The Works Of Edgar Allan Poe —

Volume 4

By
Edgar Allan Poe

The Works of Edgar Allan

Poe

THE DEVIL IN THE

BELFRY
What o'clock is it?—Old Saying.

EVERYBODY knows, in a general way, that the finest place in the world is
—or, alas, was—the Dutch borough of Vondervotteimittiss. Yet as it lies some
distance from any of the main roads, being in a somewhat out-of-the-way
situation, there are perhaps very few of my readers who have ever paid it a
visit. For the benefit of those who have not, therefore, it will be only proper
that I should enter into some account of it. And this is indeed the more
necessary, as with the hope of enlisting public sympathy in behalf of the
inhabitants, I design here to give a history of the calamitous events which have
so lately occurred within its limits. No one who knows me will doubt that the
duty thus self-imposed will be executed to the best of my ability, with all that
rigid impartiality, all that cautious examination into facts, and diligent
collation of authorities, which should ever distinguish him who aspires to the
title of historian.
By the united aid of medals, manuscripts, and inscriptions, I am enabled to
say, positively, that the borough of Vondervotteimittiss has existed, from its
origin, in precisely the same condition which it at present preserves. Of the
date of this origin, however, I grieve that I can only speak with that species of
indefinite definiteness which mathematicians are, at times, forced to put up
with in certain algebraic formulae. The date, I may thus say, in regard to the
remoteness of its antiquity, cannot be less than any assignable quantity
whatsoever.
Touching the derivation of the name Vondervotteimittiss, I confess myself,
with sorrow, equally at fault. Among a multitude of opinions upon this delicate
point—some acute, some learned, some sufficiently the reverse—I am able to
select nothing which ought to be considered satisfactory. Perhaps the idea of
Grogswigg—nearly coincident with that of Kroutaplenttey—is to be
cautiously preferred.—It runs:—"Vondervotteimittis—Vonder, lege Donder—
Votteimittis, quasi und Bleitziz—Bleitziz obsol:—pro Blitzen." This
derivative, to say the truth, is still countenanced by some traces of the electric
fluid evident on the summit of the steeple of the House of the Town-Council. I
do not choose, however, to commit myself on a theme of such importance, and
must refer the reader desirous of information to the "Oratiunculae de Rebus
Praeter-Veteris," of Dundergutz. See, also, Blunderbuzzard "De
Derivationibus," pp. 27 to 5010, Folio, Gothic edit., Red and Black character,
Catch-word and No Cypher; wherein consult, also, marginal notes in the
autograph of Stuffundpuff, with the Sub-Commentaries of Gruntundguzzell.
Notwithstanding the obscurity which thus envelops the date of the
foundation of Vondervotteimittis, and the derivation of its name, there can be
no doubt, as I said before, that it has always existed as we find it at this epoch.
The oldest man in the borough can remember not the slightest difference in the
appearance of any portion of it; and, indeed, the very suggestion of such a
possibility is considered an insult. The site of the village is in a perfectly
circular valley, about a quarter of a mile in circumference, and entirely
surrounded by gentle hills, over whose summit the people have never yet
ventured to pass. For this they assign the very good reason that they do not
believe there is anything at all on the other side.
Round the skirts of the valley (which is quite level, and paved throughout
with flat tiles), extends a continuous row of sixty little houses. These, having
their backs on the hills, must look, of course, to the centre of the plain, which
is just sixty yards from the front door of each dwelling. Every house has a
small garden before it, with a circular path, a sun-dial, and twenty-four
cabbages. The buildings themselves are so precisely alike, that one can in no
manner be distinguished from the other. Owing to the vast antiquity, the style
of architecture is somewhat odd, but it is not for that reason the less strikingly
picturesque. They are fashioned of hard-burned little bricks, red, with black
ends, so that the walls look like a chess-board upon a great scale. The gables
are turned to the front, and there are cornices, as big as all the rest of the
house, over the eaves and over the main doors. The windows are narrow and
deep, with very tiny panes and a great deal of sash. On the roof is a vast
quantity of tiles with long curly ears. The woodwork, throughout, is of a dark
hue and there is much carving about it, with but a trifling variety of pattern for,
time out of mind, the carvers of Vondervotteimittiss have never been able to
carve more than two objects—a time-piece and a cabbage. But these they do
exceedingly well, and intersperse them, with singular ingenuity, wherever they
find room for the chisel.
The dwellings are as much alike inside as out, and the furniture is all upon
one plan. The floors are of square tiles, the chairs and tables of black-looking
wood with thin crooked legs and puppy feet. The mantelpieces are wide and
high, and have not only time-pieces and cabbages sculptured over the front,
but a real time-piece, which makes a prodigious ticking, on the top in the
middle, with a flower-pot containing a cabbage standing on each extremity by
way of outrider. Between each cabbage and the time-piece, again, is a little
China man having a large stomach with a great round hole in it, through which
is seen the dial-plate of a watch.
The fireplaces are large and deep, with fierce crooked-looking fire-dogs.
There is constantly a rousing fire, and a huge pot over it, full of sauer-kraut
and pork, to which the good woman of the house is always busy in attending.
She is a little fat old lady, with blue eyes and a red face, and wears a huge cap
like a sugar-loaf, ornamented with purple and yellow ribbons. Her dress is of
orange-colored linsey-woolsey, made very full behind and very short in the
waist—and indeed very short in other respects, not reaching below the middle
of her leg. This is somewhat thick, and so are her ankles, but she has a fine
pair of green stockings to cover them. Her shoes—of pink leather—are
fastened each with a bunch of yellow ribbons puckered up in the shape of a
cabbage. In her left hand she has a little heavy Dutch watch; in her right she
wields a ladle for the sauerkraut and pork. By her side there stands a fat tabby
cat, with a gilt toy-repeater tied to its tail, which "the boys" have there
fastened by way of a quiz.
The boys themselves are, all three of them, in the garden attending the pig.
They are each two feet in height. They have three-cornered cocked hats,
purple waistcoats reaching down to their thighs, buckskin knee-breeches, red
stockings, heavy shoes with big silver buckles, long surtout coats with large
buttons of mother-of-pearl. Each, too, has a pipe in his mouth, and a little
dumpy watch in his right hand. He takes a puff and a look, and then a look and
a puff. The pig—which is corpulent and lazy—is occupied now in picking up
the stray leaves that fall from the cabbages, and now in giving a kick behind at
the gilt repeater, which the urchins have also tied to his tail in order to make
him look as handsome as the cat.
Right at the front door, in a high-backed leather-bottomed armed chair, with
crooked legs and puppy feet like the tables, is seated the old man of the house
himself. He is an exceedingly puffy little old gentleman, with big circular eyes
and a huge double chin. His dress resembles that of the boys—and I need say
nothing farther about it. All the difference is, that his pipe is somewhat bigger
than theirs and he can make a greater smoke. Like them, he has a watch, but
he carries his watch in his pocket. To say the truth, he has something of more
importance than a watch to attend to—and what that is, I shall presently
explain. He sits with his right leg upon his left knee, wears a grave
countenance, and always keeps one of his eyes, at least, resolutely bent upon a
certain remarkable object in the centre of the plain.
This object is situated in the steeple of the House of the Town Council. The
Town Council are all very little, round, oily, intelligent men, with big saucer
eyes and fat double chins, and have their coats much longer and their shoe-
buckles much bigger than the ordinary inhabitants of Vondervotteimittiss.
Since my sojourn in the borough, they have had several special meetings, and
have adopted these three important resolutions:
"That it is wrong to alter the good old course of things:"
"That there is nothing tolerable out of Vondervotteimittiss:" and—
"That we will stick by our clocks and our cabbages."
Above the session-room of the Council is the steeple, and in the steeple is
the belfry, where exists, and has existed time out of mind, the pride and
wonder of the village—the great clock of the borough of Vondervotteimittiss.
And this is the object to which the eyes of the old gentlemen are turned who
sit in the leather-bottomed arm-chairs.
The great clock has seven faces—one in each of the seven sides of the
steeple—so that it can be readily seen from all quarters. Its faces are large and
white, and its hands heavy and black. There is a belfry-man whose sole duty is
to attend to it; but this duty is the most perfect of sinecures—for the clock of
Vondervotteimittis was never yet known to have anything the matter with it.
Until lately, the bare supposition of such a thing was considered heretical.
From the remotest period of antiquity to which the archives have reference,
the hours have been regularly struck by the big bell. And, indeed the case was
just the same with all the other clocks and watches in the borough. Never was
such a place for keeping the true time. When the large clapper thought proper
to say "Twelve o'clock!" all its obedient followers opened their throats
simultaneously, and responded like a very echo. In short, the good burghers
were fond of their sauer-kraut, but then they were proud of their clocks.
All people who hold sinecure offices are held in more or less respect, and as
the belfry—man of Vondervotteimittiss has the most perfect of sinecures, he is
the most perfectly respected of any man in the world. He is the chief dignitary
of the borough, and the very pigs look up to him with a sentiment of
reverence. His coat-tail is very far longer—his pipe, his shoe—buckles, his
eyes, and his stomach, very far bigger—than those of any other old gentleman
in the village; and as to his chin, it is not only double, but triple.
I have thus painted the happy estate of Vondervotteimittiss: alas, that so fair
a picture should ever experience a reverse!
There has been long a saying among the wisest inhabitants, that "no good
can come from over the hills"; and it really seemed that the words had in them
something of the spirit of prophecy. It wanted five minutes of noon, on the day
before yesterday, when there appeared a very odd-looking object on the
summit of the ridge of the eastward. Such an occurrence, of course, attracted
universal attention, and every little old gentleman who sat in a leather-
bottomed arm-chair turned one of his eyes with a stare of dismay upon the
phenomenon, still keeping the other upon the clock in the steeple.
By the time that it wanted only three minutes to noon, the droll object in
question was perceived to be a very diminutive foreign-looking young man.
He descended the hills at a great rate, so that every body had soon a good look
at him. He was really the most finicky little personage that had ever been seen
in Vondervotteimittiss. His countenance was of a dark snuff-color, and he had
a long hooked nose, pea eyes, a wide mouth, and an excellent set of teeth,
which latter he seemed anxious of displaying, as he was grinning from ear to
ear. What with mustachios and whiskers, there was none of the rest of his face
to be seen. His head was uncovered, and his hair neatly done up in papillotes.
His dress was a tight-fitting swallow-tailed black coat (from one of whose
pockets dangled a vast length of white handkerchief), black kerseymere knee-
breeches, black stockings, and stumpy-looking pumps, with huge bunches of
black satin ribbon for bows. Under one arm he carried a huge chapeau-de-bras,
and under the other a fiddle nearly five times as big as himself. In his left hand
was a gold snuff-box, from which, as he capered down the hill, cutting all
manner of fantastic steps, he took snuff incessantly with an air of the greatest
possible self-satisfaction. God bless me!—here was a sight for the honest
burghers of Vondervotteimittiss!
To speak plainly, the fellow had, in spite of his grinning, an audacious and
sinister kind of face; and as he curvetted right into the village, the old stumpy
appearance of his pumps excited no little suspicion; and many a burgher who
beheld him that day would have given a trifle for a peep beneath the white
cambric handkerchief which hung so obtrusively from the pocket of his
swallow-tailed coat. But what mainly occasioned a righteous indignation was,
that the scoundrelly popinjay, while he cut a fandango here, and a whirligig
there, did not seem to have the remotest idea in the world of such a thing as
keeping time in his steps.
The good people of the borough had scarcely a chance, however, to get their
eyes thoroughly open, when, just as it wanted half a minute of noon, the rascal
bounced, as I say, right into the midst of them; gave a chassez here, and a
balancez there; and then, after a pirouette and a pas-de-zephyr, pigeon-winged
himself right up into the belfry of the House of the Town Council, where the
wonder-stricken belfry-man sat smoking in a state of dignity and dismay. But
the little chap seized him at once by the nose; gave it a swing and a pull;
clapped the big chapeau de-bras upon his head; knocked it down over his eyes
and mouth; and then, lifting up the big fiddle, beat him with it so long and so
soundly, that what with the belfry-man being so fat, and the fiddle being so
hollow, you would have sworn that there was a regiment of double-bass
drummers all beating the devil's tattoo up in the belfry of the steeple of
Vondervotteimittiss.
There is no knowing to what desperate act of vengeance this unprincipled
attack might have aroused the inhabitants, but for the important fact that it
now wanted only half a second of noon. The bell was about to strike, and it
was a matter of absolute and pre-eminent necessity that every body should
look well at his watch. It was evident, however, that just at this moment the
fellow in the steeple was doing something that he had no business to do with
the clock. But as it now began to strike, nobody had any time to attend to his
manoeuvres, for they had all to count the strokes of the bell as it sounded.
"One!" said the clock.
"Von!" echoed every little old gentleman in every leather-bottomed arm-
chair in Vondervotteimittiss. "Von!" said his watch also; "von!" said the watch
of his vrow; and "von!" said the watches of the boys, and the little gilt
repeaters on the tails of the cat and pig.
"Two!" continued the big bell; and
"Doo!" repeated all the repeaters.
"Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!" said the bell.
"Dree! Vour! Fibe! Sax! Seben! Aight! Noin! Den!" answered the others.
"Eleven!" said the big one.
"Eleben!" assented the little ones.
"Twelve!" said the bell.
"Dvelf!" they replied perfectly satisfied, and dropping their voices.
"Und dvelf it is!" said all the little old gentlemen, putting up their watches.
But the big bell had not done with them yet.
"Thirteen!" said he.
"Der Teufel!" gasped the little old gentlemen, turning pale, dropping their
pipes, and putting down all their right legs from over their left knees.
 "Der Teufel!" groaned they, "Dirteen! Dirteen!!—Mein Gott, it is Dirteen
o'clock!!"
Why attempt to describe the terrible scene which ensued? All
Vondervotteimittiss flew at once into a lamentable state of uproar.
"Vot is cum'd to mein pelly?" roared all the boys—"I've been ongry for dis
hour!"
"Vot is com'd to mein kraut?" screamed all the vrows, "It has been done to
rags for this hour!"
"Vot is cum'd to mein pipe?" swore all the little old gentlemen, "Donder and
Blitzen; it has been smoked out for dis hour!"—and they filled them up again
in a great rage, and sinking back in their arm-chairs, puffed away so fast and
so fiercely that the whole valley was immediately filled with impenetrable
smoke.
Meantime the cabbages all turned very red in the face, and it seemed as if
old Nick himself had taken possession of every thing in the shape of a
timepiece. The clocks carved upon the furniture took to dancing as if
bewitched, while those upon the mantel-pieces could scarcely contain
themselves for fury, and kept such a continual striking of thirteen, and such a
frisking and wriggling of their pendulums as was really horrible to see. But,
worse than all, neither the cats nor the pigs could put up any longer with the
behavior of the little repeaters tied to their tails, and resented it by scampering
all over the place, scratching and poking, and squeaking and screeching, and
caterwauling and squalling, and flying into the faces, and running under the
petticoats of the people, and creating altogether the most abominable din and
confusion which it is possible for a reasonable person to conceive. And to
make matters still more distressing, the rascally little scape-grace in the steeple
was evidently exerting himself to the utmost. Every now and then one might
catch a glimpse of the scoundrel through the smoke. There he sat in the belfry
upon the belfry-man, who was lying flat upon his back. In his teeth the villain
held the bell-rope, which he kept jerking about with his head, raising such a
clatter that my ears ring again even to think of it. On his lap lay the big fiddle,
at which he was scraping, out of all time and tune, with both hands, making a
great show, the nincompoop! of playing "Judy O'Flannagan and Paddy
O'Rafferty."
Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in disgust, and now
appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and fine kraut. Let us proceed in a
body to the borough, and restore the ancient order of things in
Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting that little fellow from the steeple.

LIONIZING
 ———— all people went
Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.

—Bishop Hall's Satires.

I am—that is to say I was—a great man; but I am neither the author of

Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe, is Robert Jones, and I
was born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge.
The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with both hands.
My mother saw this and called me a genius: my father wept for joy and
presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I mastered before I was
breeched.
I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to understand
that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently conspicuous he might, by merely
following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my attention was not confined to
theories alone. Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and
swallowed a half dozen of drams.
When I came of age my father asked me, one day, If I would step with him
into his study.
"My son," said he, when we were seated, "what is the chief end of your
existence?"
"My father," I answered, "it is the study of Nosology."
"And what, Robert," he inquired, "is Nosology?"
"Sir," I said, "it is the Science of Noses."
"And can you tell me," he demanded, "what is the meaning of a nose?"
"A nose, my father;" I replied, greatly softened, "has been variously defined
by about a thousand different authors." [Here I pulled out my watch.] "It is
now noon or thereabouts—we shall have time enough to get through with
them all before midnight. To commence then:—The nose, according to
Bartholinus, is that protuberance—that bump—that excrescence—that—"
"Will do, Robert," interrupted the good old gentleman. "I am thunderstruck
at the extent of your information—I am positively—upon my soul." [Here he
closed his eyes and placed his hand upon his heart.] "Come here!" [Here he
took me by the arm.] "Your education may now be considered as finished—it
is high time you should scuffle for yourself—and you cannot do a better thing
than merely follow your nose—so—so—so—" [Here he kicked me down
stairs and out of the door]—"so get out of my house, and God bless you!"
As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this accident rather
fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided by the paternal advice. I
determined to follow my nose. I gave it a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote
a pamphlet on Nosology forthwith.
All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.
 "Wonderful genius!" said the Quarterly.
"Superb physiologist!" said the Westminster.
"Clever fellow!" said the Foreign.
"Fine writer!" said the Edinburgh.
"Profound thinker!" said the Dublin.
"Great man!" said Bentley.
"Divine soul!" said Fraser.
"One of us!" said Blackwood.
"Who can he be?" said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.
"What can he be?" said big Miss Bas-Bleu.
"Where can he be?" said little Miss Bas-Bleu.—But I paid these people no
attention whatever—I just stepped into the shop of an artist.
The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the Marquis of
So-and-So was holding the Duchess' poodle; the Earl of This-and-That was
flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness of Touch-me-Not was leaning
upon the back of her chair.
I approached the artist and turned up my nose.
"Oh, beautiful!" sighed her Grace.
"Oh my!" lisped the Marquis.
"Oh, shocking!" groaned the Earl.
"Oh, abominable!" growled his Royal Highness.
"What will you take for it?" asked the artist.
"For his nose!" shouted her Grace.
"A thousand pounds," said I, sitting down.
"A thousand pounds?" inquired the artist, musingly.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"Beautiful!" said he, entranced.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
"Do you warrant it?" he asked, turning the nose to the light.
"I do," said I, blowing it well.
"Is it quite original?" he inquired; touching it with reverence.
"Humph!" said I, twisting it to one side.
"Has no copy been taken?" he demanded, surveying it through a microscope.
"None," said I, turning it up.
"Admirable!" he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the beauty of the
manoeuvre.
"A thousand pounds," said I.
 "A thousand pounds?" said he.
"Precisely," said I.
"A thousand pounds?" said he.
"Just so," said I.
"You shall have them," said he. "What a piece of virtu!" So he drew me a
check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I engaged rooms in Jermyn
street, and sent her Majesty the ninety-ninth edition of the "Nosology," with a
portrait of the proboscis.—That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me
to dinner.
We were all lions and recherchés.
There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus, Plotinus,
Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.
There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price, Priestly,
Condorcet, De Stael, and the "Ambitious Student in Ill Health."
There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were
philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.
There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms; bi-part and
pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive intelligence and homöomeria.
There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus; heresy
and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism; Homousios and
Homouioisios.
There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton of
red tongue; cauliflowers with velouté sauce; veal à la St. Menehoult; marinade
à la St. Florentin; and orange jellies en mosäiques.
There was Bibulus O'Bumper. He touched upon Latour and Markbrünnen;
upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St. George; upon
Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and Preignac; upon Grâve, upon
Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St. Peray. He shook his head at Clos de
Vougeot, and told, with his eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and
Amontillado.
There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of Cimabué,
Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino—of the gloom of Caravaggio, of the
amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of the frows of Rubens, and of the
waggeries of Jan Steen.
There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of opinion
that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in Rome,
and Artemis in Greece. There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not
help thinking that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in
the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth was supported
by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of green horns.
 There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the eighty-
three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the fifty-four orations of Isæus; of the
three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty
treatises of Theophrastus; of the eighth book of the conic sections of
Apollonius; of Pindar's hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty
tragedies of Homer Junior.
There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all about
internal fires and tertiary formations; about äeriforms, fluidiforms, and
solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist and schorl; about gypsum and
trap; about talc and calc; about blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and
pudding-stone; about cyanite and lepidolite; about hematite and tremolite;
about antimony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.
There was myself. I spoke of myself;—of myself, of myself, of myself;—of
Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up my nose, and I spoke of
myself.
"Marvellous clever man!" said the Prince.
"Superb!" said his guests:—and next morning her Grace of Bless-my-Soul
paid me a visit.
"Will you go to Almack's, pretty creature?" she said, tapping me under the
chin.
"Upon honor," said I.
"Nose and all?" she asked.
"As I live," I replied.
"Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will be there?"
"Dear Duchess, with all my heart."
"Pshaw, no!—but with all your nose?"
"Every bit of it, my love," said I: so I gave it a twist or two, and found
myself at Almack's. The rooms were crowded to suffocation.
"He is coming!" said somebody on the staircase.
"He is coming!" said somebody farther up.
"He is coming!" said somebody farther still.
"He is come!" exclaimed the Duchess. "He is come, the little love!"—and,
seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice upon the nose. A
marked sensation immediately ensued.
"Diavolo!" cried Count Capricornutti.
"Dios guarda!" muttered Don Stiletto.
"Mille tonnerres!" ejaculated the Prince de Grenouille.
"Tousand teufel!" growled the Elector of Bluddennuff.
It was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon Bluddennuff.
 "Sir!" said I to him, "you are a baboon."
"Sir," he replied, after a pause, "Donner und Blitzen!"
This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At Chalk-Farm, the
next morning, I shot off his nose—and then called upon my friends.
"Bête!" said the first.
"Fool!" said the second.
"Dolt!" said the third.
"Ass!" said the fourth.
"Ninny!" said the fifth.
"Noodle!" said the sixth.
"Be off!" said the seventh.
At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father.
"Father," I asked, "what is the chief end of my existence?"
"My son," he replied, "it is still the study of Nosology; but in hitting the
Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark. You have a fine nose, it is
true; but then Bluddennuff has none. You are damned, and he has become the
hero of the day. I grant you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in
proportion to the size of his proboscis—but, good heavens! there is no
competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all."

X-ING A PARAGRAPH

AS it is well known that the 'wise men' came 'from the East,' and as Mr.
Touch-and-go Bullet-head came from the East, it follows that Mr. Bullet-head
was a wise man; and if collateral proof of the matter be needed, here we have
it—Mr. B. was an editor. Irascibility was his sole foible, for in fact the
obstinacy of which men accused him was anything but his foible, since he
justly considered it his forte. It was his strong point—his virtue; and it would
have required all the logic of a Brownson to convince him that it was 'anything
else.'
I have shown that Touch-and-go Bullet-head was a wise man; and the only
occasion on which he did not prove infallible, was when, abandoning that
legitimate home for all wise men, the East, he migrated to the city of
Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some place of a similar title, out West.
I must do him the justice to say, however, that when he made up his mind
finally to settle in that town, it was under the impression that no newspaper,
and consequently no editor, existed in that particular section of the country. In
establishing 'The Tea-Pot' he expected to have the field all to himself. I feel
confident he never would have dreamed of taking up his residence in
Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis had he been aware that, in Alexander-the-
Great-o-nopolis, there lived a gentleman named John Smith (if I rightly
remember), who for many years had there quietly grown fat in editing and
publishing the 'Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis Gazette.' It was solely,
therefore, on account of having been misinformed, that Mr. Bullet-head found
himself in Alex-suppose we call it Nopolis, 'for short'—but, as he did find
himself there, he determined to keep up his character for obst—for firmness,
and remain. So remain he did; and he did more; he unpacked his press, type,
etc., etc., rented an office exactly opposite to that of the 'Gazette,' and, on the
third morning after his arrival, issued the first number of 'The Alexan'—that is
to say, of 'The Nopolis Tea-Pot'—as nearly as I can recollect, this was the
name of the new paper.
The leading article, I must admit, was brilliant—not to say severe. It was
especially bitter about things in general—and as for the editor of 'The Gazette,'
he was torn all to pieces in particular. Some of Bullethead's remarks were
really so fiery that I have always, since that time, been forced to look upon
John Smith, who is still alive, in the light of a salamander. I cannot pretend to
give all the 'Tea-Pot's' paragraphs verbatim, but one of them runs thus:
'Oh, yes!—Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! The editor over the way is a
genius—O, my! Oh, goodness, gracious!—what is this world coming to? Oh,
tempora! Oh, Moses!'
A philippic at once so caustic and so classical, alighted like a bombshell
among the hitherto peaceful citizens of Nopolis. Groups of excited individuals
gathered at the corners of the streets. Every one awaited, with heartfelt
anxiety, the reply of the dignified Smith. Next morning it appeared as follows:
'We quote from "The Tea-Pot" of yesterday the subjoined paragraph: "Oh,
yes! Oh, we perceive! Oh, no doubt! Oh, my! Oh, goodness! Oh, tempora! Oh,
Moses!" Why, the fellow is all O! That accounts for his reasoning in a circle,
and explains why there is neither beginning nor end to him, nor to anything he
says. We really do not believe the vagabond can write a word that hasn't an O
in it. Wonder if this O-ing is a habit of his? By-the-by, he came away from
Down-East in a great hurry. Wonder if he O's as much there as he does here?
"O! it is pitiful."'
The indignation of Mr. Bullet-head at these scandalous insinuations, I shall
not attempt to describe. On the eel-skinning principle, however, he did not
seem to be so much incensed at the attack upon his integrity as one might have
imagined. It was the sneer at his style that drove him to desperation. What!—
he Touch-and-go Bullet-head!—not able to write a word without an O in it!
He would soon let the jackanapes see that he was mistaken. Yes! he would let
him see how much he was mistaken, the puppy! He, Touch-and-go Bullet-
head, of Frogpondium, would let Mr. John Smith perceive that he, Bullet-head,
could indite, if it so pleased him, a whole paragraph—aye! a whole article—in
which that contemptible vowel should not once—not even once—make its
appearance. But no;—that would be yielding a point to the said John Smith.
He, Bullet-head, would make no alteration in his style, to suit the caprices of
any Mr. Smith in Christendom. Perish so vile a thought! The O forever; He
would persist in the O. He would be as O-wy as O-wy could be.
Burning with the chivalry of this determination, the great Touch-and-go, in
the next 'Tea-Pot,' came out merely with this simple but resolute paragraph, in
reference to this unhappy affair:
'The editor of the "Tea-Pot" has the honor of advising the editor of the
"Gazette" that he (the "Tea-Pot") will take an opportunity in tomorrow
morning's paper, of convincing him (the "Gazette") that he (the "Tea-Pot")
both can and will be his own master, as regards style; he (the "Tea-Pot")
intending to show him (the "Gazette") the supreme, and indeed the withering
contempt with which the criticism of him (the "Gazette") inspires the
independent bosom of him (the "TeaPot") by composing for the especial
gratification (?) of him (the "Gazette") a leading article, of some extent, in
which the beautiful vowel—the emblem of Eternity—yet so offensive to the
hyper-exquisite delicacy of him (the "Gazette") shall most certainly not be
avoided by his (the "Gazette's") most obedient, humble servant, the "Tea-Pot."
"So much for Buckingham!"'
In fulfilment of the awful threat thus darkly intimated rather than decidedly
enunciated, the great Bullet-head, turning a deaf ear to all entreaties for 'copy,'
and simply requesting his foreman to 'go to the d——l,' when he (the foreman)
assured him (the 'Tea-Pot'!) that it was high time to 'go to press': turning a deaf
ear to everything, I say, the great Bullet-head sat up until day-break,
consuming the midnight oil, and absorbed in the composition of the really
unparalleled paragraph, which follows:—
'So ho, John! how now? Told you so, you know. Don't crow, another time,
before you're out of the woods! Does your mother know you're out? Oh, no,
no!—so go home at once, now, John, to your odious old woods of Concord!
Go home to your woods, old owl—go! You won't! Oh, poh, poh, don't do so!
You've got to go, you know! So go at once, and don't go slow, for nobody
owns you here, you know! Oh! John, John, if you don't go you're no homo—
no! You're only a fowl, an owl, a cow, a sow,—a doll, a poll; a poor, old, good-
for-nothing-to-nobody, log, dog, hog, or frog, come out of a Concord bog.
Cool, now—cool! Do be cool, you fool! None of your crowing, old cock!
Don't frown so—don't! Don't hollo, nor howl nor growl, nor bow-wow-wow!
Good Lord, John, how you do look! Told you so, you know—but stop rolling
your goose of an old poll about so, and go and drown your sorrows in a bowl!'
Exhausted, very naturally, by so stupendous an effort, the great Touch-and-
go could attend to nothing farther that night. Firmly, composedly, yet with an
air of conscious power, he handed his MS. to the devil in waiting, and then,
walking leisurely home, retired, with ineffable dignity to bed.
Meantime the devil, to whom the copy was entrusted, ran up stairs to his
'case,' in an unutterable hurry, and forthwith made a commencement at 'setting'
the MS. 'up.'
In the first place, of course,—as the opening word was 'So,'—he made a
plunge into the capital S hole and came out in triumph with a capital S. Elated
by this success, he immediately threw himself upon the little-o box with a
blindfold impetuosity—but who shall describe his horror when his fingers
came up without the anticipated letter in their clutch? who shall paint his
astonishment and rage at perceiving, as he rubbed his knuckles, that he had
been only thumping them to no purpose, against the bottom of an empty box.
Not a single little-o was in the little-o hole; and, glancing fearfully at the
capital-O partition, he found that to his extreme terror, in a precisely similar
predicament. Awe—stricken, his first impulse was to rush to the foreman.
'Sir!' said he, gasping for breath, 'I can't never set up nothing without no o's.'
'What do you mean by that?' growled the foreman, who was in a very ill
humor at being kept so late.
'Why, sir, there beant an o in the office, neither a big un nor a little un!'
'What—what the d-l has become of all that were in the case?'
'I don't know, sir,' said the boy, 'but one of them ere "G'zette" devils is bin
prowling 'bout here all night, and I spect he's gone and cabbaged 'em every
one.'
'Dod rot him! I haven't a doubt of it,' replied the foreman, getting purple with
rage 'but I tell you what you do, Bob, that's a good boy—you go over the first
chance you get and hook every one of their i's and (d——n them!) their
izzards.'
'Jist so,' replied Bob, with a wink and a frown—'I'll be into 'em, I'll let 'em
know a thing or two; but in de meantime, that ere paragrab? Mus go in to-
night, you know—else there'll be the d-l to pay, and-'
'And not a bit of pitch hot,' interrupted the foreman, with a deep sigh, and an
emphasis on the 'bit.' 'Is it a long paragraph, Bob?'
'Shouldn't call it a wery long paragrab,' said Bob.
'Ah, well, then! do the best you can with it! We must get to press,' said the
foreman, who was over head and ears in work; 'just stick in some other letter
for o; nobody's going to read the fellow's trash anyhow.'
'Wery well,' replied Bob, 'here goes it!' and off he hurried to his case,
muttering as he went: 'Considdeble vell, them ere expressions, perticcler for a
man as doesn't swar. So I's to gouge out all their eyes, eh? and d-n all their
gizzards! Vell! this here's the chap as is just able for to do it.' The fact is that
although Bob was but twelve years old and four feet high, he was equal to any
amount of fight, in a small way.
The exigency here described is by no means of rare occurrence in printing-
offices; and I cannot tell how to account for it, but the fact is indisputable, that
when the exigency does occur, it almost always happens that x is adopted as a
substitute for the letter deficient. The true reason, perhaps, is that x is rather
the most superabundant letter in the cases, or at least was so in the old times—
long enough to render the substitution in question an habitual thing with
printers. As for Bob, he would have considered it heretical to employ any
other character, in a case of this kind, than the x to which he had been
accustomed.
'I shell have to x this ere paragrab,' said he to himself, as he read it over in
astonishment, 'but it's jest about the awfulest o-wy paragrab I ever did see': so
x it he did, unflinchingly, and to press it went x-ed.
Next morning the population of Nopolis were taken all aback by reading in
'The Tea-Pot,' the following extraordinary leader:
'Sx hx, Jxhn! hxw nxw? Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw. Dxn't crxw, anxther time,
befxre yxu're xut xf the wxxds! Dxes yxur mxther knxw yxu're xut? Xh, nx,
nx!—sx gx hxme at xnce, nxw, Jxhn, tx yxur xdixus xld wxxds xf Cxncxrd!
Gx hxme tx yxur wxxds, xld xwl,—gx! Yxu wxn't? Xh, pxh, pxh, Jxhn, dxn't
dx sx! Yxu've gxt tx gx, yxu knxw, sx gx at xnce, and dxn't gx slxw; fxr
nxbxdy xwns yxu here, yxu knxw. Xh, Jxhn, Jxhn, Jxhn, if yxu dxn't gx yxu're
nx hxmx—nx! Yxu're xnly a fxwl, an xwl; a cxw, a sxw; a dxll, a pxll; a pxxr
xld gxxd-fxr-nxthing-tx-nxbxdy, lxg, dxg, hxg, xr frxg, cxme xut xf a Cxncxrd
bxg. Cxxl, nxw—cxxl! Dx be cxxl, yxu fxxl! Nxne xf yxur crxwing, xld cxck!
Dxn't frxwn sx—dxn't! Dxn't hxllx, nxr hxwl, nxr grxwl, nxr bxw-wxw-wxw!
Gxxd Lxrd, Jxhn, hxw yxu dx lxxk! Txld yxu sx, yxu knxw,—but stxp rxlling
yxur gxxse xf an xld pxll abxut sx, and gx and drxwn yxur sxrrxws in a bxwl!'
The uproar occasioned by this mystical and cabalistical article, is not to be
conceived. The first definite idea entertained by the populace was, that some
diabolical treason lay concealed in the hieroglyphics; and there was a general
rush to Bullet-head's residence, for the purpose of riding him on a rail; but that
gentleman was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, no one could tell how;
and not even the ghost of him has ever been seen since.
Unable to discover its legitimate object, the popular fury at length subsided;
leaving behind it, by way of sediment, quite a medley of opinion about this
unhappy affair.
One gentleman thought the whole an X-ellent joke.
Another said that, indeed, Bullet-head had shown much X-uberance of
fancy.
A third admitted him X-entric, but no more.
 A fourth could only suppose it the Yankee's design to X-press, in a general
way, his X-asperation.
'Say, rather, to set an X-ample to posterity,' suggested a fifth.
That Bullet-head had been driven to an extremity, was clear to all; and in
fact, since that editor could not be found, there was some talk about lynching
the other one.
The more common conclusion, however, was that the affair was, simply, X-
traordinary and in-X-plicable. Even the town mathematician confessed that he
could make nothing of so dark a problem. X, every. body knew, was an
unknown quantity; but in this case (as he properly observed), there was an
unknown quantity of X.
The opinion of Bob, the devil (who kept dark about his having 'X-ed the
paragrab'), did not meet with so much attention as I think it deserved, although
it was very openly and very fearlessly expressed. He said that, for his part, he
had no doubt about the matter at all, that it was a clear case, that Mr. Bullet-
head 'never could be persuaded fur to drink like other folks, but vas
continually a-svigging o' that ere blessed XXX ale, and as a naiteral
consekvence, it just puffed him up savage, and made him X (cross) in the X-
treme.'

METZENGERSTEIN
Pestis eram vivus—moriens tua mors ero.

