away, while their burden swung
heavily upward through the still increasing mist.

“Booshoh he!”—as, at the conclusion of an hour, some object at the
extremity of the rope became indistinctly visible—“Booshoh he!” was the
exclamation which burst from the lips of Ben-Levi.
“Booshoh he!—for shame!—it is a ram from the thickets of Engedi, and
as rugged as the valley of Jehosaphat!”
“It is a firstling of the flock,” said Abel-Phittim, “I know him by the
bleating of his lips, and the innocent folding of his limbs. His eyes are more
beautiful than the jewels of the Pectoral, and his flesh is like the honey of
Hebron.”
“It is a fatted calf from the pastures of Bashan,” said the Pharisee, “the
heathen have dealt wonderfully with us——let us raise up our voices in a
psalm—let us give thanks on the shawm and on the psaltery—on the harp
and on the huggab—on the cythern and on the sackbut!”
It was not until the basket had arrived within a few feet of the Gizbarim
that a low grunt betrayed to their perception a hog of no common size.
“Now El Emanu!” slowly and with upturned eyes ejaculated the trio, as,
letting go their hold, the emancipated porker tumbled headlong among the
Philistines, “El Emanu!—God be with us—it is the unutterable flesh!”

THE SPHINX

During the dread reign of the cholera in New York, I had accepted the
invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement of his
cottage ornée on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around us all the
ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling in the
woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books, we should
have passed the time pleasantly enough, but for the fearful intelligence
which reached us every morning from the populous city. Not a day elapsed
which did not bring us news of the decease of some acquaintance. Then as
the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily the loss of some friend. At
length we trembled at the approach of every messenger. The very air from
the South seemed to us redolent with death. That palsying thought, indeed,
took entire possession of my soul. I could neither speak, think, nor dream of
any thing else. My host was of a less excitable temperament, and, although
greatly depressed in spirits, exerted himself to sustain my own. His richly
philosophical intellect was not at any time affected by unrealities. To the
substances of terror he was sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no
apprehension.
His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal gloom into
which I had fallen, were frustrated, in great measure, by certain volumes
which I had found in his library. These were of a character to force into
germination whatever seeds of hereditary superstition lay latent in my
bosom. I had been reading these books without his knowledge, and thus he
was often at a loss to account for the forcible impressions which had been
made upon my fancy.
A favorite topic with me was the popular belief in omens—a belief
which, at this one epoch of my life, I was almost seriously disposed to
defend. On this subject we had long and animated discussions—he
maintaining the utter groundlessness of faith in such matters,—I contending
that a popular sentiment arising with absolute spontaneity—that is to say,

without apparent traces of suggestion—had in itself the unmistakable
elements of truth, and was entitled to as much respect as that intuition
which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius.
The fact is, that soon after my arrival at the cottage there had occurred to
myself an incident so entirely inexplicable, and which had in it so much of
the portentous character, that I might well have been excused for regarding
it as an omen. It appalled, and at the same time so confounded and
bewildered me, that many days elapsed before I could make up my mind to
communicate the circumstances to my friend.
Near the close of exceedingly warm day, I was sitting, book in hand, at
an open window, commanding, through a long vista of the river banks, a
view of a distant hill, the face of which nearest my position had been
denuded by what is termed a land-slide, of the principal portion of its trees.
My thoughts had been long wandering from the volume before me to the
gloom and desolation of the neighboring city. Uplifting my eyes from the
page, they fell upon the naked face of the bill, and upon an object—upon
some living monster of hideous conformation, which very rapidly made its
way from the summit to the bottom, disappearing finally in the dense forest
below. As this creature first came in sight, I doubted my own sanity—or at
least the evidence of my own eyes; and many minutes passed before I
succeeded in convincing myself that I was neither mad nor in a dream. Yet
when I described the monster (which I distinctly saw, and calmly surveyed
through the whole period of its progress), my readers, I fear, will feel more
difficulty in being convinced of these points than even I did myself.
Estimating the size of the creature by comparison with the diameter of
the large trees near which it passed—the few giants of the forest which had
escaped the fury of the land-slide—I concluded it to be far larger than any
ship of the line in existence. I say ship of the line, because the shape of the
monster suggested the idea—the hull of one of our seventy-four might
convey a very tolerable conception of the general outline. The mouth of the
animal was situated at the extremity of a proboscis some sixty or seventy
feet in length, and about as thick as the body of an ordinary elephant. Near
the root of this trunk was an immense quantity of black shaggy hair—more
than could have been supplied by the coats of a score of buffaloes; and
projecting from this hair downwardly and laterally, sprang two gleaming
tusks not unlike those of the wild boar, but of infinitely greater dimensions.

Extending forward, parallel with the proboscis, and on each side of it, was a
gigantic staff, thirty or forty feet in length, formed seemingly of pure crystal
and in shape a perfect prism,—it reflected in the most gorgeous manner the
rays of the declining sun. The trunk was fashioned like a wedge with the
apex to the earth. From it there were outspread two pairs of wings—each
wing nearly one hundred yards in length—one pair being placed above the
other, and all thickly covered with metal scales; each scale apparently some
ten or twelve feet in diameter. I observed that the upper and lower tiers of
wings were connected by a strong chain. But the chief peculiarity of this
horrible thing was the representation of a Death’s Head, which covered
nearly the whole surface of its breast, and which was as accurately traced in
glaring white, upon the dark ground of the body, as if it had been there
carefully designed by an artist. While I regarded the terrific animal, and
more especially the appearance on its breast, with a feeling or horror and
awe—with a sentiment of forthcoming evil, which I found it impossible to
quell by any effort of the reason, I perceived the huge jaws at the extremity
of the proboscis suddenly expand themselves, and from them there
proceeded a sound so loud and so expressive of woe, that it struck upon my
nerves like a knell and as the monster disappeared at the foot of the hill, I
fell at once, fainting, to the floor.
Upon recovering, my first impulse, of course, was to inform my friend of
what I had seen and heard—and I can scarcely explain what feeling of
repugnance it was which, in the end, operated to prevent me.
At length, one evening, some three or four days after the occurrence, we
were sitting together in the room in which I had seen the apparition—I
occupying the same seat at the same window, and he lounging on a sofa
near at hand. The association of the place and time impelled me to give him
an account of the phenomenon. He heard me to the end—at first laughed
heartily—and then lapsed into an excessively grave demeanor, as if my
insanity was a thing beyond suspicion. At this instant I again had a distinct
view of the monster—to which, with a shout of absolute terror, I now
directed his attention. He looked eagerly—but maintained that he saw
nothing—although I designated minutely the course of the creature, as it
made its way down the naked face of the hill.
I was now immeasurably alarmed, for I considered the vision either as an
omen of my death, or, worse, as the fore-runner of an attack of mania. I

threw myself passionately back in my chair, and for some moments buried
my face in my hands. When I uncovered my eyes, the apparition was no
longer apparent.
My host, however, had in some degree resumed the calmness of his
demeanor, and questioned me very rigorously in respect to the conformation
of the visionary creature. When I had fully satisfied him on this head, he
sighed deeply, as if relieved of some intolerable burden, and went on to
talk, with what I thought a cruel calmness, of various points of speculative
philosophy, which had heretofore formed subject of discussion between us.
I remember his insisting very especially (among other things) upon the idea
that the principle source of error in all human investigations lay in the
liability of the understanding to under-rate or to over-value the importance
of an object, through mere misadmeasurement of its propinquity. “To
estimate properly, for example,” he said, “the influence to be exercised on
mankind at large by the thorough diffusion of Democracy, the distance of
the epoch at which such diffusion may possibly be accomplished should not
fail to form an item in the estimate. Yet can you tell me one writer on the
subject of government who has ever thought this particular branch of the
subject worthy of discussion at all?”
He here paused for a moment, stepped to a book-case, and brought forth
one of the ordinary synopses of Natural History. Requesting me then to
exchange seats with him, that he might the better distinguish the fine print
of the volume, he took my armchair at the window, and, opening the book,
resumed his discourse very much in the same tone as before.
“But for your exceeding minuteness,” he said, “in describing the monster,
I might never have had it in my power to demonstrate to you what it was. In
the first place, let me read to you a schoolboy account of the genus Sphinx,
of the family Crepuscularia of the order Lepidoptera, of the class of Insecta
—or insects. The account runs thus:
“‘Four membranous wings covered with little colored scales of metallic
appearance; mouth forming a rolled proboscis, produced by an elongation
of the jaws, upon the sides of which are found the rudiments of mandibles
and downy palpi; the inferior wings retained to the superior by a stiff hair;
antennæ in the form of an elongated club, prismatic; abdomen pointed. The
Death’s-headed Sphinx has occasioned much terror among the vulgar, at

times, by the melancholy kind of cry which it utters, and the insignia of
death which it wears upon its corslet.’”
He here closed the book and leaned forward in the chair, placing himself
accurately in the position which I had occupied at the moment of beholding
“the monster.”
“Ah, here it is,” he presently exclaimed—“it is reascending the face of
the hill, and a very remarkable looking creature I admit it to be. Still, it is by
no means so large or so distant as you imagined it,—for the fact is that, as it
wriggles its way up this thread, which some spider has wrought along the
window-sash, I find it to be about the sixteenth of an inch in its extreme
length, and also about the sixteenth of an inch distant from the pupil of my
eye.”

HOP-FROG

I never knew anyone so keenly alive to a joke as the king was. He
seemed to live only for joking. To tell a good story of the joke kind, and to
tell it well, was the surest road to his favor. Thus it happened that his seven
ministers were all noted for their accomplishments as jokers. They all took
after the king, too, in being large, corpulent, oily men, as well as inimitable
jokers. Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there is something in
fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been quite able to
determine; but certain it is that a lean joker is a rara avis in terris.
About the refinements, or, as he called them, the “ghost” of wit, the king
troubled himself very little. He had an especial admiration for breadth in a
jest, and would often put up with length, for the sake of it. Over-niceties
wearied him. He would have preferred Rabelais’ “Gargantua” to the
“Zadig” of Voltaire: and, upon the whole, practical jokes suited his taste far
better than verbal ones.
At the date of my narrative, professing jesters had not altogether gone out
of fashion at court. Several of the great continental “powers” still retain
their “fools,” who wore motley, with caps and bells, and who were expected
to be always ready with sharp witticisms, at a moment’s notice, in
consideration of the crumbs that fell from the royal table.
Our king, as a matter of course, retained his “fool.” The fact is, he
required something in the way of folly—if only to counterbalance the heavy
wisdom of the seven wise men who were his ministers—not to mention
himself.
His fool, or professional jester, was not only a fool, however. His value
was trebled in the eyes of the king, by the fact of his being also a dwarf and
a cripple. Dwarfs were as common at court, in those days, as fools; and
many monarchs would have found it difficult to get through their days (days
are rather longer at court than elsewhere) without both a jester to laugh

with, and a dwarf to laugh at. But, as I have already observed, your jesters,
in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, are fat, round, and unwieldy—so that
it was no small source of self-gratulation with our king that, in Hop-Frog
(this was the fool’s name), he possessed a triplicate treasure in one person.
I believe the name “Hop-Frog” was not that given to the dwarf by his
sponsors at baptism, but it was conferred upon him, by general consent of
the seven ministers, on account of his inability to walk as other men do. In
fact, Hop-Frog could only get along by a sort of interjectional gait—
something between a leap and a wriggle—a movement that afforded
illimitable amusement, and of course consolation, to the king, for
(notwithstanding the protuberance of his stomach and a constitutional
swelling of the head) the king, by his whole court, was accounted a capital
figure.
But although Hop-Frog, through the distortion of his legs, could move
only with great pain and difficulty along a road or floor, the prodigious
muscular power which nature seemed to have bestowed upon his arms, by
way of compensation for deficiency in the lower limbs, enabled him to
perform many feats of wonderful dexterity, where trees or ropes were in
question, or any thing else to climb. At such exercises he certainly much
more resembled a squirrel, or a small monkey, than a frog.
I am not able to say, with precision, from what country Hop-Frog
originally came. It was from some barbarous region, however, that no
person ever heard of—a vast distance from the court of our king. Hop-Frog,
and a young girl very little less dwarfish than himself (although of exquisite
proportions, and a marvellous dancer), had been forcibly carried off from
their respective homes in adjoining provinces, and sent as presents to the
king, by one of his ever-victorious generals.
Under these circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that a close
intimacy arose between the two little captives. Indeed, they soon became
sworn friends. Hop-Frog, who, although he made a great deal of sport, was
by no means popular, had it not in his power to render Trippetta many
services; but she, on account of her grace and exquisite beauty (although a
dwarf), was universally admired and petted; so she possessed much
influence; and never failed to use it, whenever she could, for the benefit of
Hop-Frog.

On some grand state occasion—I forgot what—the king determined to
have a masquerade, and whenever a masquerade or any thing of that kind,
occurred at our court, then the talents, both of Hop-Frog and Trippetta were
sure to be called into play. Hop-Frog, in especial, was so inventive in the
way of getting up pageants, suggesting novel characters, and arranging
costumes, for masked balls, that nothing could be done, it seems, without
his assistance.
The night appointed for the fete had arrived. A gorgeous hall had been
fitted up, under Trippetta’s eye, with every kind of device which could
possibly give eclat to a masquerade. The whole court was in a fever of
expectation. As for costumes and characters, it might well be supposed that
everybody had come to a decision on such points. Many had made up their
minds (as to what roles they should assume) a week, or even a month, in
advance; and, in fact, there was not a particle of indecision anywhere—
except in the case of the king and his seven minsters. Why they hesitated I
never could tell, unless they did it by way of a joke. More probably, they
found it difficult, on account of being so fat, to make up their minds. At all
events, time flew; and, as a last resort they sent for Trippetta and Hop-Frog.
When the two little friends obeyed the summons of the king they found
him sitting at his wine with the seven members of his cabinet council; but
the monarch appeared to be in a very ill humor. He knew that Hop-Frog was
not fond of wine, for it excited the poor cripple almost to madness; and
madness is no comfortable feeling. But the king loved his practical jokes,
and took pleasure in forcing Hop-Frog to drink and (as the king called it)
“to be merry.”
“Come here, Hop-Frog,” said he, as the jester and his friend entered the
room; “swallow this bumper to the health of your absent friends, [here Hop-
Frog sighed,] and then let us have the benefit of your invention. We want
characters—characters, man—something novel—out of the way. We are
wearied with this everlasting sameness. Come, drink! the wine will brighten
your wits.”
Hop-Frog endeavored, as usual, to get up a jest in reply to these advances
from the king; but the effort was too much. It happened to be the poor
dwarf’s birthday, and the command to drink to his “absent friends” forced
the tears to his eyes. Many large, bitter drops fell into the goblet as he took
it, humbly, from the hand of the tyrant.

“Ah! ha! ha! ha!” roared the latter, as the dwarf reluctantly drained the
beaker. “See what a glass of good wine can do! Why, your eyes are shining
already!”
Poor fellow! his large eyes gleamed, rather than shone; for the effect of
wine on his excitable brain was not more powerful than instantaneous. He
placed the goblet nervously on the table, and looked round upon the
company with a half-insane stare. They all seemed highly amused at the
success of the king’s ‘joke.’
“And now to business,” said the prime minister, a very fat man.
“Yes,” said the King; “Come, Hop-Frog, lend us your assistance.
Characters, my fine fellow; we stand in need of characters—all of us—ha!
ha! ha!” and as this was seriously meant for a joke, his laugh was chorused
by the seven.
Hop-Frog also laughed, although feebly and somewhat vacantly.
“Come, come,” said the king, impatiently, “have you nothing to
suggest?”
“I am endeavoring to think of something novel,” replied the dwarf,
abstractedly, for he was quite bewildered by the wine.
“Endeavoring!” cried the tyrant, fiercely; “what do you mean by that?
Ah, I perceive. You are sulky, and want more wine. Here, drink this!” and
he poured out another goblet full and offered it to the cripple, who merely
gazed at it, gasping for breath.
“Drink, I say!” shouted the monster, “or by the fiends—”
The dwarf hesitated. The king grew purple with rage. The courtiers
smirked. Trippetta, pale as a corpse, advanced to the monarch’s seat, and,
falling on her knees before him, implored him to spare her friend.
The tyrant regarded her, for some moments, in evident wonder at her
audacity. He seemed quite at a loss what to do or say—how most
becomingly to express his indignation. At last, without uttering a syllable,
he pushed her violently from him, and threw the contents of the brimming
goblet in her face.
The poor girl got up the best she could, and, not daring even to sigh,
resumed her position at the foot of the table.

There was a dead silence for about half a minute, during which the
falling of a leaf, or of a feather, might have been heard. It was interrupted
by a low, but harsh and protracted grating sound which seemed to come at
once from every corner of the room.
“What—what—what are you making that noise for?” demanded the king,
turning furiously to the dwarf.
The latter seemed to have recovered, in great measure, from his
intoxication, and looking fixedly but quietly into the tyrant’s face, merely
ejaculated:
“I—I? How could it have been me?”
“The sound appeared to come from without,” observed one of the
courtiers. “I fancy it was the parrot at the window, whetting his bill upon his
cage-wires.”
“True,” replied the monarch, as if much relieved by the suggestion; “but,
on the honor of a knight, I could have sworn that it was the gritting of this
vagabond’s teeth.”
Hereupon the dwarf laughed (the king was too confirmed a joker to
object to any one’s laughing), and displayed a set of large, powerful, and
very repulsive teeth. Moreover, he avowed his perfect willingness to
swallow as much wine as desired. The monarch was pacified; and having
drained another bumper with no very perceptible ill effect, Hop-Frog
entered at once, and with spirit, into the plans for the masquerade.
“I cannot tell what was the association of idea,” observed he, very
tranquilly, and as if he had never tasted wine in his life, “but just after your
majesty, had struck the girl and thrown the wine in her face—just after your
majesty had done this, and while the parrot was making that odd noise
outside the window, there came into my mind a capital diversion—one of
my own country frolics—often enacted among us, at our masquerades: but
here it will be new altogether. Unfortunately, however, it requires a
company of eight persons and—”
“Here we are!” cried the king, laughing at his acute discovery of the
coincidence; “eight to a fraction—I and my seven ministers. Come! what is
the diversion?”
“We call it,” replied the cripple, “the Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs, and
it really is excellent sport if well enacted.”

“We will enact it,” remarked the king, drawing himself up, and lowering
his eyelids.
“The beauty of the game,” continued Hop-Frog, “lies in the fright it
occasions among the women.”
“Capital!” roared in chorus the monarch and his ministry.
“I will equip you as ourang-outangs,” proceeded the dwarf; “leave all
that to me. The resemblance shall be so striking, that the company of
masqueraders will take you for real beasts—and of course, they will be as
much terrified as astonished.”
“Oh, this is exquisite!” exclaimed the king. “Hop-Frog! I will make a
man of you.”
“The chains are for the purpose of increasing the confusion by their
jangling. You are supposed to have escaped, en masse, from your keepers.
Your majesty cannot conceive the effect produced, at a masquerade, by
eight chained ourang-outangs, imagined to be real ones by most of the
company; and rushing in with savage cries, among the crowd of delicately
and gorgeously habited men and women. The contrast is inimitable.”
“It must be,” said the king: and the council arose hurriedly (as it was
growing late), to put in execution the scheme of Hop-Frog.
His mode of equipping the party as ourang-outangs was very simple, but
effective enough for his purposes. The animals in question had, at the epoch
of my story, very rarely been seen in any part of the civilized world; and as
the imitations made by the dwarf were sufficiently beast-like and more than
sufficiently hideous, their truthfulness to nature was thus thought to be
secured.
The king and his ministers were first encased in tight-fitting stockinet
shirts and drawers. They were then saturated with tar. At this stage of the
process, some one of the party suggested feathers; but the suggestion was at
once overruled by the dwarf, who soon convinced the eight, by ocular
demonstration, that the hair of such a brute as the ourang-outang was much
more efficiently represented by flax. A thick coating of the latter was
accordingly plastered upon the coating of tar. A long chain was now
procured. First, it was passed about the waist of the king, and tied; then
about another of the party, and also tied; then about all successively, in the
same manner. When this chaining arrangement was complete, and the party

stood as far apart from each other as possible, they formed a circle; and to
make all things appear natural, Hop-Frog passed the residue of the chain in
two diameters, at right angles, across the circle, after the fashion adopted, at
the present day, by those who capture chimpanzees, or other large apes, in
Borneo.
The grand saloon in which the masquerade was to take place, was a
circular room, very lofty, and receiving the light of the sun only through a
single window at top. At night (the season for which the apartment was
especially designed) it was illuminated principally by a large chandelier,
depending by a chain from the centre of the sky-light, and lowered, or
elevated, by means of a counter-balance as usual; but (in order not to look
unsightly) this latter passed outside the cupola and over the roof.
The arrangements of the room had been left to Trippetta’s
superintendence; but, in some particulars, it seems, she had been guided by
the calmer judgment of her friend the dwarf. At his suggestion it was that,
on this occasion, the chandelier was removed. Its waxen drippings (which,
in weather so warm, it was quite impossible to prevent) would have been
seriously detrimental to the rich dresses of the guests, who, on account of
the crowded state of the saloon, could not all be expected to keep from out
its centre; that is to say, from under the chandelier. Additional sconces were
set in various parts of the hall, out of the way, and a flambeau, emitting
sweet odor, was placed in the right hand of each of the Caryaides
[Caryatides] that stood against the wall—some fifty or sixty altogether.
The eight ourang-outangs, taking Hop-Frog’s advice, waited patiently
until midnight (when the room was thoroughly filled with masqueraders)
before making their appearance. No sooner had the clock ceased striking,
however, than they rushed, or rather rolled in, all together—for the
impediments of their chains caused most of the party to fall, and all to
stumble as they entered.
The excitement among the masqueraders was prodigious, and filled the
heart of the king with glee. As had been anticipated, there were not a few of
the guests who supposed the ferocious-looking creatures to be beasts of
some kind in reality, if not precisely ourang-outangs. Many of the women
swooned with affright; and had not the king taken the precaution to exclude
all weapons from the saloon, his party might soon have expiated their frolic
in their blood. As it was, a general rush was made for the doors; but the

king had ordered them to be locked immediately upon his entrance; and, at
the dwarf’s suggestion, the keys had been deposited with him.
While the tumult was at its height, and each masquerader attentive only
to his own safety (for, in fact, there was much real danger from the pressure
of the excited crowd), the chain by which the chandelier ordinarily hung,
and which had been drawn up on its removal, might have been seen very
gradually to descend, until its hooked extremity came within three feet of
the floor.
Soon after this, the king and his seven friends having reeled about the
hall in all directions, found themselves, at length, in its centre, and, of
course, in immediate contact with the chain. While they were thus situated,
the dwarf, who had followed noiselessly at their heels, inciting them to keep
up the commotion, took hold of their own chain at the intersection of the
two portions which crossed the circle diametrically and at right angles.
Here, with the rapidity of thought, he inserted the hook from which the
chandelier had been wont to depend; and, in an instant, by some unseen
agency, the chandelier-chain was drawn so far upward as to take the hook
out of reach, and, as an inevitable consequence, to drag the ourang-outangs
together in close connection, and face to face.
The masqueraders, by this time, had recovered, in some measure, from
their alarm; and, beginning to regard the whole matter as a well-contrived
pleasantry, set up a loud shout of laughter at the predicament of the apes.
“Leave them to me!” now screamed Hop-Frog, his shrill voice making
itself easily heard through all the din. “Leave them to me. I fancy I know
them. If I can only get a good look at them, I can soon tell who they are.”
Here, scrambling over the heads of the crowd, he managed to get to the
wall; when, seizing a flambeau from one of the Caryatides, he returned, as
he went, to the centre of the room—leaped, with the agility of a monkey,
upon the kings head, and thence clambered a few feet up the chain; holding
down the torch to examine the group of ourang-outangs, and still
screaming: “I shall soon find out who they are!”
And now, while the whole assembly (the apes included) were convulsed
with laughter, the jester suddenly uttered a shrill whistle; when the chain
flew violently up for about thirty feet—dragging with it the dismayed and
struggling ourang-outangs, and leaving them suspended in mid-air between
the sky-light and the floor. Hop-Frog, clinging to the chain as it rose, still

maintained his relative position in respect to the eight maskers, and still (as
if nothing were the matter) continued to thrust his torch down toward them,
as though endeavoring to discover who they were.
So thoroughly astonished was the whole company at this ascent, that a
dead silence, of about a minute’s duration, ensued. It was broken by just
such a low, harsh, grating sound, as had before attracted the attention of the
king and his councillors when the former threw the wine in the face of
Trippetta. But, on the present occasion, there could be no question as to
whence the sound issued. It came from the fang-like teeth of the dwarf, who
ground them and gnashed them as he foamed at the mouth, and glared, with
an expression of maniacal rage, into the upturned countenances of the king
and his seven companions.
“Ah, ha!” said at length the infuriated jester. “Ah, ha! I begin to see who
these people are now!” Here, pretending to scrutinize the king more closely,
he held the flambeau to the flaxen coat which enveloped him, and which
instantly burst into a sheet of vivid flame. In less than half a minute the
whole eight ourang-outangs were blazing fiercely, amid the shrieks of the
multitude who gazed at them from below, horror-stricken, and without the
power to render them the slightest assistance.
At length the flames, suddenly increasing in virulence, forced the jester
to climb higher up the chain, to be out of their reach; and, as he made this
movement, the crowd again sank, for a brief instant, into silence. The dwarf
seized his opportunity, and once more spoke:
“I now see distinctly,” he said, “what manner of people these maskers
are. They are a great king and his seven privy-councillors,—a king who
does not scruple to strike a defenceless girl and his seven councillors who
abet him in the outrage. As for myself, I am simply Hop-Frog, the jester—
and this is my last jest.”
Owing to the high combustibility of both the flax and the tar to which it
adhered, the dwarf had scarcely made an end of his brief speech before the
work of vengeance was complete. The eight corpses swung in their chains,
a fetid, blackened, hideous, and indistinguishable mass. The cripple hurled
his torch at them, clambered leisurely to the ceiling, and disappeared
through the sky-light.
It is supposed that Trippetta, stationed on the roof of the saloon, had been
the accomplice of her friend in his fiery revenge, and that, together, they

effected their escape to their own country; for neither was seen again.

