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Title: The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, Volume 5

Author: Edgar Allan Poe

Release Date: April, 2000  [Etext #2151]
[Most recently updated: October 16, 2020]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, VOL. 5 ***




Produced by David Widger




The Works of Edgar Allan Poe

by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven Edition
VOLUME V.


Contents

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

 POEMS
 PREFACE
 POEMS OF LATER LIFE
 THE RAVEN
 THE BELLS
 ULALUME
 TO HELEN
 ANNABEL LEE
 A VALENTINE
 AN ENIGMA
 FOR ANNIE
 TO F——
 TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
 ELDORADO
 TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
 O MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
 THE CITY IN THE SEA
 THE SLEEPER
 NOTES

 POEMS OF MANHOOD
 LENORE
 TO ONE IN PARADISE
 THE COLISEUM
 THE HAUNTED PALACE
 THE CONQUEROR WORM
 SILENCE
 DREAM-LAND
 HYMN
 TO ZANTE
 SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”
 POEMS OF YOUTH
 INTRODUCTION TO POEMS—1831
 _LETTER TO MR. B—._
 SONNET—TO SCIENCE
 AL AARAAF
 TAMERLANE
 TO HELEN
 THE VALLEY OF UNREST
 ISRAFEL
 TO ——
 TO ——
 TO THE RIVER——
 SONG
 SPIRITS OF THE DEAD
 A DREAM
 ROMANCE
 FAIRY-LAND
 THE LAKE —— TO——
 EVENING STAR
 “THE HAPPIEST DAY.”
 IMITATION
 HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS
 DREAMS
 “IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE”
 NOTES

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




PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE.


      In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture
      of their residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have
      but little sentiment beyond marbles and colours. In France,
      _meliora probant, deteriora _sequuntur—the people are too much a
      race of gadabouts to maintain those household proprieties of
      which, indeed, they have a delicate appreciation, or at least the
      elements of a proper sense. The Chinese and most of the eastern
      races have a warm but inappropriate fancy. The Scotch are _poor
      _decorists. The Dutch have, perhaps, an indeterminate idea that a
      curtain is not a cabbage. In Spain they are _all _curtains—a
      nation of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish. The Hottentots
      and Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees alone are
      preposterous.

      How this happens, it is not difficult to see. We have no
      aristocracy of blood, and having therefore as a natural, and
      indeed as an inevitable thing, fashioned for ourselves an
      aristocracy of dollars, the _display of wealth _has here to take
      the place and perform the office of the heraldic display in
      monarchical countries. By a transition readily understood, and
      which might have been as readily foreseen, we have been brought
      to merge in simple _show_ our notions of taste itself.

      To speak less abstractly. In England, for example, no mere parade
      of costly appurtenances would be so likely as with us, to create
      an impression of the beautiful in respect to the appurtenances
      themselves—or of taste as regards the proprietor:—this for the
      reason, first, that wealth is not, in England, the loftiest
      object of ambition as constituting a nobility; and secondly, that
      there, the true nobility of blood, confining itself within the
      strict limits of legitimate taste, rather avoids than affects
      that mere costliness in which a _parvenu _rivalry may at any time
      be successfully attempted.

      The people _will _imitate the nobles, and the result is a
      thorough diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America, the
      coins current being the sole arms of the aristocracy, their
      display may be said, in general, to be the sole means of the
      aristocratic distinction; and the populace, looking always upward
      for models, are insensibly led to confound the two entirely
      separate ideas of magnificence and beauty. In short, the cost of
      an article of furniture has at length come to be, with us, nearly
      the sole test of its merit in a decorative point of view—and this
      test, once established, has led the way to many analogous errors,
      readily traceable to the one primitive folly.

      There could be nothing more directly offensive to the eye of an
      artist than the interior of what is termed in the United
      States—that is to say, in Appallachia—a well-furnished apartment.
      Its most usual defect is a want of keeping. We speak of the
      keeping of a room as we would of the keeping of a picture—for
      both the picture and the room are amenable to those undeviating
      principles which regulate all varieties of art; and very nearly
      the same laws by which we decide on the higher merits of a
      painting, suffice for decision on the adjustment of a chamber.

      A want of keeping is observable sometimes in the character of the
      several pieces of furniture, but generally in their colours or
      modes of adaptation to use _Very _often the eye is offended by
      their inartistic arrangement. Straight lines are too
      prevalent—too uninterruptedly continued—or clumsily interrupted
      at right angles. If curved lines occur, they are repeated into
      unpleasant uniformity. By undue precision, the appearance of many
      a fine apartment is utterly spoiled.

      Curtains are rarely well disposed, or well chosen in respect to
      other decorations. With formal furniture, curtains are out of
      place; and an extensive volume of drapery of any kind is, under
      any circumstance, irreconcilable with good taste—the proper
      quantum, as well as the proper adjustment, depending upon the
      character of the general effect.

      Carpets are better understood of late than of ancient days, but
      we still very frequently err in their patterns and colours. The
      soul of the apartment is the carpet. From it are deduced not only
      the hues but the forms of all objects incumbent. A judge at
      common law may be an ordinary man; a good judge of a carpet _must
      be _a genius. Yet we have heard discoursing of carpets, with the
      air “_d’un mouton qui reve,” _fellows who should not and who
      could not be entrusted with the management of their own
      _moustaches. _Every one knows that a large floor _may _have a
      covering of large figures, and that a small one must have a
      covering of small—yet this is not all the knowledge in the world.
      As regards texture, the Saxony is alone admissible. Brussels is
      the preterpluperfect tense of fashion, and Turkey is taste in its
      dying agonies. Touching pattern—a carpet should _not _be
      bedizzened out like a Riccaree Indian—all red chalk, yellow
      ochre, and cock’s feathers. In brief—distinct grounds, and vivid
      circular or cycloid figures, _of no meaning, _are here Median
      laws. The abomination of flowers, or representations of
      well-known objects of any kind, should not be endured within the
      limits of Christendom. Indeed, whether on carpets, or curtains,
      or tapestry, or ottoman coverings, all upholstery of this nature
      should be rigidly Arabesque. As for those antique floor-cloth &
      still occasionally seen in the dwellings of the rabble—cloths of
      huge, sprawling, and radiating devises, stripe-interspersed, and
      glorious with all hues, among which no ground is
      intelligible—these are but the wicked invention of a race of
      time-servers and money-lovers—children of Baal and worshippers of
      Mammon—Benthams, who, to spare thought and economize fancy, first
      cruelly invented the Kaleidoscope, and then established
      joint-stock companies to twirl it by steam.

      _Glare_ is a leading error in the philosophy of American
      household decoration—an error easily recognised as deduced from
      the perversion of taste just specified., We are violently
      enamoured of gas and of glass. The former is totally inadmissible
      within doors. Its harsh and unsteady light offends. No one having
      both brains and eyes will use it. A mild, or what artists term a
      cool light, with its consequent warm shadows, will do wonders for
      even an ill-furnished apartment. Never was a more lovely thought
      than that of the astral lamp. We mean, of course, the astral lamp
      proper—the lamp of Argand, with its original plain ground-glass
      shade, and its tempered and uniform moonlight rays. The cut-glass
      shade is a weak invention of the enemy. The eagerness with which
      we have adopted it, partly on account of its _flashiness,_ but
      principally on account of its _greater rest,_ is a good
      commentary on the proposition with which we began. It is not too
      much to say, that the deliberate employer of a cut-glass shade,
      is either radically deficient in taste, or blindly subservient to
      the caprices of fashion. The light proceeding from one of these
      gaudy abominations is unequal broken, and painful. It alone is
      sufficient to mar a world of good effect in the furniture
      subjected to its influence. Female loveliness, in especial, is
      more than one-half disenchanted beneath its evil eye.

      In the matter of glass, generally, we proceed upon false
      principles. Its leading feature is _glitter—_and in that one word
      how much of all that is detestable do we express! Flickering,
      unquiet lights, are _sometimes _pleasing—to children and idiots
      always so—but in the embellishment of a room they should be
      scrupulously avoided. In truth, even strong _steady _lights are
      inadmissible. The huge and unmeaning glass chandeliers,
      prism-cut, gas-lighted, and without shade, which dangle in our
      most fashionable drawing-rooms, may be cited as the quintessence
      of all that is false in taste or preposterous in folly.

      The rage for _glitter-_because its idea has become as we before
      observed, confounded with that of magnificence in the
      abstract—has led us, also, to the exaggerated employment of
      mirrors. We line our dwellings with great British plates, and
      then imagine we have done a fine thing. Now the slightest thought
      will be sufficient to convince any one who has an eye at all, of
      the ill effect of numerous looking-glasses, and especially of
      large ones. Regarded apart from its reflection, the mirror
      presents a continuous, flat, colourless, unrelieved surface,—a
      thing always and obviously unpleasant. Considered as a reflector,
      it is potent in producing a monstrous and odious uniformity: and
      the evil is here aggravated, not in merely direct proportion with
      the augmentation of its sources, but in a ratio constantly
      increasing. In fact, a room with four or five mirrors arranged at
      random, is, for all purposes of artistic show, a room of no shape
      at all. If we add to this evil, the attendant glitter upon
      glitter, we have a perfect farrago of discordant and displeasing
      effects. The veriest bumpkin, on entering an apartment so
      bedizzened, would be instantly aware of something wrong, although
      he might be altogether unable to assign a cause for his
      dissatisfaction. But let the same person be led into a room
      tastefully furnished, and he would be startled into an
      exclamation of pleasure and surprise.

      It is an evil growing out of our republican institutions, that
      here a man of large purse has usually a very little soul which he
      keeps in it. The corruption of taste is a portion or a pendant of
      the dollar-manufacture. As we grow rich, our ideas grow rusty. It
      is, therefore, not among _our _aristocracy that we must look (if
      at all, in Appallachia), for the spirituality of a British
      _boudoir. _But we have seen apartments in the tenure of Americans
      of moderns [possibly “modest” or “moderate”] means, which, in
      negative merit at least, might vie with any of the _or-molu’d
      _cabinets of our friends across the water. Even _now_, there is
      present to our mind’s eye a small and not, ostentatious chamber
      with whose decorations no fault can be found. The proprietor lies
      asleep on a sofa—the weather is cool—the time is near midnight:
      we will make a sketch of the room during his slumber.

      It is oblong—some thirty feet in length and twenty-five in
      breadth—a shape affording the best(ordinary) opportunities for
      the adjustment of furniture. It has but one door—by no means a
      wide one—which is at one end of the parallelogram, and but two
      windows, which are at the other. These latter are large, reaching
      down to the floor—have deep recesses—and open on an Italian
      _veranda. _Their panes are of a crimson-tinted glass, set in
      rose-wood framings, more massive than usual. They are curtained
      within the recess, by a thick silver tissue adapted to the shape
      of the window, and hanging loosely in small volumes. Without the
      recess are curtains of an exceedingly rich crimson silk, fringed
      with a deep network of gold, and lined with silver tissue, which
      is the material of the exterior blind. There are no cornices; but
      the folds of the whole fabric (which are sharp rather than
      massive, and have an airy appearance), issue from beneath a broad
      entablature of rich giltwork, which encircles the room at the
      junction of the ceiling and walls. The drapery is thrown open
      also, or closed, by means of a thick rope of gold loosely
      enveloping it, and resolving itself readily into a knot; no pins
      or other such devices are apparent. The colours of the curtains
      and their fringe—the tints of crimson and gold—appear everywhere
      in profusion, and determine the _character _of the room. The
      carpet—of Saxony material—is quite half an inch thick, and is of
      the same crimson ground, relieved simply by the appearance of a
      gold cord (like that festooning the curtains) slightly relieved
      above the surface of the _ground, _and thrown upon it in such a
      manner as to form a succession of short irregular curves—one
      occasionally overlaying the other. The walls are prepared with a
      glossy paper of a silver gray tint, spotted with small Arabesque
      devices of a fainter hue of the prevalent crimson. Many paintings
      relieve the expanse of paper. These are chiefly landscapes of an
      imaginative cast—such as the fairy grottoes of Stanfield, or the
      lake of the Dismal Swamp of Chapman. There are, nevertheless,
      three or four female heads, of an ethereal beauty-portraits in
      the manner of Sully. The tone of each picture is warm, but dark.
      There are no “brilliant effects.” _Repose _speaks in all. Not one
      is of small size. Diminutive paintings give that _spotty _look to
      a room, which is the blemish of so many a fine work of Art
      overtouched. The frames are broad but not deep, and richly
      carved, without being _dulled _or filagreed. They have the whole
      lustre of burnished gold. They lie flat on the walls, and do not
      hang off with cords. The designs themselves are often seen to
      better advantage in this latter position, but the general
      appearance of the chamber is injured. But one mirror—and this not
      a very large one—is visible. In shape it is nearly circular—and
      it is hung so that a reflection of the person can be obtained
      from it in none of the ordinary sitting-places of the room. Two
      large low sofas of rosewood and crimson silk, gold-flowered, form
      the only seats, with the exception of two light conversation
      chairs, also of rose-wood. There is a pianoforte (rose-wood,
      also), without cover, and thrown open. An octagonal table, formed
      altogether of the richest gold-threaded marble, is placed near
      one of the sofas. This is also without cover—the drapery of the
      curtains has been thought sufficient.. Four large and gorgeous
      Sevres vases, in which bloom a profusion of sweet and vivid
      flowers, occupy the slightly rounded angles of the room. A tall
      candelabrum, bearing a small antique lamp with highly perfumed
      oil, is standing near the head of my sleeping friend. Some light
      and graceful hanging shelves, with golden edges and crimson silk
      cords with gold tassels, sustain two or three hundred
      magnificently bound books. Beyond these things, there is no
      furniture, if we except an Argand lamp, with a plain
      crimson-tinted ground glass shade, which depends from He lofty
      vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold chain, and throws a
      tranquil but magical radiance over all.




 A TALE OF JERUSALEM


     Intensos rigidarn in frontern ascendere canos
     Passus erat—— —Lucan—De Catone
    ——a bristly bore.

      “LET us hurry to the walls,” said Abel-Phittim to Buzi-Ben-Levi
      and Simeon the Pharisee, on the tenth day of the month Thammuz,
      in the year of the world three thousand nine hundred and
      forty-one—let us hasten to the ramparts adjoining the gate of
      Benjamin, which is in the city of David, and overlooking the camp
      of the uncircumcised; for it is the last hour of the fourth
      watch, being sunrise; and the idolaters, in fulfilment of the
      promise of Pompey, should be awaiting us with the lambs for the
      sacrifices.”

      Simeon, Abel-Phittim, and Duzi-Ben-Levi were the Gizbarim, or
      sub-collectors of the offering, in the holy city of Jerusalem.

      “Verily,” replied the Pharisee; “let us hasten: for this
      generosity in the heathen is unwonted; and fickle-mindedness has
      ever been an attribute of the worshippers of Baal.”

      “‘That they are fickle-minded and treacherous is as true as the
      Pentateuch,” said Buzi-Ben-Levi, “but that is only toward the
      people of Adonai. When was it ever known that the Ammonites
      proved wanting to their own interests? Methinks it is no great
      stretch of generosity to allow us lambs for the altar of the
      Lord, receiving in lieu thereof thirty silver shekels per head!”

      “Thou forgettest, however, Ben-Levi,” replied Abel-Phittim, “that
      the Roman Pompey, who is now impiously besieging the city of the
      Most High, has no assurity that we apply not the lambs thus
      purchased for the altar, to the sustenance of the body, rather
      than of the spirit.”

      “Now, by the five corners of my beard!” shouted the Pharisee, who
      belonged to the sect called The Dashers (that little knot of
      saints whose manner of _dashing _and lacerating the feet against
      the pavement was long a thorn and a reproach to less zealous
      devotees-a stumbling-block to less gifted perambulators)—“by the
      five corners of that beard which, as a priest, I am forbidden to
      shave!-have we lived to see the day when a blaspheming and
      idolatrous upstart of Rome shall accuse us of appropriating to
      the appetites of the flesh the most holy and consecrated
      elements? Have we lived to see the day when—“’

      “Let us not question the motives of the Philistine,” interrupted
      Abel-Phittim’ “for to-day we profit for the first time by his
      avarice or by his generosity; but rather let us hurry to the
      ramparts, lest offerings should be wanting for that altar whose
      fire the rains of heaven can not extinguish, and whose pillars of
      smoke no tempest can turn aside.”

      That part of the city to which our worthy Gizbarim now hastened,
      and which bore the name of its architect, King David, was
      esteemed the most strongly fortified district of Jerusalem; being
      situated upon the steep and lofty hill of Zion. Here, a broad,
      deep, circumvallatory trench, hewn from the solid rock, was
      defended by a wall of great strength erected upon its inner edge.
      This wall was adorned, at regular interspaces, by square towers
      of white marble; the lowest sixty, and the highest one hundred
      and twenty cubits in height. But, in the vicinity of the gate of
      Benjamin, the wall arose by no means from the margin of the
      fosse. On the contrary, between the level of the ditch and the
      basement of the rampart sprang up a perpendicular cliff of two
      hundred and fifty cubits, forming part of the precipitous Mount
      Moriah. So that when Simeon and his associates arrived on the
      summit of the tower called Adoni-Bezek-the loftiest of all the
      turrets around about Jerusalem, and the usual place of conference
      with the besieging army-they looked down upon the camp of the
      enemy from an eminence excelling by many feet that of the Pyramid
      of Cheops, and, by several, that of the temple of Belus.

      “Verily,” sighed the Pharisee, as he peered dizzily over the
      precipice, “the uncircumcised are as the sands by the seashore-as
      the locusts in the wilderness! The valley of the King hath become
      the valley of Adommin.”

      “And yet,” added Ben-Levi, “thou canst not point me out a
      Philistine-no, not one-from Aleph to Tau-from the wilderness to
      the battlements—who seemeth any bigger than the letter Jod!”

      “Lower away the basket with the shekels of silver!” here shouted
      a Roman soldier in a hoarse, rough voice, which appeared to issue
      from the regions of Pluto—“lower away the basket with the
      accursed coin which it has broken the jaw of a noble Roman to
      pronounce! Is it thus you evince your gratitude to our master
      Pompeius, who, in his condescension, has thought fit to listen to
      your idolatrous importunities? The god Phoebus, who is a true
      god, has been charioted for an hour-and were you not to be on the
      ramparts by sunrise? Aedepol! do you think that we, the
      conquerors of the world, have nothing better to do than stand
      waiting by the walls of every kennel, to traffic with the dogs of
      the earth? Lower away! I say—and see that your trumpery be bright
      in color and just in weight!”

      “El Elohim!” ejaculated the Pharisee, as the discordant tones of
      the centurion rattled up the crags of the precipice, and fainted
      away against the temple—“El Elohim!—who is the god Phoebus?—whom
      doth the blasphemer invoke? Thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi! who art read in
      the laws of the Gentiles, and hast sojourned among them who
      dabble with the Teraphim!—is it Nergal of whom the idolater
      speaketh?—-or Ashimah?—or Nibhaz,—or Tartak?—or Adramalech?—or
      Anamalech?—or Succoth-Benith?—or Dagon?—or Belial?—or
      Baal-Perith?—or Baal-Peor?—or Baal-Zebub?”

      “Verily it is neither-but beware how thou lettest the rope slip
      too rapidly through thy fingers; for should the wicker-work
      chance to hang on the projection of Yonder crag, there will be a
      woful outpouring of the holy things of the sanctuary.”

      By the assistance of some rudely constructed machinery, the
      heavily laden basket was now carefully lowered down among the
      multitude; and, from the giddy pinnacle, the Romans were seen
      gathering confusedly round it; but owing to the vast height and
      the prevalence of a fog, no distinct view of their operations
      could be obtained.

      Half an hour had already elapsed.

      “We shall be too late!” sighed the Pharisee, as at the expiration
      of this period he looked over into the abyss-“we shall be too
      late! we shall be turned out of office by the Katholim.”

      “No more,” responded Abel-Phittim—-“no more shall we feast upon
      the fat of the land-no longer shall our beards be odorous with
      frankincense—our loins girded up with fine linen from the
      Temple.”

      “Racal” swore Ben-Levi, “Racal do they mean to defraud us of the
      purchase money? or, Holy Moses! are they weighing the shekels of
      the tabernacle?”

      “They have given the signal at last!” cried the Pharisee——-“they
      have given the signal at last! pull away, Abel-Phittim!—and thou,
      Buzi-Ben-Levi, pull away!—for verily the Philistines have either
      still hold upon the basket, or the Lord hath softened their
      hearts to place therein a beast of good weight!” And the Gizbarim
      pulled away, while their burden swung heavily upward through the
      still increasing mist.

      “Booshoh he!”—as, at the conclusion of an hour, some object at
      the extremity of the rope became indistinctly visible—“Booshoh
      he!” was the exclamation which burst from the lips of Ben-Levi.

      “Booshoh he!—for shame!—it is a ram from the thickets of Engedi,
      and as rugged as the valley of jehosaphat!”

      “It is a firstling of the flock,” said Abel-Phittim, “I know him
      by the bleating of his lips, and the innocent folding of his
      limbs. His eyes are more beautiful than the jewels of the
      Pectoral, and his flesh is like the honey of Hebron.”

      “It is a fatted calf from the pastures of Bashan,” said the
      Pharisee, “the heathen have dealt wonderfully with us——let us
      raise up our voices in a psalm—let us give thanks on the shawm
      and on the psaltery-on the harp and on the huggab-on the cythern
      and on the sackbut!”

      It was not until the basket had arrived within a few feet of the
      Gizbarim that a low grunt betrayed to their perception a hog of
      no common size.