—Martin Luther

HORROR and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why then give
a date to this story I have to tell? Let it suffice to say, that at the period of
which I speak, there existed, in the interior of Hungary, a settled although
hidden belief in the doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines
themselves—that is, of their falsity, or of their probability—I say nothing. I
assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyère says of all our
unhappiness—"vient de ne pouvoir être seuls."
But there are some points in the Hungarian superstition which were fast
verging to absurdity. They—the Hungarians—differed very essentially from
their Eastern authorities. For example, "The soul," said the former—I give the
words of an acute and intelligent Parisian—"ne demeure qu'un seul fois dans
un corps sensible: au reste—un cheval, un chien, un homme même, n'est que
la ressemblance peu tangible de ces animaux."
The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at variance for
centuries. Never before were two houses so illustrious, mutually embittered by
hostility so deadly. The origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of
an ancient prophecy—"A lofty name shall have a fearful fall when, as the rider
over his horse, the mortality of Metzengerstein shall triumph over the
immortality of Berlifitzing."
To be sure the words themselves had little or no meaning. But more trivial
causes have given rise—and that no long while ago—to consequences equally
eventful. Besides, the estates, which were contiguous, had long exercised a
rival influence in the affairs of a busy government. Moreover, near neighbors
are seldom friends; and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might look,
from their lofty buttresses, into the very windows of the palace
Metzengerstein. Least of all had the more than feudal magnificence, thus
discovered, a tendency to allay the irritable feelings of the less ancient and less
wealthy Berlifitzings. What wonder then, that the words, however silly, of that
prediction, should have succeeded in setting and keeping at variance two
families already predisposed to quarrel by every instigation of hereditary
jealousy? The prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied anything—a final
triumph on the part of the already more powerful house; and was of course
remembered with the more bitter animosity by the weaker and less influential.
Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although loftily descended, was, at the epoch
of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man, remarkable for nothing but an
inordinate and inveterate personal antipathy to the family of his rival, and so
passionate a love of horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great
age, nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the dangers of
the chase.
Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet of age. His
father, the Minister G—, died young. His mother, the Lady Mary, followed
him quickly after. Frederick was, at that time, in his fifteenth year. In a city,
fifteen years are no long period—a child may be still a child in his third
lustrum: but in a wilderness—in so magnificent a wilderness as that old
principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning.
From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of his father,
the young Baron, at the decease of the former, entered immediately upon his
vast possessions. Such estates were seldom held before by a nobleman of
Hungary. His castles were without number. The chief in point of splendor and
extent was the "Château Metzengerstein." The boundary line of his dominions
was never clearly defined; but his principal park embraced a circuit of fifty
miles.
Upon the succession of a proprietor so young, with a character so well
known, to a fortune so unparalleled, little speculation was afloat in regard to
his probable course of conduct. And, indeed, for the space of three days, the
behavior of the heir out-heroded Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations
of his most enthusiastic admirers. Shameful debaucheries—flagrant
treacheries—unheard-of atrocities—gave his trembling vassals quickly to
understand that no servile submission on their part—no punctilios of
conscience on his own—were thenceforward to prove any security against the
remorseless fangs of a petty Caligula. On the night of the fourth day, the
stables of the castle Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire; and the
unanimous opinion of the neighborhood added the crime of the incendiary to
the already hideous list of the Baron's misdemeanors and enormities.
But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young nobleman
himself sat apparently buried in meditation, in a vast and desolate upper
apartment of the family palace of Metzengerstein. The rich although faded
tapestry hangings which swung gloomily upon the walls, represented the
shadowy and majestic forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. Here, rich-
ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries, familiarly seated with the autocrat
and the sovereign, put a veto on the wishes of a temporal king, or restrained
with the fiat of papal supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-
enemy.There, the dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their
muscular war-coursers plunging over the carcasses of fallen foes—startled the
steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression; and here, again, the
voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of days gone by, floated away
in the mazes of an unreal dance to the strains of imaginary melody.
But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen, to the gradually increasing
uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or perhaps pondered upon some more
novel, some more decided act of audacity—his eyes became unwittingly
rivetted to the figure of an enormous, and unnaturally colored horse,
represented in the tapestry as belonging to a Saracen ancestor of the family of
his rival. The horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood motionless
and statue-like—while farther back, its discomfited rider perished by the
dagger of a Metzengerstein.
On Frederick's lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became aware of the
direction which his glance had, without his consciousness, assumed. Yet he
did not remove it. On the contrary, he could by no means account for the
overwhelming anxiety which appeared falling like a pall upon his senses. It
was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent feelings with
the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed the more absorbing became
the spell—the more impossible did it appear that he could ever withdraw his
glance from the fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming
suddenly more violent, with a compulsory exertion he diverted his attention to
the glare of ruddy light thrown full by the flaming stables upon the windows
of the apartment.
The action, however, was but momentary, his gaze returned mechanically to
the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment, the head of the gigantic
steed had, in the meantime, altered its position. The neck of the animal, before
arched, as if in compassion, over the prostrate body of its lord, was now
extended, at full length, in the direction of the Baron. The eyes, before
invisible, now wore an energetic and human expression, while they gleamed
with a fiery and unusual red; and the distended lips of the apparently enraged
horse left in full view his gigantic and disgusting teeth.
Stupified with terror, the young nobleman tottered to the door. As he threw it
open, a flash of red light, streaming far into the chamber, flung his shadow
with a clear outline against the quivering tapestry, and he shuddered to
perceive that shadow—as he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming
the exact position, and precisely filling up the contour, of the relentless and
triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.
To lighten the depression of his spirits, the Baron hurried into the open air.
At the principal gate of the palace he encountered three equerries. With much
difficulty, and at the imminent peril of their lives, they were restraining the
convulsive plunges of a gigantic and fiery-colored horse.
"Whose horse? Where did you get him?" demanded the youth, in a
querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware that the
mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very counterpart of the
furious animal before his eyes.
"He is your own property, sire," replied one of the equerries, "at least he is
claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying, all smoking and foaming
with rage, from the burning stables of the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him
to have belonged to the old Count's stud of foreign horses, we led him back as
an estray. But the grooms there disclaim any title to the creature; which is
strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow escape from
the flames.
"The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his forehead,"
interrupted a second equerry, "I supposed them, of course, to be the initials of
Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at the castle are positive in denying any
knowledge of the horse."
"Extremely singular!" said the young Baron, with a musing air, and
apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words. "He is, as you say, a
remarkable horse—a prodigious horse! although, as you very justly observe,
of a suspicious and untractable character, let him be mine, however," he added,
after a pause, "perhaps a rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame
even the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing."
"You are mistaken, my lord; the horse, as I think we mentioned, is not from
the stables of the Count. If such had been the case, we know our duty better
than to bring him into the presence of a noble of your family."
"True!" observed the Baron, dryly, and at that instant a page of the
bedchamber came from the palace with a heightened color, and a precipitate
step. He whispered into his master's ear an account of the sudden
disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry, in an apartment which he
designated; entering, at the same time, into particulars of a minute and
circumstantial character; but from the low tone of voice in which these latter
were communicated, nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of the
equerries.
The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a variety of
emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure, and an expression of
determined malignancy settled upon his countenance, as he gave peremptory
orders that a certain chamber should be immediately locked up, and the key
placed in his own possession.
"Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter Berlifitzing?" said
one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after the departure of the page, the huge
steed which that nobleman had adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted,
with redoubled fury, down the long avenue which extended from the chateau
to the stables of Metzengerstein.
"No!" said the Baron, turning abruptly toward the speaker, "dead! say you?"
"It is indeed true, my lord; and, to a noble of your name, will be, I imagine,
no unwelcome intelligence."
A rapid smile shot over the countenance of the listener. "How died he?"
"In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his hunting stud, he has
himself perished miserably in the flames."
"I-n-d-e-e-d-!" ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and deliberately impressed
with the truth of some exciting idea.
"Indeed;" repeated the vassal.
"Shocking!" said the youth, calmly, and turned quietly into the chateau.
From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward demeanor of
the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von Metzengerstein. Indeed, his behavior
disappointed every expectation, and proved little in accordance with the views
of many a manoeuvering mamma; while his habits and manner, still less than
formerly, offered any thing congenial with those of the neighboring
aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the limits of his own domain,
and, in this wide and social world, was utterly companionless—unless, indeed,
that unnatural, impetuous, and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward
continually bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his friend.
Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long time,
however, periodically came in. "Will the Baron honor our festivals with his
presence?" "Will the Baron join us in a hunting of the
boar?"—"Metzengerstein does not hunt;" "Metzengerstein will not attend,"
were the haughty and laconic answers.
These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious nobility. Such
invitations became less cordial—less frequent—in time they ceased altogether.
The widow of the unfortunate Count Berlifitzing was even heard to express a
hope "that the Baron might be at home when he did not wish to be at home,
since he disdained the company of his equals; and ride when he did not wish
to ride, since he preferred the society of a horse." This to be sure was a very
silly explosion of hereditary pique; and merely proved how singularly
unmeaning our sayings are apt to become, when we desire to be unusually
energetic.
The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the conduct of the
young nobleman to the natural sorrow of a son for the untimely loss of his
parents—forgetting, however, his atrocious and reckless behavior during the
short period immediately succeeding that bereavement. Some there were,
indeed, who suggested a too haughty idea of self-consequence and dignity.
Others again (among them may be mentioned the family physician) did not
hesitate in speaking of morbid melancholy, and hereditary ill-health; while
dark hints, of a more equivocal nature, were current among the multitude.
Indeed, the Baron's perverse attachment to his lately-acquired charger—an
attachment which seemed to attain new strength from every fresh example of
the animal's ferocious and demon-like propensities—at length became, in the
eyes of all reasonable men, a hideous and unnatural fervor. In the glare of
noon—at the dead hour of night—in sickness or in health—in calm or in
tempest—the young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that
colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded with his own
spirit.
There were circumstances, moreover, which coupled with late events, gave
an unearthly and portentous character to the mania of the rider, and to the
capabilities of the steed. The space passed over in a single leap had been
accurately measured, and was found to exceed, by an astounding difference,
the wildest expectations of the most imaginative. The Baron, besides, had no
particular name for the animal, although all the rest in his collection were
distinguished by characteristic appellations. His stable, too, was appointed at a
distance from the rest; and with regard to grooming and other necessary
offices, none but the owner in person had ventured to officiate, or even to
enter the enclosure of that particular stall. It was also to be observed, that
although the three grooms, who had caught the steed as he fled from the
conflagration at Berlifitzing, had succeeded in arresting his course, by means
of a chain-bridle and noose—yet no one of the three could with any certainty
affirm that he had, during that dangerous struggle, or at any period thereafter,
actually placed his hand upon the body of the beast. Instances of peculiar
intelligence in the demeanor of a noble and high-spirited horse are not to be
supposed capable of exciting unreasonable attention—especially among men
who, daily trained to the labors of the chase, might appear well acquainted
with the sagacity of a horse—but there were certain circumstances which
intruded themselves per force upon the most skeptical and phlegmatic; and it
is said there were times when the animal caused the gaping crowd who stood
around to recoil in horror from the deep and impressive meaning of his terrible
stamp—times when the young Metzengerstein turned pale and shrunk away
from the rapid and searching expression of his earnest and human-looking eye.
Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to doubt the
ardor of that extraordinary affection which existed on the part of the young
nobleman for the fiery qualities of his horse; at least, none but an insignificant
and misshapen little page, whose deformities were in everybody's way, and
whose opinions were of the least possible importance. He—if his ideas are
worth mentioning at all—had the effrontery to assert that his master never
vaulted into the saddle without an unaccountable and almost imperceptible
shudder, and that, upon his return from every long-continued and habitual ride,
an expression of triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his
countenance.
One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awaking from a heavy slumber,
descended like a maniac from his chamber, and, mounting in hot haste,
bounded away into the mazes of the forest. An occurrence so common
attracted no particular attention, but his return was looked for with intense
anxiety on the part of his domestics, when, after some hours' absence, the
stupendous and magnificent battlements of the Chateau Metzengerstein, were
discovered crackling and rocking to their very foundation, under the influence
of a dense and livid mass of ungovernable fire.
As the flames, when first seen, had already made so terrible a progress that
all efforts to save any portion of the building were evidently futile, the
astonished neighborhood stood idly around in silent and pathetic wonder. But
a new and fearful object soon rivetted the attention of the multitude, and
proved how much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings of a
crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought about by the
most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter.
Up the long avenue of aged oaks which led from the forest to the main
entrance of the Château Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an unbonneted and
disordered rider, was seen leaping with an impetuosity which outstripped the
very Demon of the Tempest.
The career of the horseman was indisputably, on his own part,
uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance, the convulsive struggle of his
frame, gave evidence of superhuman exertion: but no sound, save a solitary
shriek, escaped from his lacerated lips, which were bitten through and through
in the intensity of terror. One instant, and the clattering of hoofs resounded
sharply and shrilly above the roaring of the flames and the shrieking of the
winds—another, and, clearing at a single plunge the gate-way and the moat,
the steed bounded far up the tottering staircases of the palace, and, with its
rider, disappeared amid the whirlwind of chaotic fire.
The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm sullenly
succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building like a shroud, and,
streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere, shot forth a glare of
preternatural light; while a cloud of smoke settled heavily over the battlements
in the distinct colossal figure of—a horse.

THE SYSTEM OF
DOCTOR TARR AND
PROFESSOR FETHER

DURING the autumn of 18—, while on a tour through the extreme southern
provinces of France, my route led me within a few miles of a certain Maison
de Sante or private mad-house, about which I had heard much in Paris from
my medical friends. As I had never visited a place of the kind, I thought the
opportunity too good to be lost; and so proposed to my travelling companion
(a gentleman with whom I had made casual acquaintance a few days before)
that we should turn aside, for an hour or so, and look through the
establishment. To this he objected—pleading haste in the first place, and, in
the second, a very usual horror at the sight of a lunatic. He begged me,
however, not to let any mere courtesy towards himself interfere with the
gratification of my curiosity, and said that he would ride on leisurely, so that I
might overtake him during the day, or, at all events, during the next. As he
bade me good-bye, I bethought me that there might be some difficulty in
obtaining access to the premises, and mentioned my fears on this point. He
replied that, in fact, unless I had personal knowledge of the superintendent,
Monsieur Maillard, or some credential in the way of a letter, a difficulty might
be found to exist, as the regulations of these private mad-houses were more
rigid than the public hospital laws. For himself, he added, he had, some years
since, made the acquaintance of Maillard, and would so far assist me as to ride
up to the door and introduce me; although his feelings on the subject of lunacy
would not permit of his entering the house.
I thanked him, and, turning from the main road, we entered a grass-grown
by-path, which, in half an hour, nearly lost itself in a dense forest, clothing the
base of a mountain. Through this dank and gloomy wood we rode some two
miles, when the Maison de Sante came in view. It was a fantastic chateau,
much dilapidated, and indeed scarcely tenantable through age and neglect. Its
aspect inspired me with absolute dread, and, checking my horse, I half
resolved to turn back. I soon, however, grew ashamed of my weakness, and
proceeded.
As we rode up to the gate-way, I perceived it slightly open, and the visage of
a man peering through. In an instant afterward, this man came forth, accosted
my companion by name, shook him cordially by the hand, and begged him to
alight. It was Monsieur Maillard himself. He was a portly, fine-looking
gentleman of the old school, with a polished manner, and a certain air of
gravity, dignity, and authority which was very impressive.
My friend, having presented me, mentioned my desire to inspect the
establishment, and received Monsieur Maillard's assurance that he would
show me all attention, now took leave, and I saw him no more.
When he had gone, the superintendent ushered me into a small and
exceedingly neat parlor, containing, among other indications of refined taste,
many books, drawings, pots of flowers, and musical instruments. A cheerful
fire blazed upon the hearth. At a piano, singing an aria from Bellini, sat a
young and very beautiful woman, who, at my entrance, paused in her song,
and received me with graceful courtesy. Her voice was low, and her whole
manner subdued. I thought, too, that I perceived the traces of sorrow in her
countenance, which was excessively, although to my taste, not unpleasingly,
pale. She was attired in deep mourning, and excited in my bosom a feeling of
mingled respect, interest, and admiration.
I had heard, at Paris, that the institution of Monsieur Maillard was managed
upon what is vulgarly termed the "system of soothing"—that all punishments
were avoided—that even confinement was seldom resorted to—that the
patients, while secretly watched, were left much apparent liberty, and that
most of them were permitted to roam about the house and grounds in the
ordinary apparel of persons in right mind.
Keeping these impressions in view, I was cautious in what I said before the
young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane; and, in fact, there was a
certain restless brilliancy about her eyes which half led me to imagine she was
not. I confined my remarks, therefore, to general topics, and to such as I
thought would not be displeasing or exciting even to a lunatic. She replied in a
perfectly rational manner to all that I said; and even her original observations
were marked with the soundest good sense, but a long acquaintance with the
metaphysics of mania, had taught me to put no faith in such evidence of sanity,
and I continued to practise, throughout the interview, the caution with which I
commenced it.
Presently a smart footman in livery brought in a tray with fruit, wine, and
other refreshments, of which I partook, the lady soon afterward leaving the
room. As she departed I turned my eyes in an inquiring manner toward my
host.
"No," he said, "oh, no—a member of my family—my niece, and a most
accomplished woman."
"I beg a thousand pardons for the suspicion," I replied, "but of course you
will know how to excuse me. The excellent administration of your affairs here
is well understood in Paris, and I thought it just possible, you know—
"Yes, yes—say no more—or rather it is myself who should thank you for the
commendable prudence you have displayed. We seldom find so much of
forethought in young men; and, more than once, some unhappy contre-temps
has occurred in consequence of thoughtlessness on the part of our visitors.
While my former system was in operation, and my patients were permitted the
privilege of roaming to and fro at will, they were often aroused to a dangerous
frenzy by injudicious persons who called to inspect the house. Hence I was
obliged to enforce a rigid system of exclusion; and none obtained access to the
premises upon whose discretion I could not rely."
"While your former system was in operation!" I said, repeating his words
—"do I understand you, then, to say that the 'soothing system' of which I have
heard so much is no longer in force?"
"It is now," he replied, "several weeks since we have concluded to renounce
it forever."
"Indeed! you astonish me!"
"We found it, sir," he said, with a sigh, "absolutely necessary to return to the
old usages. The danger of the soothing system was, at all times, appalling; and
its advantages have been much overrated. I believe, sir, that in this house it has
been given a fair trial, if ever in any. We did every thing that rational humanity
could suggest. I am sorry that you could not have paid us a visit at an earlier
period, that you might have judged for yourself. But I presume you are
conversant with the soothing practice—with its details."
"Not altogether. What I have heard has been at third or fourth hand."
"I may state the system, then, in general terms, as one in which the patients
were menages-humored. We contradicted no fancies which entered the brains
of the mad. On the contrary, we not only indulged but encouraged them; and
many of our most permanent cures have been thus effected. There is no
argument which so touches the feeble reason of the madman as the
argumentum ad absurdum. We have had men, for example, who fancied
themselves chickens. The cure was, to insist upon the thing as a fact—to
accuse the patient of stupidity in not sufficiently perceiving it to be a fact—
and thus to refuse him any other diet for a week than that which properly
appertains to a chicken. In this manner a little corn and gravel were made to
perform wonders."
"But was this species of acquiescence all?"
"By no means. We put much faith in amusements of a simple kind, such as
music, dancing, gymnastic exercises generally, cards, certain classes of books,
and so forth. We affected to treat each individual as if for some ordinary
physical disorder, and the word 'lunacy' was never employed. A great point
was to set each lunatic to guard the actions of all the others. To repose
confidence in the understanding or discretion of a madman, is to gain him
body and soul. In this way we were enabled to dispensé with an expensive
body of keepers."
"And you had no punishments of any kind?"
"None."
"And you never confined your patients?"
"Very rarely. Now and then, the malady of some individual growing to a
crisis, or taking a sudden turn of fury, we conveyed him to a secret cell, lest
his disorder should infect the rest, and there kept him until we could dismiss
him to his friends—for with the raging maniac we have nothing to do. He is
usually removed to the public hospitals."
"And you have now changed all this—and you think for the better?"
"Decidedly. The system had its disadvantages, and even its dangers. It is
now, happily, exploded throughout all the Maisons de Sante of France."
"I am very much surprised," I said, "at what you tell me; for I made sure
that, at this moment, no other method of treatment for mania existed in any
portion of the country."
"You are young yet, my friend," replied my host, "but the time will arrive
when you will learn to judge for yourself of what is going on in the world,
without trusting to the gossip of others. Believe nothing you hear, and only
one-half that you see. Now about our Maisons de Sante, it is clear that some
ignoramus has misled you. After dinner, however, when you have sufficiently
recovered from the fatigue of your ride, I will be happy to take you over the
house, and introduce to you a system which, in my opinion, and in that of
every one who has witnessed its operation, is incomparably the most effectual
as yet devised."
"Your own?" I inquired—"one of your own invention?"
"I am proud," he replied, "to acknowledge that it is—at least in some
measure."
In this manner I conversed with Monsieur Maillard for an hour or two,
during which he showed me the gardens and conservatories of the place.
"I cannot let you see my patients," he said, "just at present. To a sensitive
mind there is always more or less of the shocking in such exhibitions; and I do
not wish to spoil your appetite for dinner. We will dine. I can give you some
veal a la Menehoult, with cauliflowers in veloute sauce—after that a glass of
Clos de Vougeot—then your nerves will be sufficiently steadied."
At six, dinner was announced; and my host conducted me into a large salle a
manger, where a very numerous company were assembled—twenty-five or
thirty in all. They were, apparently, people of rank-certainly of high breeding
—although their habiliments, I thought, were extravagantly rich, partaking
somewhat too much of the ostentatious finery of the vielle cour. I noticed that
at least two-thirds of these guests were ladies; and some of the latter were by
no means accoutred in what a Parisian would consider good taste at the
present day. Many females, for example, whose age could not have been less
than seventy were bedecked with a profusion of jewelry, such as rings,
bracelets, and earrings, and wore their bosoms and arms shamefully bare. I
observed, too, that very few of the dresses were well made—or, at least, that
very few of them fitted the wearers. In looking about, I discovered the
interesting girl to whom Monsieur Maillard had presented me in the little
parlor; but my surprise was great to see her wearing a hoop and farthingale,
with high-heeled shoes, and a dirty cap of Brussels lace, so much too large for
her that it gave her face a ridiculously diminutive expression. When I had first
seen her, she was attired, most becomingly, in deep mourning. There was an
air of oddity, in short, about the dress of the whole party, which, at first,
caused me to recur to my original idea of the "soothing system," and to fancy
that Monsieur Maillard had been willing to deceive me until after dinner, that I
might experience no uncomfortable feelings during the repast, at finding
myself dining with lunatics; but I remembered having been informed, in Paris,
that the southern provincialists were a peculiarly eccentric people, with a vast
number of antiquated notions; and then, too, upon conversing with several
members of the company, my apprehensions were immediately and fully
dispelled.
The dining-room itself, although perhaps sufficiently comfortable and of
good dimensions, had nothing too much of elegance about it. For example, the
floor was uncarpeted; in France, however, a carpet is frequently dispensed
with. The windows, too, were without curtains; the shutters, being shut, were
securely fastened with iron bars, applied diagonally, after the fashion of our
ordinary shop-shutters. The apartment, I observed, formed, in itself, a wing of
the chateau, and thus the windows were on three sides of the parallelogram,
the door being at the other. There were no less than ten windows in all.
The table was superbly set out. It was loaded with plate, and more than
loaded with delicacies. The profusion was absolutely barbaric. There were
meats enough to have feasted the Anakim. Never, in all my life, had I
witnessed so lavish, so wasteful an expenditure of the good things of life.
There seemed very little taste, however, in the arrangements; and my eyes,
accustomed to quiet lights, were sadly offended by the prodigious glare of a
multitude of wax candles, which, in silver candelabra, were deposited upon the
table, and all about the room, wherever it was possible to find a place. There
were several active servants in attendance; and, upon a large table, at the
farther end of the apartment, were seated seven or eight people with fiddles,
fifes, trombones, and a drum. These fellows annoyed me very much, at
intervals, during the repast, by an infinite variety of noises, which were
intended for music, and which appeared to afford much entertainment to all
present, with the exception of myself.
Upon the whole, I could not help thinking that there was much of the bizarre
about every thing I saw—but then the world is made up of all kinds of
persons, with all modes of thought, and all sorts of conventional customs. I
had travelled, too, so much, as to be quite an adept at the nil admirari; so I
took my seat very coolly at the right hand of my host, and, having an excellent
appetite, did justice to the good cheer set before me.
The conversation, in the meantime, was spirited and general. The ladies, as
usual, talked a great deal. I soon found that nearly all the company were well
educated; and my host was a world of good-humored anecdote in himself. He
seemed quite willing to speak of his position as superintendent of a Maison de
Sante; and, indeed, the topic of lunacy was, much to my surprise, a favorite
one with all present. A great many amusing stories were told, having reference
to the whims of the patients.
"We had a fellow here once," said a fat little gentleman, who sat at my right,
—"a fellow that fancied himself a tea-pot; and by the way, is it not especially
singular how often this particular crotchet has entered the brain of the lunatic?
There is scarcely an insane asylum in France which cannot supply a human
tea-pot. Our gentleman was a Britannia—ware tea-pot, and was careful to
polish himself every morning with buckskin and whiting."
"And then," said a tall man just opposite, "we had here, not long ago, a
person who had taken it into his head that he was a donkey—which
allegorically speaking, you will say, was quite true. He was a troublesome
patient; and we had much ado to keep him within bounds. For a long time he
would eat nothing but thistles; but of this idea we soon cured him by insisting
upon his eating nothing else. Then he was perpetually kicking out his heels-so-
so-"
"Mr. De Kock! I will thank you to behave yourself!" here interrupted an old
lady, who sat next to the speaker. "Please keep your feet to yourself! You have
spoiled my brocade! Is it necessary, pray, to illustrate a remark in so practical a
style? Our friend here can surely comprehend you without all this. Upon my
word, you are nearly as great a donkey as the poor unfortunate imagined
himself. Your acting is very natural, as I live."
"Mille pardons! Ma'm'selle!" replied Monsieur De Kock, thus addressed—"a
thousand pardons! I had no intention of offending. Ma'm'selle Laplace—
Monsieur De Kock will do himself the honor of taking wine with you."
Here Monsieur De Kock bowed low, kissed his hand with much ceremony,
and took wine with Ma'm'selle Laplace.
"Allow me, mon ami," now said Monsieur Maillard, addressing myself,
"allow me to send you a morsel of this veal a la St. Menhoult—you will find it
particularly fine."
At this instant three sturdy waiters had just succeeded in depositing safely
upon the table an enormous dish, or trencher, containing what I supposed to be
the "monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum." A closer
scrutiny assured me, however, that it was only a small calf roasted whole, and
set upon its knees, with an apple in its mouth, as is the English fashion of
dressing a hare.
"Thank you, no," I replied; "to say the truth, I am not particularly partial to
veal a la St.—what is it?—for I do not find that it altogether agrees with me. I
will change my plate, however, and try some of the rabbit."
There were several side-dishes on the table, containing what appeared to be
the ordinary French rabbit—a very delicious morceau, which I can
recommend.
"Pierre," cried the host, "change this gentleman's plate, and give him a side-
piece of this rabbit au-chat."
"This what?" said I.
"This rabbit au-chat."
"Why, thank you—upon second thoughts, no. I will just help myself to some
of the ham."
There is no knowing what one eats, thought I to myself, at the tables of these
people of the province. I will have none of their rabbit au-chat—and, for the
matter of that, none of their cat-au-rabbit either.
"And then," said a cadaverous looking personage, near the foot of the table,
taking up the thread of the conversation where it had been broken off,—"and
then, among other oddities, we had a patient, once upon a time, who very
pertinaciously maintained himself to be a Cordova cheese, and went about,
with a knife in his hand, soliciting his friends to try a small slice from the
middle of his leg."
"He was a great fool, beyond doubt," interposed some one, "but not to be
compared with a certain individual whom we all know, with the exception of
this strange gentleman. I mean the man who took himself for a bottle of
champagne, and always went off with a pop and a fizz, in this fashion."
Here the speaker, very rudely, as I thought, put his right thumb in his left
cheek, withdrew it with a sound resembling the popping of a cork, and then,
by a dexterous movement of the tongue upon the teeth, created a sharp hissing
and fizzing, which lasted for several minutes, in imitation of the frothing of
champagne. This behavior, I saw plainly, was not very pleasing to Monsieur
Maillard; but that gentleman said nothing, and the conversation was resumed
by a very lean little man in a big wig.
"And then there was an ignoramus," said he, "who mistook himself for a
frog, which, by the way, he resembled in no little degree. I wish you could
have seen him, sir,"—here the speaker addressed myself—"it would have done
your heart good to see the natural airs that he put on. Sir, if that man was not a
frog, I can only observe that it is a pity he was not. His croak thus—o-o-o-o-
gh—o-o-o-o-gh! was the finest note in the world—B flat; and when he put his
elbows upon the table thus—after taking a glass or two of wine—and
distended his mouth, thus, and rolled up his eyes, thus, and winked them with
excessive rapidity, thus, why then, sir, I take it upon myself to say, positively,
that you would have been lost in admiration of the genius of the man."
"I have no doubt of it," I said.
"And then," said somebody else, "then there was Petit Gaillard, who thought
himself a pinch of snuff, and was truly distressed because he could not take
himself between his own finger and thumb."
"And then there was Jules Desoulieres, who was a very singular genius,
indeed, and went mad with the idea that he was a pumpkin. He persecuted the
cook to make him up into pies—a thing which the cook indignantly refused to
do. For my part, I am by no means sure that a pumpkin pie a la Desoulieres
would not have been very capital eating indeed!"
"You astonish me!" said I; and I looked inquisitively at Monsieur Maillard.
"Ha! ha! ha!" said that gentleman—"he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—
hu! hu! hu! hu!—very good indeed! You must not be astonished, mon ami; our
friend here is a wit—a drole—you must not understand him to the letter."
"And then," said some other one of the party,—"then there was Bouffon Le
Grand—another extraordinary personage in his way. He grew deranged
through love, and fancied himself possessed of two heads. One of these he
maintained to be the head of Cicero; the other he imagined a composite one,
being Demosthenes' from the top of the forehead to the mouth, and Lord
Brougham's from the mouth to the chin. It is not impossible that he was
wrong; but he would have convinced you of his being in the right; for he was a
man of great eloquence. He had an absolute passion for oratory, and could not
refrain from display. For example, he used to leap upon the dinner-table thus,
and—and-"
Here a friend, at the side of the speaker, put a hand upon his shoulder and
whispered a few words in his ear, upon which he ceased talking with great
suddenness, and sank back within his chair.
"And then," said the friend who had whispered, "there was Boullard, the tee-
totum. I call him the tee-totum because, in fact, he was seized with the droll
but not altogether irrational crotchet, that he had been converted into a tee-
totum. You would have roared with laughter to see him spin. He would turn
round upon one heel by the hour, in this manner—so—"
Here the friend whom he had just interrupted by a whisper, performed an
exactly similar office for himself.
"But then," cried the old lady, at the top of her voice, "your Monsieur
Boullard was a madman, and a very silly madman at best; for who, allow me
to ask you, ever heard of a human tee-totum? The thing is absurd. Madame
Joyeuse was a more sensible person, as you know. She had a crotchet, but it
was instinct with common sense, and gave pleasure to all who had the honor
of her acquaintance. She found, upon mature deliberation, that, by some
accident, she had been turned into a chicken-cock; but, as such, she behaved
with propriety. She flapped her wings with prodigious effect—so—so—and,
as for her crow, it was delicious!
Cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-doo!—cock-a-doodle-de-doo dooo-do-
o-o-o-o-o-o!"
"Madame Joyeuse, I will thank you to behave yourself!" here interrupted our
host, very angrily. "You can either conduct yourself as a lady should do, or you
can quit the table forthwith-take your choice."
The lady (whom I was much astonished to hear addressed as Madame
Joyeuse, after the description of Madame Joyeuse she had just given) blushed
up to the eyebrows, and seemed exceedingly abashed at the reproof. She hung
down her head, and said not a syllable in reply. But another and younger lady
resumed the theme. It was my beautiful girl of the little parlor.
"Oh, Madame Joyeuse was a fool!" she exclaimed, "but there was really
much sound sense, after all, in the opinion of Eugenie Salsafette. She was a
very beautiful and painfully modest young lady, who thought the ordinary
mode of habiliment indecent, and wished to dress herself, always, by getting
outside instead of inside of her clothes. It is a thing very easily done, after all.
You have only to do so—and then so—so—so—and then so—so—so—and
then so—so—and then—
"Mon dieu! Ma'm'selle Salsafette!" here cried a dozen voices at once. "What
are you about?—forbear!—that is sufficient!—we see, very plainly, how it is
done!—hold! hold!" and several persons were already leaping from their seats
to withhold Ma'm'selle Salsafette from putting herself upon a par with the
Medicean Venus, when the point was very effectually and suddenly
accomplished by a series of loud screams, or yells, from some portion of the
main body of the chateau.
My nerves were very much affected, indeed, by these yells; but the rest of
the company I really pitied. I never saw any set of reasonable people so
thoroughly frightened in my life. They all grew as pale as so many corpses,
and, shrinking within their seats, sat quivering and gibbering with terror, and
listening for a repetition of the sound. It came again—louder and seemingly
nearer—and then a third time very loud, and then a fourth time with a vigor
evidently diminished. At this apparent dying away of the noise, the spirits of
the company were immediately regained, and all was life and anecdote as
before. I now ventured to inquire the cause of the disturbance.
"A mere bagtelle," said Monsieur Maillard. "We are used to these things, and
care really very little about them. The lunatics, every now and then, get up a
howl in concert; one starting another, as is sometimes the case with a bevy of
dogs at night. It occasionally happens, however, that the concerto yells are
succeeded by a simultaneous effort at breaking loose, when, of course, some
little danger is to be apprehended."
"And how many have you in charge?"
"At present we have not more than ten, altogether."
"Principally females, I presume?"
"Oh, no—every one of them men, and stout fellows, too, I can tell you."
"Indeed! I have always understood that the majority of lunatics were of the
gentler sex."
"It is generally so, but not always. Some time ago, there were about twenty-
seven patients here; and, of that number, no less than eighteen were women;
but, lately, matters have changed very much, as you see."
"Yes—have changed very much, as you see," here interrupted the gentleman
who had broken the shins of Ma'm'selle Laplace.
"Yes—have changed very much, as you see!" chimed in the whole company
at once.
"Hold your tongues, every one of you!" said my host, in a great rage.
Whereupon the whole company maintained a dead silence for nearly a minute.
As for one lady, she obeyed Monsieur Maillard to the letter, and thrusting out
her tongue, which was an excessively long one, held it very resignedly, with
both hands, until the end of the entertainment.
"And this gentlewoman," said I, to Monsieur Maillard, bending over and
addressing him in a whisper—"this good lady who has just spoken, and who
gives us the cock-a-doodle-de-doo—she, I presume, is harmless—quite
harmless, eh?"
"Harmless!" ejaculated he, in unfeigned surprise, "why—why, what can you
mean?"
"Only slightly touched?" said I, touching my head. "I take it for granted that
she is not particularly not dangerously affected, eh?"
"Mon dieu! what is it you imagine? This lady, my particular old friend
Madame Joyeuse, is as absolutely sane as myself. She has her little
eccentricities, to be sure—but then, you know, all old women—all very old
women—are more or less eccentric!"
"To be sure," said I,—"to be sure—and then the rest of these ladies and
gentlemen-"
"Are my friends and keepers," interupted Monsieur Maillard, drawing
himself up with hauteur,—"my very good friends and assistants."
"What! all of them?" I asked,—"the women and all?"
"Assuredly," he said,—"we could not do at all without the women; they are
the best lunatic nurses in the world; they have a way of their own, you know;
their bright eyes have a marvellous effect;—something like the fascination of
the snake, you know."
"To be sure," said I,—"to be sure! They behave a little odd, eh?—they are a
little queer, eh?—don't you think so?"
"Odd!—queer!—why, do you really think so? We are not very prudish, to be
sure, here in the South—do pretty much as we please—enjoy life, and all that
sort of thing, you know-"
"To be sure," said I,—"to be sure."
"And then, perhaps, this Clos de Vougeot is a little heady, you know—a little
strong—you understand, eh?"
"To be sure," said I,—"to be sure. By the bye, Monsieur, did I understand
you to say that the system you have adopted, in place of the celebrated
soothing system, was one of very rigorous severity?"
"By no means. Our confinement is necessarily close; but the treatment—the
medical treatment, I mean—is rather agreeable to the patients than otherwise."
"And the new system is one of your own invention?"
"Not altogether. Some portions of it are referable to Professor Tarr, of whom
you have, necessarily, heard; and, again, there are modifications in my plan
which I am happy to acknowledge as belonging of right to the celebrated
Fether, with whom, if I mistake not, you have the honor of an intimate
acquaintance."
"I am quite ashamed to confess," I replied, "that I have never even heard the
names of either gentleman before."
"Good heavens!" ejaculated my host, drawing back his chair abruptly, and
uplifting his hands. "I surely do not hear you aright! You did not intend to say,
eh? that you had never heard either of the learned Doctor Tarr, or of the
celebrated Professor Fether?"
"I am forced to acknowledge my ignorance," I replied; "but the truth should
be held inviolate above all things. Nevertheless, I feel humbled to the dust, not
to be acquainted with the works of these, no doubt, extraordinary men. I will
seek out their writings forthwith, and peruse them with deliberate care.
Monsieur Maillard, you have really—I must confess it—you have really—
made me ashamed of myself!"
And this was the fact.
"Say no more, my good young friend," he said kindly, pressing my hand,
—"join me now in a glass of Sauterne."
We drank. The company followed our example without stint. They chatted—
they jested—they laughed—they perpetrated a thousand absurdities—the
fiddles shrieked—the drum row-de-dowed—the trombones bellowed like so
many brazen bulls of Phalaris—and the whole scene, growing gradually worse
and worse, as the wines gained the ascendancy, became at length a sort of
pandemonium in petto. In the meantime, Monsieur Maillard and myself, with
some bottles of Sauterne and Vougeot between us, continued our conversation
at the top of the voice. A word spoken in an ordinary key stood no more
chance of being heard than the voice of a fish from the bottom of Niagara
Falls.
"And, sir," said I, screaming in his ear, "you mentioned something before
dinner about the danger incurred in the old system of soothing. How is that?"
"Yes," he replied, "there was, occasionally, very great danger indeed. There
is no accounting for the caprices of madmen; and, in my opinion as well as in
that of Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether, it is never safe to permit them to run at
large unattended. A lunatic may be 'soothed,' as it is called, for a time, but, in
the end, he is very apt to become obstreperous. His cunning, too, is proverbial
and great. If he has a project in view, he conceals his design with a marvellous
wisdom; and the dexterity with which he counterfeits sanity, presents, to the
metaphysician, one of the most singular problems in the study of mind. When
a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a
straitjacket."
"But the danger, my dear sir, of which you were speaking, in your own
experience—during your control of this house—have you had practical reason
to think liberty hazardous in the case of a lunatic?"
"Here?—in my own experience?—why, I may say, yes. For example:—no
very long while ago, a singular circumstance occurred in this very house. The
'soothing system,' you know, was then in operation, and the patients were at
large. They behaved remarkably well-especially so, any one of sense might
have known that some devilish scheme was brewing from that particular fact,
that the fellows behaved so remarkably well. And, sure enough, one fine
morning the keepers found themselves pinioned hand and foot, and thrown
into the cells, where they were attended, as if they were the lunatics, by the
lunatics themselves, who had usurped the offices of the keepers."
"You don't tell me so! I never heard of any thing so absurd in my life!"
"Fact—it all came to pass by means of a stupid fellow—a lunatic—who, by
some means, had taken it into his head that he had invented a better system of
government than any ever heard of before—of lunatic government, I mean. He
wished to give his invention a trial, I suppose, and so he persuaded the rest of
the patients to join him in a conspiracy for the overthrow of the reigning
powers."
"And he really succeeded?"
"No doubt of it. The keepers and kept were soon made to exchange places.
Not that exactly either—for the madmen had been free, but the keepers were
shut up in cells forthwith, and treated, I am sorry to say, in a very cavalier
manner."
"But I presume a counter-revolution was soon effected. This condition of
things could not have long existed. The country people in the neighborhood-
visitors coming to see the establishment—would have given the alarm."
"There you are out. The head rebel was too cunning for that. He admitted no
visitors at all—with the exception, one day, of a very stupid-looking young
gentleman of whom he had no reason to be afraid. He let him in to see the
place—just by way of variety,—to have a little fun with him. As soon as he
had gammoned him sufficiently, he let him out, and sent him about his
business."
"And how long, then, did the madmen reign?"
"Oh, a very long time, indeed—a month certainly—how much longer I can't
precisely say. In the meantime, the lunatics had a jolly season of it—that you
may swear. They doffed their own shabby clothes, and made free with the
family wardrobe and jewels. The cellars of the chateau were well stocked with
wine; and these madmen are just the devils that know how to drink it. They
lived well, I can tell you."
"And the treatment—what was the particular species of treatment which the
leader of the rebels put into operation?"
"Why, as for that, a madman is not necessarily a fool, as I have already
observed; and it is my honest opinion that his treatment was a much better
treatment than that which it superseded. It was a very capital system indeed—
simple—neat—no trouble at all—in fact it was delicious it was."
Here my host's observations were cut short by another series of yells, of the
same character as those which had previously disconcerted us. This time,
however, they seemed to proceed from persons rapidly approaching.
"Gracious heavens!" I ejaculated—"the lunatics have most undoubtedly
broken loose."
"I very much fear it is so," replied Monsieur Maillard, now becoming
excessively pale. He had scarcely finished the sentence, before loud shouts
and imprecations were heard beneath the windows; and, immediately
afterward, it became evident that some persons outside were endeavoring to
gain entrance into the room. The door was beaten with what appeared to be a
sledge-hammer, and the shutters were wrenched and shaken with prodigious
violence.
A scene of the most terrible confusion ensued. Monsieur Maillard, to my
excessive astonishment threw himself under the side-board. I had expected
more resolution at his hands. The members of the orchestra, who, for the last
fifteen minutes, had been seemingly too much intoxicated to do duty, now
sprang all at once to their feet and to their instruments, and, scrambling upon
their table, broke out, with one accord, into, "Yankee Doodle," which they
performed, if not exactly in tune, at least with an energy superhuman, during
the whole of the uproar.
Meantime, upon the main dining-table, among the bottles and glasses,
leaped the gentleman who, with such difficulty, had been restrained from
leaping there before. As soon as he fairly settled himself, he commenced an
oration, which, no doubt, was a very capital one, if it could only have been
heard. At the same moment, the man with the teetotum predilection, set
himself to spinning around the apartment, with immense energy, and with
arms outstretched at right angles with his body; so that he had all the air of a
tee-totum in fact, and knocked everybody down that happened to get in his
way. And now, too, hearing an incredible popping and fizzing of champagne, I
discovered at length, that it proceeded from the person who performed the
bottle of that delicate drink during dinner. And then, again, the frog-man
croaked away as if the salvation of his soul depended upon every note that he
uttered. And, in the midst of all this, the continuous braying of a donkey arose
over all. As for my old friend, Madame Joyeuse, I really could have wept for
the poor lady, she appeared so terribly perplexed. All she did, however, was to
stand up in a corner, by the fireplace, and sing out incessantly at the top of her
voice, "Cock-a-doodle-de-dooooooh!"
And now came the climax—the catastrophe of the drama. As no resistance,
beyond whooping and yelling and cock-a-doodling, was offered to the
encroachments of the party without, the ten windows were very speedily, and
almost simultaneously, broken in. But I shall never forget the emotions of
wonder and horror with which I gazed, when, leaping through these windows,
and down among us pele-mele, fighting, stamping, scratching, and howling,
there rushed a perfect army of what I took to be Chimpanzees, Ourang-
Outangs, or big black baboons of the Cape of Good Hope.
I received a terrible beating—after which I rolled under a sofa and lay still.
After lying there some fifteen minutes, during which time I listened with all
my ears to what was going on in the room, I came to same satisfactory
denouement of this tragedy. Monsieur Maillard, it appeared, in giving me the
account of the lunatic who had excited his fellows to rebellion, had been
merely relating his own exploits. This gentleman had, indeed, some two or
three years before, been the superintendent of the establishment, but grew
crazy himself, and so became a patient. This fact was unknown to the
travelling companion who introduced me. The keepers, ten in number, having
been suddenly overpowered, were first well tarred, then—carefully feathered,
and then shut up in underground cells. They had been so imprisoned for more
than a month, during which period Monsieur Maillard had generously allowed
them not only the tar and feathers (which constituted his "system"), but some
bread and abundance of water. The latter was pumped on them daily. At
length, one escaping through a sewer, gave freedom to all the rest.
The "soothing system," with important modifications, has been resumed at
the chateau; yet I cannot help agreeing with Monsieur Maillard, that his own
"treatment" was a very capital one of its kind. As he justly observed, it was
"simple—neat—and gave no trouble at all—not the least."
I have only to add that, although I have searched every library in Europe for
the works of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether, I have, up to the present day,
utterly failed in my endeavors at procuring an edition.

HOW TO WRITE A
BLACKWOOD ARTICLE.
"In the name of the Prophet—figs!!"

Cry of the Turkish fig-peddler.