THE MAN OF THE CROWD.

Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir être seul.—La Bruyère.

It was well said of a certain German book that “er lasst sich nicht
lesen”—it does not permit itself to be read. There are some secrets which do
not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the
hands of ghostly confessors and looking them piteously in the eyes—die
with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the
hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.
Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burthen so heavy in
horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence
of all crime is undivulged.
Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat at the
large bow window of the D—— Coffee-House in London. For some
months I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with
returning strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which are so
precisely the converse of ennui—moods of the keenest appetency, when the
film from the mental vision departs—the αχλυξ η πριυ επῆευ—and the
intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its every-day condition, as does the
vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias.
Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure even from
many of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest
in every thing. With a cigar in my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had
been amusing myself for the greater part of the afternoon, now in poring
over advertisements, now in observing the promiscuous company in the
room, and now in peering through the smoky panes into the street.
This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and had been
very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came on, the
throng momently increased; and, by the time the lamps were well lighted,
two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing past the door. At

this particular period of the evening I had never before been in a similar
situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me, therefore, with
a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all care of things within
the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of the scene without.
At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked
at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate
relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded with minute
interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gait, visage, and
expression of countenance.
By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied business-
like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their way through
the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolled quickly; when pushed
against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no symptom of impatience, but
adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still a numerous class, were
restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and talked and gesticulated
to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on account of the very denseness of
the company around. When impeded in their progress, these people
suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubled their gesticulations, and awaited,
with an absent and overdone smile upon the lips, the course of the persons
impeding them. If jostled, they bowed profusely to the jostlers, and
appeared overwhelmed with confusion.—There was nothing very
distinctive about these two large classes beyond what I have noted. Their
habiliments belonged to that order which is pointedly termed the decent.
They were undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen, stock-
jobbers—the Eupatrids and the common-places of society—men of leisure
and men actively engaged in affairs of their own—conducting business
upon their own responsibility. They did not greatly excite my attention.
The tribe of clerks was an obvious one and here I discerned two
remarkable divisions. There were the junior clerks of flash houses—young
gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair, and supercilious
lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage, which may be termed
deskism for want of a better word, the manner of these persons seemed to
me an exact fac-simile of what had been the perfection of bon ton about
twelve or eighteen months before. They wore the cast-off graces of the
gentry;—and this, I believe, involves the best definition of the class.

The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the “steady old
fellows,” it was not possible to mistake. These were known by their coats
and pantaloons of black or brown, made to sit comfortably, with white
cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, and thick hose or gaiters.
They had all slightly bald heads, from which the right ears, long used to
pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on end. I observed that they
always removed or settled their hats with both hands, and wore watches,
with short gold chains of a substantial and ancient pattern. Theirs was the
affectation of respectability—if indeed there be an affectation so honorable.
There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easily
understood as belonging to the race of swell pick-pockets with which all
great cities are infested. I watched these gentry with much inquisitiveness,
and found it difficult to imagine how they should ever be mistaken for
gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousness of wristband,
with an air of excessive frankness, should betray them at once.
The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily
recognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of the desperate
thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief, gilt chains, and
filagreed buttons, to that of the scrupulously inornate clergyman, than
which nothing could be less liable to suspicion. Still all were distinguished
by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a filmy dimness of eye, and
pallor and compression of lip. There were two other traits, moreover, by
which I could always detect them: a guarded lowness of tone in
conversation, and a more than ordinary extension of the thumb in a
direction at right angles with the fingers. Very often, in company with these
sharpers, I observed an order of men somewhat different in habits, but still
birds of a kindred feather. They may be defined as the gentlemen who live
by their wits. They seem to prey upon the public in two battalions—that of
the dandies and that of the military men. Of the first grade the leading
features are long locks and smiles; of the second, frogged coats and frowns.
Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darker and
deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyes flashing
from countenances whose every other feature wore only an expression of
abject humility; sturdy professional street beggars scowling upon
mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth into the
night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had placed

a sure hand, and who sidled and tottered through the mob, looking every
one beseechingly in the face, as if in search of some chance consolation,
some lost hope; modest young girls returning from long and late labor to a
cheerless home, and shrinking more tearfully than indignantly from the
glances of ruffians, whose direct contact, even, could not be avoided;
women of the town of all kinds and of all ages—the unequivocal beauty in
the prime of her womanhood, putting one in mind of the statue in Lucian,
with the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with filth—the
loathsome and utterly lost leper in rags—the wrinkled, bejewelled and
paint-begrimed beldame, making a last effort at youth—the mere child of
immature form, yet, from long association, an adept in the dreadful
coquetries of her trade, and burning with a rabid ambition to be ranked the
equal of her elders in vice; drunkards innumerable and indescribable—some
in shreds and patches, reeling, inarticulate, with bruised visage and lack-
lustre eyes—some in whole although filthy garments, with a slightly
unsteady swagger, thick sensual lips, and hearty-looking rubicund faces—
others clothed in materials which had once been good, and which even now
were scrupulously well brushed—men who walked with a more than
naturally firm and springy step, but whose countenances were fearfully
pale, whose eyes hideously wild and red, and who clutched with quivering
fingers, as they strode through the crowd, at every object which came
within their reach; beside these, pie-men, porters, coal-heavers, sweeps;
organ-grinders, monkey-exhibitors, and ballad mongers, those who vended
with those who sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every
description, and all full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which jarred
discordantly upon the ear, and gave an aching sensation to the eye.
As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene; for
not only did the general character of the crowd materially alter (its gentler
features retiring in the gradual withdrawal of the more orderly portion of
the people, and its harsher ones coming out into bolder relief, as the late
hour brought forth every species of infamy from its den,) but the rays of the
gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle with the dying day, had now at
length gained ascendancy, and threw over every thing a fitful and garish
lustre. All was dark yet splendid—as that ebony to which has been likened
the style of Tertullian.
The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination of
individual faces; and although the rapidity with which the world of light

flitted before the window, prevented me from casting more than a glance
upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my then peculiar mental state, I
could frequently read, even in that brief interval of a glance, the history of
long years.
With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing the mob,
when suddenly there came into view a countenance (that of a decrepid old
man, some sixty-five or seventy years of age,)—a countenance which at
once arrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of the absolute
idiosyncrasy of its expression. Any thing even remotely resembling that
expression I had never seen before. I well remember that my first thought,
upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it, would have greatly
preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the fiend. As I endeavored,
during the brief minute of my original survey, to form some analysis of the
meaning conveyed, there arose confusedly and paradoxically within my
mind, the ideas of vast mental power, of caution, of penuriousness, of
avarice, of coolness, of malice, of blood thirstiness, of triumph, of
merriment, of excessive terror, of intense—of supreme despair. I felt
singularly aroused, startled, fascinated. “How wild a history,” I said to
myself, “is written within that bosom!” Then came a craving desire to keep
the man in view—to know more of him. Hurriedly putting on an overcoat,
and seizing my hat and cane, I made my way into the street, and pushed
through the crowd in the direction which I had seen him take; for he had
already disappeared. With some little difficulty I at length came within sight
of him, approached, and followed him closely, yet cautiously, so as not to
attract his attention.
I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short in
stature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His clothes, generally, were
filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then, within the strong glare of a
lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was of beautiful texture; and
my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a closely-buttoned and
evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped him, I caught a
glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. These observations heightened
my curiosity, and I resolved to follow the stranger whithersoever he should
go.
It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the city,
soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This change of weather had an odd

effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once put into new
commotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas. The waver, the
jostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For my own part I did not
much regard the rain—the lurking of an old fever in my system rendering
the moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying a handkerchief
about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man held his way with
difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I here walked close at his elbow
through fear of losing sight of him. Never once turning his head to look
back, he did not observe me. By and by he passed into a cross street, which,
although densely filled with people, was not quite so much thronged as the
main one he had quitted. Here a change in his demeanor became evident.
He walked more slowly and with less object than before—more
hesitatingly. He crossed and re-crossed the way repeatedly without apparent
aim; and the press was still so thick that, at every such movement, I was
obliged to follow him closely. The street was a narrow and long one, and his
course lay within it for nearly an hour, during which the passengers had
gradually diminished to about that number which is ordinarily seen at noon
in Broadway near the park—so vast a difference is there between a London
populace and that of the most frequented American city. A second turn
brought us into a square, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The
old manner of the stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while
his eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon
those who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I
was surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of the
square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished to
see him repeat the same walk several times—once nearly detecting me as
he came round with a sudden movement.
In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with
far less interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast; the air
grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. With a gesture of
impatience, the wanderer passed into a by-street comparatively deserted.
Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he rushed with an activity I could
not have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put me to much
trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a large and busy bazaar,
with the localities of which the stranger appeared well acquainted, and
where his original demeanor again became apparent, as he forced his way to
and fro, without aim, among the host of buyers and sellers.

During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this place,
it required much caution on my part to keep him within reach without
attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchouc over-shoes,
and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment did he see that I
watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing, spoke no word,
and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now utterly
amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that we should not part until I
had satisfied myself in some measure respecting him.
A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting
the bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old man, and at
the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. He hurried into the
street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, and then ran with
incredible swiftness through many crooked and people-less lanes, until we
emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence we had started—
the street of the D—— Hotel. It no longer wore, however, the same aspect.
It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fell fiercely, and there were few
persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale. He walked moodily some paces
up the once populous avenue, then, with a heavy sigh, turned in the
direction of the river, and, plunging through a great variety of devious ways,
came out, at length, in view of one of the principal theatres. It was about
being closed, and the audience were thronging from the doors. I saw the old
man gasp as if for breath while he threw himself amid the crowd; but I
thought that the intense agony of his countenance had, in some measure,
abated. His head again fell upon his breast; he appeared as I had seen him at
first. I observed that he now took the course in which had gone the greater
number of the audience—but, upon the whole, I was at a loss to
comprehend the waywardness of his actions.
As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old
uneasiness and vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed
closely a party of some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this number one
by one dropped off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and
gloomy lane little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment,
seemed lost in thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly
a route which brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very different
from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome quarter of
London, where every thing wore the worst impress of the most deplorable
poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim light of an accidental

lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements were seen tottering to
their fall, in directions so many and capricious that scarce the semblance of
a passage was discernible between them. The paving-stones lay at random,
displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass. Horrible filth
festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere teemed with
desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the sounds of human life revived by sure
degrees, and at length large bands of the most abandoned of a London
populace were seen reeling to and fro. The spirits of the old man again
flickered up, as a lamp which is near its death hour. Once more he strode
onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze of light
burst upon our sight, and we stood before one of the huge suburban temples
of Intemperance—one of the palaces of the fiend, Gin.
It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still
pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy the
old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his original bearing, and
stalked backward and forward, without apparent object, among the throng.
He had not been thus long occupied, however, before a rush to the doors
gave token that the host was closing them for the night. It was something
even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the countenance
of the singular being whom I had watched so pertinaciously. Yet he did not
hesitate in his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to
the heart of the mighty London. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed
him in the wildest amazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I
now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun arose while we proceeded, and,
when we had once again reached that most thronged mart of the populous
town, the street of the D—— Hotel, it presented an appearance of human
bustle and activity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on the evening
before. And here, long, amid the momently increasing confusion, did I
persist in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and
during the day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street. And, as the
shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death, and,
stopping fully in front of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the face.
He noticed me not, but resumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow,
remained absorbed in contemplation. “This old man,” I said at length, “is
the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man
of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him,
nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser book than the

‘Hortulus Animæ,’ {*1} and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of
God that ‘er lasst sich nicht lesen.’”
{*1} The “Hortulus Animæ cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis” of
Grünninger.

NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD

A Tale With a Moral.
“Con tal que las costumbres de un autor,” says Don Thomas de las
Torres, in the preface to his “Amatory Poems” “sean puras y castas,
importo muy poco que no sean igualmente severas sus obras”—meaning,
in plain English, that, provided the morals of an author are pure personally,
it signifies nothing what are the morals of his books. We presume that Don
Thomas is now in Purgatory for the assertion. It would be a clever thing,
too, in the way of poetical justice, to keep him there until his “Amatory
Poems” get out of print, or are laid definitely upon the shelf through lack of
readers. Every fiction should have a moral; and, what is more to the
purpose, the critics have discovered that every fiction has. Philip
Melanchthon, some time ago, wrote a commentary upon the
“Batrachomyomachia,” and proved that the poet’s object was to excite a
distaste for sedition. Pierre la Seine, going a step farther, shows that the
intention was to recommend to young men temperance in eating and
drinking. Just so, too, Jacobus Hugo has satisfied himself that, by Euenis,
Homer meant to insinuate John Calvin; by Antinous, Martin Luther; by the
Lotophagi, Protestants in general; and, by the Harpies, the Dutch. Our more
modern Scholiasts are equally acute. These fellows demonstrate a hidden
meaning in “The Antediluvians,” a parable in Powhatan, “new views in
Cock Robin,” and transcendentalism in “Hop O’ My Thumb.” In short, it
has been shown that no man can sit down to write without a very profound
design. Thus to authors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, for
example, need have no care of his moral. It is there—that is to say, it is
somewhere—and the moral and the critics can take care of themselves.
When the proper time arrives, all that the gentleman intended, and all that
he did not intend, will be brought to light, in the “Dial,” or the “Down-

Easter,” together with all that he ought to have intended, and the rest that he
clearly meant to intend:—so that it will all come very straight in the end.
There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge brought against me by
certain ignoramuses—that I have never written a moral tale, or, in more
precise words, a tale with a moral. They are not the critics predestined to
bring me out, and develop my morals:—that is the secret. By and by the
“North American Quarterly Humdrum” will make them ashamed of their
stupidity. In the meantime, by way of staying execution—by way of
mitigating the accusations against me—I offer the sad history appended,—a
history about whose obvious moral there can be no question whatever, since
he who runs may read it in the large capitals which form the title of the tale.
I should have credit for this arrangement—a far wiser one than that of La
Fontaine and others, who reserve the impression to be conveyed until the
last moment, and thus sneak it in at the fag end of their fables.
Defuncti injuriâ ne afficiantur was a law of the twelve tables, and De
mortuis nil nisi bonum is an excellent injunction—even if the dead in
question be nothing but dead small beer. It is not my design, therefore, to
vituperate my deceased friend, Toby Dammit. He was a sad dog, it is true,
and a dog’s death it was that he died; but he himself was not to blame for
his vices. They grew out of a personal defect in his mother. She did her best
in the way of flogging him while an infant—for duties to her well-regulated
mind were always pleasures, and babies, like tough steaks, or the modern
Greek olive trees, are invariably the better for beating—but, poor woman!
she had the misfortune to be left-handed, and a child flogged left-handedly
had better be left unflogged. The world revolves from right to left. It will
not do to whip a baby from left to right. If each blow in the proper direction
drives an evil propensity out, it follows that every thump in an opposite one
knocks its quota of wickedness in. I was often present at Toby’s
chastisements, and, even by the way in which he kicked, I could perceive
that he was getting worse and worse every day. At last I saw, through the
tears in my eyes, that there was no hope of the villain at all, and one day
when he had been cuffed until he grew so black in the face that one might
have mistaken him for a little African, and no effect had been produced
beyond that of making him wriggle himself into a fit, I could stand it no
longer, but went down upon my knees forthwith, and, uplifting my voice,
made prophecy of his ruin.

The fact is that his precocity in vice was awful. At five months of age he
used to get into such passions that he was unable to articulate. At six
months, I caught him gnawing a pack of cards. At seven months he was in
the constant habit of catching and kissing the female babies. At eight
months he peremptorily refused to put his signature to the Temperance
pledge. Thus he went on increasing in iniquity, month after month, until, at
the close of the first year, he not only insisted upon wearing moustaches,
but had contracted a propensity for cursing and swearing, and for backing
his assertions by bets.
Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I had
predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. The fashion had “grown
with his growth and strengthened with his strength,” so that, when he came
to be a man, he could scarcely utter a sentence without interlarding it with a
proposition to gamble. Not that he actually laid wagers—no. I will do my
friend the justice to say that he would as soon have laid eggs. With him the
thing was a mere formula—nothing more. His expressions on this head had
no meaning attached to them whatever. They were simple if not altogether
innocent expletives—imaginative phrases wherewith to round off a
sentence. When he said “I’ll bet you so and so,” nobody ever thought of
taking him up; but still I could not help thinking it my duty to put him
down. The habit was an immoral one, and so I told him. It was a vulgar one
—this I begged him to believe. It was discountenanced by society—here I
said nothing but the truth. It was forbidden by act of Congress—here I had
not the slightest intention of telling a lie. I remonstrated—but to no purpose.
I demonstrated—in vain. I entreated—he smiled. I implored—he laughed. I
preached—he sneered. I threatened—he swore. I kicked him—he called for
the police. I pulled his nose—he blew it, and offered to bet the Devil his
head that I would not venture to try that experiment again.
Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency of
Dammit’s mother had entailed upon her son. He was detestably poor, and
this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive expressions about betting,
seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will not be bound to say that I ever heard
him make use of such a figure of speech as “I’ll bet you a dollar.” It was
usually “I’ll bet you what you please,” or “I’ll bet you what you dare,” or
“I’ll bet you a trifle,” or else, more significantly still, “I’ll bet the Devil my
head.”

This latter form seemed to please him best;—perhaps because it involved
the least risk; for Dammit had become excessively parsimonious. Had any
one taken him up, his head was small, and thus his loss would have been
small too. But these are my own reflections and I am by no means sure that
I am right in attributing them to him. At all events the phrase in question
grew daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross impropriety of a man betting
his brains like bank-notes—but this was a point which my friend’s
perversity of disposition would not permit him to comprehend. In the end,
he abandoned all other forms of wager, and gave himself up to “I’ll bet the
Devil my head,” with a pertinacity and exclusiveness of devotion that
displeased not less than it surprised me. I am always displeased by
circumstances for which I cannot account. Mysteries force a man to think,
and so injure his health. The truth is, there was something in the air with
which Mr. Dammit was wont to give utterance to his offensive expression—
something in his manner of enunciation—which at first interested, and
afterwards made me very uneasy—something which, for want of a more
definite term at present, I must be permitted to call queer; but which Mr.
Coleridge would have called mystical, Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr. Carlyle
twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyperquizzitistical. I began not to like it at all.
Mr. Dammits soul was in a perilous state. I resolved to bring all my
eloquence into play to save it. I vowed to serve him as St. Patrick, in the
Irish chronicle, is said to have served the toad,—that is to say, “awaken him
to a sense of his situation.” I addressed myself to the task forthwith. Once
more I betook myself to remonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a
final attempt at expostulation.
When I had made an end of my lecture, Mr. Dammit indulged himself in
some very equivocal behavior. For some moments he remained silent,
merely looking me inquisitively in the face. But presently he threw his head
to one side, and elevated his eyebrows to a great extent. Then he spread out
the palms of his hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he winked with
the right eye. Then he repeated the operation with the left. Then he shut
them both up very tight. Then he opened them both so very wide that I
became seriously alarmed for the consequences. Then, applying his thumb
to his nose, he thought proper to make an indescribable movement with the
rest of his fingers. Finally, setting his arms a-kimbo, he condescended to
reply.

I can call to mind only the heads of his discourse. He would be obliged to
me if I would hold my tongue. He wished none of my advice. He despised
all my insinuations. He was old enough to take care of himself. Did I still
think him baby Dammit? Did I mean to say any thing against his character?
Did I intend to insult him? Was I a fool? Was my maternal parent aware, in
a word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence? He would put this
latter question to me as to a man of veracity, and he would bind himself to
abide by my reply. Once more he would demand explicitly if my mother
knew that I was out. My confusion, he said, betrayed me, and he would be
willing to bet the Devil his head that she did not.
Mr. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he
left my presence with undignified precipitation. It was well for him that he
did so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my anger had been aroused.
For once I would have taken him up upon his insulting wager. I would have
won for the Arch-Enemy Mr. Dammit’s little head—for the fact is, my
mamma was very well aware of my merely temporary absence from home.
But Khoda shefa midêhed—Heaven gives relief—as the Mussulmans say
when you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance of my duty that I had
been insulted, and I bore the insult like a man. It now seemed to me,
however, that I had done all that could be required of me, in the case of this
miserable individual, and I resolved to trouble him no longer with my
counsel, but to leave him to his conscience and himself. But although I
forebore to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself to give up his
society altogether. I even went so far as to humor some of his less
reprehensible propensities; and there were times when I found myself
lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard, with tears in my eyes:—
so profoundly did it grieve me to hear his evil talk.
One fine day, having strolled out together, arm in arm, our route led us in
the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we resolved to cross it. It
was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and the archway,
having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark. As we entered
the passage, the contrast between the external glare and the interior gloom
struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of the unhappy Dammit,
who offered to bet the Devil his head that I was hipped. He seemed to be in
an unusual good humor. He was excessively lively—so much so that I
entertained I know not what of uneasy suspicion. It is not impossible that he

was affected with the transcendentals. I am not well enough versed,
however, in the diagnosis of this disease to speak with decision upon the
point; and unhappily there were none of my friends of the “Dial” present. I
suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certain species of austere
Merry-Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor friend, and caused him
to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing would serve him but
wriggling and skipping about under and over every thing that came in his
way; now shouting out, and now lisping out, all manner of odd little and big
words, yet preserving the gravest face in the world all the time. I really
could not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him. At length,
having passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the termination of
the footway, when our progress was impeded by a turnstile of some height.
Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around as usual. But this
turn would not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted upon leaping the
stile, and said he could cut a pigeon-wing over it in the air. Now this,
conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The best pigeon-
winger over all kinds of style was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and as I knew he
could not do it, I would not believe that it could be done by Toby Dammit. I
therefore told him, in so many words, that he was a braggadocio, and could
not do what he said. For this I had reason to be sorry afterward;—for he
straightway offered to bet the Devil his head that he could.
I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some
remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a slight
cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation “ahem!” I started, and
looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into a nook of the
frame—work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a little lame old
gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more reverend than his
whole appearance; for he not only had on a full suit of black, but his shirt
was perfectly clean and the collar turned very neatly down over a white
cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a girl’s. His hands were
clasped pensively together over his stomach, and his two eyes were
carefully rolled up into the top of his head.
Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk
apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought very odd.
Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular a
circumstance, he interrupted me with a second “ahem!”