      “Now El Emanu!” slowly and with upturned eyes ejaculated the
      trio, as, letting go their hold, the emancipated porker tumbled
      headlong among the Philistines, “El Emanu!-God be with us—it is
      _the unutterable flesh!”_




THE SPHINX


      DURING the dread reign of the Cholera in New York, I had accepted
      the invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the
      retirement of his _cottage ornee_ on the banks of the Hudson. We
      had here around us all the ordinary means of summer amusement;
      and what with rambling in the woods, sketching, boating, fishing,
      bathing, music, and books, we should have passed the time
      pleasantly enough, but for the fearful intelligence which reached
      us every morning from the populous city. Not a day elapsed which
      did not bring us news of the decease of some acquaintance. Then
      as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily the loss of
      some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every
      messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent with
      death. That palsying thought, indeed, took entire possession of
      my soul. I could neither speak, think, nor dream of any thing
      else. My host was of a less excitable temperament, and, although
      greatly depressed in spirits, exerted himself to sustain my own.
      His richly philosophical intellect was not at any time affected
      by unrealities. To the substances of terror he was sufficiently
      alive, but of its shadows he had no apprehension.

      His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal gloom
      into which I had fallen, were frustrated, in great measure, by
      certain volumes which I had found in his library. These were of a
      character to force into germination whatever seeds of hereditary
      superstition lay latent in my bosom. I had been reading these
      books without his knowledge, and thus he was often at a loss to
      account for the forcible impressions which had been made upon my
      fancy.

      A favorite topic with me was the popular belief in omens—a belief
      which, at this one epoch of my life, I was almost seriously
      disposed to defend. On this subject we had long and animated
      discussions—he maintaining the utter groundlessness of faith in
      such matters,—I contending that a popular sentiment arising with
      absolute spontaneity- that is to say, without apparent traces of
      suggestion—had in itself the unmistakable elements of truth, and
      was entitled to as much respect as that intuition which is the
      idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius.

      The fact is, that soon after my arrival at the cottage there had
      occurred to myself an incident so entirely inexplicable, and
      which had in it so much of the portentous character, that I might
      well have been excused for regarding it as an omen. It appalled,
      and at the same time so confounded and bewildered me, that many
      days elapsed before I could make up my mind to communicate the
      circumstances to my friend.

      Near the close of exceedingly warm day, I was sitting, book in
      hand, at an open window, commanding, through a long vista of the
      river banks, a view of a distant hill, the face of which nearest
      my position had been denuded by what is termed a land-slide, of
      the principal portion of its trees. My thoughts had been long
      wandering from the volume before me to the gloom and desolation
      of the neighboring city. Uplifting my eyes from the page, they
      fell upon the naked face of the bill, and upon an object—upon
      some living monster of hideous conformation, which very rapidly
      made its way from the summit to the bottom, disappearing finally
      in the dense forest below. As this creature first came in sight,
      I doubted my own sanity—or at least the evidence of my own eyes;
      and many minutes passed before I succeeded in convincing myself
      that I was neither mad nor in a dream. Yet when I described the
      monster (which I distinctly saw, and calmly surveyed through the
      whole period of its progress), my readers, I fear, will feel more
      difficulty in being convinced of these points than even I did
      myself.

      Estimating the size of the creature by comparison with the
      diameter of the large trees near which it passed—the few giants
      of the forest which had escaped the fury of the land-slide—I
      concluded it to be far larger than any ship of the line in
      existence. I say ship of the line, because the shape of the
      monster suggested the idea—the hull of one of our seventy-four
      might convey a very tolerable conception of the general outline.
      The mouth of the animal was situated at the extremity of a
      proboscis some sixty or seventy feet in length, and about as
      thick as the body of an ordinary elephant. Near the root of this
      trunk was an immense quantity of black shaggy hair—more than
      could have been supplied by the coats of a score of buffaloes;
      and projecting from this hair downwardly and laterally, sprang
      two gleaming tusks not unlike those of the wild boar, but of
      infinitely greater dimensions. Extending forward, parallel with
      the proboscis, and on each side of it, was a gigantic staff,
      thirty or forty feet in length, formed seemingly of pure crystal
      and in shape a perfect prism,—it reflected in the most gorgeous
      manner the rays of the declining sun. The trunk was fashioned
      like a wedge with the apex to the earth. From it there were
      outspread two pairs of wings—each wing nearly one hundred yards
      in length—one pair being placed above the other, and all thickly
      covered with metal scales; each scale apparently some ten or
      twelve feet in diameter. I observed that the upper and lower
      tiers of wings were connected by a strong chain. But the chief
      peculiarity of this horrible thing was the representation of a
      Death’s Head, which covered nearly the whole surface of its
      breast, and which was as accurately traced in glaring white, upon
      the dark ground of the body, as if it had been there carefully
      designed by an artist. While I regarded the terrific animal, and
      more especially the appearance on its breast, with a feeling or
      horror and awe—with a sentiment of forthcoming evil, which I
      found it impossible to quell by any effort of the reason, I
      perceived the huge jaws at the extremity of the proboscis
      suddenly expand themselves, and from them there proceeded a sound
      so loud and so expressive of wo, that it struck upon my nerves
      like a knell and as the monster disappeared at the foot of the
      hill, I fell at once, fainting, to the floor.

      Upon recovering, my first impulse, of course, was to inform my
      friend of what I had seen and heard—and I can scarcely explain
      what feeling of repugnance it was which, in the end, operated to
      prevent me.

      At length, one evening, some three or four days after the
      occurrence, we were sitting together in the room in which I had
      seen the apparition—I occupying the same seat at the same window,
      and he lounging on a sofa near at hand. The association of the
      place and time impelled me to give him an account of the
      phenomenon. He heard me to the end—at first laughed heartily—and
      then lapsed into an excessively grave demeanor, as if my insanity
      was a thing beyond suspicion. At this instant I again had a
      distinct view of the monster—to which, with a shout of absolute
      terror, I now directed his attention. He looked eagerly—but
      maintained that he saw nothing—although I designated minutely the
      course of the creature, as it made its way down the naked face of
      the hill.

      I was now immeasurably alarmed, for I considered the vision
      either as an omen of my death, or, worse, as the fore-runner of
      an attack of mania. I threw myself passionately back in my chair,
      and for some moments buried my face in my hands. When I uncovered
      my eyes, the apparition was no longer apparent.

      My host, however, had in some degree resumed the calmness of his
      demeanor, and questioned me very rigorously in respect to the
      conformation of the visionary creature. When I had fully
      satisfied him on this head, he sighed deeply, as if relieved of
      some intolerable burden, and went on to talk, with what I thought
      a cruel calmness, of various points of speculative philosophy,
      which had heretofore formed subject of discussion between us. I
      remember his insisting very especially (among other things) upon
      the idea that the principle source of error in all human
      investigations lay in the liability of the understanding to
      under-rate or to over-value the importance of an object, through
      mere mis-admeasurement of its propinquity. “To estimate properly,
      for example,” he said, “the influence to be exercised on mankind
      at large by the thorough diffusion of Democracy, the distance of
      the epoch at which such diffusion may possibly be accomplished
      should not fail to form an item in the estimate. Yet can you tell
      me one writer on the subject of government who has ever thought
      this particular branch of the subject worthy of discussion at
      all?”

      He here paused for a moment, stepped to a book-case, and brought
      forth one of the ordinary synopses of Natural History. Requesting
      me then to exchange seats with him, that he might the better
      distinguish the fine print of the volume, he took my armchair at
      the window, and, opening the book, resumed his discourse very
      much in the same tone as before.

      “But for your exceeding minuteness,” he said, “in describing the
      monster, I might never have had it in my power to demonstrate to
      you what it was. In the first place, let me read to you a
      schoolboy account of the genus Sphinx, of the family
      Crepuscularia of the order Lepidoptera, of the class of
      Insecta—or insects. The account runs thus:

      “‘Four membranous wings covered with little colored scales of
      metallic appearance; mouth forming a rolled proboscis, produced
      by an elongation of the jaws, upon the sides of which are found
      the rudiments of mandibles and downy palpi; the inferior wings
      retained to the superior by a stiff hair; antennae in the form of
      an elongated club, prismatic; abdomen pointed, The Death’s—headed
      Sphinx has occasioned much terror among the vulgar, at times, by
      the melancholy kind of cry which it utters, and the insignia of
      death which it wears upon its corslet.’”

      He here closed the book and leaned forward in the chair, placing
      himself accurately in the position which I had occupied at the
      moment of beholding “the monster.”

      “Ah, here it is,” he presently exclaimed—“it is reascending the
      face of the hill, and a very remarkable looking creature I admit
      it to be. Still, it is by no means so large or so distant as you
      imagined it,—for the fact is that, as it wriggles its way up this
      thread, which some spider has wrought along the window-sash, I
      find it to be about the sixteenth of an inch in its extreme
      length, and also about the sixteenth of an inch distant from the
      pupil of my eye.”




HOP-FROG


      I never knew anyone so keenly alive to a joke as the king was. He
      seemed to live only for joking. To tell a good story of the joke
      kind, and to tell it well, was the surest road to his favor. Thus
      it happened that his seven ministers were all noted for their
      accomplishments as jokers. They all took after the king, too, in
      being large, corpulent, oily men, as well as inimitable jokers.
      Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there is something
      in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been
      quite able to determine; but certain it is that a lean joker is a
      rara avis in terris.

      About the refinements, or, as he called them, the ‘ghost’ of wit,
      the king troubled himself very little. He had an especial
      admiration for breadth in a jest, and would often put up with
      length, for the sake of it. Over-niceties wearied him. He would
      have preferred Rabelais’ ‘Gargantua’ to the ‘Zadig’ of Voltaire:
      and, upon the whole, practical jokes suited his taste far better
      than verbal ones.

      At the date of my narrative, professing jesters had not
      altogether gone out of fashion at court. Several of the great
      continental ‘powers’ still retain their ‘fools,’ who wore motley,
      with caps and bells, and who were expected to be always ready
      with sharp witticisms, at a moment’s notice, in consideration of
      the crumbs that fell from the royal table.

      Our king, as a matter of course, retained his ‘fool.’ The fact
      is, he required something in the way of folly—if only to
      counterbalance the heavy wisdom of the seven wise men who were
      his ministers—not to mention himself.

      His fool, or professional jester, was not only a fool, however.
      His value was trebled in the eyes of the king, by the fact of his
      being also a dwarf and a cripple. Dwarfs were as common at court,
      in those days, as fools; and many monarchs would have found it
      difficult to get through their days (days are rather longer at
      court than elsewhere) without both a jester to laugh with, and a
      dwarf to laugh at. But, as I have already observed, your jesters,
      in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, are fat, round, and
      unwieldy—so that it was no small source of self-gratulation with
      our king that, in Hop-Frog (this was the fool’s name), he
      possessed a triplicate treasure in one person.

      I believe the name ‘Hop-Frog’ was not that given to the dwarf by
      his sponsors at baptism, but it was conferred upon him, by
      general consent of the several ministers, on account of his
      inability to walk as other men do. In fact, Hop-Frog could only
      get along by a sort of interjectional gait—something between a
      leap and a wriggle—a movement that afforded illimitable
      amusement, and of course consolation, to the king, for
      (notwithstanding the protuberance of his stomach and a
      constitutional swelling of the head) the king, by his whole
      court, was accounted a capital figure.

      But although Hop-Frog, through the distortion of his legs, could
      move only with great pain and difficulty along a road or floor,
      the prodigious muscular power which nature seemed to have
      bestowed upon his arms, by way of compensation for deficiency in
      the lower limbs, enabled him to perform many feats of wonderful
      dexterity, where trees or ropes were in question, or any thing
      else to climb. At such exercises he certainly much more resembled
      a squirrel, or a small monkey, than a frog.

      I am not able to say, with precision, from what country Hop-Frog
      originally came. It was from some barbarous region, however, that
      no person ever heard of—a vast distance from the court of our
      king. Hop-Frog, and a young girl very little less dwarfish than
      himself (although of exquisite proportions, and a marvellous
      dancer), had been forcibly carried off from their respective
      homes in adjoining provinces, and sent as presents to the king,
      by one of his ever-victorious generals.

      Under these circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that a
      close intimacy arose between the two little captives. Indeed,
      they soon became sworn friends. Hop-Frog, who, although he made a
      great deal of sport, was by no means popular, had it not in his
      power to render Trippetta many services; but she, on account of
      her grace and exquisite beauty (although a dwarf), was
      universally admired and petted; so she possessed much influence;
      and never failed to use it, whenever she could, for the benefit
      of Hop-Frog.

      On some grand state occasion—I forgot what—the king determined to
      have a masquerade, and whenever a masquerade or any thing of that
      kind, occurred at our court, then the talents, both of Hop-Frog
      and Trippetta were sure to be called into play. Hop-Frog, in
      especial, was so inventive in the way of getting up pageants,
      suggesting novel characters, and arranging costumes, for masked
      balls, that nothing could be done, it seems, without his
      assistance.

      The night appointed for the fete had arrived. A gorgeous hall had
      been fitted up, under Trippetta’s eye, with every kind of device
      which could possibly give eclat to a masquerade. The whole court
      was in a fever of expectation. As for costumes and characters, it
      might well be supposed that everybody had come to a decision on
      such points. Many had made up their minds (as to what roles they
      should assume) a week, or even a month, in advance; and, in fact,
      there was not a particle of indecision anywhere—except in the
      case of the king and his seven minsters. Why they hesitated I
      never could tell, unless they did it by way of a joke. More
      probably, they found it difficult, on account of being so fat, to
      make up their minds. At all events, time flew; and, as a last
      resort they sent for Trippetta and Hop-Frog.

      When the two little friends obeyed the summons of the king they
      found him sitting at his wine with the seven members of his
      cabinet council; but the monarch appeared to be in a very ill
      humor. He knew that Hop-Frog was not fond of wine, for it excited
      the poor cripple almost to madness; and madness is no comfortable
      feeling. But the king loved his practical jokes, and took
      pleasure in forcing Hop-Frog to drink and (as the king called it)
      ‘to be merry.’

      “Come here, Hop-Frog,” said he, as the jester and his friend
      entered the room; “swallow this bumper to the health of your
      absent friends, [here Hop-Frog sighed,] and then let us have the
      benefit of your invention. We want characters—characters,
      man—something novel—out of the way. We are wearied with this
      everlasting sameness. Come, drink! the wine will brighten your
      wits.”

      Hop-Frog endeavored, as usual, to get up a jest in reply to these
      advances from the king; but the effort was too much. It happened
      to be the poor dwarf’s birthday, and the command to drink to his
      ‘absent friends’ forced the tears to his eyes. Many large, bitter
      drops fell into the goblet as he took it, humbly, from the hand
      of the tyrant.

      “Ah! ha! ha!” roared the latter, as the dwarf reluctantly drained
      the beaker.—“See what a glass of good wine can do! Why, your eyes
      are shining already!”

      Poor fellow! his large eyes gleamed, rather than shone; for the
      effect of wine on his excitable brain was not more powerful than
      instantaneous. He placed the goblet nervously on the table, and
      looked round upon the company with a half—insane stare. They all
      seemed highly amused at the success of the king’s ‘joke.’

      “And now to business,” said the prime minister, a very fat man.

      “Yes,” said the King; “Come lend us your assistance. Characters,
      my fine fellow; we stand in need of characters—all of us—ha! ha!
      ha!” and as this was seriously meant for a joke, his laugh was
      chorused by the seven.

      Hop-Frog also laughed although feebly and somewhat vacantly.

      “Come, come,” said the king, impatiently, “have you nothing to
      suggest?”

      “I am endeavoring to think of something novel,” replied the
      dwarf, abstractedly, for he was quite bewildered by the wine.

      “Endeavoring!” cried the tyrant, fiercely; “what do you mean by
      that? Ah, I perceive. You are Sulky, and want more wine. Here,
      drink this!” and he poured out another goblet full and offered it
      to the cripple, who merely gazed at it, gasping for breath.

      “Drink, I say!” shouted the monster, “or by the fiends-”

      The dwarf hesitated. The king grew purple with rage. The
      courtiers smirked. Trippetta, pale as a corpse, advanced to the
      monarch’s seat, and, falling on her knees before him, implored
      him to spare her friend.

      The tyrant regarded her, for some moments, in evident wonder at
      her audacity. He seemed quite at a loss what to do or say—how
      most becomingly to express his indignation. At last, without
      uttering a syllable, he pushed her violently from him, and threw
      the contents of the brimming goblet in her face.

      The poor girl got up the best she could, and, not daring even to
      sigh, resumed her position at the foot of the table.

      There was a dead silence for about half a minute, during which
      the falling of a leaf, or of a feather, might have been heard. It
      was interrupted by a low, but harsh and protracted grating sound
      which seemed to come at once from every corner of the room.

      “What—what—what are you making that noise for?” demanded the
      king, turning furiously to the dwarf.

      The latter seemed to have recovered, in great measure, from his
      intoxication, and looking fixedly but quietly into the tyrant’s
      face, merely ejaculated:

      “I—I? How could it have been me?”

      “The sound appeared to come from without,” observed one of the
      courtiers. “I fancy it was the parrot at the window, whetting his
      bill upon his cage-wires.”

      “True,” replied the monarch, as if much relieved by the
      suggestion; “but, on the honor of a knight, I could have sworn
      that it was the gritting of this vagabond’s teeth.”

      Hereupon the dwarf laughed (the king was too confirmed a joker to
      object to any one’s laughing), and displayed a set of large,
      powerful, and very repulsive teeth. Moreover, he avowed his
      perfect willingness to swallow as much wine as desired. The
      monarch was pacified; and having drained another bumper with no
      very perceptible ill effect, Hop-Frog entered at once, and with
      spirit, into the plans for the masquerade.

      “I cannot tell what was the association of idea,” observed he,
      very tranquilly, and as if he had never tasted wine in his life,
      “but just after your majesty, had struck the girl and thrown the
      wine in her face—just after your majesty had done this, and while
      the parrot was making that odd noise outside the window, there
      came into my mind a capital diversion—one of my own country
      frolics—often enacted among us, at our masquerades: but here it
      will be new altogether. Unfortunately, however, it requires a
      company of eight persons and-”

      “Here we are!” cried the king, laughing at his acute discovery of
      the coincidence; “eight to a fraction—I and my seven ministers.
      Come! what is the diversion?”

      “We call it,” replied the cripple, “the Eight Chained
      Ourang-Outangs, and it really is excellent sport if well
      enacted.”

      “We will enact it,” remarked the king, drawing himself up, and
      lowering his eyelids.

      “The beauty of the game,” continued Hop-Frog, “lies in the fright
      it occasions among the women.”

      “Capital!” roared in chorus the monarch and his ministry.

      “I will equip you as ourang-outangs,” proceeded the dwarf; “leave
      all that to me. The resemblance shall be so striking, that the
      company of masqueraders will take you for real beasts—and of
      course, they will be as much terrified as astonished.”

      “Oh, this is exquisite!” exclaimed the king. “Hop-Frog! I will
      make a man of you.”

      “The chains are for the purpose of increasing the confusion by
      their jangling. You are supposed to have escaped, en masse, from
      your keepers. Your majesty cannot conceive the effect produced,
      at a masquerade, by eight chained ourang-outangs, imagined to be
      real ones by most of the company; and rushing in with savage
      cries, among the crowd of delicately and gorgeously habited men
      and women. The contrast is inimitable!”

      “It must be,” said the king: and the council arose hurriedly (as
      it was growing late), to put in execution the scheme of Hop-Frog.

      His mode of equipping the party as ourang-outangs was very
      simple, but effective enough for his purposes. The animals in
      question had, at the epoch of my story, very rarely been seen in
      any part of the civilized world; and as the imitations made by
      the dwarf were sufficiently beast-like and more than sufficiently
      hideous, their truthfulness to nature was thus thought to be
      secured.

      The king and his ministers were first encased in tight-fitting
      stockinet shirts and drawers. They were then saturated with tar.
      At this stage of the process, some one of the party suggested
      feathers; but the suggestion was at once overruled by the dwarf,
      who soon convinced the eight, by ocular demonstration, that the
      hair of such a brute as the ourang-outang was much more
      efficiently represented by flu. A thick coating of the latter was
      accordingly plastered upon the coating of tar. A long chain was
      now procured. First, it was passed about the waist of the king,
      and tied, then about another of the party, and also tied; then
      about all successively, in the same manner. When this chaining
      arrangement was complete, and the party stood as far apart from
      each other as possible, they formed a circle; and to make all
      things appear natural, Hop-Frog passed the residue of the chain
      in two diameters, at right angles, across the circle, after the
      fashion adopted, at the present day, by those who capture
      Chimpanzees, or other large apes, in Borneo.

      The grand saloon in which the masquerade was to take place, was a
      circular room, very lofty, and receiving the light of the sun
      only through a single window at top. At night (the season for
      which the apartment was especially designed) it was illuminated
      principally by a large chandelier, depending by a chain from the
      centre of the sky-light, and lowered, or elevated, by means of a
      counter-balance as usual; but (in order not to look unsightly)
      this latter passed outside the cupola and over the roof.

      The arrangements of the room had been left to Trippetta’s
      superintendence; but, in some particulars, it seems, she had been
      guided by the calmer judgment of her friend the dwarf. At his
      suggestion it was that, on this occasion, the chandelier was
      removed. Its waxen drippings (which, in weather so warm, it was
      quite impossible to prevent) would have been seriously
      detrimental to the rich dresses of the guests, who, on account of
      the crowded state of the saloon, could not all be expected to
      keep from out its centre; that is to say, from under the
      chandelier. Additional sconces were set in various parts of the
      hall, out of the war, and a flambeau, emitting sweet odor, was
      placed in the right hand of each of the Caryaides [Caryatides]
      that stood against the wall—some fifty or sixty altogether.

      The eight ourang-outangs, taking Hop-Frog’s advice, waited
      patiently until midnight (when the room was thoroughly filled
      with masqueraders) before making their appearance. No sooner had
      the clock ceased striking, however, than they rushed, or rather
      rolled in, all together—for the impediments of their chains
      caused most of the party to fall, and all to stumble as they
      entered.