I PRESUME everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora Psyche

Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies ever calls me Suky
Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a vulgar corruption of Psyche,
which is good Greek, and means "the soul" (that's me, I'm all soul) and
sometimes "a butterfly," which latter meaning undoubtedly alludes to my
appearance in my new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue Arabian
mantelet, and the trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces of
orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any person who should look at me
would be instantly aware that my name wasn't Snobbs. Miss Tabitha Turnip
propagated that report through sheer envy. Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little
wretch! But what can we expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the
old adage about "blood out of a turnip," &c.? [Mem. put her in mind of it the
first opportunity.] [Mem. again—pull her nose.] Where was I? Ah! I have been
assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia, and that Zenobia was a
queen—(So am I. Dr. Moneypenny always calls me the Queen of the Hearts)
—and that Zenobia, as well as Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was
"a Greek," and that consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is
Zenobia and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me
Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.
 As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very Signora Psyche
Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding secretary to the "Philadelphia,
Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal,
Experimental, Bibliographical, Association, To, Civilize, Humanity." Dr.
Moneypenny made the title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big
like an empty rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes—but he's deep.)
We all sign the initials of the society after our names, in the fashion of the R.
S. A., Royal Society of Arts—the S. D. U. K., Society for the Diffusion of
Useful Knowledge, &c, &c. Dr. Moneypenny says that S. stands for stale, and
that D. U. K. spells duck, (but it don't,) that S. D. U. K. stands for Stale Duck
and not for Lord Brougham's society—but then Dr. Moneypenny is such a
queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me the truth. At any rate we
always add to our names the initials P. R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H.
—that is to say, Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles,
Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association, To, Civilize,
Humanity—one letter for each word, which is a decided improvement upon
Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have it that our initials give our true
character—but for my life I can't see what he means.
Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous exertions
of the association to get itself into notice, it met with no very great success
until I joined it. The truth is, the members indulged in too flippant a tone of
discussion. The papers read every Saturday evening were characterized less by
depth than buffoonery. They were all whipped syllabub. There was no
investigation of first causes, first principles. There was no investigation of any
thing at all. There was no attention paid to that great point, the "fitness of
things." In short there was no fine writing like this. It was all low—very! No
profundity, no reading, no metaphysics—nothing which the learned call
spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to stigmatize as cant. [Dr. M. says
I ought to spell "cant" with a capital K—but I know better.]
When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a better style of
thinking and writing, and all the world knows how well I have succeeded. We
get up as good papers now in the P. R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as
any to be found even in Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because I have been
assured that the finest writing, upon every subject, is to be discovered in the
pages of that justly celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our model upon
all themes, and are getting into rapid notice accordingly. And, after all, it's not
so very difficult a matter to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood
stamp, if one only goes properly about it. Of course I don't speak of the
political articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr.
Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of tailor's-shears, and
three apprentices who stand by him for orders. One hands him the "Times,"
another the "Examiner" and a third a "Culley's New Compendium of Slang-
Whang." Mr. B. merely cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done—nothing but
"Examiner," "Slang-Whang," and "Times"—then "Times," "Slang-Whang,"
and "Examiner"—and then "Times," "Examiner," and "Slang-Whang."
But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous articles; and the
best of these come under the head of what Dr. Moneypenny calls the
bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and what everybody else calls the
intensities. This is a species of writing which I have long known how to
appreciate, although it is only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed
by the society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of
composition. This method is very simple, but not so much so as the politics.
Upon my calling at Mr. B.'s, and making known to him the wishes of the
society, he received me with great civility, took me into his study, and gave me
a clear explanation of the whole process.
"My dear madam," said he, evidently struck with my majestic appearance,
for I had on the crimson satin, with the green agraffas, and orange-colored
auriclas. "My dear madam," said he, "sit down. The matter stands thus: In the
first place your writer of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big
pen, with a very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!" he
continued, after a pause, with the most expressive energy and solemnity of
manner, "mark me!—that pen—must—never be mended! Herein, madam, lies
the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume upon myself to say, that no
individual, of however great genius ever wrote with a good pen—understand
me,—a good article. You may take, it for granted, that when manuscript can be
read it is never worth reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to which
if you cannot readily assent, our conference is at an end."
He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the conference, I
assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one, too, of whose truth I had
all along been sufficiently aware. He seemed pleased, and went on with his
instructions.
"It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you to any
article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study, yet perhaps I may as
well call your attention to a few cases. Let me see. There was 'The Dead
Alive,' a capital thing!—the record of a gentleman's sensations when
entombed before the breath was out of his body—full of tastes, terror,
sentiment, metaphysics, and erudition. You would have sworn that the writer
had been born and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the 'Confessions of an
Opium-eater'—fine, very fine!—glorious imagination—deep philosophy acute
speculation—plenty of fire and fury, and a good spicing of the decidedly
unintelligible. That was a nice bit of flummery, and went down the throats of
the people delightfully. They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper—
but not so. It was composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of
Hollands and water, 'hot, without sugar.'" [This I could scarcely have believed
had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of it.] "Then there
was 'The Involuntary Experimentalist,' all about a gentleman who got baked in
an oven, and came out alive and well, although certainly done to a turn. And
then there was 'The Diary of a Late Physician,' where the merit lay in good
rant, and indifferent Greek—both of them taking things with the public. And
then there was 'The Man in the Bell,' a paper by-the-by, Miss Zenobia, which I
cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention. It is the history of a young
person who goes to sleep under the clapper of a church bell, and is awakened
by its tolling for a funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly,
pulling out his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are the
great things after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a
note of your sensations—they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet. If you
wish to write forcibly, Miss Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations."
"That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood," said I.
"Good!" he replied. "I see you are a pupil after my own heart. But I must put
you au fait to the details necessary in composing what may be denominated a
genuine Blackwood article of the sensation stamp—the kind which you will
understand me to say I consider the best for all purposes.
"The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape as no one ever
got into before. The oven, for instance,—that was a good hit. But if you have
no oven or big bell, at hand, and if you cannot conveniently tumble out of a
balloon, or be swallowed up in an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney,
you will have to be contented with simply imagining some similar
misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the actual fact to bear
you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an experimental knowledge of
the matter in hand. 'Truth is strange,' you know, 'stranger than fiction'—
besides being more to the purpose."
Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would go and hang
myself forthwith.
"Good!" he replied, "do so;—although hanging is somewhat hacknied.
Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth's pills, and then give us
your sensations. However, my instructions will apply equally well to any
variety of misadventure, and in your way home you may easily get knocked in
the head, or run over by an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a
gutter. But to proceed.
"Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the tone, or
manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic, the tone enthusiastic, the
tone natural—all common—place enough. But then there is the tone laconic,
or curt, which has lately come much into use. It consists in short sentences.
Somehow thus: Can't be too brief. Can't be too snappish. Always a full stop.
And never a paragraph.
 "Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional. Some of our
best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be all in a whirl, like a
humming-top, and make a noise very similar, which answers remarkably well
instead of meaning. This is the best of all possible styles where the writer is in
too great a hurry to think.
"The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big words this is
your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic schools—of Archytas,
Gorgias, and Alcmaeon. Say something about objectivity and subjectivity. Be
sure and abuse a man named Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general,
and when you let slip any thing a little too absurd, you need not be at the
trouble of scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say that you are
indebted for the above profound observation to the 'Kritik der reinem
Vernunft,' or to the 'Metaphysithe Anfongsgrunde der Noturwissenchaft.' This
would look erudite and—and—and frank.
"There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall mention only
two more—the tone transcendental and the tone heterogeneous. In the former
the merit consists in seeing into the nature of affairs a very great deal farther
than anybody else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed.
A little reading of the 'Dial' will carry you a great way. Eschew, in this case,
big words; get them as small as possible, and write them upside down. Look
over Channing's poems and quote what he says about a 'fat little man with a
delusive show of Can.' Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don't
say a syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo. Hint
everything—assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say 'bread and butter,' do
not by any means say it outright. You may say any thing and every thing
approaching to 'bread and butter.' You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you
may even go so far as to insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be
your real meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to
say 'bread and butter!'"
I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I lived. He kissed
me and continued:
"As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture, in equal
proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is consequently made up of
every thing deep, great, odd, piquant, pertinent, and pretty.
"Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and tone.
The most important portion—in fact, the soul of the whole business, is yet to
be attended to—I allude to the filling up. It is not to be supposed that a lady, or
gentleman either, has been leading the life of a book worm. And yet above all
things it is necessary that your article have an air of erudition, or at least afford
evidence of extensive general reading. Now I'll put you in the way of
accomplishing this point. See here!" (pulling down some three or four
ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at random). "By casting your eye
down almost any page of any book in the world, you will be able to perceive
at once a host of little scraps of either learning or bel-espritism, which are the
very thing for the spicing of a Blackwood article. You might as well note
down a few while I read them to you. I shall make two divisions: first, Piquant
Facts for the Manufacture of Similes, and, second, Piquant Expressions to be
introduced as occasion may require. Write now!"—and I wrote as he dictated.
"PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. 'There were originally but three Muses
—Melete, Mneme, Aoede—meditation, memory, and singing.' You may make
a good deal of that little fact if properly worked. You see it is not generally
known, and looks recherche. You must be careful and give the thing with a
downright improviso air.
"Again. 'The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged without
injury to the purity of its waters.' Rather stale that, to be sure, but, if properly
dressed and dished up, will look quite as fresh as ever.
"Here is something better. 'The Persian Iris appears to some persons to
possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly
scentless.' Fine that, and very delicate! Turn it about a little, and it will do
wonders. We'll have some thing else in the botanical line. There's nothing goes
down so well, especially with the help of a little Latin. Write!
"'The Epidendrum Flos Aeris, of Java, bears a very beautiful flower, and will
live when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a cord from the
ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance for years.' That's capital! That will do for the
similes. Now for the Piquant Expressions.
"PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. 'The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li.'
Good! By introducing these few words with dexterity you will evince your
intimate acquaintance with the language and literature of the Chinese. With
the aid of this you may either get along without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or
Chickasaw. There is no passing muster, however, without Spanish, Italian,
German, Latin, and Greek. I must look you out a little specimen of each. Any
scrap will answer, because you must depend upon your own ingenuity to make
it fit into your article. Now write!
"'Aussi tendre que Zaire'—as tender as Zaire-French. Alludes to the frequent
repetition of the phrase, la tendre Zaire, in the French tragedy of that name.
Properly introduced, will show not only your knowledge of the language, but
your general reading and wit. You can say, for instance, that the chicken you
were eating (write an article about being choked to death by a chicken-bone)
was not altogether aussi tendre que Zaire. Write!
'Van muerte tan escondida,
Que no te sienta venir,
Porque el plazer del morir,
No mestorne a dar la vida.'

"That's Spanish—from Miguel de Cervantes. 'Come quickly, O death! but be

sure and don't let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I shall feel at your
appearance should unfortunately bring me back again to life.' This you may
slip in quite a propos when you are struggling in the last agonies with the
chicken-bone. Write!
'Il pover 'huomo che non se'n era accorto, Andava combattendo, e era
morto.'
"That's Italian, you perceive—from Ariosto. It means that a great hero, in
the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been fairly killed, continued to
fight valiantly, dead as he was. The application of this to your own case is
obvious—for I trust, Miss Psyche, that you will not neglect to kick for at least
an hour and a half after you have been choked to death by that chicken-bone.
Please to write!
'Und sterb'ich doch, no sterb'ich denn
Durch sie—durch sie!'
"That's German—from Schiller. 'And if I die, at least I die—for thee—for
thee!' Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the cause of your disaster, the
chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or lady either) of sense, wouldn't die, I
should like to know, for a well fattened capon of the right Molucca breed,
stuffed with capers and mushrooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, with
orange-jellies en mosaiques. Write! (You can get them that way at Tortoni's)—
Write, if you please!
"Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too, (one can't be too recherche or
brief in one's Latin, it's getting so common—ignoratio elenchi. He has
committed an ignoratio elenchi—that is to say, he has understood the words of
your proposition, but not the idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some poor
fellow whom you address while choking with that chicken-bone, and who
therefore didn't precisely understand what you were talking about. Throw the
ignoratio elenchi in his teeth, and, at once, you have him annihilated. If he
dares to reply, you can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that speeches are mere
anemonae verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with great brilliancy, has
no smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may be down upon him with
insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter—a phrase which Silius Italicus (see here!)
applies to thoughts pompous and inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the
heart. He can do nothing but roll over and die. Will you be kind enough to
write?
"In Greek we must have some thing pretty—from Demosthenes, for
example. [Greek phrase]
[Anerh o pheugoen kai palin makesetai] There is a tolerably good translation
of it in Hudibras
'For he that flies may fight again,
Which he can never do that's slain.'

"In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your Greek. The
very letters have an air of profundity about them. Only observe, madam, the
astute look of that Epsilon! That Phi ought certainly to be a bishop! Was ever
there a smarter fellow than that Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In short, there is
nothing like Greek for a genuine sensation-paper. In the present case your
application is the most obvious thing in the world. Rap out the sentence, with a
huge oath, and by way of ultimatum at the good-for-nothing dunder-headed
villain who couldn't understand your plain English in relation to the chicken-
bone. He'll take the hint and be off, you may depend upon it."
These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the topic in
question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient. I was, at length, able to
write a genuine Blackwood article, and determined to do it forthwith. In taking
leave of me, Mr. B. made a proposition for the purchase of the paper when
written; but as he could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better
to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a sum. Notwithstanding
this niggardly spirit, however, the gentleman showed his consideration for me
in all other respects, and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His
parting words made a deep impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall
always remember them with gratitude.
"My dear Miss Zenobia," he said, while the tears stood in his eyes, "is there
anything else I can do to promote the success of your laudable undertaking?
Let me reflect! It is just possible that you may not be able, so soon as
convenient, to—to—get yourself drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone,
or—or hung,—or—bitten by a—but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a
couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard—fine fellows, I assure you—
savage, and all that—indeed just the thing for your money—they'll have you
eaten up, auricula and all, in less than five minutes (here's my watch!)—and
then only think of the sensations! Here! I say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you
villain!—let out those"—but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not
another moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my departure,
and accordingly took leave at once—somewhat more abruptly, I admit, than
strict courtesy would have otherwise allowed.
It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into some
immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this view I spent the
greater part of the day in wandering about Edinburgh, seeking for desperate
adventures—adventures adequate to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted
to the vast character of the article I intended to write. In this excursion I was
attended by one negro—servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog Diana, whom I
had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not, however, until late in the
afternoon that I fully succeeded in my arduous undertaking. An important
event then happened of which the following Blackwood article, in the tone
heterogeneous, is the substance and result.
 A PREDICAMENT
What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?

—COMUS.

IT was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the goodly city of
Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets were terrible. Men were talking.
Women were screaming. Children were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts
they rattled. Bulls they bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats
they caterwauled. Dogs they danced. Danced! Could it then be possible?
Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus it is ever. What a
host of gloomy recollections will ever and anon be awakened in the mind of
genius and imaginative contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the
everlasting and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say, the—continued
—yes, the continued and continuous, bitter, harassing, disturbing, and, if I may
be allowed the expression, the very disturbing influence of the serene, and
godlike, and heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what
may be rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly enviable—nay! the
most benignly beautiful, the most deliciously ethereal, and, as it were, the
most pretty (if I may use so bold an expression) thing (pardon me, gentle
reader!) in the world—but I am always led away by my feelings. In such a
mind, I repeat, what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle! The dogs
danced! I—I could not! They frisked—I wept. They capered—I sobbed aloud.
Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the recollection of the
classical reader that exquisite passage in relation to the fitness of things, which
is to be found in the commencement of the third volume of that admirable and
venerable Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.
In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but faithful
companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She had a quantity of
hair over her one eye, and a blue ribband tied fashionably around her neck.
Diana was not more than five inches in height, but her head was somewhat
bigger than her body, and her tail being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air
of injured innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite
with all.
And Pompey, my negro!—sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee? I
had taken Pompey's arm. He was three feet in height (I like to be particular)
and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of age. He had bow-legs and was
corpulent. His mouth should not be called small, nor his ears short. His teeth,
however, were like pearl, and his large full eyes were deliciously white.
Nature had endowed him with no neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual
with that race) in the middle of the upper portion of the feet. He was clad with
a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a stock of nine inches in height,
and a nearly—new drab overcoat which had formerly been in the service of
the tall, stately, and illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was
well cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up out of
the dirt with both hands.
There were three persons in our party, and two of them have already been
the subject of remark. There was a third—that person was myself. I am the
Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not Suky Snobbs. My appearance is
commanding. On the memorable occasion of which I speak I was habited in a
crimson satin dress, with a sky-blue Arabian mantelet. And the dress had
trimmings of green agraffas, and seven graceful flounces of the orange-colored
auricula. I thus formed the third of the party. There was the poodle. There was
Pompey. There was myself. We were three. Thus it is said there were
originally but three Furies—Melty, Nimmy, and Hetty—Meditation, Memory,
and Fiddling.
Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a respectable
distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the populous and very pleasant
streets of the now deserted Edina. On a sudden, there presented itself to view a
church—a Gothic cathedral—vast, venerable, and with a tall steeple, which
towered into the sky. What madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon
my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the giddy
pinnacle, and then survey the immense extent of the city. The door of the
cathedral stood invitingly open. My destiny prevailed. I entered the ominous
archway. Where then was my guardian angel?—if indeed such angels there be.
If! Distressing monosyllable! what world of mystery, and meaning, and doubt,
and uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters! I entered the ominous
archway! I entered; and, without injury to my orange-colored auriculas, I
passed beneath the portal, and emerged within the vestibule. Thus it is said the
immense river Alfred passed, unscathed, and unwetted, beneath the sea.
I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round! Yes, they went
round and up, and round and up and round and up, until I could not help
surmising, with the sagacious Pompey, upon whose supporting arm I leaned in
all the confidence of early affection—I could not help surmising that the upper
end of the continuous spiral ladder had been accidentally, or perhaps
designedly, removed. I paused for breath; and, in the meantime, an accident
occurred of too momentous a nature in a moral, and also in a metaphysical
point of view, to be passed over without notice. It appeared to me—indeed I
was quite confident of the fact—I could not be mistaken—no! I had, for some
moments, carefully and anxiously observed the motions of my Diana—I say
that I could not be mistaken—Diana smelt a rat! At once I called Pompey's
attention to the subject, and he—he agreed with me. There was then no longer
any reasonable room for doubt. The rat had been smelled—and by Diana.
Heavens! shall I ever forget the intense excitement of the moment? Alas! what
is the boasted intellect of man? The rat!—it was there—that is to say, it was
somewhere. Diana smelled the rat. I—I could not! Thus it is said the Prussian
Isis has, for some persons, a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to others
it is perfectly scentless.
The staircase had been surmounted, and there were now only three or four
more upward steps intervening between us and the summit. We still ascended,
and now only one step remained. One step! One little, little step! Upon one
such little step in the great staircase of human life how vast a sum of human
happiness or misery depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey, and then of
the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us. I thought of
Pompey!—alas, I thought of love! I thought of my many false steps which
have been taken, and may be taken again. I resolved to be more cautious, more
reserved. I abandoned the arm of Pompey, and, without his assistance,
surmounted the one remaining step, and gained the chamber of the belfry. I
was followed immediately afterward by my poodle. Pompey alone remained
behind. I stood at the head of the staircase, and encouraged him to ascend. He
stretched forth to me his hand, and unfortunately in so doing was forced to
abandon his firm hold upon the overcoat. Will the gods never cease their
persecution? The overcoat is dropped, and, with one of his feet, Pompey
stepped upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. He stumbled and fell
—this consequence was inevitable. He fell forward, and, with his accursed
head, striking me full in the—in the breast, precipitated me headlong, together
with himself, upon the hard, filthy, and detestable floor of the belfry. But my
revenge was sure, sudden, and complete. Seizing him furiously by the wool
with both hands, I tore out a vast quantity of black, and crisp, and curling
material, and tossed it from me with every manifestation of disdain. It fell
among the ropes of the belfry and remained. Pompey arose, and said no word.
But he regarded me piteously with his large eyes and—sighed. Ye Gods—that
sigh! It sunk into my heart. And the hair—the wool! Could I have reached that
wool I would have bathed it with my tears, in testimony of regret. But alas! it
was now far beyond my grasp. As it dangled among the cordage of the bell, I
fancied it alive. I fancied that it stood on end with indignation. Thus the
happy-dandy Flos Aeris of Java bears, it is said, a beautiful flower, which will
live when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a cord from the
ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for years.
Our quarrel was now made up, and we looked about the room for an
aperture through which to survey the city of Edina. Windows there were none.
The sole light admitted into the gloomy chamber proceeded from a square
opening, about a foot in diameter, at a height of about seven feet from the
floor. Yet what will the energy of true genius not effect? I resolved to clamber
up to this hole. A vast quantity of wheels, pinions, and other cabalistic—
looking machinery stood opposite the hole, close to it; and through the hole
there passed an iron rod from the machinery. Between the wheels and the wall
where the hole lay there was barely room for my body—yet I was desperate,
and determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my side.
"You perceive that aperture, Pompey. I wish to look through it. You will
stand here just beneath the hole—so. Now, hold out one of your hands,
Pompey, and let me step upon it—thus. Now, the other hand, Pompey, and
with its aid I will get upon your shoulders."
He did every thing I wished, and I found, upon getting up, that I could easily
pass my head and neck through the aperture. The prospect was sublime.
Nothing could be more magnificent. I merely paused a moment to bid Diana
behave herself, and assure Pompey that I would be considerate and bear as
lightly as possible upon his shoulders. I told him I would be tender of his
feelings—ossi tender que beefsteak. Having done this justice to my faithful
friend, I gave myself up with great zest and enthusiasm to the enjoyment of
the scene which so obligingly spread itself out before my eyes.
Upon this subject, however, I shall forbear to dilate. I will not describe the
city of Edinburgh. Every one has been to the city of Edinburgh. Every one has
been to Edinburgh—the classic Edina. I will confine myself to the momentous
details of my own lamentable adventure. Having, in some measure, satisfied
my curiosity in regard to the extent, situation, and general appearance of the
city, I had leisure to survey the church in which I was, and the delicate
architecture of the steeple. I observed that the aperture through which I had
thrust my head was an opening in the dial-plate of a gigantic clock, and must
have appeared, from the street, as a large key-hole, such as we see in the face
of the French watches. No doubt the true object was to admit the arm of an
attendant, to adjust, when necessary, the hands of the clock from within. I
observed also, with surprise, the immense size of these hands, the longest of
which could not have been less than ten feet in length, and, where broadest,
eight or nine inches in breadth. They were of solid steel apparently, and their
edges appeared to be sharp. Having noticed these particulars, and some others,
I again turned my eyes upon the glorious prospect below, and soon became
absorbed in contemplation.
From this, after some minutes, I was aroused by the voice of Pompey, who
declared that he could stand it no longer, and requested that I would be so kind
as to come down. This was unreasonable, and I told him so in a speech of
some length. He replied, but with an evident misunderstanding of my ideas
upon the subject. I accordingly grew angry, and told him in plain words, that
he was a fool, that he had committed an ignoramus e-clench-eye, that his
notions were mere insommary Bovis, and his words little better than an
ennemywerrybor'em. With this he appeared satisfied, and I resumed my
contemplations.
It might have been half an hour after this altercation when, as I was deeply
absorbed in the heavenly scenery beneath me, I was startled by something
very cold which pressed with a gentle pressure on the back of my neck. It is
needless to say that I felt inexpressibly alarmed. I knew that Pompey was
beneath my feet, and that Diana was sitting, according to my explicit
directions, upon her hind legs, in the farthest corner of the room. What could it
be? Alas! I but too soon discovered. Turning my head gently to one side, I
perceived, to my extreme horror, that the huge, glittering, scimetar-like
minute-hand of the clock had, in the course of its hourly revolution, descended
upon my neck. There was, I knew, not a second to be lost. I pulled back at
once—but it was too late. There was no chance of forcing my head through
the mouth of that terrible trap in which it was so fairly caught, and which grew
narrower and narrower with a rapidity too horrible to be conceived. The agony
of that moment is not to be imagined. I threw up my hands and endeavored,
with all my strength, to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I might as well
have tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down it came, closer and
yet closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; but he said that I had hurt his
feelings by calling him 'an ignorant old squint-eye:' I yelled to Diana; but she
only said 'bow-wow-wow,' and that I had told her 'on no account to stir from
the corner.' Thus I had no relief to expect from my associates.
Meantime the ponderous and terrific Scythe of Time (for I now discovered
the literal import of that classical phrase) had not stopped, nor was it likely to
stop, in its career. Down and still down, it came. It had already buried its sharp
edge a full inch in my flesh, and my sensations grew indistinct and confused.
At one time I fancied myself in Philadelphia with the stately Dr. Moneypenny,
at another in the back parlor of Mr. Blackwood receiving his invaluable
instructions. And then again the sweet recollection of better and earlier times
came over me, and I thought of that happy period when the world was not all a
desert, and Pompey not altogether cruel.
The ticking of the machinery amused me. Amused me, I say, for my
sensations now bordered upon perfect happiness, and the most trifling
circumstances afforded me pleasure. The eternal click-clak, click-clak, click-
clak of the clock was the most melodious of music in my ears, and
occasionally even put me in mind of the graceful sermonic harangues of Dr.
Ollapod. Then there were the great figures upon the dial-plate—how
intelligent how intellectual, they all looked! And presently they took to
dancing the Mazurka, and I think it was the figure V. who performed the most
to my satisfaction. She was evidently a lady of breeding. None of your
swaggerers, and nothing at all indelicate in her motions. She did the pirouette
to admiration—whirling round upon her apex. I made an endeavor to hand her
a chair, for I saw that she appeared fatigued with her exertions—and it was not
until then that I fully perceived my lamentable situation. Lamentable indeed!
The bar had buried itself two inches in my neck. I was aroused to a sense of
exquisite pain. I prayed for death, and, in the agony of the moment, could not
help repeating those exquisite verses of the poet Miguel De Cervantes:
Vanny Buren, tan escondida

Query no te senty venny

Pork and pleasure, delly morry

Nommy, torny, darry, widdy!

But now a new horror presented itself, and one indeed sufficient to startle
the strongest nerves. My eyes, from the cruel pressure of the machine, were
absolutely starting from their sockets. While I was thinking how I should
possibly manage without them, one actually tumbled out of my head, and,
rolling down the steep side of the steeple, lodged in the rain gutter which ran
along the eaves of the main building. The loss of the eye was not so much as
the insolent air of independence and contempt with which it regarded me after
it was out. There it lay in the gutter just under my nose, and the airs it gave
itself would have been ridiculous had they not been disgusting. Such a
winking and blinking were never before seen. This behavior on the part of my
eye in the gutter was not only irritating on account of its manifest insolence
and shameful ingratitude, but was also exceedingly inconvenient on account of
the sympathy which always exists between two eyes of the same head,
however far apart. I was forced, in a manner, to wink and to blink, whether I
would or not, in exact concert with the scoundrelly thing that lay just under
my nose. I was presently relieved, however, by the dropping out of the other
eye. In falling it took the same direction (possibly a concerted plot) as its
fellow. Both rolled out of the gutter together, and in truth I was very glad to
get rid of them.
The bar was now four inches and a half deep in my neck, and there was only
a little bit of skin to cut through. My sensations were those of entire happiness,
for I felt that in a few minutes, at farthest, I should be relieved from my
disagreeable situation. And in this expectation I was not at all deceived. At
twenty-five minutes past five in the afternoon, precisely, the huge minute-hand
had proceeded sufficiently far on its terrible revolution to sever the small
remainder of my neck. I was not sorry to see the head which had occasioned
me so much embarrassment at length make a final separation from my body. It
first rolled down the side of the steeple, then lodge, for a few seconds, in the
gutter, and then made its way, with a plunge, into the middle of the street.
I will candidly confess that my feelings were now of the most singular—nay,
of the most mysterious, the most perplexing and incomprehensible character.
My senses were here and there at one and the same moment. With my head I
imagined, at one time, that I, the head, was the real Signora Psyche Zenobia—
at another I felt convinced that myself, the body, was the proper identity. To
clear my ideas on this topic I felt in my pocket for my snuff-box, but, upon
getting it, and endeavoring to apply a pinch of its grateful contents in the
ordinary manner, I became immediately aware of my peculiar deficiency, and
threw the box at once down to my head. It took a pinch with great satisfaction,
and smiled me an acknowledgement in return. Shortly afterward it made me a
speech, which I could hear but indistinctly without ears. I gathered enough,
however, to know that it was astonished at my wishing to remain alive under
such circumstances. In the concluding sentences it quoted the noble words of
Ariosto—
Il pover hommy che non sera corty

And have a combat tenty erry morty; thus comparing me to the hero who, in
the heat of the combat, not perceiving that he was dead, continued to contest
the battle with inextinguishable valor. There was nothing now to prevent my
getting down from my elevation, and I did so. What it was that Pompey saw so
very peculiar in my appearance I have never yet been able to find out. The
fellow opened his mouth from ear to ear, and shut his two eyes as if he were
endeavoring to crack nuts between the lids. Finally, throwing off his overcoat,
he made one spring for the staircase and disappeared. I hurled after the
scoundrel these vehement words of Demosthenes—
Andrew O'Phlegethon, you really make haste to fly, and then turned to the
darling of my heart, to the one-eyed! the shaggy-haired Diana. Alas! what a
horrible vision affronted my eyes? Was that a rat I saw skulking into his hole?
Are these the picked bones of the little angel who has been cruelly devoured
by the monster? Ye gods! and what do I behold—is that the departed spirit, the
shade, the ghost, of my beloved puppy, which I perceive sitting with a grace so
melancholy, in the corner? Hearken! for she speaks, and, heavens! it is in the
German of Schiller—
"Unt stubby duk, so stubby dun
Duk she! duk she!"

Alas! and are not her words too true?

"And if I died, at least I died

For thee—for thee."

Sweet creature! she too has sacrificed herself in my behalf. Dogless,

niggerless, headless, what now remains for the unhappy Signora Psyche
Zenobia? Alas—nothing! I have done.

MYSTIFICATION
Slid, if these be your "passados" and "montantes," I'll have
none o' them.

—NED KNOWLES.

THE BARON RITZNER VON JUNG was a noble Hungarian family, every
member of which (at least as far back into antiquity as any certain records
extend) was more or less remarkable for talent of some description—the
majority for that species of grotesquerie in conception of which Tieck, a scion
of the house, has given a vivid, although by no means the most vivid
exemplifications. My acquaintance with Ritzner commenced at the
magnificent Château Jung, into which a train of droll adventures, not to be
made public, threw a place in his regard, and here, with somewhat more
difficulty, a partial insight into his mental conformation. In later days this
insight grew more clear, as the intimacy which had at first permitted it became
more close; and when, after three years of the character of the Baron Ritzner
von Jung.
I remember the buzz of curiosity which his advent excited within the college
precincts on the night of the twenty-fifth of June. I remember still more
distinctly, that while he was pronounced by all parties at first sight "the most
remarkable man in the world," no person made any attempt at accounting for
his opinion. That he was unique appeared so undeniable, that it was deemed
impertinent to inquire wherein the uniquity consisted. But, letting this matter
pass for the present, I will merely observe that, from the first moment of his
setting foot within the limits of the university, he began to exercise over the
habits, manners, persons, purses, and propensities of the whole community
which surrounded him, an influence the most extensive and despotic, yet at the
same time the most indefinite and altogether unaccountable. Thus the brief
period of his residence at the university forms an era in its annals, and is
characterized by all classes of people appertaining to it or its dependencies as
"that very extraordinary epoch forming the domination of the Baron Ritzner
von Jung." then of no particular age, by which I mean that it was impossible to
form a guess respecting his age by any data personally afforded. He might
have been fifteen or fifty, and was twenty-one years and seven months. He
was by no means a handsome man—perhaps the reverse. The contour of his
face was somewhat angular and harsh. His forehead was lofty and very fair;
his nose a snub; his eyes large, heavy, glassy, and meaningless. About the
mouth there was more to be observed. The lips were gently protruded, and
rested the one upon the other, after such a fashion that it is impossible to
conceive any, even the most complex, combination of human features,
conveying so entirely, and so singly, the idea of unmitigated gravity, solemnity
and repose.
It will be perceived, no doubt, from what I have already said, that the Baron
was one of those human anomalies now and then to be found, who make the
science of mystification the study and the business of their lives. For this
science a peculiar turn of mind gave him instinctively the cue, while his
physical appearance afforded him unusual facilities for carrying his prospects
into effect. I quaintly termed the domination of the Baron Ritzner von Jung,
ever rightly entered into the mystery which overshadowed his character. I truly
think that no person at the university, with the exception of myself, ever
suspected him to be capable of a joke, verbal or practical:—the old bull-dog at
the garden-gate would sooner have been accused,—the ghost of Heraclitus,—
or the wig of the Emeritus Professor of Theology. This, too, when it was
evident that the most egregious and unpardonable of all conceivable tricks,
whimsicalities and buffooneries were brought about, if not directly by him, at
least plainly through his intermediate agency or connivance. The beauty, if I
may so call it, of his art mystifique, lay in that consummate ability (resulting
from an almost intuitive knowledge of human nature, and a most wonderful
self-possession,) by means of which he never failed to make it appear that the
drolleries he was occupied in bringing to a point, arose partly in spite, and
partly in consequence of the laudable efforts he was making for their
prevention, and for the preservation of the good order and dignity of Alma
Mater. The deep, the poignant, the overwhelming mortification, which upon
each such failure of his praise worthy endeavors, would suffuse every
lineament of his countenance, left not the slightest room for doubt of his
sincerity in the bosoms of even his most skeptical companions. The adroitness,
too, was no less worthy of observation by which he contrived to shift the sense
of the grotesque from the creator to the created—from his own person to the
absurdities to which he had given rise. In no instance before that of which I
speak, have I known the habitual mystific escape the natural consequence of
his manoevres—an attachment of the ludicrous to his own character and
person. Continually enveloped in an atmosphere of whim, my friend appeared
to live only for the severities of society; and not even his own household have
for a moment associated other ideas than those of the rigid and august with the
memory of the Baron Ritzner von Jung, the demon of the dolce far niente lay
like an incubus upon the university. Nothing, at least, was done beyond eating
and drinking and making merry. The apartments of the students were
converted into so many pot-houses, and there was no pot-house of them all
more famous or more frequented than that of the Baron. Our carousals here
were many, and boisterous, and long, and never unfruitful of events.
Upon one occasion we had protracted our sitting until nearly daybreak, and
an unusual quantity of wine had been drunk. The company consisted of seven
or eight individuals besides the Baron and myself. Most of these were young
men of wealth, of high connection, of great family pride, and all alive with an
exaggerated sense of honor. They abounded in the most ultra German opinions
respecting the duello. To these Quixotic notions some recent Parisian
publications, backed by three or four desperate and fatal conversation, during
the greater part of the night, had run wild upon the all—engrossing topic of the
times. The Baron, who had been unusually silent and abstracted in the earlier
portion of the evening, at length seemed to be aroused from his apathy, took a
leading part in the discourse, and dwelt upon the benefits, and more especially
upon the beauties, of the received code of etiquette in passages of arms with
an ardor, an eloquence, an impressiveness, and an affectionateness of manner,
which elicited the warmest enthusiasm from his hearers in general, and
absolutely staggered even myself, who well knew him to be at heart a ridiculer
of those very points for which he contended, and especially to hold the entire
fanfaronade of duelling etiquette in the sovereign contempt which it deserves.
Looking around me during a pause in the Baron's discourse (of which my
readers may gather some faint idea when I say that it bore resemblance to the
fervid, chanting, monotonous, yet musical sermonic manner of Coleridge), I
perceived symptoms of even more than the general interest in the countenance
of one of the party. This gentleman, whom I shall call Hermann, was an
original in every respect—except, perhaps, in the single particular that he was
a very great fool. He contrived to bear, however, among a particular set at the
university, a reputation for deep metaphysical thinking, and, I believe, for
some logical talent. As a duellist he had acquired who had fallen at his hands;
but they were many. He was a man of courage undoubtedly. But it was upon
his minute acquaintance with the etiquette of the duello, and the nicety of his
sense of honor, that he most especially prided himself. These things were a
hobby which he rode to the death. To Ritzner, ever upon the lookout for the
grotesque, his peculiarities had for a long time past afforded food for
mystification. Of this, however, I was not aware; although, in the present
instance, I saw clearly that something of a whimsical nature was upon the tapis
with my friend, and that Hermann was its especial object.
As the former proceeded in his discourse, or rather monologue I perceived
the excitement of the latter momently increasing. At length he spoke; offering
some objection to a point insisted upon by R., and giving his reasons in detail.
To these the Baron replied at length (still maintaining his exaggerated tone of
sentiment) and concluding, in what I thought very bad taste, with a sarcasm
and a sneer. The hobby of Hermann now took the bit in his teeth. This I could
discern by the studied hair-splitting farrago of his rejoinder. His last words I
distinctly remember. "Your opinions, allow me to say, Baron von Jung,
although in the main correct, are, in many nice points, discreditable to yourself
and to the university of which you are a member. In a few respects they are
even unworthy of serious refutation. I would say more than this, sir, were it
not for the fear of giving you offence (here the speaker smiled blandly), I
would say, sir, that your opinions are not the opinions to be expected from a
gentleman."
As Hermann completed this equivocal sentence, all eyes were turned upon
the Baron. He became pale, then excessively red; then, dropping his pocket-
handkerchief, stooped to recover it, when I caught a glimpse of his
countenance, while it could be seen by no one else at the table. It was radiant
with the quizzical expression which was its natural character, but which I had
never seen it assume except when we were alone together, and when he unbent
himself freely. In an instant afterward he stood erect, confronting Hermann;
and so total an alteration of countenance in so short a period I certainly never
saw before. For a moment I even fancied that I had misconceived him, and
that he was in sober earnest. He appeared to be stifling with passion, and his
face was cadaverously white. For a short time he remained silent, apparently
striving to master his emotion. Having at length seemingly succeeded, he
reached a decanter which stood near him, saying as he held it firmly clenched
"The language you have thought proper to employ, Mynheer Hermann, in
addressing yourself to me, is objectionable in so many particulars, that I have
neither temper nor time for specification. That my opinions, however, are not
the opinions to be expected from a gentleman, is an observation so directly
offensive as to allow me but one line of conduct. Some courtesy, nevertheless,
is due to the presence of this company, and to yourself, at this moment, as my
guest. You will pardon me, therefore, if, upon this consideration, I deviate
slightly from the general usage among gentlemen in similar cases of personal
affront. You will forgive me for the moderate tax I shall make upon your
imagination, and endeavor to consider, for an instant, the reflection of your
person in yonder mirror as the living Mynheer Hermann himself. This being
done, there will be no difficulty whatever. I shall discharge this decanter of
wine at your image in yonder mirror, and thus fulfil all the spirit, if not the
exact letter, of resentment for your insult, while the necessity of physical
violence to your real person will be obviated."
With these words he hurled the decanter, full of wine, against the mirror
which hung directly opposite Hermann; striking the reflection of his person
with great precision, and of course shattering the glass into fragments. The
whole company at once started to their feet, and, with the exception of myself
and Ritzner, took their departure. As Hermann went out, the Baron whispered
me that I should follow him and make an offer of my services. To this I
agreed; not knowing precisely what to make of so ridiculous a piece of
business.
The duellist accepted my aid with his stiff and ultra recherche air, and,
taking my arm, led me to his apartment. I could hardly forbear laughing in his
face while he proceeded to discuss, with the profoundest gravity, what he
termed "the refinedly peculiar character" of the insult he had received. After a
tiresome harangue in his ordinary style, he took down from his book shelves a
number of musty volumes on the subject of the duello, and entertained me for
a long time with their contents; reading aloud, and commenting earnestly as he
read. I can just remember the titles of some of the works. There were the
"Ordonnance of Philip le Bel on Single Combat"; the "Theatre of Honor," by
Favyn, and a treatise "On the Permission of Duels," by Andiguier. He
displayed, also, with much pomposity, Brantome's "Memoirs of Duels,"—
published at Cologne, 1666, in the types of Elzevir—a precious and unique
vellum-paper volume, with a fine margin, and bound by Derome. But he
requested my attention particularly, and with an air of mysterious sagacity, to a
thick octavo, written in barbarous Latin by one Hedelin, a Frenchman, and
having the quaint title, "Duelli Lex Scripta, et non; aliterque." From this he
read me one of the drollest chapters in the world concerning "Injuriae per
applicationem, per constructionem, et per se," about half of which, he averred,
was strictly applicable to his own "refinedly peculiar" case, although not one
syllable of the whole matter could I understand for the life of me. Having
finished the chapter, he closed the book, and demanded what I thought
necessary to be done. I replied that I had entire confidence in his superior
delicacy of feeling, and would abide by what he proposed. With this answer he
seemed flattered, and sat down to write a note to the Baron. It ran thus:
Sir,—My friend, M. P.-, will hand you this note. I find it incumbent upon me
to request, at your earliest convenience, an explanation of this evening's
occurrences at your chambers. In the event of your declining this request, Mr.
P. will be happy to arrange, with any friend whom you may appoint, the steps
preliminary to a meeting.
With sentiments of perfect respect,
Your most humble servant,
JOHANN HERMAN.
To the Baron Ritzner von Jung,
Not knowing what better to do, I called upon Ritzner with this epistle. He
bowed as I presented it; then, with a grave countenance, motioned me to a
seat. Having perused the cartel, he wrote the following reply, which I carried
to Hermann.
SIR,—Through our common friend, Mr. P., I have received your note of this
evening. Upon due reflection I frankly admit the propriety of the explanation
you suggest. This being admitted, I still find great difficulty, (owing to the
refinedly peculiar nature of our disagreement, and of the personal affront
offered on my part,) in so wording what I have to say by way of apology, as to
meet all the minute exigencies, and all the variable shadows, of the case. I
have great reliance, however, on that extreme delicacy of discrimination, in
matters appertaining to the rules of etiquette, for which you have been so long
and so pre-eminently distinguished. With perfect certainty, therefore, of being
comprehended, I beg leave, in lieu of offering any sentiments of my own, to
refer you to the opinions of Sieur Hedelin, as set forth in the ninth paragraph
of the chapter of "Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se," in
his "Duelli Lex scripta, et non; aliterque." The nicety of your discernment in
all the matters here treated, will be sufficient, I am assured, to convince you
that the mere circumstance of me referring you to this admirable passage,
ought to satisfy your request, as a man of honor, for explanation.
With sentiments of profound respect,
Your most obedient servant,
VON JUNG.
The Herr Johann Hermann
Hermann commenced the perusal of this epistle with a scowl, which,
however, was converted into a smile of the most ludicrous self-complacency
as he came to the rigmarole about Injuriae per applicationem, per
constructionem, et per se. Having finished reading, he begged me, with the
blandest of all possible smiles, to be seated, while he made reference to the
treatise in question. Turning to the passage specified, he read it with great care
to himself, then closed the book, and desired me, in my character of
confidential acquaintance, to express to the Baron von Jung his exalted sense
of his chivalrous behavior, and, in that of second, to assure him that the
explanation offered was of the fullest, the most honorable, and the most
unequivocally satisfactory nature.
Somewhat amazed at all this, I made my rêtreat to the Baron. He seemed to
receive Hermann's amicable letter as a matter of course, and after a few words
of general conversation, went to an inner room and brought out the everlasting
treatise "Duelli Lex scripta, et non; aliterque." He handed me the volume and
asked me to look over some portion of it. I did so, but to little purpose, not
being able to gather the least particle of meaning. He then took the book
himself, and read me a chapter aloud. To my surprise, what he read proved to
be a most horribly absurd account of a duel between two baboons. He now
explained the mystery; showing that the volume, as it appeared prima facie,
was written upon the plan of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas; that is to say,
the language was ingeniously framed so as to present to the ear all the outward
signs of intelligibility, and even of profundity, while in fact not a shadow of
meaning existed. The key to the whole was found in leaving out every second
and third word alternately, when there appeared a series of ludicrous quizzes
upon a single combat as practised in modern times.
The Baron afterwards informed me that he had purposely thrown the treatise
in Hermann's way two or three weeks before the adventure, and that he was
satisfied, from the general tenor of his conversation, that he had studied it with
the deepest attention, and firmly believed it to be a work of unusual merit.
Upon this hint he proceeded. Hermann would have died a thousand deaths
rather than acknowledge his inability to understand anything and everything in
the universe that had ever been written about the duello.
Littleton Barry.
 DIDDLING
CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE
EXACT SCIENCES.