To this observation I was not immediately prepared to reply. The fact is,
remarks of this laconic nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known a
Quarterly Review non-plussed by the word “Fudge!” I am not ashamed to
say, therefore, that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance.
“Dammit,” said I, “what are you about? don’t you hear?—the gentleman
says ‘ahem!’” I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed him; for,
to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man is particularly
puzzled he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he is pretty sure to
look like a fool.
“Dammit,” observed I—although this sounded very much like an oath,
than which nothing was further from my thoughts—“Dammit,” I suggested
—“the gentleman says ‘ahem!’”
I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profundity; I did not
think it profound myself; but I have noticed that the effect of our speeches
is not always proportionate with their importance in our own eyes; and if I
had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb, or knocked him
in the head with the “Poets and Poetry of America,” he could hardly have
been more discomfited than when I addressed him with those simple words:
“Dammit, what are you about?—don’t you hear?—the gentleman says
‘ahem!’”
“You don’t say so?” gasped he at length, after turning more colors than a
pirate runs up, one after the other, when chased by a man-of-war. “Are you
quite sure he said that? Well, at all events I am in for it now, and may as
well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, then—ahem!”
At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased—God only knows why.
He left his station at the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a gracious
air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially, looking all the while
straight up in his face with an air of the most unadulterated benignity which
it is possible for the mind of man to imagine.
“I am quite sure you will win it, Dammit,” said he, with the frankest of
all smiles, “but we are obliged to have a trial, you know, for the sake of
mere form.”
“Ahem!” replied my friend, taking off his coat, with a deep sigh, tying a
pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountable
alteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes and bringing down the
corners of his mouth—“ahem!” And “ahem!” said he again, after a pause;

and not another word more than “ahem!” did I ever know him to say after
that. “Aha!” thought I, without expressing myself aloud—“this is quite a
remarkable silence on the part of Toby Dammit, and is no doubt a
consequence of his verbosity upon a previous occasion. One extreme
induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many unanswerable
questions which he propounded to me so fluently on the day when I gave
him my last lecture? At all events, he is cured of the transcendentals.”
“Ahem!” here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts,
and looking like a very old sheep in a revery.
The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the
shade of the bridge—a few paces back from the turnstile. “My good
fellow,” said he, “I make it a point of conscience to allow you this much
run. Wait here, till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see whether
you go over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don’t omit any
flourishes of the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say ‘one, two,
three, and away.’ Mind you, start at the word ‘away.’” Here he took his
position by the stile, paused a moment as if in profound reflection, then
looked up and, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the strings of
his apron, then took a long look at Dammit, and finally gave the word as
agreed upon—
One—two—three—and—away!

Punctually at the word “away,” my poor friend set off in a strong gallop.
The stile was not very high, like Mr. Lord’s—nor yet very low, like that of
Mr. Lord’s reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he would clear it.
And then what if he did not?—ah, that was the question—what if he did
not? “What right,” said I, “had the old gentleman to make any other
gentleman jump? The little old dot-and-carry-one! who is he? If he asks me
to jump, I won’t do it, that’s flat, and I don’t care who the devil he is.” The
bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a very ridiculous manner, and
there was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all times—an echo which I
never before so particularly observed as when I uttered the four last words
of my remark.
But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an
instant. In less than five seconds from his starting, my poor Toby had taken
the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor of the

bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he went up. I saw
him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration just over the top of the
stile; and of course I thought it an unusually singular thing that he did not
continue to go over. But the whole leap was the affair of a moment, and,
before I had a chance to make any profound reflections, down came Mr.
Dammit on the flat of his back, on the same side of the stile from which he
had started. At the same instant I saw the old gentleman limping off at the
top of his speed, having caught and wrapt up in his apron something that
fell heavily into it from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all
this I was much astonished; but I had no leisure to think, for Dammit lay
particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and that he
stood in need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found that he had
received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth is, he had been
deprived of his head, which after a close search I could not find anywhere;
so I determined to take him home and send for the homœopathists. In the
meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open an adjacent window of the
bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at once. About five feet just
above the top of the turnstile, and crossing the arch of the foot-path so as to
constitute a brace, there extended a flat iron bar, lying with its breadth
horizontally, and forming one of a series that served to strengthen the
structure throughout its extent. With the edge of this brace it appeared
evident that the neck of my unfortunate friend had come precisely in
contact.
He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homœopathists did not give
him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he hesitated to
take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to all riotous
livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked a bar sinister on his
family escutcheon, and, for the general expenses of his funeral, sent in my
very moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The scoundrels refused to pay
it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him for dog’s meat.

THOU ART THE MAN

I will now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound
to you—as I alone can—the secret of the enginery that effected the
Rattleborough miracle—the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed, the
indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among the
Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodoxy of the grandames all the
carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.
This event—which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable
levity—occurred in the summer of 18—. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy—one
of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of the borough—had been
missing for several days under circumstances which gave rise to suspicion
of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattleborough very early
one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention of
proceeding to the city of ——, about fifteen miles distant, and of returning
the night of the same day. Two hours after his departure, however, his horse
returned without him, and without the saddle-bags which had been strapped
on his back at starting. The animal was wounded, too, and covered with
mud. These circumstances naturally gave rise to much alarm among the
friends of the missing man; and when it was found, on Sunday morning,
that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole borough arose en masse
to go and look for his body.
The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom
friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy—a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was
universally called, “Charley Goodfellow,” or “Old Charley Goodfellow.”
Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the name
itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never yet been
able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there never yet was any
person named Charles who was not an open, manly, honest, good-natured,
and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did you good to hear
it, and an eye that looked you always straight in the face, as much as to say:

“I have a clear conscience myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether
above doing a mean action.” And thus all the hearty, careless, “walking
gentlemen” of the stage are very certain to be called Charles.
Now, “Old Charley Goodfellow,” although he had been in Rattleborough
not longer than six months or thereabouts, and although nobody knew any
thing about him before he came to settle in the neighborhood, had
experienced no difficulty in the world in making the acquaintance of all the
respectable people in the borough. Not a man of them but would have taken
his bare word for a thousand at any moment; and as for the women, there is
no saying what they would not have done to oblige him. And all this came
of his having been christened Charles, and of his possessing, in
consequence, that ingenuous face which is proverbially the very “best letter
of recommendation.”
I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most
respectable and, undoubtedly, he was the most wealthy man in
Rattleborough, while “Old Charley Goodfellow” was upon as intimate
terms with him as if he had been his own brother. The two old gentlemen
were next-door neighbours, and, although Mr. Shuttleworthy seldom, if
ever, visited “Old Charley,” and never was known to take a meal in his
house, still this did not prevent the two friends from being exceedingly
intimate, as I have just observed; for “Old Charley” never let a day pass
without stepping in three or four times to see how his neighbour came on,
and very often he would stay to breakfast or tea, and almost always to
dinner, and then the amount of wine that was made way with by the two
cronies at a sitting, it would really be a difficult thing to ascertain. “Old
Charleys” favorite beverage was Chateau-Margaux, and it appeared to do
Mr. Shuttleworthy’s heart good to see the old fellow swallow it, as he did,
quart after quart; so that, one day, when the wine was in and the wit as a
natural consequence, somewhat out, he said to his crony, as he slapped him
upon the back—“I tell you what it is, ‘Old Charley,’ you are, by all odds,
the heartiest old fellow I ever came across in all my born days; and, since
you love to guzzle the wine at that fashion, I’ll be darned if I don’t have to
make thee a present of a big box of the Chateau-Margaux. Od rot me,”—
(Mr. Shuttleworthy had a sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went
beyond “Od rot me,” or “By gosh,” or “By the jolly golly,”)—“Od rot me,”
says he, “if I don’t send an order to town this very afternoon for a double
box of the best that can be got, and I’ll make ye a present of it, I will!—ye

needn’t say a word now—I will, I tell ye, and there’s an end of it; so look
out for it—it will come to hand some of these fine days, precisely when ye
are looking for it the least!” I mention this little bit of liberality on the part
of Mr. Shuttleworthy, just by way of showing you how very intimate an
understanding existed between the two friends.
Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to be fairly
understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play, I never saw any
one so profoundly affected as “Old Charley Goodfellow.” When he first
heard that the horse had come home without his master, and without his
master’s saddle-bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot, that had gone clean
through and through the poor animal’s chest without quite killing him;
when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the missing man had been his
own dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all over as if he had had
a fit of the ague.
At first he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do any
thing at all, or to concert upon any plan of action; so that for a long time he
endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy’s other friends from making a
stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait awhile—say for a week or two,
or a month, or two—to see if something wouldn’t turn up, or if Mr.
Shuttleworthy wouldn’t come in the natural way, and explain his reasons for
sending his horse on before. I dare say you have often observed this
disposition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who are labouring
under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to be rendered
torpid, so that they have a horror of any thing like action, and like nothing
in the world so well as to lie quietly in bed and “nurse their grief,” as the
old ladies express it—that is to say, ruminate over the trouble.
The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an opinion of the
wisdom and discretion of “Old Charley,” that the greater part of them felt
disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in the business “until
something should turn up,” as the honest old gentleman worded it; and I
believe that, after all this would have been the general determination, but
for the very suspicious interference of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s nephew, a young
man of very dissipated habits, and otherwise of rather bad character. This
nephew, whose name was Pennifeather, would listen to nothing like reason
in the matter of “lying quiet,” but insisted upon making immediate search
for the “corpse of the murdered man.” This was the expression he

employed; and Mr. Goodfellow acutely remarked at the time, that it was “a
singular expression, to say no more.” This remark of “Old Charley’s,” too,
had great effect upon the crowd; and one of the party was heard to ask, very
impressively, “how it happened that young Mr. Pennifeather was so
intimately cognizant of all the circumstances connected with his wealthy
uncle’s disappearance, as to feel authorized to assert, distinctly and
unequivocally, that his uncle was ‘a murdered man.’” Hereupon some little
squibbing and bickering occurred among various members of the crowd,
and especially between “Old Charley” and Mr. Pennifeather—although this
latter occurrence was, indeed, by no means a novelty, for little good-will
had subsisted between the parties for the last three or four months; and
matters had even gone so far that Mr. Pennifeather had actually knocked
down his uncle’s friend for some alleged excess of liberty that the latter had
taken in the uncle’s house, of which the nephew was an inmate. Upon this
occasion “Old Charley” is said to have behaved with exemplary moderation
and Christian charity. He arose from the blow, adjusted his clothes, and
made no attempt at retaliation at all—merely muttering a few words about
“taking summary vengeance at the first convenient opportunity,”—a natural
and very justifiable ebullition of anger, which meant nothing, however, and,
beyond doubt, was no sooner given vent to than forgotten.
However these matters may be (which have no reference to the point now
at issue), it is quite certain that the people of Rattleborough, principally
through the persuasion of Mr. Pennifeather, came at length to the
determination of dispersion over the adjacent country in search of the
missing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they came to this determination in the first
instance. After it had been fully resolved that a search should be made, it
was considered almost a matter of course that the seekers should disperse—
that is to say, distribute themselves in parties—for the more thorough
examination of the region round about. I forget, however, by what
ingenious train of reasoning it was that “Old Charley” finally convinced the
assembly that this was the most injudicious plan that could be pursued.
Convince them, however, he did—all except Mr. Pennifeather, and, in the
end, it was arranged that a search should be instituted, carefully and very
thoroughly, by the burghers en masse, “Old Charley” himself leading the
way.
As for the matter of that, there could have been no better pioneer than
“Old Charley,” whom everybody knew to have the eye of a lynx; but,

although he led them into all manner of out-of-the-way holes and corners,
by routes that nobody had ever suspected of existing in the neighbourhood,
and although the search was incessantly kept up day and night for nearly a
week, still no trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be discovered. When I say
no trace, however, I must not be understood to speak literally; for trace, to
some extent, there certainly was. The poor gentleman had been tracked, by
his horse’s shoes (which were peculiar), to a spot about three miles to the
east of the borough, on the main road leading to the city. Here the track
made off into a by-path through a piece of woodland—the path coming out
again into the main road, and cutting off about half a mile of the regular
distance. Following the shoe-marks down this lane, the party came at length
to a pool of stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles, to the right of the
lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of the track was lost sight of. It
appeared, however, that a struggle of some nature had here taken place, and
it seemed as if some large and heavy body, much larger and heavier than a
man, had been drawn from the by-path to the pool. This latter was carefully
dragged twice, but nothing was found; and the party was upon the point of
going away, in despair of coming to any result, when Providence suggested
to Mr. Goodfellow the expediency of draining the water off altogether. This
project was received with cheers, and many high compliments to “Old
Charley” upon his sagacity and consideration. As many of the burghers had
brought spades with them, supposing that they might possibly be called
upon to disinter a corpse, the drain was easily and speedily effected; and no
sooner was the bottom visible, than right in the middle of the mud that
remained was discovered a black silk velvet waistcoat, which nearly every
one present immediately recognized as the property of Mr. Pennifeather.
This waistcoat was much torn and stained with blood, and there were
several persons among the party who had a distinct remembrance of its
having been worn by its owner on the very morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s
departure for the city; while there were others, again, ready to testify upon
oath, if required, that Mr. P. did not wear the garment in question at any
period during the remainder of that memorable day, nor could any one be
found to say that he had seen it upon Mr. P.’s person at any period at all
subsequent to Mr. Shuttleworthy’s disappearance.
Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and it was
observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspicions which were
excited against him, that he grew exceedingly pale, and when asked what he

had to say for himself, was utterly incapable of saying a word. Hereupon,
the few friends his riotous mode of living had left him deserted him at once
to a man, and were even more clamorous than his ancient and avowed
enemies for his instantaneous arrest. But, on the other hand, the
magnanimity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the more brilliant
lustre through contrast. He made a warm and intensely eloquent defence of
Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than once to his own sincere
forgiveness of that wild young gentleman—“the heir of the worthy Mr.
Shuttleworthy,”—for the insult which he (the young gentleman) had, no
doubt in the heat of passion, thought proper to put upon him (Mr.
Goodfellow). “He forgave him for it,” he said, “from the very bottom of his
heart; and for himself (Mr. Goodfellow), so far from pushing the suspicious
circumstances to extremity, which he was sorry to say, really had arisen
against Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr. Goodfellow) would make every exertion
in his power, would employ all the little eloquence in his possession to—to
—to—soften down, as much as he could conscientiously do so, the worst
features of this really exceedingly perplexing piece of business.”
Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer in this strain, very
much to the credit both of his head and of his heart; but your warm-hearted
people are seldom apposite in their observations—they run into all sorts of
blunders, contre-temps and mal apropos-isms, in the hot-headedness of their
zeal to serve a friend—thus, often with the kindest intentions in the world,
doing infinitely more to prejudice his cause than to advance it.
So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the eloquence of “Old
Charley”; for, although he laboured earnestly in behalf of the suspected, yet
it so happened, somehow or other, that every syllable he uttered of which
the direct but unwitting tendency was not to exalt the speaker in the good
opinion of his audience, had the effect to deepen the suspicion already
attached to the individual whose cause he pleaded, and to arouse against
him the fury of the mob.
One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator was his
allusion to the suspected as “the heir of the worthy old gentleman Mr.
Shuttleworthy.” The people had really never thought of this before. They
had only remembered certain threats of disinheritance uttered a year or two
previously by the uncle (who had no living relative except the nephew), and
they had, therefore, always looked upon this disinheritance as a matter that

was settled—so single-minded a race of beings were the Rattleburghers; but
the remark of “Old Charley” brought them at once to a consideration of this
point, and thus gave them to see the possibility of the threats having been
nothing more than a threat. And straightway hereupon, arose the natural
question of cui bono?—a question that tended even more than the waistcoat
to fasten the terrible crime upon the young man. And here, lest I may be
misunderstood, permit me to digress for one moment merely to observe that
the exceedingly brief and simple Latin phrase which I have employed, is
invariably mistranslated and misconceived. “Cui bono?” in all the crack
novels and elsewhere,—in those of Mrs. Gore, for example, (the author of
“Cecil,”) a lady who quotes all tongues from the Chaldaean to Chickasaw,
and is helped to her learning, “as needed,” upon a systematic plan, by Mr.
Beckford,—in all the crack novels, I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens
to those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of Turnapenny and Ainsworth, the
two little Latin words cui bono are rendered “to what purpose?” or, (as if
quo bono,) “to what good.” Their true meaning, nevertheless, is “for whose
advantage.” Cui, to whom; bono, is it for a benefit. It is a purely legal
phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we have now under
consideration, where the probability of the doer of a deed hinges upon the
probability of the benefit accruing to this individual or to that from the
deed’s accomplishment. Now in the present instance, the question cui bono?
very pointedly implicated Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had threatened him,
after making a will in his favour, with disinheritance. But the threat had not
been actually kept; the original will, it appeared, had not been altered. Had
it been altered, the only supposable motive for murder on the part of the
suspected would have been the ordinary one of revenge; and even this
would have been counteracted by the hope of reinstation into the good
graces of the uncle. But the will being unaltered, while the threat to alter
remained suspended over the nephew’s head, there appears at once the very
strongest possible inducement for the atrocity, and so concluded, very
sagaciously, the worthy citizens of the borough of Rattle.
Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and the crowd,
after some further search, proceeded homeward, having him in custody. On
the route, however, another circumstance occurred tending to confirm the
suspicion entertained. Mr. Goodfellow, whose zeal led him to be always a
little in advance of the party, was seen suddenly to run forward a few paces,
stoop, and then apparently to pick up some small object from the grass.

Having quickly examined it he was observed, too, to make a sort of half
attempt at concealing it in his coat pocket; but this action was noticed, as I
say, and consequently prevented, when the object picked up was found to
be a Spanish knife which a dozen persons at once recognized as belonging
to Mr. Pennifeather. Moreover, his initials were engraved upon the handle.
The blade of this knife was open and bloody.
No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and immediately
upon reaching Rattleborough he was taken before a magistrate for
examination.
Here matters again took a most unfavourable turn. The prisoner, being
questioned as to his whereabouts on the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s
disappearance, had absolutely the audacity to acknowledge that on that very
morning he had been out with his rifle deer-stalking, in the immediate
neighbourhood of the pool where the blood-stained waistcoat had been
discovered through the sagacity of Mr. Goodfellow.
This latter now came forward, and, with tears in his eyes, asked
permission to be examined. He said that a stern sense of the duty he owed
his Maker, not less than his fellow-men, would permit him no longer to
remain silent. Hitherto, the sincerest affection for the young man
(notwithstanding the latter’s ill-treatment of himself, Mr. Goodfellow) had
induced him to make every hypothesis which imagination could suggest, by
way of endeavoring to account for what appeared suspicious in the
circumstances that told so seriously against Mr. Pennifeather, but these
circumstances were now altogether too convincing—too damning; he
would hesitate no longer—he would tell all he knew, although his heart
(Mr. Goodfellow’s) should absolutely burst asunder in the effort. He then
went on to state that, on the afternoon of the day previous to Mr.
Shuttleworthy’s departure for the city, that worthy old gentleman had
mentioned to his nephew, in his hearing (Mr. Goodfellow’s), that his object
in going to town on the morrow was to make a deposit of an unusually large
sum of money in the “Farmers’ and Mechanics’ Bank,” and that, then and
there, the said Mr. Shuttleworthy had distinctly avowed to the said nephew
his irrevocable determination of rescinding the will originally made, and of
cutting him off with a shilling. He (the witness) now solemnly called upon
the accused to state whether what he (the witness) had just stated was or

was not the truth in every substantial particular. Much to the astonishment
of every one present, Mr. Pennifeather frankly admitted that it was.
The magistrate now considered it his duty to send a couple of constables
to search the chamber of the accused in the house of his uncle. From this
search they almost immediately returned with the well-known steel-bound,
russet leather pocket-book which the old gentleman had been in the habit of
carrying for years. Its valuable contents, however, had been abstracted, and
the magistrate in vain endeavored to extort from the prisoner the use which
had been made of them, or the place of their concealment. Indeed, he
obstinately denied all knowledge of the matter. The constables, also,
discovered, between the bed and sacking of the unhappy man, a shirt and
neck-handkerchief both marked with the initials of his name, and both
hideously besmeared with the blood of the victim.
At this juncture, it was announced that the horse of the murdered man
had just expired in the stable from the effects of the wound he had received,
and it was proposed by Mr. Goodfellow that a post mortem examination of
the beast should be immediately made, with the view, if possible, of
discovering the ball. This was accordingly done; and, as if to demonstrate
beyond a question the guilt of the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after
considerable searching in the cavity of the chest was enabled to detect and
to pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary size, which, upon trial, was found
to be exactly adapted to the bore of Mr. Pennifeather’s rifle, while it was far
too large for that of any other person in the borough or its vicinity. To
render the matter even surer yet, however, this bullet was discovered to
have a flaw or seam at right angles to the usual suture, and upon
examination, this seam corresponded precisely with an accidental ridge or
elevation in a pair of moulds acknowledged by the accused himself to be his
own property. Upon finding of this bullet, the examining magistrate refused
to listen to any farther testimony, and immediately committed the prisoner
for trial—declining resolutely to take any bail in the case, although against
this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly remonstrated, and offered to
become surety in whatever amount might be required. This generosity on
the part of “Old Charley” was only in accordance with the whole tenor of
his amiable and chivalrous conduct during the entire period of his sojourn
in the borough of Rattle. In the present instance the worthy man was so
entirely carried away by the excessive warmth of his sympathy, that he
seemed to have quite forgotten, when he offered to go bail for his young

friend, that he himself (Mr. Goodfellow) did not possess a single dollar’s
worth of property upon the face of the earth.
The result of the committal may be readily foreseen. Mr. Pennifeather,
amid the loud execrations of all Rattleborough, was brought to trial at the
next criminal sessions, when the chain of circumstantial evidence
(strengthened as it was by some additional damning facts, which Mr.
Goodfellow’s sensitive conscientiousness forbade him to withhold from the
court) was considered so unbroken and so thoroughly conclusive, that the
jury, without leaving their seats, returned an immediate verdict of “Guilty of
murder in the first degree.” Soon afterward the unhappy wretch received
sentence of death, and was remanded to the county jail to await the
inexorable vengeance of the law.
In the meantime, the noble behavior of “Old Charley Goodfellow,” had
doubly endeared him to the honest citizens of the borough. He became ten
times a greater favorite than ever, and, as a natural result of the hospitality
with which he was treated, he relaxed, as it were, perforce, the extremely
parsimonious habits which his poverty had hitherto impelled him to
observe, and very frequently had little reunions at his own house, when wit
and jollity reigned supreme—dampened a little, of course, by the occasional
remembrance of the untoward and melancholy fate which impended over
the nephew of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous host.
One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably surprised
at the receipt of the following letter:

Charles Goodfellow, Esq., Rattleborough
From H.F.B. & Co.
Chat. Mar. A—No. 1.—6 doz. bottles (1/2 Gross)

“Charles Goodfellow, Esquire.
“Dear Sir—In conformity with an order transmitted to our
firm about two months since, by our esteemed
correspondent, Mr. Barnabus Shuttleworthy, we have the
honor of forwarding this morning, to your address, a double
box of Chateau-Margaux of the antelope brand, violet seal.
Box numbered and marked as per margin.

“We remain, sir,
“Your most ob’nt ser’ts,
“HOGGS, FROGS, BOGS, & CO.

“City of—, June 21, 18—.
“P.S.—The box will reach you by wagon, on the day after
your receipt of this letter. Our respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy.

“H., F., B., & CO.”

The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr.
Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the promised
Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore, looked upon it now as a sort of
especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was highly delighted,
of course, and in the exuberance of his joy invited a large party of friends to
a petit souper on the morrow, for the purpose of broaching the good old Mr.
Shuttleworthy’s present. Not that he said any thing about “the good old Mr.
Shuttleworthy” when he issued the invitations. The fact is, he thought much
and concluded to say nothing at all. He did not mention to any one—if I
remember aright—that he had received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He
merely asked his friends to come and help him drink some, of a remarkable
fine quality and rich flavour, that he had ordered up from the city a couple
of months ago, and of which he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I
have often puzzled myself to imagine why it was that “Old Charley” came
to the conclusion to say nothing about having received the wine from his
old friend, but I could never precisely understand his reason for the silence,
although he had some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no doubt.
The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly
respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow’s house. Indeed, half the borough
was there,—I myself among the number,—but, much to the vexation of the
host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a late hour, and when the
sumptuous supper supplied by “Old Charley” had been done very ample
justice by the guests. It came at length, however,—a monstrously big box of
it there was, too—and as the whole party were in excessively good humor,
it was decided, nem. con., that it should be lifted upon the table and its
contents disembowelled forthwith.