      The excitement among the masqueraders was prodigious, and filled
      the heart of the king with glee. As had been anticipated, there
      were not a few of the guests who supposed the ferocious-looking
      creatures to be beasts of some kind in reality, if not precisely
      ourang-outangs. Many of the women swooned with affright; and had
      not the king taken the precaution to exclude all weapons from the
      saloon, his party might soon have expiated their frolic in their
      blood. As it was, a general rush was made for the doors; but the
      king had ordered them to be locked immediately upon his entrance;
      and, at the dwarf’s suggestion, the keys had been deposited with
      him.

      While the tumult was at its height, and each masquerader
      attentive only to his own safety (for, in fact, there was much
      real danger from the pressure of the excited crowd), the chain by
      which the chandelier ordinarily hung, and which had been drawn up
      on its removal, might have been seen very gradually to descend,
      until its hooked extremity came within three feet of the floor.

      Soon after this, the king and his seven friends having reeled
      about the hall in all directions, found themselves, at length, in
      its centre, and, of course, in immediate contact with the chain.
      While they were thus situated, the dwarf, who had followed
      noiselessly at their heels, inciting them to keep up the
      commotion, took hold of their own chain at the intersection of
      the two portions which crossed the circle diametrically and at
      right angles. Here, with the rapidity of thought, he inserted the
      hook from which the chandelier had been wont to depend; and, in
      an instant, by some unseen agency, the chandelier-chain was drawn
      so far upward as to take the hook out of reach, and, as an
      inevitable consequence, to drag the ourang-outangs together in
      close connection, and face to face.

      The masqueraders, by this time, had recovered, in some measure,
      from their alarm; and, beginning to regard the whole matter as a
      well-contrived pleasantry, set up a loud shout of laughter at the
      predicament of the apes.

      “Leave them to me!” now screamed Hop-Frog, his shrill voice
      making itself easily heard through all the din. “Leave them to
      me. I fancy I know them. If I can only get a good look at them, I
      can soon tell who they are.”

      Here, scrambling over the heads of the crowd, he managed to get
      to the wall; when, seizing a flambeau from one of the Caryatides,
      he returned, as he went, to the centre of the room-leaping, with
      the agility of a monkey, upon the kings head, and thence
      clambered a few feet up the chain; holding down the torch to
      examine the group of ourang-outangs, and still screaming: “I
      shall soon find out who they are!”

      And now, while the whole assembly (the apes included) were
      convulsed with laughter, the jester suddenly uttered a shrill
      whistle; when the chain flew violently up for about thirty
      feet—dragging with it the dismayed and struggling ourang-outangs,
      and leaving them suspended in mid-air between the sky-light and
      the floor. Hop-Frog, clinging to the chain as it rose, still
      maintained his relative position in respect to the eight maskers,
      and still (as if nothing were the matter) continued to thrust his
      torch down toward them, as though endeavoring to discover who
      they were.

      So thoroughly astonished was the whole company at this ascent,
      that a dead silence, of about a minute’s duration, ensued. It was
      broken by just such a low, harsh, grating sound, as had before
      attracted the attention of the king and his councillors when the
      former threw the wine in the face of Trippetta. But, on the
      present occasion, there could be no question as to whence the
      sound issued. It came from the fang—like teeth of the dwarf, who
      ground them and gnashed them as he foamed at the mouth, and
      glared, with an expression of maniacal rage, into the upturned
      countenances of the king and his seven companions.

      “Ah, ha!” said at length the infuriated jester. “Ah, ha! I begin
      to see who these people are now!” Here, pretending to scrutinize
      the king more closely, he held the flambeau to the flaxen coat
      which enveloped him, and which instantly burst into a sheet of
      vivid flame. In less than half a minute the whole eight
      ourang-outangs were blazing fiercely, amid the shrieks of the
      multitude who gazed at them from below, horror-stricken, and
      without the power to render them the slightest assistance.

      At length the flames, suddenly increasing in virulence, forced
      the jester to climb higher up the chain, to be out of their
      reach; and, as he made this movement, the crowd again sank, for a
      brief instant, into silence. The dwarf seized his opportunity,
      and once more spoke:

      “I now see distinctly.” he said, “what manner of people these
      maskers are. They are a great king and his seven
      privy-councillors,—a king who does not scruple to strike a
      defenceless girl and his seven councillors who abet him in the
      outrage. As for myself, I am simply Hop-Frog, the jester—and this
      is my last jest.”

      Owing to the high combustibility of both the flax and the tar to
      which it adhered, the dwarf had scarcely made an end of his brief
      speech before the work of vengeance was complete. The eight
      corpses swung in their chains, a fetid, blackened, hideous, and
      indistinguishable mass. The cripple hurled his torch at them,
      clambered leisurely to the ceiling, and disappeared through the
      sky-light.

      It is supposed that Trippetta, stationed on the roof of the
      saloon, had been the accomplice of her friend in his fiery
      revenge, and that, together, they effected their escape to their
      own country: for neither was seen again.




THE MAN OF THE CROWD.


     Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir être seul.
              _La Bruyère_.

      IT was well said of a certain German book that “_er lasst sich
      nicht lesen_”—it does not permit itself to be read. There are
      some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die
      nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors
      and looking them piteously in the eyes—die with despair of heart
      and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of
      mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now
      and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burthen so heavy
      in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And
      thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.

      Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat
      at the large bow window of the D——- Coffee-House in London. For
      some months I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent,
      and, with returning strength, found myself in one of those happy
      moods which are so precisely the converse of ennui—moods of the
      keenest appetency, when the film from the mental vision
      departs—the [Greek phrase]—and the intellect, electrified,
      surpasses as greatly its every-day condition, as does the vivid
      yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of
      Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive
      pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt
      a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With a cigar in
      my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself for
      the greater part of the afternoon, now in poring over
      advertisements, now in observing the promiscuous company in the
      room, and now in peering through the smoky panes into the street.

      This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city,
      and had been very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the
      darkness came on, the throng momently increased; and, by the time
      the lamps were well lighted, two dense and continuous tides of
      population were rushing past the door. At this particular period
      of the evening I had never before been in a similar situation,
      and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me, therefore, with
      a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all care of
      things within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of
      the scene without.

      At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn.
      I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in
      their aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to details,
      and regarded with minute interest the innumerable varieties of
      figure, dress, air, gait, visage, and expression of countenance.

      By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied
      business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making
      their way through the press. Their brows were knit, and their
      eyes rolled quickly; when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they
      evinced no symptom of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and
      hurried on. Others, still a numerous class, were restless in
      their movements, had flushed faces, and talked and gesticulated
      to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on account of the very
      denseness of the company around. When impeded in their progress,
      these people suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubled their
      gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone smile
      upon the lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If
      jostled, they bowed profusely to the jostlers, and appeared
      overwhelmed with confusion.—There was nothing very distinctive
      about these two large classes beyond what I have noted. Their
      habiliments belonged to that order which is pointedly termed the
      decent. They were undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, attorneys,
      tradesmen, stock-jobbers—the Eupatrids and the common-places of
      society—men of leisure and men actively engaged in affairs of
      their own—conducting business upon their own responsibility. They
      did not greatly excite my attention.

      The tribe of clerks was an obvious one and here I discerned two
      remarkable divisions. There were the junior clerks of flash
      houses—young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled
      hair, and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness
      of carriage, which may be termed deskism for want of a better
      word, the manner of these persons seemed to me an exact
      fac-simile of what had been the perfection of bon ton about
      twelve or eighteen months before. They wore the cast-off graces
      of the gentry;—and this, I believe, involves the best definition
      of the class.

      The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the
      “steady old fellows,” it was not possible to mistake. These were
      known by their coats and pantaloons of black or brown, made to
      sit comfortably, with white cravats and waistcoats, broad
      solid-looking shoes, and thick hose or gaiters.—They had all
      slightly bald heads, from which the right ears, long used to
      pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on end. I observed
      that they always removed or settled their hats with both hands,
      and wore watches, with short gold chains of a substantial and
      ancient pattern. Theirs was the affectation of respectability;—if
      indeed there be an affectation so honorable.

      There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easily
      understood as belonging to the race of swell pick-pockets with
      which all great cities are infested. I watched these gentry with
      much inquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they
      should ever be mistaken for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves.
      Their voluminousness of wristband, with an air of excessive
      frankness, should betray them at once.

      The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more
      easily recognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from that
      of the desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy
      neckerchief, gilt chains, and filagreed buttons, to that of the
      scrupulously inornate clergyman, than which nothing could be less
      liable to suspicion. Still all were distinguished by a certain
      sodden swarthiness of complexion, a filmy dimness of eye, and
      pallor and compression of lip. There were two other traits,
      moreover, by which I could always detect them;—a guarded lowness
      of tone in conversation, and a more than ordinary extension of
      the thumb in a direction at right angles with the fingers.—Very
      often, in company with these sharpers, I observed an order of men
      somewhat different in habits, but still birds of a kindred
      feather. They may be defined as the gentlemen who live by their
      wits. They seem to prey upon the public in two battalions—that of
      the dandies and that of the military men. Of the first grade the
      leading features are long locks and smiles; of the second frogged
      coats and frowns.

      Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found
      darker and deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with
      hawk eyes flashing from countenances whose every other feature
      wore only an expression of abject humility; sturdy professional
      street beggars scowling upon mendicants of a better stamp, whom
      despair alone had driven forth into the night for charity; feeble
      and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had placed a sure hand, and
      who sidled and tottered through the mob, looking every one
      beseechingly in the face, as if in search of some chance
      consolation, some lost hope; modest young girls returning from
      long and late labor to a cheerless home, and shrinking more
      tearfully than indignantly from the glances of ruffians, whose
      direct contact, even, could not be avoided; women of the town of
      all kinds and of all ages—the unequivocal beauty in the prime of
      her womanhood, putting one in mind of the statue in Lucian, with
      the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with
      filth—the loathsome and utterly lost leper in rags—the wrinkled,
      bejewelled and paint-begrimed beldame, making a last effort at
      youth—the mere child of immature form, yet, from long
      association, an adept in the dreadful coquetries of her trade,
      and burning with a rabid ambition to be ranked the equal of her
      elders in vice; drunkards innumerable and indescribable—some in
      shreds and patches, reeling, inarticulate, with bruised visage
      and lack-lustre eyes—some in whole although filthy garments, with
      a slightly unsteady swagger, thick sensual lips, and
      hearty-looking rubicund faces—others clothed in materials which
      had once been good, and which even now were scrupulously well
      brushed—men who walked with a more than naturally firm and
      springy step, but whose countenances were fearfully pale, whose
      eyes hideously wild and red, and who clutched with quivering
      fingers, as they strode through the crowd, at every object which
      came within their reach; beside these, pie-men, porters,
      coal—heavers, sweeps; organ-grinders, monkey-exhibiters and
      ballad mongers, those who vended with those who sang; ragged
      artizans and exhausted laborers of every description, and all
      full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which jarred discordantly
      upon the ear, and gave an aching sensation to the eye.

      As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the
      scene; for not only did the general character of the crowd
      materially alter (its gentler features retiring in the gradual
      withdrawal of the more orderly portion of the people, and its
      harsher ones coming out into bolder relief, as the late hour
      brought forth every species of infamy from its den,) but the rays
      of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle with the
      dying day, had now at length gained ascendancy, and threw over
      every thing a fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet
      splendid—as that ebony to which has been likened the style of
      Tertullian.

      The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination of
      individual faces; and although the rapidity with which the world
      of light flitted before the window, prevented me from casting
      more than a glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my
      then peculiar mental state, I could frequently read, even in that
      brief interval of a glance, the history of long years.

      With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing
      the mob, when suddenly there came into view a countenance (that
      of a decrepid old man, some sixty-five or seventy years of
      age,)—a countenance which at once arrested and absorbed my whole
      attention, on account of the absolute idiosyncrasy of its
      expression. Any thing even remotely resembling that expression I
      had never seen before. I well remember that my first thought,
      upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it, would have
      greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the
      fiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original
      survey, to form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there
      arose confusedly and paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of
      vast mental power, of caution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of
      coolness, of malice, of blood thirstiness, of triumph, of
      merriment, of excessive terror, of intense—of supreme despair. I
      felt singularly aroused, startled, fascinated. “How wild a
      history,” I said to myself, “is written within that bosom!” Then
      came a craving desire to keep the man in view—to know more of
      him. Hurriedly putting on an overcoat, and seizing my hat and
      cane, I made my way into the street, and pushed through the crowd
      in the direction which I had seen him take; for he had already
      disappeared. With some little difficulty I at length came within
      sight of him, approached, and followed him closely, yet
      cautiously, so as not to attract his attention.

      I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was
      short in stature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His
      clothes, generally, were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now
      and then, within the strong glare of a lamp, I perceived that his
      linen, although dirty, was of beautiful texture; and my vision
      deceived me, or, through a rent in a closely-buttoned and
      evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped him, I caught
      a glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. These observations
      heightened my curiosity, and I resolved to follow the stranger
      whithersoever he should go.

      It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the
      city, soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This change of
      weather had an odd effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was
      at once put into new commotion, and overshadowed by a world of
      umbrellas. The waver, the jostle, and the hum increased in a
      tenfold degree. For my own part I did not much regard the
      rain—the lurking of an old fever in my system rendering the
      moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying a handkerchief
      about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man held his
      way with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I here
      walked close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him.
      Never once turning his head to look back, he did not observe me.
      By and bye he passed into a cross street, which, although densely
      filled with people, was not quite so much thronged as the main
      one he had quitted. Here a change in his demeanor became evident.
      He walked more slowly and with less object than before—more
      hesitatingly. He crossed and re-crossed the way repeatedly
      without apparent aim; and the press was still so thick that, at
      every such movement, I was obliged to follow him closely. The
      street was a narrow and long one, and his course lay within it
      for nearly an hour, during which the passengers had gradually
      diminished to about that number which is ordinarily seen at noon
      in Broadway near the Park—so vast a difference is there between a
      London populace and that of the most frequented American city. A
      second turn brought us into a square, brilliantly lighted, and
      overflowing with life. The old manner of the stranger
      re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled
      wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon those
      who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I
      was surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit
      of the square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more
      was I astonished to see him repeat the same walk several
      times—once nearly detecting me as he came round with a sudden
      movement.

      In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we
      met with far less interruption from passengers than at first. The
      rain fell fast; the air grew cool; and the people were retiring
      to their homes. With a gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed
      into a bye-street comparatively deserted. Down this, some quarter
      of a mile long, he rushed with an activity I could not have
      dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put me to much
      trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a large and busy
      bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger appeared well
      acquainted, and where his original demeanor again became
      apparent, as he forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the
      host of buyers and sellers.

      During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in
      this place, it required much caution on my part to keep him
      within reach without attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a
      pair of caoutchouc over-shoes, and could move about in perfect
      silence. At no moment did he see that I watched him. He entered
      shop after shop, priced nothing, spoke no word, and looked at all
      objects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now utterly amazed at
      his behavior, and firmly resolved that we should not part until I
      had satisfied myself in some measure respecting him.

      A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast
      deserting the bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter,
      jostled the old man, and at the instant I saw a strong shudder
      come over his frame. He hurried into the street, looked anxiously
      around him for an instant, and then ran with incredible swiftness
      through many crooked and people-less lanes, until we emerged once
      more upon the great thoroughfare whence we had started—the street
      of the D—— Hotel. It no longer wore, however, the same aspect. It
      was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fell fiercely, and
      there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale. He
      walked moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with
      a heavy sigh, turned in the direction of the river, and, plunging
      through a great variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in
      view of one of the principal theatres. It was about being closed,
      and the audience were thronging from the doors. I saw the old man
      gasp as if for breath while he threw himself amid the crowd; but
      I thought that the intense agony of his countenance had, in some
      measure, abated. His head again fell upon his breast; he appeared
      as I had seen him at first. I observed that he now took the
      course in which had gone the greater number of the audience—but,
      upon the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend the waywardness of
      his actions.

      As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old
      uneasiness and vacillation were resumed. For some time he
      followed closely a party of some ten or twelve roisterers; but
      from this number one by one dropped off, until three only
      remained together, in a narrow and gloomy lane little frequented.
      The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed lost in thought;
      then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly a route which
      brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very different
      from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome
      quarter of London, where every thing wore the worst impress of
      the most deplorable poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By
      the dim light of an accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten,
      wooden tenements were seen tottering to their fall, in directions
      so many and capricious that scarce the semblance of a passage was
      discernible between them. The paving-stones lay at random,
      displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass. Horrible
      filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere
      teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the sounds of human
      life revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands of the
      most abandoned of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro.
      The spirits of the old man again flickered up, as a lamp which is
      near its death hour. Once more he strode onward with elastic
      tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon
      our sight, and we stood before one of the huge suburban temples
      of Intemperance—one of the palaces of the fiend, Gin.

      It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates
      still pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half
      shriek of joy the old man forced a passage within, resumed at
      once his original bearing, and stalked backward and forward,
      without apparent object, among the throng. He had not been thus
      long occupied, however, before a rush to the doors gave token
      that the host was closing them for the night. It was something
      even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the
      countenance of the singular being whom I had watched so
      pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with
      a mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to the heart of the
      mighty London. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in
      the wildest amazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in
      which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun arose while
      we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most
      thronged mart of the populous town, the street of the D——- Hotel,
      it presented an appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely
      inferior to what I had seen on the evening before. And here,
      long, amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persist in my
      pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and
      during the day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street.
      And, as the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied
      unto death, and, stopping fully in front of the wanderer, gazed
      at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed me not, but resumed
      his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in
      contemplation. “This old man,” I said at length, “is the type and
      the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. [page 228:] He
      is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I
      shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of
      the world is a grosser book than the ‘Hortulus Animæ,’ {*1} and
      perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that ‘er lasst
      sich nicht lesen.’”

      {*1} The “_Hortulus Animæ cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus
      Superadditis_” of Grünninger




NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD


      A Tale With a Moral.

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

      There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge brought
      against me by certain ignoramuses—that I have never written a
      moral tale, or, in more precise words, a tale with a moral. They
      are not the critics predestined to bring me out, and develop my
      morals:—that is the secret. By and by the “North American
      Quarterly Humdrum” will make them ashamed of their stupidity. In
      the meantime, by way of staying execution—by way of mitigating
      the accusations against me—I offer the sad history appended,—a
      history about whose obvious moral there can be no question
      whatever, since he who runs may read it in the large capitals
      which form the title of the tale. I should have credit for this
      arrangement—a far wiser one than that of La Fontaine and others,
      who reserve the impression to be conveyed until the last moment,
      and thus sneak it in at the fag end of their fables.

      Defuncti injuria ne afficiantur was a law of the twelve tables,
      and De mortuis nil nisi bonum is an excellent injunction—even if
      the dead in question be nothing but dead small beer. It is not my
      design, therefore, to vituperate my deceased friend, Toby Dammit.
      He was a sad dog, it is true, and a dog’s death it was that he
      died; but he himself was not to blame for his vices. They grew
      out of a personal defect in his mother. She did her best in the
      way of flogging him while an infant—for duties to her
      well—regulated mind were always pleasures, and babies, like tough
      steaks, or the modern Greek olive trees, are invariably the
      better for beating—but, poor woman! she had the misfortune to be
      left-handed, and a child flogged left-handedly had better be left
      unflogged. The world revolves from right to left. It will not do
      to whip a baby from left to right. If each blow in the proper
      direction drives an evil propensity out, it follows that every
      thump in an opposite one knocks its quota of wickedness in. I was
      often present at Toby’s chastisements, and, even by the way in
      which he kicked, I could perceive that he was getting worse and
      worse every day. At last I saw, through the tears in my eyes,
      that there was no hope of the villain at all, and one day when he
      had been cuffed until he grew so black in the face that one might
      have mistaken him for a little African, and no effect had been
      produced beyond that of making him wriggle himself into a fit, I
      could stand it no longer, but went down upon my knees forthwith,
      and, uplifting my voice, made prophecy of his ruin.

      The fact is that his precocity in vice was awful. At five months
      of age he used to get into such passions that he was unable to
      articulate. At six months, I caught him gnawing a pack of cards.
      At seven months he was in the constant habit of catching and
      kissing the female babies. At eight months he peremptorily
      refused to put his signature to the Temperance pledge. Thus he
      went on increasing in iniquity, month after month, until, at the
      close of the first year, he not only insisted upon wearing
      moustaches, but had contracted a propensity for cursing and
      swearing, and for backing his assertions by bets.

      Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I
      had predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. The fashion
      had “grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength,”
      so that, when he came to be a man, he could scarcely utter a
      sentence without interlarding it with a proposition to gamble.
      Not that he actually laid wagers—no. I will do my friend the
      justice to say that he would as soon have laid eggs. With him the
      thing was a mere formula—nothing more. His expressions on this
      head had no meaning attached to them whatever. They were simple
      if not altogether innocent expletives—imaginative phrases
      wherewith to round off a sentence. When he said “I’ll bet you so
      and so,” nobody ever thought of taking him up; but still I could
      not help thinking it my duty to put him down. The habit was an
      immoral one, and so I told him. It was a vulgar one—this I begged
      him to believe. It was discountenanced by society—here I said
      nothing but the truth. It was forbidden by act of Congress—here I
      had not the slightest intention of telling a lie. I
      remonstrated—but to no purpose. I demonstrated—in vain. I
      entreated—he smiled. I implored—he laughed. I preached—he
      sneered. I threatened—he swore. I kicked him—he called for the
      police. I pulled his nose—he blew it, and offered to bet the
      Devil his head that I would not venture to try that experiment
      again.

      Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency
      of Dammit’s mother had entailed upon her son. He was detestably
      poor, and this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive
      expressions about betting, seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will
      not be bound to say that I ever heard him make use of such a
      figure of speech as “I’ll bet you a dollar.” It was usually “I’ll
      bet you what you please,” or “I’ll bet you what you dare,” or
      “I’ll bet you a trifle,” or else, more significantly still, “I’ll
      bet the Devil my head.”