Hey, diddle diddle

The cat and the fiddle

SINCE the world began there have been two Jeremys. The one wrote a
Jeremiad about usury, and was called Jeremy Bentham. He has been much
admired by Mr. John Neal, and was a great man in a small way. The other
gave name to the most important of the Exact Sciences, and was a great man
in a great way—I may say, indeed, in the very greatest of ways.
Diddling—or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle—is
sufficiently well understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing diddling, is
somewhat difficult to define. We may get, however, at a tolerably distinct
conception of the matter in hand, by defining—not the thing, diddling, in itself
—but man, as an animal that diddles. Had Plato but hit upon this, he would
have been spared the affront of the picked chicken.
Very pertinently it was demanded of Plato, why a picked chicken, which was
clearly "a biped without feathers," was not, according to his own definition, a
man? But I am not to be bothered by any similar query. Man is an animal that
diddles, and there is no animal that diddles but man. It will take an entire hen-
coop of picked chickens to get over that.
What constitutes the essence, the nare, the principle of diddling is, in fact,
peculiar to the class of creatures that wear coats and pantaloons. A crow
thieves; a fox cheats; a weasel outwits; a man diddles. To diddle is his destiny.
"Man was made to mourn," says the poet. But not so:—he was made to diddle.
This is his aim—his object—his end. And for this reason when a man's
diddled we say he's "done."
Diddling, rightly considered, is a compound, of which the ingredients are
minuteness, interest, perseverance, ingenuity, audacity, nonchalance,
originality, impertinence, and grin.
Minuteness:—Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a small scale.
His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper at sight. Should he ever be
tempted into magnificent speculation, he then, at once, loses his distinctive
features, and becomes what we term "financier." This latter word conveys the
diddling idea in every respect except that of magnitude. A diddler may thus be
regarded as a banker in petto—a "financial operation," as a diddle at
Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to "Flaccus"—as a Mastodon to
a mouse—as the tail of a comet to that of a pig.
Interest:—Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to diddle for the
mere sake of the diddle. He has an object in view—his pocket—and yours. He
regards always the main chance. He looks to Number One. You are Number
Two, and must look to yourself.
Perseverance:—Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily discouraged.
Should even the banks break, he cares nothing about it. He steadily pursues his
end, and 'Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto,' so he never lets go of
his game.
Ingenuity:—Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness large. He
understands plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he not Alexander he
would be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he would be a maker of patent rat-
traps or an angler for trout.
Audacity:—Your diddler is audacious.—He is a bold man. He carries the
war into Africa. He conquers all by assault. He would not fear the daggers of
Frey Herren. With a little more prudence Dick Turpin would have made a
good diddler; with a trifle less blarney, Daniel O'Connell; with a pound or two
more brains Charles the Twelfth.
Nonchalance:—Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all nervous. He
never had any nerves. He is never seduced into a flurry. He is never put out—
unless put out of doors. He is cool—cool as a cucumber. He is calm—"calm as
a smile from Lady Bury." He is easy—easy as an old glove, or the damsels of
ancient Baiae.
Originality:—Your diddler is original—conscientiously so. His thoughts are
his own. He would scorn to employ those of another. A stale trick is his
aversion. He would return a purse, I am sure, upon discovering that he had
obtained it by an unoriginal diddle.
Impertinence.—Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets his arms
a-kimbo. He thrusts his hands in his trowsers' pockets. He sneers in your face.
He treads on your corns. He eats your dinner, he drinks your wine, he borrows
your money, he pulls your nose, he kicks your poodle, and he kisses your wife.
Grin:—Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this nobody sees but
himself. He grins when his daily work is done—when his allotted labors are
accomplished—at night in his own closet, and altogether for his own private
entertainment. He goes home. He locks his door. He divests himself of his
clothes. He puts out his candle. He gets into bed. He places his head upon the
pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is no hypothesis. It is a
matter of course. I reason a priori, and a diddle would be no diddle without a
grin.
The origin of the diddle is referrable to the infancy of the Human Race.
Perhaps the first diddler was Adam. At all events, we can trace the science
back to a very remote period of antiquity. The moderns, however, have
brought it to a perfection never dreamed of by our thick-headed progenitors.
Without pausing to speak of the "old saws," therefore, I shall content myself
with a compendious account of some of the more "modern instances."
A very good diddle is this. A housekeeper in want of a sofa, for instance, is
seen to go in and out of several cabinet warehouses. At length she arrives at
one offering an excellent variety. She is accosted, and invited to enter, by a
polite and voluble individual at the door. She finds a sofa well adapted to her
views, and upon inquiring the price, is surprised and delighted to hear a sum
named at least twenty per cent. lower than her expectations. She hastens to
make the purchase, gets a bill and receipt, leaves her address, with a request
that the article be sent home as speedily as possible, and retires amid a
profusion of bows from the shopkeeper. The night arrives and no sofa. A
servant is sent to make inquiry about the delay. The whole transaction is
denied. No sofa has been sold—no money received—except by the diddler,
who played shop-keeper for the nonce.
Our cabinet warehouses are left entirely unattended, and thus afford every
facility for a trick of this kind. Visiters enter, look at furniture, and depart
unheeded and unseen. Should any one wish to purchase, or to inquire the price
of an article, a bell is at hand, and this is considered amply sufficient.
Again, quite a respectable diddle is this. A well-dressed individual enters a
shop, makes a purchase to the value of a dollar; finds, much to his vexation,
that he has left his pocket-book in another coat pocket; and so says to the
shopkeeper—
"My dear sir, never mind; just oblige me, will you, by sending the bundle
home? But stay! I really believe that I have nothing less than a five dollar bill,
even there. However, you can send four dollars in change with the bundle, you
know."
"Very good, sir," replies the shop-keeper, who entertains, at once, a lofty
opinion of the high-mindedness of his customer. "I know fellows," he says to
himself, "who would just have put the goods under their arm, and walked off
with a promise to call and pay the dollar as they came by in the afternoon."
A boy is sent with the parcel and change. On the route, quite accidentally, he
is met by the purchaser, who exclaims:
"Ah! This is my bundle, I see—I thought you had been home with it, long
ago. Well, go on! My wife, Mrs. Trotter, will give you the five dollars—I left
instructions with her to that effect. The change you might as well give to me—
I shall want some silver for the Post Office. Very good! One, two, is this a
good quarter?—three, four—quite right! Say to Mrs. Trotter that you met me,
and be sure now and do not loiter on the way."
The boy doesn't loiter at all—but he is a very long time in getting back from
his errand—for no lady of the precise name of Mrs. Trotter is to be discovered.
He consoles himself, however, that he has not been such a fool as to leave the
goods without the money, and re-entering his shop with a self-satisfied air,
feels sensibly hurt and indignant when his master asks him what has become
of the change.
A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. The captain of a ship, which is about to
sail, is presented by an official looking person with an unusually moderate bill
of city charges. Glad to get off so easily, and confused by a hundred duties
pressing upon him all at once, he discharges the claim forthwith. In about
fifteen minutes, another and less reasonable bill is handed him by one who
soon makes it evident that the first collector was a diddler, and the original
collection a diddle.
And here, too, is a somewhat similar thing. A steamboat is casting loose
from the wharf. A traveller, portmanteau in hand, is discovered running toward
the wharf, at full speed. Suddenly, he makes a dead halt, stoops, and picks up
something from the ground in a very agitated manner. It is a pocket-book, and
—"Has any gentleman lost a pocketbook?" he cries. No one can say that he
has exactly lost a pocket-book; but a great excitement ensues, when the
treasure trove is found to be of value. The boat, however, must not be
detained.
"Time and tide wait for no man," says the captain.
"For God's sake, stay only a few minutes," says the finder of the book—"the
true claimant will presently appear."
"Can't wait!" replies the man in authority; "cast off there, d'ye hear?"
"What am I to do?" asks the finder, in great tribulation. "I am about to leave
the country for some years, and I cannot conscientiously retain this large
amount in my possession. I beg your pardon, sir," [here he addresses a
gentleman on shore,] "but you have the air of an honest man. Will you confer
upon me the favor of taking charge of this pocket-book—I know I can trust
you—and of advertising it? The notes, you see, amount to a very considerable
sum. The owner will, no doubt, insist upon rewarding you for your trouble—
"Me!—no, you!—it was you who found the book."
"Well, if you must have it so—I will take a small reward—just to satisfy
your scruples. Let me see—why these notes are all hundreds—bless my soul!
a hundred is too much to take—fifty would be quite enough, I am sure—
"Cast off there!" says the captain.
"But then I have no change for a hundred, and upon the whole, you had
better—
"Cast off there!" says the captain.
"Never mind!" cries the gentleman on shore, who has been examining his
own pocket-book for the last minute or so—"never mind! I can fix it—here is
a fifty on the Bank of North America—throw the book."
And the over-conscientious finder takes the fifty with marked reluctance,
and throws the gentleman the book, as desired, while the steamboat fumes and
fizzes on her way. In about half an hour after her departure, the "large amount"
is seen to be a "counterfeit presentment," and the whole thing a capital diddle.
A bold diddle is this. A camp-meeting, or something similar, is to be held at
a certain spot which is accessible only by means of a free bridge. A diddler
stations himself upon this bridge, respectfully informs all passers by of the
new county law, which establishes a toll of one cent for foot passengers, two
for horses and donkeys, and so forth, and so forth. Some grumble but all
submit, and the diddler goes home a wealthier man by some fifty or sixty
dollars well earned. This taking a toll from a great crowd of people is an
excessively troublesome thing.
A neat diddle is this. A friend holds one of the diddler's promises to pay,
filled up and signed in due form, upon the ordinary blanks printed in red ink.
The diddler purchases one or two dozen of these blanks, and every day dips
one of them in his soup, makes his dog jump for it, and finally gives it to him
as a bonne bouche. The note arriving at maturity, the diddler, with the diddler's
dog, calls upon the friend, and the promise to pay is made the topic of
discussion. The friend produces it from his escritoire, and is in the act of
reaching it to the diddler, when up jumps the diddler's dog and devours it
forthwith. The diddler is not only surprised but vexed and incensed at the
absurd behavior of his dog, and expresses his entire readiness to cancel the
obligation at any moment when the evidence of the obligation shall be
forthcoming.
A very mean diddle is this. A lady is insulted in the street by a diddler's
accomplice. The diddler himself flies to her assistance, and, giving his friend a
comfortable thrashing, insists upon attending the lady to her own door. He
bows, with his hand upon his heart, and most respectfully bids her adieu. She
entreats him, as her deliverer, to walk in and be introduced to her big brother
and her papa. With a sigh, he declines to do so. "Is there no way, then, sir," she
murmurs, "in which I may be permitted to testify my gratitude?"
"Why, yes, madam, there is. Will you be kind enough to lend me a couple of
shillings?"
In the first excitement of the moment the lady decides upon fainting
outright. Upon second thought, however, she opens her purse-strings and
delivers the specie. Now this, I say, is a diddle minute—for one entire moiety
of the sum borrowed has to be paid to the gentleman who had the trouble of
performing the insult, and who had then to stand still and be thrashed for
performing it.
Rather a small but still a scientific diddle is this. The diddler approaches the
bar of a tavern, and demands a couple of twists of tobacco. These are handed
to him, when, having slightly examined them, he says:
 "I don't much like this tobacco. Here, take it back, and give me a glass of
brandy and water in its place." The brandy and water is furnished and imbibed,
and the diddler makes his way to the door. But the voice of the tavern-keeper
arrests him.
"I believe, sir, you have forgotten to pay for your brandy and water."
"Pay for my brandy and water!—didn't I give you the tobacco for the brandy
and water? What more would you have?"
"But, sir, if you please, I don't remember that you paid me for the tobacco."
"What do you mean by that, you scoundrel?—Didn't I give you back your
tobacco? Isn't that your tobacco lying there? Do you expect me to pay for what
I did not take?"
"But, sir," says the publican, now rather at a loss what to say, "but sir-"
"But me no buts, sir," interrupts the diddler, apparently in very high
dudgeon, and slamming the door after him, as he makes his escape.—"But me
no buts, sir, and none of your tricks upon travellers."
Here again is a very clever diddle, of which the simplicity is not its least
recommendation. A purse, or pocket-book, being really lost, the loser inserts
in one of the daily papers of a large city a fully descriptive advertisement.
Whereupon our diddler copies the facts of this advertisement, with a change
of heading, of general phraseology and address. The original, for instance, is
long, and verbose, is headed "A Pocket-Book Lost!" and requires the treasure,
when found, to be left at No. 1 Tom Street. The copy is brief, and being
headed with "Lost" only, indicates No. 2 Dick, or No. 3 Harry Street, as the
locality at which the owner may be seen. Moreover, it is inserted in at least
five or six of the daily papers of the day, while in point of time, it makes its
appearance only a few hours after the original. Should it be read by the loser
of the purse, he would hardly suspect it to have any reference to his own
misfortune. But, of course, the chances are five or six to one, that the finder
will repair to the address given by the diddler, rather than to that pointed out
by the rightful proprietor. The former pays the reward, pockets the treasure
and decamps.
Quite an analogous diddle is this. A lady of ton has dropped, some where in
the street, a diamond ring of very unusual value. For its recovery, she offers
some forty or fifty dollars reward—giving, in her advertisement, a very minute
description of the gem, and of its settings, and declaring that, on its restoration
at No. so and so, in such and such Avenue, the reward would be paid instanter,
without a single question being asked. During the lady's absence from home, a
day or two afterwards, a ring is heard at the door of No. so and so, in such and
such Avenue; a servant appears; the lady of the house is asked for and is
declared to be out, at which astounding information, the visitor expresses the
most poignant regret. His business is of importance and concerns the lady
herself. In fact, he had the good fortune to find her diamond ring. But perhaps
it would be as well that he should call again. "By no means!" says the servant;
and "By no means!" says the lady's sister and the lady's sister-in-law, who are
summoned forthwith. The ring is clamorously identified, the reward is paid,
and the finder nearly thrust out of doors. The lady returns and expresses some
little dissatisfaction with her sister and sister-in-law, because they happen to
have paid forty or fifty dollars for a fac-simile of her diamond ring—a fac-
simile made out of real pinch-beck and unquestionable paste.
But as there is really no end to diddling, so there would be none to this
essay, were I even to hint at half the variations, or inflections, of which this
science is susceptible. I must bring this paper, perforce, to a conclusion, and
this I cannot do better than by a summary notice of a very decent, but rather
elaborate diddle, of which our own city was made the theatre, not very long
ago, and which was subsequently repeated with success, in other still more
verdant localities of the Union. A middle-aged gentleman arrives in town from
parts unknown. He is remarkably precise, cautious, staid, and deliberate in his
demeanor. His dress is scrupulously neat, but plain, unostentatious. He wears a
white cravat, an ample waistcoat, made with an eye to comfort alone; thick-
soled cosy-looking shoes, and pantaloons without straps. He has the whole air,
in fact, of your well-to-do, sober-sided, exact, and respectable "man of
business," Par excellence—one of the stern and outwardly hard, internally
soft, sort of people that we see in the crack high comedies—fellows whose
words are so many bonds, and who are noted for giving away guineas, in
charity, with the one hand, while, in the way of mere bargain, they exact the
uttermost fraction of a farthing with the other.
He makes much ado before he can get suited with a boarding house. He
dislikes children. He has been accustomed to quiet. His habits are methodical
—and then he would prefer getting into a private and respectable small family,
piously inclined. Terms, however, are no object—only he must insist upon
settling his bill on the first of every month, (it is now the second) and begs his
landlady, when he finally obtains one to his mind, not on any account to forget
his instructions upon this point—but to send in a bill, and receipt, precisely at
ten o'clock, on the first day of every month, and under no circumstances to put
it off to the second.
These arrangements made, our man of business rents an office in a reputable
rather than a fashionable quarter of the town. There is nothing he more
despises than pretense. "Where there is much show," he says, "there is seldom
any thing very solid behind"—an observation which so profoundly impresses
his landlady's fancy, that she makes a pencil memorandum of it forthwith, in
her great family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon.
The next step is to advertise, after some such fashion as this, in the principal
business six-pennies of the city—the pennies are eschewed as not
"respectable"—and as demanding payment for all advertisements in advance.
Our man of business holds it as a point of his faith that work should never be
paid for until done.
"WANTED—The advertisers, being about to commence extensive business
operations in this city, will require the services of three or four intelligent and
competent clerks, to whom a liberal salary will be paid. The very best
recommendations, not so much for capacity, as for integrity, will be expected.
Indeed, as the duties to be performed involve high responsibilities, and large
amounts of money must necessarily pass through the hands of those engaged,
it is deemed advisable to demand a deposit of fifty dollars from each clerk
employed. No person need apply, therefore, who is not prepared to leave this
sum in the possession of the advertisers, and who cannot furnish the most
satisfactory testimonials of morality. Young gentlemen piously inclined will be
preferred. Application should be made between the hours of ten and eleven A.
M., and four and five P. M., of Messrs.
"Bogs, Hogs Logs, Frogs & Co.,
"No. 110 Dog Street"
By the thirty-first day of the month, this advertisement has brought to the
office of Messrs. Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company, some fifteen or
twenty young gentlemen piously inclined. But our man of business is in no
hurry to conclude a contract with any—no man of business is ever precipitate
—and it is not until the most rigid catechism in respect to the piety of each
young gentleman's inclination, that his services are engaged and his fifty
dollars receipted for, just by way of proper precaution, on the part of the
respectable firm of Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company. On the morning
of the first day of the next month, the landlady does not present her bill,
according to promise—a piece of neglect for which the comfortable head of
the house ending in ogs would no doubt have chided her severely, could he
have been prevailed upon to remain in town a day or two for that purpose.
As it is, the constables have had a sad time of it, running hither and thither,
and all they can do is to declare the man of business most emphatically, a "hen
knee high"—by which some persons imagine them to imply that, in fact, he is
n. e. i.—by which again the very classical phrase non est inventus, is supposed
to be understood. In the meantime the young gentlemen, one and all, are
somewhat less piously inclined than before, while the landlady purchases a
shilling's worth of the Indian rubber, and very carefully obliterates the pencil
memorandum that some fool has made in her great family Bible, on the broad
margin of the Proverbs of Solomon.

THE ANGEL OF THE

 ODD
AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

IT was a chilly November afternoon. I had just consummated an unusually

hearty dinner, of which the dyspeptic truffe formed not the least important
item, and was sitting alone in the dining-room, with my feet upon the fender,
and at my elbow a small table which I had rolled up to the fire, and upon
which were some apologies for dessert, with some miscellaneous bottles of
wine, spirit and liqueur. In the morning I had been reading Glover's
"Leonidas," Wilkie's "Epigoniad," Lamartine's "Pilgrimage," Barlow's
"Columbiad," Tuckermann's "Sicily," and Griswold's "Curiosities"; I am
willing to confess, therefore, that I now felt a little stupid. I made effort to
arouse myself by aid of frequent Lafitte, and, all failing, I betook myself to a
stray newspaper in despair. Having carefully perused the column of "houses to
let," and the column of "dogs lost," and then the two columns of "wives and
apprentices runaway," I attacked with great resolution the editorial matter, and,
reading it from beginning to end without understanding a syllable, conceived
the possibility of its being Chinese, and so re-read it from the end to the
beginning, but with no more satisfactory result. I was about throwing away, in
disgust,
"This folio of four pages, happy work
Which not even critics criticise,"

when I felt my attention somewhat aroused by the paragraph which follows:

"The avenues to death are numerous and strange. A London paper mentions
the decease of a person from a singular cause. He was playing at 'puff the dart,'
which is played with a long needle inserted in some worsted, and blown at a
target through a tin tube. He placed the needle at the wrong end of the tube,
and drawing his breath strongly to puff the dart forward with force, drew the
needle into his throat. It entered the lungs, and in a few days killed him."
Upon seeing this I fell into a great rage, without exactly knowing why. "This
thing," I exclaimed, "is a contemptible falsehood—a poor hoax—the lees of
the invention of some pitiable penny-a-liner—of some wretched concoctor of
accidents in Cocaigne. These fellows, knowing the extravagant gullibility of
the age, set their wits to work in the imagination of improbable possibilities—-
of odd accidents, as they term them; but to a reflecting intellect (like mine," I
added, in parenthesis, putting my forefinger unconsciously to the side of my
nose,) "to a contemplative understanding such as I myself possess, it seems
evident at once that the marvelous increase of late in these 'odd accidents' is by
far the oddest accident of all. For my own part, I intend to believe nothing
henceforward that has anything of the 'singular' about it."
"Mein Gott, den, vat a vool you bees for dat!" replied one of the most
remarkable voices I ever heard. At first I took it for a rumbling in my ears—
such as a man sometimes experiences when getting very drunk—but, upon
second thought, I considered the sound as more nearly resembling that which
proceeds from an empty barrel beaten with a big stick; and, in fact, this I
should have concluded it to be, but for the articulation of the syllables and
words. I am by no means naturally nervous, and the very few glasses of Lafitte
which I had sipped served to embolden me no little, so that I felt nothing of
trepidation, but merely uplifted my eyes with a leisurely movement, and
looked carefully around the room for the intruder. I could not, however,
perceive any one at all.
"Humph!" resumed the voice, as I continued my survey, "you mus pe so
dronk as de pig, den, for not zee me as I zit here at your zide."
Hereupon I bethought me of looking immediately before my nose, and there,
sure enough, confronting me at the table sat a personage nondescript, although
not altogether indescribable. His body was a wine-pipe, or a rum-puncheon, or
something of that character, and had a truly Falstaffian air. In its nether
extremity were inserted two kegs, which seemed to answer all the purposes of
legs. For arms there dangled from the upper portion of the carcass two
tolerably long bottles, with the necks outward for hands. All the head that I
saw the monster possessed of was one of those Hessian canteens which
resemble a large snuff-box with a hole in the middle of the lid. This canteen
(with a funnel on its top, like a cavalier cap slouched over the eyes) was set on
edge upon the puncheon, with the hole toward myself; and through this hole,
which seemed puckered up like the mouth of a very precise old maid, the
creature was emitting certain rumbling and grumbling noises which he
evidently intended for intelligible talk.
"I zay," said he, "you mos pe dronk as de pig, vor zit dare and not zee me zit
ere; and I zay, doo, you mos pe pigger vool as de goose, vor to dispelief vat iz
print in de print. 'Tiz de troof—-dat it iz—eberry vord ob it."
"Who are you, pray?" said I, with much dignity, although somewhat
puzzled; "how did you get here? and what is it you are talking about?"
"Az vor ow I com'd ere," replied the figure, "dat iz none of your pizzness;
and as vor vat I be talking apout, I be talk apout vat I tink proper; and as vor
who I be, vy dat is de very ting I com'd here for to let you zee for yourzelf."
"You are a drunken vagabond," said I, "and I shall ring the bell and order my
footman to kick you into the street."
"He! he! he!" said the fellow, "hu! hu! hu! dat you can't do."
"Can't do!" said I, "what do you mean?—I can't do what?"
"Ring de pell;" he replied, attempting a grin with his little villanous mouth.
Upon this I made an effort to get up, in order to put my threat into execution;
but the ruffian just reached across the table very deliberately, and hitting me a
tap on the forehead with the neck of one of the long bottles, knocked me back
into the arm-chair from which I had half arisen. I was utterly astounded; and,
for a moment, was quite at a loss what to do. In the meantime, he continued
his talk.
"You zee," said he, "it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you shall know who I
pe. Look at me! zee! I am te Angel ov te Odd."
"And odd enough, too," I ventured to reply; "but I was always under the
impression that an angel had wings."
"Te wing!" he cried, highly incensed, "vat I pe do mit te wing? Mein Gott!
do you take me vor a shicken?"
"No—oh no!" I replied, much alarmed, "you are no chicken—certainly not."
"Well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or I'll rap you again mid me vist. It
iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing, und te imp ab te wing, und te
head-teuffel ab te wing. Te angel ab not te wing, and I am te Angel ov te Odd."
"And your business with me at present is—is"—
"My pizzness!" ejaculated the thing, "vy vat a low bred buppy you mos pe
vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness!"
This language was rather more than I could bear, even from an angel; so,
plucking up courage, I seized a salt-cellar which lay within reach, and hurled it
at the head of the intruder. Either he dodged, however, or my aim was
inaccurate; for all I accomplished was the demolition of the crystal which
protected the dial of the clock upon the mantel-piece. As for the Angel, he
evinced his sense of my assault by giving me two or three hard consecutive
raps upon the forehead as before. These reduced me at once to submission,
and I am almost ashamed to confess that either through pain or vexation, there
came a few tears into my eyes.
"Mein Gott!" said the Angel of the Odd, apparently much softened at my
distress; "mein Gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry zorry. You mos not
trink it so strong—you mos put te water in te wine. Here, trink dis, like a goot
veller, und don't gry now—don't!"
Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was about a
third full of Port) with a colorless fluid that he poured from one of his hand
bottles. I observed that these bottles had labels about their necks, and that
these labels were inscribed "Kirschenwasser."
The considerate kindness of the Angel mollified me in no little measure;
and, aided by the water with which he diluted my Port more than once, I at
length regained sufficient temper to listen to his very extraordinary discourse.
I cannot pretend to recount all that he told me, but I gleaned from what he said
that he was the genius who presided over the contretemps of mankind, and
whose business it was to bring about the odd accidents which are continually
astonishing the skeptic. Once or twice, upon my venturing to express my total
incredulity in respect to his pretensions, he grew very angry indeed, so that at
length I considered it the wiser policy to say nothing at all, and let him have
his own way. He talked on, therefore, at great length, while I merely leaned
back in my chair with my eyes shut, and amused myself with munching raisins
and filliping the stems about the room. But, by-and-by, the Angel suddenly
construed this behavior of mine into contempt. He arose in a terrible passion,
slouched his funnel down over his eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a threat of
some character which I did not precisely comprehend, and finally made me a
low bow and departed, wishing me, in the language of the archbishop in Gil-
Blas, "beaucoup de bonheur et un peu plus de bon sens."
His departure afforded me relief. The very few glasses of Lafitte that I had
sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy, and I felt inclined to take a nap
of some fifteen or twenty minutes, as is my custom after dinner. At six I had
an appointment of consequence, which it was quite indispensable that I should
keep. The policy of insurance for my dwelling house had expired the day
before; and, some dispute having arisen, it was agreed that, at six, I should
meet the board of directors of the company and settle the terms of a renewal.
Glancing upward at the clock on the mantel-piece, (for I felt too drowsy to
take out my watch), I had the pleasure to find that I had still twenty-five
minutes to spare. It was half past five; I could easily walk to the insurance
office in five minutes; and my usual siestas had never been known to exceed
five and twenty. I felt sufficiently safe, therefore, and composed myself to my
slumbers forthwith.
Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward the time-
piece and was half inclined to believe in the possibility of odd accidents when
I found that, instead of my ordinary fifteen or twenty minutes, I had been
dozing only three; for it still wanted seven and twenty of the appointed hour. I
betook myself again to my nap, and at length a second time awoke, when, to
my utter amazement, it still wanted twenty-seven minutes of six. I jumped up
to examine the clock, and found that it had ceased running. My watch
informed me that it was half past seven; and, of course, having slept two
hours, I was too late for my appointment. "It will make no difference," I said:
"I can call at the office in the morning and apologize; in the meantime what
can be the matter with the clock?" Upon examining it I discovered that one of
the raisin stems which I had been filliping about the room during the discourse
of the Angel of the Odd, had flown through the fractured crystal, and lodging,
singularly enough, in the key-hole, with an end projecting outward, had thus
arrested the revolution of the minute hand.
"Ah!" said I, "I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A natural accident,
such as will happen now and then!"
I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour retired to
bed. Here, having placed a candle upon a reading stand at the bed head, and
having made an attempt to peruse some pages of the "Omnipresence of the
Deity," I unfortunately fell asleep in less than twenty seconds, leaving the light
burning as it was.
My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel of the Odd.
Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside the curtains, and, in
the hollow, detestable tones of a rum puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest
vengeance for the contempt with which I had treated him. He concluded a long
harangue by taking off his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my gullet, and
thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwässer, which he poured, in a
continuous flood, from one of the long necked bottles that stood him instead of
an arm. My agony was at length insufferable, and I awoke just in time to
perceive that a rat had ran off with the lighted candle from the stand, but not in
season to prevent his making his escape with it through the hole. Very soon, a
strong suffocating odor assailed my nostrils; the house, I clearly perceived,
was on fire. In a few minutes the blaze broke forth with violence, and in an
incredibly brief period the entire building was wrapped in flames. All egress
from my chamber, except through a window, was cut off. The crowd, however,
quickly procured and raised a long ladder. By means of this I was descending
rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a huge hog, about whose rotund stomach,
and indeed about whose whole air and physiognomy, there was something
which reminded me of the Angel of the Odd,—when this hog, I say, which
hitherto had been quietly slumbering in the mud, took it suddenly into his head
that his left shoulder needed scratching, and could find no more convenient
rubbing-post than that afforded by the foot of the ladder. In an instant I was
precipitated and had the misfortune to fracture my arm.
This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more serious loss
of my hair, the whole of which had been singed off by the fire, predisposed me
to serious impressions, so that, finally, I made up my mind to take a wife.
There was a rich widow disconsolate for the loss of her seventh husband, and
to her wounded spirit I offered the balm of my vows. She yielded a reluctant
consent to my prayers. I knelt at her feet in gratitude and adoration. She
blushed and bowed her luxuriant tresses into close contact with those supplied
me, temporarily, by Grandjean. I know not how the entanglement took place,
but so it was. I arose with a shining pate, wigless; she in disdain and wrath,
half buried in alien hair. Thus ended my hopes of the widow by an accident
which could not have been anticipated, to be sure, but which the natural
sequence of events had brought about.
Without despairing, however, I undertook the siege of a less implacable
heart. The fates were again propitious for a brief period; but again a trivial
incident interfered. Meeting my betrothed in an avenue thronged with
the élite of the city, I was hastening to greet her with one of my best
considered bows, when a small particle of some foreign matter, lodging in the
corner of my eye, rendered me, for the moment, completely blind. Before I
could recover my sight, the lady of my love had disappeared—irreparably
affronted at what she chose to consider my premeditated rudeness in passing
her by ungreeted. While I stood bewildered at the suddenness of this accident,
(which might have happened, nevertheless, to any one under the sun), and
while I still continued incapable of sight, I was accosted by the Angel of the
Odd, who proffered me his aid with a civility which I had no reason to expect.
He examined my disordered eye with much gentleness and skill, informed me
that I had a drop in it, and (whatever a "drop" was) took it out, and afforded
me relief.
I now considered it high time to die, (since fortune had so determined to
persecute me,) and accordingly made my way to the nearest river. Here,
divesting myself of my clothes, (for there is no reason why we cannot die as
we were born), I threw myself headlong into the current; the sole witness of
my fate being a solitary crow that had been seduced into the eating of brandy-
saturated corn, and so had staggered away from his fellows. No sooner had I
entered the water than this bird took it into its head to fly away with the most
indispensable portion of my apparel. Postponing, therefore, for the present, my
suicidal design, I just slipped my nether extremities into the sleeves of my
coat, and betook myself to a pursuit of the felon with all the nimbleness which
the case required and its circumstances would admit. But my evil destiny
attended me still. As I ran at full speed, with my nose up in the atmosphere,
and intent only upon the purloiner of my property, I suddenly perceived that
my feet rested no longer upon terra-firma; the fact is, I had thrown myself
over a precipice, and should inevitably have been dashed to pieces but for my
good fortune in grasping the end of a long guide-rope, which depended from a
passing balloon.
As soon as I sufficiently recovered my senses to comprehend the terrific
predicament in which I stood or rather hung, I exerted all the power of my
lungs to make that predicament known to the æronaut overhead. But for a long
time I exerted myself in vain. Either the fool could not, or the villain would
not perceive me. Meantime the machine rapidly soared, while my strength
even more rapidly failed. I was soon upon the point of resigning myself to my
fate, and dropping quietly into the sea, when my spirits were suddenly revived
by hearing a hollow voice from above, which seemed to be lazily humming an
opera air. Looking up, I perceived the Angel of the Odd. He was leaning with
his arms folded, over the rim of the car; and with a pipe in his mouth, at which
he puffed leisurely, seemed to be upon excellent terms with himself and the
universe. I was too much exhausted to speak, so I merely regarded him with an
imploring air.
For several minutes, although he looked me full in the face, he said nothing.
At length removing carefully his meerschaum from the right to the left corner
of his mouth, he condescended to speak.
"Who pe you," he asked, "und what der teuffel you pe do dare?"
To this piece of impudence, cruelty and affectation, I could reply only by
ejaculating the monosyllable "Help!"
"Elp!" echoed the ruffian—"not I. Dare iz te pottle—elp yourself, und pe
tam'd!"
With these words he let fall a heavy bottle of Kirschenwasser which,
dropping precisely upon the crown of my head, caused me to imagine that my
brains were entirely knocked out. Impressed with this idea, I was about to
relinquish my hold and give up the ghost with a good grace, when I was
arrested by the cry of the Angel, who bade me hold on.
"Old on!" he said; "don't pe in te urry—don't. Will you pe take de odder
pottle, or ave you pe got zober yet and come to your zenzes?"
I made haste, hereupon, to nod my head twice—once in the negative,
meaning thereby that I would prefer not taking the other bottle at present—and
once in the affirmative, intending thus to imply that I was sober
and had positively come to my senses. By these means I somewhat softened
the Angel.
"Und you pelief, ten," he inquired, "at te last? You pelief, ten, in te possibilty
of te odd?"
I again nodded my head in assent.
"Und you ave pelief in me, te Angel of te Odd?"
I nodded again.
"Und you acknowledge tat you pe te blind dronk and te vool?"
I nodded once more.
"Put your right hand into your left hand preeches pocket, ten, in token ov
your vull zubmizzion unto te Angel ov te Odd."
This thing, for very obvious reasons, I found it quite impossible to do. In the
first place, my left arm had been broken in my fall from the ladder, and,
therefore, had I let go my hold with the right hand, I must have let go
altogether. In the second place, I could have no breeches until I came across
the crow. I was therefore obliged, much to my regret, to shake my head in the
negative—intending thus to give the Angel to understand that I found it
inconvenient, just at that moment, to comply with his very reasonable
demand! No sooner, however, had I ceased shaking my head than—
"Go to der teuffel, ten!" roared the Angel of the Odd.
In pronouncing these words, he drew a sharp knife across the guide-rope by
which I was suspended, and as we then happened to be precisely over my own
house, (which, during my peregrinations, had been handsomely rebuilt,) it so
occurred that I tumbled headlong down the ample chimney and alit upon the
dining-room hearth.
Upon coming to my senses, (for the fall had very thoroughly stunned me,) I
found it about four o'clock in the morning. I lay outstretched where I had
fallen from the balloon. My head grovelled in the ashes of an extinguished
fire, while my feet reposed upon the wreck of a small table, overthrown, and
amid the fragments of a miscellaneous dessert, intermingled with a newspaper,
some broken glass and shattered bottles, and an empty jug of the Schiedam
Kirschenwasser. Thus revenged himself the Angel of the Odd.
[Mabbott states that Griswold "obviously had a revised form" for use in the
1856 volume of Poe's works. Mabbott does not substantiate this claim, but it is
surely not unreasonable. An editor, and even typographical errors, may have
produced nearly all of the very minor changes made in this version. (Indeed,
two very necessary words were clearly dropped by accident.) An editor might
have corrected "Wickliffe's 'Epigoniad'" to "Wilkie's 'Epigoniad'," but is
unlikely to have added "Tuckerman's 'Sicily'" to the list of books read by the
narrator. Griswold was not above forgery (in Poe's letters) when it suited his
purpose, but would have too little to gain by such an effort in this instance.]

MELLONTA TAUTA
TO THE EDITORS OF THE LADY'S
BOOK:

I have the honor of sending you, for your magazine, an article which I hope
you will be able to comprehend rather more distinctly than I do myself. It is a
translation, by my friend, Martin Van Buren Mavis, (sometimes called the
"Poughkeepsie Seer") of an odd-looking MS. which I found, about a year ago,
tightly corked up in a jug floating in the Mare Tenebrarum—a sea well
described by the Nubian geographer, but seldom visited now-a-days, except
for the transcendentalists and divers for crotchets.
Truly yours,
EDGAR A. POE
{this paragraph not in the volume—ED}

ON BOARD BALLOON "SKYLARK"