No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice we had the
box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and glasses, not a few of
which were demolished in the scuffle. “Old Charley,” who was pretty much
intoxicated, and excessively red in the face, now took a seat, with an air of
mock dignity, at the head of the board, and thumped furiously upon it with a
decanter, calling upon the company to keep order “during the ceremony of
disinterring the treasure.”
After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as very
often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence ensued.
Being then requested to force open the lid, I complied, of course, “with an
infinite deal of pleasure.” I inserted a chisel, and giving it a few slight taps
with a hammer, the top of the box flew suddenly off, and at the same
instant, there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing the host, the
bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse of the murdered Mr.
Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a few seconds, fixedly and sorrowfully,
with its decaying and lack-lustre eyes, full into the countenance of Mr.
Goodfellow; uttered slowly, but clearly and impressively, the words
—“Thou art the man!” and then, falling over the side of the chest as if
thoroughly satisfied, stretched out its limbs quiveringly upon the table.
The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for the
doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men in the
room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild,
shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr. Goodfellow. If I
live a thousand years, I can never forget the more than mortal agony which
was depicted in that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with triumph and
wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue of marble; his eyes
seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to be turned inward and
absorbed in the contemplation of his own miserable, murderous soul. At
length their expression appeared to flash suddenly out into the external
world, when, with a quick leap, he sprang from his chair, and falling heavily
with his head and shoulders upon the table, and in contact with the corpse,
poured out rapidly and vehemently a detailed confession of the hideous
crime for which Mr. Pennifeather was then imprisoned and doomed to die.
What he recounted was in substance this:—He followed his victim to the
vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol; despatched its rider
with the butt end; possessed himself of the pocket-book; and, supposing the

horse dead, dragged it with great labour to the brambles by the pond. Upon
his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and thus bore it to a
secure place of concealment a long distance off through the woods.
The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet, had been placed by
himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr.
Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained
handkerchief and shirt.
Toward the end of the blood-chilling recital the words of the guilty
wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted, he
arose, staggered backward from the table, and fell—dead.

The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted,
although efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow’s excess of
frankness had disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the first. I was
present when Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression
which then arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me
that his threat of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was
thus prepared to view the manoeuvering of “Old Charley” in a very
different light from that in which it was regarded by the good citizens of
Rattleborough. I saw at once that all the criminating discoveries arose,
either directly or indirectly, from himself. But the fact which clearly opened
my eyes to the true state of the case, was the affair of the bullet, found by
Mr. G. in the carcass of the horse. I had not forgotten, although the
Rattleburghers had, that there was a hole where the ball had entered the
horse, and another where it went out. If it were found in the animal then,
after having made its exit, I saw clearly that it must have been deposited by
the person who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed the
idea suggested by the bullet; for the blood on examination proved to be
capital claret, and no more. When I came to think of these things, and also
of the late increase of liberality and expenditure on the part of Mr.
Goodfellow, I entertained a suspicion which was none the less strong
because I kept it altogether to myself.
In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse of
Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as divergent

as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his party. The
result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry well, the mouth of
which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the bottom, I discovered
what I sought.
Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two
cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the
promise of a box of Chateaux-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured a
stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse, and
deposited the latter in an old wine box—taking care so to double the body
up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press forcibly
upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with nails; and I anticipated,
of course, that as soon as these latter were removed, the top would fly off
and the body up.
Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed it as
already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine merchants
with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my servant to
wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow’s door, in a barrow, at a given signal from
myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to speak, I confidently
depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their effect, I counted upon
the conscience of the murderous wretch.
I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was
released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by the
lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever
afterward a new life.

WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS
HAND IN A SLING

It’s on my visiting cards sure enough (and it’s them that’s all o’ pink satin
paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the intheristhin’ words,
“Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, 39 Southampton Row, Russell
Square, Parrish o’ Bloomsbury.” And shud ye be wantin’ to diskiver who is
the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot tun in the houl city o’
Lonon—why it’s jist mesilf. And fait that same is no wonder at all at all (so
be plased to stop curlin’ your nose), for every inch o’ the six wakes that I’ve
been a gintleman, and left aff wid the bog-throthing to take up wid the
Barronissy, it’s Pathrick that’s been living like a houly imperor, and gitting
the iddication and the graces. Och! and wouldn’t it be a blessed thing for
your spirrits if ye cud lay your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick
O’Grandison, Barronitt, when he is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or
stipping into the Brisky for the drive into the Hyde Park. But it’s the illigant
big figgur that I ’ave, for the rason o’ which all the ladies fall in love wid
me. Isn’t it my own swate silf now that’ll missure the six fut, and the three
inches more nor that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly will
proportioned all over to match? And it is ralelly more than three fut and a
bit that there is, inny how, of the little ould furrener Frinchman that lives jist
over the way, and that’s a-oggling and a-goggling the houl day, (and bad
luck to him,) at the purty widdy Misthress Tracle that’s my own nixt-door
neighbor, (God bliss her!) and a most particuller frind and acquaintance?
You percave the little spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his
lift hand in a sling, and it’s for that same thing, by yur lave, that I’m going
to give you the good rason.
The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first day
that I com’d from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the strait to
the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a gone case

althegither with the heart o’ the purty Misthress Tracle. I percaved it, ye see,
all at once, and no mistake, and that’s God’s truth. First of all it was up wid
the windy in a jiffy, and thin she threw open her two peepers to the itmost,
and thin it was a little gould spy-glass that she clapped tight to one o’ them
and divil may burn me if it didn’t spake to me as plain as a peeper cud
spake, and says it, through the spy-glass: “Och! the tip o’ the mornin’ to ye,
Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, mavourneen; and it’s a nate gintleman
that ye are, sure enough, and it’s mesilf and me forten jist that’ll be at yur
sarvice, dear, inny time o’ day at all at all for the asking.” And it’s not
mesilf ye wud have to be bate in the purliteness; so I made her a bow that
wud ha’ broken yur heart altegither to behould, and thin I pulled aff me hat
with a flourish, and thin I winked at her hard wid both eyes, as much as to
say, “True for you, yer a swate little crature, Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I
wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog, if it’s not mesilf, Sir Pathrick
O’Grandison, Barronitt, that’ll make a houl bushel o’ love to yur leddyship,
in the twinkling o’ the eye of a Londonderry purraty.”
And it was the nixt mornin’, sure, jist as I was making up me mind
whither it wouldn’t be the purlite thing to sind a bit o’ writin’ to the widdy
by way of a love-litter, when up com’d the delivery servant wid an illigant
card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver could rade the
copperplate printin’ on account of being lift handed) was all about
Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look-aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and that the
houl of the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the little ould
furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.
And jist wid that in cum’d the little willian himself, and then he made me
a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken the liberty of doing
me the honor of the giving me a call, and thin he went on to palaver at a
great rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind what he wud be afther the
tilling me at all at all, excipting and saving that he said “pully wou, woolly
wou,” and tould me, among a bushel o’ lies, bad luck to him, that he was
mad for the love o’ my widdy Misthress Tracle, and that my widdy Mrs.
Tracle had a puncheon for him.
At the hearin’ of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a
grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick O’Grandison,
Barronitt, and that it wasn’t althegither gentaal to lit the anger git the upper
hand o’ the purliteness, so I made light o’ the matter and kipt dark, and got

quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a while what did he do but ask
me to go wid him to the widdy’s, saying he wud give me the feshionable
inthroduction to her leddyship.
“Is it there ye are?” said I thin to mesilf, “and it’s thrue for you, Pathrick,
that ye’re the fortunittest mortal in life. We’ll soon see now whither it’s
your swate silf, or whither it’s little Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns, that
Misthress Tracle is head and ears in the love wid.”
Wid that we wint aff to the widdy’s, next door, and ye may well say it
was an illigant place; so it was. There was a carpet all over the floor, and in
one corner there was a forty-pinny and a Jew’s harp and the divil knows
what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, the beautifullest thing in all
natur, and sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there was the swate little angel,
Misthress Tracle.
“The tip o’ the mornin’ to ye,” says I, “Mrs. Tracle,” and thin I made sich
an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered the brain o’
ye.
“Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud,” says the little furrenner
Frinchman, “and sure Mrs. Tracle,” says he, that he did, “isn’t this
gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, and
isn’t he althegither and entirely the most particular frind and acquaintance
that I have in the houl world?”
And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the swatest
curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits like an angel; and thin,
by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns that
plumped his silf right down by the right side of her. Och hon! I ixpicted the
two eyes o’ me wud ha cum’d out of my head on the spot, I was so dispirate
mad! Howiver, “Bait who!” says I, after awhile. “Is it there ye are,
Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns?” and so down I plumped on the lift side of her
leddyship, to be aven with the willain. Botheration! it wud ha done your
heart good to percave the illigant double wink that I gived her jist thin right
in the face with both eyes.
But the little ould Frinchman he niver beginned to suspict me at all at all,
and disperate hard it was he made the love to her leddyship. “Woully wou,”
says he, “Pully wou,” says he, “Plump in the mud,” says he.
“That’s all to no use, Mounseer Frog, mavourneen,” thinks I; and I talked
as hard and as fast as I could all the while, and throth it was mesilf jist that

divarted her leddyship complately and intirely, by rason of the illigant
conversation that I kipt up wid her all about the dear bogs of Connaught.
And by and by she gived me such a swate smile, from one ind of her mouth
to the ither, that it made me as bould as a pig, and I jist took hould of the
ind of her little finger in the most dilikittest manner in natur, looking at her
all the while out o’ the whites of my eyes.
And then ounly percave the cuteness of the swate angel, for no sooner
did she obsarve that I was afther the squazing of her flipper, than she up wid
it in a jiffy, and put it away behind her back, jist as much as to say, “Now
thin, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, there’s a bitther chance for ye, mavourneen,
for it’s not altogether the gentaal thing to be afther the squazing of my
flipper right full in the sight of that little furrenner Frinchman, Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns.”
Wid that I giv’d her a big wink jist to say, “lit Sir Pathrick alone for the
likes o’ them thricks,” and thin I wint aisy to work, and you’d have died wid
the divarsion to behould how cliverly I slipped my right arm betwane the
back o’ the sofy, and the back of her leddyship, and there, sure enough, I
found a swate little flipper all a waiting to say, “the tip o’ the mornin’ to ye,
Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt.” And wasn’t it mesilf, sure, that jist
giv’d it the laste little bit of a squaze in the world, all in the way of a
commincement, and not to be too rough wid her leddyship? and och,
botheration, wasn’t it the gentaalest and dilikittest of all the little squazes
that I got in return? “Blood and thunder, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen,” thinks I
to mesilf, “fait it’s jist the mother’s son of you, and nobody else at all at all,
that’s the handsomest and the fortunittest young bog-throtter that ever
cum’d out of Connaught!” And with that I givd the flipper a big squaze, and
a big squaze it was, by the powers, that her leddyship giv’d to me back. But
it would ha split the seven sides of you wid the laffin’ to behould, jist then
all at once, the consated behavior of Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns. The likes
o’ sich a jabbering, and a smirking, and a parley-wouing as he begin’d wid
her leddyship, niver was known before upon arth; and divil may burn me if
it wasn’t me own very two peepers that cotch’d him tipping her the wink
out of one eye. Och, hon! if it wasn’t mesilf thin that was mad as a
Kilkenny cat I shud like to be tould who it was!
“Let me infarm you, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns,” said I, as purlite as iver
ye seed, “that it’s not the gintaal thing at all at all, and not for the likes o’

you inny how, to be afther the oggling and a-goggling at her leddyship in
that fashion,” and jist wid that such another squaze as it was I giv’d her
flipper, all as much as to say, “isn’t it Sir Pathrick now, my jewel, that’ll be
able to the protectin’ o’ you, my darlint?” and then there cum’d another
squaze back, all by way of the answer. “Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick,” it said
as plain as iver a squaze said in the world, “Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick,
mavourneen, and it’s a proper nate gintleman ye are—that’s God’s truth,”
and with that she opened her two beautiful peepers till I belaved they wud
ha’ cum’d out of her hid althegither and intirely, and she looked first as mad
as a cat at Mounseer Frog, and thin as smiling as all out o’ doors at mesilf.
“Thin,” says he, the willian, “Och hon! and a wolly-wou, pully-wou,”
and then wid that he shoved up his two shoulders till the divil the bit of his
hid was to be diskivered, and then he let down the two corners of his
purraty-trap, and thin not a haporth more of the satisfaction could I git out
o’ the spalpeen.
Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir Pathrick that was unreasonable mad thin,
and the more by token that the Frinchman kipt an wid his winking at the
widdy; and the widdy she kept an wid the squazing of my flipper, as much
as to say, “At him again, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, mavourneen:” so I just
ripped out wid a big oath, and says I:
“Ye little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of a bloody noun!”—and
jist thin what d’ye think it was that her leddyship did? Troth she jumped up
from the sofy as if she was bit, and made off through the door, while I
turned my head round afther her, in a complate bewilderment and
botheration, and followed her wid me two peepers. You percave I had a
reason of my own for knowing that she couldn’t git down the stares
althegither and intirely; for I knew very well that I had hould of her hand,
for the divil the bit had I iver lit it go. And says I:
“Isn’t it the laste little bit of a mistake in the world that ye’ve been afther
the making, yer leddyship? Come back now, that’s a darlint, and I’ll give ye
yur flipper.” But aff she wint down the stairs like a shot, and thin I turned
round to the little Frinch furrenner. Och hon! if it wasn’t his spalpeeny little
paw that I had hould of in my own—why thin—thin it wasn’t—that’s all.
And maybe it wasn’t mesilf that jist died then outright wid the laffin’, to
behold the little chap when he found out that it wasn’t the widdy at all at all
that he had had hould of all the time, but only Sir Pathrick O’Grandison.

The ould divil himself niver behild sich a long face as he pet an! As for Sir
Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, it wasn’t for the likes of his riverence to
be afther the minding of a thrifle of a mistake. Ye may jist say, though (for
it’s God’s thruth), that afore I left hould of the flipper of the spalpeen
(which was not till afther her leddyship’s futman had kicked us both down
the stairs), I giv’d it such a nate little broth of a squaze as made it all up into
raspberry jam.
“Woully wou,” says he, “pully wou,” says he—“Cot tam!”
And that’s jist the thruth of the rason why he wears his lift hand in a
sling.

BON-BON.
Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,
Je suis plus savant que Balzac—
Plus sage que Pibrac;
Mon bras seul faisant l’attaque
De la nation Cossaque,
La mettroit au sac;
De Charon je passerois le lac,
En dormant dans son bac;
J’irois au fier Eac,
Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac,
Présenter du tabac.
—French Vaudeville

That Pierre Bon-Bon was a restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no
man who, during the reign of——, frequented the little Câfé in the cul-de-
sac Le Febre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at liberty to dispute.
That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled in the philosophy of
that period is, I presume, still more especially undeniable. His patés à la
fois were beyond doubt immaculate; but what pen can do justice to his
essays sur la Nature—his thoughts sur l’Ame—his observations sur
l’Esprit? If his omelettes—if his fricandeaux were inestimable, what
littérateur of that day would not have given twice as much for an “Idée de
Bon-Bon” as for all the trash of “Idées” of all the rest of the savants? Bon-
Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had ransacked—had more
than any other would have entertained a notion of reading—had understood
more than any other would have conceived the possibility of understanding;
and although, while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at
Rouen to assert “that his dicta evinced neither the purity of the Academy,
nor the depth of the Lyceum”—although, mark me, his doctrines were by
no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they
were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their self-
evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is to
Bon-Bon—but let this go no farther—it is to Bon-Bon that Kant himself is

mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was indeed not a Platonist,
nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian—nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz,
waste those precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a
fricasée or, facili gradú, the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at
reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all.
Bon-Bon was Ionic—Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned à priori—
He reasoned also à posteriori. His ideas were innate—or otherwise. He
believed in George of Trebizonde—He believed in Bossarion [Bessarion].
Bon-Bon was emphatically a—Bon-Bonist.
I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of restaurateur. I would
not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling his
hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of their
dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in which
branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion the powers
of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities of the
stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the Chinese,
who held that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events were
right, he thought, who employed the same words for the mind and the
diaphragm. (*1) By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or
indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If
Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings—and what great man has not a thousand?
—if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they were failings of very little
importance—faults indeed which, in other tempers, have often been looked
upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these foibles, I should
not even have mentioned it in this history but for the remarkable
prominency—the extreme alto relievo—in which it jutted out from the
plane of his general disposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of
making a bargain.
{*1} MD

Not that he was avaricious—no. It was by no means necessary to the
satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own proper
advantage. Provided a trade could be effected—a trade of any kind, upon
any terms, or under any circumstances—a triumphant smile was seen for
many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a knowing wink of
the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.

At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as
the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At the
epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity not attracted observation, there
would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon reported that, upon
all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was wont to differ widely
from the downright grin with which he would laugh at his own jokes, or
welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature;
stories were told of perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at
leisure; and instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague
longings, and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil for
wise purposes of his own.
The philosopher had other weaknesses—but they are scarcely worthy our
serious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary
profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle. Whether
this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid proof of such
profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as far as I can learn, did not
think the subject adapted to minute investigation;—nor do I. Yet in the
indulgence of a propensity so truly classical, it is not to be supposed that the
restaurateur would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was
wont to characterize, at one and the same time, his essais and his omelettes.
In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and there were
appropriate moments for the Cotes du Rhone. With him Sauterne was to
Medoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in
sipping St. Peray, but unravel an argument over Clos de Vougeot, and upset
a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well had it been if the same quick sense
of propriety had attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have
formerly alluded—but this was by no means the case. Indeed to say the
truth, that trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to
assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply
tinctured with the diablerie of his favorite German studies.
To enter the little café in the cul-de-sac Le Febre was, at the period of our
tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon was a man of
genius. There was not a sous-cusinier in Rouen, who could not have told
you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forebore
to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. His large water-dog
was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach of his master, betrayed
his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of deportment, a debasement of the

ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It
is, however, true that much of this habitual respect might have been
attributed to the personal appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished
exterior will, I am constrained to say, have its way even with a beast; and I
am willing to allow much in the outward man of the restaurateur calculated
to impress the imagination of the quadruped. There is a peculiar majesty
about the atmosphere of the little great—if I may be permitted so equivocal
an expression—which mere physical bulk alone will be found at all times
inefficient in creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height,
and if his head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the
rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering
upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of
his acquirements—in its immensity a fitting habitation for his immortal
soul.
I might here—if it so pleased me—dilate upon the matter of habiliment,
and other mere circumstances of the external metaphysician. I might hint
that the hair of our hero was worn short, combed smoothly over his
forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white flannel cap and tassels
—that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fashion of those worn by the
common class of restaurateurs at that day—that the sleeves were something
fuller than the reigning costume permitted—that the cuffs were turned up,
not as usual in that barbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and
color as the garment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the
particolored velvet of Genoa—that his slippers were of a bright purple,
curiously filigreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the
exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding and
embroidery—that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like material called
aimable—that his sky-blue cloak, resembling in form a dressing-wrapper,
and richly bestudded all over with crimson devices, floated cavalierly upon
his shoulders like a mist of the morning—and that his tout ensemble gave
rise to the remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence,
“that it was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of
Paradise, or rather a very Paradise of perfection.” I might, I say, expatiate
upon all these points if I pleased,—but I forbear, merely personal details
may be left to historical novelists,—they are beneath the moral dignity of
matter-of-fact.

I have said that “to enter the café in the cul-de-sac Le Febre was to enter
the sanctum of a man of genius”—but then it was only the man of genius
who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A sign, consisting of a
vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one side of the volume was
painted a bottle; on the reverse a paté. On the back were visible in large
letters Œuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately shadowed forth the two-
fold occupation of the proprietor.
Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building
presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique construction,
was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the café. In a corner of the
apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army of curtains, together
with a canopy à la Grècque, gave it an air at once classic and comfortable.
In the corner diagonary opposite, appeared, in direct family communion, the
properties of the kitchen and the bibliotheque. A dish of polemics stood
peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an ovenful of the latest ethics—there a
kettle of dudecimo mélanges. Volumes of German morality were hand and
glove with the gridiron—a toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of
Eusebius—Plato reclined at his ease in the frying-pan—and contemporary
manuscripts were filed away upon the spit.
In other respects the Café de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little from
the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace yawned opposite the door.
On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a formidable array
of labelled bottles.
It was here, about twelve o’clock one night during the severe winter of
——, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened to the comments of his
neighbours upon his singular propensity—that Pierre Bon-Bon, I say,
having turned them all out of his house, locked the door upon them with an
oath, and betook himself in no very pacific mood to the comforts of a
leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of blazing fagots.
It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or twice
during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to its centre with
the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the wall, and
pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of the
philosopher’s bed, and disorganized the economy of his pate-pans and
papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of the

tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its
stanchions of solid oak.
It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his chair
to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a perplexing
nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity of his
meditations. In attempting des oeufs à la Princesse, he had unfortunately
perpetrated an omelette à la Reine; the discovery of a principle in ethics had
been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and last, not least, he had been
thwarted in one of those admirable bargains which he at all times took such
especial delight in bringing to a successful termination. But in the chafing
of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be
mingled some degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous
night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate
vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling
himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet
eye toward those distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable
shadows not even the red firelight itself could more than partially succeed
in overcoming. Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was
perhaps unintelligible to himself, he drew close to his seat a small table
covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of
retouching a voluminous manuscript, intended for publication on the
morrow.
He had been thus occupied for some minutes when “I am in no hurry,
Monsieur Bon-Bon,” suddenly whispered a whining voice in the apartment.
“The devil!” ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning the table
at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.
“Very true,” calmly replied the voice.
“Very true!—what is very true?—how came you here?” vociferated the
metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at full
length upon the bed.
“I was saying,” said the intruder, without attending to the interrogatives,
—“I was saying that I am not at all pushed for time—that the business upon
which I took the liberty of calling, is of no pressing importance—in short,
that I can very well wait until you have finished your Exposition.”
“My Exposition!—there now!—how do you know?—how came you to
understand that I was writing an Exposition?—good God!”

“Hush!” replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising quickly
from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron lamp
that depended over-head swung convulsively back from his approach.
The philosopher’s amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the
stranger’s dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure, exceedingly
lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely distinct,
by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to the skin, but
was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century ago. These garments
had evidently been intended for a much shorter person than their present
owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches. In his
shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme
poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and
entirely bald, with the exception of a hinder part, from which depended a
queue of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses,
protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same time
prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color or their
conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a shirt, but
a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme precision around
the throat and the ends hanging down formally side by side gave (although I
dare say unintentionally) the idea of an ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other
points both in his appearance and demeanor might have very well sustained
a conception of that nature. Over his left ear, he carried, after the fashion of
a modern clerk, an instrument resembling the stylus of the ancients. In a
breast-pocket of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume
fastened with clasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so
turned outwardly from the person as to discover the words “Rituel
Catholique” in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy was
interestingly saturnine—even cadaverously pale. The forehead was lofty,
and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The corners of the
mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most submissive
humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he stepped toward our
hero—a deep sigh—and altogether a look of such utter sanctity as could not
have failed to be unequivocally preposessing. Every shadow of anger faded
from the countenance of the metaphysician, as, having completed a
satisfactory survey of his visitor’s person, he shook him cordially by the
hand, and conducted him to a seat.