      This latter form seemed to please him best;—perhaps because it
      involved the least risk; for Dammit had become excessively
      parsimonious. Had any one taken him up, his head was small, and
      thus his loss would have been small too. But these are my own
      reflections and I am by no means sure that I am right in
      attributing them to him. At all events the phrase in question
      grew daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross impropriety of a
      man betting his brains like bank-notes:—but this was a point
      which my friend’s perversity of disposition would not permit him
      to comprehend. In the end, he abandoned all other forms of wager,
      and gave himself up to “I’ll bet the Devil my head,” with a
      pertinacity and exclusiveness of devotion that displeased not
      less than it surprised me. I am always displeased by
      circumstances for which I cannot account. Mysteries force a man
      to think, and so injure his health. The truth is, there was
      something in the air with which Mr. Dammit was wont to give
      utterance to his offensive expression—something in his manner of
      enunciation—which at first interested, and afterwards made me
      very uneasy—something which, for want of a more definite term at
      present, I must be permitted to call queer; but which Mr.
      Coleridge would have called mystical, Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr.
      Carlyle twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyperquizzitistical. I began
      not to like it at all. Mr. Dammits soul was in a perilous state.
      I resolved to bring all my eloquence into play to save it. I
      vowed to serve him as St. Patrick, in the Irish chronicle, is
      said to have served the toad,—that is to say, “awaken him to a
      sense of his situation.” I addressed myself to the task
      forthwith. Once more I betook myself to remonstrance. Again I
      collected my energies for a final attempt at expostulation.

      When I had made an end of my lecture, Mr. Dammit indulged himself
      in some very equivocal behavior. For some moments he remained
      silent, merely looking me inquisitively in the face. But
      presently he threw his head to one side, and elevated his
      eyebrows to a great extent. Then he spread out the palms of his
      hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he winked with the
      right eye. Then he repeated the operation with the left. Then he
      shut them both up very tight. Then he opened them both so very
      wide that I became seriously alarmed for the consequences. Then,
      applying his thumb to his nose, he thought proper to make an
      indescribable movement with the rest of his fingers. Finally,
      setting his arms a-kimbo, he condescended to reply.

      I can call to mind only the beads of his discourse. He would be
      obliged to me if I would hold my tongue. He wished none of my
      advice. He despised all my insinuations. He was old enough to
      take care of himself. Did I still think him baby Dammit? Did I
      mean to say any thing against his character? Did I intend to
      insult him? Was I a fool? Was my maternal parent aware, in a
      word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence? He would put
      this latter question to me as to a man of veracity, and he would
      bind himself to abide by my reply. Once more he would demand
      explicitly if my mother knew that I was out. My confusion, he
      said, betrayed me, and he would be willing to bet the Devil his
      head that she did not.

      Mr. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel,
      he left my presence with undignified precipitation. It was well
      for him that he did so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my
      anger had been aroused. For once I would have taken him up upon
      his insulting wager. I would have won for the Arch-Enemy Mr.
      Dammit’s little head—for the fact is, my mamma was very well
      aware of my merely temporary absence from home.

      But Khoda shefa midêhed—Heaven gives relief—as the Mussulmans say
      when you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance of my duty
      that I had been insulted, and I bore the insult like a man. It
      now seemed to me, however, that I had done all that could be
      required of me, in the case of this miserable individual, and I
      resolved to trouble him no longer with my counsel, but to leave
      him to his conscience and himself. But although I forebore to
      intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself to give up his
      society altogether. I even went so far as to humor some of his
      less reprehensible propensities; and there were times when I
      found myself lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard,
      with tears in my eyes:—so profoundly did it grieve me to hear his
      evil talk.

      One fine day, having strolled out together, arm in arm, our route
      led us in the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we
      resolved to cross it. It was roofed over, by way of protection
      from the weather, and the archway, having but few windows, was
      thus very uncomfortably dark. As we entered the passage, the
      contrast between the external glare and the interior gloom struck
      heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of the unhappy Dammit,
      who offered to bet the Devil his head that I was hipped. He
      seemed to be in an unusual good humor. He was excessively
      lively—so much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy
      suspicion. It is not impossible that he was affected with the
      transcendentals. I am not well enough versed, however, in the
      diagnosis of this disease to speak with decision upon the point;
      and unhappily there were none of my friends of the “Dial”
      present. I suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certain
      species of austere Merry-Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor
      friend, and caused him to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself.
      Nothing would serve him but wriggling and skipping about under
      and over every thing that came in his way; now shouting out, and
      now lisping out, all manner of odd little and big words, yet
      preserving the gravest face in the world all the time. I really
      could not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him. At
      length, having passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the
      termination of the footway, when our progress was impeded by a
      turnstile of some height. Through this I made my way quietly,
      pushing it around as usual. But this turn would not serve the
      turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted upon leaping the stile, and said
      he could cut a pigeon-wing over it in the air. Now this,
      conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The best
      pigeon-winger over all kinds of style was my friend Mr. Carlyle,
      and as I knew he could not do it, I would not believe that it
      could be done by Toby Dammit. I therefore told him, in so many
      words, that he was a braggadocio, and could not do what he said.
      For this I had reason to be sorry afterward;—for he straightway
      offered to bet the Devil his head that he could.

      I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions,
      with some remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close
      at my elbow, a slight cough, which sounded very much like the
      ejaculation “ahem!” I started, and looked about me in surprise.
      My glance at length fell into a nook of the frame—work of the
      bridge, and upon the figure of a little lame old gentleman of
      venerable aspect. Nothing could be more reverend than his whole
      appearance; for he not only had on a full suit of black, but his
      shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned very neatly down
      over a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a
      girl’s. His hands were clasped pensively together over his
      stomach, and his two eyes were carefully rolled up into the top
      of his head.

      Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black
      silk apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I
      thought very odd. Before I had time to make any remark, however,
      upon so singular a circumstance, he interrupted me with a second
      “ahem!”

      To this observation I was not immediately prepared to reply. The
      fact is, remarks of this laconic nature are nearly unanswerable.
      I have known a Quarterly Review non-plussed by the word “Fudge!”
      I am not ashamed to say, therefore, that I turned to Mr. Dammit
      for assistance.

      “Dammit,” said I, “what are you about? don’t you hear?—the
      gentleman says ‘ahem!’” I looked sternly at my friend while I
      thus addressed him; for, to say the truth, I felt particularly
      puzzled, and when a man is particularly puzzled he must knit his
      brows and look savage, or else he is pretty sure to look like a
      fool.

      “Dammit,” observed I—although this sounded very much like an
      oath, than which nothing was further from my thoughts—“Dammit,” I
      suggested—“the gentleman says ‘ahem!’”

      I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profundity;
      I did not think it profound myself; but I have noticed that the
      effect of our speeches is not always proportionate with their
      importance in our own eyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and
      through with a Paixhan bomb, or knocked him in the head with the
      “Poets and Poetry of America,” he could hardly have been more
      discomfited than when I addressed him with those simple words:
      “Dammit, what are you about?—don’t you hear?—the gentleman says
      ‘ahem!’”

      “You don’t say so?” gasped he at length, after turning more
      colors than a pirate runs up, one after the other, when chased by
      a man-of-war. “Are you quite sure he said that? Well, at all
      events I am in for it now, and may as well put a bold face upon
      the matter. Here goes, then—ahem!”

      At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased—God only knows
      why. He left his station at the nook of the bridge, limped
      forward with a gracious air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it
      cordially, looking all the while straight up in his face with an
      air of the most unadulterated benignity which it is possible for
      the mind of man to imagine.

      “I am quite sure you will win it, Dammit,” said he, with the
      frankest of all smiles, “but we are obliged to have a trial, you
      know, for the sake of mere form.”

      “Ahem!” replied my friend, taking off his coat, with a deep sigh,
      tying a pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an
      unaccountable alteration in his countenance by twisting up his
      eyes and bringing down the corners of his mouth—“ahem!” And
      “ahem!” said he again, after a pause; and not another word more
      than “ahem!” did I ever know him to say after that. “Aha!”
      thought I, without expressing myself aloud—“this is quite a
      remarkable silence on the part of Toby Dammit, and is no doubt a
      consequence of his verbosity upon a previous occasion. One
      extreme induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many
      unanswerable questions which he propounded to me so fluently on
      the day when I gave him my last lecture? At all events, he is
      cured of the transcendentals.”

      “Ahem!” here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my
      thoughts, and looking like a very old sheep in a revery.

      The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into
      the shade of the bridge—a few paces back from the turnstile. “My
      good fellow,” said he, “I make it a point of conscience to allow
      you this much run. Wait here, till I take my place by the stile,
      so that I may see whether you go over it handsomely, and
      transcendentally, and don’t omit any flourishes of the
      pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say ‘one, two, three,
      and away.’ Mind you, start at the word ‘away’” Here he took his
      position by the stile, paused a moment as if in profound
      reflection, then looked up and, I thought, smiled very slightly,
      then tightened the strings of his apron, then took a long look at
      Dammit, and finally gave the word as agreed upon-

            _One—two—three—and—away!_

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

      But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied
      only an instant. In less than five seconds from his starting, my
      poor Toby had taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring
      grandly from the floor of the bridge, cutting the most awful
      flourishes with his legs as he went up. I saw him high in the
      air, pigeon-winging it to admiration just over the top of the
      stile; and of course I thought it an unusually singular thing
      that he did not continue to go over. But the whole leap was the
      affair of a moment, and, before I had a chance to make any
      profound reflections, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his
      back, on the same side of the stile from which he had started. At
      the same instant I saw the old gentleman limping off at the top
      of his speed, having caught and wrapt up in his apron something
      that fell heavily into it from the darkness of the arch just over
      the turnstile. At all this I was much astonished; but I had no
      leisure to think, for Dammit lay particularly still, and I
      concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and that he stood in
      need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found that he had
      received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth is, he
      had been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could
      not find anywhere; so I determined to take him home and send for
      the homoeopathists. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I
      threw open an adjacent window of the bridge, when the sad truth
      flashed upon me at once. About five feet just above the top of
      the turnstile, and crossing the arch of the foot-path so as to
      constitute a brace, there extended a flat iron bar, lying with
      its breadth horizontally, and forming one of a series that served
      to strengthen the structure throughout its extent. With the edge
      of this brace it appeared evident that the neck of my unfortunate
      friend had come precisely in contact.

      He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homoeopathists did
      not give him little enough physic, and what little they did give
      him he hesitated to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at
      length died, a lesson to all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave
      with my tears, worked a bar sinister on his family escutcheon,
      and, for the general expenses of his funeral, sent in my very
      moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The scoundrels refused
      to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him for
      dog’s meat.




THOU ART THE MAN


      I will now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will
      expound to you—as I alone can—the secret of the enginery that
      effected the Rattleborough miracle—the one, the true, the
      admitted, the undisputed, the indisputable miracle, which put a
      definite end to infidelity among the Rattleburghers and converted
      to the orthodoxy of the grandames all the carnal-minded who had
      ventured to be sceptical before.

      This event—which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of
      unsuitable levity—occurred in the summer of 18—. Mr. Barnabas
      Shuttleworthy—one of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens
      of the borough—had been missing for several days under
      circumstances which gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr.
      Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattleborough very early one
      Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention of
      proceeding to the city of-, about fifteen miles distant, and of
      returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his
      departure, however, his horse returned without him, and without
      the saddle-bags which had been strapped on his back at starting.
      The animal was wounded, too, and covered with mud. These
      circumstances naturally gave rise to much alarm among the friends
      of the missing man; and when it was found, on Sunday morning,
      that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole borough arose
      en masse to go and look for his body.

      The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was
      the bosom friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy—a Mr. Charles Goodfellow,
      or, as he was universally called, “Charley Goodfellow,” or “Old
      Charley Goodfellow.” Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence,
      or whether it is that the name itself has an imperceptible effect
      upon the character, I have never yet been able to ascertain; but
      the fact is unquestionable, that there never yet was any person
      named Charles who was not an open, manly, honest, good-natured,
      and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did you
      good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always straight in
      the face, as much as to say: “I have a clear conscience myself,
      am afraid of no man, and am altogether above doing a mean
      action.” And thus all the hearty, careless, “walking gentlemen”
      of the stage are very certain to be called Charles.

      Now, “Old Charley Goodfellow,” although he had been in
      Rattleborough not longer than six months or thereabouts, and
      although nobody knew any thing about him before he came to settle
      in the neighborhood, had experienced no difficulty in the world
      in making the acquaintance of all the respectable people in the
      borough. Not a man of them but would have taken his bare word for
      a thousand at any moment; and as for the women, there is no
      saying what they would not have done to oblige him. And all this
      came of his having been christened Charles, and of his
      possessing, in consequence, that ingenuous face which is
      proverbially the very “best letter of recommendation.”

      I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most
      respectable and, undoubtedly, he was the most wealthy man in
      Rattleborough, while “Old Charley Goodfellow” was upon as
      intimate terms with him as if he had been his own brother. The
      two old gentlemen were next-door neighbours, and, although Mr.
      Shuttleworthy seldom, if ever, visited “Old Charley,” and never
      was known to take a meal in his house, still this did not prevent
      the two friends from being exceedingly intimate, as I have just
      observed; for “Old Charley” never let a day pass without stepping
      in three or four times to see how his neighbour came on, and very
      often he would stay to breakfast or tea, and almost always to
      dinner, and then the amount of wine that was made way with by the
      two cronies at a sitting, it would really be a difficult thing to
      ascertain. “Old Charleys” favorite beverage was Chateau-Margaux,
      and it appeared to do Mr. Shuttleworthy’s heart good to see the
      old fellow swallow it, as he did, quart after quart; so that, one
      day, when the wine was in and the wit as a natural consequence,
      somewhat out, he said to his crony, as he slapped him upon the
      back—“I tell you what it is, ‘Old Charley,’ you are, by all odds,
      the heartiest old fellow I ever came across in all my born days;
      and, since you love to guzzle the wine at that fashion, I’ll be
      darned if I don’t have to make thee a present of a big box of the
      Chateau-Margaux. Od rot me,”—(Mr. Shuttleworthy had a sad habit
      of swearing, although he seldom went beyond “Od rot me,” or “By
      gosh,” or “By the jolly golly,”)—“Od rot me,” says he, “if I
      don’t send an order to town this very afternoon for a double box
      of the best that can be got, and I’ll make ye a present of it, I
      will!—ye needn’t say a word now—I will, I tell ye, and there’s an
      end of it; so look out for it—it will come to hand some of these
      fine days, precisely when ye are looking for it the least!” I
      mention this little bit of liberality on the part of Mr.
      Shuttleworthy, just by way of showing you how very intimate an
      understanding existed between the two friends.

      Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to be
      fairly understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play,
      I never saw any one so profoundly affected as “Old Charley
      Goodfellow.” When he first heard that the horse had come home
      without his master, and without his master’s saddle-bags, and all
      bloody from a pistol-shot, that had gone clean through and
      through the poor animal’s chest without quite killing him; when
      he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the missing man had
      been his own dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all
      over as if he had had a fit of the ague.

      At first he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do
      any thing at all, or to concert upon any plan of action; so that
      for a long time he endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy’s
      other friends from making a stir about the matter, thinking it
      best to wait awhile—say for a week or two, or a month, or two—to
      see if something wouldn’t turn up, or if Mr. Shuttleworthy
      wouldn’t come in the natural way, and explain his reasons for
      sending his horse on before. I dare say you have often observed
      this disposition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who
      are labouring under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of
      mind seem to be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of
      any thing like action, and like nothing in the world so well as
      to lie quietly in bed and “nurse their grief,” as the old ladies
      express it—that is to say, ruminate over the trouble.

      The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an opinion of
      the wisdom and discretion of “Old Charley,” that the greater part
      of them felt disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in
      the business “until something should turn up,” as the honest old
      gentleman worded it; and I believe that, after all this would
      have been the general determination, but for the very suspicious
      interference of Mr. Shuttleworthy’s nephew, a young man of very
      dissipated habits, and otherwise of rather bad character. This
      nephew, whose name was Pennifeather, would listen to nothing like
      reason in the matter of “lying quiet,” but insisted upon making
      immediate search for the “corpse of the murdered man.”—This was
      the expression he employed; and Mr. Goodfellow acutely remarked
      at the time, that it was “a singular expression, to say no more.”
      This remark of ‘Old Charley’s,’ too, had great effect upon the
      crowd; and one of the party was heard to ask, very impressively,
      “how it happened that young Mr. Pennifeather was so intimately
      cognizant of all the circumstances connected with his wealthy
      uncle’s disappearance, as to feel authorized to assert,
      distinctly and unequivocally, that his uncle was ‘a murdered
      man.’” Hereupon some little squibbing and bickering occurred
      among various members of the crowd, and especially between “Old
      Charley” and Mr. Pennifeather—although this latter occurrence
      was, indeed, by no means a novelty, for no good will had
      subsisted between the parties for the last three or four months;
      and matters had even gone so far that Mr. Pennifeather had
      actually knocked down his uncles friend for some alleged excess
      of liberty that the latter had taken in the uncle’s house, of
      which the nephew was an inmate. Upon this occasion “Old Charley”
      is said to have behaved with exemplary moderation and Christian
      charity. He arose from the blow, adjusted his clothes, and made
      no attempt at retaliation at all—merely muttering a few words
      about “taking summary vengeance at the first convenient
      opportunity,”—a natural and very justifiable ebullition of anger,
      which meant nothing, however, and, beyond doubt, was no sooner
      given vent to than forgotten.

      However these matters may be (which have no reference to the
      point now at issue), it is quite certain that the people of
      Rattleborough, principally through the persuasion of Mr.
      Pennifeather, came at length to the determination of dispersion
      over the adjacent country in search of the missing Mr.
      Shuttleworthy. I say they came to this determination in the first
      instance. After it had been fully resolved that a search should
      be made, it was considered almost a matter of course that the
      seekers should disperse—that is to say, distribute themselves in
      parties—for the more thorough examination of the region round
      about. I forget, however, by what ingenious train of reasoning it
      was that “Old Charley” finally convinced the assembly that this
      was the most injudicious plan that could be pursued. Convince
      them, however, he did—all except Mr. Pennifeather, and, in the
      end, it was arranged that a search should be instituted,
      carefully and very thoroughly, by the burghers en masse, “Old
      Charley” himself leading the way.

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

      Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and
      it was observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspicions
      which were excited against him, that he grew exceedingly pale,
      and when asked what he had to say for himself, was utterly
      incapable of saying a word. Hereupon, the few friends his riotous
      mode of living had left him, deserted him at once to a man, and
      were even more clamorous than his ancient and avowed enemies for
      his instantaneous arrest. But, on the other hand, the magnanimity
      of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the more brilliant lustre
      through contrast. He made a warm and intensely eloquent defence
      of Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than once to his
      own sincere forgiveness of that wild young gentleman—“the heir of
      the worthy Mr. Shuttleworthy,”—for the insult which he (the young
      gentleman) had, no doubt in the heat of passion, thought proper
      to put upon him (Mr. Goodfellow). “He forgave him for it,” he
      said, “from the very bottom of his heart; and for himself (Mr.
      Goodfellow), so far from pushing the suspicious circumstances to
      extremity, which he was sorry to say, really had arisen against
      Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr. Goodfellow) would make every exertion
      in his power, would employ all the little eloquence in his
      possession to—to—to—soften down, as much as he could
      conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really
      exceedingly perplexing piece of business.”

      Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer in this strain,
      very much to the credit both of his head and of his heart; but
      your warm-hearted people are seldom apposite in their
      observations—they run into all sorts of blunders, contre-temps
      and mal apropos-isms, in the hot-headedness of their zeal to
      serve a friend—thus, often with the kindest intentions in the
      world, doing infinitely more to prejudice his cause than to
      advance it.

      So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the eloquence
      of “Old Charley”; for, although he laboured earnestly in behalf
      of the suspected, yet it so happened, somehow or other, that
      every syllable he uttered of which the direct but unwitting
      tendency was not to exalt the speaker in the good opinion of his
      audience, had the effect to deepen the suspicion already attached
      to the individual whose cause he pleaded, and to arouse against
      him the fury of the mob.

      One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator was
      his allusion to the suspected as “the heir of the worthy old
      gentleman Mr. Shuttleworthy.” The people had really never thought
      of this before. They had only remembered certain threats of
      disinheritance uttered a year or two previously by the uncle (who
      had no living relative except the nephew), and they had,
      therefore, always looked upon this disinheritance as a matter
      that was settled—so single-minded a race of beings were the
      Rattleburghers; but the remark of “Old Charley” brought them at
      once to a consideration of this point, and thus gave them to see
      the possibility of the threats having been nothing more than a
      threat. And straightway hereupon, arose the natural question of
      cui bono?—a question that tended even more than the waistcoat to
      fasten the terrible crime upon the young man. And here, lest I
      may be misunderstood, permit me to digress for one moment merely
      to observe that the exceedingly brief and simple Latin phrase
      which I have employed, is invariably mistranslated and
      misconceived. “Cui bono?” in all the crack novels and
      elsewhere,—in those of Mrs. Gore, for example, (the author of
      “Cecil,”) a lady who quotes all tongues from the Chaldaean to
      Chickasaw, and is helped to her learning, “as needed,” upon a
      systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford,—in all the crack novels, I say,
      from those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of Bulwer and Dickens
      to those of Turnapenny and Ainsworth, the two little Latin words
      cui bono are rendered “to what purpose?” or, (as if quo bono,)
      “to what good.” Their true meaning, nevertheless, is “for whose
      advantage.” Cui, to whom; bono, is it for a benefit. It is a
      purely legal phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we
      have now under consideration, where the probability of the doer
      of a deed hinges upon the probability of the benefit accruing to
      this individual or to that from the deed’s accomplishment. Now in
      the present instance, the question cui bono? very pointedly
      implicated Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had threatened him, after
      making a will in his favour, with disinheritance. But the threat
      had not been actually kept; the original will, it appeared, had
      not been altered. Had it been altered, the only supposable motive
      for murder on the part of the suspected would have been the
      ordinary one of revenge; and even this would have been
      counteracted by the hope of reinstation into the good graces of
      the uncle. But the will being unaltered, while the threat to
      alter remained suspended over the nephew’s head, there appears at
      once the very strongest possible inducement for the atrocity, and
      so concluded, very sagaciously, the worthy citizens of the
      borough of Rattle.

      Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and
      the crowd, after some further search, proceeded homeward, having
      him in custody. On the route, however, another circumstance
      occurred tending to confirm the suspicion entertained. Mr.
      Goodfellow, whose zeal led him to be always a little in advance
      of the party, was seen suddenly to run forward a few paces,
      stoop, and then apparently to pick up some small object from the
      grass. Having quickly examined it he was observed, too, to make a
      sort of half attempt at concealing it in his coat pocket; but
      this action was noticed, as I say, and consequently prevented,
      when the object picked up was found to be a Spanish knife which a
      dozen persons at once recognized as belonging to Mr.
      Pennifeather. Moreover, his initials were engraved upon the
      handle. The blade of this knife was open and bloody.

      No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and immediately
      upon reaching Rattleborough he was taken before a magistrate for
      examination.

      Here matters again took a most unfavourable turn. The prisoner,
      being questioned as to his whereabouts on the morning of Mr.
      Shuttleworthy’s disappearance, had absolutely the audacity to
      acknowledge that on that very morning he had been out with his
      rifle deer-stalking, in the immediate neighbourhood of the pool
      where the blood-stained waistcoat had been discovered through the
      sagacity of Mr. Goodfellow.

      This latter now came forward, and, with tears in his eyes, asked
      permission to be examined. He said that a stern sense of the duty
      he owed his Maker, not less than his fellow-men, would permit him
      no longer to remain silent. Hitherto, the sincerest affection for
      the young man (notwithstanding the latter’s ill-treatment of
      himself, Mr. Goodfellow) had induced him to make every hypothesis
      which imagination could suggest, by way of endeavoring to account
      for what appeared suspicious in the circumstances that told so
      seriously against Mr. Pennifeather, but these circumstances were
      now altogether too convincing—too damning, he would hesitate no
      longer—he would tell all he knew, although his heart (Mr.
      Goodfellow’s) should absolutely burst asunder in the effort. He
      then went on to state that, on the afternoon of the day previous
      to Mr. Shuttleworthy’s departure for the city, that worthy old
      gentleman had mentioned to his nephew, in his hearing (Mr.
      Goodfellow’s), that his object in going to town on the morrow was
      to make a deposit of an unusually large sum of money in the
      “Farmers and Mechanics’ Bank,” and that, then and there, the said
      Mr. Shuttleworthy had distinctly avowed to the said nephew his
      irrevocable determination of rescinding the will originally made,
      and of cutting him off with a shilling. He (the witness) now
      solemnly called upon the accused to state whether what he (the
      witness) had just stated was or was not the truth in every
      substantial particular. Much to the astonishment of every one
      present, Mr. Pennifeather frankly admitted that it was.

      The magistrate now considered it his duty to send a couple of
      constables to search the chamber of the accused in the house of
      his uncle. From this search they almost immediately returned with
      the well-known steel-bound, russet leather pocket-book which the
      old gentleman had been in the habit of carrying for years. Its
      valuable contents, however, had been abstracted, and the
      magistrate in vain endeavored to extort from the prisoner the use
      which had been made of them, or the place of their concealment.
      Indeed, he obstinately denied all knowledge of the matter. The
      constables, also, discovered, between the bed and sacking of the
      unhappy man, a shirt and neck-handkerchief both marked with the
      initials of his name, and both hideously besmeared with the blood
      of the victim.

      At this juncture, it was announced that the horse of the murdered
      man had just expired in the stable from the effects of the wound
      he had received, and it was proposed by Mr. Goodfellow that a
      post mortem examination of the beast should be immediately made,
      with the view, if possible, of discovering the ball. This was
      accordingly done; and, as if to demonstrate beyond a question the
      guilt of the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after considerable
      searching in the cavity of the chest was enabled to detect and to
      pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary size, which, upon
      trial, was found to be exactly adapted to the bore of Mr.
      Pennifeather’s rifle, while it was far too large for that of any
      other person in the borough or its vicinity. To render the matter
      even surer yet, however, this bullet was discovered to have a
      flaw or seam at right angles to the usual suture, and upon
      examination, this seam corresponded precisely with an accidental
      ridge or elevation in a pair of moulds acknowledged by the
      accused himself to be his own property. Upon finding of this
      bullet, the examining magistrate refused to listen to any farther
      testimony, and immediately committed the prisoner for
      trial-declining resolutely to take any bail in the case, although
      against this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly remonstrated,
      and offered to become surety in whatever amount might be
      required. This generosity on the part of “Old Charley” was only
      in accordance with the whole tenour of his amiable and chivalrous
      conduct during the entire period of his sojourn in the borough of
      Rattle. In the present instance the worthy man was so entirely
      carried away by the excessive warmth of his sympathy, that he
      seemed to have quite forgotten, when he offered to go bail for
      his young friend, that he himself (Mr. Goodfellow) did not
      possess a single dollar’s worth of property upon the face of the
      earth.

      The result of the committal may be readily foreseen. Mr.
      Pennifeather, amid the loud execrations of all Rattleborough, was
      brought to trial at the next criminal sessions, when the chain of
      circumstantial evidence (strengthened as it was by some
      additional damning facts, which Mr. Goodfellow’s sensitive
      conscientiousness forbade him to withhold from the court) was
      considered so unbroken and so thoroughly conclusive, that the
      jury, without leaving their seats, returned an immediate verdict
      of “Guilty of murder in the first degree.” Soon afterward the
      unhappy wretch received sentence of death, and was remanded to
      the county jail to await the inexorable vengeance of the law.

      In the meantime, the noble behavior of “Old Charley Goodfellow,”
      had doubly endeared him to the honest citizens of the borough. He
      became ten times a greater favorite than ever, and, as a natural
      result of the hospitality with which he was treated, he relaxed,
      as it were, perforce, the extremely parsimonious habits which his
      poverty had hitherto impelled him to observe, and very frequently
      had little reunions at his own house, when wit and jollity
      reigned supreme-dampened a little, of course, by the occasional
      remembrance of the untoward and melancholy fate which impended
      over the nephew of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous
      host.

      One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably
      surprised at the receipt of the following letter:-

 Charles Goodfellow, Esq., Rattleborough From H.F.B. & Co. Chat. Mar.
 A—No. 1.—6 doz. bottles (1/2 Gross)
 “Charles Goodfellow, Esquire.
 “Dear Sir—In conformity with an order transmitted to our firm about
 two months since, by our esteemed correspondent, Mr. Barnabus
 Shuttleworthy, we have the honor of forwarding this morning, to your
 address, a double box of Chateau-Margaux of the antelope brand, violet
 seal. Box numbered and marked as per margin.
 “We remain, sir, “Your most ob’nt ser’ts, “HOGGS, FROGS, BOGS, & CO.
 “City of—, June 21, 18—.
 “P.S.—The box will reach you by wagon, on the day after your receipt
 of this letter. Our respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy.
                  “H., F., B., & CO.”

      The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr.
      Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the
      promised Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore, looked upon it now
      as a sort of especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf.
      He was highly delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his
      joy invited a large party of friends to a petit souper on the
      morrow, for the purpose of broaching the good old Mr.
      Shuttleworthy’s present. Not that he said any thing about “the
      good old Mr. Shuttleworthy” when he issued the invitations. The
      fact is, he thought much and concluded to say nothing at all. He
      did not mention to any one—if I remember aright—that he had
      received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his
      friends to come and help him drink some, of a remarkable fine
      quality and rich flavour, that he had ordered up from the city a
      couple of months ago, and of which he would be in the receipt
      upon the morrow. I have often puzzled myself to imagine why it
      was that “Old Charley” came to the conclusion to say nothing
      about having received the wine from his old friend, but I could
      never precisely understand his reason for the silence, although
      he had some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no doubt.

      The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly
      respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow’s house. Indeed, half the
      borough was there,—I myself among the number,—but, much to the
      vexation of the host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a
      late hour, and when the sumptuous supper supplied by “Old
      Charley” had been done very ample justice by the guests. It came
      at length, however,—a monstrously big box of it there was,
      too—and as the whole party were in excessively good humor, it was
      decided, nem. con., that it should be lifted upon the table and
      its contents disembowelled forthwith.

      No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice
      we had the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles
      and glasses, not a few of which were demolished in the scuffle.
      “Old Charley,” who was pretty much intoxicated, and excessively
      red in the face, now took a seat, with an air of mock dignity, at
      the head of the board, and thumped furiously upon it with a
      decanter, calling upon the company to keep order “during the
      ceremony of disinterring the treasure.”

      After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and,
      as very often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable
      silence ensued. Being then requested to force open the lid, I
      complied, of course, “with an infinite deal of pleasure.” I
      inserted a chisel, and giving it a few slight taps with a hammer,
      the top of the box flew suddenly off, and at the same instant,
      there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing the
      host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse of the
      murdered Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a few seconds,
      fixedly and sorrowfully, with its decaying and lack-lustre eyes,
      full into the countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly, but
      clearly and impressively, the words—“Thou art the man!” and then,
      falling over the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied,
      stretched out its limbs quiveringly upon the table.

      The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush
      for the doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most
      robust men in the room fainted outright through sheer horror. But
      after the first wild, shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were
      directed to Mr. Goodfellow. If I live a thousand years, I can
      never forget the more than mortal agony which was depicted in
      that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with triumph and
      wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue of marble;
      his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to be
      turned inward and absorbed in the contemplation of his own
      miserable, murderous soul. At length their expression appeared to
      flash suddenly out into the external world, when, with a quick
      leap, he sprang from his chair, and falling heavily with his head
      and shoulders upon the table, and in contact with the corpse,
      poured out rapidly and vehemently a detailed confession of the
      hideous crime for which Mr. Pennifeather was then imprisoned and
      doomed to die.

      What he recounted was in substance this:—He followed his victim
      to the vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol;
      despatched its rider with the butt end; possessed himself of the
      pocket-book, and, supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great
      labour to the brambles by the pond. Upon his own beast he slung
      the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and thus bore it to a secure
      place of concealment a long distance off through the woods.

      The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet, had been
      placed by himself where found, with the view of avenging himself
      upon Mr. Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the
      stained handkerchief and shirt.

      Towards the end of the blood-churning recital the words of the
      guilty wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was
      finally exhausted, he arose, staggered backward from the table,
      and fell-dead.

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

      In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the
      corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in
      quarters as divergent as possible from those to which Mr.
      Goodfellow conducted his party. The result was that, after some
      days, I came across an old dry well, the mouth of which was
      nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the bottom, I discovered
      what I sought.

      Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the
      two cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host
      into the promise of a box of Chateaux-Margaux. Upon this hint I
      acted. I procured a stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the
      throat of the corpse, and deposited the latter in an old wine
      box-taking care so to double the body up as to double the
      whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press forcibly upon
      the lid to keep it down while I secured it with nails; and I
      anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were
      removed, the top would fly off and the body up.

      Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed
      it as already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the
      wine merchants with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave
      instructions to my servant to wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow’s
      door, in a barrow, at a given signal from myself. For the words
      which I intended the corpse to speak, I confidently depended upon
      my ventriloquial abilities; for their effect, I counted upon the
      conscience of the murderous wretch.

      I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather
      was released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle,
      profited by the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf,
      and led happily ever afterward a new life.




WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING


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

      The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very
      first day that I com’d from Connaught, and showd my swate little
      silf in the strait to the widdy, who was looking through the
      windy, it was a gone case althegither with the heart o’ the purty
      Misthress Tracle. I percaved it, ye see, all at once, and no
      mistake, and that’s God’s truth. First of all it was up wid the
      windy in a jiffy, and thin she threw open her two peepers to the
      itmost, and thin it was a little gould spy-glass that she clapped
      tight to one o’ them and divil may burn me if it didn’t spake to
      me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it, through the
      spy-glass: “Och! the tip o’ the mornin’ to ye, Sir Pathrick
      O’Grandison, Barronitt, mavourneen; and it’s a nate gintleman
      that ye are, sure enough, and it’s mesilf and me forten jist
      that’ll be at yur sarvice, dear, inny time o’ day at all at all
      for the asking.” And it’s not mesilf ye wud have to be bate in
      the purliteness; so I made her a bow that wud ha’ broken yur
      heart altegither to behould, and thin I pulled aff me hat with a
      flourish, and thin I winked at her hard wid both eyes, as much as
      to say, “True for you, yer a swate little crature, Mrs. Tracle,
      me darlint, and I wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog, if it’s
      not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, that’ll make a
      houl bushel o’ love to yur leddyship, in the twinkling o’ the eye
      of a Londonderry purraty.”

      And it was the nixt mornin’, sure, jist as I was making up me
      mind whither it wouldn’t be the purlite thing to sind a bit o’
      writin’ to the widdy by way of a love-litter, when up com’d the
      delivery servant wid an illigant card, and he tould me that the
      name on it (for I niver could rade the copperplate printin on
      account of being lift handed) was all about Mounseer, the Count,
      A Goose, Look—aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and that the houl of the
      divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the little ould
      furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.

      And jist wid that in cum’d the little willian himself, and then
      he made me a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken
      the liberty of doing me the honor of the giving me a call, and
      thin he went on to palaver at a great rate, and divil the bit did
      I comprehind what he wud be afther the tilling me at all at all,
      excipting and saving that he said “pully wou, woolly wou,” and
      tould me, among a bushel o’ lies, bad luck to him, that he was
      mad for the love o’ my widdy Misthress Tracle, and that my widdy
      Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him.

      At the hearin’ of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a
      grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick
      O’Grandison, Barronitt, and that it wasn’t althegither gentaal to
      lit the anger git the upper hand o’ the purliteness, so I made
      light o’ the matter and kipt dark, and got quite sociable wid the
      little chap, and afther a while what did he do but ask me to go
      wid him to the widdy’s, saying he wud give me the feshionable
      inthroduction to her leddyship.

      “Is it there ye are?” said I thin to mesilf, “and it’s thrue for
      you, Pathrick, that ye’re the fortunittest mortal in life. We’ll
      soon see now whither it’s your swate silf, or whither it’s little
      Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns, that Misthress Tracle is head and ears
      in the love wid.”

      Wid that we wint aff to the widdy’s, next door, and ye may well
      say it was an illigant place; so it was. There was a carpet all
      over the floor, and in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a
      Jew’s harp and the divil knows what ilse, and in another corner
      was a sofy, the beautifullest thing in all natur, and sitting on
      the sofy, sure enough, there was the swate little angel,
      Misthress Tracle.

      “The tip o’ the mornin’ to ye,” says I, “Mrs. Tracle,” and thin I
      made sich an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither
      bewildered the brain o’ ye.

      “Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud,” says the little
      furrenner Frinchman, “and sure Mrs. Tracle,” says he, that he
      did, “isn’t this gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick
      O’Grandison, Barronitt, and isn’t he althegither and entirely the
      most particular frind and acquaintance that I have in the houl
      world?”

      And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the
      swatest curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits like
      an angel; and thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen
      Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns that plumped his silf right down by the
      right side of her. Och hon! I ixpicted the two eyes o’ me wud ha
      cum’d out of my head on the spot, I was so dispirate mad!
      Howiver, “Bait who!” says I, after awhile. “Is it there ye are,
      Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns?” and so down I plumped on the lift side
      of her leddyship, to be aven with the willain. Botheration! it
      wud ha done your heart good to percave the illigant double wink
      that I gived her jist thin right in the face with both eyes.

      But the little ould Frinchman he niver beginned to suspict me at
      all at all, and disperate hard it was he made the love to her
      leddyship. “Woully wou,” says he, “Pully wou,” says he, “Plump in
      the mud,” says he.

      “That’s all to no use, Mounseer Frog, mavourneen,” thinks I; and
      I talked as hard and as fast as I could all the while, and throth
      it was mesilf jist that divarted her leddyship complately and
      intirely, by rason of the illigant conversation that I kipt up
      wid her all about the dear bogs of Connaught. And by and by she
      gived me such a swate smile, from one ind of her mouth to the
      ither, that it made me as bould as a pig, and I jist took hould
      of the ind of her little finger in the most dillikitest manner in
      natur, looking at her all the while out o’ the whites of my eyes.

      And then ounly percave the cuteness of the swate angel, for no
      sooner did she obsarve that I was afther the squazing of her
      flipper, than she up wid it in a jiffy, and put it away behind
      her back, jist as much as to say, “Now thin, Sir Pathrick
      O’Grandison, there’s a bitther chance for ye, mavourneen, for
      it’s not altogether the gentaal thing to be afther the squazing
      of my flipper right full in the sight of that little furrenner
      Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns.”

      Wid that I giv’d her a big wink jist to say, “lit Sir Pathrick
      alone for the likes o’ them thricks,” and thin I wint aisy to
      work, and you’d have died wid the divarsion to behould how
      cliverly I slipped my right arm betwane the back o’ the sofy, and
      the back of her leddyship, and there, sure enough, I found a
      swate little flipper all a waiting to say, “the tip o’ the
      mornin’ to ye, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt.” And wasn’t
      it mesilf, sure, that jist giv’d it the laste little bit of a
      squaze in the world, all in the way of a commincement, and not to
      be too rough wid her leddyship? and och, botheration, wasn’t it
      the gentaalest and dilikittest of all the little squazes that I
      got in return? “Blood and thunder, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen,”
      thinks I to mesilf, “fait it’s jist the mother’s son of you, and
      nobody else at all at all, that’s the handsomest and the
      fortunittest young bog-throtter that ever cum’d out of
      Connaught!” And with that I givd the flipper a big squaze, and a
      big squaze it was, by the powers, that her leddyship giv’d to me
      back. But it would ha split the seven sides of you wid the
      laffin’ to behould, jist then all at once, the consated behavior
      of Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns. The likes o’ sich a jabbering, and a
      smirking, and a parley-wouing as he begin’d wid her leddyship,
      niver was known before upon arth; and divil may burn me if it
      wasn’t me own very two peepers that cotch’d him tipping her the
      wink out of one eye. Och, hon! if it wasn’t mesilf thin that was
      mad as a Kilkenny cat I shud like to be tould who it was!

      “Let me infarm you, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns,” said I, as purlite
      as iver ye seed, “that it’s not the gintaal thing at all at all,
      and not for the likes o’ you inny how, to be afther the oggling
      and a goggling at her leddyship in that fashion,” and jist wid
      that such another squaze as it was I giv’d her flipper, all as
      much as to say, “isn’t it Sir Pathrick now, my jewel, that’ll be
      able to the proticting o’ you, my darlint?” and then there cum’d
      another squaze back, all by way of the answer. “Thrue for you,
      Sir Pathrick,” it said as plain as iver a squaze said in the
      world, “Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen, and it’s a
      proper nate gintleman ye are—that’s God’s truth,” and with that
      she opened her two beautiful peepers till I belaved they wud ha’
      cum’d out of her hid althegither and intirely, and she looked
      first as mad as a cat at Mounseer Frog, and thin as smiling as
      all out o’ doors at mesilf.

      “Thin,” says he, the willian, “Och hon! and a wolly-wou,
      pully-wou,” and then wid that he shoved up his two shoulders till
      the divil the bit of his hid was to be diskivered, and then he
      let down the two corners of his purraty-trap, and thin not a
      haporth more of the satisfaction could I git out o’ the spalpeen.

      Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir Pathrick that was unreasonable
      mad thin, and the more by token that the Frinchman kipt an wid
      his winking at the widdy; and the widdy she kept an wid the
      squazing of my flipper, as much as to say, “At him again, Sir
      Pathrick O’Grandison, mavourneen:” so I just ripped out wid a big
      oath, and says I;

      “Ye little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of a bloody
      noun!”—and jist thin what d’ye think it was that her leddyship
      did? Troth she jumped up from the sofy as if she was bit, and
      made off through the door, while I turned my head round afther
      her, in a complate bewilderment and botheration, and followed her
      wid me two peepers. You percave I had a reason of my own for
      knowing that she couldn’t git down the stares althegither and
      intirely; for I knew very well that I had hould of her hand, for
      the divil the bit had I iver lit it go. And says I; “Isn’t it the
      laste little bit of a mistake in the world that ye’ve been afther
      the making, yer leddyship? Come back now, that’s a darlint, and
      I’ll give ye yur flipper.” But aff she wint down the stairs like
      a shot, and thin I turned round to the little Frinch furrenner.
      Och hon! if it wasn’t his spalpeeny little paw that I had hould
      of in my own—why thin—thin it wasn’t—that’s all.

      And maybe it wasn’t mesilf that jist died then outright wid the
      laffin’, to behold the little chap when he found out that it
      wasn’t the widdy at all at all that he had had hould of all the
      time, but only Sir Pathrick O’Grandison. The ould divil himself
      niver behild sich a long face as he pet an! As for Sir Pathrick
      O’Grandison, Barronitt, it wasn’t for the likes of his riverence
      to be afther the minding of a thrifle of a mistake. Ye may jist
      say, though (for it’s God’s thruth), that afore I left hould of
      the flipper of the spalpeen (which was not till afther her
      leddyship’s futman had kicked us both down the stairs), I giv’d
      it such a nate little broth of a squaze as made it all up into
      raspberry jam.

      “Woully wou,” says he, “pully wou,” says he—“Cot tam!”

      And that’s jist the thruth of the rason why he wears his lift
      hand in a sling.

      BON-BON.