April, 1, 2848
NOW, my dear friend—now, for your sins, you are to suffer the infliction of
a long gossiping letter. I tell you distinctly that I am going to punish you for all
your impertinences by being as tedious, as discursive, as incoherent and as
unsatisfactory as possible. Besides, here I am, cooped up in a dirty balloon,
with some one or two hundred of the canaille, all bound on a pleasure
excursion, (what a funny idea some people have of pleasure!) and I have no
prospect of touching terra firma for a month at least. Nobody to talk to.
Nothing to do. When one has nothing to do, then is the time to correspond
with ones friends. You perceive, then, why it is that I write you this letter—it
is on account of my ennui and your sins.
Get ready your spectacles and make up your mind to be annoyed. I mean to
write at you every day during this odious voyage.
Heigho! when will any Invention visit the human pericranium? Are we
forever to be doomed to the thousand inconveniences of the balloon? Will
nobody contrive a more expeditious mode of progress? The jog-trot
movement, to my thinking, is little less than positive torture. Upon my word
we have not made more than a hundred miles the hour since leaving home!
The very birds beat us—at least some of them. I assure you that I do not
exaggerate at all. Our motion, no doubt, seems slower than it actually is—this
on account of our having no objects about us by which to estimate our
velocity, and on account of our going with the wind. To be sure, whenever we
meet a balloon we have a chance of perceiving our rate, and then, I admit,
things do not appear so very bad. Accustomed as I am to this mode of
travelling, I cannot get over a kind of giddiness whenever a balloon passes us
in a current directly overhead. It always seems to me like an immense bird of
prey about to pounce upon us and carry us off in its claws. One went over us
this morning about sunrise, and so nearly overhead that its drag-rope actually
brushed the network suspending our car, and caused us very serious
apprehension. Our captain said that if the material of the bag had been the
trumpery varnished "silk" of five hundred or a thousand years ago, we should
inevitably have been damaged. This silk, as he explained it to me, was a fabric
composed of the entrails of a species of earth-worm. The worm was carefully
fed on mulberries—kind of fruit resembling a water-melon—and, when
sufficiently fat, was crushed in a mill. The paste thus arising was called
papyrus in its primary state, and went through a variety of processes until it
finally became "silk." Singular to relate, it was once much admired as an
article of female dress! Balloons were also very generally constructed from it.
A better kind of material, it appears, was subsequently found in the down
surrounding the seed-vessels of a plant vulgarly called euphorbium, and at that
time botanically termed milk-weed. This latter kind of silk was designated as
silk-buckingham, on account of its superior durability, and was usually
prepared for use by being varnished with a solution of gum caoutchouc—a
substance which in some respects must have resembled the gutta percha now
in common use. This caoutchouc was occasionally called Indian rubber or
rubber of twist, and was no doubt one of the numerous fungi. Never tell me
again that I am not at heart an antiquarian.
Talking of drag-ropes—our own, it seems, has this moment knocked a man
overboard from one of the small magnetic propellers that swarm in ocean
below us—a boat of about six thousand tons, and, from all accounts,
shamefully crowded. These diminutive barques should be prohibited from
carrying more than a definite number of passengers. The man, of course, was
not permitted to get on board again, and was soon out of sight, he and his life-
preserver. I rejoice, my dear friend, that we live in an age so enlightened that
no such a thing as an individual is supposed to exist. It is the mass for which
the true Humanity cares. By-the-by, talking of Humanity, do you know that
our immortal Wiggins is not so original in his views of the Social Condition
and so forth, as his contemporaries are inclined to suppose? Pundit assures me
that the same ideas were put nearly in the same way, about a thousand years
ago, by an Irish philosopher called Furrier, on account of his keeping a retail
shop for cat peltries and other furs. Pundit knows, you know; there can be no
mistake about it. How very wonderfully do we see verified every day, the
profound observation of the Hindoo Aries Tottle (as quoted by Pundit)—"Thus
must we say that, not once or twice, or a few times, but with almost infinite
repetitions, the same opinions come round in a circle among men."
April 2.—Spoke to-day the magnetic cutter in charge of the middle section
of floating telegraph wires. I learn that when this species of telegraph was first
put into operation by Horse, it was considered quite impossible to convey the
wires over sea, but now we are at a loss to comprehend where the difficulty
lay! So wags the world. Tempora mutantur—excuse me for quoting the
Etruscan. What would we do without the Atalantic telegraph? (Pundit says
Atlantic was the ancient adjective.) We lay to a few minutes to ask the cutter
some questions, and learned, among other glorious news, that civil war is
raging in Africa, while the plague is doing its good work beautifully both in
Yurope and Ayesher. Is it not truly remarkable that, before the magnificent
light shed upon philosophy by Humanity, the world was accustomed to regard
War and Pestilence as calamities? Do you know that prayers were actually
offered up in the ancient temples to the end that these evils (!) might not be
visited upon mankind? Is it not really difficult to comprehend upon what
principle of interest our forefathers acted? Were they so blind as not to
perceive that the destruction of a myriad of individuals is only so much
positive advantage to the mass!
April 3.—It is really a very fine amusement to ascend the rope-ladder
leading to the summit of the balloon-bag, and thence survey the surrounding
world. From the car below you know the prospect is not so comprehensive—
you can see little vertically. But seated here (where I write this) in the
luxuriously-cushioned open piazza of the summit, one can see everything that
is going on in all directions. Just now there is quite a crowd of balloons in
sight, and they present a very animated appearance, while the air is resonant
with the hum of so many millions of human voices. I have heard it asserted
that when Yellow or (Pundit will have it) Violet, who is supposed to have been
the first aeronaut, maintained the practicability of traversing the atmosphere in
all directions, by merely ascending or descending until a favorable current was
attained, he was scarcely hearkened to at all by his contemporaries, who
looked upon him as merely an ingenious sort of madman, because the
philosophers (?) of the day declared the thing impossible. Really now it does
seem to me quite unaccountable how any thing so obviously feasible could
have escaped the sagacity of the ancient savans. But in all ages the great
obstacles to advancement in Art have been opposed by the so-called men of
science. To be sure, our men of science are not quite so bigoted as those of
old:—oh, I have something so queer to tell you on this topic. Do you know
that it is not more than a thousand years ago since the metaphysicians
consented to relieve the people of the singular fancy that there existed but two
possible roads for the attainment of Truth! Believe it if you can! It appears that
long, long ago, in the night of Time, there lived a Turkish philosopher (or
Hindoo possibly) called Aries Tottle. This person introduced, or at all events
propagated what was termed the deductive or a priori mode of investigation.
He started with what he maintained to be axioms or "self-evident truths," and
thence proceeded "logically" to results. His greatest disciples were one
Neuclid, and one Cant. Well, Aries Tottle flourished supreme until advent of
one Hog, surnamed the "Ettrick Shepherd," who preached an entirely different
system, which he called the a posteriori or inductive. His plan referred
altogether to Sensation. He proceeded by observing, analyzing, and classifying
facts-instantiae naturae, as they were affectedly called—into general laws.
Aries Tottle's mode, in a word, was based on noumena; Hog's on phenomena.
Well, so great was the admiration excited by this latter system that, at its first
introduction, Aries Tottle fell into disrepute; but finally he recovered ground
and was permitted to divide the realm of Truth with his more modern rival.
The savans now maintained the Aristotelian and Baconian roads were the sole
possible avenues to knowledge. "Baconian," you must know, was an adjective
invented as equivalent to Hog-ian and more euphonious and dignified.
Now, my dear friend, I do assure you, most positively, that I represent this
matter fairly, on the soundest authority and you can easily understand how a
notion so absurd on its very face must have operated to retard the progress of
all true knowledge—which makes its advances almost invariably by intuitive
bounds. The ancient idea confined investigations to crawling; and for
hundreds of years so great was the infatuation about Hog especially, that a
virtual end was put to all thinking, properly so called. No man dared utter a
truth to which he felt himself indebted to his Soul alone. It mattered not
whether the truth was even demonstrably a truth, for the bullet-headed savans
of the time regarded only the road by which he had attained it. They would not
even look at the end. "Let us see the means," they cried, "the means!" If, upon
investigation of the means, it was found to come under neither the category
Aries (that is to say Ram) nor under the category Hog, why then the savans
went no farther, but pronounced the "theorist" a fool, and would have nothing
to do with him or his truth.
Now, it cannot be maintained, even, that by the crawling system the greatest
amount of truth would be attained in any long series of ages, for the repression
of imagination was an evil not to be compensated for by any superior certainty
in the ancient modes of investigation. The error of these Jurmains, these
Vrinch, these Inglitch, and these Amriccans (the latter, by the way, were our
own immediate progenitors), was an error quite analogous with that of the
wiseacre who fancies that he must necessarily see an object the better the more
closely he holds it to his eyes. These people blinded themselves by details.
When they proceeded Hoggishly, their "facts" were by no means always facts
—a matter of little consequence had it not been for assuming that they were
facts and must be facts because they appeared to be such. When they
proceeded on the path of the Ram, their course was scarcely as straight as a
ram's horn, for they never had an axiom which was an axiom at all. They must
have been very blind not to see this, even in their own day; for even in their
own day many of the long "established" axioms had been rejected. For
example—"Ex nihilo nihil fit"; "a body cannot act where it is not"; "there
cannot exist antipodes"; "darkness cannot come out of light"—all these, and a
dozen other similar propositions, formerly admitted without hesitation as
axioms, were, even at the period of which I speak, seen to be untenable. How
absurd in these people, then, to persist in putting faith in "axioms" as
immutable bases of Truth! But even out of the mouths of their soundest
reasoners it is easy to demonstrate the futility, the impalpability of their
axioms in general. Who was the soundest of their logicians? Let me see! I will
go and ask Pundit and be back in a minute.... Ah, here we have it! Here is a
book written nearly a thousand years ago and lately translated from the
Inglitch—which, by the way, appears to have been the rudiment of the
Amriccan. Pundit says it is decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its topic,
Logic. The author (who was much thought of in his day) was one Miller, or
Mill; and we find it recorded of him, as a point of some importance, that he
had a mill-horse called Bentham. But let us glance at the treatise!
Ah!—"Ability or inability to conceive," says Mr. Mill, very properly, "is in
no case to be received as a criterion of axiomatic truth." What modern in his
senses would ever think of disputing this truism? The only wonder with us
must be, how it happened that Mr. Mill conceived it necessary even to hint at
any thing so obvious. So far good—but let us turn over another paper. What
have we here?—"Contradictories cannot both be true—that is, cannot co-exist
in nature." Here Mr. Mill means, for example, that a tree must be either a tree
or not a tree—that it cannot be at the same time a tree and not a tree. Very
well; but I ask him why. His reply is this—and never pretends to be any thing
else than this—"Because it is impossible to conceive that contradictories can
both be true." But this is no answer at all, by his own showing, for has he not
just admitted as a truism that "ability or inability to conceive is in no case to
be received as a criterion of axiomatic truth."
Now I do not complain of these ancients so much because their logic is, by
their own showing, utterly baseless, worthless and fantastic altogether, as
because of their pompous and imbecile proscription of all other roads of Truth,
of all other means for its attainment than the two preposterous paths—the one
of creeping and the one of crawling—to which they have dared to confine the
Soul that loves nothing so well as to soar.
By the by, my dear friend, do you not think it would have puzzled these
ancient dogmaticians to have determined by which of their two roads it was
that the most important and most sublime of all their truths was, in effect,
attained? I mean the truth of Gravitation. Newton owed it to Kepler. Kepler
admitted that his three laws were guessed at—these three laws of all laws
which led the great Inglitch mathematician to his principle, the basis of all
physical principle—to go behind which we must enter the Kingdom of
Metaphysics. Kepler guessed—that is to say imagined. He was essentially a
"theorist"—that word now of so much sanctity, formerly an epithet of
contempt. Would it not have puzzled these old moles too, to have explained by
which of the two "roads" a cryptographist unriddles a cryptograph of more
than usual secrecy, or by which of the two roads Champollion directed
mankind to those enduring and almost innumerable truths which resulted from
his deciphering the Hieroglyphics.
One word more on this topic and I will be done boring you. Is it not passing
strange that, with their eternal prattling about roads to Truth, these bigoted
people missed what we now so clearly perceive to be the great highway—that
of Consistency? Does it not seem singular how they should have failed to
deduce from the works of God the vital fact that a perfect consistency must be
an absolute truth! How plain has been our progress since the late
announcement of this proposition! Investigation has been taken out of the
hands of the ground-moles and given, as a task, to the true and only true
thinkers, the men of ardent imagination. These latter theorize. Can you not
fancy the shout of scorn with which my words would be received by our
progenitors were it possible for them to be now looking over my shoulder?
These men, I say, theorize; and their theories are simply corrected, reduced,
systematized—cleared, little by little, of their dross of inconsistency—until,
finally, a perfect consistency stands apparent which even the most stolid
admit, because it is a consistency, to be an absolute and an unquestionable
truth.
April 4.—The new gas is doing wonders, in conjunction with the new
improvement with gutta percha. How very safe, commodious, manageable,
and in every respect convenient are our modern balloons! Here is an immense
one approaching us at the rate of at least a hundred and fifty miles an hour. It
seems to be crowded with people—perhaps there are three or four hundred
passengers—and yet it soars to an elevation of nearly a mile, looking down
upon poor us with sovereign contempt. Still a hundred or even two hundred
miles an hour is slow travelling after all. Do you remember our flight on the
railroad across the Kanadaw continent?—fully three hundred miles the hour—
that was travelling. Nothing to be seen though—nothing to be done but flirt,
feast and dance in the magnificent saloons. Do you remember what an odd
sensation was experienced when, by chance, we caught a glimpse of external
objects while the cars were in full flight? Every thing seemed unique—in one
mass. For my part, I cannot say but that I preferred the travelling by the slow
train of a hundred miles the hour. Here we were permitted to have glass
windows—even to have them open—and something like a distinct view of the
country was attainable.... Pundit says that the route for the great Kanadaw
railroad must have been in some measure marked out about nine hundred
years ago! In fact, he goes so far as to assert that actual traces of a road are
still discernible—traces referable to a period quite as remote as that
mentioned. The track, it appears was double only; ours, you know, has twelve
paths; and three or four new ones are in preparation. The ancient rails were
very slight, and placed so close together as to be, according to modern notions,
quite frivolous, if not dangerous in the extreme. The present width of track—
fifty feet—is considered, indeed, scarcely secure enough. For my part, I make
no doubt that a track of some sort must have existed in very remote times, as
Pundit asserts; for nothing can be clearer, to my mind, than that, at some
period—not less than seven centuries ago, certainly—the Northern and
Southern Kanadaw continents were united; the Kanawdians, then, would have
been driven, by necessity, to a great railroad across the continent.
April 5.—I am almost devoured by ennui. Pundit is the only conversible
person on board; and he, poor soul! can speak of nothing but antiquities. He
has been occupied all the day in the attempt to convince me that the ancient
Amriccans governed themselves!—did ever anybody hear of such an
absurdity?—that they existed in a sort of every-man-for-himself confederacy,
after the fashion of the "prairie dogs" that we read of in fable. He says that
they started with the queerest idea conceivable, viz: that all men are born free
and equal—this in the very teeth of the laws of gradation so visibly impressed
upon all things both in the moral and physical universe. Every man "voted," as
they called it—that is to say meddled with public affairs—until at length, it
was discovered that what is everybody's business is nobody's, and that the
"Republic" (so the absurd thing was called) was without a government at all. It
is related, however, that the first circumstance which disturbed, very
particularly, the self-complacency of the philosophers who constructed this
"Republic," was the startling discovery that universal suffrage gave
opportunity for fraudulent schemes, by means of which any desired number of
votes might at any time be polled, without the possibility of prevention or even
detection, by any party which should be merely villainous enough not to be
ashamed of the fraud. A little reflection upon this discovery sufficed to render
evident the consequences, which were that rascality must predominate—in a
word, that a republican government could never be any thing but a rascally
one. While the philosophers, however, were busied in blushing at their
stupidity in not having foreseen these inevitable evils, and intent upon the
invention of new theories, the matter was put to an abrupt issue by a fellow of
the name of Mob, who took every thing into his own hands and set up a
despotism, in comparison with which those of the fabulous Zeros and
Hellofagabaluses were respectable and delectable. This Mob (a foreigner, by-
the-by), is said to have been the most odious of all men that ever encumbered
the earth. He was a giant in stature—insolent, rapacious, filthy, had the gall of
a bullock with the heart of a hyena and the brains of a peacock. He died, at
length, by dint of his own energies, which exhausted him. Nevertheless, he
had his uses, as every thing has, however vile, and taught mankind a lesson
which to this day it is in no danger of forgetting—never to run directly
contrary to the natural analogies. As for Republicanism, no analogy could be
found for it upon the face of the earth—unless we except the case of the
"prairie dogs," an exception which seems to demonstrate, if anything, that
democracy is a very admirable form of government—for dogs.
April 6.—Last night had a fine view of Alpha Lyrae, whose disk, through
our captain's spy-glass, subtends an angle of half a degree, looking very much
as our sun does to the naked eye on a misty day. Alpha Lyrae, although so very
much larger than our sun, by the by, resembles him closely as regards its spots,
its atmosphere, and in many other particulars. It is only within the last century,
Pundit tells me, that the binary relation existing between these two orbs began
even to be suspected. The evident motion of our system in the heavens was
(strange to say!) referred to an orbit about a prodigious star in the centre of the
galaxy. About this star, or at all events about a centre of gravity common to all
the globes of the Milky Way and supposed to be near Alcyone in the Pleiades,
every one of these globes was declared to be revolving, our own performing
the circuit in a period of 117,000,000 of years! We, with our present lights, our
vast telescopic improvements, and so forth, of course find it difficult to
comprehend the ground of an idea such as this. Its first propagator was one
Mudler. He was led, we must presume, to this wild hypothesis by mere
analogy in the first instance; but, this being the case, he should have at least
adhered to analogy in its development. A great central orb was, in fact,
suggested; so far Mudler was consistent. This central orb, however,
dynamically, should have been greater than all its surrounding orbs taken
together. The question might then have been asked—"Why do we not see
it?"—we, especially, who occupy the mid region of the cluster—the very
locality near which, at least, must be situated this inconceivable central sun.
The astronomer, perhaps, at this point, took refuge in the suggestion of non-
luminosity; and here analogy was suddenly let fall. But even admitting the
central orb non-luminous, how did he manage to explain its failure to be
rendered visible by the incalculable host of glorious suns glaring in all
directions about it? No doubt what he finally maintained was merely a centre
of gravity common to all the revolving orbs—but here again analogy must
have been let fall. Our system revolves, it is true, about a common centre of
gravity, but it does this in connection with and in consequence of a material
sun whose mass more than counterbalances the rest of the system. The
mathematical circle is a curve composed of an infinity of straight lines; but
this idea of the circle—this idea of it which, in regard to all earthly geometry,
we consider as merely the mathematical, in contradistinction from the
practical, idea—is, in sober fact, the practical conception which alone we have
any right to entertain in respect to those Titanic circles with which we have to
deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose our system, with its fellows, revolving
about a point in the centre of the galaxy. Let the most vigorous of human
imaginations but attempt to take a single step toward the comprehension of a
circuit so unutterable! I would scarcely be paradoxical to say that a flash of
lightning itself, travelling forever upon the circumference of this inconceivable
circle, would still forever be travelling in a straight line. That the path of our
sun along such a circumference—that the direction of our system in such an
orbit—would, to any human perception, deviate in the slightest degree from a
straight line even in a million of years, is a proposition not to be entertained;
and yet these ancient astronomers were absolutely cajoled, it appears, into
believing that a decisive curvature had become apparent during the brief
period of their astronomical history—during the mere point—during the utter
nothingness of two or three thousand years! How incomprehensible, that
considerations such as this did not at once indicate to them the true state of
affairs—that of the binary revolution of our sun and Alpha Lyrae around a
common centre of gravity!
April 7.—Continued last night our astronomical amusements. Had a fine
view of the five Neptunian asteroids, and watched with much interest the
putting up of a huge impost on a couple of lintels in the new temple at Daphnis
in the moon. It was amusing to think that creatures so diminutive as the
lunarians, and bearing so little resemblance to humanity, yet evinced a
mechanical ingenuity so much superior to our own. One finds it difficult, too,
to conceive the vast masses which these people handle so easily, to be as light
as our own reason tells us they actually are.
 April 8.—Eureka! Pundit is in his glory. A balloon from Kanadaw spoke us
to-day and threw on board several late papers; they contain some exceedingly
curious information relative to Kanawdian or rather Amriccan antiquities. You
know, I presume, that laborers have for some months been employed in
preparing the ground for a new fountain at Paradise, the Emperor's principal
pleasure garden. Paradise, it appears, has been, literally speaking, an island
time out of mind—that is to say, its northern boundary was always (as far back
as any record extends) a rivulet, or rather a very narrow arm of the sea. This
arm was gradually widened until it attained its present breadth—a mile. The
whole length of the island is nine miles; the breadth varies materially. The
entire area (so Pundit says) was, about eight hundred years ago, densely
packed with houses, some of them twenty stories high; land (for some most
unaccountable reason) being considered as especially precious just in this
vicinity. The disastrous earthquake, however, of the year 2050, so totally
uprooted and overwhelmed the town (for it was almost too large to be called a
village) that the most indefatigable of our antiquarians have never yet been
able to obtain from the site any sufficient data (in the shape of coins, medals or
inscriptions) wherewith to build up even the ghost of a theory concerning the
manners, customs, &c., &c., &c., of the aboriginal inhabitants. Nearly all that
we have hitherto known of them is, that they were a portion of the
Knickerbocker tribe of savages infesting the continent at its first discovery by
Recorder Riker, a knight of the Golden Fleece. They were by no means
uncivilized, however, but cultivated various arts and even sciences after a
fashion of their own. It is related of them that they were acute in many
respects, but were oddly afflicted with monomania for building what, in the
ancient Amriccan, was denominated "churches"—a kind of pagoda instituted
for the worship of two idols that went by the names of Wealth and Fashion. In
the end, it is said, the island became, nine tenths of it, church. The women,
too, it appears, were oddly deformed by a natural protuberance of the region
just below the small of the back—although, most unaccountably, this
deformity was looked upon altogether in the light of a beauty. One or two
pictures of these singular women have in fact, been miraculously preserved.
They look very odd, very—like something between a turkey-cock and a
dromedary.
Well, these few details are nearly all that have descended to us respecting the
ancient Knickerbockers. It seems, however, that while digging in the centre of
the emperors garden, (which, you know, covers the whole island), some of the
workmen unearthed a cubical and evidently chiseled block of granite,
weighing several hundred pounds. It was in good preservation, having
received, apparently, little injury from the convulsion which entombed it. On
one of its surfaces was a marble slab with (only think of it!) an inscription—a
legible inscription. Pundit is in ecstacies. Upon detaching the slab, a cavity
appeared, containing a leaden box filled with various coins, a long scroll of
names, several documents which appear to resemble newspapers, with other
matters of intense interest to the antiquarian! There can be no doubt that all
these are genuine Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe called Knickerbocker.
The papers thrown on board our balloon are filled with fac-similes of the
coins, MSS., typography, &c., &c. I copy for your amusement the
Knickerbocker inscription on the marble slab:—
This Corner Stone of a Monument to

The Memory of

GEORGE WASHINGTON

Was Laid With Appropriate Ceremonies

on the

19th Day of October, 1847

The anniversary of the surrender of

Lord Cornwallis

to General Washington at Yorktown

A. D. 1781

Under the Auspices of the

Washington Monument Association of

the city of New York

This, as I give it, is a verbatim translation done by Pundit himself, so there

can be no mistake about it. From the few words thus preserved, we glean
several important items of knowledge, not the least interesting of which is the
fact that a thousand years ago actual monuments had fallen into disuse—as
was all very proper—the people contenting themselves, as we do now, with a
mere indication of the design to erect a monument at some future time; a
corner-stone being cautiously laid by itself "solitary and alone" (excuse me for
quoting the great American poet Benton!), as a guarantee of the magnanimous
intention. We ascertain, too, very distinctly, from this admirable inscription,
the how as well as the where and the what, of the great surrender in question.
As to the where, it was Yorktown (wherever that was), and as to the what, it
was General Cornwallis (no doubt some wealthy dealer in corn). He was
surrendered. The inscription commemorates the surrender of—what? why, "of
Lord Cornwallis." The only question is what could the savages wish him
surrendered for. But when we remember that these savages were undoubtedly
cannibals, we are led to the conclusion that they intended him for sausage. As
to the how of the surrender, no language can be more explicit. Lord Cornwallis
was surrendered (for sausage) "under the auspices of the Washington
Monument Association"—no doubt a charitable institution for the depositing
of corner-stones.—But, Heaven bless me! what is the matter? Ah, I see—the
balloon has collapsed, and we shall have a tumble into the sea. I have,
therefore, only time enough to add that, from a hasty inspection of the fac-
similes of newspapers, &c., &c., I find that the great men in those days among
the Amriccans, were one John, a smith, and one Zacchary, a tailor.
Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever get this letter or not is
point of little importance, as I write altogether for my own amusement. I shall
cork the MS. up in a bottle, however, and throw it into the sea.
Yours everlastingly,
PUNDITA.

THE DUC DE
L'OMELETTE.
And stepped at once into a cooler clime.—Cowper

KEATS fell by a criticism. Who was it died of "The Andromache"? Ignoble

souls!—De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. L'histoire en est brève. Assist
me, Spirit of Apicius!
A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, indolent,
to the Chaussée D'Antin, from its home in far Peru. From its queenly
possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De L'Omelette, six peers of the empire
conveyed the happy bird.
That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau he reclined
languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyalty in outbidding his
king—the notorious ottoman of Cadet.
He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to restrain his
feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the door gently opens to
the sound of soft music, and lo! the most delicate of birds is before the most
enamored of men! But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the
countenance of the Duc?—"Horreur!—chien! Baptiste!—l'oiseau! ah, bon
Dieu! cet oiseau modeste que tu as déshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as servi
sans papier!" It is superfluous to say more:—the Duc expired in a paroxysm of
disgust.
"Ha! ha! ha!" said his Grace on the third day after his decease.
"He! he! he!" replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with an air of
hauteur.
"Why, surely you are not serious," retorted De L'Omelette. "I have sinned—
c'est vrai—but, my good sir, consider!—you have no actual intention of
putting such—such barbarous threats into execution."
"No what?" said his majesty—"come, sir, strip!"
 "Strip, indeed! very pretty i' faith! no, sir, I shall not strip. Who are you,
pray, that I, Duc De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras, just come of age, author
of the 'Mazurkiad,' and Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your
bidding of the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest robe-
de-chambre ever put together by Rombert—to say nothing of the taking my
hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my
gloves?"
"Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took thee, just
now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast curiously scented,
and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee,—my Inspector of Cemeteries.
The pantaloons, which thou sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent
pair of linen drawers, and thy robe-de-chambre is a shroud of no scanty
dimensions."
"Sir!" replied the Duc, "I am not to be insulted with impunity!—Sir! I shall
take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from
me! in the meantime au revoir!"—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the
Satanic presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in
waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders,
reflected. Having become satisfied of his identity, he took a bird's eye view of
his whereabouts.
The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelette pronounced it bien comme
il faut. It was not its length nor its breadth,—but its height—ah, that was
appalling!—There was no ceiling—certainly none—but a dense whirling mass
of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's brain reeled as he glanced upward. From
above, hung a chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like
the city of Boston, parmi les nues. From its nether extremity swung a large
cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby; but from it there poured a light so
intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped such—Gheber never
imagined such—Mussulman never dreamed of such when, drugged with
opium, he has tottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face
to the God Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath, decidedly approbatory.
The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these were filled
with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty was Grecian, their deformity
Egyptian, their tout ensemble French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled;
it was not colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De
L'Omelette pressed his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and
caught his Satanic Majesty—in a blush.
But the paintings!—Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!—a thousand and the same!
And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here, for did he not
paint the—? and was he not consequently damned? The paintings—the
paintings! O luxury! O love!—who, gazing on those forbidden beauties, shall
have eyes for the dainty devices of the golden frames that besprinkled, like
stars, the hyacinth and the porphyry walls?
But the Duc's heart is fainting within him. He is not, however, as you
suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic breath of those
innumerable censers. C'est vrai que de toutes ces choses il a pense beaucoup—
mais! The Duc De L'Omelette is terror-stricken; for, through the lurid vista
which a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most ghastly
of all fires!
Le pauvre Duc! He could not help imagining that the glorious, the
voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as they passed
filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the enchanted window-panes,
were the wailings and the howlings of the hopeless and the damned! And
there, too!—there!—upon the ottoman!—who could he be?—he, the
petitmaître—no, the Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, et qui sourit, with
his pale countenance, si amèrement?
Mais il faut agir—that is to say, a Frenchman never faints outright. Besides,
his Grace hated a scene—De L'Omelette is himself again. There were some
foils upon a table—some points also. The Duc s'échapper. He measures two
points, and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice. Horreur! his
Majesty does not fence!
Mais il joue!—how happy a thought!—but his Grace had always an
excellent memory. He had dipped in the "Diable" of Abbé Gualtier. Therein it
is said "que le Diable n'ose pas refuser un jeu d'écarte."
But the chances—the chances! True—desperate: but scarcely more
desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?—had he not
skimmed over Père Le Brun?—was he not a member of the Club Vingt-un?
"Si je perds," said he, "je serai deux fois perdu—I shall be doubly dammed—
voilà tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders.) Si je gagne, je reviendrai
a mes ortolans—que les cartes soient préparées!"
His Grace was all care, all attention—his Majesty all confidence. A spectator
would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace thought of his game.
His Majesty did not think; he shuffled. The Duc cut.
The cards were dealt. The trump is turned—it is—it is—the king! No—it
was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine habiliments. De L'Omelette
placed his hand upon his heart.
They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts heavily,
smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.
"C'est à vous à faire," said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace bowed, dealt, and
arose from the table en presentant le Roi.
His Majesty looked chagrined.
Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and the
Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, "que s'il n'eût été De L'Omelette il
n'aurait point d'objection d'être le Diable."

THE OBLONG BOX.

SOME years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C, to the city of

New York, in the fine packet-ship "Independence," Captain Hardy. We were to
sail on the fifteenth of the month (June), weather permitting; and on the
fourteenth, I went on board to arrange some matters in my state-room.
I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a more than
usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my acquaintances, and
among other names, I was rejoiced to see that of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young
artist, for whom I entertained feelings of warm friendship. He had been with
me a fellow-student at C— University, where we were very much together. He
had the ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of misanthropy,
sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he united the warmest and truest
heart which ever beat in a human bosom.
I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and, upon again
referring to the list of passengers, I found that he had engaged passage for
himself, wife, and two sisters—his own. The state-rooms were sufficiently
roomy, and each had two berths, one above the other. These berths, to be sure,
were so exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one person;
still, I could not comprehend why there were three state-rooms for these four
persons. I was, just at that epoch, in one of those moody frames of mind which
make a man abnormally inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, with shame,
that I busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous conjectures about
this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It was no business of mine, to be
sure, but with none the less pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to
resolve the enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great
wonder why I had not arrived at it before. "It is a servant of course," I said;
"what a fool I am, not sooner to have thought of so obvious a solution!" And
then I again repaired to the list—but here I saw distinctly that no servant was
to come with the party, although, in fact, it had been the original design to
bring one—for the words "and servant" had been first written and then
overscored. "Oh, extra baggage, to be sure," I now said to myself
—"something he wishes not to be put in the hold—something to be kept under
his own eye—ah, I have it—a painting or so—and this is what he has been
bargaining about with Nicolino, the Italian Jew." This idea satisfied me, and I
dismissed my curiosity for the nonce.
Wyatt's two sisters I knew very well, and most amiable and clever girls they
were. His wife he had newly married, and I had never yet seen her. He had
often talked about her in my presence, however, and in his usual style of
enthusiasm. He described her as of surpassing beauty, wit, and
accomplishment. I was, therefore, quite anxious to make her acquaintance.
On the day in which I visited the ship (the fourteenth), Wyatt and party were
also to visit it—so the captain informed me—and I waited on board an hour
longer than I had designed, in hope of being presented to the bride, but then an
apology came. "Mrs. W. was a little indisposed, and would decline coming on
board until to-morrow, at the hour of sailing."
The morrow having arrived, I was going from my hotel to the wharf, when
Captain Hardy met me and said that, "owing to circumstances" (a stupid but
convenient phrase), "he rather thought the 'Independence' would not sail for a
day or two, and that when all was ready, he would send up and let me know."
This I thought strange, for there was a stiff southerly breeze; but as "the
circumstances" were not forthcoming, although I pumped for them with much
perseverance, I had nothing to do but to return home and digest my impatience
at leisure.
I did not receive the expected message from the captain for nearly a week. It
came at length, however, and I immediately went on board. The ship was
crowded with passengers, and every thing was in the bustle attendant upon
making sail. Wyatt's party arrived in about ten minutes after myself. There
were the two sisters, the bride, and the artist—the latter in one of his
customary fits of moody misanthropy. I was too well used to these, however,
to pay them any special attention. He did not even introduce me to his wife—
this courtesy devolving, per force, upon his sister Marian—a very sweet and
intelligent girl, who, in a few hurried words, made us acquainted.
Mrs. Wyatt had been closely veiled; and when she raised her veil, in
acknowledging my bow, I confess that I was very profoundly astonished. I
should have been much more so, however, had not long experience advised
me not to trust, with too implicit a reliance, the enthusiastic descriptions of my
friend, the artist, when indulging in comments upon the loveliness of woman.
When beauty was the theme, I well knew with what facility he soared into the
regions of the purely ideal.
The truth is, I could not help regarding Mrs. Wyatt as a decidedly plain-
looking woman. If not positively ugly, she was not, I think, very far from it.
She was dressed, however, in exquisite taste—and then I had no doubt that she
had captivated my friend's heart by the more enduring graces of the intellect
and soul. She said very few words, and passed at once into her state-room with
Mr. W.
My old inquisitiveness now returned. There was no servant—that was a
settled point. I looked, therefore, for the extra baggage. After some delay, a
cart arrived at the wharf, with an oblong pine box, which was every thing that
seemed to be expected. Immediately upon its arrival we made sail, and in a
short time were safely over the bar and standing out to sea.
The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet in length by
two and a half in breadth; I observed it attentively, and like to be precise. Now
this shape was peculiar; and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to
myself for the accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will
be remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist, would prove to
be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he had been for several weeks in
conference with Nicolino:—and now here was a box, which, from its shape,
could possibly contain nothing in the world but a copy of Leonardo's "Last
Supper;" and a copy of this very "Last Supper," done by Rubini the younger, at
Florence, I had known, for some time, to be in the possession of Nicolino.
This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently settled. I chuckled
excessively when I thought of my acumen. It was the first time I had ever
known Wyatt to keep from me any of his artistical secrets; but here he
evidently intended to steal a march upon me, and smuggle a fine picture to
New York, under my very nose; expecting me to know nothing of the matter. I
resolved to quiz him well, now and hereafter.
One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did not go into the
extra state-room. It was deposited in Wyatt's own; and there, too, it remained,
occupying very nearly the whole of the floor—no doubt to the exceeding
discomfort of the artist and his wife;—this the more especially as the tar or
paint with which it was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong,
disagreeable, and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor. On the lid were
painted the words—"Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, Albany, New York. Charge of
Cornelius Wyatt, Esq. This side up. To be handled with care."
Now, I was aware that Mrs. Adelaide Curtis, of Albany, was the artist's
wife's mother,—but then I looked upon the whole address as a mystification,
intended especially for myself. I made up my mind, of course, that the box and
contents would never get farther north than the studio of my misanthropic
friend, in Chambers Street, New York.
For the first three or four days we had fine weather, although the wind was
dead ahead; having chopped round to the northward, immediately upon our
losing sight of the coast. The passengers were, consequently, in high spirits
and disposed to be social. I must except, however, Wyatt and his sisters, who
behaved stiffly, and, I could not help thinking, uncourteously to the rest of the
party. Wyatt's conduct I did not so much regard. He was gloomy, even beyond
his usual habit—in fact he was morose—but in him I was prepared for
eccentricity. For the sisters, however, I could make no excuse. They secluded
themselves in their staterooms during the greater part of the passage, and
absolutely refused, although I repeatedly urged them, to hold communication
with any person on board.
 Mrs. Wyatt herself was far more agreeable. That is to say, she was chatty;
and to be chatty is no slight recommendation at sea. She became excessively
intimate with most of the ladies; and, to my profound astonishment, evinced
no equivocal disposition to coquet with the men. She amused us all very
much. I say "amused"—and scarcely know how to explain myself. The truth
is, I soon found that Mrs. W. was far oftener laughed at than with. The
gentlemen said little about her; but the ladies, in a little while, pronounced her
"a good-hearted thing, rather indifferent looking, totally uneducated, and
decidedly vulgar." The great wonder was, how Wyatt had been entrapped into
such a match. Wealth was the general solution—but this I knew to be no
solution at all; for Wyatt had told me that she neither brought him a dollar nor
had any expectations from any source whatever. "He had married," he said,
"for love, and for love only; and his bride was far more than worthy of his
love." When I thought of these expressions, on the part of my friend, I confess
that I felt indescribably puzzled. Could it be possible that he was taking leave
of his senses? What else could I think? He, so refined, so intellectual, so
fastidious, with so exquisite a perception of the faulty, and so keen an
appreciation of the beautiful! To be sure, the lady seemed especially fond of
him—particularly so in his absence—when she made herself ridiculous by
frequent quotations of what had been said by her "beloved husband, Mr.
Wyatt." The word "husband" seemed forever—to use one of her own delicate
expressions—forever "on the tip of her tongue." In the meantime, it was
observed by all on board, that he avoided her in the most pointed manner, and,
for the most part, shut himself up alone in his state-room, where, in fact, he
might have been said to live altogether, leaving his wife at full liberty to
amuse herself as she thought best, in the public society of the main cabin.
My conclusion, from what I saw and heard, was, that, the artist, by some
unaccountable freak of fate, or perhaps in some fit of enthusiastic and fanciful
passion, had been induced to unite himself with a person altogether beneath
him, and that the natural result, entire and speedy disgust, had ensued. I pitied
him from the bottom of my heart—but could not, for that reason, quite forgive
his incommunicativeness in the matter of the "Last Supper." For this I resolved
to have my revenge.
One day he came upon deck, and, taking his arm as had been my wont, I
sauntered with him backward and forward. His gloom, however (which I
considered quite natural under the circumstances), seemed entirely unabated.
He said little, and that moodily, and with evident effort. I ventured a jest or
two, and he made a sickening attempt at a smile. Poor fellow!—as I thought of
his wife, I wondered that he could have heart to put on even the semblance of
mirth. I determined to commence a series of covert insinuations, or
innuendoes, about the oblong box—just to let him perceive, gradually, that I
was not altogether the butt, or victim, of his little bit of pleasant mystification.
My first observation was by way of opening a masked battery. I said
something about the "peculiar shape of that box-," and, as I spoke the words, I
smiled knowingly, winked, and touched him gently with my forefinger in the
ribs.
The manner in which Wyatt received this harmless pleasantry convinced me,
at once, that he was mad. At first he stared at me as if he found it impossible to
comprehend the witticism of my remark; but as its point seemed slowly to
make its way into his brain, his eyes, in the same proportion, seemed
protruding from their sockets. Then he grew very red—then hideously pale—
then, as if highly amused with what I had insinuated, he began a loud and
boisterous laugh, which, to my astonishment, he kept up, with gradually
increasing vigor, for ten minutes or more. In conclusion, he fell flat and
heavily upon the deck. When I ran to uplift him, to all appearance he was
dead.
I called assistance, and, with much difficulty, we brought him to himself.
Upon reviving he spoke incoherently for some time. At length we bled him
and put him to bed. The next morning he was quite recovered, so far as
regarded his mere bodily health. Of his mind I say nothing, of course. I
avoided him during the rest of the passage, by advice of the captain, who
seemed to coincide with me altogether in my views of his insanity, but
cautioned me to say nothing on this head to any person on board.
Several circumstances occurred immediately after this fit of Wyatt which
contributed to heighten the curiosity with which I was already possessed.
Among other things, this: I had been nervous—drank too much strong green
tea, and slept ill at night—in fact, for two nights I could not be properly said to
sleep at all. Now, my state-room opened into the main cabin, or dining-room,
as did those of all the single men on board. Wyatt's three rooms were in the
after-cabin, which was separated from the main one by a slight sliding door,
never locked even at night. As we were almost constantly on a wind, and the
breeze was not a little stiff, the ship heeled to leeward very considerably; and
whenever her starboard side was to leeward, the sliding door between the
cabins slid open, and so remained, nobody taking the trouble to get up and
shut it. But my berth was in such a position, that when my own state-room
door was open, as well as the sliding door in question (and my own door was
always open on account of the heat,) I could see into the after-cabin quite
distinctly, and just at that portion of it, too, where were situated the state-
rooms of Mr. Wyatt. Well, during two nights (not consecutive) while I lay
awake, I clearly saw Mrs. W., about eleven o'clock upon each night, steal
cautiously from the state-room of Mr. W., and enter the extra room, where she
remained until daybreak, when she was called by her husband and went back.
That they were virtually separated was clear. They had separate apartments—
no doubt in contemplation of a more permanent divorce; and here, after all I
thought was the mystery of the extra state-room.
There was another circumstance, too, which interested me much. During the
two wakeful nights in question, and immediately after the disappearance of
Mrs. Wyatt into the extra state-room, I was attracted by certain singular
cautious, subdued noises in that of her husband. After listening to them for
some time, with thoughtful attention, I at length succeeded perfectly in
translating their import. They were sounds occasioned by the artist in prying
open the oblong box, by means of a chisel and mallet—the latter being
apparently muffled, or deadened, by some soft woollen or cotton substance in
which its head was enveloped.
In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment when he
fairly disengaged the lid—also, that I could determine when he removed it
altogether, and when he deposited it upon the lower berth in his room; this
latter point I knew, for example, by certain slight taps which the lid made in
striking against the wooden edges of the berth, as he endeavored to lay it down
very gently—there being no room for it on the floor. After this there was a
dead stillness, and I heard nothing more, upon either occasion, until nearly
daybreak; unless, perhaps, I may mention a low sobbing, or murmuring sound,
so very much suppressed as to be nearly inaudible—if, indeed, the whole of
this latter noise were not rather produced by my own imagination. I say it
seemed to resemble sobbing or sighing—but, of course, it could not have been
either. I rather think it was a ringing in my own ears. Mr. Wyatt, no doubt,
according to custom, was merely giving the rein to one of his hobbies—
indulging in one of his fits of artistic enthusiasm. He had opened his oblong
box, in order to feast his eyes on the pictorial treasure within. There was
nothing in this, however, to make him sob. I repeat, therefore, that it must have
been simply a freak of my own fancy, distempered by good Captain Hardy's
green tea. Just before dawn, on each of the two nights of which I speak, I
distinctly heard Mr. Wyatt replace the lid upon the oblong box, and force the
nails into their old places by means of the muffled mallet. Having done this, he
issued from his state-room, fully dressed, and proceeded to call Mrs. W. from
hers.
We had been at sea seven days, and were now off Cape Hatteras, when there
came a tremendously heavy blow from the southwest. We were, in a measure,
prepared for it, however, as the weather had been holding out threats for some
time. Every thing was made snug, alow and aloft; and as the wind steadily
freshened, we lay to, at length, under spanker and foretopsail, both double-
reefed.
In this trim we rode safely enough for forty-eight hours—the ship proving
herself an excellent sea-boat in many respects, and shipping no water of any
consequence. At the end of this period, however, the gale had freshened into a
hurricane, and our after—sail split into ribbons, bringing us so much in the
trough of the water that we shipped several prodigious seas, one immediately
after the other. By this accident we lost three men overboard with the caboose,
and nearly the whole of the larboard bulwarks. Scarcely had we recovered our
senses, before the foretopsail went into shreds, when we got up a storm stay—
sail and with this did pretty well for some hours, the ship heading the sea
much more steadily than before.
The gale still held on, however, and we saw no signs of its abating. The
rigging was found to be ill-fitted, and greatly strained; and on the third day of
the blow, about five in the afternoon, our mizzen-mast, in a heavy lurch to
windward, went by the board. For an hour or more, we tried in vain to get rid
of it, on account of the prodigious rolling of the ship; and, before we had
succeeded, the carpenter came aft and announced four feet of water in the
hold. To add to our dilemma, we found the pumps choked and nearly useless.
All was now confusion and despair—but an effort was made to lighten the
ship by throwing overboard as much of her cargo as could be reached, and by
cutting away the two masts that remained. This we at last accomplished—but
we were still unable to do any thing at the pumps; and, in the meantime, the
leak gained on us very fast.
At sundown, the gale had sensibly diminished in violence, and as the sea
went down with it, we still entertained faint hopes of saving ourselves in the
boats. At eight P. M., the clouds broke away to windward, and we had the
advantage of a full moon—a piece of good fortune which served wonderfully
to cheer our drooping spirits.
After incredible labor we succeeded, at length, in getting the longboat over
the side without material accident, and into this we crowded the whole of the
crew and most of the passengers. This party made off immediately, and, after
undergoing much suffering, finally arrived, in safety, at Ocracoke Inlet, on the
third day after the wreck.
Fourteen passengers, with the captain, remained on board, resolving to trust
their fortunes to the jolly-boat at the stern. We lowered it without difficulty,
although it was only by a miracle that we prevented it from swamping as it
touched the water. It contained, when afloat, the captain and his wife, Mr.
Wyatt and party, a Mexican officer, wife, four children, and myself, with a
negro valet.
We had no room, of course, for any thing except a few positively necessary
instruments, some provisions, and the clothes upon our backs. No one had
thought of even attempting to save any thing more. What must have been the
astonishment of all, then, when having proceeded a few fathoms from the ship,
Mr. Wyatt stood up in the stern-sheets, and coolly demanded of Captain Hardy
that the boat should be put back for the purpose of taking in his oblong box!
"Sit down, Mr. Wyatt," replied the captain, somewhat sternly, "you will
capsize us if you do not sit quite still. Our gunwhale is almost in the water
now."
"The box!" vociferated Mr. Wyatt, still standing—"the box, I say! Captain
Hardy, you cannot, you will not refuse me. Its weight will be but a trifle—it is
nothing—mere nothing. By the mother who bore you—for the love of Heaven
—by your hope of salvation, I implore you to put back for the box!"
The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal of the
artist, but he regained his stern composure, and merely said:
"Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say, or you will
swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him!—he is about to spring
overboard! There—I knew it—he is over!"
As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the boat, and, as we
were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded, by almost superhuman exertion, in
getting hold of a rope which hung from the fore-chains. In another moment he
was on board, and rushing frantically down into the cabin.
In the meantime, we had been swept astern of the ship, and being quite out
of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea which was still running.
We made a determined effort to put back, but our little boat was like a feather
in the breath of the tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the
unfortunate artist was sealed.
As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for as such
only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the companion—way, up
which by dint of strength that appeared gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the
oblong box. While we gazed in the extremity of astonishment, he passed,
rapidly, several turns of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around
his body. In another instant both body and box were in the sea—disappearing
suddenly, at once and forever.
We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted upon the spot.
At length we pulled away. The silence remained unbroken for an hour. Finally,
I hazarded a remark.
"Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that an
exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some feeble hope of
his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself to the box, and commit
himself to the sea."
"They sank as a matter of course," replied the captain, "and that like a shot.
They will soon rise again, however—but not till the salt melts."
"The salt!" I ejaculated.
"Hush!" said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the deceased.
"We must talk of these things at some more appropriate time."
We suffered much, and made a narrow escape, but fortune befriended us, as
well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed, in fine, more dead than alive,
after four days of intense distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island.
We remained here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length
obtained a passage to New York.
About a month after the loss of the "Independence," I happened to meet
Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned, naturally, upon the
disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of poor Wyatt. I thus learned the
following particulars.
The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and a servant.
His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a most lovely, and most
accomplished woman. On the morning of the fourteenth of June (the day in
which I first visited the ship), the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young
husband was frantic with grief—but circumstances imperatively forbade the
deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her mother the
corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the universal prejudice
which would prevent his doing so openly was well known. Nine-tenths of the
passengers would have abandoned the ship rather than take passage with a
dead body.
In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being first partially
embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of salt, in a box of suitable
dimensions, should be conveyed on board as merchandise. Nothing was to be
said of the lady's decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had
engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some person should
personate her during the voyage. This the deceased lady's-maid was easily
prevailed on to do. The extra state-room, originally engaged for this girl
during her mistress' life, was now merely retained. In this state-room the
pseudo-wife, slept, of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the
best of her ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had been
carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers on board.
My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too
inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is a rare thing that
I sleep soundly at night. There is a countenance which haunts me, turn as I
will. There is an hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears.