There would however be a radical error in attributing this instantaneous
transition of feeling in the philosopher, to any one of those causes which
might naturally be supposed to have had an influence. Indeed, Pierre Bon-
Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his disposition, was of all
men the least likely to be imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior
deportment. It was impossible that so accurate an observer of men and
things should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character
of the personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no
more, the conformation of his visitor’s feet was sufficiently remarkable—he
maintained lightly upon his head an inordinately tall hat—there was a
tremulous swelling about the hinder part of his breeches—and the vibration
of his coat tail was a palpable fact. Judge, then, with what feelings of
satisfaction our hero found himself thrown thus at once into the society of a
person for whom he had at all times entertained the most unqualified
respect. He was, however, too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any
intimation of his suspicions in regard to the true state of affairs. It was not
his cue to appear at all conscious of the high honor he thus unexpectedly
enjoyed; but, by leading his guest into the conversation, to elicit some
important ethical ideas, which might, in obtaining a place in his
contemplated publication, enlighten the human race, and at the same time
immortalize himself—ideas which, I should have added, his visitor’s great
age, and well-known proficiency in the science of morals, might very well
have enabled him to afford.
Actuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman sit
down, while he himself took occasion to throw some fagots upon the fire,
and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of Mousseux.
Having quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair vis-à-vis to
his companion’s, and waited until the latter should open the conversation.
But plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of
their application—and the restaurateur found himself nonplussed by the
very first words of his visitor’s speech.
“I see you know me, Bon-Bon,” said he; “ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi!
hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!”—and the devil, dropping at once the
sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a mouth from ear to
ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth, and, throwing back
his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and uproariously, while the black
dog, crouching down upon his haunches, joined lustily in the chorus, and

the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent, stood up on end, and shrieked in the
farthest corner of the apartment.
Not so the philosopher; he was too much a man of the world either to
laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the
cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see the white letters
which formed the words “Rituel Catholique” on the book in his guest’s
pocket, momently changing both their color and their import, and in a few
seconds, in place of the original title the words Régitre des Condamnes
blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance, when Bon-
Bon replied to his visitor’s remark, imparted to his manner an air of
embarrassment which probably might, not otherwise have been observed.
“Why sir,” said the philosopher, “why sir, to speak sincerely—I believe
you are—upon my word—the d——dest—that is to say, I think—I imagine
—I have some faint—some very faint idea—of the remarkable honor—”
“Oh!—ah!—yes!—very well!” interrupted his Majesty; “say no more—I
see how it is.” And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he wiped the
glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited them in his
pocket.
If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his
amazement was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented
itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to
ascertain the color of his guest’s, he found them by no means black, as he
had anticipated—nor gray, as might have been imagined—nor yet hazel nor
blue—nor indeed yellow nor red—nor purple—nor white—nor green—nor
any other color in the heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the
waters under the earth. In short, Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that
his Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of
their having existed at any previous period—for the space where eyes
should naturally have been was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level
of flesh.
It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and the reply of his
Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.
“Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon—eyes! did you say?—oh!—ah!—I perceive!
The ridiculous prints, eh, which are in, circulation, have given you a false
idea of my personal appearance? Eyes!—true. Eyes, Pierre Bon-Bon, are

very well in their proper place—that, you would say, is the head?—right—
the head of a worm. To you, likewise, these optics are indispensable—yet I
will convince you that my vision is more penetrating than your own. There
is a cat I see in the corner—a pretty cat—look at her—observe her well.
Now, Bon-Bon, do you behold the thoughts—the thoughts, I say,—the ideas
—the reflections—which are being engendered in her pericranium? There it
is, now—you do not! She is thinking we admire the length of her tail and
the profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most
distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial of
metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind; but to one of my
profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance, liable
at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron, or a pitchfork. To you, I allow,
these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use them
well;—my vision is the soul.”
Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and
pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without
scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.
“A clever book that of yours, Pierre,” resumed his Majesty, tapping our
friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his glass after a
thorough compliance with his visitor’s injunction. “A clever book that of
yours, upon my honor. It’s a work after my own heart. Your arrangement of
the matter, I think, however, might be improved, and many of your notions
remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my most intimate
acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill temper, as for his
happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he
has written, and for that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his
absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine
moral truth I am alluding?”
“Cannot say that I—”
“Indeed!—why it was I who told Aristotle that by sneezing, men expelled
superfluous ideas through the proboscis.”
“Which is—hiccup!—undoubtedly the case,” said the metaphysician,
while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and offered
his snuff-box to the fingers of his visitor.
“There was Plato, too,” continued his Majesty, modestly declining the
snuff-box and the compliment it implied—“there was Plato, too, for whom

I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato, Bon-Bon?—
ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one day, in the
Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I bade him write,
down that δ υοῦς εστιν αυλος. He said that he would do so, and went home,
while I stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience smote me for
having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening back to Athens, I
arrived behind the philosopher’s chair as he was inditing the ‘αυλος.’
“Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
the sentence now read ‘δ υοῦς εστιν αυγος’, and is, you perceive, the
fundamental doctrines in his metaphysics.”
“Were you ever at Rome?” asked the restaurateur, as he finished his
second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of
Chambertin.
“But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time,” said the
devil, as if reciting some passage from a book—“there was a time when
occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the republic, bereft of all its
officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people, and these
were not legally vested with any degree of executive power—at that time,
Monsieur Bon-Bon—at that time only I was in Rome, and I have no earthly
acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy.” (*2)
{*2} Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (Cicero, Lucretius,
Seneca) mais c’etait la Philosophie Grecque.—Condorcet.

“What do you think of—what do you think of—hiccup!—Epicurus?”
“What do I think of whom?” said the devil, in astonishment, “you cannot
surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus!
Do you mean me, sir?—I am Epicurus! I am the same philosopher who
wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes
Laertes.”
“That’s a lie!” said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little into
his head.
“Very well!—very well, sir!—very well, indeed, sir!” said his Majesty,
apparently much flattered.
“That’s a lie!” repeated the restaurateur, dogmatically; “that’s a—hiccup!
—a lie!”

“Well, well, have it your own way!” said the devil, pacifically, and Bon-
Bon, having beaten his Majesty at argument, thought it his duty to conclude
a second bottle of Chambertin.
“As I was saying,” resumed the visitor—“as I was observing a little while
ago, there are some very outré notions in that book of yours Monsieur Bon-
Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about the soul?
Pray, sir, what is the soul?”
“The—hiccup!—soul,” replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS.,
“is undoubtedly—”
“No, sir!”
“Indubitably—”
“No, sir!”
“Indisputably—”
“No, sir!”
“Evidently—”
“No, sir!”
“Incontrovertibly—”
“No, sir!”
“Hiccup!—”
“No, sir!”
“And beyond all question, a—”
“No sir, the soul is no such thing!” (Here the philosopher, looking
daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third bottle of
Chambertin.)
“Then—hic-cup!—pray, sir—what—what is it?”
“That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon,” replied his Majesty,
musingly. “I have tasted—that is to say, I have known some very bad souls,
and some too—pretty good ones.” Here he smacked his lips, and, having
unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket, was seized
with a violent fit of sneezing.
He continued.
“There was the soul of Cratinus—passable: Aristophanes—racy: Plato—
exquisite—not your Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your Plato would have

turned the stomach of Cerberus—faugh! Then let me see! there were
Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were
Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus,—dear Quinty! as I
called him when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while I toasted him,
in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want flavor, these Romans. One fat
Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep, which cannot be
said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne.”
Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the nil admirari and
endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however,
conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this,
although extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no notice:
—simply kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visitor
continued:
“I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle;—you know I am
fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to my
astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of
Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus—and Titus Livius
was positively Polybius and none other.”
“Hic-cup!” here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded:
“But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon—if I have a penchant, it is
for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev—I mean it is
not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long ones
are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a little
rancid on account of the gall!”
“Shelled!”
“I mean taken out of the carcass.”
“What do you think of a—hic-cup!—physician?”
“Don’t mention them!—ugh! ugh! ugh!” (Here his Majesty retched
violently.) “I never tasted but one—that rascal Hippocrates!—smelt of
asafoetida—ugh! ugh! ugh!—caught a wretched cold washing him in the
Styx—and after all he gave me the cholera morbus.”
“The—hiccup!—wretch!” ejaculated Bon-Bon, “the—hic-cup!—
abortion of a pill-box!”—and the philosopher dropped a tear.
“After all,” continued the visitor, “after all, if a dev—if a gentleman
wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or two; and with us a fat

face is an evidence of diplomacy.”
“How so?”
“Why, we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must
know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep
a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless
pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is not good), they will—smell—
you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the
souls are consigned to us in the usual way.”
“Hiccup!—hiccup!—good God! how do you manage?”
Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and
the devil half started from his seat;—however, with a slight sigh, he
recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: “I tell
you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing.”
The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough
comprehension and acquiescence, and the visitor continued.
“Why, there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some
put up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in
which case I find they keep very well.”
“But the body!—hiccup!—the body!”
“The body, the body—well, what of the body?—oh! ah! I perceive. Why,
sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I have made
innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never
experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and Nero,
and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and—and a thousand others,
who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter part of their
lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why isn’t there A——, now, who
you know as well as I? Is he not in possession of his faculties, mental and
corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who
—but stay! I have his agreement in my pocket-book.”
Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number
of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters
Machi—Maza—Robesp—with the words Caligula, George, Elizabeth. His
Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it read aloud the
following words:

“In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary
to specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d’or, I being
aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this
agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my
soul. (Signed) A....” {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did
not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)
{*4} Quere-Arouet?
“A clever fellow that,” resumed he; “but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he
was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow;
Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasseed shadow!”
“Only think—hiccup!—of a fricasséed shadow!” exclaimed our hero,
whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of his
Majesty’s discourse.
“Only think of a hiccup!—fricasséed shadow!! Now, damme!—hiccup!
—humph! If I would have been such a—hiccup!—nincompoop! My soul,
Mr.—humph!”
“Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?”
“Yes, sir—hiccup!—my soul is—”
“What, sir?”
“No shadow, damme!”
“Did you mean to say—”
“Yes, sir, my soul is—hiccup!—humph!—yes, sir.”
“Did you not intend to assert—”
“My soul is—hiccup!—peculiarly qualified for—hiccup!—a—”
“What, sir?”
“Stew.”
“Ha!”
“Soufflee.”
“Eh!”
“Fricassee.”
“Indeed!”
“Ragout and fricandeau—and see here, my good fellow! I’ll let you have
it—hiccup!—a bargain.” Here the philosopher slapped his Majesty upon the

back.
“Couldn’t think of such a thing,” said the latter calmly, at the same time
rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.
“Am supplied at present,” said his Majesty.
“Hiccup!—e-h?” said the philosopher.
“Have no funds on hand.”
“What?”
“Besides, very unhandsome in me—”
“Sir!”
“To take advantage of—”
“Hiccup!”
“Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.”
Here the visitor bowed and withdrew—in what manner could not
precisely be ascertained—but in a well-concerted effort to discharge a bottle
at “the villain,” the slender chain was severed that depended from the
ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the lamp.

SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY.

The symposium of the preceding evening had been a little too much for
my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy. Instead
of going out therefore to spend the evening as I had proposed, it occurred to
me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful of supper and
go immediately to bed.
A light supper of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More
than a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still, there
can be no material objection to two. And really between two and three,
there is merely a single unit of difference. I ventured, perhaps, upon four.
My wife will have it five;—but, clearly, she has confounded two very
distinct affairs. The abstract number, five, I am willing to admit; but,
concretely, it has reference to bottles of Brown Stout, without which, in the
way of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed.
Having thus concluded a frugal meal, and donned my night-cap, with the
serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I placed my head upon the
pillow, and, through the aid of a capital conscience, fell into a profound
slumber forthwith.
But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled? I could not have
completed my third snore when there came a furious ringing at the street-
door bell, and then an impatient thumping at the knocker, which awakened
me at once. In a minute afterward, and while I was still rubbing my eyes,
my wife thrust in my face a note, from my old friend, Doctor Ponnonner. It
ran thus:

“Come to me, by all means, my dear good friend, as soon as you receive
this. Come and help us to rejoice. At last, by long persevering diplomacy, I
have gained the assent of the Directors of the City Museum, to my
examination of the Mummy—you know the one I mean. I have permission

to unswathe it and open it, if desirable. A few friends only will be present—
you, of course. The Mummy is now at my house, and we shall begin to
unroll it at eleven to-night.

“Yours, ever,
PONNONNER.

By the time I had reached the “Ponnonner,” it struck me that I was as
wide awake as a man need be. I leaped out of bed in an ecstacy,
overthrowing all in my way; dressed myself with a rapidity truly
marvellous; and set off, at the top of my speed, for the doctor’s.
There I found a very eager company assembled. They had been awaiting
me with much impatience; the Mummy was extended upon the dining-
table; and the moment I entered its examination was commenced.
It was one of a pair brought, several years previously, by Captain Arthur
Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnonner’s from a tomb near Eleithias, in the
Lybian mountains, a considerable distance above Thebes on the Nile. The
grottoes at this point, although less magnificent than the Theban sepulchres,
are of higher interest, on account of affording more numerous illustrations
of the private life of the Egyptians. The chamber from which our specimen
was taken, was said to be very rich in such illustrations—the walls being
completely covered with fresco paintings and bas-reliefs, while statues,
vases, and Mosaic work of rich patterns, indicated the vast wealth of the
deceased.
The treasure had been deposited in the Museum precisely in the same
condition in which Captain Sabretash had found it—that is to say, the coffin
had not been disturbed. For eight years it had thus stood, subject only
externally to public inspection. We had now, therefore, the complete
Mummy at our disposal; and to those who are aware how very rarely the
unransacked antique reaches our shores, it will be evident, at once that we
had great reason to congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.
Approaching the table, I saw on it a large box, or case, nearly seven feet
long, and perhaps three feet wide, by two feet and a half deep. It was
oblong—not coffin-shaped. The material was at first supposed to be the
wood of the sycamore (platanus), but, upon cutting into it, we found it to be
pasteboard, or, more properly, papier mache, composed of papyrus. It was

thickly ornamented with paintings, representing funeral scenes, and other
mournful subjects—interspersed among which, in every variety of position,
were certain series of hieroglyphical characters, intended, no doubt, for the
name of the departed. By good luck, Mr. Gliddon formed one of our party;
and he had no difficulty in translating the letters, which were simply
phonetic, and represented the word Allamistakeo.
We had some difficulty in getting this case open without injury; but
having at length accomplished the task, we came to a second, coffin-shaped,
and very considerably less in size than the exterior one, but resembling it
precisely in every other respect. The interval between the two was filled
with resin, which had, in some degree, defaced the colors of the interior
box.
Upon opening this latter (which we did quite easily), we arrived at a third
case, also coffin-shaped, and varying from the second one in no particular,
except in that of its material, which was cedar, and still emitted the peculiar
and highly aromatic odor of that wood. Between the second and the third
case there was no interval—the one fitting accurately within the other.
Removing the third case, we discovered and took out the body itself. We
had expected to find it, as usual, enveloped in frequent rolls, or bandages, of
linen; but, in place of these, we found a sort of sheath, made of papyrus, and
coated with a layer of plaster, thickly gilt and painted. The paintings
represented subjects connected with the various supposed duties of the soul,
and its presentation to different divinities, with numerous identical human
figures, intended, very probably, as portraits of the persons embalmed.
Extending from head to foot was a columnar, or perpendicular, inscription,
in phonetic hieroglyphics, giving again his name and titles, and the names
and titles of his relations.
Around the neck thus ensheathed, was a collar of cylindrical glass beads,
diverse in color, and so arranged as to form images of deities, of the
scarabaeus, etc., with the winged globe. Around the small of the waist was a
similar collar or belt.
Stripping off the papyrus, we found the flesh in excellent preservation,
with no perceptible odor. The color was reddish. The skin was hard,
smooth, and glossy. The teeth and hair were in good condition. The eyes (it
seemed) had been removed, and glass ones substituted, which were very

beautiful and wonderfully life-like, with the exception of somewhat too
determined a stare. The fingers and the nails were brilliantly gilded.
Mr. Gliddon was of opinion, from the redness of the epidermis, that the
embalmment had been effected altogether by asphaltum; but, on scraping
the surface with a steel instrument, and throwing into the fire some of the
powder thus obtained, the flavor of camphor and other sweet-scented gums
became apparent.
We searched the corpse very carefully for the usual openings through
which the entrails are extracted, but, to our surprise, we could discover
none. No member of the party was at that period aware that entire or
unopened mummies are not infrequently met. The brain it was customary to
withdraw through the nose; the intestines through an incision in the side;
the body was then shaved, washed, and salted; then laid aside for several
weeks, when the operation of embalming, properly so called, began.
As no trace of an opening could be found, Doctor Ponnonner was
preparing his instruments for dissection, when I observed that it was then
past two o’clock. Hereupon it was agreed to postpone the internal
examination until the next evening; and we were about to separate for the
present, when some one suggested an experiment or two with the Voltaic
pile.
The application of electricity to a mummy three or four thousand years
old at the least, was an idea, if not very sage, still sufficiently original, and
we all caught it at once. About one-tenth in earnest and nine-tenths in jest,
we arranged a battery in the Doctor’s study, and conveyed thither the
Egyptian.
It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying bare some
portions of the temporal muscle which appeared of less stony rigidity than
other parts of the frame, but which, as we had anticipated, of course, gave
no indication of galvanic susceptibility when brought in contact with the
wire. This, the first trial, indeed, seemed decisive, and, with a hearty laugh
at our own absurdity, we were bidding each other good night, when my
eyes, happening to fall upon those of the Mummy, were there immediately
riveted in amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had sufficed to assure me
that the orbs which we had all supposed to be glass, and which were
originally noticeable for a certain wild stare, were now so far covered by
the lids, that only a small portion of the tunica albuginea remained visible.

With a shout I called attention to the fact, and it became immediately
obvious to all.
I cannot say that I was alarmed at the phenomenon, because “alarmed” is,
in my case, not exactly the word. It is possible, however, that, but for the
Brown Stout, I might have been a little nervous. As for the rest of the
company, they really made no attempt at concealing the downright fright
which possessed them. Doctor Ponnonner was a man to be pitied. Mr.
Gliddon, by some peculiar process, rendered himself invisible. Mr. Silk
Buckingham, I fancy, will scarcely be so bold as to deny that he made his
way, upon all fours, under the table.
After the first shock of astonishment, however, we resolved, as a matter
of course, upon further experiment forthwith. Our operations were now
directed against the great toe of the right foot. We made an incision over the
outside of the exterior os sesamoideum pollicis pedis, and thus got at the
root of the abductor muscle. Readjusting the battery, we now applied the
fluid to the bisected nerves—when, with a movement of exceeding life-
likeness, the Mummy first drew up its right knee so as to bring it nearly in
contact with the abdomen, and then, straightening the limb with
inconceivable force, bestowed a kick upon Doctor Ponnonner, which had
the effect of discharging that gentleman, like an arrow from a catapult,
through a window into the street below.
We rushed out en masse to bring in the mangled remains of the victim,
but had the happiness to meet him upon the staircase, coming up in an
unaccountable hurry, brimful of the most ardent philosophy, and more than
ever impressed with the necessity of prosecuting our experiment with vigor
and with zeal.
It was by his advice, accordingly, that we made, upon the spot, a
profound incision into the tip of the subject’s nose, while the Doctor
himself, laying violent hands upon it, pulled it into vehement contact with
the wire.
Morally and physically—figuratively and literally—was the effect
electric. In the first place, the corpse opened its eyes and winked very
rapidly for several minutes, as does Mr. Barnes in the pantomime; in the
second place, it sneezed; in the third, it sat upon end; in the fourth, it shook
its fist in Doctor Ponnonner’s face; in the fifth, turning to Messieurs
Gliddon and Buckingham, it addressed them, in very capital Egyptian, thus:

“I must say, gentlemen, that I am as much surprised as I am mortified at
your behavior. Of Doctor Ponnonner nothing better was to be expected. He
is a poor little fat fool who knows no better. I pity and forgive him. But you,
Mr. Gliddon—and you, Silk—who have travelled and resided in Egypt until
one might imagine you to the manor born—you, I say who have been so
much among us that you speak Egyptian fully as well, I think, as you write
your mother tongue—you, whom I have always been led to regard as the
firm friend of the mummies—I really did anticipate more gentlemanly
conduct from you. What am I to think of your standing quietly by and
seeing me thus unhandsomely used? What am I to suppose by your
permitting Tom, Dick, and Harry to strip me of my coffins, and my clothes,
in this wretchedly cold climate? In what light (to come to the point) am I to
regard your aiding and abetting that miserable little villain, Doctor
Ponnonner, in pulling me by the nose?”
It will be taken for granted, no doubt, that upon hearing this speech under
the circumstances, we all either made for the door, or fell into violent
hysterics, or went off in a general swoon. One of these three things was, I
say, to be expected. Indeed each and all of these lines of conduct might have
been very plausibly pursued. And, upon my word, I am at a loss to know
how or why it was that we pursued neither the one nor the other. But,
perhaps, the true reason is to be sought in the spirit of the age, which
proceeds by the rule of contraries altogether, and is now usually admitted as
the solution of every thing in the way of paradox and impossibility. Or,
perhaps, after all, it was only the Mummy’s exceedingly natural and matter-
of-course air that divested his words of the terrible. However this may be,
the facts are clear, and no member of our party betrayed any very particular
trepidation, or seemed to consider that any thing had gone very especially
wrong.
For my part I was convinced it was all right, and merely stepped aside,
out of the range of the Egyptian’s fist. Doctor Ponnonner thrust his hands
into his breeches’ pockets, looked hard at the Mummy, and grew
excessively red in the face. Mr. Glidden stroked his whiskers and drew up
the collar of his shirt. Mr. Buckingham hung down his head, and put his
right thumb into the left corner of his mouth.
The Egyptian regarded him with a severe countenance for some minutes
and at length, with a sneer, said:

“Why don’t you speak, Mr. Buckingham? Did you hear what I asked you,
or not? Do take your thumb out of your mouth!”
Mr. Buckingham, hereupon, gave a slight start, took his right thumb out
of the left corner of his mouth, and, by way of indemnification inserted his
left thumb in the right corner of the aperture above-mentioned.
Not being able to get an answer from Mr. B., the figure turned peevishly
to Mr. Gliddon, and, in a peremptory tone, demanded in general terms what
we all meant.
Mr. Gliddon replied at great length, in phonetics; and but for the
deficiency of American printing-offices in hieroglyphical type, it would
afford me much pleasure to record here, in the original, the whole of his
very excellent speech.
I may as well take this occasion to remark, that all the subsequent
conversation in which the Mummy took a part, was carried on in primitive
Egyptian, through the medium (so far as concerned myself and other
untravelled members of the company)—through the medium, I say, of
Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, as interpreters. These gentlemen
spoke the mother tongue of the Mummy with inimitable fluency and grace;
but I could not help observing that (owing, no doubt, to the introduction of
images entirely modern, and, of course, entirely novel to the stranger) the
two travellers were reduced, occasionally, to the employment of sensible
forms for the purpose of conveying a particular meaning. Mr. Gliddon, at
one period, for example, could not make the Egyptian comprehend the term
“politics,” until he sketched upon the wall, with a bit of charcoal a little
carbuncle-nosed gentleman, out at elbows, standing upon a stump, with his
left leg drawn back, right arm thrown forward, with his fist shut, the eyes
rolled up toward Heaven, and the mouth open at an angle of ninety degrees.
Just in the same way Mr. Buckingham failed to convey the absolutely
modern idea “wig,” until (at Doctor Ponnonner’s suggestion) he grew very
pale in the face, and consented to take off his own.
It will be readily understood that Mr. Gliddon’s discourse turned chiefly
upon the vast benefits accruing to science from the unrolling and
disembowelling of mummies; apologizing, upon this score, for any
disturbance that might have been occasioned him, in particular, the
individual Mummy called Allamistakeo; and concluding with a mere hint
(for it could scarcely be considered more) that, as these little matters were

now explained, it might be as well to proceed with the investigation
intended. Here Doctor Ponnonner made ready his instruments.
In regard to the latter suggestions of the orator, it appears that
Allamistakeo had certain scruples of conscience, the nature of which I did
not distinctly learn; but he expressed himself satisfied with the apologies
tendered, and, getting down from the table, shook hands with the company
all round.
When this ceremony was at an end, we immediately busied ourselves in
repairing the damages which our subject had sustained from the scalpel. We
sewed up the wound in his temple, bandaged his foot, and applied a square
inch of black plaster to the tip of his nose.
It was now observed that the Count (this was the title, it seems, of
Allamistakeo) had a slight fit of shivering—no doubt from the cold. The
Doctor immediately repaired to his wardrobe, and soon returned with a
black dress coat, made in Jennings’ best manner, a pair of sky-blue plaid
pantaloons with straps, a pink gingham chemise, a flapped vest of brocade,
a white sack overcoat, a walking cane with a hook, a hat with no brim,
patent-leather boots, straw-colored kid gloves, an eye-glass, a pair of
whiskers, and a waterfall cravat. Owing to the disparity of size between the
Count and the doctor (the proportion being as two to one), there was some
little difficulty in adjusting these habiliments upon the person of the
Egyptian; but when all was arranged, he might have been said to be dressed.
Mr. Gliddon, therefore, gave him his arm, and led him to a comfortable
chair by the fire, while the Doctor rang the bell upon the spot and ordered a
supply of cigars and wine.
The conversation soon grew animated. Much curiosity was, of course,
expressed in regard to the somewhat remarkable fact of Allamistakeo’s still
remaining alive.
“I should have thought,” observed Mr. Buckingham, “that it is high time
you were dead.”
“Why,” replied the Count, very much astonished, “I am little more than
seven hundred years old! My father lived a thousand, and was by no means
in his dotage when he died.”
Here ensued a brisk series of questions and computations, by means of
which it became evident that the antiquity of the Mummy had been grossly

misjudged. It had been five thousand and fifty years and some months since
he had been consigned to the catacombs at Eleithias.
“But my remark,” resumed Mr. Buckingham, “had no reference to your
age at the period of interment (I am willing to grant, in fact, that you are
still a young man), and my illusion was to the immensity of time during
which, by your own showing, you must have been done up in asphaltum.”
“In what?” said the Count.
“In asphaltum,” persisted Mr. B.
“Ah, yes; I have some faint notion of what you mean; it might be made to
answer, no doubt—but in my time we employed scarcely any thing else
than the Bichloride of Mercury.”
“But what we are especially at a loss to understand,” said Doctor
Ponnonner, “is how it happens that, having been dead and buried in Egypt
five thousand years ago, you are here to-day all alive and looking so
delightfully well.”
“Had I been, as you say, dead,” replied the Count, “it is more than
probable that dead, I should still be; for I perceive you are yet in the infancy
of Galvanism, and cannot accomplish with it what was a common thing
among us in the old days. But the fact is, I fell into catalepsy, and it was
considered by my best friends that I was either dead or should be; they
accordingly embalmed me at once—I presume you are aware of the chief
principle of the embalming process?”
“Why, not altogether.”
“Ah, I perceive—a deplorable condition of ignorance! Well I cannot enter
into details just now: but it is necessary to explain that to embalm (properly
speaking), in Egypt, was to arrest indefinitely all the animal functions
subjected to the process. I use the word ‘animal’ in its widest sense, as
including the physical not more than the moral and vital being. I repeat that
the leading principle of embalmment consisted, with us, in the immediately
arresting, and holding in perpetual abeyance, all the animal functions
subjected to the process. To be brief, in whatever condition the individual
was, at the period of embalmment, in that condition he remained. Now, as it
is my good fortune to be of the blood of the Scarabaeus, I was embalmed
alive, as you see me at present.”
“The blood of the Scarabaeus!” exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner.