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

      THAT Pierre Bon-Bon was a _restaurateur_ of uncommon
      qualifications, no man who, during the reign of——, frequented the
      little Câfé in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I
      imagine, feel himself at liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon
      was, in an equal degree, skilled in the philosophy of that period
      is, I presume, still more especially undeniable. His _patés à la
      fois_ were beyond doubt immaculate; but what pen can do justice
      to his essays _sur la Nature_—his thoughts sur _l’Ame_—his
      observations _sur l’Esprit?_ If his _omelettes_—if his
      _fricandeaux_ were inestimable, what _littérateur_ of that day
      would not have given twice as much for an “_Idée de Bon-Bon_” as
      for all the trash of “_Idées_” of all the rest of the _savants?_
      Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had
      ransacked—had more than any other would have entertained a notion
      of reading—had understood more than any other would have
      conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while
      he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to
      assert “that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the
      Academy, nor the depth of the Lyceum”—although, mark me, his
      doctrines were by no means very generally comprehended, still it
      did not follow that they were difficult of comprehension. It was,
      I think, on account of their self-evidency that many persons were
      led to consider them abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon—but let this go
      no farther—it is to Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted
      for his metaphysics. The former was indeed not a Platonist, nor
      strictly speaking an Aristotelian—nor did he, like the modern
      Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be employed in
      the invention of a _fricasée_ or, _facili gradu_, the analysis of
      a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate
      oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was
      Ionic—Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned _à priori_—He
      reasoned also _à posteriori_. His ideas were innate—or otherwise.
      He believed in George of Trebizonde—He believed in Bossarion
      [Bessarion]. Bon-Bon was emphatically a—Bon-Bonist.

      I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of
      _restaurateur_. I would not, however, have any friend of mine
      imagine that, in fulfilling his hereditary duties in that line,
      our hero wanted a proper estimation of their dignity and
      importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in which branch
      of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion the
      powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the
      capabilities of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he
      greatly disagreed with the Chinese, who held that the soul lies
      in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events were right, he thought,
      who employed the same words for the mind and the diaphragm. (*1)
      By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or
      indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the
      metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings—and what great
      man has not a thousand?—if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his
      failings, they were failings of very little importance—faults
      indeed which, in other tempers, have often been looked upon
      rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these foibles,
      I should not even have mentioned it in this history but for the
      remarkable prominency—the extreme _alto relievo_—in which it
      jutted out from the plane of his general disposition. He could
      never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

     {*1} MD

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

      At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so
      peculiar as the one I have just mentioned, should elicit
      attention and remark. At the epoch of our narrative, had this
      peculiarity not attracted observation, there would have been room
      for wonder indeed. It was soon reported that, upon all occasions
      of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was wont to differ widely from
      the downright grin with which he would laugh at his own jokes, or
      welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of an exciting
      nature; stories were told of perilous bargains made in a hurry
      and repented of at leisure; and instances were adduced of
      unaccountable capacities, vague longings, and unnatural
      inclinations implanted by the author of all evil for wise
      purposes of his own.

      The philosopher had other weaknesses—but they are scarcely worthy
      our serious examination. For example, there are few men of
      extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclination
      for the bottle. Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or
      rather a valid proof of such profundity, it is a nice thing to
      say. Bon-Bon, as far as I can learn, did not think the subject
      adapted to minute investigation;—nor do I. Yet in the indulgence
      of a propensity so truly classical, it is not to be supposed that
      the restaurateur would lose sight of that intuitive
      discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the
      same time, his essais and his omelettes. In his seclusions the
      Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and there were
      appropriate moments for the Cotes du Rhone. With him Sauterne was
      to Medoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would sport with a
      syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel an argument over Clos
      de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well
      had it been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him
      in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded—but
      this was by no means the case. Indeed to say the truth, that
      trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to
      assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and
      appeared deeply tinctured with the diablerie of his favorite
      German studies.

      To enter the little Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was, at the
      period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius.
      Bon-Bon was a man of genius. There was not a sous-cusinier in
      Rouen, who could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of
      genius. His very cat knew it, and forebore to whisk her tail in
      the presence of the man of genius. His large water-dog was
      acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach of his master,
      betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of deportment, a
      debasement of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw not
      altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of
      this habitual respect might have been attributed to the personal
      appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior will, I
      am constrained to say, have its way even with a beast; and I am
      willing to allow much in the outward man of the restaurateur
      calculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped. There is
      a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little great—if I
      may be permitted so equivocal an expression—which mere physical
      bulk alone will be found at all times inefficient in creating.
      If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his
      head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold
      the rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence
      nearly bordering upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men
      must have seen a type of his acquirements—in its immensity a
      fitting habitation for his immortal soul.

      I might here—if it so pleased me—dilate upon the matter of
      habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external
      metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn
      short, combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a
      conical-shaped white flannel cap and tassels—that his pea-green
      jerkin was not after the fashion of those worn by the common
      class of restaurateurs at that day—that the sleeves were
      something fuller than the reigning costume permitted—that the
      cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with
      cloth of the same quality and color as the garment, but faced in
      a more fanciful manner with the particolored velvet of Genoa—that
      his slippers were of a bright purple, curiously filigreed, and
      might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the exquisite
      pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding and
      embroidery—that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like
      material called aimable—that his sky-blue cloak, resembling in
      form a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with
      crimson devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like a
      mist of the morning—and that his tout ensemble gave rise to the
      remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence,
      “that it was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a
      bird of Paradise, or rather a very Paradise of perfection.” I
      might, I say, expatiate upon all these points if I pleased,—but I
      forbear, merely personal details may be left to historical
      novelists,—they are beneath the moral dignity of matter-of-fact.

      I have said that “to enter the Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre
      was to enter the sanctum of a man of genius”—but then it was only
      the man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the
      sanctum. A sign, consisting of a vast folio, swung before the
      entrance. On one side of the volume was painted a bottle; on the
      reverse a pate. On the back were visible in large letters Oeuvres
      de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately shadowed forth the two-fold
      occupation of the proprietor.

      Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the
      building presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of
      antique construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded
      by the Cafe. In a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the
      metaphysician. An army of curtains, together with a canopy a la
      Grecque, gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In the
      corner diagonary opposite, appeared, in direct family communion,
      the properties of the kitchen and the bibliotheque. A dish of
      polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an ovenful
      of the latest ethics—there a kettle of dudecimo melanges. Volumes
      of German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron—a
      toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of Eusebius—Plato
      reclined at his ease in the frying-pan—and contemporary
      manuscripts were filed away upon the spit.

      In other respects the Cafe de Bon-Bon might be said to differ
      little from the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace
      yawned opposite the door. On the right of the fireplace an open
      cupboard displayed a formidable array of labelled bottles.

      It was here, about twelve o’clock one night during the severe
      winter the comments of his neighbours upon his singular
      propensity—that Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out
      of his house, locked the door upon them with an oath, and betook
      himself in no very pacific mood to the comforts of a
      leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of blazing fagots.

      It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once
      or twice during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house
      tottered to its centre with the floods of wind that, rushing
      through the crannies in the wall, and pouring impetuously down
      the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of the philosopher’s bed,
      and disorganized the economy of his pate-pans and papers. The
      huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of the
      tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its
      stanchions of solid oak.

      It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up
      his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many
      circumstances of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day,
      to disturb the serenity of his meditations. In attempting des
      oeufs a la Princesse, he had unfortunately perpetrated an
      omelette a la Reine; the discovery of a principle in ethics had
      been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and last, not
      least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains
      which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing to a
      successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these
      unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some
      degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous
      night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his more
      immediate vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of
      before, and settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not
      help casting a wary and unquiet eye toward those distant recesses
      of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red
      firelight itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming.
      Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps
      unintelligible to himself, he drew close to his seat a small
      table covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in
      the task of retouching a voluminous manuscript, intended for
      publication on the morrow.

      He had been thus occupied for some minutes when “I am in no
      hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon,” suddenly whispered a whining voice in
      the apartment.

      “The devil!” ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet,
      overturning the table at his side, and staring around him in
      astonishment.

      “Very true,” calmly replied the voice.

      “Very true!—what is very true?—how came you here?” vociferated
      the metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay
      stretched at full length upon the bed.

      “I was saying,” said the intruder, without attending to the
      interrogatives,—“I was saying that I am not at all pushed for
      time—that the business upon which I took the liberty of calling,
      is of no pressing importance—in short, that I can very well wait
      until you have finished your Exposition.”

      “My Exposition!—there now!—how do you know?—how came you to
      understand that I was writing an Exposition?—good God!”

      “Hush!” replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising
      quickly from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero,
      while an iron lamp that depended over-head swung convulsively
      back from his approach.

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

      There would however be a radical error in attributing this
      instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher, to any
      one of those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had
      an influence. Indeed, Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able
      to understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely
      to be imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It
      was impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things
      should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real
      character of the personage who had thus intruded upon his
      hospitality. To say no more, the conformation of his visiter’s
      feet was sufficiently remarkable—he maintained lightly upon his
      head an inordinately tall hat—there was a tremulous swelling
      about the hinder part of his breeches—and the vibration of his
      coat tail was a palpable fact. Judge, then, with what feelings of
      satisfaction our hero found himself thrown thus at once into the
      society of a person for whom he had at all times entertained the
      most unqualified respect. He was, however, too much of the
      diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions in
      regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear
      at all conscious of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed;
      but, by leading his guest into the conversation, to elicit some
      important ethical ideas, which might, in obtaining a place in his
      contemplated publication, enlighten the human race, and at the
      same time immortalize himself—ideas which, I should have added,
      his visitor’s great age, and well-known proficiency in the
      science of morals, might very well have enabled him to afford.

      Actuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman
      sit down, while he himself took occasion to throw some fagots
      upon the fire, and place upon the now re-established table some
      bottles of Mousseux. Having quickly completed these operations,
      he drew his chair vis-a-vis to his companion’s, and waited until
      the latter should open the conversation. But plans even the most
      skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of their
      application—and the restaurateur found himself nonplussed by the
      very first words of his visiter’s speech.

      “I see you know me, Bon-Bon,” said he; “ha! ha! ha!—he! he!
      he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!”—and the devil, dropping
      at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest
      extent a mouth from ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged
      and fang-like teeth, and, throwing back his head, laughed long,
      loudly, wickedly, and uproariously, while the black dog,
      crouching down upon his haunches, joined lustily in the chorus,
      and the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent, stood up on end, and
      shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.

      Not so the philosopher; he was too much a man of the world either
      to laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous
      trepidation of the cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little
      astonishment to see the white letters which formed the words
      “Rituel Catholique” on the book in his guest’s pocket, momently
      changing both their color and their import, and in a few seconds,
      in place of the original title the words Regitre des Condamnes
      blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance,
      when Bon-Bon replied to his visiter’s remark, imparted to his
      manner an air of embarrassment which probably might, not
      otherwise have been observed.

      “Why sir,” said the philosopher, “why sir, to speak sincerely—I I
      imagine—I have some faint—some very faint idea—of the remarkable
      honor-”

      “Oh!—ah!—yes!—very well!” interrupted his Majesty; “say no more—I
      see how it is.” And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he
      wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and
      deposited them in his pocket.

      If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his
      amazement was now much increased by the spectacle which here
      presented itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a strong
      feeling of curiosity to ascertain the color of his guest’s, he
      found them by no means black, as he had anticipated—nor gray, as
      might have been imagined—nor yet hazel nor blue—nor indeed yellow
      nor red—nor purple—nor white—nor green—nor any other color in the
      heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under
      the earth. In short, Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his
      Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications
      of their having existed at any previous period—for the space
      where eyes should naturally have been was, I am constrained to
      say, simply a dead level of flesh.

      It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making
      some inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and the
      reply of his Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and
      satisfactory.

      “Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon—eyes! did you say?—oh!—ah!—I perceive! The
      ridiculous prints, eh, which are in, circulation, have given you
      a false idea of my personal appearance? Eyes!—true. Eyes, Pierre
      Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place—that, you would say,
      is the head?—right—the head of a worm. To you, likewise, these
      optics are indispensable—yet I will convince you that my vision
      is more penetrating than your own. There is a cat I see in the
      corner—a pretty cat—look at her—observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon,
      do you behold the thoughts—the thoughts, I say,—the ideas—the
      reflections—which are being engendered in her pericranium? There
      it is, now—you do not! She is thinking we admire the length of
      her tail and the profundity of her mind. She has just concluded
      that I am the most distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you
      are the most superficial of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not
      altogether blind; but to one of my profession, the eyes you speak
      of would be merely an incumbrance, liable at any time to be put
      out by a toasting-iron, or a pitchfork. To you, I allow, these
      optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use them
      well;—my vision is the soul.”

      Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and
      pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it
      without scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.

      “A clever book that of yours, Pierre,” resumed his Majesty,
      tapping our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put
      down his glass after a thorough compliance with his visiter’s
      injunction. “A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. It’s a
      work after my own heart. Your arrangement of the matter, I think,
      however, might be improved, and many of your notions remind me of
      Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my most intimate
      acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill temper,
      as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one
      solid truth in all that he has written, and for that I gave him
      the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity. I suppose,
      Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral truth I
      am alluding?”

      “Cannot say that I—”

      “Indeed!—why it was I who told Aristotle that by sneezing, men
      expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis.”

      “Which is—hiccup!—undoubtedly the case,” said the metaphysician,
      while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and
      offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.

      “There was Plato, too,” continued his Majesty, modestly declining
      the snuff-box and the compliment it implied—“there was Plato,
      too, for whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend.
      You knew Plato, Bon-Bon?—ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met
      me at Athens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was
      distressed for an idea. I bade him write, down that o nous estin
      aulos. He said that he would do so, and went home, while I
      stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience smote me for
      having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening back
      to Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher’s chair as he was
      inditing the ‘aulos.’”

      “Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside
      down. So the sentence now read ‘o nous estin augos’, and is, you
      perceive, the fundamental doctrines in his metaphysics.”

      “Were you ever at Rome?” asked the restaurateur, as he finished
      his second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger
      supply of Chambertin.

      “But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time,” said
      the devil, as if reciting some passage from a book—“there was a
      time when occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the
      republic, bereft of all its officers, had no magistracy besides
      the tribunes of the people, and these were not legally vested
      with any degree of executive power—at that time, Monsieur
      Bon-Bon—at that time only I was in Rome, and I have no earthly
      acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy.” (*2)

     {*2} Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (_Cicero, Lucretius,
     Seneca_) mais c’etait la Philosophie Grecque.—_Condorcet_.

      “What do you think of—what do you think of—hiccup!—Epicurus?”

      “What do I think of whom?” said the devil, in astonishment, “you
      cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I
      think of Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir?—I am Epicurus! I am the
      same philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises
      commemorated by Diogenes Laertes.”

      “That’s a lie!” said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a
      little into his head.

      “Very well!—very well, sir!—very well, indeed, sir!” said his
      Majesty, apparently much flattered.

      “That’s a lie!” repeated the restaurateur, dogmatically; “that’s
      a—hiccup!—a lie!”

      “Well, well, have it your own way!” said the devil, pacifically,
      and Bon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at argument, thought it
      his duty to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.

      “As I was saying,” resumed the visiter—“as I was observing a
      little while ago, there are some very outre notions in that book
      of yours Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all
      that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?”

      “The—hiccup!—soul,” replied the metaphysician, referring to his
      MS., “is undoubtedly-”

      “No, sir!”

      “Indubitably-”

      “No, sir!”

      “Indisputably-”

      “No, sir!”

      “Evidently-”

      “No, sir!”

      “Incontrovertibly-”

      “No, sir!”

      “Hiccup!—”

      “No, sir!”

      “And beyond all question, a-”

      “No sir, the soul is no such thing!” (Here the philosopher,
      looking daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of
      his third bottle of Chambertin.)

      “Then—hic-cup!—pray, sir—what—what is it?”

      “That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon,” replied his
      Majesty, musingly. “I have tasted—that is to say, I have known
      some very bad souls, and some too—pretty good ones.” Here he
      smacked his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand
      upon the volume in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of
      sneezing.

      He continued.

      “There was the soul of Cratinus—passable: Aristophanes—racy:
      Plato—exquisite—not your Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your
      Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus—faugh! Then let
      me see! there were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and
      Terentius. Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and
      Quintus Flaccus,—dear Quinty! as I called him when he sung a
      seculare for my amusement, while I toasted him, in pure good
      humor, on a fork. But they want flavor, these Romans. One fat
      Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep, which
      cannot be said of a Quirite.—Let us taste your Sauterne.”

      Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to nil admirari and
      endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however,
      conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a
      tail. Of this, although extremely indecent in his Majesty, the
      philosopher took no notice:—simply kicking the dog, and
      requesting him to be quiet. The visiter continued:

      “I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle;—you know I
      am fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from
      Menander. Naso, to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise.
      Virgilius had a strong twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much
      in mind of Archilochus—and Titus Livius was positively Polybius
      and none other.”

      “Hic-cup!” here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded:

      “But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon—if I have a penchant,
      it is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not
      every dev—I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to
      choose a philosopher. Long ones are not good; and the best, if
      not carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account
      of the gall!”

      “Shelled!”

      “I mean taken out of the carcass.”

      “What do you think of a—hic-cup!—physician?”

      “Don’t mention them!—ugh! ugh! ugh!” (Here his Majesty retched
      violently.) “I never tasted but one—that rascal
      Hippocrates!—smelt of asafoetida—ugh! ugh! ugh!—caught a wretched
      cold washing him in the Styx—and after all he gave me the cholera
      morbus.”

      “The—hiccup—wretch!” ejaculated Bon-Bon, “the—hic-cup!—absorption
      of a pill-box!”—and the philosopher dropped a tear.

      “After all,” continued the visiter, “after all, if a dev—if a
      gentleman wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or
      two; and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.”

      “How so?”

      “Why, we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You
      must know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently
      impossible to keep a spirit alive for more than two or three
      hours; and after death, unless pickled immediately (and a pickled
      spirit is not good), they will—smell—you understand, eh?
      Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls are
      consigned to us in the usual way.”

      “Hiccup!—hiccup!—good God! how do you manage?”

      Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence,
      and the devil half started from his seat;—however, with a slight
      sigh, he recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a
      low tone: “I tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more
      swearing.”

      The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough
      comprehension and acquiescence, and the visiter continued.

      “Why, there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve:
      some put up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits
      vivente corpore, in which case I find they keep very well.”

      “But the body!—hiccup!—the body!”

      “The body, the body—well, what of the body?—oh! ah! I perceive.
      Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I
      have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the
      parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and
      Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus,
      and—and a thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a
      soul during the latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men
      adorned society. Why possession of his faculties, mental and
      corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily?
      Who—but stay! I have his agreement in my pocket-book.”

      Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a
      number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of
      the letters Machi—Maza—Robesp—with the words Caligula, George,
      Elizabeth. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and
      from it read aloud the following words:

      “In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is
      unnecessary to specify, and in further consideration of one
      thousand louis d’or, I being aged one year and one month, do
      hereby make over to the bearer of this agreement all my right,
      title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my soul. (Signed)
      A....” {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did not
      feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)

      {*4} Quere-Arouet?

      “A clever fellow that,” resumed he; “but like you, Monsieur
      Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow,
      truly! The soul a shadow; Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hu! hu! hu!
      Only think of a fricasseed shadow!”

      “Only think—hiccup!—of a fricasseed shadow!” exclaimed our hero,
      whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity
      of his Majesty’s discourse.

      “Only think of a hiccup!—fricasseed shadow!! Now,
      damme!—hiccup!—humph! If I would have been such
      a—hiccup!—nincompoop! My soul, Mr.—humph!”

      “Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?”

      “Yes, sir—hiccup!—my soul is-”

      “What, sir?”

      “No shadow, damme!”

      “Did you mean to say-”

      “Yes, sir, my soul is—hiccup!—humph!—yes, sir.”

      “Did you not intend to assert-”

      “My soul is—hiccup!—peculiarly qualified for—hiccup!—a-”

      “What, sir?”

      “Stew.”

      “Ha!”

      “Soufflee.”

      “Eh!”

      “Fricassee.”

      “Indeed!”

      “Ragout and fricandeau—and see here, my good fellow! I’ll let you
      have it—hiccup!—a bargain.” Here the philosopher slapped his
      Majesty upon the back.

      “Couldn’t think of such a thing,” said the latter calmly, at the
      same time rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

      “Am supplied at present,” said his Majesty.

      “Hiccup—e-h?” said the philosopher.

      “Have no funds on hand.”

      “What?”

      “Besides, very unhandsome in me—”

      “Sir!”

      “To take advantage of-”

      “Hiccup!”

      “Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.”

      Here the visiter bowed and withdrew—in what manner could not
      precisely be ascertained—but in a well-concerted effort to
      discharge a bottle at “the villain,” the slender chain was
      severed that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician
      prostrated by the downfall of the lamp.




SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY.


      THE _symposium_ of the preceding evening had been a little too
      much for my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was
      desperately drowsy. Instead of going out therefore to spend the
      evening as I had proposed, it occurred to me that I could not do
      a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful of supper and go
      immediately to bed.

      A light supper of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit.
      More than a pound at once, however, may not at all times be
      advisable. Still, there can be no material objection to two. And
      really between two and three, there is merely a single unit of
      difference. I ventured, perhaps, upon four. My wife will have it
      five;—but, clearly, she has confounded two very distinct affairs.
      The abstract number, five, I am willing to admit; but,
      concretely, it has reference to bottles of Brown Stout, without
      which, in the way of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed.

      Having thus concluded a frugal meal, and donned my night-cap,
      with the serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I
      placed my head upon the pillow, and, through the aid of a capital
      conscience, fell into a profound slumber forthwith.