LOSS OF BREATH
O Breathe not, etc. —Moore's Melodies

THE MOST notorious ill-fortune must in the end yield to the untiring
courage of philosophy—as the most stubborn city to the ceaseless vigilance of
an enemy. Shalmanezer, as we have it in holy writings, lay three years before
Samaria; yet it fell. Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself seven
in Nineveh; but to no purpose. Troy expired at the close of the second lustrum;
and Azoth, as Aristaeus declares upon his honour as a gentleman, opened at
last her gates to Psammetichus, after having barred them for the fifth part of a
century....
"Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!" said I to my wife on the
morning after our wedding; "thou witch!—thou hag!—thou whippersnapper—
thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced quintessence of all that is abominable!
—thou—thou-" here standing upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and
placing my mouth close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and
more decided epithet of opprobrium, which should not fail, if ejaculated, to
convince her of her insignificance, when to my extreme horror and
astonishment I discovered that I had lost my breath.
The phrases "I am out of breath," "I have lost my breath," etc., are often
enough repeated in common conversation; but it had never occurred to me that
the terrible accident of which I speak could bona fide and actually happen!
Imagine—that is if you have a fanciful turn—imagine, I say, my wonder—my
consternation—my despair!
There is a good genius, however, which has never entirely deserted me. In
my most ungovernable moods I still retain a sense of propriety, et le chemin
des passions me conduit—as Lord Edouard in the "Julie" says it did him—a la
philosophie veritable.
Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree the
occurrence had affected me, I determined at all events to conceal the matter
from my wife, until further experience should discover to me the extent of this
my unheard of calamity. Altering my countenance, therefore, in a moment,
from its bepuffed and distorted appearance, to an expression of arch and
coquettish benignity, I gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and a kiss on the
other, and without saying one syllable (Furies! I could not), left her astonished
at my drollery, as I pirouetted out of the room in a Pas de Zephyr.
Behold me then safely ensconced in my private boudoir, a fearful instance of
the ill consequences attending upon irascibility—alive, with the qualifications
of the dead—dead, with the propensities of the living—an anomaly on the face
of the earth—being very calm, yet breathless.
Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was entirely gone. I
could not have stirred with it a feather if my life had been at issue, or sullied
even the delicacy of a mirror. Hard fate!—yet there was some alleviation to
the first overwhelming paroxysm of my sorrow. I found, upon trial, that the
powers of utterance which, upon my inability to proceed in the conversation
with my wife, I then concluded to be totally destroyed, were in fact only
partially impeded, and I discovered that had I, at that interesting crisis,
dropped my voice to a singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued to
her the communication of my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the guttural)
depending, I find, not upon the current of the breath, but upon a certain
spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat.
Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed in
meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory kind. A thousand
vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession of my soul—and even the
idea of suicide flitted across my brain; but it is a trait in the perversity of
human nature to reject the obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and
equivocal. Thus I shuddered at self-murder as the most decided of atrocities
while the tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very water dog
wheezed assiduously under the table, each taking to itself much merit for the
strength of its lungs, and all obviously done in derision of my own pulmonary
incapacity.
Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length heard the
footsteps of my wife descending the staircase. Being now assured of her
absence, I returned with a palpitating heart to the scene of my disaster.
Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous search. It
was possible, I thought, that, concealed in some obscure corner, or lurking in
some closet or drawer, might be found the lost object of my inquiry. It might
have a vapory—it might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers, upon
many points of philosophy, are still very unphilosophical. William Godwin,
however, says in his "Mandeville," that "invisible things are the only realities,"
and this, all will allow, is a case in point. I would have the judicious reader
pause before accusing such asseverations of an undue quantum of absurdity.
Anaxagoras, it will be remembered, maintained that snow is black, and this I
have since found to be the case.
Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the contemptible
reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be only a set of false teeth,
two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle of billets-doux from Mr. Windenough to
my wife. I might as well here observe that this confirmation of my lady's
partiality for Mr. W. occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lackobreath
should admire anything so dissimilar to myself was a natural and necessary
evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent appearance, and at the
same time somewhat diminutive in stature. What wonder, then, that the lath-
like tenuity of my acquaintance, and his altitude, which has grown into a
proverb, should have met with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs.
Lackobreath. But to return.
My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet after closet—
drawer after drawer—corner after corner—were scrutinized to no purpose. At
one time, however, I thought myself sure of my prize, having, in rummaging a
dressing-case, accidentally demolished a bottle of Grandjean's Oil of
Archangels—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the liberty of
recommending.
With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—there to ponder upon some
method of eluding my wife's penetration, until I could make arrangements
prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had already made up my mind. In
a foreign climate, being unknown, I might, with some probability of success,
endeavor to conceal my unhappy calamity—a calamity calculated, even more
than beggary, to estrange the affections of the multitude, and to draw down
upon the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous and the happy. I
was not long in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I committed to memory the
entire tragedy of "Metamora." I had the good fortune to recollect that in the
accentuation of this drama, or at least of such portion of it as is allotted to the
hero, the tones of voice in which I found myself deficient were altogether
unnecessary, and the deep guttural was expected to reign monotonously
throughout.
I practised for some time by the borders of a well frequented marsh;—
herein, however, having no reference to a similar proceeding of Demosthenes,
but from a design peculiarly and conscientiously my own. Thus armed at all
points, I determined to make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten with
a passion for the stage. In this, I succeeded to a miracle; and to every question
or suggestion found myself at liberty to reply in my most frog-like and
sepulchral tones with some passage from the tragedy—any portion of which,
as I soon took great pleasure in observing, would apply equally well to any
particular subject. It is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of
such passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint—the showing
my teeth—the working my knees—the shuffling my feet—or in any of those
unmentionable graces which are now justly considered the characteristics of a
popular performer. To be sure they spoke of confining me in a strait-jacket—
but, good God! they never suspected me of having lost my breath.
Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very early one
morning in the mail stage for—, giving it to be understood, among my
acquaintances, that business of the last importance required my immediate
personal attendance in that city.
The coach was crammed to repletion; but in the uncertain twilight the
features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without making any
effectual resistance, I suffered myself to be placed between two gentlemen of
colossal dimensions; while a third, of a size larger, requesting pardon for the
liberty he was about to take, threw himself upon my body at full length, and
falling asleep in an instant, drowned all my guttural ejaculations for relief, in a
snore which would have put to blush the roarings of the bull of Phalaris.
Happily the state of my respiratory faculties rendered suffocation an accident
entirely out of the question.
 As, however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the outskirts
of the city, my tormentor, arising and adjusting his shirt-collar, thanked me in
a very friendly manner for my civility. Seeing that I remained motionless (all
my limbs were dislocated and my head twisted on one side), his apprehensions
began to be excited; and arousing the rest of the passengers, he communicated,
in a very decided manner, his opinion that a dead man had been palmed upon
them during the night for a living and responsible fellow-traveller; here giving
me a thump on the right eye, by way of demonstrating the truth of his
suggestion.
Hereupon all, one after another (there were nine in company), believed it
their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising physician, too, having
applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and found me without breath, the
assertion of my persecutor was pronounced a true bill; and the whole party
expressed a determination to endure tamely no such impositions for the future,
and to proceed no farther with any such carcasses for the present.
I was here, accordingly, thrown out at the sign of the "Crow" (by which
tavern the coach happened to be passing), without meeting with any farther
accident than the breaking of both my arms, under the left hind wheel of the
vehicle. I must besides do the driver the justice to state that he did not forget to
throw after me the largest of my trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my
head, fractured my skull in a manner at once interesting and extraordinary.
The landlord of the "Crow," who is a hospitable man, finding that my trunk
contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little trouble he might take in my
behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon of his acquaintance, and delivered me to
his care with a bill and receipt for ten dollars.
The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations
immediately. Having cut off my ears, however, he discovered signs of
animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring apothecary with
whom to consult in the emergency. In case of his suspicions with regard to my
existence proving ultimately correct, he, in the meantime, made an incision in
my stomach, and removed several of my viscera for private dissection.
The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I endeavored
to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might, and making the most
furious contortions—for the operations of the surgeon had, in a measure,
restored me to the possession of my faculties. All, however, was attributed to
the effects of a new galvanic battery, wherewith the apothecary, who is really a
man of information, performed several curious experiments, in which, from
my personal share in their fulfillment, I could not help feeling deeply
interested. It was a course of mortification to me, nevertheless, that although I
made several attempts at conversation, my powers of speech were so entirely
in abeyance, that I could not even open my mouth; much less, then, make
reply to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which, under other
circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the Hippocratian pathology
would have afforded me a ready confutation.
Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners remanded me for
farther examination. I was taken up into a garret; and the surgeon's lady having
accommodated me with drawers and stockings, the surgeon himself fastened
my hands, and tied up my jaws with a pocket-handkerchief—then bolted the
door on the outside as he hurried to his dinner, leaving me alone to silence and
to meditation.
I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken had not my
mouth been tied up with the pocket-handkerchief. Consoling myself with this
reflection, I was mentally repeating some passages of the "Omnipresence of
the Deity," as is my custom before resigning myself to sleep, when two cats, of
a greedy and vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall, leaped up with a
flourish a la Catalani, and alighting opposite one another on my visage, betook
themselves to indecorous contention for the paltry consideration of my nose.
But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the throne of
Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the cutting off his nose
gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the loss of a few ounces of my
countenance proved the salvation of my body. Aroused by the pain, and
burning with indignation, I burst, at a single effort, the fastenings and the
bandage. Stalking across the room I cast a glance of contempt at the
belligerents, and throwing open the sash to their extreme horror and
disappointment, precipitated myself, very dexterously, from the window. this
moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected for his execution in
the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long continued ill health had obtained
him the privilege of remaining unmanacled; and habited in his gallows
costume—one very similar to my own,—he lay at full length in the bottom of
the hangman's cart (which happened to be under the windows of the surgeon at
the moment of my precipitation) without any other guard than the driver, who
was asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry, who were drunk.
As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the vehicle.
immediately, he bolted out behind, and turning down an alley, was out of sight
in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits, aroused by the bustle, could not
exactly comprehend the merits of the transaction. Seeing, however, a man, the
precise counterpart of the felon, standing upright in the cart before their eyes,
they were of (so they expressed themselves,) and, having communicated this
opinion to one another, they took each a dram, and then knocked me down
with the butt-ends of their muskets.
It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of course nothing
could be said in my defence. Hanging was my inevitable fate. I resigned
myself thereto with a feeling half stupid, half acrimonious. Being little of a
cynic, I had all the sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the
noose about my neck. The drop fell.
I forbear to depict my sensations upon the gallows; although here,
undoubtedly, I could speak to the point, and it is a topic upon which nothing
has been well said. In fact, to write upon such a theme it is necessary to have
been hanged. Every author should confine himself to matters of experience.
Thus Mark Antony composed a treatise upon getting drunk.
I may just mention, however, that die I did not. My body was, but I had no
breath to be, suspended; and but for the knot under my left ear (which had the
feel of a military stock) I dare say that I should have experienced very little
inconvenience. As for the jerk given to my neck upon the falling of the drop, it
merely proved a corrective to the twist afforded me by the fat gentleman in the
coach.
For good reasons, however, I did my best to give the crowd the worth of
their trouble. My convulsions were said to be extraordinary. My spasms it
would have been difficult to beat. The populace encored. Several gentlemen
swooned; and a multitude of ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit
availed himself of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the
spot, his admirable painting of the "Marsyas flayed alive."
When I had afforded sufficient amusement, it was thought proper to remove
my body from the gallows;—this the more especially as the real culprit had in
the meantime been retaken and recognized, a fact which I was so unlucky as
not to know.
Much sympathy was, of course, exercised in my behalf, and as no one made
claim to my corpse, it was ordered that I should be interred in a public vault.
Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed, and I was left
alone. A line of Marston's "Malcontent"—
Death's a good fellow and keeps open house—struck me at that moment as a
palpable lie.
I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out. The place was
dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled with ennui. By way of
amusement, I felt my way among the numerous coffins ranged in order
around. I lifted them down, one by one, and breaking open their lids, busied
myself in speculations about the mortality within.
"This," I soliloquized, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated, and rotund
—"this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word, an unhappy—an
unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not to walk but to waddle—to pass
through life not like a human being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but
like a rhinoceros.
"His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his
circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step forward, it has
been his misfortune to take two toward the right, and three toward the left. His
studies have been confined to the poetry of Crabbe. He can have no idea of the
wonder of a pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has been an abstract
conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has never viewed
from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat has been his mortal enemy.
In the dog-days his days have been the days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed
of flames and suffocation—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon
Ossa. He was short of breath—to say all in a word, he was short of breath. He
thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was the inventor of
self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He patronized Du Pont the
bellows-maker, and he died miserably in attempting to smoke a cigar. His was
a case in which I feel a deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathize.
"But here,"—said I—"here"—and I dragged spitefully from its receptacle a
gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose remarkable appearance struck me
with a sense of unwelcome familiarity—"here is a wretch entitled to no earthly
commiseration." Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct view of my
subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to its nose, and causing it to
assume a sitting position upon the ground, held it thus, at the length of my
arm, while I continued my soliloquy.
"Entitled," I repeated, "to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed would
think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had his full share of the
blessings of mortality? He was the originator of tall monuments—shot-towers
—lightning-rods—Lombardy poplars. His treatise upon "Shades and
Shadows" has immortalized him. He edited with distinguished ability the last
edition of "South on the Bones." He went early to college and studied
pneumatics. He then came home, talked eternally, and played upon the French-
horn. He patronized the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who walked against Time,
would not walk against him. Windham and Allbreath were his favorite writers,
—his favorite artist, Phiz. He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu
corrupitur, like the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus. He was indubitably a"—
"How can you?—how—can—you?"—interrupted the object of my
animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate exertion,
the bandage around its jaws—"how can you, Mr. Lackobreath, be so infernally
cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you not see how they had
fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if you know any thing—how
vast a superfluity of breath I have to dispose of! If you do not know, however,
sit down and you shall see. In my situation it is really a great relief to be able
to open ones mouth—to be able to expatiate—to be able to communicate with
a person like yourself, who do not think yourself called upon at every period
to interrupt the thread of a gentleman's discourse. Interruptions are annoying
and should undoubtedly be abolished—don't you think so?—no reply, I beg
you,—one person is enough to be speaking at a time.—I shall be done by and
by, and then you may begin.—How the devil sir, did you get into this place?—
not a word I beseech you—been here some time myself—terrible accident!—
heard of it, I suppose?—awful calamity!—walking under your windows—
some short while ago—about the time you were stage-struck—horrible
occurrence!—heard of "catching one's breath," eh?—hold your tongue I tell
you!—I caught somebody elses!—had always too much of my own—met
Blab at the corner of the street—wouldn't give me a chance for a word—
couldn't get in a syllable edgeways—attacked, consequently, with epilepsis—
Blab made his escape—damn all fools!—they took me up for dead, and put
me in this place—pretty doings all of them!—heard all you said about me—
every word a lie—horrible!—wonderful—outrageous!—hideous!—
incomprehensible!—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera-"
It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a discourse,
or the joy with which I became gradually convinced that the breath so
fortunately caught by the gentleman (whom I soon recognized as my neighbor
Windenough) was, in fact, the identical expiration mislaid by myself in the
conversation with my wife. Time, place, and circumstances rendered it a
matter beyond question. I did not at least during the long period in which the
inventor of Lombardy poplars continued to favor me with his explanations.
In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence which has ever been
my predominating trait. I reflected that many difficulties might still lie in the
path of my preservation which only extreme exertion on my part would be
able to surmount. Many persons, I considered, are prone to estimate
commodities in their possession—however valueless to the then proprietor—
however troublesome, or distressing—in direct ratio with the advantages to be
derived by others from their attainment, or by themselves from their
abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr. Windenough? In displaying
anxiety for the breath of which he was at present so willing to get rid, might I
not lay myself open to the exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in
this world, I remembered with a sigh, who will not scruple to take unfair
opportunities with even a next door neighbor, and (this remark is from
Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most anxious to throw off
the burden of their own calamities that they feel the least desirous of relieving
them in others.
Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my grasp upon the
nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to model my reply.
"Monster!" I began in a tone of the deepest indignation—"monster and
double-winded idiot!—dost thou, whom for thine iniquities it has pleased
heaven to accurse with a two-fold respimtion—dost thou, I say, presume to
address me in the familiar language of an old acquaintance?—'I lie,' forsooth!
and 'hold my tongue,' to be sure!—pretty conversation indeed, to a gentleman
with a single breath!—all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the
calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer—to curtail the superfluities of
thine unhappy respiration."
Like Brutus, I paused for a reply—with which, like a tornado, Mr.
Windenough immediately overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon
protestation, and apology upon apology. There were no terms with which he
was unwilling to comply, and there were none of which I failed to take the
fullest advantage.
Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered me the
respiration; for which (having carefully examined it) I gave him afterward a
receipt.
I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in a manner
so cursory, of a transaction so impalpable. It will be thought that I should have
entered more minutely, into the details of an occurrence by which—and this is
very true—much new light might be thrown upon a highly interesting branch
of physical philosophy.
To all this I am sorry that I cannot reply. A hint is the only answer which I
am permitted to make. There were circumstances—but I think it much safer
upon consideration to say as little as possible about an affair so delicate—so
delicate, I repeat, and at the time involving the interests of a third party whose
sulphurous resentment I have not the least desire, at this moment, of incurring.
We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an escape
from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of our resuscitated
voices was soon sufficiently apparent. Scissors, the Whig editor, republished a
treatise upon "the nature and origin of subterranean noises." A reply—
rejoinder—confutation—and justification—followed in the columns of a
Democratic Gazette. It was not until the opening of the vault to decide the
controversy, that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both
parties to have been decidedly in the wrong.
I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in a life at all
times sufficiently eventful, without again recalling to the attention of the
reader the merits of that indiscriminate philosophy which is a sure and ready
shield against those shafts of calamity which can neither be seen, felt nor fully
understood. It was in the spirit of this wisdom that, among the ancient
Hebrews, it was believed the gates of Heaven would be inevitably opened to
that sinner, or saint, who, with good lungs and implicit confidence, should
vociferate the word "Amen!" It was in the spirit of this wisdom that, when a
great plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain attempted for
its removal, Epimenides, as Laertius relates, in his second book, of that
philosopher, advised the erection of a shrine and temple "to the proper God."
LYTTLETON BARRY.
 THE MAN THAT WAS
USED UP.
A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO
AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.

Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!

La moitié; de ma vie a mis l' autre au tombeau.

CORNEILLE.

I CANNOT just now remember when or where I first made the acquaintance
of that truly fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.
Smith. Some one did introduce me to the gentleman, I am sure—at some
public meeting, I know very well—held about something of great importance,
no doubt—at some place or other, I feel convinced,—whose name I have
unaccountably forgotten. The truth is—that the introduction was attended,
upon my part, with a degree of anxious embarrassment which operated to
prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am constitutionally
nervous—this, with me, is a family failing, and I can't help it. In especial, the
slightest appearance of mystery—of any point I cannot exactly comprehend—
puts me at once into a pitiable state of agitation.
There was something, as it were, remarkable—yes, remarkable, although
this is but a feeble term to express my full meaning—about the entire
individuality of the personage in question. He was, perhaps, six feet in height,
and of a presence singularly commanding. There was an air
distinguépervading the whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and hinted
at high birth. Upon this topic—the topic of Smith's personal appearance—I
have a kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head of hair would
have done honor to a Brutus;—nothing could be more richly flowing, or
possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty black;—which was also the color, or
more properly the no color of his unimaginable whiskers. You perceive I
cannot speak of these latter without enthusiasm; it is not too much to say that
they were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all events, they
encircled, and at times partially overshadowed, a mouth utterly unequalled.
Here were the most entirely even, and the most brilliantly white of all
conceivable teeth. From between them, upon every proper occasion, issued a
voice of surpassing clearness, melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, also,
my acquaintance was pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair was
worth a couple of the ordinary ocular organs. They were of a deep hazel,
exceedingly large and lustrous; and there was perceptible about them, ever and
anon, just that amount of interesting obliquity which gives pregnancy to
expression.
The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever saw. For
your life you could not have found a fault with its wonderful proportion. This
rare peculiarity set off to great advantage a pair of shoulders which would
have called up a blush of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the
marble Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I never
beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were admirably
modelled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These were, indeed, the ne
plus ultra of good legs. Every connoisseur in such matters admitted the legs to
be good. There was neither too much flesh, nor too little,—neither rudeness
nor fragility. I could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the os
femoris, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the rear of
the fibula which goes to the conformation of a properly proportioned calf. I
wish to God my young and talented friend Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had
but seen the legs of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.
But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty as reasons
or blackberries, still I could not bring myself to believe that the
remarkable something to which I alluded just now,—that the odd air of je ne
sais quoi which hung about my new acquaintance,—lay altogether, or indeed
at all, in the supreme excellence of his bodily endowments. Perhaps it might
be traced to the manner;—yet here again I could not pretend to be positive.
There was a primness, not to say stiffness, in his carriage—a degree of
measured, and, if I may so express it, of rectangular precision, attending his
every movement, which, observed in a more diminutive figure, would have
had the least little savor in the world, of affectation, pomposity or constraint,
but which noticed in a gentleman of his undoubted dimensions, was readily
placed to the account of reserve, hauteur—of a commendable sense, in short,
of what is due to the dignity of colossal proportion.
The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my ear
some few words of comment upon the man. He was a remarkable man—
avery remarkable man—indeed one of the most remarkable men of the age. He
was an especial favorite, too, with the ladies—chiefly on account of his high
reputation for courage.
"In that point he is unrivalled—indeed he is a perfect desperado—a down-
right fire-eater, and no mistake," said my friend, here dropping his voice
excessively low, and thrilling me with the mystery of his tone.
"A downright fire-eater, and no mistake. Showed that, I should say, to some
purpose, in the late tremendous swamp-fight away down South, with the
Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians." [Here my friend opened his eyes to some
extent.] "Bless my soul!—blood and thunder, and all that!—prodigies of valor!
—heard of him of course?—you know he's the man"—
 "Man alive, how do you do? why, how are ye? very glad to see ye, indeed!"
here interrupted the General himself, seizing my companion by the hand as he
drew near, and bowing stiffly, but profoundly, as I was presented. I then
thought, (and I think so still,) that I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice,
nor beheld a finer set of teeth: but I must say that I was sorry for the
interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the whispers and insinuations
aforesaid, my interest had been greatly excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and
Kickapoo campaign.
However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet Brigadier
General John A. B. C. Smith soon completely dissipated this chagrin. My
friend leaving us immediately, we had quite a long tête-à-tête, and I was not
only pleased but really—instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, or a
man of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he forebore,
nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then most at heart—I mean
the mysterious circumstances attending the Bugaboo war—and, on my own
part, what I conceive to be a proper sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the
subject; although, in truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived,
too, that the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest, and that
he delighted, especially, in commenting upon the rapid march of mechanical
invention. Indeed, lead him where I would, this was a point to which he
invariably came back.
"There is nothing at all like it," he would say; "we are a wonderful people,
and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes and rail-roads—man-traps and spring-
guns! Our steam-boats are upon every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is
about to run regular trips (fare either way only twenty pounds sterling)
between London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the immense
influence upon social life—upon arts—upon commerce—upon literature—
which will be the immediate result of the great principles of electro magnetics!
Nor, is this all, let me assure you! There is really no end to the march of
invention. The most wonderful—the most ingenious—and let me add, Mr.—
Mr.—Thompson, I believe, is your name—let me add, I say, the most useful—
the most truly useful mechanical contrivances, are daily springing up like
mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more figuratively, like—ah—
grasshoppers—like grasshoppers, Mr. Thompson—about us and ah—ah—ah
—around us!"
Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say that I left
General Smith with a heightened interest in the man, with an exalted opinion
of his conversational powers, and a deep sense of the valuable privileges we
enjoy in living in this age of mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had
not been altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate inquiry
among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier General himself, and
particularly respecting the tremendous events quorum pars magna fuit, during
the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.
The first opportunity which presented itself, and which (horresco referens) I
did not in the least scruple to seize, occurred at the Church of the Reverend
Doctor Drummummupp, where I found myself established, one Sunday, just at
sermon time, not only in the pew, but by the side, of that worthy and
communicative little friend of mine, Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated, I
congratulated myself, and with much reason, upon the very flattering state of
affairs. If any person knew anything about Brevet Brigadier General John A.
B. C. Smith, that person, it was clear to me, was Miss Tabitha T. We
telegraphed a few signals, and then commenced, soto voce, a brisk tête-à-tête.
"Smith!" said she, in reply to my very earnest inquiry; "Smith!—why, not
General John A. B. C.? Bless me, I thought you knew all about him! This is a
wonderfully inventive age! Horrid affair that!—a bloody set of wretches, those
Kickapoos!—fought like a hero—prodigies of valor—immortal renown.
Smith!—Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.! why, you know he's the
man"—
"Man," here broke in Doctor Drummummupp, at the top of his voice, and
with a thump that came near knocking the pulpit about our ears; "man that is
born of a woman hath but a short time to live; he cometh up and is cut down
like a flower!" I started to the extremity of the pew, and perceived by the
animated looks of the divine, that the wrath which had nearly proved fatal to
the pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself. There was
no help for it; so I submitted with a good grace, and listened, in all the
martyrdom of dignified silence, to the balance of that very capital discourse.
Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole theatre,
where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by merely stepping into the
box of those exquisite specimens of affability and omniscience, the Misses
Arabella and Miranda Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing
Iago to a very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in
making my wishes understood; especially, as our box was next the slips, and
completely overlooked the stage.
"Smith?" said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the purport of
my query; "Smith?—why, not General John A. B. C.?"
"Smith?" inquired Miranda, musingly. "God bless me, did you ever behold a
finer figure?"
"Never, madam, but do tell me"—
"Or so inimitable grace?"
"Never, upon my word!—But pray inform me"—
"Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?"
"Madam!"
 "Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be so good as
to look at that leg!"
"The devil!" and I turned again to her sister.
"Smith?" said she, "why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair that,
wasn't it?—great wretches, those Bugaboos—savage and so on—but we live
in a wonderfully inventive age!—Smith!—O yes! great man!—perfect
desperado—immortal renown—prodigies of valor! Never heard!" [This was
given in a scream.] "Bless my soul! why, he's the man"—
"——-mandragora
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owd'st yesterday!"

here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my face all the
time, in a way that I couldn't stand, and I wouldn't. I left the Misses
Cognoscenti immediately, went behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the
beggarly scoundrel such a thrashing as I trust he will remember to the day of
his death.
At the soirée of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O'Trump, I was confident
that I should meet with no similar disappointment. Accordingly, I was no
sooner seated at the card-table, with my pretty hostess for a vis-à-vis, than I
propounded those questions the solution of which had become a matter so
essential to my peace.
"Smith?" said my partner, "why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair
that, wasn't it?—diamonds, did you say?—terrible wretches those Kickapoos!
—we are playing whist, if you please, Mr. Tattle—however, this is the age of
invention, most certainly the age, one may say—the age par excellence—
speak French?—oh, quite a hero—perfect desperado!—no hearts, Mr. Tattle? I
don't believe it!—immortal renown and all that!—prodigies of valor! Never
heard!!—why, bless me, he's the man"—
"Mann?—Captain Mann?" here screamed some little feminine interloper
from the farthest corner of the room. "Are you talking about Captain Mann
and the duel?—oh, I must hear—do tell—go on, Mrs. O'Trump!—do now go
on!" And go on Mrs. O'Trump did—all about a certain Captain Mann, who
was either shot or hung, or should have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs.
O'Trump, she went on, and I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing
anything farther that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B.
C. Smith.
Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill luck would not
run against me forever, and so determined to make a bold push for information
at the rout of that bewitching little angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.
"Smith?" said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a pas de zephyr,
"Smith?—why, not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful business that of the
Bugaboos, wasn't it?—dreadful creatures, those Indians!—do turn out your
toes! I really am ashamed of you—man of great courage, poor fellow!—but
this is a wonderful age for invention—O dear me, I'm out of breath—quite a
desperado—prodigies of valor—never heard!!—can't believe it—I shall have
to sit down and enlighten you—Smith! why, he's the man"—
"Man-Fred, I tell you!" here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led Mrs.
Pirouette to a seat. "Did ever anybody hear the like? It's Man-Fred, I say, and
not at all by any means Man-Friday." Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in
a very peremptory manner; and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for
the purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain poetical drama
of Lord Byron's. Although I pronounced, with great promptness, that the true
title was Man-Friday, and not by any means Man-Fred, yet when I returned to
seek Mrs. Pirouette she was not to be discovered, and I made my rêtreat from
the house in a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the Bas-
Bleus.
Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved to call at
once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate; for I knew that here at
least I should get something like definite information.
"Smith?" said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling out his
syllables; "Smith?—why, not General John A. B. C.? Savage affair that with
the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn't it? Say! don't you think so?—perfect despera-a-ado
—great pity, 'pon my honor!—wonderfully inventive age!—pro-o-odigies of
valor! By the by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?"
"Captain Mann be d—d!" said I; "please to go on with your story."
"Hem!—oh well!—quite la même cho-o-ose, as we say in France. Smith,
eh? Brigadier-General John A. B. C.? I say"—[here Mr. S. thought proper to
put his finger to the side of his nose]—"I say, you don't mean to insinuate now,
really and truly, and conscientiously, that you don't know all about that affair
of Smith's, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A-B-C.? Why, bless me, he's the
ma-a-an"—
"Mr. Sinivate," said I, imploringly, "is he the man in the mask?"
"No-o-o!" said he, looking wise, "nor the man in the mo-o-on."
This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so left the house at
once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a
speedy account for his ungentlemanly conduct and ill-breeding.
In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted touching the
information I desired. There was one resource left me yet. I would go to the
fountain-head. I would call forthwith upon the General himself, and demand,
in explicit terms, a solution of this abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least,
there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain, positive,
peremptory—as short as pie-crust—as concise as Tacitus or Montesquieu.
It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I pleaded
urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room by an old negro
valet, who remained in attendance during my visit. As I entered the chamber, I
looked about, of course, for the occupant, but did not immediately perceive
him. There was a large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something
which lay close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best humor in
the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.
"Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!" said the bundle, in one of the
smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices, between a squeak and a
whistle, that I ever heard in all the days of my existence.
"Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe."
I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into the farthest
extremity of the room.
"God bless me! my dear fellow," here again whistled the bundle, "what—
what—what—why, what is the matter? I really believe you don't know me at
all."
What could I say to all this—what could I? I staggered into an arm-chair,
and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution of the wonder.
"Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it?" presently re-squeaked the
nondescript, which I now perceived was performing, upon the floor, some
inexplicable evolution, very analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There
was only a single leg, however, apparent.
"Strange you shouldn't know me, though, isn't it? Pompey, bring me that
leg!" Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork leg, already dressed,
which it screwed on in a trice; and then it stood up before my eyes.
"And a bloody action it was," continued the thing, as if in a soliloquy; "but
then one mustn't fight with the Bugaboos and Kickapoos, and think of coming
off with a mere scratch. Pompey, I'll thank you now for that arm. Thomas"
[turning to me] "is decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever
want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you to
Bishop." Here Pompey screwed on an arm.
"We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog, slip on my
shoulders and bosom! Pettitt makes the best shoulders, but for a bosom you
will have to go to Ducrow."
"Bosom!" said I.
"Pompey, will you never be ready with that wig? Scalping is a rough process
after all; but then you can procure such a capital scratch at De L'Orme's."
"Scratch!"
"Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a good set of these you had better go to
Parmly's at once; high prices, but excellent work. I swallowed some very
capital articles, though, when the big Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt
end of his rifle."
"Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!"
"O yes, by-the-by, my eye—here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in ! Those
Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he's a belied man, that Dr.
Williams, after all; you can't imagine how well I see with the eyes of his
make."
I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me was nothing
more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B.
C. Smith. The manipulations of Pompey had made, I must confess, a very
striking difference in the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however,
still puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily cleared
up.
"Pompey, you black rascal," squeaked the General, "I really do believe you
would let me go out without my palate."
Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his master,
opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey, and adjusted therein
a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a very dexterous manner, that I
could not altogether comprehend. The alteration, however, in the entire
expression of the General's countenance was instantaneous and surprising.
When he again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and strength
which I had noticed upon our original introduction.
"D—n the vagabonds!" said he, in so clear a tone that I positively started at
the change, "D—n the vagabonds! they not only knocked in the roof of my
mouth, but took the trouble to cut off at least seven-eighths of my tongue.
There isn't Bonfanti's equal, however, in America, for really good articles of
this description. I can recommend you to him with confidence," [here the
General bowed,] "and assure you that I have the greatest pleasure in so doing."
I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of him at
once, with a perfect understanding of the true state of affairs—with a full
comprehension of the mystery which had troubled me so long. It was evident.
It was a clear case. Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man
—was the man that was used up.

THE BUSINESS MAN

Method is the soul of business.—OLD SAYING.

I AM a business man. I am a methodical man. Method is the thing, after all.

But there are no people I more heartily despise than your eccentric fools who
prate about method without understanding it; attending strictly to its letter, and
violating its spirit. These fellows are always doing the most out-of-the-way
things in what they call an orderly manner. Now here, I conceive, is a positive
paradox. True method appertains to the ordinary and the obvious alone, and
cannot be applied to the outre. What definite idea can a body attach to such
expressions as "methodical Jack o' Dandy," or "a systematical Will o' the
Wisp"?
My notions upon this head might not have been so clear as they are, but for a
fortunate accident which happened to me when I was a very little boy. A good-
hearted old Irish nurse (whom I shall not forget in my will) took me up one
day by the heels, when I was making more noise than was necessary, and
swinging me round two or knocked my head into a cocked hat against the
bedpost. This, I say, decided my fate, and made my fortune. A bump arose at
once on my sinciput, and turned out to be as pretty an organ of order as one
shall see on a summer's day. Hence that positive appetite for system and
regularity which has made me the distinguished man of business that I am.
If there is any thing on earth I hate, it is a genius. Your geniuses are all arrant
asses—the greater the genius the greater the ass—and to this rule there is no
exception whatever. Especially, you cannot make a man of business out of a
genius, any more than money out of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of pine-
knots. The creatures are always going off at a tangent into some fantastic
employment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at variance with the "fitness of
things," and having no business whatever to be considered as a business at all.
Thus you may tell these characters immediately by the nature of their
occupations. If you ever perceive a man setting up as a merchant or a
manufacturer, or going into the cotton or tobacco trade, or any of those
eccentric pursuits; or getting to be a drygoods dealer, or soap-boiler, or
something of that kind; or pretending to be a lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a
physician—any thing out of the usual way—you may set him down at once as
a genius, and then, according to the rule-of-three, he's an ass.
Now I am not in any respect a genius, but a regular business man. My Day-
book and Ledger will evince this in a minute. They are well kept, though I say
it myself; and, in my general habits of accuracy and punctuality, I am not to be
beat by a clock. Moreover, my occupations have been always made to chime
in with the ordinary habitudes of my fellowmen. Not that I feel the least
indebted, upon this score, to my exceedingly weak-minded parents, who,
beyond doubt, would have made an arrant genius of me at last, if my guardian
angel had not come, in good time, to the rescue. In biography the truth is every
thing, and in autobiography it is especially so—yet I scarcely hope to be
believed when I state, however solemnly, that my poor father put me, when I
was about fifteen years of age, into the counting-house of what be termed "a
respectable hardware and commission merchant doing a capital bit of
business!" A capital bit of fiddlestick! However, the consequence of this folly
was, that in two or three days, I had to be sent home to my button-headed
family in a high state of fever, and with a most violent and dangerous pain in
the sinciput, all around about my organ of order. It was nearly a gone case
with me then—just touch-and-go for six weeks—the physicians giving me up
and all that sort of thing. But, although I suffered much, I was a thankful boy
in the main. I was saved from being a "respectable hardware and commission
merchant, doing a capital bit of business," and I felt grateful to the
protuberance which had been the means of my salvation, as well as to the
kindhearted female who had originally put these means within my reach.
The most of boys run away from home at ten or twelve years of age, but I
waited till I was sixteen. I don't know that I should have gone even then, if I
had not happened to hear my old mother talk about setting me up on my own
hook in the grocery way. The grocery way!—only think of that! I resolved to
be off forthwith, and try and establish myself in some decent occupation,
without dancing attendance any longer upon the caprices of these eccentric old
people, and running the risk of being made a genius of in the end. In this
project I succeeded perfectly well at the first effort, and by the time I was
fairly eighteen, found myself doing an extensive and profitable business in the
Tailor's Walking-Advertisement line.
I was enabled to discharge the onerous duties of this profession, only by that
rigid adherence to system which formed the leading feature of my mind. A
scrupulous method characterized my actions as well as my accounts. In my
case it was method—not money—which made the man: at least all of him that
was not made by the tailor whom I served. At nine, every morning, I called
upon that individual for the clothes of the day. Ten o'clock found me in some
fashionable promenade or other place of public amusement. The precise
regularity with which I turned my handsome person about, so as to bring
successively into view every portion of the suit upon my back, was the
admiration of all the knowing men in the trade. Noon never passed without my
bringing home a customer to the house of my employers, Messrs. Cut &
Comeagain. I say this proudly, but with tears in my eyes—for the firm proved
themselves the basest of ingrates. The little account, about which we quarreled
and finally parted, cannot, in any item, be thought overcharged, by gentlemen
really conversant with the nature of the business. Upon this point, however, I
feel a degree of proud satisfaction in permitting the reader to judge for
himself. My bill ran thus:
Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, Merchant Tailors.
To Peter Proffit, Walking Advertiser, Drs.
JULY 10.—to promenade, as usual and customer brought home... $00
25
JULY 11.—To do do do 25
JULY 12.—To one lie, second class; damaged black cloth sold for
invisible green............................................... 25

JULY 13.—To one lie, first class, extra quality and size;
recommended milled satinet as broadcloth...................... 75