“Yes. The Scarabaeus was the insignium or the ‘arms,’ of a very
distinguished and very rare patrician family. To be ‘of the blood of the
Scarabaeus,’ is merely to be one of that family of which the Scarabaeus is
the insignium. I speak figuratively.”
“But what has this to do with you being alive?”
“Why, it is the general custom in Egypt to deprive a corpse, before
embalmment, of its bowels and brains; the race of the Scarabaei alone did
not coincide with the custom. Had I not been a Scarabeus, therefore, I
should have been without bowels and brains; and without either it is
inconvenient to live.”
“I perceive that,” said Mr. Buckingham, “and I presume that all the entire
mummies that come to hand are of the race of Scarabaei.”
“Beyond doubt.”
“I thought,” said Mr. Gliddon, very meekly, “that the Scarabaeus was one
of the Egyptian gods.”
“One of the Egyptian what?” exclaimed the Mummy, starting to its feet.
“Gods!” repeated the traveller.
“Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished to hear you talk in this style,” said
the Count, resuming his chair. “No nation upon the face of the earth has
ever acknowledged more than one god. The Scarabaeus, the Ibis, etc., were
with us (as similar creatures have been with others) the symbols, or media,
through which we offered worship to the Creator too august to be more
directly approached.”
There was here a pause. At length the colloquy was renewed by Doctor
Ponnonner.
“It is not improbable, then, from what you have explained,” said he, “that
among the catacombs near the Nile there may exist other mummies of the
Scarabaeus tribe, in a condition of vitality?”
“There can be no question of it,” replied the Count; “all the Scarabaei
embalmed accidentally while alive, are alive now. Even some of those
purposely so embalmed, may have been overlooked by their executors, and
still remain in the tomb.”
“Will you be kind enough to explain,” I said, “what you mean by
‘purposely so embalmed’?”

“With great pleasure!” answered the Mummy, after surveying me
leisurely through his eye-glass—for it was the first time I had ventured to
address him a direct question.
“With great pleasure,” he said. “The usual duration of man’s life, in my
time, was about eight hundred years. Few men died, unless by most
extraordinary accident, before the age of six hundred; few lived longer than
a decade of centuries; but eight were considered the natural term. After the
discovery of the embalming principle, as I have already described it to you,
it occurred to our philosophers that a laudable curiosity might be gratified,
and, at the same time, the interests of science much advanced, by living this
natural term in installments. In the case of history, indeed, experience
demonstrated that something of this kind was indispensable. An historian,
for example, having attained the age of five hundred, would write a book
with great labor and then get himself carefully embalmed; leaving
instructions to his executors pro tem., that they should cause him to be
revivified after the lapse of a certain period—say five or six hundred years.
Resuming existence at the expiration of this time, he would invariably find
his great work converted into a species of hap-hazard note-book—that is to
say, into a kind of literary arena for the conflicting guesses, riddles, and
personal squabbles of whole herds of exasperated commentators. These
guesses, etc., which passed under the name of annotations, or emendations,
were found so completely to have enveloped, distorted, and overwhelmed
the text, that the author had to go about with a lantern to discover his own
book. When discovered, it was never worth the trouble of the search. After
re-writing it throughout, it was regarded as the bounden duty of the
historian to set himself to work immediately in correcting, from his own
private knowledge and experience, the traditions of the day concerning the
epoch at which he had originally lived. Now this process of re-scription and
personal rectification, pursued by various individual sages from time to
time, had the effect of preventing our history from degenerating into
absolute fable.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Doctor Ponnonner at this point, laying his hand
gently upon the arm of the Egyptian—“I beg your pardon, sir, but may I
presume to interrupt you for one moment?”
“By all means, sir,” replied the Count, drawing up.

“I merely wished to ask you a question,” said the Doctor. “You
mentioned the historian’s personal correction of traditions respecting his
own epoch. Pray, sir, upon an average what proportion of these Kabbala
were usually found to be right?”
“The Kabbala, as you properly term them, sir, were generally discovered
to be precisely on a par with the facts recorded in the un-re-written histories
themselves;—that is to say, not one individual iota of either was ever
known, under any circumstances, to be not totally and radically wrong.”
“But since it is quite clear,” resumed the Doctor, “that at least five
thousand years have elapsed since your entombment, I take it for granted
that your histories at that period, if not your traditions were sufficiently
explicit on that one topic of universal interest, the Creation, which took
place, as I presume you are aware, only about ten centuries before.”
“Sir!” said the Count Allamistakeo.
The Doctor repeated his remarks, but it was only after much additional
explanation that the foreigner could be made to comprehend them. The
latter at length said, hesitatingly:
“The ideas you have suggested are to me, I confess, utterly novel. During
my time I never knew any one to entertain so singular a fancy as that the
universe (or this world if you will have it so) ever had a beginning at all. I
remember once, and once only, hearing something remotely hinted, by a
man of many speculations, concerning the origin of the human race; and by
this individual, the very word Adam (or Red Earth), which you make use of,
was employed. He employed it, however, in a generical sense, with
reference to the spontaneous germination from rank soil (just as a thousand
of the lower genera of creatures are germinated)—the spontaneous
germination, I say, of five vast hordes of men, simultaneously upspringing
in five distinct and nearly equal divisions of the globe.”
Here, in general, the company shrugged their shoulders, and one or two
of us touched our foreheads with a very significant air. Mr. Silk
Buckingham, first glancing slightly at the occiput and then at the sinciput of
Allamistakeo, spoke as follows:
“The long duration of human life in your time, together with the
occasional practice of passing it, as you have explained, in installments,
must have had, indeed, a strong tendency to the general development and
conglomeration of knowledge. I presume, therefore, that we are to attribute

the marked inferiority of the old Egyptians in all particulars of science,
when compared with the moderns, and more especially with the Yankees,
altogether to the superior solidity of the Egyptian skull.”
“I confess again,” replied the Count, with much suavity, “that I am
somewhat at a loss to comprehend you; pray, to what particulars of science
do you allude?”
Here our whole party, joining voices, detailed, at great length, the
assumptions of phrenology and the marvels of animal magnetism.
Having heard us to an end, the Count proceeded to relate a few
anecdotes, which rendered it evident that prototypes of Gall and Spurzheim
had flourished and faded in Egypt so long ago as to have been nearly
forgotten, and that the manoeuvres of Mesmer were really very
contemptible tricks when put in collation with the positive miracles of the
Theban savans, who created lice and a great many other similar things.
I here asked the Count if his people were able to calculate eclipses. He
smiled rather contemptuously, and said they were.
This put me a little out, but I began to make other inquiries in regard to
his astronomical knowledge, when a member of the company, who had
never as yet opened his mouth, whispered in my ear, that for information on
this head, I had better consult Ptolemy (whoever Ptolemy is), as well as one
Plutarch de facie lunae.
I then questioned the Mummy about burning-glasses and lenses, and, in
general, about the manufacture of glass; but I had not made an end of my
queries before the silent member again touched me quietly on the elbow,
and begged me for God’s sake to take a peep at Diodorus Siculus. As for the
Count, he merely asked me, in the way of reply, if we moderns possessed
any such microscopes as would enable us to cut cameos in the style of the
Egyptians. While I was thinking how I should answer this question, little
Doctor Ponnonner committed himself in a very extraordinary way.
“Look at our architecture!” he exclaimed, greatly to the indignation of
both the travellers, who pinched him black and blue to no purpose.
“Look,” he cried with enthusiasm, “at the Bowling-Green Fountain in
New York! or if this be too vast a contemplation, regard for a moment the
Capitol at Washington, D. C.!”—and the good little medical man went on to
detail very minutely, the proportions of the fabric to which he referred. He

explained that the portico alone was adorned with no less than four and
twenty columns, five feet in diameter, and ten feet apart.
The Count said that he regretted not being able to remember, just at that
moment, the precise dimensions of any one of the principal buildings of the
city of Aznac, whose foundations were laid in the night of Time, but the
ruins of which were still standing, at the epoch of his entombment, in a vast
plain of sand to the westward of Thebes. He recollected, however, (talking
of the porticoes,) that one affixed to an inferior palace in a kind of suburb
called Carnac, consisted of a hundred and forty-four columns, thirty-seven
feet in circumference, and twenty-five feet apart. The approach to this
portico, from the Nile, was through an avenue two miles long, composed of
sphynxes, statues, and obelisks, twenty, sixty, and a hundred feet in height.
The palace itself (as well as he could remember) was, in one direction, two
miles long, and might have been altogether about seven in circuit. Its walls
were richly painted all over, within and without, with hieroglyphics. He
would not pretend to assert that even fifty or sixty of the Doctor’s Capitols
might have been built within these walls, but he was by no means sure that
two or three hundred of them might not have been squeezed in with some
trouble. That palace at Carnac was an insignificant little building after all.
He (the Count), however, could not conscientiously refuse to admit the
ingenuity, magnificence, and superiority of the Fountain at the Bowling
Green, as described by the Doctor. Nothing like it, he was forced to allow,
had ever been seen in Egypt or elsewhere.
I here asked the Count what he had to say to our railroads.
“Nothing,” he replied, “in particular.” They were rather slight, rather ill-
conceived, and clumsily put together. They could not be compared, of
course, with the vast, level, direct, iron-grooved causeways upon which the
Egyptians conveyed entire temples and solid obelisks of a hundred and fifty
feet in altitude.
I spoke of our gigantic mechanical forces.
He agreed that we knew something in that way, but inquired how I
should have gone to work in getting up the imposts on the lintels of even
the little palace at Carnac.
This question I concluded not to hear, and demanded if he had any idea
of Artesian wells; but he simply raised his eyebrows; while Mr. Gliddon

winked at me very hard and said, in a low tone, that one had been recently
discovered by the engineers employed to bore for water in the Great Oasis.
I then mentioned our steel; but the foreigner elevated his nose, and asked
me if our steel could have executed the sharp carved work seen on the
obelisks, and which was wrought altogether by edge-tools of copper.
This disconcerted us so greatly that we thought it advisable to vary the
attack to Metaphysics. We sent for a copy of a book called the “Dial,” and
read out of it a chapter or two about something that is not very clear, but
which the Bostonians call the Great Movement of Progress.
The Count merely said that Great Movements were awfully common
things in his day, and as for Progress, it was at one time quite a nuisance,
but it never progressed.
We then spoke of the great beauty and importance of Democracy, and
were at much trouble in impressing the Count with a due sense of the
advantages we enjoyed in living where there was suffrage ad libitum, and
no king.
He listened with marked interest, and in fact seemed not a little amused.
When we had done, he said that, a great while ago, there had occurred
something of a very similar sort. Thirteen Egyptian provinces determined
all at once to be free, and to set a magnificent example to the rest of
mankind. They assembled their wise men, and concocted the most
ingenious constitution it is possible to conceive. For a while they managed
remarkably well; only their habit of bragging was prodigious. The thing
ended, however, in the consolidation of the thirteen states, with some fifteen
or twenty others, in the most odious and insupportable despotism that was
ever heard of upon the face of the Earth.
I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant.
As well as the Count could recollect, it was Mob.
Not knowing what to say to this, I raised my voice, and deplored the
Egyptian ignorance of steam.
The Count looked at me with much astonishment, but made no answer.
The silent gentleman, however, gave me a violent nudge in the ribs with his
elbows—told me I had sufficiently exposed myself for once—and
demanded if I was really such a fool as not to know that the modern steam-
engine is derived from the invention of Hero, through Solomon de Caus.

We were now in imminent danger of being discomfited; but, as good luck
would have it, Doctor Ponnonner, having rallied, returned to our rescue, and
inquired if the people of Egypt would seriously pretend to rival the moderns
in the all-important particular of dress.
The Count, at this, glanced downward to the straps of his pantaloons, and
then taking hold of the end of one of his coat-tails, held it up close to his
eyes for some minutes. Letting it fall, at last, his mouth extended itself very
gradually from ear to ear; but I do not remember that he said any thing in
the way of reply.
Hereupon we recovered our spirits, and the Doctor, approaching the
Mummy with great dignity, desired it to say candidly, upon its honor as a
gentleman, if the Egyptians had comprehended, at any period, the
manufacture of either Ponnonner’s lozenges or Brandreth’s pills.
We looked, with profound anxiety, for an answer—but in vain. It was not
forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed and hung down his head. Never was
triumph more consummate; never was defeat borne with so ill a grace.
Indeed, I could not endure the spectacle of the poor Mummy’s
mortification. I reached my hat, bowed to him stiffly, and took leave.
Upon getting home I found it past four o’clock, and went immediately to
bed. It is now ten A.M. I have been up since seven, penning these
memoranda for the benefit of my family and of mankind. The former I shall
behold no more. My wife is a shrew. The truth is, I am heartily sick of this
life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that every
thing is going wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be President
in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave and swallow a cup of coffee, I shall
just step over to Ponnonner’s and get embalmed for a couple of hundred
years.

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE

In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either thorough
or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the essentiality of
what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for consideration,
some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my
own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most definite
impression. By “minor poems” I mean, of course, poems of little length.
And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to a
somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has
always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that
a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a long poem,” is
simply a flat contradiction in terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it
excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this
elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity,
transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so
called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great
length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it flags—fails—a
revulsion ensues—and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer
such.
There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
critical dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is to be devoutly admired
throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during
perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would
demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when,
losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it
merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity—its totality of
effect or impression—we read it (as would be necessary) at a single sitting,
the result is but a constant alternation of excitement and depression. After a
passage of what we feel to be true poetry, there follows, inevitably, a

passage of platitude which no critical prejudgment can force us to admire;
but if, upon completing the work, we read it again, omitting the first book—
that is to say, commencing with the second—we shall be surprised at now
finding that admirable which we before condemned—that damnable which
we had previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the
ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is
a nullity:—and this is precisely the fact.
In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very good
reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but, granting the epic
intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect sense of art.
The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, but an
inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artistic
anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem were popular in
reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem will ever be
popular again.
That the extent of a poetical work is, ceteris paribus, the measure of its
merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition sufficiently
absurd—yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly Reviews. Surely there
can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered—there can be nothing in
mere bulk, so far as a volume is concerned, which has so continuously
elicited admiration from these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure,
by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, does
impress us with a sense of the sublime—but no man is impressed after this
fashion by the material grandeur of even “The Columbiad.” Even the
Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As yet, they have
not insisted on our estimating “Lamar” tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by
the pound—but what else are we to infer from their continual plating about
“sustained effort”? If, by “sustained effort,” any little gentleman has
accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the effort—if this
indeed be a thing conk mendable—but let us forbear praising the epic on
the effort’s account. It is to be hoped that common sense, in the time to
come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it
makes—by the effect it produces—than by the time it took to impress the
effect, or by the amount of “sustained effort” which had been found
necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is one
thing and genius quite another—nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendom
confound them. By and by, this proposition, with many which I have been

just urging, will be received as self-evident. In the meantime, by being
generally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as
truths.
On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue
brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while
now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or
enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon
the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit-
stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous to stamp themselves
deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers of fancy,
have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind.
A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following
exquisite little Serenade—
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me—who knows how?—
To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark the silent stream—
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale’s complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on shine,
O, beloved as thou art!

O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O, press it close to shine again,
Where it will break at last.

Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines—yet no less a poet than
Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal imagination

will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by him who has
himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in the aromatic
air of a southern midsummer night.
One of the finest poems by Willis—the very best in my opinion which he
has ever written—has no doubt, through this same defect of undue brevity,
been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
The shadows lay along Broadway,
’Twas near the twilight-tide—
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk’d she; but, viewlessly,
Walk’d spirits at her side.

Peace charm’d the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charm’d the air;
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair—
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true—
For heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to won,
But honor’d well her charms to sell.
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair—
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail—
’Twixt Want and Scorn she walk’d forlorn,
And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow
From this world’s peace to pray
For as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman’s heart gave way!—
But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven
By man is cursed alway!

In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who has
written so many mere “verses of society.” The lines are not only richly
ideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident

sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the other
works of this author.
While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity is
indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of the
public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded by a
heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in the brief
period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished more in
the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies
combined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic. It has been assumed,
tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate object of all
Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a morals and by this
moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged. We Americans
especially have patronized this happy idea, and we Bostonians very
especially have developed it in full. We have taken it into our heads that to
write a poem simply for the poem’s sake, and to acknowledge such to have
been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting in the true
poetic dignity and force:—but the simple fact is that would we but permit
ourselves to look into our own souls we should immediately there discover
that under the sun there neither exists nor can exist any work more
thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem
per se, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written
solely for the poem’s sake.
With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation. The
demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All
that which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all that with which she
has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a flaunting paradox to
wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth we need severity
rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We
must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in that mood
which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He must
be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical and chasmal difference
between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be
theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences, shall still
persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and
Truth.

Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I place
Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which in the mind it
occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but from the Moral
Sense is separated by so faint a difference that Aristotle has not hesitated to
place some of its operations among the virtues themselves. Nevertheless we
find the offices of the trio marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the
Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful,
while the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience
teaches the obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself
with displaying the charms:—waging war upon Vice solely on the ground
of her deformity—her disproportion—her animosity to the fitting, to the
appropriate, to the harmonious—in a word, to Beauty.
An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a sense
of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in the manifold
forms, and sounds, and odors and sentiments amid which he exists. And just
as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so
is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and sounds, and colors,
and odors, and sentiments a duplicate source of the light. But this mere
repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing, with however glowing
enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and
sounds, and odors, and colors, and sentiments which greet him in common
with all mankind—he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is
still a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We
have still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a
consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of
the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but
a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience
of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle by multiform combinations
among the things and thoughts of Time to attain a portion of that Loveliness
whose very elements perhaps appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by
Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find
ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina
supposes, through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant,
impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at
once and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys of which through’ the

poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate
glimpses.
The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness—this struggle, on the
part of souls fittingly constituted—has given to the world all that which it
(the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and to feel as
poetic.
The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes—
in Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance—very especially in
Music—and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the com position of
the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to its
manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic of
rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its various
modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in Poetry as
never to be wisely rejected—is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is
simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to maintain its
absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps that the soul most nearly attains
the great end for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles
—the creation of supernal Beauty. It may be, indeed, that here this sublime
end is, now and then, attained in fact. We are often made to feel, with a
shivering delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which cannot
have been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in
the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the widest
field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers had
advantages which we do not possess—and Thomas Moore, singing his own
songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
To recapitulate then:—I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the
Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations. Unless
incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with Truth.
A few words, however, in explanation. That pleasure which is at once the
most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I maintain,
from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation of Beauty we
alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation, or excitement of
the soul, which we recognize as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so easily
distinguished from Truth, which is the satisfaction of the Reason, or from
Passion, which is the excitement of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore—

using the word as inclusive of the sublime—I make Beauty the province of
the poem, simply because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be
made to spring as directly as possible from their causes:—no one as yet
having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is
at least most readily attainable in the poem. It by no means follows,
however, that the incitements of Passion’ or the precepts of Duty, or even
the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with
advantage; for they may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general
purposes of the work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them
down in proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the
real essence of the poem.
I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longfellow’s “Waif”:—
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an Eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That my soul cannot resist;

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
Nothing can be better than—
———————the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Down the corridors of Time.

The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful insouciance of its
metre, so well in accordance with the character of the sentiments, and
especially for the ease of the general manner. This “ease” or naturalness, in
a literary style, it has long been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance
alone—as a point of really difficult attainment. But not so:—a natural
manner is difficult only to him who should never meddle with it—to the
unnatural. It is but the result of writing with the understanding, or with the
instinct, that the tone, in composition, should always be that which the mass
of mankind would adopt—and must perpetually vary, of course, with the
occasion. The author who, after the fashion of “The North American

Review,” should be upon all occasions merely “quiet,” must necessarily
upon many occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
considered “easy” or “natural” than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as
the one which he entitles “June.” I quote only a portion of it:—
There, through the long, long summer hours,
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale, close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife-bee and humming bird.

And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see
The season’s glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me;
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs and song, and the light and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their soften’d hearts should bear
The thoughts of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is—that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.

The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous—nothing could be more
melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of all
the poet’s cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to the soul
—while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The impression left
is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remaining compositions
which I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of a similar tone
always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we know not) this
certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the higher
manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full of
brilliancy and spirit as “The Health” of Edward Coate Pinckney:—
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair that, like the air,
’Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music’s own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden’d bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the flagrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,—
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life’s, but hers.

I fill’d this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon—
Her health! and would on earth there stood,
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.

It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far south.
Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the
thing called “The North American Review.” The poem just cited is
especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer
chiefly to our sympathy in the poet’s enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles
for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the merits of
what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.
Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us that Zoilus once
presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable book:—
whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He replied that
he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, Apollo, handing
him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out all the chaff for his
reward.
Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics—but I am by no
means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that the
true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood. Excellence, in
a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an axiom, which need
only be properly put, to become self-evident. It is not excellence if it require

to be demonstrated as such:—and thus to point out too particularly the
merits of a work of Art, is to admit that they are not merits altogether.
Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view. I
allude to his lines beginning—“Come, rest in this bosom.” The intense
energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron. There are
two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in
all of the divine passion of Love—a sentiment which, perhaps, has found its
echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any other single
sentiment ever embodied in words:—
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still
here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I’ll be, ‘mid the horrors of this,—
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!

It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with Coleridge—than whom
no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties,
and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the
idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater mistake. Never
was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the compass of the
English language I can call to mind no poem more profoundly—more
weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines commencing—“I
would I were by that dim lake”—which are the com. position of Thomas
Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.
One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy—one of the most singularly
fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had always for
me an inexpressible charm:—

O saw ye not fair Ines?
She’s gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest;
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivalltd bright;
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek
I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier,
Who rode so gaily by thy side,
And whisper’d thee so near!
Were there no bonny dames at home
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a beauteous dream,
If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps,
And shootings of the throng;
But some were sad and felt no mirth,
But only Music’s wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you’ve loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before,—
Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shorel
The smile that blest one lover’s heart
Has broken many more!

“The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems
ever written,—one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,
moreover, powerfully ideal—imaginative. I regret that its length renders it
unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it permit me to offer
the universally appreciated “Bridge of Sighs”:—
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;—
Fashion’d so slenderly,
Young and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,

With many a light
From window and casement
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver,
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life’s history,
Glad to death’s mystery,
Swift to be hurl’d—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it,—think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can!

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve’s family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily,
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,

Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God’s providence
Seeming estranged.

Take her up tenderly;
Lift her with care;
Fashion’d so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,—kindly,—
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.

Perhishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest,—
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!

The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
versification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the
thesis of the poem.
Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received
from the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:—

Though the day of my destiny’s over,
And the star of my fate bath declined
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit bath painted
It never bath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of shine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain—it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn—
They may torture, but shall not subdue me—
’Tis of thee that I think—not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,—
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,
Nor mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one—
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
’Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error bath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.