      But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled? I could not have
      completed my third snore when there came a furious ringing at the
      street-door bell, and then an impatient thumping at the knocker,
      which awakened me at once. In a minute afterward, and while I was
      still rubbing my eyes, my wife thrust in my face a note, from my
      old friend, Doctor Ponnonner. It ran thus:

      “Come to me, by all means, my dear good friend, as soon as you
      receive this. Come and help us to rejoice. At last, by long
      persevering diplomacy, I have gained the assent of the Directors
      of the City Museum, to my examination of the Mummy—you know the
      one I mean. I have permission to unswathe it and open it, if
      desirable. A few friends only will be present—you, of course. The
      Mummy is now at my house, and we shall begin to unroll it at
      eleven to-night.
           “Yours, ever,
                   PONNONNER.

      By the time I had reached the “Ponnonner,” it struck me that I
      was as wide awake as a man need be. I leaped out of bed in an
      ecstacy, overthrowing all in my way; dressed myself with a
      rapidity truly marvellous; and set off, at the top of my speed,
      for the doctor’s.

      There I found a very eager company assembled. They had been
      awaiting me with much impatience; the Mummy was extended upon the
      dining-table; and the moment I entered its examination was
      commenced.

      It was one of a pair brought, several years previously, by
      Captain Arthur Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnonner’s from a tomb
      near Eleithias, in the Lybian mountains, a considerable distance
      above Thebes on the Nile. The grottoes at this point, although
      less magnificent than the Theban sepulchres, are of higher
      interest, on account of affording more numerous illustrations of
      the private life of the Egyptians. The chamber from which our
      specimen was taken, was said to be very rich in such
      illustrations; the walls being completely covered with fresco
      paintings and bas-reliefs, while statues, vases, and Mosaic work
      of rich patterns, indicated the vast wealth of the deceased.

      The treasure had been deposited in the Museum precisely in the
      same condition in which Captain Sabretash had found it;—that is
      to say, the coffin had not been disturbed. For eight years it had
      thus stood, subject only externally to public inspection. We had
      now, therefore, the complete Mummy at our disposal; and to those
      who are aware how very rarely the unransacked antique reaches our
      shores, it will be evident, at once that we had great reason to
      congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.

      Approaching the table, I saw on it a large box, or case, nearly
      seven feet long, and perhaps three feet wide, by two feet and a
      half deep. It was oblong—not coffin-shaped. The material was at
      first supposed to be the wood of the sycamore (_platanus_), but,
      upon cutting into it, we found it to be pasteboard, or, more
      properly, _papier mache_, composed of papyrus. It was thickly
      ornamented with paintings, representing funeral scenes, and other
      mournful subjects—interspersed among which, in every variety of
      position, were certain series of hieroglyphical characters,
      intended, no doubt, for the name of the departed. By good luck,
      Mr. Gliddon formed one of our party; and he had no difficulty in
      translating the letters, which were simply phonetic, and
      represented the word _Allamistakeo_.

      We had some difficulty in getting this case open without injury;
      but having at length accomplished the task, we came to a second,
      coffin-shaped, and very considerably less in size than the
      exterior one, but resembling it precisely in every other respect.
      The interval between the two was filled with resin, which had, in
      some degree, defaced the colors of the interior box.

      Upon opening this latter (which we did quite easily), we arrived
      at a third case, also coffin-shaped, and varying from the second
      one in no particular, except in that of its material, which was
      cedar, and still emitted the peculiar and highly aromatic odor of
      that wood. Between the second and the third case there was no
      interval—the one fitting accurately within the other.

      Removing the third case, we discovered and took out the body
      itself. We had expected to find it, as usual, enveloped in
      frequent rolls, or bandages, of linen; but, in place of these, we
      found a sort of sheath, made of papyrus, and coated with a layer
      of plaster, thickly gilt and painted. The paintings represented
      subjects connected with the various supposed duties of the soul,
      and its presentation to different divinities, with numerous
      identical human figures, intended, very probably, as portraits of
      the persons embalmed. Extending from head to foot was a columnar,
      or perpendicular, inscription, in phonetic hieroglyphics, giving
      again his name and titles, and the names and titles of his
      relations.

      Around the neck thus ensheathed, was a collar of cylindrical
      glass beads, diverse in color, and so arranged as to form images
      of deities, of the scarabaeus, etc, with the winged globe. Around
      the small of the waist was a similar collar or belt.

      Stripping off the papyrus, we found the flesh in excellent
      preservation, with no perceptible odor. The color was reddish.
      The skin was hard, smooth, and glossy. The teeth and hair were in
      good condition. The eyes (it seemed) had been removed, and glass
      ones substituted, which were very beautiful and wonderfully
      life-like, with the exception of somewhat too determined a stare.
      The fingers and the nails were brilliantly gilded.

      Mr. Gliddon was of opinion, from the redness of the epidermis,
      that the embalmment had been effected altogether by asphaltum;
      but, on scraping the surface with a steel instrument, and
      throwing into the fire some of the powder thus obtained, the
      flavor of camphor and other sweet-scented gums became apparent.

      We searched the corpse very carefully for the usual openings
      through which the entrails are extracted, but, to our surprise,
      we could discover none. No member of the party was at that period
      aware that entire or unopened mummies are not infrequently met.
      The brain it was customary to withdraw through the nose; the
      intestines through an incision in the side; the body was then
      shaved, washed, and salted; then laid aside for several weeks,
      when the operation of embalming, properly so called, began.

      As no trace of an opening could be found, Doctor Ponnonner was
      preparing his instruments for dissection, when I observed that it
      was then past two o’clock. Hereupon it was agreed to postpone the
      internal examination until the next evening; and we were about to
      separate for the present, when some one suggested an experiment
      or two with the Voltaic pile.

      The application of electricity to a mummy three or four thousand
      years old at the least, was an idea, if not very sage, still
      sufficiently original, and we all caught it at once. About
      one-tenth in earnest and nine-tenths in jest, we arranged a
      battery in the Doctor’s study, and conveyed thither the Egyptian.

      It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying bare
      some portions of the temporal muscle which appeared of less stony
      rigidity than other parts of the frame, but which, as we had
      anticipated, of course, gave no indication of galvanic
      susceptibility when brought in contact with the wire. This, the
      first trial, indeed, seemed decisive, and, with a hearty laugh at
      our own absurdity, we were bidding each other good night, when my
      eyes, happening to fall upon those of the Mummy, were there
      immediately riveted in amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had
      sufficed to assure me that the orbs which we had all supposed to
      be glass, and which were originally noticeable for a certain wild
      stare, were now so far covered by the lids, that only a small
      portion of the _tunica albuginea_ remained visible.

      With a shout I called attention to the fact, and it became
      immediately obvious to all.

      I cannot say that I was alarmed at the phenomenon, because
      “alarmed” is, in my case, not exactly the word. It is possible,
      however, that, but for the Brown Stout, I might have been a
      little nervous. As for the rest of the company, they really made
      no attempt at concealing the downright fright which possessed
      them. Doctor Ponnonner was a man to be pitied. Mr. Gliddon, by
      some peculiar process, rendered himself invisible. Mr. Silk
      Buckingham, I fancy, will scarcely be so bold as to deny that he
      made his way, upon all fours, under the table.

      After the first shock of astonishment, however, we resolved, as a
      matter of course, upon further experiment forthwith. Our
      operations were now directed against the great toe of the right
      foot. We made an incision over the outside of the exterior _os
      sesamoideum pollicis pedis,_ and thus got at the root of the
      abductor muscle. Readjusting the battery, we now applied the
      fluid to the bisected nerves—when, with a movement of exceeding
      life-likeness, the Mummy first drew up its right knee so as to
      bring it nearly in contact with the abdomen, and then,
      straightening the limb with inconceivable force, bestowed a kick
      upon Doctor Ponnonner, which had the effect of discharging that
      gentleman, like an arrow from a catapult, through a window into
      the street below.

      We rushed out _en masse_ to bring in the mangled remains of the
      victim, but had the happiness to meet him upon the staircase,
      coming up in an unaccountable hurry, brimful of the most ardent
      philosophy, and more than ever impressed with the necessity of
      prosecuting our experiment with vigor and with zeal.

      It was by his advice, accordingly, that we made, upon the spot, a
      profound incision into the tip of the subject’s nose, while the
      Doctor himself, laying violent hands upon it, pulled it into
      vehement contact with the wire.

      Morally and physically—figuratively and literally—was the effect
      electric. In the first place, the corpse opened its eyes and
      winked very rapidly for several minutes, as does Mr. Barnes in
      the pantomime, in the second place, it sneezed; in the third, it
      sat upon end; in the fourth, it shook its fist in Doctor
      Ponnonner’s face; in the fifth, turning to Messieurs Gliddon and
      Buckingham, it addressed them, in very capital Egyptian, thus:

      “I must say, gentlemen, that I am as much surprised as I am
      mortified at your behavior. Of Doctor Ponnonner nothing better
      was to be expected. He is a poor little fat fool who knows no
      better. I pity and forgive him. But you, Mr. Gliddon—and you,
      Silk—who have travelled and resided in Egypt until one might
      imagine you to the manner born—you, I say who have been so much
      among us that you speak Egyptian fully as well, I think, as you
      write your mother tongue—you, whom I have always been led to
      regard as the firm friend of the mummies—I really did anticipate
      more gentlemanly conduct from you. What am I to think of your
      standing quietly by and seeing me thus unhandsomely used? What am
      I to suppose by your permitting Tom, Dick, and Harry to strip me
      of my coffins, and my clothes, in this wretchedly cold climate?
      In what light (to come to the point) am I to regard your aiding
      and abetting that miserable little villain, Doctor Ponnonner, in
      pulling me by the nose?”

      It will be taken for granted, no doubt, that upon hearing this
      speech under the circumstances, we all either made for the door,
      or fell into violent hysterics, or went off in a general swoon.
      One of these three things was, I say, to be expected. Indeed each
      and all of these lines of conduct might have been very plausibly
      pursued. And, upon my word, I am at a loss to know how or why it
      was that we pursued neither the one nor the other. But, perhaps,
      the true reason is to be sought in the spirit of the age, which
      proceeds by the rule of contraries altogether, and is now usually
      admitted as the solution of every thing in the way of paradox and
      impossibility. Or, perhaps, after all, it was only the Mummy’s
      exceedingly natural and matter-of-course air that divested his
      words of the terrible. However this may be, the facts are clear,
      and no member of our party betrayed any very particular
      trepidation, or seemed to consider that any thing had gone very
      especially wrong.

      For my part I was convinced it was all right, and merely stepped
      aside, out of the range of the Egyptian’s fist. Doctor Ponnonner
      thrust his hands into his breeches’ pockets, looked hard at the
      Mummy, and grew excessively red in the face. Mr. Glidden stroked
      his whiskers and drew up the collar of his shirt. Mr. Buckingham
      hung down his head, and put his right thumb into the left corner
      of his mouth.

      The Egyptian regarded him with a severe countenance for some
      minutes and at length, with a sneer, said:

      “Why don’t you speak, Mr. Buckingham? Did you hear what I asked
      you, or not? Do take your thumb out of your mouth!”

      Mr. Buckingham, hereupon, gave a slight start, took his right
      thumb out of the left corner of his mouth, and, by way of
      indemnification inserted his left thumb in the right corner of
      the aperture above-mentioned.

      Not being able to get an answer from Mr. B., the figure turned
      peevishly to Mr. Gliddon, and, in a peremptory tone, demanded in
      general terms what we all meant.

      Mr. Gliddon replied at great length, in phonetics; and but for
      the deficiency of American printing-offices in hieroglyphical
      type, it would afford me much pleasure to record here, in the
      original, the whole of his very excellent speech.

      I may as well take this occasion to remark, that all the
      subsequent conversation in which the Mummy took a part, was
      carried on in primitive Egyptian, through the medium (so far as
      concerned myself and other untravelled members of the
      company)—through the medium, I say, of Messieurs Gliddon and
      Buckingham, as interpreters. These gentlemen spoke the mother
      tongue of the Mummy with inimitable fluency and grace; but I
      could not help observing that (owing, no doubt, to the
      introduction of images entirely modern, and, of course, entirely
      novel to the stranger) the two travellers were reduced,
      occasionally, to the employment of sensible forms for the purpose
      of conveying a particular meaning. Mr. Gliddon, at one period,
      for example, could not make the Egyptian comprehend the term
      “politics,” until he sketched upon the wall, with a bit of
      charcoal a little carbuncle-nosed gentleman, out at elbows,
      standing upon a stump, with his left leg drawn back, right arm
      thrown forward, with his fist shut, the eyes rolled up toward
      Heaven, and the mouth open at an angle of ninety degrees. Just in
      the same way Mr. Buckingham failed to convey the absolutely
      modern idea “wig,” until (at Doctor Ponnonner’s suggestion) he
      grew very pale in the face, and consented to take off his own.

      It will be readily understood that Mr. Gliddon’s discourse turned
      chiefly upon the vast benefits accruing to science from the
      unrolling and disembowelling of mummies; apologizing, upon this
      score, for any disturbance that might have been occasioned him,
      in particular, the individual Mummy called Allamistakeo; and
      concluding with a mere hint (for it could scarcely be considered
      more) that, as these little matters were now explained, it might
      be as well to proceed with the investigation intended. Here
      Doctor Ponnonner made ready his instruments.

      In regard to the latter suggestions of the orator, it appears
      that Allamistakeo had certain scruples of conscience, the nature
      of which I did not distinctly learn; but he expressed himself
      satisfied with the apologies tendered, and, getting down from the
      table, shook hands with the company all round.

      When this ceremony was at an end, we immediately busied ourselves
      in repairing the damages which our subject had sustained from the
      scalpel. We sewed up the wound in his temple, bandaged his foot,
      and applied a square inch of black plaster to the tip of his
      nose.

      It was now observed that the Count (this was the title, it seems,
      of Allamistakeo) had a slight fit of shivering—no doubt from the
      cold. The Doctor immediately repaired to his wardrobe, and soon
      returned with a black dress coat, made in Jennings’ best manner,
      a pair of sky-blue plaid pantaloons with straps, a pink gingham
      chemise, a flapped vest of brocade, a white sack overcoat, a
      walking cane with a hook, a hat with no brim, patent-leather
      boots, straw-colored kid gloves, an eye-glass, a pair of
      whiskers, and a waterfall cravat. Owing to the disparity of size
      between the Count and the doctor (the proportion being as two to
      one), there was some little difficulty in adjusting these
      habiliments upon the person of the Egyptian; but when all was
      arranged, he might have been said to be dressed. Mr. Gliddon,
      therefore, gave him his arm, and led him to a comfortable chair
      by the fire, while the Doctor rang the bell upon the spot and
      ordered a supply of cigars and wine.

      The conversation soon grew animated. Much curiosity was, of
      course, expressed in regard to the somewhat remarkable fact of
      Allamistakeo’s still remaining alive.

      “I should have thought,” observed Mr. Buckingham, “that it is
      high time you were dead.”

      “Why,” replied the Count, very much astonished, “I am little more
      than seven hundred years old! My father lived a thousand, and was
      by no means in his dotage when he died.”

      Here ensued a brisk series of questions and computations, by
      means of which it became evident that the antiquity of the Mummy
      had been grossly misjudged. It had been five thousand and fifty
      years and some months since he had been consigned to the
      catacombs at Eleithias.

      “But my remark,” resumed Mr. Buckingham, “had no reference to
      your age at the period of interment (I am willing to grant, in
      fact, that you are still a young man), and my illusion was to the
      immensity of time during which, by your own showing, you must
      have been done up in asphaltum.”

      “In what?” said the Count.

      “In asphaltum,” persisted Mr. B.

      “Ah, yes; I have some faint notion of what you mean; it might be
      made to answer, no doubt—but in my time we employed scarcely any
      thing else than the Bichloride of Mercury.”

      “But what we are especially at a loss to understand,” said Doctor
      Ponnonner, “is how it happens that, having been dead and buried
      in Egypt five thousand years ago, you are here to-day all alive
      and looking so delightfully well.”

      “Had I been, as you say, dead,” replied the Count, “it is more
      than probable that dead, I should still be; for I perceive you
      are yet in the infancy of Calvanism, and cannot accomplish with
      it what was a common thing among us in the old days. But the fact
      is, I fell into catalepsy, and it was considered by my best
      friends that I was either dead or should be; they accordingly
      embalmed me at once—I presume you are aware of the chief
      principle of the embalming process?”

      “Why not altogether.”

      “Why, I perceive—a deplorable condition of ignorance! Well I
      cannot enter into details just now: but it is necessary to
      explain that to embalm (properly speaking), in Egypt, was to
      arrest indefinitely all the animal functions subjected to the
      process. I use the word ‘animal’ in its widest sense, as
      including the physical not more than the moral and vital being. I
      repeat that the leading principle of embalmment consisted, with
      us, in the immediately arresting, and holding in perpetual
      abeyance, all the animal functions subjected to the process. To
      be brief, in whatever condition the individual was, at the period
      of embalmment, in that condition he remained. Now, as it is my
      good fortune to be of the blood of the Scarabaeus, I was embalmed
      alive, as you see me at present.”

      “The blood of the Scarabaeus!” exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner.

      “Yes. The Scarabaeus was the insignium or the ‘arms,’ of a very
      distinguished and very rare patrician family. To be ‘of the blood
      of the Scarabaeus,’ is merely to be one of that family of which
      the Scarabaeus is the insignium. I speak figuratively.”

      “But what has this to do with you being alive?”

      “Why, it is the general custom in Egypt to deprive a corpse,
      before embalmment, of its bowels and brains; the race of the
      Scarabaei alone did not coincide with the custom. Had I not been
      a Scarabeus, therefore, I should have been without bowels and
      brains; and without either it is inconvenient to live.”

      “I perceive that,” said Mr. Buckingham, “and I presume that all
      the entire mummies that come to hand are of the race of
      Scarabaei.”

      “Beyond doubt.”

      “I thought,” said Mr. Gliddon, very meekly, “that the Scarabaeus
      was one of the Egyptian gods.”

      “One of the Egyptian _what?”_ exclaimed the Mummy, starting to
      its feet.

      “Gods!” repeated the traveller.

      “Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished to hear you talk in this
      style,” said the Count, resuming his chair. “No nation upon the
      face of the earth has ever acknowledged more than one god. The
      Scarabaeus, the Ibis, etc., were with us (as similar creatures
      have been with others) the symbols, or media, through which we
      offered worship to the Creator too august to be more directly
      approached.”

      There was here a pause. At length the colloquy was renewed by
      Doctor Ponnonner.

      “It is not improbable, then, from what you have explained,” said
      he, “that among the catacombs near the Nile there may exist other
      mummies of the Scarabaeus tribe, in a condition of vitality?”

      “There can be no question of it,” replied the Count; “all the
      Scarabaei embalmed accidentally while alive, are alive now. Even
      some of those purposely so embalmed, may have been overlooked by
      their executors, and still remain in the tomb.”

      “Will you be kind enough to explain,” I said, “what you mean by
      ‘purposely so embalmed’?”

      “With great pleasure!” answered the Mummy, after surveying me
      leisurely through his eye-glass—for it was the first time I had
      ventured to address him a direct question.

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

      “I beg your pardon,” said Doctor Ponnonner at this point, laying
      his hand gently upon the arm of the Egyptian—“I beg your pardon,
      sir, but may I presume to interrupt you for one moment?”

      “By all means, sir,” replied the Count, drawing up.

      “I merely wished to ask you a question,” said the Doctor. “You
      mentioned the historian’s personal correction of traditions
      respecting his own epoch. Pray, sir, upon an average what
      proportion of these Kabbala were usually found to be right?”

      “The Kabbala, as you properly term them, sir, were generally
      discovered to be precisely on a par with the facts recorded in
      the un-re-written histories themselves;—that is to say, not one
      individual iota of either was ever known, under any
      circumstances, to be not totally and radically wrong.”

      “But since it is quite clear,” resumed the Doctor, “that at least
      five thousand years have elapsed since your entombment, I take it
      for granted that your histories at that period, if not your
      traditions were sufficiently explicit on that one topic of
      universal interest, the Creation, which took place, as I presume
      you are aware, only about ten centuries before.”

      “Sir!” said the Count Allamistakeo.

      The Doctor repeated his remarks, but it was only after much
      additional explanation that the foreigner could be made to
      comprehend them. The latter at length said, hesitatingly:

      “The ideas you have suggested are to me, I confess, utterly
      novel. During my time I never knew any one to entertain so
      singular a fancy as that the universe (or this world if you will
      have it so) ever had a beginning at all. I remember once, and
      once only, hearing something remotely hinted, by a man of many
      speculations, concerning the origin _of the human race;_ and by
      this individual, the very word _Adam_ (or Red Earth), which you
      make use of, was employed. He employed it, however, in a
      generical sense, with reference to the spontaneous germination
      from rank soil (just as a thousand of the lower genera of
      creatures are germinated)—the spontaneous germination, I say, of
      five vast hordes of men, simultaneously upspringing in five
      distinct and nearly equal divisions of the globe.”

      Here, in general, the company shrugged their shoulders, and one
      or two of us touched our foreheads with a very significant air.
      Mr. Silk Buckingham, first glancing slightly at the occiput and
      then at the sinciput of Allamistakeo, spoke as follows:

      “The long duration of human life in your time, together with the
      occasional practice of passing it, as you have explained, in
      installments, must have had, indeed, a strong tendency to the
      general development and conglomeration of knowledge. I presume,
      therefore, that we are to attribute the marked inferiority of the
      old Egyptians in all particulars of science, when compared with
      the moderns, and more especially with the Yankees, altogether to
      the superior solidity of the Egyptian skull.”

      “I confess again,” replied the Count, with much suavity, “that I
      am somewhat at a loss to comprehend you; pray, to what
      particulars of science do you allude?”

      Here our whole party, joining voices, detailed, at great length,
      the assumptions of phrenology and the marvels of animal
      magnetism.

      Having heard us to an end, the Count proceeded to relate a few
      anecdotes, which rendered it evident that prototypes of Gall and
      Spurzheim had flourished and faded in Egypt so long ago as to
      have been nearly forgotten, and that the manoeuvres of Mesmer
      were really very contemptible tricks when put in collation with
      the positive miracles of the Theban savans, who created lice and
      a great many other similar things.