JULY 20.—To purchasing bran new paper shirt collar or dickey, to

 set off gray Petersham..................................... 02

AUG. 15.—To wearing double-padded bobtail frock, (thermometer 106

in the shade)............................................. 25

AUG. 16.—Standing on one leg three hours, to show off new-style

strapped pants at 12 1/2 cents per leg per hour............. 37 1/2

AUG. 17.—To promenade, as usual, and large customer brought (fat

man)..................................................... 50

AUG. 18.—To do do (medium size)................. 25

AUG. 19.—To do do (small man and bad pay)....... 06

TOTAL [sic] $2 95 1/2

The item chiefly disputed in this bill was the very moderate charge of two
pennies for the dickey. Upon my word of honor, this was not an unreasonable
price for that dickey. It was one of the cleanest and prettiest little dickeys I
ever saw; and I have good reason to believe that it effected the sale of three
Petershams. The elder partner of the firm, however, would allow me only one
penny of the charge, and took it upon himself to show in what manner four of
the same sized conveniences could be got out of a sheet of foolscap. But it is
needless to say that I stood upon the principle of the thing. Business is
business, and should be done in a business way. There was no system
whatever in swindling me out of a penny—a clear fraud of fifty per cent—no
method in any respect. I left at once the employment of Messrs. Cut &
Comeagain, and set up in the Eye-Sore line by myself—one of the most
lucrative, respectable, and independent of the ordinary occupations.
My strict integrity, economy, and rigorous business habits, here again came
into play. I found myself driving a flourishing trade, and soon became a
marked man upon 'Change. The truth is, I never dabbled in flashy matters, but
jogged on in the good old sober routine of the calling—a calling in which I
should, no doubt, have remained to the present hour, but for a little accident
which happened to me in the prosecution of one of the usual business
operations of the profession. Whenever a rich old hunks or prodigal heir or
bankrupt corporation gets into the notion of putting up a palace, there is no
such thing in the world as stopping either of them, and this every intelligent
person knows. The fact in question is indeed the basis of the Eye-Sore trade.
As soon, therefore, as a building-project is fairly afoot by one of these parties,
we merchants secure a nice corner of the lot in contemplation, or a prime little
situation just adjoining, or tight in front. This done, we wait until the palace is
half-way up, and then we pay some tasty architect to run us up an ornamental
mud hovel, right against it; or a Down-East or Dutch Pagoda, or a pig-sty, or
an ingenious little bit of fancy work, either Esquimau, Kickapoo, or Hottentot.
Of course we can't afford to take these structures down under a bonus of five
hundred per cent upon the prime cost of our lot and plaster. Can we? I ask the
question. I ask it of business men. It would be irrational to suppose that we
can. And yet there was a rascally corporation which asked me to do this very
thing—this very thing! I did not reply to their absurd proposition, of course;
but I felt it a duty to go that same night, and lamp-black the whole of their
palace. For this the unreasonable villains clapped me into jail; and the
gentlemen of the Eye-Sore trade could not well avoid cutting my connection
when I came out.
The Assault-and-Battery business, into which I was now forced to adventure
for a livelihood, was somewhat ill-adapted to the delicate nature of my
constitution; but I went to work in it with a good heart, and found my account
here, as heretofore, in those stern habits of methodical accuracy which had
been thumped into me by that delightful old nurse—I would indeed be the
basest of men not to remember her well in my will. By observing, as I say, the
strictest system in all my dealings, and keeping a well-regulated set of books, I
was enabled to get over many serious difficulties, and, in the end, to establish
myself very decently in the profession. The truth is, that few individuals, in
any line, did a snugger little business than I. I will just copy a page or so out of
my Day-Book; and this will save me the necessity of blowing my own trumpet
—a contemptible practice of which no high-minded man will be guilty. Now,
the Day-Book is a thing that don't lie.
"Jan. 1.—New Year's Day. Met Snap in the street, groggy. Mem—he'll do.
Met Gruff shortly afterward, blind drunk. Mem—he'll answer, too. Entered
both gentlemen in my Ledger, and opened a running account with each.
"Jan. 2.—Saw Snap at the Exchange, and went up and trod on his toe.
Doubled his fist and knocked me down. Good!—got up again. Some trifling
difficulty with Bag, my attorney. I want the damages at a thousand, but he says
that for so simple a knock down we can't lay them at more than five hundred.
Mem—must get rid of Bag—no system at all.
"Jan. 3—Went to the theatre, to look for Gruff. Saw him sitting in a side
box, in the second tier, between a fat lady and a lean one. Quizzed the whole
party through an opera-glass, till I saw the fat lady blush and whisper to G.
Went round, then, into the box, and put my nose within reach of his hand.
Wouldn't pull it—no go. Blew it, and tried again—no go. Sat down then, and
winked at the lean lady, when I had the high satisfaction of finding him lift me
up by the nape of the neck, and fling me over into the pit. Neck dislocated, and
right leg capitally splintered. Went home in high glee, drank a bottle of
champagne, and booked the young man for five thousand. Bag says it'll do.
"Feb. 15—Compromised the case of Mr. Snap. Amount entered in Journal—
fifty cents—which see.
"Feb. 16.—Cast by that ruffian, Gruff, who made me a present of five
dollars. Costs of suit, four dollars and twenty-five cents. Nett profit,—see
Journal,—seventy-five cents."
 Now, here is a clear gain, in a very brief period, of no less than one dollar
and twenty-five cents—this is in the mere cases of Snap and Gruff; and I
solemnly assure the reader that these extracts are taken at random from my
Day-Book.
It's an old saying, and a true one, however, that money is nothing in
comparison with health. I found the exactions of the profession somewhat too
much for my delicate state of body; and, discovering, at last, that I was
knocked all out of shape, so that I didn't know very well what to make of the
matter, and so that my friends, when they met me in the street, couldn't tell
that I was Peter Proffit at all, it occurred to me that the best expedient I could
adopt was to alter my line of business. I turned my attention, therefore, to
Mud-Dabbling, and continued it for some years.
The worst of this occupation is, that too many people take a fancy to it, and
the competition is in consequence excessive. Every ignoramus of a fellow who
finds that he hasn't brains in sufficient quantity to make his way as a walking
advertiser, or an eye-sore prig, or a salt-and-batter man, thinks, of course, that
he'll answer very well as a dabbler of mud. But there never was entertained a
more erroneous idea than that it requires no brains to mud-dabble. Especially,
there is nothing to be made in this way without method. I did only a retail
business myself, but my old habits of system carried me swimmingly along. I
selected my street-crossing, in the first place, with great deliberation, and I
never put down a broom in any part of the town but that. I took care, too, to
have a nice little puddle at hand, which I could get at in a minute. By these
means I got to be well known as a man to be trusted; and this is one-half the
battle, let me tell you, in trade. Nobody ever failed to pitch me a copper, and
got over my crossing with a clean pair of pantaloons. And, as my business
habits, in this respect, were sufficiently understood, I never met with any
attempt at imposition. I wouldn't have put up with it, if I had. Never imposing
upon any one myself, I suffered no one to play the possum with me. The
frauds of the banks of course I couldn't help. Their suspension put me to
ruinous inconvenience. These, however, are not individuals, but corporations;
and corporations, it is very well known, have neither bodies to be kicked nor
souls to be damned.
I was making money at this business when, in an evil moment, I was
induced to merge it in the Cur-Spattering—a somewhat analogous, but, by no
means, so respectable a profession. My location, to be sure, was an excellent
one, being central, and I had capital blacking and brushes. My little dog, too,
was quite fat and up to all varieties of snuff. He had been in the trade a long
time, and, I may say, understood it. Our general routine was this:—Pompey,
having rolled himself well in the mud, sat upon end at the shop door, until he
observed a dandy approaching in bright boots. He then proceeded to meet him,
and gave the Wellingtons a rub or two with his wool. Then the dandy swore
very much, and looked about for a boot-black. There I was, full in his view,
with blacking and brushes. It was only a minute's work, and then came a
sixpence. This did moderately well for a time;—in fact, I was not avaricious,
but my dog was. I allowed him a third of the profit, but he was advised to
insist upon half. This I couldn't stand—so we quarrelled and parted.
I next tried my hand at the Organ-Grinding for a while, and may say that I
made out pretty well. It is a plain, straightforward business, and requires no
particular abilities. You can get a music-mill for a mere song, and to put it in
order, you have but to open the works, and give them three or four smart raps
with a hammer. In improves the tone of the thing, for business purposes, more
than you can imagine. This done, you have only to stroll along, with the mill
on your back, until you see tanbark in the street, and a knocker wrapped up in
buckskin. Then you stop and grind; looking as if you meant to stop and grind
till doomsday. Presently a window opens, and somebody pitches you a
sixpence, with a request to "Hush up and go on," etc. I am aware that some
grinders have actually afforded to "go on" for this sum; but for my part, I
found the necessary outlay of capital too great to permit of my "going on"
under a shilling.
At this occupation I did a good deal; but, somehow, I was not quite satisfied,
and so finally abandoned it. The truth is, I labored under the disadvantage of
having no monkey—and American streets are so muddy, and a Democratic
rabble is so obstrusive, and so full of demnition mischievous little boys.
I was now out of employment for some months, but at length succeeded, by
dint of great interest, in procuring a situation in the Sham-Post. The duties,
here, are simple, and not altogether unprofitable. For example:—very early in
the morning I had to make up my packet of sham letters. Upon the inside of
each of these I had to scrawl a few lines on any subject which occurred to me
as sufficiently mysterious—signing all the epistles Tom Dobson, or Bobby
Tompkins, or anything in that way. Having folded and sealed all, and stamped
them with sham postmarks—New Orleans, Bengal, Botany Bay, or any other
place a great way off—I set out, forthwith, upon my daily route, as if in a very
great hurry. I always called at the big houses to deliver the letters, and receive
the postage. Nobody hesitates at paying for a letter—especially for a double
one—people are such fools—and it was no trouble to get round a corner
before there was time to open the epistles. The worst of this profession was,
that I had to walk so much and so fast; and so frequently to vary my route.
Besides, I had serious scruples of conscience. I can't bear to hear innocent
individuals abused—and the way the whole town took to cursing Tom Dobson
and Bobby Tompkins was really awful to hear. I washed my hands of the
matter in disgust.
My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I have
found that a most pleasant and lucrative business, and, really, no trouble at all.
The country, it is well known, has become infested with cats—so much so of
late, that a petition for relief, most numerously and respectably signed, was
brought before the Legislature at its late memorable session. The Assembly, at
this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, having passed many other wise
and wholesome enactments, it crowned all with the Cat-Act. In its original
form, this law offered a premium for cat-heads (fourpence a-piece), but the
Senate succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the word
"tails" for "heads." This amendment was so obviously proper, that the House
concurred in it nem. con.
As soon as the governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole estate in
the purchase of Toms and Tabbies. At first I could only afford to feed them
upon mice (which are cheap), but they fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so
marvellous a rate, that I at length considered it my best policy to be liberal,
and so indulged them in oysters and turtle. Their tails, at a legislative price,
now bring me in a good income; for I have discovered a way, in which, by
means of Macassar oil, I can force three crops in a year. It delights me to find,
too, that the animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have
the appendages cut off than otherwise. I consider myself, therefore, a made
man, and am bargaining for a country seat on the Hudson.

THE LANDSCAPE
GARDEN
The garden like a lady fair was cut
That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut;
The azure fields of heaven were 'sembled right
In a large round set with flow'rs of light:
The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew
That hung upon their azure leaves, did show
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the ev'ning blue.
—GILES FLETCHER

NO MORE remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young Ellison.
He was remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion of good gifts ever
lavished upon him by fortune. From his cradle to his grave, a gale of the
blandest prosperity bore him along. Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its
mere wordly or external sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The
person of whom I speak, seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the
wild doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of exemplifying, by
individual instance, what has been deemed the mere chimera of the
perfectionists. In the brief existence of Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted
the dogma—that in man's physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden
principle, the antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of his
career, has taught me to understand that, in general, from the violation of a few
simple laws of Humanity, arises the Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a
species, we have in our possession the as yet unwrought elements of Content,
—and that even now, in the present blindness and darkness of all idea on the
great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible that Man, the
individual, under certain unusual and highly fortuitous conditions, may be
happy.
With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and thus is
it especially worthy of observation that the uninterrupted enjoyment which
distinguished his life was in great part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed
evident, that with less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then,
stands so well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found
himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his life, into the
common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those of preeminent
endowments. But it is by no means my present object to pen an essay on
Happiness. The ideas of my friend may be summed up in a few words. He
admitted but four unvarying laws, or rather elementary principles, of Bliss.
That which he considered chief, was (strange to say!) the simple and purely
physical one of free exercise in the open air. "The health," he said, "attainable
by other means than this is scarcely worth the name." He pointed to the tillers
of the earth—the only people who, as a class, are proverbially more happy
than others—and then he instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His
second principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of
ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he held that,
other things being equal, the extent of happiness was proportioned to the
spirituality of this object.
I have said that Ellison was remarkable in the continuous profusion of good
gifts lavished upon him by Fortune. In personal grace and beauty he exceeded
all men. His intellect was of that order to which the attainment of knowledge
is less a labor than a necessity and an intuition. His family was one of the most
illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most devoted of
women. His possessions had been always ample; but, upon the attainment of
his one and twentieth year, it was discovered that one of those extraordinary
freaks of Fate had been played in his behalf which startle the whole social
world amid which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the entire
moral constitution of those who are their objects. It appears that about one
hundred years prior to Mr. Ellison's attainment of his majority, there had died,
in a remote province, one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This gentlemen had amassed
a princely fortune, and, having no very immediate connexions, conceived the
whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a century after his decease.
Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes of investment, he
bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest of blood, bearing the name
Ellison, who should be alive at the end of the hundred years. Many futile
attempts had been made to set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto
character rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government
was aroused, and a decree finally obtained, forbidding all similar
accumulations. This act did not prevent young Ellison, upon his twenty-first
birth-day, from entering into possession, as the heir of his ancestor, Seabright,
of a fortune of four hundred and fifty millions of dollars.
When it had become definitely known that such was the enormous wealth
inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to the mode of its
disposal. The gigantic magnitude and the immediately available nature of the
sum, dazzled and bewildered all who thought upon the topic. The possessor of
any appreciable amount of money might have been imagined to perform any
one of a thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those of any citizen, it
would have been easy to suppose him engaging to supreme excess in the
fashionable extravagances of his time; or busying himself with political
intrigues; or aiming at ministerial power, or purchasing increase of nobility, or
devising gorgeous architectural piles; or collecting large specimens of Virtu;
or playing the munificent patron of Letters and Art; or endowing and
bestowing his name upon extensive institutions of charity. But, for the
inconceivable wealth in the actual possession of the young heir, these objects
and all ordinary objects were felt to be inadequate. Recourse was had to
figures; and figures but sufficed to confound. It was seen, that even at three
per cent, the annual income of the inheritance amounted to no less than
thirteen millions and five hundred thousand dollars; which was one million
and one hundred and twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand,
nine hundred and eighty-six per day, or one thousand five hundred and forty-
one per hour, or six and twenty dollars for every minute that flew. Thus the
usual track of supposition was thoroughly broken up. Men knew not what to
imagine. There were some who even conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest
himself forthwith of at least two-thirds of his fortune as of utterly superfluous
opulence; enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of his
superabundance.
I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made up his mind
upon a topic which had occasioned so much of discussion to his friends. Nor
was I greatly astonished at the nature of his decision. In the widest and noblest
sense, he was a poet. He comprehended, moreover, the true character, the
august aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment. The
proper gratification of the sentiment he instinctively felt to lie in the creation
of novel forms of Beauty. Some peculiarities, either in his early education, or
in the nature of his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism the
whole cast of his ethical speculations; and it was this bias, perhaps, which
imperceptibly led him to perceive that the most advantageous, if not the sole
legitimate field for the exercise of the poetic sentiment, was to be found in the
creation of novel moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened that
he became neither musician nor poet; if we use this latter term in its every—
day acceptation. Or it might have been that he became neither the one nor the
other, in pursuance of an idea of his which I have already mentioned—the
idea, that in the contempt of ambition lay one of the essential principles of
happiness on earth. Is it not, indeed, possible that while a high order of genius
is necessarily ambitious, the highest is invariably above that which is termed
ambition? And may it not thus happen that many far greater than Milton, have
contentedly remained "mute and inglorious?" I believe the world has never yet
seen, and that, unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest
order of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never behold, that full
extent of triumphant execution, in the richer productions of Art, of which the
human nature is absolutely capable.
Mr. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived more
profoundly enamored both of Music and the Muse. Under other circumstances
than those which invested him, it is not impossible that he would have become
a painter. The field of sculpture, although in its nature rigidly poetical, was too
limited in its extent and in its consequences, to have occupied, at any time,
much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all the provinces in which
even the most liberal understanding of the poetic sentiment has declared this
sentiment capable of expatiating. I mean the most liberal public or recognized
conception of the idea involved in the phrase "poetic sentiment." But Mr.
Ellison imagined that the richest, and altogether the most natural and most
suitable province, had been blindly neglected. No definition had spoken of the
Landscape-Gardener, as of the poet; yet my friend could not fail to perceive
that the creation of the Landscape-Garden offered to the true muse the most
magnificent of opportunities. Here was, indeed, the fairest field for the display
of invention, or imagination, in the endless combining of forms of novel
Beauty; the elements which should enter into combination being, at all times,
and by a vast superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In the
multiform of the tree, and in the multicolor of the flower, he recognized the
most direct and the most energetic efforts of Nature at physical loveliness.
And in the direction or concentration of this effort, or, still more properly, in
its adaption to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth, he perceived that
he should be employing the best means—laboring to the greatest advantage—
in the fulfilment of his destiny as Poet.
"Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth." In his
explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much towards solving what
has always seemed to me an enigma. I mean the fact (which none but the
ignorant dispute,) that no such combinations of scenery exist in Nature as the
painter of genius has in his power to produce. No such Paradises are to be
found in reality as have glowed upon the canvass of Claude. In the most
enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a defect or an
excess—many excesses and defects. While the component parts may exceed,
individually, the highest skill of the artist, the arrangement of the parts will
always be susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be attained,
from which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will not find matter of offence,
in what is technically termed the composition of a natural landscape. And yet
how unintelligible is this! In all other matters we are justly instructed to regard
Nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition. Who shall
presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to improve the proportions of the
lily of the valley? The criticism which says, of sculpture or of portraiture, that
"Nature is to be exalted rather than imitated," is in error. No pictorial or
sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more than approach
the living and breathing human beauty as it gladdens our daily path. Byron,
who often erred, erred not in saying, I've seen more living beauty, ripe and
real, than all the nonsense of their stone ideal. In landscape alone is the
principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it is but the headlong
spirit of generalization which has induced him to pronounce it true throughout
all the domains of Art. Having, I say, felt its truth here. For the feeling is no
affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute
demonstrations, than the sentiment of his Art yields to the artist. He not only
believes, but positively knows, that such and such apparently arbitrary
arrangements of matter, or form, constitute, and alone constitute, the true
Beauty. Yet his reasons have not yet been matured into expression. It remains
for a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to investigate
and express them. Nevertheless is he confirmed in his instinctive opinions, by
the concurrence of all his compeers. Let a composition be defective, let an
emendation be wrought in its mere arrangement of form; let this emendation
be submitted to every artist in the world; by each will its necessity be
admitted. And even far more than this, in remedy of the defective
composition, each insulated member of the fraternity will suggest the identical
emendation.
I repeat that in landscape arrangements, or collocations alone, is the physical
Nature susceptible of "exaltation" and that, therefore, her susceptibility of
improvement at this one point, was a mystery which, hitherto I had been
unable to solve. It was Mr. Ellison who first suggested the idea that what we
regarded as improvement or exaltation of the natural beauty, was really such,
as respected only the mortal or human point of view; that each alteration or
disturbance of the primitive scenery might possibly effect a blemish in the
picture, if we could suppose this picture viewed at large from some remote
point in the heavens. "It is easily understood," says Mr. Ellison, "that what
might improve a closely scrutinized detail, might, at the same time, injure a
general and more distantly—observed effect." He spoke upon this topic with
warmth: regarding not so much its immediate or obvious importance, (which
is little,) as the character of the conclusions to which it might lead, or of the
collateral propositions which it might serve to corroborate or sustain. There
might be a class of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for
whose scrutiny and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful, more
especially than for our own, had been set in order by God the great landscape-
garden of the whole earth.
In the course of our discussion, my young friend took occasion to quote
some passages from a writer who has been supposed to have well treated this
theme.
"There are, properly," he writes, "but two styles of landscape-gardening, the
natural and the artificial. One seeks to recall the original beauty of the country,
by adapting its means to the surrounding scenery; cultivating trees in harmony
with the hills or plain of the neighboring land; detecting and bringing into
practice those nice relations of size, proportion and color which, hid from the
common observer, are revealed everywhere to the experienced student of
nature. The result of the natural style of gardening, is seen rather in the
absence of all defects and incongruities—in the prevalence of a beautiful
harmony and order, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles.
The artificial style has as many varieties as there are different tastes to gratify.
It has a certain general relation to the various styles of building. There are the
stately avenues and retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various
mixed old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic Gothic or
English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said against the abuses of
the artificial landscape-gardening, a mixture of pure art in a garden scene, adds
to it a great beauty. This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and
design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered balustrade, calls
up at once to the eye, the fair forms that have passed there in other days. The
slightest exhibition of art is an evidence of care and human interest."
"From what I have already observed," said Mr. Ellison, "you will understand
that I reject the idea, here expressed, of 'recalling the original beauty of the
country.' The original beauty is never so great as that which may be
introduced. Of course, much depends upon the selection of a spot with
capabilities. What is said in respect to the 'detecting and bringing into practice
those nice relations of size, proportion and color,' is a mere vagueness of
speech, which may mean much, or little, or nothing, and which guides in no
degree. That the true 'result of the natural style of gardening is seen rather in
the absence of all defects and incongruities, than in the creation of any special
wonders or miracles,' is a proposition better suited to the grovelling
apprehension of the herd, than to the fervid dreams of the man of genius. The
merit suggested is, at best, negative, and appertains to that hobbling criticism
which, in letters, would elevate Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that
merit which consists in the mere avoiding demerit, appeals directly to the
understanding, and can thus be foreshadowed in Rule, the loftier merit, which
breathes and flames in invention or creation, can be apprehended solely in its
results. Rule applies but to the excellences of avoidance—to the virtues which
deny or refrain. Beyond these the critical art can but suggest. We may be
instructed to build an Odyssey, but it is in vain that we are told how to
conceive a 'Tempest,' an 'Inferno,' a 'Prometheus Bound,' a 'Nightingale,' such
as that of Keats, or the 'Sensitive Plant' of Shelley. But, the thing done, the
wonder accomplished, and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal.
The sophists of the negative school, who, through inability to create, have
scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What, in its
chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure reason, never fails, in
its maturity of accomplishment, to extort admiration from their instinct of the
beautiful or of the sublime.
"Our author's observations on the artificial style of gardening," continued
Mr. Ellison, "are less objectionable. 'A mixture of pure art in a garden scene,
adds to it a great beauty.' This is just; and the reference to the sense of human
interest is equally so. I repeat that the principle here expressed, is
incontrovertible; but there may be something even beyond it. There may be an
object in full keeping with the principle suggested—an object unattainable by
the means ordinarily in possession of mankind, yet which, if attained, would
lend a charm to the landscape-garden immeasurably surpassing that which a
merely human interest could bestow. The true poet possessed of very unusual
pecuniary resources, might possibly, while retaining the necessary idea of art
or interest or culture, so imbue his designs at once with extent and novelty of
Beauty, as to convey the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be seen
that, in bringing about such result, he secures all the advantages of interest or
design, while relieving his work of all the harshness and technicality of Art. In
the most rugged of wildernesses—in the most savage of the scenes of pure
Nature—there is apparent the art of a Creator; yet is this art apparent only to
reflection; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling. Now, if we
imagine this sense of the Almighty Design to be harmonized in a measurable
degree, if we suppose a landscape whose combined strangeness, vastness,
definitiveness, and magnificence, shall inspire the idea of culture, or care, or
superintendence, on the part of intelligences superior yet akin to humanity—
then the sentiment of interest is preserved, while the Art is made to assume the
air of an intermediate or secondary Nature—a Nature which is not God, nor an
emanation of God, but which still is Nature, in the sense that it is the
handiwork of the angels that hover between man and God."
It was in devoting his gigantic wealth to the practical embodiment of a
vision such as this—in the free exercise in the open air, which resulted from
personal direction of his plans—in the continuous and unceasing object which
these plans afford—in the contempt of ambition which it enabled him more to
feel than to affect—and, lastly, it was in the companionship and sympathy of a
devoted wife, that Ellison thought to find, and found, an exemption from the
ordinary cares of Humanity, with a far greater amount of positive happiness
than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De Stael.

MAELZEL'S CHESS-
PLAYER

PERHAPS no exhibition of the kind has ever elicited so general attention as

the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has been an object of intense
curiosity, to all persons who think. Yet the question of its modus operandi
is still undetermined. Nothing has been written on this topic which can be
considered as decisive—and accordingly we find every where men of
mechanical genius, of great general acuteness, and discriminative
understanding, who make no scruple in pronouncing the Automaton a pure
machine, unconnected with human agency in its movements, and
consequently, beyond all comparison, the most astonishing of the inventions of
mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were they right in their
supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, it would be grossly absurd to compare
with the Chess-Player, any similar thing of either modern or ancient days. Yet
there have been many and wonderful automata. In Brewster's Letters on
Natural Magic, we have an account of the most remarkable. Among these may
be mentioned, as having beyond doubt existed, firstly, the coach invented by
M. Camus for the amusement of Louis XIV when a child. A table, about four
feet square, was introduced, into the room appropriated for the exhibition.
Upon this table was placed a carriage, six inches in length, made of wood, and
drawn by two horses of the same material. One window being down, a lady
was seen on the back seat. A coachman held the reins on the box, and a
footman and page were in their places behind. M. Camus now touched a
spring; whereupon the coachman smacked his whip, and the horses proceeded
in a natural manner, along the edge of the table, drawing after them the
carriage. Having gone as far as possible in this direction, a sudden turn was
made to the left, and the vehicle was driven at right angles to its former
course, and still closely along the edge of the table. In this way the coach
proceeded until it arrived opposite the chair of the young prince. It then
stopped, the page descended and opened the door, the lady alighted, and
presented a petition to her sovereign. She then re-entered. The page put up the
steps, closed the door, and resumed his station. The coachman whipped his
horses, and the carriage was driven back to its original position.
 The magician of M. Maillardet is also worthy of notice. We copy the
following account of it from the Letters before mentioned of Dr. B., who
derived his information principally from the Edinburgh Encyclopaedia.
"One of the most popular pieces of mechanism which we have seen, Is the
Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, for the purpose of answering certain
given questions. A figure, dressed like a magician, appears seated at the
bottom of a wall, holding a wand in one hand, and a book in the other A
number of questions, ready prepared, are inscribed on oval medallions, and the
spectator takes any of these he chooses and to which he wishes an answer, and
having placed it in a drawer ready to receive it, the drawer shuts with a spring
till the answer is returned. The magician then arises from his seat, bows his
head, describes circles with his wand, and consulting the book as If in deep
thought, he lifts it towards his face. Having thus appeared to ponder over the
proposed question he raises his wand, and striking with it the wall above his
head, two folding doors fly open, and display an appropriate answer to the
question. The doors again close, the magician resumes his original position,
and the drawer opens to return the medallion. There are twenty of these
medallions, all containing different questions, to which the magician returns
the most suitable and striking answers. The medallions are thin plates of brass,
of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each other. Some of the medallions
have a question inscribed on each side, both of which the magician answered
in succession. If the drawer is shut without a medallion being put into it, the
magician rises, consults his book, shakes his head, and resumes his seat. The
folding doors remain shut, and the drawer is returned empty. If two medallions
are put into the drawer together, an answer is returned only to the lower one.
When the machinery is wound up, the movements continue about an hour,
during which time about fifty questions may be answered. The inventor stated
that the means by which the different medallions acted upon the machinery, so
as to produce the proper answers to the questions which they contained, were
extremely simple."
The duck of Vaucanson was still more remarkable. It was of the size of life,
and so perfect an imitation of the living animal that all the spectators were
deceived. It executed, says Brewster, all the natural movements and gestures,
it ate and drank with avidity, performed all the quick motions of the head and
throat which are peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled the water which it
drank with its bill. It produced also the sound of quacking in the most natural
manner. In the anatomical structure the artist exhibited the highest skill. Every
bone in the real duck had its representative In the automaton, and its wings
were anatomically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, and curvature was imitated,
and each bone executed its proper movements. When corn was thrown down
before it, the duck stretched out its neck to pick it up, swallowed, and digested
it.
 But if these machines were ingenious, what shall we think of the calculating
machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we think of an engine of wood and metal
which can not only compute astronomical and navigation tables to any given
extent, but render the exactitude of its operations mathematically certain
through its power of correcting its possible errors? What shall we think of a
machine which can not only accomplish all this, but actually print off its
elaborate results, when obtained, without the slightest intervention of the
intellect of man? It will, perhaps, be said, in reply, that a machine such as we
have described is altogether above comparison with the Chess-Player of
Maelzel. By no means—it is altogether beneath it—that is to say provided we
assume (what should never for a moment be assumed) that the Chess-Player is
a pure machine, and performs its operations without any immediate human
agency. Arithmetical or algebraical calculations are, from their very nature,
fixed and determinate. Certain data being given, certain results necessarily and
inevitably follow. These results have dependence upon nothing, and are
influenced by nothing but the data originally given. And the question to be
solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its final determination, by a succession
of unerring steps liable to no change, and subject to no modification. This
being the case, we can without difficulty conceive the possibility of so
arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon starting In accordance with
the data of the question to be solved, it should continue its movements
regularly, progressively, and undeviatingly towards the required solution, since
these movements, however complex, are never imagined to be otherwise than
finite and determinate. But the case is widely different with the Chess-Player.
With him there is no determinate progression. No one move in chess
necessarily follows upon any one other. From no particular disposition of the
men at one period of a game can we predicate their disposition at a different
period. Let us place the first move in a game of chess, in juxta-position with
thedata of an algebraical question, and their great difference will be
immediately perceived. From the latter—from the data—the second step of the
question, dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. It is modelled by
the data. It must be thus and not otherwise. But from the first move in the
game of chess no especial second move follows of necessity. In the algebraical
question, as it proceeds towards solution, the certainty of its operations
remains altogether unimpaired. The second step having been a consequence of
the data, the third step is equally a consequence of the second, the fourth of
the third, the fifth of the fourth, and so on, and not possibly otherwise, to the
end. But in proportion to the progress made in a game of chess, is
theuncertainty of each ensuing move. A few moves having been made, no step
is certain. Different spectators of the game would advise different moves. All
is then dependent upon the variable judgment of the players. Now even
granting (what should not be granted) that the movements of the Automaton
Chess-Player were in themselves determinate, they would be necessarily
interrupted and disarranged by the indeterminate will of his antagonist. There
is then no analogy whatever between the operations of the Chess-Player, and
those of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage, and if we choose to call the
former apure machine we must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all
comparison, the most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. Its original
projector, however, Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in declaring it to be a
"very ordinary piece of mechanism—a bagatelle whose effects appeared so
marvellous only from the boldness of the conception, and the fortunate choice
of the methods adopted for promoting the illusion." But it is needless to dwell
upon this point. It is quite certain that the operations of the Automaton are
regulated by mind, and by nothing else. Indeed this matter is susceptible of a
mathematical demonstration, a priori. The only question then is of
the manner in which human agency is brought to bear. Before entering upon
this subject it would be as well to give a brief history and description of the
Chess-Player for the benefit of such of our readers as may never have had an
opportunity of witnessing Mr. Maelzel's exhibition.
The Automaton Chess-Player was invented in 1769, by Baron Kempelen, a
nobleman of Presburg, in Hungary, who afterwards disposed of it, together
with the secret of its operations, to its present possessor. Soon after its
completion it was exhibited in Presburg, Paris, Vienna, and other continental
cities. In 1783 and 1784, it was taken to London by Mr. Maelzel. Of late years
it has visited the principal towns in the United States. Wherever seen, the most
intense curiosity was excited by its appearance, and numerous have been the
attempts, by men of all classes, to fathom the mystery of its evolutions. The
cut on this page gives a tolerable representation of the figure as seen by the
citizens of Richmond a few weeks ago. The right arm, however, should lie
more at length upon the box, a chess-board should appear upon it, and the
cushion should not be seen while the pipe is held. Some immaterial alterations
have been made in the costume of the player since it came into the possession
of Maelzel—the plume, for example, was not originally worn. {image of
automaton}
At the hour appointed for exhibition, a curtain is withdrawn, or folding
doors are thrown open, and the machine rolled to within about twelve feet of
the nearest of the spectators, between whom and it (the machine) a rope is
stretched. A figure is seen habited as a Turk, and seated, with its legs crossed,
at a large box apparently of maple wood, which serves it as a table. The
exhibiter will, if requested, roll the machine to any portion of the room, suffer
it to remain altogether on any designated spot, or even shift its location
repeatedly during the progress of a game. The bottom of the box is elevated
considerably above the floor by means of the castors or brazen rollers on
which it moves, a clear view of the surface immediately beneath the
Automaton being thus afforded to the spectators. The chair on which the
figure sits is affixed permanently to the box. On the top of this latter is a
chess-board, also permanently affixed. The right arm of the Chess-Player is
extended at full length before him, at right angles with his body, and lying, in
an apparently careless position, by the side of the board. The back of the hand
is upwards. The board itself is eighteen inches square. The left arm of the
figure is bent at the elbow, and in the left hand is a pipe. A green drapery
conceals the back of the Turk, and falls partially over the front of both
shoulders. To judge from the external appearance of the box, it is divided into
five compartments—three cupboards of equal dimensions, and two drawers
occupying that portion of the chest lying beneath the cupboards. The foregoing
observations apply to the appearance of the Automaton upon its first
introduction into the presence of the spectators.
Maelzel now informs the company that he will disclose to their view the
mechanism of the machine. Taking from his pocket a bunch of keys he
unlocks with one of them, door marked ~ in the cut above, and throws the
cupboard fully open to the inspection of all present. Its whole interior is
apparently filled with wheels, pinions, levers, and other machinery, crowded
very closely together, so that the eye can penetrate but a little distance into the
mass. Leaving this door open to its full extent, he goes now round to the back
of the box, and raising the drapery of the figure, opens another door situated
precisely in the rear of the one first opened. Holding a lighted candle at this
door, and shifting the position of the whole machine repeatedly at the same
time, a bright light is thrown entirely through the cupboard, which is now
clearly seen to be full, completely full, of machinery. The spectators being
satisfied of this fact, Maelzel closes the back door, locks it, takes the key from
the lock, lets fall the drapery of the figure, and comes round to the front. The
door marked I, it will be remembered, is still open. The exhibiter now
proceeds to open the drawer which lies beneath the cupboards at the bottom of
the box—for although there are apparently two drawers, there is really only
one—the two handles and two key holes being intended merely for ornament.
Having opened this drawer to its full extent, a small cushion, and a set of
chessmen, fixed in a frame work made to support them perpendicularly, are
discovered. Leaving this drawer, as well as cupboard No. 1 open, Maelzel now
unlocks door No. 2, and door No. 3, which are discovered to be folding doors,
opening into one and the same compartment. To the right of this compartment,
however, (that is to say the spectators' right) a small division, six inches wide,
and filled with machinery, is partitioned off. The main compartment itself (in
speaking of that portion of the box visible upon opening doors 2 and 3, we
shall always call it the main compartment) is lined with dark cloth and
contains no machinery whatever beyond two pieces of steel, quadrant-shaped,
and situated one in each of the rear top corners of the compartment. A small
protuberance about eight inches square, and also covered with dark cloth, lies
on the floor of the compartment near the rear corner on the spectators' left
hand. Leaving doors No. 2 and No. 3 open as well as the drawer, and door No.
I, the exhibiter now goes round to the back of the main compartment, and,
unlocking another door there, displays clearly all the interior of the main
compartment, by introducing a candle behind it and within it. The whole box
being thus apparently disclosed to the scrutiny of the company, Maelzel, still
leaving the doors and drawer open, rolls the Automaton entirely round, and
exposes the back of the Turk by lifting up the drapery. A door about ten inches
square is thrown open in the loins of the figure, and a smaller one also in the
left thigh. The interior of the figure, as seen through these apertures, appears to
be crowded with machinery. In general, every spectator is now thoroughly
satisfied of having beheld and completely scrutinized, at one and the same
time, every individual portion of the Automaton, and the idea of any person
being concealed in the interior, during so complete an exhibition of that
interior, if ever entertained, is immediately dismissed as preposterous in the
extreme.
M. Maelzel, having rolled the machine back into its original position, now
informs the company that the Automaton will play a game of chess with any
one disposed to encounter him. This challenge being accepted, a small table is
prepared for the antagonist, and placed close by the rope, but on the spectators'
side of it, and so situated as not to prevent the company from obtaining a full
view of the Automaton. From a drawer in this table is taken a set of chess-
men, and Maelzel arranges them generally, but not always, with his own
hands, on the chess board, which consists merely of the usual number of
squares painted upon the table. The antagonist having taken his seat, the
exhibiter approaches the drawer of the box, and takes therefrom the cushion,
which, after removing the pipe from the hand of the Automaton, he places
under its left arm as a support. Then taking also from the drawer the
Automaton's set of chess-men, he arranges them upon the chessboard before
the figure. He now proceeds to close the doors and to lock them—leaving the
bunch of keys in door No. 1. He also closes the drawer, and, finally, winds up
the machine, by applying a key to an aperture in the left end (the spectators'
left) of the box. The game now commences—the Automaton taking the first
move. The duration of the contest is usually limited to half an hour, but if it be
not finished at the expiration of this period, and the antagonist still contend
that he can beat the Automaton, M. Maelzel has seldom any objection to
continue it. Not to weary the company, is the ostensible, and no doubt the real
object of the limitation. It Wits of course be understood that when a move is
made at his own table, by the antagonist, the corresponding move is made at
the box of the Automaton, by Maelzel himself, who then acts as the
representative of the antagonist. On the other hand, when the Turk moves, the
corresponding move is made at the table of the antagonist, also by M. Maelzel,
who then acts as the representative of the Automaton. In this manner it is
necessary that the exhibiter should often pass from one table to the other. He
also frequently goes in rear of the figure to remove the chess-men which it has
taken, and which it deposits, when taken, on the box to the left (to its own left)
of the board. When the Automaton hesitates in relation to its move, the
exhibiter is occasionally seen to place himself very near its right side, and to
lay his hand, now and then, in a careless manner upon the box. He has also a
peculiar shuffle with his feet, calculated to induce suspicion of collusion with
the machine in minds which are more cunning than sagacious. These
peculiarities are, no doubt, mere mannerisms of M. Maelzel, or, if he is aware
of them at all, he puts them in practice with a view of exciting in the spectators
a false idea of the pure mechanism in the Automaton.
The Turk plays with his left hand. All the movements of the arm are at right
angles. In this manner, the hand (which is gloved and bent in a natural way,)
being brought directly above the piece to be moved, descends finally upon it,
the fingers receiving it, in most cases, without difficulty. Occasionally,
however, when the piece is not precisely in its proper situation, the Automaton
fails in his attempt at seizing it. When this occurs, no second effort is made,
but the arm continues its movement in the direction originally intended,
precisely as if the piece were in the fingers. Having thus designated the spot
whither the move should have been made, the arm returns to its cushion, and
Maelzel performs the evolution which the Automaton pointed out. At every
movement of the figure machinery is heard in motion. During the progress of
the game, the figure now and then rolls its eyes, as if surveying the board,
moves its head, and pronounces the word echec (check) when necessary. If a
false move be made by his antagonist, he raps briskly on the box with the
fingers of his right hand, shakes his head roughly, and replacing the piece
falsely moved, in its former situation, assumes the next move himself. Upon
beating the game, he waves his head with an air of triumph, looks round
complacently upon the spectators, and drawing his left arm farther back than
usual, suffers his fingers alone to rest upon the cushion. In general, the Turk is
victorious—once or twice he has been beaten. The game being ended, Maelzel
will again if desired, exhibit the mechanism of the box, in the same manner as
before. The machine is then rolled back, and a curtain hides it from the view
of the company.
There have been many attempts at solving the mystery of the Automaton.
The most general opinion in relation to it, an opinion too not unfrequently
adopted by men who should have known better, was, as we have before said,
that no immediate human agency was employed—in other words, that the
machine was purely a machine and nothing else. Many, however maintained
that the exhibiter himself regulated the movements of the figure by mechanical
means operating through the feet of the box. Others again, spoke confidently
of a magnet. Of the first of these opinions we shall say nothing at present more
than we have already said. In relation to the second it is only necessary to
repeat what we have before stated, that the machine is rolled about on castors,
and will, at the request of a spectator, be moved to and fro to any portion of
the room, even during the progress of a game. The supposition of the magnet
is also untenable—for if a magnet were the agent, any other magnet in the
pocket of a spectator would disarrange the entire mechanism. The exhibiter,
however, will suffer the most powerful loadstone to remain even upon the box
during the whole of the exhibition.
The first attempt at a written explanation of the secret, at least the first
attempt of which we ourselves have any knowledge, was made in a large
pamphlet printed at Paris in 1785. The author's hypothesis amounted to this—
that a dwarf actuated the machine. This dwarf he supposed to conceal himself
during the opening of the box by thrusting his legs into two hollow cylinders,
which were represented to be (but which are not) among the machinery in the
cupboard No. I, while his body was out of the box entirely, and covered by the
drapery of the Turk. When the doors were shut, the dwarf was enabled to bring
his body within the box—the noise produced by some portion of the
machinery allowing him to do so unheard, and also to close the door by which
he entered. The interior of the automaton being then exhibited, and no person
discovered, the spectators, says the author of this pamphlet, are satisfied that
no one is within any portion of the machine. This whole hypothesis was too
obviously absurd to require comment, or refutation, and accordingly we find
that it attracted very little attention.
In 1789 a book was published at Dresden by M. I. F. Freyhere in which
another endeavor was made to unravel the mystery. Mr. Freyhere's book was a
pretty large one, and copiously illustrated by colored engravings. His
supposition was that "a well-taught boy very thin and tall of his age
(sufficiently so that he could be concealed in a drawer almost immediately
under the chess-board") played the game of chess and effected all the
evolutions of the Automaton. This idea, although even more silly than that of
the Parisian author, met with a better reception, and was in some measure
believed to be the true solution of the wonder, until the inventor put an end to
the discussion by suffering a close examination of the top of the box.
These bizarre attempts at explanation were followed by others equally
bizarre. Of late years however, an anonymous writer, by a course of reasoning
exceedingly unphilosophical, has contrived to blunder upon a plausible
solution—although we cannot consider it altogether the true one. His Essay
was first published in a Baltimore weekly paper, was illustrated by cuts, and
was entitled "An attempt to analyze the Automaton Chess-Player of M.
Maelzel." This Essay we suppose to have been the original of the pamphlet
to which Sir David Brewster alludes in his letters on Natural Magic, and which
he has no hesitation in declaring a thorough and satisfactory explanation.
The results of the analysis are undoubtedly, in the main, just; but we can only
account for Brewster's pronouncing the Essay a thorough and satisfactory
explanation, by supposing him to have bestowed upon it a very cursory and
inattentive perusal. In the compendium of the Essay, made use of in the Letters
on Natural Magic, it is quite impossible to arrive at any distinct conclusion in
regard to the adequacy or inadequacy of the analysis, on account of the gross
misarrangement and deficiency of the letters of reference employed. The same
fault is to be found in the "Attempt &c.," as we originally saw it. The solution
consists in a series of minute explanations, (accompanied by wood-cuts, the
whole occupying many pages) in which the object is to show
the possibility of so shifting the partitions of the box, as to allow a human
being, concealed in the interior, to move portions of his body from one part of
the box to another, during the exhibition of the mechanism—thus eluding the
scrutiny of the spectators. There can be no doubt, as we have before observed,
and as we will presently endeavor to show, that the principle, or rather the
result, of this solution is the true one. Some person is concealed in the box
during the whole time of exhibiting the interior. We object, however, to the
whole verbose description of the manner in which the partitions are shifted, to
accommodate the movements of the person concealed. We object to it as a
mere theory assumed in the first place, and to which circumstances are
afterwards made to adapt themselves. It was not, and could not have been,
arrived at by any inductive reasoning. In whatever way the shifting is
managed, it is of course concealed at every step from observation. To show
that certain movements might possibly be effected in a certain way, is very far
from showing that they are actually so effected. There may be an infinity of
other methods by which the same results may be obtained. The probability of
the one assumed proving the correct one is then as unity to infinity. But, in
reality, this particular point, the shifting of the partitions, is of no consequence
whatever. It was altogether unnecessary to devote seven or eight pages for the
purpose of proving what no one in his senses would deny—viz: that the
wonderful mechanical genius of Baron Kempelen could invent the necessary
means for shutting a door or slipping aside a pannel, with a human agent too at
his service in actual contact with the pannel or the door, and the whole
operations carried on, as the author of the Essay himself shows, and as we
shall attempt to show more fully hereafter, entirely out of reach of the
observation of the spectators.
In attempting ourselves an explanation of the Automaton, we will, in the
first place, endeavor to show how its operations are effected, and afterwards
describe, as briefly as possible, the nature of the observations from which we
have deduced our result.
 It will be necessary for a proper understanding of the subject, that we repeat
here in a few words, the routine adopted by the exhibiter in disclosing the
interior of the box—a routine from which he never deviates in any material
particular. In the first place he opens the door No. I. Leaving this open, he
goes round to the rear of the box, and opens a door precisely at the back of
door No. I. To this back door he holds a lighted candle. He then closes the
back door, locks it, and, coming round to the front, opens the drawer to its full
extent. This done, he opens the doors No. 2 and No. 3, (the folding doors) and
displays the interior of the main compartment. Leaving open the main
compartment, the drawer, and the front door of cupboard No. I, he now goes to
the rear again, and throws open the back door of the main compartment. In
shutting up the box no particular order is observed, except that the folding
doors are always closed before the drawer.
Now, let us suppose that when the machine is first rolled into the presence of
the spectators, a man is already within it. His body is situated behind the dense
machinery in cupboard No. T. (the rear portion of which machinery is so
contrived as to slip en masse, from the main compartment to the cupboard No.
I, as occasion may require,) and his legs lie at full length in the main
compartment. When Maelzel opens the door No. I, the man within is not in
any danger of discovery, for the keenest eye cannot penetrate more than about
two inches into the darkness within. But the case is otherwise when the back
door of the cupboard No. I, is opened. A bright light then pervades the
cupboard, and the body of the man would be discovered if it were there. But it
is not. The putting the key in the lock of the back door was a signal on hearing
which the person concealed brought his body forward to an angle as acute as
possible—throwing it altogether, or nearly so, into the main compartment.
This, however, is a painful position, and cannot be long maintained.
Accordingly we find that Maelzel closes the back door. This being done, there
is no reason why the body of the man may not resume its former situation—
for the cupboard is again so dark as to defy scrutiny. The drawer is now
opened, and the legs of the person within drop down behind it in the space it
formerly occupied. There is, consequently, now no longer any part of the man
in the main compartment—his body being behind the machinery in cupboard
No. 1, and his legs in the space occupied by the drawer. The exhibiter,
therefore, finds himself at liberty to display the main compartment. This he
does—opening both its back and front doors—and no person Is discovered.
The spectators are now satisfied that the whole of the box is exposed to view
—and exposed too, all portions of it at one and the same time. But of course
this is not the case. They neither see the space behind the drawer, nor the
interior of cupboard No. 1—the front door of which latter the exhibiter
virtually shuts in shutting its back door. Maelzel, having now rolled the
machine around, lifted up the drapery of the Turk, opened the doors in his
back and thigh, and shown his trunk to be full of machinery, brings the whole
back into its original position, and closes the doors. The man within is now at
liberty to move about. He gets up into the body of the Turk just so high as to
bring his eyes above the level of the chess-board. It is very probable that he
seats himself upon the little square block or protuberance which is seen in a
corner of the main compartment when the doors are open. In this position he
sees the chess-board through the bosom of the Turk which is of gauze.
Bringing his right arm across his breast he actuates the little machinery
necessary to guide the left arm and the fingers of the figure. This machinery is
situated just beneath the left shoulder of the Turk, and is consequently easily
reached by the right hand of the man concealed, if we suppose his right arm
brought across the breast. The motions of the head and eyes, and of the right
arm of the figure, as well as the sound echec are produced by other mechanism
in the interior, and actuated at will by the man within. The whole of this
mechanism—that is to say all the mechanism essential to the machine—is
most probably contained within the little cupboard (of about six inches in
breadth) partitioned off at the right (the spectators' right) of the main
compartment.
In this analysis of the operations of the Automaton, we have purposely
avoided any allusion to the manner in which the partitions are shifted, and it
will now be readily comprehended that this point is a matter of no importance,
since, by mechanism within the ability of any common carpenter, it might be
effected in an infinity of different ways, and since we have shown that,
however performed, it is performed out of the view of the spectators. Our
result is founded upon the following observations taken during frequent visits
to the exhibition of Maelzel.
I. The moves of the Turk are not made at regular intervals of time, but
accommodate themselves to the moves of the antagonist—although this point
(of regularity) so important in all kinds of mechanical contrivance, might have
been readily brought about by limiting the time allowed for the moves of the
antagonist. For example, if this limit were three minutes, the moves of the
Automaton might be made at any given intervals longer than three minutes.
The fact then of irregularity, when regularity might have been so easily
attained, goes to prove that regularity is unimportant to the action of the
Automaton—in other words, that the Automaton is not a pure machine.
2. When the Automaton is about to move a piece, a distinct motion is
observable just beneath the left shoulder, and which motion agitates in a slight
degree, the drapery covering the front of the left shoulder. This motion
invariably precedes, by about two seconds, the movement of the arm itself—
and the arm never, in any instance, moves without this preparatory motion in
the shoulder. Now let the antagonist move a piece, and let the corresponding
move be made by Maelzel, as usual, upon the board of the Automaton. Then
let the antagonist narrowly watch the Automaton, until he detect the
preparatory motion in the shoulder. Immediately upon detecting this motion,
and before the arm itself begins to move, let him withdraw his piece, as if
perceiving an error in his manoeuvre. It will then be seen that the movement
of the arm, which, in all other cases, immediately succeeds the motion in the
shoulder, is withheld—is not made—although Maelzel has not yet performed,
on the board of the Automaton, any move corresponding to the withdrawal of
the antagonist. In this case, that the Automaton was about to move is evident
—and that he did not move, was an effect plainly produced by the withdrawal
of the antagonist, and without any intervention of Maelzel.
This fact fully proves, 1—that the intervention of Maelzel, in performing the
moves of the antagonist on the board of the Automaton, is not essential to the
movements of the Automaton, 2—that its movements are regulated by mind—
by some person who sees the board of the antagonist, 3—that its movements
are not regulated by the mind of Maelzel, whose back was turned towards the
antagonist at the withdrawal of his move.
3. The Automaton does not invariably win the game. Were the machine a
pure machine this would not be the case—it would always win.
The principlebeing discovered by which a machine can be made to play a
game of chess, an extension of the same principle would enable it to win a
game—a farther extension would enable it to win all games—that is, to beat
any possible game of an antagonist. A little consideration will convince any
one that the difficulty of making a machine beat all games, Is not in the least
degree greater, as regards the principle of the operations necessary, than that of
making it beat a single game. If then we regard the Chess-Player as a machine,
we must suppose, (what is highly improbable,) that its inventor preferred
leaving it incomplete to perfecting it—a supposition rendered still more
absurd, when we reflect that the leaving it incomplete would afford an
argument against the possibility of its being a pure machine—the very
argument we now adduce.
4. When the situation of the game is difficult or complex, we never perceive
the Turk either shake his head or roll his eyes. It is only when his next move is
obvious, or when the game is so circumstanced that to a man in the
Automaton's place there would be no necessity for reflection. Now these
peculiar movements of the head and eyes are movements customary with
persons engaged in meditation, and the ingenious Baron Kempelen would
have adapted these movements (were the machine a pure machine) to
occasions proper for their display—that is, to occasions of complexity. But the
reverse is seen to be the case, and this reverse applies precisely to our
supposition of a man in the interior. When engaged in meditation about the
game he has no time to think of setting in motion the mechanism of the
Automaton by which are moved the head and the eyes. When the game,
however, is obvious, he has time to look about him, and, accordingly, we see
the head shake and the eyes roll.
5. When the machine is rolled round to allow the spectators an examination
of the back of the Turk, and when his drapery is lifted up and the doors in the
trunk and thigh thrown open, the interior of the trunk is seen to be crowded
with machinery. In scrutinizing this machinery while the Automaton was in
motion, that is to say while the whole machine was moving on the castors, it
appeared to us that certain portions of the mechanism changed their shape and
position in a degree too great to be accounted for by the simple laws of
perspective; and subsequent examinations convinced us that these undue
alterations were attributable to mirrors in the interior of the trunk. The
introduction of mirrors among the machinery could not have been intended to
influence, in any degree, the machinery itself. Their operation, whatever that
operation should prove to be, must necessarily have reference to the eye of the
spectator. We at once concluded that these mirrors were so placed to multiply
to the vision some few pieces of machinery within the trunk so as to give it the
appearance of being crowded with mechanism. Now the direct inference from
this is that the machine is not a pure machine. For if it were, the inventor, so
far from wishing its mechanism to appear complex, and using deception for
the purpose of giving it this appearance, would have been especially desirous
of convincing those who witnessed his exhibition, of the simplicity of the
means by which results so wonderful were brought about.
6. The external appearance, and, especially, the deportment of the Turk, are,
when we consider them as imitations of life, but very indifferent imitations.
The countenance evinces no ingenuity, and is surpassed, in its resemblance to
the human face, by the very commonest of wax-works. The eyes roll
unnaturally in the head, without any corresponding motions of the lids or
brows. The arm, particularly, performs its operations in an exceedingly stiff,
awkward, jerking, and rectangular manner. Now, all this is the result either of
inability in Maelzel to do better, or of intentional neglect—accidental neglect
being out of the question, when we consider that the whole time of the
ingenious proprietor is occupied in the improvement of his machines. Most
assuredly we must not refer the unlife-like appearances to inability—for all the
rest of Maelzel's automata are evidence of his full ability to copy the motions
and peculiarities of life with the most wonderful exactitude. The rope-dancers,
for example, are inimitable. When the clown laughs, his lips, his eyes, his eye-
brows, and eyelids—indeed, all the features of his countenance—are imbued
with their appropriate expressions. In both him and his companion, every
gesture is so entirely easy, and free from the semblance of artificiality, that,
were it not for the diminutiveness of their size, and the fact of their being
passed from one spectator to another previous to their exhibition on the rope, it
would be difficult to convince any assemblage of persons that these wooden
automata were not living creatures. We cannot, therefore, doubt Mr. Maelzel's
ability, and we must necessarily suppose that he intentionally suffered his
Chess Player to remain the same artificial and unnatural figure which Baron
Kempelen (no doubt also through design) originally made it. What this design
was it is not difficult to conceive. Were the Automaton life-like in its motions,
the spectator would be more apt to attribute its operations to their true cause,
(that is, to human agency within) than he is now, when the awkward and
rectangular manoeuvres convey the idea of pure and unaided mechanism.
7. When, a short time previous to the commencement of the game, the
Automaton is wound up by the exhibiter as usual, an ear in any degree
accustomed to the sounds produced in winding up a system of machinery, will
not fail to discover, instantaneously, that the axis turned by the key in the box
of the Chess-Player, cannot possibly be connected with either a weight, a
spring, or any system of machinery whatever. The inference here is the same
as in our last observation. The winding up is inessential to the operations of
the Automaton, and is performed with the design of exciting in the spectators
the false idea of mechanism.
8. When the question is demanded explicitly of Maelzel—"Is the Automaton
a pure machine or not?" his reply is invariably the same—"I will say nothing
about it." Now the notoriety of the Automaton, and the great curiosity it has
every where excited, are owing more especially to the prevalent opinion that it
is a pure machine, than to any other circumstance. Of course, then, it is the
interest of the proprietor to represent it as a pure machine. And what more
obvious, and more effectual method could there be of impressing the
spectators with this desired idea, than a positive and explicit declaration to that
effect? On the other hand, what more obvious and effectual method could
there be of exciting a disbelief in the Automaton's being a pure machine, than
by withholding such explicit declaration? For, people will naturally reason
thus,—It is Maelzel's interest to represent this thing a pure machine—he
refuses to do so, directly, in words, although he does not scruple, and is
evidently anxious to do so, indirectly by actions—were it actually what he
wishes to represent it by actions, he would gladly avail himself of the more
direct testimony of words—the inference is, that a consciousness of its not
being a pure machine, is the reason of his silence—his actions cannot
implicate him in a falsehood—his words may.
9. When, in exhibiting the interior of the box, Maelzel has thrown open the
door No. I, and also the door immediately behind it, he holds a lighted candle
at the back door (as mentioned above) and moves the entire machine to and fro
with a view of convincing the company that the cupboard No. 1 is entirely
filled with machinery. When the machine is thus moved about, it will be
apparent to any careful observer, that whereas that portion of the machinery
near the front door No. 1, is perfectly steady and unwavering, the portion
farther within fluctuates, in a very slight degree, with the movements of the
machine. This circumstance first aroused in us the suspicion that the more
remote portion of the machinery was so arranged as to be easily slipped,en
masse, from its position when occasion should require it. This occasion we
have already stated to occur when the man concealed within brings his body
into an erect position upon the closing of the back door.
10. Sir David Brewster states the figure of the Turk to be of the size of life—
but in fact it is far above the ordinary size. Nothing is more easy than to err in
our notions of magnitude. The body of the Automaton is generally insulated,
and, having no means of immediately comparing it with any human form, we
suffer ourselves to consider it as of ordinary dimensions. This mistake may,
however, be corrected by observing the Chess-Player when, as is sometimes
the case, the exhibiter approaches it. Mr. Maelzel, to be sure, is not very tall,
but upon drawing near the machine, his head will be found at least eighteen
inches below the head of the Turk, although the latter, it will be remembered,
is in a sitting position.
11. The box behind which the Automaton is placed, is precisely three feet
six inches long, two feet four inches deep, and two feet six inches high. These
dimensions are fully sufficient for the accommodation of a man very much
above the common size—and the main compartment alone is capable of
holding any ordinary man in the position we have mentioned as assumed by
the person concealed. As these are facts, which any one who doubts them may
prove by actual calculation, we deem it unnecessary to dwell upon them. We
will only suggest that, although the top of the box is apparently a board of
about three inches in thickness, the spectator may satisfy himself by stooping
and looking up at it when the main compartment is open, that it is in reality
very thin. The height of the drawer also will be misconceived by those who
examine it in a cursory manner. There is a space of about three inches between
the top of the drawer as seen from the exterior, and the bottom of the cupboard
—a space which must be included in the height of the drawer. These
contrivances to make the room within the box appear less than it actually is,
are referrible to a design on the part of the inventor, to impress the company
again with a false idea, viz. that no human being can be accommodated within
the box.
12. The interior of the main compartment is lined throughout
with cloth. This cloth we suppose to have a twofold object. A portion of it may
form, when tightly stretched, the only partitions which there is any necessity
for removing during the changes of the man's position, viz: the partition
between the rear of the main compartment and the rear of the cupboard No. 1,
and the partition between the main compartment, and the space behind the
drawer when open. If we imagine this to be the case, the difficulty of shifting
the partitions vanishes at once, if indeed any such difficulty could be supposed
under any circumstances to exist. The second object of the cloth is to deaden
and render indistinct all sounds occasioned by the movements of the person
within.
13. The antagonist (as we have before observed) is not suffered to play at the
board of the Automaton, but is seated at some distance from the machine. The
reason which, most probably, would be assigned for this circumstance, if the
question were demanded, is, that were the antagonist otherwise situated, his
person would intervene between the machine and the spectators, and preclude
the latter from a distinct view. But this difficulty might be easily obviated,
either by elevating the seats of the company, or by turning the end of the box
towards them during the game. The true cause of the restriction is, perhaps,
very different. Were the antagonist seated in contact with the box, the secret
would be liable to discovery, by his detecting, with the aid of a quick car, the
breathings of the man concealed.
14. Although M. Maelzel, in disclosing the interior of the machine,
sometimes slightly deviates from the routine which we have pointed out,
yet reeler in any instance does he so deviate from it as to interfere with our
solution. For example, he has been known to open, first of all, the drawer—but
he never opens the main compartment without first closing the back door of
cupboard No. 1—he never opens the main compartment without first pulling
out the drawer—he never shuts the drawer without first shutting the main
compartment—he never opens the back door of cupboard No. 1 while the
main compartment is open—and the game of chess is never commenced until
the whole machine is closed. Now if it were observed that never, in any single
instance, did M. Maelzel differ from the routine we have pointed out as
necessary to our solution, it would be one of the strongest possible arguments
in corroboration of it—but the argument becomes infinitely strengthened if we
duly consider the circumstance that he does occasionally deviate from the
routine but never does so deviate as to falsify the solution.
15. There are six candles on the board of the Automaton during exhibition.
The question naturally arises—"Why are so many employed, when a single
candle, or, at farthest, two, would have been amply sufficient to afford the
spectators a clear view of the board, in a room otherwise so well lit up as the
exhibition room always is—when, moreover, if we suppose the machine
a pure machine, there can be no necessity for so much light, or indeed any
light at all, to enable it to perform its operations—and when, especially, only a
single candle is placed upon the table of the antagonist?" The first and most
obvious inference is, that so strong a light is requisite to enable the man within
to see through the transparent material (probably fine gauze) of which the
breast of the Turk is composed. But when we consider the arrangement of the
candles, another reason immediately presents itself. There are six lights (as we
have said before) in all. Three of these are on each side of the figure. Those
most remote from the spectators are the longest—those in the middle are about
two inches shorter—and those nearest the company about two inches shorter
still—and the candles on one side differ in height from the candles
respectively opposite on the other, by a ratio different from two inches—that is
to say, the longest candle on one side is about three inches shorter than the
longest candle on the other, and so on. Thus it will be seen that no two of the
candles are of the same height, and thus also the difficulty of ascertaining
thematerial of the breast of the figure (against which the light is especially
directed) is greatly augmented by the dazzling effect of the complicated
crossings of the rays—crossings which are brought about by placing the
centres of radiation all upon different levels.
16. While the Chess-Player was in possession of Baron Kempelen, it was
more than once observed, first, that an Italian in the suite of the Baron was
never visible during the playing of a game at chess by the Turk, and, secondly,
that the Italian being taken seriously ill, the exhibition was suspended until his
recovery. This Italian professed a total ignorance of the game of chess,
although all others of the suite played well. Similar observations have been
made since the Automaton has been purchased by Maelzel. There is a
man, Schlumberoer, who attends him wherever he goes, but who has no
ostensible occupation other than that of assisting in the packing and unpacking
of the automata. This man is about the medium size, and has a remarkable
stoop in the shoulders. Whether he professes to play chess or not, we are not
informed. It is quite certain, however, that he is never to be seen during the
exhibition of the Chess-Player, although frequently visible just before and just
after the exhibition. Moreover, some years ago Maelzel visited Richmond with
his automata, and exhibited them, we believe, in the house now occupied by
M. Bossieux as a Dancing Academy. Schlumberger was suddenly taken ill,
and during his illness there was no exhibition of the Chess-Player. These facts
are well known to many of our citizens. The reason assigned for the
suspension of the Chess-Player's performances, was not the illness
of Schlumberger. The inferences from all this we leave, without farther
comment, to the reader.
17. The Turk plays with his left arm. A circumstance so remarkable cannot
be accidental. Brewster takes no notice of it whatever beyond a mere
statement, we believe, that such is the fact. The early writers of treatises on the
Automaton, seem not to have observed the matter at all, and have no reference
to it. The author of the pamphlet alluded to by Brewster, mentions it, but
acknowledges his inability to account for it. Yet it is obviously from such
prominent discrepancies or incongruities as this that deductions are to be made
(if made at all) which shall lead us to the truth.
The circumstance of the Automaton's playing with his left hand cannot have
connexion with the operations of the machine, considered merely as such. Any
mechanical arrangement which would cause the figure to move, in any given
manner, the left arm—could, if reversed, cause it to move, in the same manner,
the right. But these principles cannot be extended to the human organization,
wherein there is a marked and radical difference in the construction, and, at all
events, in the powers, of the right and left arms. Reflecting upon this latter
fact, we naturally refer the incongruity noticeable in the Chess-Player to this
peculiarity in the human organization. If so, we must imagine some reversion
—for the Chess-Player plays precisely as a man would not.These ideas, once
entertained, are sufficient of themselves, to suggest the notion of a man in the
interior. A few more imperceptible steps lead us, finally, to the result. The
Automaton plays with his left arm, because under no other circumstances
could the man within play with his right—a desideratum of course. Let us, for
example, imagine the Automaton to play with his right arm. To reach the
machinery which moves the arm, and which we have before explained to lie
just beneath the shoulder, it would be necessary for the man within either to
use his right arm in an exceedingly painful and awkward position, (viz.
brought up close to his body and tightly compressed between his body and the
side of the Automaton,) or else to use his left arm brought across his breast. In
neither case could he act with the requisite ease or precision. On the contrary,
the Automaton playing, as it actually does, with the left arm, all difficulties
vanish. The right arm of the man within is brought across his breast, and his
right fingers act, without any constraint, upon the machinery in the shoulder of
the figure.
We do not believe that any reasonable objections can be urged against this
solution of the Automaton Chess-Player.