From the wreck of the past, which bath perished,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It bath taught me that which I most cherished

Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of poet.
It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself entitled to
complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the unwavering love
of woman.
From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a very brief
specimen. I call him, and think him the noblest of poets, not because the
impressions he produces are at all times the most profound—not because
the poetical excitement which he induces is at all times the most intense—
but because it is at all times the most ethereal—in other words, the most
elevating and most pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am
about to read is from his last long poem, “The Princess”:—
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember’d kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have
endeavored to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has
been my purpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictly and
simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the
Principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the soul, quite
independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart, or of that
truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in regard to passion, alas!
its tendency is to degrade rather than to elevate the Soul. Love, on the
contrary—Love—the true, the divine Eros—the Uranian as distinguished
from the Diona an Venus—is unquestionably the purest and truest of all
poetical themes. And in regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the
attainment of a truth we are led to perceive a harmony where none was
apparent before, we experience at once the true poetical effect; but this
effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the
truth which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizes the ambrosia
which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in Heaven—in the
volutes of the flower—in the clustering of low shrubberies—in the waving
of the grain-fields—in the slanting of tall eastern trees—in the blue distance
of mountains—in the grouping of clouds—in the twinkling of half-hidden
brooks—in the gleaming of silver rivers—in the repose of sequestered lakes
—in the star-mirroring depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs
of birds—in the harp of Bolos—in the sighing of the night-wind—in the
repining voice of the forest—in the surf that complains to the shore—in the
fresh breath of the woods—in the scent of the violet—in the voluptuous
perfume of the hyacinth—in the suggestive odour that comes to him at
eventide from far distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable
and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts—in all unworldly motives
—in all holy impulses—in all chivalrous, generous, and self-sacrificing
deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman—in the grace of her step—in the
lustre of her eye—in the melody of her voice—in her soft laughter, in her
sigh—in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her
winning endearments—in her burning enthusiasms—in her gentle charities
—in her meek and devotional endurances—but above all—ah, far above all,

he kneels to it—he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in
the altogether divine majesty—of her love.
Let me conclude by—the recitation of yet another brief poem—one very
different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
Motherwell, and is called “The Song of the Cavalier.” With our modern and
altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are not
precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the
sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do
this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul of the old
cavalier:—
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine:
Deathe’s couriers. Fame and Honor call
No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
When the sword-hilt’s in our hand,—
Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and poling crye,
Our business is like men to fight.

OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)

It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with which
we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed to what is, in
itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple love of the antique-
and that, again, a third of even the proper poetic sentiment inspiredby their
writings should be ascribed to a fact which, while it has strict connection
with poetry in the abstract, and with the old British poems themselves,
should not be looked upon as a merit appertaining to the authors of the
poems. Almost every devout admirer of the old bards, if demanded his
opinion of their productions, would mention vaguely, yet with perfect
sincerity, a sense of dreamy, wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say,
indefinable delight; on being required to point out the source of this so
shadowy pleasure, he would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology
and in general handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct
to ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the author’s
will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and their rhythm have
varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid delight, and which
delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one source, quaintness,
must have worn in the days of their construction, a very commonplace air.
This is, of course, no argument against the poems now-we mean it only as
against the poets thew. There is a growing desire to overrate them. The old
English muse was frank, guileless, sincere, and although very learned, still
learned without art. No general error evinces a more thorough confusion of
ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the
sense wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics
were the end-with the two latter the means. The poet of the “Creation”
wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral
truth-the poet of the “Ancient Mariner” to infuse the Poetic Sentiment
through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete
failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a

path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph which is
not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of the multitude.
But in this view even the “metaphysical verse” of Cowley is but evidence of
the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And he was in this but a
type of his school-for we may as well designate in this way the entire class
of writers whose poems are bound up in the volume before us, and
throughout all of whom there runs a very perceptible general character.
They used little art in composition. Their writings sprang immediately from
the soul-and partook intensely of that soul’s nature. Nor is it difficult to
perceive the tendency of this abandon-to elevate immeasurably all the
energies of mind-but, again, so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force,
delicacy, and all good things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and
imbecility, as to render it not a matter of doubt that the average results of
mind in such a school will be found inferior to those results in one (ceteris
paribus) more artificial.
We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the “Book of
Gems” are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible idea
of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had been merely to show the
school’s character, the attempt might have been considered successful in the
highest degree. There are long passages now before us of the most
despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of their antiquity. The
criticisms of the editor do not particularly please us. His enthusiasm is too
general and too vivid not to be false. His opinion, for example, of Sir Henry
Wotton’s “Verses on the Queen of Bohemia”—that “there are few finer
things in our language,” is untenable and absurd.
In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of Poesy
which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time. Here
every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No prepossession
for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no other
prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of poetry, a
series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments, stitched,
apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and without even
an attempt at adaptation.
In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with “The
Shepherd’s Hunting” by Withers—a poem partaking, in a remarkable

degree, of the peculiarities of “Il Penseroso.” Speaking of Poesy the author
says:
“By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least boughs rustleling,
By a daisy whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature’s beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Something that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness—
The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves,
This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect

Walled about with disrespect;
From all these and this dull air
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.”

But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the
general character of the English antique. Something more of this will be
found in Corbet’s “Farewell to the Fairies!” We copy a portion of Marvell’s
“Maiden lamenting for her Fawn,” which we prefer-not only as a specimen
of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in pathos,
exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness-to anything of its species:
“It is a wondrous thing how fleet
’Twas on those little silver feet,
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race,
And when’t had left me far away
’Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,

And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For in the flaxen lilies’ shade
It like a bank of lilies laid;
Upon the roses it would feed
Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
And then to me ’twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip,
But all its chief delight was still
With roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.”

How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words-over the
gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself-even over
the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the beauties and
good qualities of her favorite-like the cool shadow of a summer cloud over
a bed of lilies and violets, “and all sweet flowers.” The whole is redolent
with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is an idea conveying either the
beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the artlessness of the maiden, or her
love, or her admiration, or her grief, or the fragrance and warmth and
appropriateness of the little nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn
devoured as it lay upon them, and could scarcely be distinguished from
them by the once happy little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch
and rosy smile on her face. Consider the great variety of truthful and
delicate thought in the few lines we have quoted the wonder of the little
maiden at the fleetness of her favorite-the “little silver feet”—the fawn
challenging his mistress to a race with “a pretty skipping grace,” running on
before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her approach only to fly

from it again-can we not distinctly perceive all these things? How
exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
“And trod as if on the four winds!”
A vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then consider
the garden of “my own,” so overgrown, entangled with roses and lilies, as
to be “a little wilderness”—the fawn loving to be there, and there “only”—
the maiden seeking it “where it should lie”—and not being able to
distinguish it from the flowers until “itself would rise”—the lying among
the lilies “like a bank of lilies”—the loving to “fill itself with roses,”
“And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold,”

and these things being its “chief” delights-and then the pre-eminent
beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole only
renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence, the
artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more passionate
admiration of the bereaved child—
“Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within.”
* “Book of Gems,” Edited by S. C. Hall

POEMS
TO

THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX

THE AUTHOR OF

“THE DRAMA OF EXILE”—

TO

MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

OF ENGLAND

I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME

WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND WITH

THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM

1845 E.A.P.

PREFACE

These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
redemption from the many improvements to which they have been
subjected while going at random the “rounds of the press.” I am naturally
anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to
say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very
creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from
making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier
circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has
been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in
reverence: they must not-they can not at will be excited, with an eye to the
paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of man-kind.
E. A. P.

1845

POEMS OF LATER LIFE

THE RAVEN.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the
floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt
before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the
door:——
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream
before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

“Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
“Lenore!”
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window
lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or
stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art
sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly
shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian
shore!”
Quoth the raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so
plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he
fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown
before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown
before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and
store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden
bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust
and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of
yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated
o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating
o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen
censer
Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted
floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he
hath sent
thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost
Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or
devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here
ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant
Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked,
upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian
shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath
spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is
sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is
dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the
floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Published 1845.

THE BELLS.
I.

Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!—
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future!—how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III.

Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet, the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!

IV.

Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy meaning of their tone!

For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:—
And their king it is who tolls:—
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pæan of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells—
Of the bells:—
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells:—
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells:—
To the tolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

1849.

ULALUME
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispèd and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir:—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll—
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek,
In the ultimate climes of the Pole—
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the Boreal Pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—
Our memories were treacherous and sere;
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year—
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber,
(Though once we had journeyed down here)
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn—
As the star-dials hinted of morn—
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent

Arose with a duplicate horn—
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent,
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—“She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs—
She revels in a region of sighs.
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skies—
To the Lethean peace of the skies—
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes—
Come up, through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.”

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust—
Her pallor I strangely mistrust—
Ah, hasten!—ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”
In terror she spoke; letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust—
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust—
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming.
Let us on, by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybillic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night—
See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright—
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista—
But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb:—
And I said—“What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”

She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume—
’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crispèd and sere—
As the leaves that were withering and sere—
And I cried—“It was surely October
On this very night of last year,
That I journeyed—I journeyed down here!—
That I brought a dread burden down here—
On this night, of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—
This misty mid region of Weir:—
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

1847.

TO HELEN
I saw thee once—once only—years ago:
I must not say how many—but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight—
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked—
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.

All—all expired save thee—save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes—
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them—they were the world to me!
I saw but them—saw only them for hours,
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten

Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition; yet how deep—
How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained;
They would not go—they never yet have gone;
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since;
They follow me—they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers—yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle—
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still—two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

ANNABEL LEE.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;—
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and She was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my ANNABEL LEE—
With a love that the wingéd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my ANNABEL LEE;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up, in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling
And killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:—

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the side of the sea.

1849.

A VALENTINE.
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure
Divine—a talisman—an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure—
The words—the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—
Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best
you can do.

1846.
[To discover the names in this and the following poem read the first letter
of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the
third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth and so on to the end.]

AN ENIGMA
“Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce,
“Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet—
Trash of all trash!—how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.”
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles—ephemeral and so transparent—
But this is, now,—you may depend upon it—
Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within ‘t.

1847. TO MY MOTHER
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

1849.
[The above was addressed to the poet’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm—
Ed.]

FOR ANNIE
Thank Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—
The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible

Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead:—

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

1849.

TO F——.
Beloved! amid the earnest woes
That crowd around my earthly path—
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose)—
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.

And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea—
Some ocean throbbing far and free
With storms—but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
Just o’er that one bright island smile.

1845.

TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love—a simple duty.

1845.

ELDORADO.
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—
This knight so bold—
And o’er his heart a shadow
Fell, as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
“Shadow,” said he,
“Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?”

“Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,”
The shade replied,—
“If you seek for Eldorado!”

1849.
EULALIE

I DWELT alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling

bride.

Ah, less—less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
And never a flake
That the vapour can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl—
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and
careless curl.

Now Doubt—now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarté within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

1845.
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?.

1849

TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning—
Of all to whom thine absence is the night—
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope—for life—ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth—in Virtue—in Humanity—
Of all who, on Despair’s unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, “Let there be light!”
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes—
Of all who owe thee most—whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship—oh, remember
The truest—the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him—
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel’s.

1847.

TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”—
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wider, far diviner visions
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures”)
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I can not write—I can not speak or think—
Alas, I can not feel; for ’tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates—thee only!

1848.

THE CITY IN THE SEA.
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Wherethe good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathèd friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye—
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave—there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrown aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.

1845.

THE SLEEPER.
At midnight in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top.
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringèd lid
‘Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And wingèd panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

1845.
BRIDAL BALLAD.

THE ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
And I am happy now.

And my lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell—
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.

But he spoke to reasure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,

While a reverie came o’er me,
And to the church-yard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D’Elormie,
“Oh, I am happy now!”

And thus the words were spoken,
And thus the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Behold the golden token
That proves me happy now!

Would to God I could awaken!
For I dream I know not how,
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,—
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.

1845.

NOTES

1. “The Raven” was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
York “Evening Mirror”-a paper its author was then assistant editor of. It
was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written by
N. P. Willis: “We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the
second number of the “American Review,” the following remarkable poem
by Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
‘fugitive poetry’ ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in English
poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and
consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and ‘pokerishness.’ It is one of
those ‘dainties bred in a book’ which we feed on. It will stick to the memory
of everybody who reads it.” In the February number of the “American
Review” the poem was published as by “Quarles,” and it was introduced by
the following note, evidently suggested if not written by Poe himself.
[“The following lines from a correspondent-besides the deep, quaint
strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some ludicrous
touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless intended by the
author-appears to us one of the most felicitous specimens of unique
rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The resources of English
rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and sound, producing
corresponding diversities of effect, having been thoroughly studied, much
more perceived, by very few poets in the language. While the classic
tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, several
advantages for versification over our own, chiefly through greater
abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and very great advantages of
sound by the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is nearly the only effect
of that kind which the ancients had in common with us. It will be seen that
much of the melody of ‘The Raven’ arises from alliteration, and the
studious use of similar sounds in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it
may be noted that if all the verses were like the second, they might properly

be placed merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form; but the
presence in all the others of one line-mostly the second in the verse”
(stanza?)—“which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in the
middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphic Adonic, while the fifth
has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with any part besides, gives
the versification an entirely different effect. We could wish the capacities of
our noble language in prosody were better understood.”—ED. “Am. Rev.”]
2. The bibliographical history of “The Bells” is curious. The subject, and
some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet’s
friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
headed it, “The Bells, By Mrs. M. A. Shew.” This draft, now the editor’s
property, consists of only seventeen lines, and read thus:
I.

The bells!-ah, the bells!
The little silver bells!
How fairy-like a melody there floats
From their throats—
From their merry little throats—
From the silver, tinkling throats
Of the bells, bells, bells—
Of the bells!

II.

The bells!-ah, the bells!

The heavy iron bells!
How horrible a monody there floats
From their throats—
From their deep-toned throats—
From their melancholy throats!
How I shudder at the notes Of the bells, bells, bells—
Of the bells!

In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it to
the editor of the “Union Magazine.” It was not published. So, in the
following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current version,

was sent, and in the following October was published in the “Union
Magazine.”
3. This poem was first published in Colton’s “American Review” for
December, 1847, as “To—Ulalume: a Ballad.” Being reprinted immediately
in the “Home Journal,” it was copied into various publications with the
name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to him. When
first published, it contained the following additional stanza which Poe
subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman, wisely suppressed:
Said we then—we two, then—“Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—
To bar up our path and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds—
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls—
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls?”

4. “To Helen” (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published until
November, 1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared
in the “Union Magazine,” and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge
or desire of Poe, of the line, “Oh, God! oh, Heaven—how my heart beats in
coupling those two words.”
5. “Annabel Lee” was written early in 1849, and is evidently an
expression of the poet’s undying love for his deceased bride, although at
least one of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe
sent a copy of the ballad to the “Union Magazine,” in which publication it
appeared in January, 1850, three months after the author’s death. While
suffering from “hope deferred” as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
“Annabel Lee” to the editor of the “Southern Literary Messenger,” who
published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after Poe’s
death. In the meantime the poet’s own copy, left among his papers, passed
into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he quoted the
poem in an obituary of Poe, in the New York “Tribune,” before any one else
had an opportunity of publishing it.
6. “A Valentine,” one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears
to have been written early in 1846.

7. “An Enigma,” addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewis (“Stella”), was
sent to that lady in a letter, in November, 1847, and the following March
appeared in Sartain’s “Union Magazine.”
8. The sonnet, “To My Mother” (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication
to the short-lived “Flag of our Union,” early in 1849, but does not appear to
have been issued until after its author’s death, when it appeared in the
“Leaflets of Memory” for 1850.
9. “For Annie” was first published in the “Flag of our Union,” in the
spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the “Home Journal.”
10. “To F——” (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the “Broadway
Journal” for April, 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from those
inscribed “To Mary,” in the “Southern Literary Messenger” for July, 1835,
and subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in
“Graham’s Magazine” for March, 1842, as “To One Departed.”
11. “To F——s S. O—d,” a portion of the poet’s triune tribute to Mrs.
Osgood, was published in the “Broadway Journal” for September, 1845.
The earliest version of these lines appeared in the “Southern Literary
Messenger” for September, 1835, as “Lines written in an Album,” and was
addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor’s daughter. Slightly revised, the
poem reappeared in Burton’s “Gentleman’s Magazine” for August, 1839, as
“To——.”
12. Although “Eldorado” was published during Poe’s lifetime, in 1849, in
the “Flag of our Union,” it does not appear to have ever received the
author’s finishing touches.

POEMS OF MANHOOD

LENORE
Ah broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian
river;
And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never
more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love,
Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be
sung!—
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for
her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that
she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be
sung
By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous
tongue
That did to death the innocent that died, and died so
young?”

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew
beside
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been
thy bride—
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—
The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her
eyes.

“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I
upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!
Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed

mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned
Earth.
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost
is riven—
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King
of Heaven.”

TO ONE IN PARADISE.
Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!”—but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o’er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

1835.

THE COLISEUM.
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length—at length—after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—
O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wanlight—wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—
These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—
These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever

From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
Not all the magic of our high renown—
Not all the wonder that encircles us—
Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”

1833.

THE HAUNTED PALACE.
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingèd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute’s well-tunèd law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate.

(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh—but smile no more.

1838.

THE CONQUEROR WORM.
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

1838.

SILENCE
There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a two-fold Silence—sea and shore—
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o’ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name’s “No More.”
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!

1840.

DREAM-LAND
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE—out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,—
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—
By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the grey woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—

White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’Tis—oh ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringèd lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

1844.

HYMN
At morn—at noon—at twilight dim—
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and woe—in good and ill—
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

1835.

TO ZANTE
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No more! alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more—
Thy memory no more! Accursed ground
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
“Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante!”

1837.

SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”

AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
I.

Rome.—A Hall in a Palace Alessandra and
Castiglione.

Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione.

Castiglione. Sad!—not I.
Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!

Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
Thy happiness!—what ails thee, cousin of mine?
Why didst thou sigh so deeply?

Cas. Did I sign?
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly—a most silly fashion I have
When I am very happy. Did I sigh?
(sighing.)

Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these
Will ruin thee! thou art already altered—
Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.

Cas. (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even
deep
sorrow—
Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.

Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born—
Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir
And Alessandra’s husband.

Cas. I will drop them.

Aless. Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more
To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain
For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends
Upon appearances.

Cas. I’ll see to it.

Aless. Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,
To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest
In dignity.

Cas. Much, much, oh! much I want
In proper dignity.

Aless.(haughtily) Thou mockest me, sir!

Cas. (abstractedly.) Sweet, gentle Lalage!

Aless. Heard I aright?
I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage!
Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou
dreaming?
he’s not well!
What ails thee, sir?

Cas. (startling.) Cousin! fair cousin!—madam!
I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!

Enter Di
Broglio.

Di Broglio. My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey?—what’s the
matter? (observing Alessandra)
I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
I’ve news for you both. Politian is expected
Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester!
We’ll have him at the wedding. ’Tis his first visit

To the imperial city.

Aless. What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?

Di Brog. The same, my love.
We’ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy
Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We’ll have him at the wedding.

Aless. I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not?
And little given to thinking.

Di Brog. Far from it, love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
Learned as few are learned.

Aless. ’Tis very strange!
I have known men have seen Politian
And sought his company. They speak of him
As of one who entered madly into life,
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.

Cas. Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian
And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he.
He is a dreamer and a man shut out
From common passions.

Di Brog. Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a melancholy man?
(exeunt.)

II

ROME. A Lady’s apartment, with a window open and looking
into a garden.
Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie
some books and a
hand mirror. In the background Jacinta (a servant maid) leans
carelessly
upon a chair.

Lal. [Lalage] Jacinta! is it thou?

Jac. [Jacinta] (pertly.) Yes, Ma’am, I’m here.

Lal. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
Sit down!—Let not my presence trouble you—
Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble.

Jac. (aside.) ’Tis time.
(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair,
resting her
elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a
contemptuous look.
Lalage continues to read. )

Lal. “It in another climate, so he said,
Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”
(pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes)
No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—
But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.”
O, beautiful!—most beautiful—how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
O happy land (pauses) She died!—the maiden died!
A still more happy maiden who couldst die!
Jacinta!
(Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.)
Again!—a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—
“She died full young”—one Bossola answers him—
“I think not so—her infelicity
Seemed to have years too many”—Ah luckless lady!
Jacinta! (still no answer)

Here ’s a far sterner story,
But like—oh, very like in its despair—
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts—losing at length her own.
She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids
Lean over and weep—two gentle maids
With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion!
Rainbow and Dove!——Jacinta!

Jac. (pettishly.) Madam, what is it?

Lal. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
As go down in the library and bring me

The Holy Evangelists.

Jac. Pshaw! (exit.)

Lal. If there be balm
For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there!
Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
Will there be found—“dew sweeter far than that
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.”
(re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.)
There, ma’am, ’s the book. Indeed she is very troublesome.
(aside.)

Lal. (astonished.) What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I
done aught
To grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry.
For thou hast served me long and ever been
Trust-worthy and respectful. (resumes her
reading.)

Jac. I can’t believe
She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all. (aside.)

Lal. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
How fares good Ugo?—and when is it to be?
Can I do aught?—is there no farther aid
Thou needest, Jacinta?

Jac. Is there no farther aid!
That’s meant for me. (aside) I’m sure, madam, you need not
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

Lal. Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta,
I thought not of the jewels.

Jac. Oh! perhaps not!
But then I might have sworn it. After all,
There ’s Ugo says the ring is only paste,
For he ’s sure the Count Castiglione never
Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
And at the best I’m certain, Madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it.
(exit.)
(Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—
after a
short pause raises it.)

Lal. Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this?
Thy servant maid!—but courage!—’tis but a viper
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
(taking up the mirror)
Ha! here at least ’s a friend—too much a friend
In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee.
Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not
Though it be rife with woe: It answers me.
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
And Beauty long deceased—remembers me
Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope,
Inurned and entombed:—now, in a tone
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true—thou liest not!
Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break—
Castiglione lied who said he loved—
Thou true—he false!—false!—false!
(While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and
approaches
unobserved.)

Monk. Refuge thou hast,
Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!

Lal. (arising hurriedly.) I cannot pray!—My soul is at
war
with God!
The frightful sounds of merriment below
Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray—
The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!

Monk. Think of thy precious soul!

Lal. Think of my early days!—think of my father
And mother in Heaven think of our quiet home,
And the rivulet that ran before the door!
Think of my little sisters!—think of them!
And think of me!—think of my trusting love
And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think
Of my unspeakable misery!—begone!
Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer
And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith

And vows before the throne?

Monk. I did.

Lal. Lal. ’Tis well.
There is a vow were fitting should be made—
A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
A solemn vow!

Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well!

Lal. Father, this zeal is anything but well!
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
A crucifix whereon to register
This sacred vow? (he hands her
his own)
Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no!
(shuddering)
Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man,
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,—
I have a crucifix Methinks ’twere fitting
The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed—
And the deed’s register should tally, father!

(draws a cross-handled dagger, and raises it
on high)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in Heaven!

Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter,
And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid—
Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine!
Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash!
Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not!

Lal. ’Tis sworn!

III.

An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar.

Baldazzar.—Arouse thee now, Politian!
Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, shalt not
Give away unto these humors. Be thyself!
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
And live, for now thou diest!

Politian. Not so, Baldazzar! Surely I live.

Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus.

Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend.
Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
Which with my mother’s milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir!

Bal. To the field, then—to the field—
To the senate or the field.

Pol. Alas! Alas!
There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp hath followed me even there!
There is—what voice was that?

Bal. I heard it not.
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.

Pol. Then I but dreamed.

Bal. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp—the court,
Befit thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls—
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.

Pol. It is a phantom voice!
Didst thou not hear it then?

Bal. I heard it not.

Pol. Thou heardst it not!—Baldazaar, speak no more
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile!
We have been boys together—schoolfellows—
And now are friends—yet shall not be so long—
For in the eternal city thou shalt do me
A kind and gentle office, and a Power—

A Power august, benignant and supreme—
Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
Unto thy friend.

Bal. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
I will not understand.

Pol. Yet now as Fate
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
I cannot die, having within my heart
So keen a relish for the beautiful
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
Is balmier now than it was wont to be—
Rich melodies are floating in the winds—
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth—
And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
Sitteth in Heaven.—Hist! hist! thou canst not say
Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar?

Bal. Indeed I hear not.

Pol. Not hear it!—listen now!—listen!—the faintest sound
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
A lady’s voice!—and sorrow in the tone!
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
Again!—again!—how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
Surely I never heard—yet it were well
Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
In earlier days!