THE POWER OF WORDS

OINOS. Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with

immortality!
AGATHOS. You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be
demanded. Not even here is knowledge thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of
the angels freely, that it may be given!
OINOS. But in this existence, I dreamed that I should be at once cognizant
of all things, and thus at once be happy in being cognizant of all.
AGATHOS. Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
knowledge! In for ever knowing, we are for ever blessed; but to know all were
the curse of a fiend.
OINOS. But does not The Most High know all?
AGATHOS. That (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the one thing
unknown even to Him.
OINOS. But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last all things
be known?
AGATHOS. Look down into the abysmal distances!—attempt to force the
gaze down the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through
them thus—and thus—and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all points
arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?—the walls of the
myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has appeared to blend into
unity?
OINOS. I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream.
AGATHOS. There are no dreams in Aidenn—but it is here whispered that,
of this infinity of matter, the sole purpose is to afford infinite springs, at which
the soul may allay the thirst to know, which is for ever unquenchable within it
—since to quench it, would be to extinguish the soul's self. Question me then,
my Oinos, freely and without fear. Come! we will leave to the left the loud
harmony of the Pleiades, and swoop outward from the throne into the starry
meadows beyond Orion, where, for pansies and violets, and heart's—ease, are
the beds of the triplicate and triple—tinted suns.
OINOS. And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!—speak to me in the
earth's familiar tones. I understand not what you hinted to me, just now, of the
modes or of the method of what, during mortality, we were accustomed to call
Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is not God?
AGATHOS. I mean to say that the Deity does not create.
OINOS. Explain.
AGATHOS. In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which
are now, throughout the universe, so perpetually springing into being, can only
be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or immediate results
of the Divine creative power.
OINOS. Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical
in the extreme.
AGATHOS. Among angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.
OINOS. I can comprehend you thus far—that certain operations of what we
term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise to
that which has all the appearance of creation. Shortly before the final
overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many very successful
experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to denominate the
creation of animalculae.
AGATHOS. The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the
secondary creation—and of the only species of creation which has ever been,
since the first word spoke into existence the first law.
 OINOS. Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
hourly forth into the heavens—are not these stars, Agathos, the immediate
handiwork of the King?
AGATHOS. Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can perish, so no
act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for example, when we were
dwellers on the earth, and, in so doing, gave vibration to the atmosphere which
engirdled it. This vibration was indefinitely extended, till it gave impulse to
every particle of the earth's air, which thenceforward, and for ever, was
actuated by the one movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of
our globe well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the
fluid by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation—so that it became
easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given extent would
engirdle the orb, and impress (for ever) every atom of the atmosphere
circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty, from a given effect,
under given conditions, in determining the value of the original impulse. Now
the mathematicians who saw that the results of any given impulse were
absolutely endless—and who saw that a portion of these results were
accurately traceable through the agency of algebraic analysis—who saw, too,
the facility of the retrogradation—these men saw, at the same time, that this
species of analysis itself, had within itself a capacity for indefinite progress—
that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and applicability,
except within the intellect of him who advanced or applied it. But at this point
our mathematicians paused.
OINOS. And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?
AGATHOS. Because there were some considerations of deep interest
beyond. It was deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
understanding—one to whom the perfection of the algebraic analysis lay
unfolded—there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse given the air
—and the ether through the air—to the remotest consequences at any even
infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed demonstrable that every such
impulse given the air, must, in the end, impress every individual thing that
exists within the universe;—and the being of infinite understanding—the
being whom we have imagined—might trace the remote undulations of the
impulse—trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all particles
of an matter—upward and onward for ever in their modifications of old forms
—or, in other words, in their creation of new—until he found them reflected—
unimpressive at last—back from the throne of the Godhead. And not only
could such a thing do this, but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded
him—should one of these numberless comets, for example, be presented to his
inspection—he could have no difficulty in determining, by the analytic
retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This power of
retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection—this faculty of referring
at all epochs, all effects to all causes—is of course the prerogative of the Deity
alone—but in every variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the
power itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic intelligences.
OINOS. But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.
AGATHOS. In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth; but the
general proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether—which, since it
pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of creation.
OINOS. Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?
AGATHOS. It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of
all motion is thought—and the source of all thought is—
OINOS. God.
AGATHOS. I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child of the fair Earth
which lately perished—of impulses upon the atmosphere of the Earth.
OINOS. You did.
AGATHOS. And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some
thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an impulse on the
air?
OINOS. But why, Agathos, do you weep—and why, oh why do your wings
droop as we hover above this fair star—which is the greenest and yet most
terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant flowers look like
a fairy dream—but its fierce volcanoes like the passions of a turbulent heart.
AGATHOS. They are!—they are! This wild star—it is now three centuries
since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my beloved
—I spoke it—with a few passionate sentences—into birth. Its brilliant flowers
are the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the
passions of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts.

THE COLLOQUY OF
MONOS AND UNA
"These; things are in the future."

Sophocles—Antig:

Una. "Born again?"

Monos. Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the
words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
explanations of the priesthood, until Death himself resolved for me the secret.
Una. Death!
 Monos. How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe, too, a
vacillation in your step—a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are confused
and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death
I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to
bring terror to all hearts—throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!
Una. Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did
we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously did it act
as a check to human bliss—saying unto it "thus far, and no farther!" That
earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our bosoms how
vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first up-springing, that our
happiness would strengthen with its strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in our
hearts the dread of that evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever!
Thus, in time, it became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then.
Monos. Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine, forever now!
Una. But the memory of past sorrow—is it not present joy? I have much to
say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the incidents
of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.
Monos. And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I
will be minute in relating all—but at what point shall the weird narrative
begin?
Una. At what point?
Monos. You have said.
Una. Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the
propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence
with the moment of life's cessation—but commence with that sad, sad instant
when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a breathless and
motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid eyelids with the passionate
fingers of love.
Monos. One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this
epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our forefathers
—wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem—had ventured to doubt the
propriety of the term "improvement," as applied to the progress of our
civilization. There were periods in each of the five or six centuries
immediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some vigorous intellect,
boldly contending for those principles whose truth appears now, to our
disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious—principles which should have
taught our race to submit to the guidance of the natural laws, rather than
attempt their control. At long intervals some masterminds appeared, looking
upon each advance in practical science as a retro-gradation in the true utility.
Occasionally the poetic intellect—that intellect which we now feel to have
been the most exalted of all—since those truths which to us were of the most
enduring importance could only be reached by that analogy which speaks in
proof tones to the imagination alone and to the unaided reason bears no weight
—occasionally did this poetic intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of
the vague idea of the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of
the tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition of his
soul. And these men—the poets—living and perishing amid the scorn of the
"utilitarians"—of rough pedants, who arrogated to themselves a title which
could have been properly applied only to the scorned—these men, the poets,
pondered piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when our wants
were not more simple than our enjoyments were keen—days when mirth was a
word unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was happiness—holy, august and
blissful days, when blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far
forest solitudes, primæval, odorous, and unexplored.
Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen
it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil days.
The great "movement"—that was the cant term—went on: a diseased
commotion, moral and physical. Art—the Arts—arose supreme, and, once
enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated them to power.
Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature, fell into
childish exultation at his acquired and still-increasing dominion over her
elements. Even while he stalked a God in his own fancy, an infantine
imbecility came over him. As might be supposed from the origin of his
disorder, he grew infected with system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped
himself in generalities. Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality
gained ground; and in the face of analogy and of God—in despite of the loud
warning voice of the laws of gradation so visibly pervading all things in Earth
an Heaven—wild attempts at an omni-prevalent Democracy were made. Yet
this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil, Knowledge. Man could not
both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking cities arose, innumerable.
Green leaves shrank before the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face of Nature
was deformed as with the ravages of some loathsome disease. And methinks,
sweet Una, even our slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched
might have arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our
own destruction in the perversion of our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of
its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis that taste alone—
that faculty which, holding a middle position between the pure intellect and
the moral sense, could never safely have been disregarded—it was now that
taste alone could have led us gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But
alas for the pure contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for
the which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient education for the soul! Alas
for him and for it!—since both were most desperately needed when both were
most entirely forgotten or despised.
Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how truly!—"que tout
notre raisonnement se rèduit à céder au sentiment;" and it is not impossible
that the sentiment of the natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its
old ascendancy over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this
thing was not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge the
old age of the world drew on. This the mass of mankind saw not, or, living
lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for myself, the Earth's
records had taught me to look for widest ruin as the price of highest
civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our Fate from comparison of China
the simple and enduring, with Assyria the architect, with Egypt the astrologer,
with Nubia, more crafty than either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In history
of these regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual artificialities
of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth, and in their individual
overthrows we had seen local remedies applied; but for the infected world at
large I could anticipate no regeneration save in death. That man, as a race,
should not become extinct, I saw that he must be "born again."
And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits, daily, in
dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the days to come, when
the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having undergone that purification which
alone could efface its rectangular obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the
verdure and the mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be
rendered at length a fit dwelling-place for man:—for man the Death purged—
for man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
no more—for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but still
for the material, man.
Una. Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of
the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived; and died
individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the grave; and thither
your constant Una speedily followed you. And though the century which has
since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings us thus together once more,
tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience of duration, yet, my
Monos, it was a century still.
Monos. Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in
the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which had their
origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After
some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with ecstasy, the
manifestations of which you mistook for pain, while I longed but was
impotent to undeceive you—after some days there came upon me, as you have
said, a breathless and motionless torpor; and this was termed Death by those
who stood around me.
 Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience. It
appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of him, who,
having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in
a midsummer noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness, through
the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being awakened by external
disturbances.
I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to beat.
Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were unusually
active, although eccentrically so—assuming often each other's functions at
random. The taste and the smell were inextricably confounded, and became
one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The rose-water with which your
tenderness had moistened my lips to the last, affected me with sweet fancies of
flowers—fantastic flowers, far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but
whose prototypes we have here blooming around us. The eyelids, transparent
and bloodless, offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in
abeyance, the balls could not roll in their sockets but all objects within the
range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less distinctness; the
rays which fell upon the external retina, or into the corner of the eye,
producing a more vivid effect than those which struck the front or interior
surface. Yet, in the former instance, this effect was so far anomalous that I
appreciated it only as sound—sound sweet or discordant as the matters
presenting themselves at my side were light or dark in shade—curved or
angular in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
was not irregular in action—estimating real sounds with an extravagance of
precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had undergone a modification
more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily received, but pertinaciously
retained, and resulted always in the highest physical pleasure. Thus the
pressure of your sweet fingers upon my eyelids, at first only recognised
through vision, at length, long after their removal, filled my whole being with
a sensual delight immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. All my
perceptions were purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by
the senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was much; but
of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs floated into my ear
with all their mournful cadences, and were appreciated in their every variation
of sad tone; but they were soft musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to
the extinct reason no intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while
the large and constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of
a heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone. And
this was in truth the Death of which these bystanders spoke reverently, in low
whispers—you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with loud cries.
They attired me for the coffin—three or four dark figures which flitted
busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my vision they affected
me as forms; but upon passing to my side their images impressed me with the
idea of shrieks, groans, and other dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of
wo. You alone, habited in a white robe, passed in all directions musically
about me.
The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a vague
uneasiness—an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real sounds fall
continuously within his ear—low distant bell-tones, solemn, at long but equal
intervals, and mingling with melancholy dreams. Night arrived; and with its
shadows a heavy discomfort. It oppressed my limbs with the oppression of
some dull weight, and was palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not
unlike the distant reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning
with the first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly
lights were brought into the room, and this reverberation became forthwith
interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound, but less dreary and
less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a great measure relieved; and,
issuing from the flame of each lamp, (for there were many,) there flowed
unbrokenly into my ears a strain of melodious monotone. And when now, dear
Una, approaching the bed upon which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my
side, breathing odor from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow,
there arose tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely
physical sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
sentiment itself—a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded to your
earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the pulseless heart,
and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and faded quickly away,
first into extreme quiescence, and then into a purely sensual pleasure as
before.
And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there appeared
to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its exercise I found a wild
delight—yet a delight still physical, inasmuch as the understanding had in it
no part. Motion in the animal frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no
nerve thrilled; no artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the
brain, that of which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous pulsation. It
was the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of Time. By the absolute
equalization of this movement—or of such as this—had the cycles of the
firmamental orbs themselves, been adjusted. By its aid I measured the
irregularities of the clock upon the mantel, and of the watches of the
attendants. Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The slightest deviations
from the true proportion—and these deviations were omni-prævalent—
affected me just as violations of abstract truth were wont, on earth, to affect
the moral sense. Although no two of the time-pieces in the chamber struck the
individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in holding
steadily in mind the tones, and the respective momentary errors of each. And
this—this keen, perfect, self-existing sentiment of duration—this sentiment
existing (as man could not possibly have conceived it to exist) independently
of any succession of events—this idea—this sixth sense, upspringing from the
ashes of the rest, was the first obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul
upon the threshold of the temporal Eternity.
It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed from
the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The lamps burned
flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the monotonous strains.
But, suddenly these strains diminished in distinctness and in volume. Finally
they ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision
no longer. The oppression of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A
dull shock like that of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by
total loss of the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged
in the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of the
deadly Decay.
Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic intuition. I
appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the flesh, and, as the
dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence of one who leans over him,
so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you sat by my side. So, too, when the noon
of the second day came, I was not unconscious of those movements which
displaced you from my side, which confined me within the coffin, which
deposited me within the hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered
me within it, which heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left
me, in blackness and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the
worm.
And here, in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there rolled
away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly each second
as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its flight—without effort and
without object.
A year passed. The consciousness of being had grown hourly more
indistinct, and that of mere locality had, in great measure, usurped its position.
The idea of entity was becoming merged in that of place. The narrow space
immediately surrounding what had been the body, was now growing to be the
body itself. At length, as often happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world
alone is Death imaged)—at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the
deep slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking, yet
left him half enveloped in dreams—so to me, in the strict embrace of the
Shadow came that light which alone might have had power to startle—the
light of enduring Love. Men toiled at the grave in which I lay darkling. They
upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering bones there descended the
coffin of Una.
And now again all was void. That nebulous light had been extinguished.
That feeble thrill had vibrated itself into quiescence. Many lustra had
supervened. Dust had returned to dust. The worm had food no more. The sense
of being had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead—instead
of all things—dominant and perpetual—the autocrats Place and Time. For that
which was not—for that which had no form—for that which had no thought—
for that which had no sentience—for that which was soulless, yet of which
matter formed no portion—for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality,
the grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.

THE CONVERSATION OF
EIROS AND CHARMION
I will bring fire to thee.

Euripides—Androm:

EIROS.
Why do you call me Eiros?
CHARMION
So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget too, my earthly
name, and speak to me as Charmion.
EIROS.
This is indeed no dream!
CHARMION.
Dreams are with us no more;—but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to see
you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has already passed
from off your eyes. Be of heart and fear nothing. Your allotted days of stupor
have expired and, to-morrow, I will myself induct you into the full joys and
wonders of your novel existence.
EIROS.
True—I feel no stupor—none at all. The wild sickness and the terrible
darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad, rushing, horrible sound,
like the "voice of many waters." Yet my senses are bewildered, Charmion,
with the keenness of their perception of the new.
CHARMION.
A few days will remove all this;—but I fully understand you, and feel for
you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you undergo—yet the
remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now suffered all of pain,
however, which you will suffer in Aidenn.
EIROS.
In Aidenn?
CHARMION.
In Aidenn.
EIROS.
Oh God!—pity me, Charmion!—I am overburthened with the majesty of all
things—of the unknown now known—of the speculative Future merged in the
august and certain Present.
CHARMION.
Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this. Your
mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise of simple
memories. Look not around, nor forward—but back. I am burning with
anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event which threw you among us.
Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar things, in the old familiar language of
the world which has so fearfully perished.
EIROS.
Most fearfully, fearfully!—this is indeed no dream.
CHARMION.
Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?
EIROS.
Mourned, Charmion?—oh deeply. To that last hour of all, there hung a cloud
of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household.
CHARMION.
And that last hour—speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact of
the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among
mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave—at that period, if I remember
aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly unanticipated. But,
indeed, I knew little of the speculative philosophy of the day.
EIROS.
The individual calamity was as you say entirely unanticipated; but
analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with astronomers.
I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you left us, men had agreed
to understand those passages in the most holy writings which speak of the
final destruction of all things by fire, as having reference to the orb of the earth
alone. But in regard to the immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been
at fault from that epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were
divested of the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had
been well established. They had been observed to pass among the satellites of
Jupiter, without bringing about any sensible alteration either in the masses or
in the orbits of these secondary planets. We had long regarded the wanderers
as vapory creations of inconceivable tenuity, and as altogether incapable of
doing injury to our substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact
was not in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were
accurately known. That among them we should look for the agency of the
threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an
inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been, of late days,
strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a few of the
ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement by
astronomers of a new comet, yet this announcement was generally received
with I know not what of agitation and mistrust.
The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it was at
once conceded by all observers, that its path, at perihelion, would bring it into
very close proximity with the earth. There were two or three astronomers, of
secondary note, who resolutely maintained that a contact was inevitable. I
cannot very well express to you the effect of this intelligence upon the people.
For a few short days they would not believe an assertion which their intellect
so long employed among worldly considerations could not in any manner
grasp. But the truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that astronomical
knowledge lied not, and they awaited the comet. Its approach was not, at first,
seemingly rapid; nor was its appearance of very unusual character. It was of a
dull red, and had little perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no
material increase in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its
color. Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded and all interests
absorbed in a growing discussion, instituted by the philosophic, in respect to
the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused their sluggish
capacities to such considerations. The learned now gave their intellect—their
soul—to no such points as the allaying of fear, or to the sustenance of loved
theory. They sought—they panted for right views. They groaned for perfected
knowledge. Truth arose in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty,
and the wise bowed down and adored.
That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result from the
apprehended contact, was an opinion which hourly lost ground among the
wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the reason and the fancy
of the crowd. It was demonstrated, that the density of the comet's nucleus was
far less than that of our rarest gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor
among the satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
served greatly to allay terror. Theologists with an earnestness fear-enkindled,
dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the people with a
directness and simplicity of which no previous instance had been known. That
the final destruction of the earth must be brought about by the agency of fire,
was urged with a spirit that enforced every where conviction; and that the
comets were of no fiery nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which
relieved all, in a great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity
foretold. It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in regard
to pestilences and wars—errors which were wont to prevail upon every
appearance of a comet—were now altogether unknown. As if by some sudden
convulsive exertion, reason had at once hurled superstition from her throne.
The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from excessive interest.
What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of probable
alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation, of possible magnetic
and electric influences. Many held that no visible or perceptible effect would
in any manner be produced. While such discussions were going on, their
subject gradually approached, growing larger in apparent diameter, and of a
more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as it came. All human operations
were suspended.
There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the comet
had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any previously recorded
visitation. The people now, dismissing any lingering hope that the astronomers
were wrong, experienced all the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of
their terror was gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently
within their bosoms. A very few days sufficed, however, to merge even such
feelings in sentiments more unendurable We could no longer apply to the
strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its historical attributes had disappeared.
It oppressed us with a hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an
astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts,
and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with inconceivable rapidity, the
character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame, extending from horizon to
horizon.
Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we were
already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even felt an
unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the
object of our dread was apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible
through it. Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained
faith, from this predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild
luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every vegetable
thing.
Yet another day—and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now
evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come over all
men; and the first sense of pain was the wild signal for general lamentation
and horror. This first sense of pain lay in a rigorous constriction of the breast
and lungs, and an insufferable dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that
our atmosphere was radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere
and the possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric thrill of the
intensest terror through the universal heart of man.
It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound of
oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures of
oxygen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the atmosphere.
Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was
absolutely necessary to the support of animal life, and was the most powerful
and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of
supporting either animal life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would
result, it had been ascertained in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as
we had latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a total extraction of
the nitrogen? A combustion irresistible, all-devouring, omni-prevalent,
immediate;—the entire fulfilment, in all their minute and terrible details, of
the fiery and horror-inspiring denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy
Book.
Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind? That
tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope, was now the
source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable gaseous character we
clearly perceived the consummation of Fate. Meantime a day again passed—
bearing away with it the last shadow of Hope. We gasped in the rapid
modification of the air. The red blood bounded tumultuously through its strict
channels. A furious delirium possessed all men; and, with arms rigidly
outstretched towards the threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked
aloud. But the nucleus of the destroyer was now upon us;—even here in
Aidenn, I shudder while I speak. Let me be brief—brief as the ruin that
overwhelmed. For a moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and
penetrating all things. Then—let us bow down Charmion, before the excessive
majesty of the great God!—then, there came a shouting and pervading sound,
as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent mass of ether
in which we existed, burst at once into a species of intense flame, for whose
surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat even the angels in the high Heaven of
pure knowledge have no name. Thus ended all.

SHADOW—A PARABLE
 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow:

—Psalm of David.

YE who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since
gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall
happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere
these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be some to
disbelieve, and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder
upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.
The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense than terror
for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and signs had
taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black wings of the
Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it
was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek
Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the alternation of
that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the entrance of Aries, the
planet Jupiter is conjoined with the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The
peculiar spirit of the skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not
only in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and
meditations of mankind.
Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble hall, in a
dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of seven. And to our
chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of brass: and the door was
fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was
fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut out
from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless streets—but the
boding and the memory of Evil they would not be so excluded. There were
things around us and about of which I can render no distinct account—things
material and spiritual—heaviness in the atmosphere—a sense of suffocation—
anxiety—and, above all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous
experience when the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the
powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our
limbs—upon the household furniture—upon the goblets from which we drank;
and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby—all things save only
the flames of the seven lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing
themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid
and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the round
table of ebony at which we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of
his own countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his
companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way—which was
hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon—which are madness; and drank
deeply—although the purple wine reminded us of blood. For there was yet
another tenant of our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead, and at full
length he lay, enshrouded; the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he
bore no portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the
plague, and his eyes, in which Death had but half extinguished the fire of the
pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment as the dead may
haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But although I, Oinos, felt
that the eyes of the departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to
perceive the bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the
depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of
the son of Teios. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling
afar off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable
draperies where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and
undefined shadow—a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven, might
fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow neither of man nor of
God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering awhile among the draperies of
the room, it at length rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass.
But the shadow was vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow
neither of man nor of God—neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldaea, nor
any Egyptian God. And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and
under the arch of the entablature of the door, and moved not, nor spoke any
word, but there became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the
shadow rested was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young
Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the
shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it,
but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror of
ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of the
shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I am
SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard
by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian canal."
And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling,
and shuddering, and aghast, for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not
the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their
cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in the well-
remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed friends.

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