Bal. I myself hear it now.
Be still!—the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
Proceeds from yonder lattice—which you may see
Very plainly through the window—it belongs,
Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
The singer is undoubtedly beneath
The roof of his Excellency—and perhaps
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
As the betrothed of Castiglione,
His son and heir.

Pol. Be still!—it comes again!

Voice “And is thy heart so strong
(very faintly) As for to leave me thus

Who hath loved thee so long

In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay—say nay!”

Bal. The song is English, and I oft have heard it
In merry England—never so plaintively—
Hist! hist! it comes again!

Voice “Is it so strong
(more loudly) As for to leave me thus
Who hath loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay—say nay!”

Bal. ’Tis hushed and all is still!

Pol. All is not still!

Bal. Let us go down.

Pol. Go down, Baldazzar, go!

Bal. The hour is growing late—the Duke awaits use—
Thy presence is expected in the hall
Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?

Voice “Who hath loved thee so long
(distinctly) In wealth and woe among,

And is thy heart so strong?

Say nay—say nay!”

Bal. Let us descend!—’tis time. Politian, give
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember

Pol. Remember? I do. Lead on! I do remember.

(going.)
Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom

To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice—
“To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
Once more that silent tongue.”

Bal. Let me beg you, sir,
Descend with me—the Duke may be offended.
Let us go down, I pray you.

(Voice loudly) Say nay!—say nay!

Pol. (aside) ’Tis strange!—’tis very strange—methought
the
voice
Chimed in with my desires, and bade me stay!

(approaching the window.)
Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate,
Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
Apology unto the Duke for me;
I go not down to-night.

Bal. Your lordship’s pleasure
Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.

Pol. Good-night, my friend, good-night.

IV.

The gardens of a Palace—Moonlight Lalage and
Politian.

Lalge. And dost thou speak of love
To me, Politian?—dost thou speak of love
To Lalage?—ah, woe—ah, woe is me!
This mockery is most cruel—most cruel indeed!

Politian. Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears
Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage—
Be comforted! I know—I know it all,
And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest
And beautiful Lalage!—turn here thine eyes!
Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
Thou askest me that—and thus I answer thee—
Thus on my bended knee I answer thee.
(kneeling.)
Sweet Lalage, I love thee—love thee—love thee;

Thro’ good and ill—thro’ weal and wo I love thee.
Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
Not on God’s altar, in any time or clime,
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
Within my spirit for thee. And do I love?
(arising.)
Even for thy woes I love thee—even for thy woes—
Thy beauty and thy woes.

Lal. Alas, proud Earl,
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
How, in thy father’s halls, among the maidens
Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
Thy wife, and with a tainted memory—
MY seared and blighted name, how would it tally
With the ancestral honors of thy house,
And with thy glory?

Pol. Speak not to me of glory!
I hate—I loathe the name; I do abhor
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
Art thou not Lalage and I Politian?
Do I not love—art thou not beautiful—
What need we more? Ha! glory!—now speak not of it.
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn—
By all my wishes now—my fears hereafter—
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven—
There is no deed I would more glory in,
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
And trample it under foot. What matters it—
What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
That we go down unhonored and forgotten
Into the dust—so we descend together.
Descend together—and then—and then, perchance—

Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

Pol. And then, perchance
Arise together, Lalage, and roam
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
And still—

Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

Pol. And still together—together.

Lal. Now Earl of Leicester!
Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts
I feel thou lovest me truly.

Pol. Oh, Lalage!

(throwing himself upon
his knee.)
And lovest thou me?

Lal. Hist! hush! within the gloom
Of yonder trees methought a figure passed—
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless—
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.

(walks across and
returns.)
I was mistaken—’twas but a giant bough
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!

Pol. My Lalage—my love! why art thou moved?
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience’ self,
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
Is chilly—and these melancholy boughs
Throw over all things a gloom.

Lal. Politian!
Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
With which all tongues are busy—a land new found—
Miraculously found by one of Genoa—
A thousand leagues within the golden west?
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
Of Heaven untrammelled flow—which air to breathe
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
In days that are to come?

Pol. O, wilt thou—wilt thou
Fly to that Paradise—my Lalage, wilt thou
Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
And life shall then be mine, for I will live
For thee, and in thine eyes—and thou shalt be
No more a mourner—but the radiant Joys
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee

And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
My all;—oh, wilt thou—wilt thou, Lalage,
Fly thither with me?

Lal. A deed is to be done—
Castiglione lives!

Pol. And he shall die!
(exit)

Lal. (after a pause.) And—he—shall—die!—alas!
Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian!
Thou art not gone—thou are not gone, Politian!
I feel thou art not gone—yet dare not look,
Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go
With those words upon thy lips—O, speak to me!
And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word,
To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence,
To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate
My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone—
O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go!
I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.
Villain, thou art not gone—thou mockest me!
And thus I clutch thee—thus!—He is gone, he is gone
Gone—gone. Where am I?—’tis well—’tis very well!
So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure,
’Tis well, ’tis very well—alas! alas!

V.

The suburbs. Politian alone.

Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint,
And much I fear me ill—it will not do
To die ere I have lived!—Stay, stay thy hand,
O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!
O pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
Give me to live yet—yet a little while:
’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late
Demanded but to die!—what sayeth the Count?

Enter Baldazzar.

Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud

Between the Earl Politian and himself.
He doth decline your cartel.

Pol. What didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen!—what said the Count?

Bal. That he, Castiglione’ not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
Cannot accept the challenge.

Pol. It is most true—
All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say?

Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:
The Count Castiglione will not fight,
Having no cause for quarrel.

Pol. Now this is true—
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do me
A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain?—thus much, I prythee, say
Unto the Count—it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.

Bal. My lord!—my friend!—

Pol. (aside.) ’Tis he!—he comes himself? (aloud) Thou
reasonest
well.
I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message—
Well!—I will think of it—I will not send it.
Now prythee, leave me—hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.

Bal. I go—to-morrow we meet,
Do we not?—at the Vatican.

Pol. At the Vatican.
(exit
Bal.)

Enter Castigilone.

Cas. The Earl of Leicester here!

Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not? that I am here.

Cas. My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake—misunderstanding—
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am I right?
’Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we all
Do err at times.

Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!

Cas. Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl! (draws.)

Pol. (drawing.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!

Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the
extremity of the
stage)

Of Lalage!
Hold off—thy sacred hand!—avaunt, I say!
Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed I dare not.

Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus?—now this is well;
Didst say thou darest not? Ha!

Cas. I dare not—dare not—
Hold off thy hand—with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—

I cannot—dare not.

Pol. Now by my halidom
I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe thee!

Cas. Ha!—coward!—this may not be!

(clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but
his purpose
is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at
the feet of
the Earl)

Alas! my lord,
It is—it is—most true. In such a cause
I am the veriest coward. O pity me!

Pol. (greatly softened.) Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee.

Cas. And Lalage—

Pol. Scoundrel!—arise and die!

Cas. It needeth not be—thus—thus—O let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home—

(baring
his bosom.)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—
Strike home. I will not fight thee.

Pol. Now, s’ Death and Hell!
Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir,
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets—before
The eyes of the citizens. I’ll follow thee
Like an avenging spirit I’ll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest—
Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain,—I’ll taunt thee,
Dost hear? with cowardice—thou wilt not fight me?
Thou liest! thou shalt!
(exit.)

Cas. Now this indeed is just!

Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

{In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12
and 29.
—ED}

NOTE
29. Such portions of “Politian” as are known to the public first saw the
light of publicity in the “Southern Literary Messenger” for December, 1835,
and January, 1836, being styled “Scenes from Politian: an unpublished
drama.” These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845 collection of
Poems, by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft subsequently became
the property of the present editor, but it is not considered just to the poet’s
memory to publish it. The work is a hasty and unrevised production of its
author’s earlier days of literary labor; and, beyond the scenes already
known, scarcely calculated to enhance his reputation. As a specimen,
however, of the parts unpublished, the following fragment from the first
scene of Act II. may be offered. The Duke, it should be premised, is uncle
to Alessandra, and father of Castiglione her betrothed.
Duke. Why do you laugh?

Castiglione. Indeed

I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember!
We were walking in the garden.

Duke, Perfectly.
I do remember it-what of it-what then?

Cas. O nothing-nothing at all.

Duke. Nothing at all!
It is most singular that you should laugh
‘At nothing at all!

Cas. Most singular-singular!

Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind
As tell me, sir, at once what ’tis you mean.
What are you talking of?

Cas. Was it not so?
We differed in opinion touching him.

Duke. Him!—Whom?

Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.

Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes!—is it he you mean?
We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
The words you used were that the Earl you knew
Was neither learned nor mirthful.

Cas. Ha! ha!—now did I?

Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
You were wrong, it being not the character
Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be
A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
Too positive again.

Cas. ’Tis singular!
Most singular! I could not think it possible
So little time could so much alter one!
To say the truth about an hour ago,
As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
All arm in arm, we met this very man
The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,
Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!
Such an account he gave me of his journey!
’Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told
Of his caprices and his merry freaks
Along the road-such oddity-such humor—
Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment
Set off too in such full relief by the grave
Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,
Was gravity itself—

Duke. Did I not tell you?

Cas. You did-and yet ’tis strange! but true as strange,
How much I was mistaken! I always thought
The Earl a gloomy man.

Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we
here?
It can not be the Earl?

Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! ’Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-
and leaning
Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!

(Enter Politian and Baldazzar.)
My lord, a second welcome let me give you
To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily.]
That, his friend
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
So please you, for Your Grace.

Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome
To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
Most seasonable. The wedding—

Politian. Touching those letters, sir,
Your son made mention of—your son, is he not?
Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here—
Baldazzar! ah!—my friend Baldazzar here
Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.

Duke. Retire!—So soon?

Came What ho! Benito! Rupert!
His lordship’s chambers-show his lordship to them!
His lordship is unwell. (Enter Benito.)

Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian.)

Duke. Retire! Unwell!

Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me
’Tis as you say—his lordship is unwell.
The damp air of the evening-the fatigue
Of a long journey—the—indeed I had better
Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
I will return anon.

Duke. Return anon!
Now this is very strange! Castiglione!

This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
You surely were mistaken in what you said
Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!—which of us said
Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt.)

POEMS OF YOUTH

INTRODUCTION TO POEMS—1831

LETTER TO MR. B—.
“WEST POINT, 1831.

“Dear B...... Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy
a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined ‘Al
Aaraaf’ and ‘Tamerlane’ with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor have I
hesitated to insert from the ‘Minor Poems,’ now omitted, whole lines, and
even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and the trash
shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they may have some
chance of being seen by posterity.
“It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
who is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and mine of poetry, I
feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just the critique, and the
converse. On this account, and because there are but few B-’s in the world, I
would be as much ashamed of the world’s good opinion as proud of your
own. Another than yourself might here observe, ‘Shakespeare is in
possession of the world’s good opinion, and yet Shakespeare is the greatest
of poets. It appears then that the world judge correctly, why should you be
ashamed of their favorable judgment?’ The difficulty lies in the
interpretation of the word ‘judgment’ or ‘opinion.’ The opinion is the
world’s, truly, but it may be called theirs as a man would call a book his,
having bought it; he did not write the book, but it is his; they did not
originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks
Shakespeare a great poet-yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the
fool’s neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head
(that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen
or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his everyday actions) are
sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that superiority is
ascertained, which but for them would never have been discovered-this
neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet—the fool believes him,

and it is henceforward his opinion. This neighbor’s own opinion has, in like
manner, been adopted from one above him, and so, ascendingly, to a few
gifted individuals who kneel around the summit, beholding, face to face, the
master spirit who stands upon the pinnacle.
“You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer. He
is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit of the
world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law or empire-an
established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession. Besides,
one might suppose that books, like their authors, improve by travel-their
having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a distinction. Our antiquaries
abandon time for distance; our very fops glance from the binding to the
bottom of the title-page, where the mystic characters which spell London,
Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so many letters of recommendation.
“I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent would be
the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet would, I grant,
make a false critique, and his self-love would infallibly bias his little
judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is indeed a poet, could not, I think,
fail of making-a just critique; whatever should be deducted on the score of
self-love might be replaced on account of his intimate acquaintance with the
subject; in short, we have more instances of false criticism than of just
where one’s own writings are the test, simply because we have more bad
poets than good. There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton
is a great example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the
‘Paradise Regained’ is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really believe!
Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in fact, the
‘Paradise Regained’ is little, if at all, inferior to the ‘Paradise Lost,’ and is
only supposed so to be because men do not like epics, whatever they may
say to the contrary, and, reading those of Milton in their natural order, are
too much wearied with the first to derive any pleasure from the second.
“I dare say Milton preferred ‘Comus’ to either-. if so-justly.
“As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
the most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy of what is called,
very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have been induced,

by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal refutation of their
doctrine; at present it would be a work of supererogation. The wise must
bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and Southey, but, being wise,
have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically exemplifled.
“Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
philosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce it
the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is, or
should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our existence is
happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our existence, everything
connected with our existence, should be still happiness. Therefore the end
of instruction should be happiness; and happiness is another name for
pleasure;-therefore the end of instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the
above-mentioned opinion implies precisely the reverse.
“To proceed: ceteris paribus, he who pleases is of more importance to his
fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and pleasure is
the end already obtained which instruction is merely the means of
obtaining.
“I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they refer to
instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere respect for their
piety would not allow me to express my contempt for their judgment;
contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since their writings are
professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the many who stand in
need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt be tempted to think of the
devil in ‘Melmoth.’ who labors indefatigably, through three octavo
volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls, while any
common devil would have demolished one or two thousand.
“Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study-not a
passion-it
becomes the metaphysician to reason-but the poet to protest.
Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
in
contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in
intellect and
learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute
their
authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom
of my

heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination-
intellect
with the passions-or age with poetry.

“‘Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls must dive below,’

are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth lies in
the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpable palaces where
she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding—the goddess in a
well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon philosophy; witness
the principles of our divine faith—that moral mechanism by which the
simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of a man.
“We see an instance of Coleridge’s liability to err, in his ‘Biographia
Literaria’—professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a treatise
de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. He goes wrong by reason of his very
profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the contemplation of a
star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it is
the star without a ray-while he who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious
of all for which the star is useful to us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.
“As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
feelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in his
writings-(and delicacy is the poet’s own kingdom-his El Dorado)-but they
have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at best, are
little evidence of present poetic fire; we know that a few straggling flowers
spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier.
“He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the
end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
is too correct. This may not be understood-but the old Goths of Germany
would have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to their
State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that they might
not be deficient in formality—drunk lest they should be destitute of vigor.
“The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full of such
assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at random)—‘Of
genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done, and

what was never done before;’-indeed? then it follows that in doing what is
unworthy to be done, or what has been done before, no genius can be
evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets have been
picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pickpocket, in point of genius,
would have thought hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the
poet.
“Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
Ossian’s or Macpherson’s can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order
to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the
controversy. Tantaene animis? Can great minds descend to such absurdity?
But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor of these
poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his abomination with
which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the beginning of the epic
poem ‘Temora.’ ‘The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are
covered with day; trees shake their dusty heads in the breeze.’ And this this
gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where all is alive and panting with
immortality-this, William Wordsworth, the author of ‘Peter Bell,’ has
selected for his contempt. We shall see what better he, in his own person,
has to offer. Imprimis:
“‘And now she’s at the pony’s tail,
And now she’s at the pony’s head,
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss,

A few sad tears does Betty shed....
She pats the pony, where or when
She knows not.... happy Betty Foy!
Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!’

Secondly:
“‘The dew was falling fast, the-stars began to blink;
I heard a voice: it said-“Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
And, looking o’er the hedge, be-fore me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a-maiden at its side.
No other sheep was near,—the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was-tether’d to a stone.’

“Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we will believe it, indeed we
will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a sheep

from the bottom of my heart.
“But there are occasions, dear B-, there are occasions when even
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and
the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an extract
from his preface:—
“‘Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern
writers, if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (impossible!)
will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!)
they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will be induced to
inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to
assume that title.’ Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
“Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and the
bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a tragedy
with a chorus of turkeys.
“Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His towering intellect!
his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself, ‘Tai trouvé souvent
que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce qu’elles
avancent, mais non pas en ce qu’elles nient,’ and to employ his own
language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has
erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a mind
should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its
perfume upon the night alone. In reading that man’s poetry, I tremble like
one who stands upon a volcano, conscious from the very darkness bursting
from the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.
“What is poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! ‘Give me,’ I demanded of a scholar
some time ago, ‘give me a definition of poetry.’ ‘Trèsvolontiers;’ and he
proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr. Johnson, and overwhelmed me
with a definition. Shade of the immortal Shakespeare! I imagine to myself
the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa
Major. Think of poetry, dear B-, think of poetry, and then think of Dr.
Samuel Johnson! Think of all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that
is hideous and unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then-and
then think of the ‘Tempest’—the ‘Midsummer-Night’s Dream’—Prospero
Oberon—and Titania!

“A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
its immediate object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for its
object, an indefinite instead of a definite pleasure, being a poem only so far
as this object is attained; romance presenting perceptible images with
definite, poetry with indefinite sensations, to which end music is an
essential, since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite
conception. Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry;
music, without the idea, is simply music; the idea, wi thout the music, is
prose, from its very definitiveness.
“What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
soul?
“To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B—, what you, no doubt,
perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign contempt.
That they have followers proves nothing—
“‘No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.

SONNET—TO SCIENCE
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thous not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

AL AARAAF (*)
PART I.

O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty’s eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy—
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill—
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy’s voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell—
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours—
Yet all the beauty—all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers—
Adorn yon world afar, afar—
The wandering star.

* A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
suddenly in the heavens—attained, in a few days, a
brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter—then as suddenly
disappeared, and has never been seen since.

’Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns—a temporary rest—
An oasis in desert of the blest.

Away—away—’mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o’er th’ unchained soul—
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin’d eminence—
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
And late to ours, the favour’d one of God—
But, now, the ruler of an anchor’d realm,
She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro’ many a startled star,
Like woman’s hair ‘mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She look’d into Infinity—and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled—
Fit emblems of the model of her world—
Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light—
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal’d air in color bound.

All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear’d the head
*On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of—deep pride—
**Of her who lov’d a mortal—and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Uprear’d its purple stem around her knees:

* On Santa Maura—olim Deucadia.

**And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam’d—
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham’d
All other loveliness: its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp’d from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten’d, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
**And Clytia pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
***And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth—
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing

Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:

* This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and
Tournefort.
The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.

** Clytia—The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
better-known term, the turnsol—which continually turns
towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country
from
which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh
its
flowers during the most violent heat of the day.—B. de St.
Pierre.

*** There is cultivated in the king’s garden at Paris, a
species of serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large
and beautiful flower exhales a strong odour of the
vanilla,
during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It
does not blow till towards the month of July—you then
perceive it gradually open its petals—expand them—fade
and die.—St. Pierre.

*And Valisnerian lotus thither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
**And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante!
***And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river—
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
****To bear the Goddess’ song, in odors, up to Heaven:

“Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue—
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar—
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride, and from their throne
To be drudges till the last—
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire

And with pain that shall not part—

* There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of
three or four feet—thus preserving its head above water
in the swellings of the river.

** The Hyacinth.

*** It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first
seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges—and
that he still loves the cradle of his childhood.

**** And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers
of the saints.
—Rev. St. John.

Who livest—that we know—
In Eternity—we feel—
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho’ the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream’d for thy Infinity
*A model of their own—
Thy will is done, Oh, God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro’ many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to thee—
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne—

* The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
having a really human form.—Vide Clarke’s Sermons, vol.
1, page 26, fol. edit.

The drift of Milton’s argument, leads him to employ
language
which would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their
doctrine; but it will be seen immediately, that he guards
himself against the charge of having adopted one of the
most
ignorant errors of the dark ages of the church.—Dr.
Sumner’s Notes on Milton’s Christian Doctrine.

This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the

contrary,
could never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of
Mesopotamia, was condemned for the opinion, as heretical.
He
lived in the beginning of the fourth century. His
disciples
were called Anthropmorphites.—Vide Du Pin.

Among Milton’s poems are these lines:—
Dicite sacrorum præsides nemorum Deæ, &c.
Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,
Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.—And
afterwards,
Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit
Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, &c.

By wingèd Fantasy,*
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven.”

She ceas’d—and buried then her burning cheek
Abash’d, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervour of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr’d not—breath’d not—for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.”
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
“Silence”—which is the merest word of all.
All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings—
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky!

** “What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run,
Link’d to a little system, and one sun—
Where all my love is folly and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath—
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho’ in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,

* Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
Seinem Schosskinde
Der Phantasie.—Göethe.

** Sightless—too small to be seen—Legge.

Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven.
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky—
*Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be
To ev’ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!”

Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-moonèd eve!—on Earth we plight
Our faith to one love—and one moon adore—
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain
**Her way—but left not yet her Therasæan reign.

* I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-
flies;
—they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
centre, into innumerable radii.

** Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of
astonished mariners.

Part II.

HIGH on a mountain of enamell’d head—
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter’d “hope to be forgiven”
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven—
Of rosy head, that towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of night,
While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light—
Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile

Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’d air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
*Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die—
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linkèd light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown—
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look’d out above into the purple air,

* Some star which, from the ruin’d roof Of shak’d Olympus,
by mischance, did fall.—Milton.

And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow’d all the beauty twice again,
Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapp’d his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that greyish green
That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave
Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave—
And every sculptur’d cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peerèd out,
Seem’d earthly in the shadow of his niche—
Achaian statues in a world so rich?
*Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis—
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
**Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave
Is now upon thee—but too late to save!

Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the grey twilight

* Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, “Je connois
bien l’admiration qu’inspirent ces ruines—mais un palais
érigé au pied d’une chaine des rochers sterils—peut il
être un chef d’œuvre des arts!” [Voila les arguments de M.
Voltaire.]

** “Oh! the wave”—Ula Degusi is the Turkish appellation;
but, on its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or
Almotanah. There were undoubtedly more than two cities
engulfed in the “dead sea.” In the valley of Siddim were
five—Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of
Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteeen,

(engulphed)
—but the last is out of all reason.

It is said, (Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba,
Nau,
Maundrell, Troilo, D’Arvieux) that after an excessive drought,
the
vestiges of columns, walls, &c. are seen above the surface. At
any
season, such remains may be discovered by looking down into the
transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the
existence of
many settlements in the space now usurped by the ‘Asphaltites.’

*That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago—
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim.
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud—
***Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?

But what is this?—it cometh—and it brings
A music with it—’tis the rush of wings—
A pause—and then a sweeping, falling strain
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe
She paus’d and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss’d her golden hair
And long’d to rest, yet could but sparkle there!

***Young flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night—and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
Yet silence came upon material things—
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings—
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:

* Eyraco—Chaldea.

** I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound
of
the darkness as it stole over the horizon.

*** Fairies use flowers for their charactery.—Merry Wives
of Windsor. [William Shakespeare]

“’Neath blue-bell or streamer—
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
*The moonbeam away—
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro’ the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like—eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now—
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours—
And shake from your tresses
Encumber’d with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too—
(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true love
That lull’d ye to rest!
Up!—shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the night—
It would weigh down your flight;
And true love caresses—
O! leave them apart!

* In Scripture is this passage—“The sun shall not harm
thee by day, nor the moon by night.” It is perhaps not
generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of
producing blindness to those who sleep with the face
exposed
to its rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently
alludes.

They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.

Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!

Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
*Like the lone Albatross,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?

Ligeia! whatever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep—
But the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keep—
The sound of the rain
Which leaps down to the flower,
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower—
**The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass

* The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.

** I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
now unable to obtain and quote from memory:—“The verie
essence and, as it were, springe-heade, and origine of all
musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of
the forest do make when they growe.”

Are the music of things—
But are modell’d, alas!—
Away, then my dearest,
O! hie thee away
To springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray—
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast—
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid—

Some have left the cool glade, and
* Have slept with the bee—
Arouse them my maiden,
On moorland and lea—
Go! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
The musical number
They slumber’d to hear—
For what can awaken
An angel so soon

* The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
moonlight. The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty
lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is,
however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud
Halcro—in whose mouth I admired its effect:

O! were there an island,
Tho’ ever so wild
Where woman might smile, and
No man be beguil’d, &c.

Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rhythmical number
Which lull’d him to rest?”

Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean thro’,
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight—
Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds, afar
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death—
Sweet was that error—ev’n with us the breath
Of science dims the mirror of our joy—
To them ’twere the Simoom, and would destroy—
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife
With the last ecstacy of satiate life—
Beyond that death no immortality—
But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be”—
And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell—
*Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from
Hell!