      I here asked the Count if his people were able to calculate
      eclipses. He smiled rather contemptuously, and said they were.

      This put me a little out, but I began to make other inquiries in
      regard to his astronomical knowledge, when a member of the
      company, who had never as yet opened his mouth, whispered in my
      ear, that for information on this head, I had better consult
      Ptolemy (whoever Ptolemy is), as well as one Plutarch de facie
      lunae.

      I then questioned the Mummy about burning-glasses and lenses,
      and, in general, about the manufacture of glass; but I had not
      made an end of my queries before the silent member again touched
      me quietly on the elbow, and begged me for God’s sake to take a
      peep at Diodorus Siculus. As for the Count, he merely asked me,
      in the way of reply, if we moderns possessed any such microscopes
      as would enable us to cut cameos in the style of the Egyptians.
      While I was thinking how I should answer this question, little
      Doctor Ponnonner committed himself in a very extraordinary way.

      “Look at our architecture!” he exclaimed, greatly to the
      indignation of both the travellers, who pinched him black and
      blue to no purpose.

      “Look,” he cried with enthusiasm, “at the Bowling-Green Fountain
      in New York! or if this be too vast a contemplation, regard for a
      moment the Capitol at Washington, D. C.!”—and the good little
      medical man went on to detail very minutely, the proportions of
      the fabric to which he referred. He explained that the portico
      alone was adorned with no less than four and twenty columns, five
      feet in diameter, and ten feet apart.

      The Count said that he regretted not being able to remember, just
      at that moment, the precise dimensions of any one of the
      principal buildings of the city of Aznac, whose foundations were
      laid in the night of Time, but the ruins of which were still
      standing, at the epoch of his entombment, in a vast plain of sand
      to the westward of Thebes. He recollected, however, (talking of
      the porticoes,) that one affixed to an inferior palace in a kind
      of suburb called Carnac, consisted of a hundred and forty-four
      columns, thirty-seven feet in circumference, and twenty-five feet
      apart. The approach to this portico, from the Nile, was through
      an avenue two miles long, composed of sphynxes, statues, and
      obelisks, twenty, sixty, and a hundred feet in height. The palace
      itself (as well as he could remember) was, in one direction, two
      miles long, and might have been altogether about seven in
      circuit. Its walls were richly painted all over, within and
      without, with hieroglyphics. He would not pretend to assert that
      even fifty or sixty of the Doctor’s Capitols might have been
      built within these walls, but he was by no means sure that two or
      three hundred of them might not have been squeezed in with some
      trouble. That palace at Carnac was an insignificant little
      building after all. He (the Count), however, could not
      conscientiously refuse to admit the ingenuity, magnificence, and
      superiority of the Fountain at the Bowling Green, as described by
      the Doctor. Nothing like it, he was forced to allow, had ever
      been seen in Egypt or elsewhere.

      I here asked the Count what he had to say to our railroads.

      “Nothing,” he replied, “in particular.” They were rather slight,
      rather ill-conceived, and clumsily put together. They could not
      be compared, of course, with the vast, level, direct,
      iron-grooved causeways upon which the Egyptians conveyed entire
      temples and solid obelisks of a hundred and fifty feet in
      altitude.

      I spoke of our gigantic mechanical forces.

      He agreed that we knew something in that way, but inquired how I
      should have gone to work in getting up the imposts on the lintels
      of even the little palace at Carnac.

      This question I concluded not to hear, and demanded if he had any
      idea of Artesian wells; but he simply raised his eyebrows; while
      Mr. Gliddon winked at me very hard and said, in a low tone, that
      one had been recently discovered by the engineers employed to
      bore for water in the Great Oasis.

      I then mentioned our steel; but the foreigner elevated his nose,
      and asked me if our steel could have executed the sharp carved
      work seen on the obelisks, and which was wrought altogether by
      edge-tools of copper.

      This disconcerted us so greatly that we thought it advisable to
      vary the attack to Metaphysics. We sent for a copy of a book
      called the “Dial,” and read out of it a chapter or two about
      something that is not very clear, but which the Bostonians call
      the Great Movement of Progress.

      The Count merely said that Great Movements were awfully common
      things in his day, and as for Progress, it was at one time quite
      a nuisance, but it never progressed.

      We then spoke of the great beauty and importance of Democracy,
      and were at much trouble in impressing the Count with a due sense
      of the advantages we enjoyed in living where there was suffrage
      ad libitum, and no king.

      He listened with marked interest, and in fact seemed not a little
      amused. When we had done, he said that, a great while ago, there
      had occurred something of a very similar sort. Thirteen Egyptian
      provinces determined all at once to be free, and to set a
      magnificent example to the rest of mankind. They assembled their
      wise men, and concocted the most ingenious constitution it is
      possible to conceive. For a while they managed remarkably well;
      only their habit of bragging was prodigious. The thing ended,
      however, in the consolidation of the thirteen states, with some
      fifteen or twenty others, in the most odious and insupportable
      despotism that was ever heard of upon the face of the Earth.

      I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant.

      As well as the Count could recollect, it was Mob.

      Not knowing what to say to this, I raised my voice, and deplored
      the Egyptian ignorance of steam.

      The Count looked at me with much astonishment, but made no
      answer. The silent gentleman, however, gave me a violent nudge in
      the ribs with his elbows—told me I had sufficiently exposed
      myself for once—and demanded if I was really such a fool as not
      to know that the modern steam-engine is derived from the
      invention of Hero, through Solomon de Caus.

      We were now in imminent danger of being discomfited; but, as good
      luck would have it, Doctor Ponnonner, having rallied, returned to
      our rescue, and inquired if the people of Egypt would seriously
      pretend to rival the moderns in the all—important particular of
      dress.

      The Count, at this, glanced downward to the straps of his
      pantaloons, and then taking hold of the end of one of his
      coat-tails, held it up close to his eyes for some minutes.
      Letting it fall, at last, his mouth extended itself very
      gradually from ear to ear; but I do not remember that he said any
      thing in the way of reply.

      Hereupon we recovered our spirits, and the Doctor, approaching
      the Mummy with great dignity, desired it to say candidly, upon
      its honor as a gentleman, if the Egyptians had comprehended, at
      any period, the manufacture of either Ponnonner’s lozenges or
      Brandreth’s pills.

      We looked, with profound anxiety, for an answer—but in vain. It
      was not forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed and hung down his head.
      Never was triumph more consummate; never was defeat borne with so
      ill a grace. Indeed, I could not endure the spectacle of the poor
      Mummy’s mortification. I reached my hat, bowed to him stiffly,
      and took leave.

      Upon getting home I found it past four o’clock, and went
      immediately to bed. It is now ten A.M. I have been up since
      seven, penning these memoranda for the benefit of my family and
      of mankind. The former I shall behold no more. My wife is a
      shrew. The truth is, I am heartily sick of this life and of the
      nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that every thing is
      going wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be President
      in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave and swallow a cup of
      coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner’s and get embalmed
      for a couple of hundred years.




THE POETIC PRINCIPLE


      IN speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be
      either thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at
      random, the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal
      purpose will be to cite for consideration, some few of those
      minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or
      which, upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression.
      By “minor poems” I mean, of course, poems of little length. And
      here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to
      a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
      wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical
      estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I
      maintain that the phrase, “a long poem,” is simply a flat
      contradiction in terms.

      I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only
      inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the
      poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all
      excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient. That
      degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so called
      at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great
      length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it
      flags—fails—a revulsion ensues—and then the poem is, in effect,
      and in fact, no longer such.

      There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in
      reconciling the critical dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is to be
      devoutly admired throughout, with the absolute impossibility of
      maintaining for it, during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm
      which that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in
      fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losing sight of
      that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it
      merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity—its
      totality of effect or impression—we read it (as would be
      necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant
      alternation of excitement and depression. After a passage of what
      we feel to be true poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage
      of platitude which no critical prejudgment can force us to
      admire; but if, upon completing the work, we read it again,
      omitting the first book—that is to say, commencing with the
      second—we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which
      we before condemned—that damnable which we had previously so much
      admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate, aggregate,
      or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
      nullity:—and this is precisely the fact.

      In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least
      very good reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics;
      but, granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is
      based in an imperfect sense of art. The modern epic is, of the
      supposititious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold
      imitation. But the day of these artistic anomalies is over. If,
      at any time, any very long poem _were _popular in reality, which
      I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem will ever be
      popular again.

      That the extent of a poetical work is, _ceteris paribus, _the
      measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a
      proposition sufficiently absurd—yet we are indebted for it to the
      Quarterly Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size,
      _abstractly considered—there can be nothing in mere _bulk, so
      _far as a volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited
      admiration from these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be
      sure, by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude which it
      conveys, _does _impress us with a sense of the sublime—but no man
      is impressed after _this _fashion by the material grandeur of
      even “The Columbiad.” Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us
      to be so impressed by it. As _yet, _they have not _insisted _on
      our estimating “Lamar” tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by the
      pound—but what else are we to _infer _from their continual
      plating about “sustained effort”? If, by “sustained effort,” any
      little gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend
      him for the effort—if this indeed be a thing conk mendable—but
      let us forbear praising the epic on the effort’s account. It is
      to be hoped that common sense, in the time to come, will prefer
      deciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes—by
      the effect it produces—than by the time it took to impress the
      effect, or by the amount of “sustained effort” which had been
      found necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that
      perseverance is one thing and genius quite another—nor can all
      the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
      proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be
      received as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally
      condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as
      truths.

      On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly
      brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very
      short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid,
      never produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be the
      steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has
      wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit-stirring, but in
      general they have been too imponderous to stamp themselves deeply
      into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers of
      fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind.

      A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in
      depressing a poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is
      afforded by the following exquisite little Serenade—

     I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night,
     When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining
     bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has
     led me—who knows how?— To thy chamber-window, sweet!
     The wandering airs they faint On the dark the silent stream— The
     champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The
     nightingale’s complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on
     shine, O, beloved as thou art!
     O, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in
     kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and
     white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast: O, press it close to
     shine again, Where it will break at last.

      Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines—yet no less a poet
      than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and
      ethereal imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so
      thoroughly as by him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of
      one beloved to bathe in the aromatic air of a southern midsummer
      night.

      One of the finest poems by Willis—the very best in my opinion
      which he has ever written—has no doubt, through this same defect
      of undue brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not
      less in the

     The shadows lay along Broadway, ‘Twas near the twilight-tide— And
     slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walk’d
     she; but, viewlessly, Walk’d spirits at her side.
     Peace charm’d the street beneath her feet, And Honor charm’d the
     air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as
     fair— For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.
     She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true—
     For heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to won,
     But honor’d well her charms to sell. If priests the selling do.
     Now walking there was one more fair— A slight girl, lily-pale; And
     she had unseen company To make the spirit quail— ‘Twixt Want and
     Scorn she walk’d forlorn, And nothing could avail.
     No mercy now can clear her brow From this world’s peace to pray
     For as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman’s heart gave
     way!— But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven By man is cursed
     alway!

      In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis
      who has written so many mere “verses of society.” The lines are
      not only richly ideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an
      earnestness, an evident sincerity of sentiment, for which we look
      in vain throughout all the other works of this author.

      While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry
      prolixity is indispensable, has for some years past been
      gradually dying out of the public mind, by mere dint of its own
      absurdity, we find it succeeded by a heresy too palpably false to
      be long tolerated, but one which, in the brief period it has
      already endured, may be said to have accomplished more in the
      corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies
      combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic. _It has been
      assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the
      ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said,
      should inculcate a morals and by this moral is the poetical merit
      of the work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have
      patronized this happy idea, and we Bostonians very especially
      have developed it in full. We have taken it into our heads that
      to write a poem simply for the poem’s sake, and to acknowledge
      such to have been our design, would be to confess ourselves
      radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and force:—but the
      simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to look into
      our own souls we should immediately there discover that under the
      sun there neither exists nor _can _exist any work more thoroughly
      dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem
      _per se, _this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem
      written solely for the poem’s sake.

      With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom
      of man, I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of
      inculcation. I would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble
      them by dissipation. The demands of Truth are severe. She has no
      sympathy with the myrtles. All _that _which is so indispensable
      in Song is precisely all _that _with which _she _has nothing
      whatever to do. It is but making her a flaunting paradox to
      wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth we need
      severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be
      simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In
      a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is
      the exact converse of the poetical. _He _must be blind indeed who
      does not perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the
      truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be
      theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences,
      shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils
      and waters of Poetry and Truth.

      Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately
      obvious distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the
      Moral Sense. I place Taste in the middle, because it is just this
      position which in the mind it occupies. It holds intimate
      relations with either extreme; but from the Moral Sense is
      separated by so faint a difference that Aristotle has not
      hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues
      themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices _of the trio marked
      with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
      itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while
      the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while
      Conscience teaches the obligation, and Reason the expediency,
      Taste contents herself with displaying the charms:—waging war
      upon Vice solely on the ground of her deformity—her
      disproportion—her animosity to the fitting, to the appropriate,
      to the harmonious—in a word, to Beauty.

      An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus
      plainly a sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to
      his delight in the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors and
      sentiments amid which he exists. And just as the lily is repeated
      in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the
      mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and sounds, and
      colors, and odors, and sentiments a duplicate source of the
      light. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall
      simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
      vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and
      odors, and colors, and sentiments which greet _him _in common
      with all mankind—he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine
      title. There is still a something in the distance which he has
      been unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, to
      allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst
      belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence
      and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of
      the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty
      before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
      by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we
      struggle by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts
      of Time to attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very
      elements perhaps appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by
      Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic
      moods, we find ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not as
      the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess of pleasure, but
      through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to
      grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and for ever, those
      divine and rapturous joys of which _through’ _the poem, or
      _through _the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate
      glimpses.

      The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness—this struggle,
      on the part of souls fittingly constituted—has given to the world
      all _that _which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to
      understand and _to feel _as poetic.

      The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various
      modes—in Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the
      Dance—very especially in Music—and very peculiarly, and with a
      wide field, in the com position of the Landscape Garden. Our
      present theme, however, has regard only to its manifestation in
      words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic of rhythm.
      Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its various
      modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
      Poetry as never to be wisely rejected—is so vitally important an
      adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I
      will not now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is
      in Music perhaps that the soul most nearly attains the great end
      for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it
      struggles—the creation of supernal Beauty. It _may _be, indeed,
      that here this sublime end is, now and then, attained in _fact.
      _We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight, that from
      an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot _have been
      unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that
      in the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall
      find the widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards
      and Minnesingers had advantages which we do not possess—and
      Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate
      manner, perfecting them as poems.

      To recapitulate then:—I would define, in brief, the Poetry of
      words as _The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. _Its sole arbiter is
      Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only
      collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern
      whatever either with Duty or with Truth.

      A few words, however, in explanation. _That _pleasure which is at
      once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is
      derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In
      the contemplation of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain
      that pleasurable elevation, or excitement _of the soul, _which we
      recognize as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so easily
      distinguished from Truth, which is the satisfaction of the
      Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of the heart. I
      make Beauty, therefore—using the word as inclusive of the
      sublime—I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it
      is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring
      as directly as possible from their causes:—no one as yet having
      been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question
      is at least _most readily _attainable in the poem. It by no means
      follows, however, that the incitements of Passion’ or the
      precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be
      introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they may subserve
      incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the work:
      but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in
      proper subjection to that _Beauty _which is the atmosphere and
      the real essence of the poem.

      I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for
      your consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to
      Longfellow’s “Waif”:—

     The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night,
     As a feather is wafted downward From an Eagle in his flight.
     I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the
     mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, That my soul cannot
     resist;
     A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And
     resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
     Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That
     shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of
     day.
     Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose
     distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.
     For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest
     Life’s endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.
     Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As
     showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids
     start;
     Who through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still
     heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.
     Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And
     come like the benediction That follows after prayer.
     Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And
     lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.
     And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that
     infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as
     silently steal away.

      With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly
      admired for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are
      very effective. Nothing can be better than—

    ———————-the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Down the
    corridors of Time.

      The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on
      the whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful
      _insouciance _of its metre, so well in accordance with the
      character of the sentiments, and especially for the _ease _of the
      general manner. This “ease” or naturalness, in a literary style,
      it has long been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance
      alone—as a point of really difficult attainment. But not so:—a
      natural manner is difficult only to him who should never meddle
      with it—to the unnatural. It is but the result of writing with
      the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone, _in
      composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind
      would adopt—and must perpetually vary, of course, with the
      occasion. The author who, after the fashion of “The North
      American Review,” should be upon _all _occasions merely “quiet,”
      must necessarily upon _many _occasions be simply silly, or
      stupid; and has no more right to be considered “easy” or
      “natural” than a Cockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty
      in the waxworks.

      Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as
      the one which he entitles “June.” I quote only a portion of it:—

     There, through the long, long summer hours, The golden light
     should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in
     their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale,
     close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there,
     and there be heard The housewife-bee and humming bird.
     And what, if cheerful shouts at noon, Come, from the village sent,
     Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent?
     And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight
     Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no
     sadder sight nor sound.
     I know, I know I should not see The season’s glorious show, Nor
     would its brightness shine for me; Nor its wild music flow; But
     if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to
     weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs and song, and the
     light and bloom, Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
     These to their soften’d hearts should bear The thoughts of what
     has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the
     scene; Whose part in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the
     summer hills, Is—that his grave is green; And deeply would their
     hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.

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

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

      The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem
      so full of brilliancy and spirit as “The Health” of Edward Coate
      Pinckney:—

     I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of
     her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements
     And kindly stars have given A form so fair that, like the air,
     ‘Tis less of earth than heaven.
     Her every tone is music’s own, Like those of morning birds, And
     something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage
     of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see
     the burden’d bee Forth issue from the rose.
     Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her
     feelings have the flagrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And
     lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image
     of themselves by turns,— The idol of past years!
     Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain,
     And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But
     memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is
     nigh my latest sigh Will not be life’s, but hers.
     I fill’d this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of
     her gentle sex The seeming paragon— Her health! and would on earth
     there stood, Some more of such a frame, That life might be all
     poetry, And weariness a name.

      It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far
      south. Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would
      have been ranked as the first of American lyrists by that
      magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of
      American Letters, in conducting the thing called “The North
      American Review.” The poem just cited is especially beautiful;
      but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chiefly
      to our sympathy in the poet’s enthusiasm. We pardon his
      hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are
      uttered.

      It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the
      _merits _of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak
      for themselves. Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from
      Parnassus,” tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very
      caustic criticism upon a very admirable book:—whereupon the god
      asked him for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only
      busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, Apollo, handing
      him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all the chaff
      _for his reward.

      Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics—but I am
      by no means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means
      certain that the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly
      misunderstood. Excellence, in a poem especially, may be
      considered in the light of an axiom, which need only be properly
      _put, _to become self-evident. It is _not _excellence if it
      require to be demonstrated as such:—and thus to point out too
      particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that they
      are _not _merits altogether.

      Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
      character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out
      of view. I allude to his lines beginning—“Come, rest in this
      bosom.” The intense energy of their expression is not surpassed
      by anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in which a
      sentiment is conveyed that embodies the _all in all _of the
      divine passion of Love—a sentiment which, perhaps, has found its
      echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any other
      single sentiment ever embodied in words:—

     Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer Though the herd
     have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the
     smile, that no cloud can o’ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy
     own to the last.
     Oh! what was love made for, if ‘tis not the same Through joy and
     through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not,
     if guilt’s in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever
     thou art.
     Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel
     I’ll be, ‘mid the horrors of this,— Through the furnace,
     unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save
     thee,—or perish there too!

      It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination,
      while granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with
      Coleridge—than whom no man more fully comprehended the great
      powers of Moore. The fact is, that the fancy of this poet so far
      predominates over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of
      all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea that
      he is fanciful _only. _But never was there a greater mistake.
      Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the
      compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
      profoundly—more weirdly _imaginative, _in the best sense, than
      the lines commencing—“I would I were by that dim lake”—which are
      the com. position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to
      remember them.

      One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy—one of the most
      singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair
      Ines” had always for me an inexpressible charm:—

     O saw ye not fair Ines? She’s gone into the West, To dazzle when
     the sun is down, And rob the world of rest; She took our daylight
     with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on
     her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.
     O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the
     moon should shine alone, And stars unrivalltd bright; And blessed
     will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the
     love against thy cheek I dare not even write!
     Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so
     gaily by thy side, And whisper’d thee so near! Were there no bonny
     dames at home Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the
     seas to win The dearest of the dear?
     I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of
     noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and
     maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a
     beauteous dream, If it had been no more!
     Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song, With music waiting
     on her steps, And shootings of the throng; But some were sad and
     felt no mirth, But only Music’s wrong, In sounds that sang
     Farewell, Farewell, To her you’ve loved so long.
     Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, That vessel never bore So fair a
     lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,— Alas for pleasure
     on the sea, And sorrow on the shorel The smile that blest one
     lover’s heart Has broken many more!

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

     One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate Gone to
     her death!
     Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care;— Fashion’d so slenderly,
     Young and so fair!
     Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave
     constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving
     not loathing.
     Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and
     humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is
     pure womanly.
     Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all
     dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
     Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From
     window and casement From garret to basement, She stood, with
     amazement, Houseless by night.
     The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver, But not the
     dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life’s history,
     Glad to death’s mystery, Swift to be hurl’d— Anywhere, anywhere
     Out of the world!
     In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran,—
     Over the brink of it, Picture it,—think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave
     in it, drink of it Then, if you can!
     Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve’s family— Wipe those poor
     lips of hers Oozing so clammily, Loop up her tresses Escaped from
     the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where
     was her home?
     Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she
     a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet,
     than all other?
     Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it
     was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.
     Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, Feelings had changed:
     Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God’s
     providence Seeming estranged.
     Take her up tenderly; Lift her with care; Fashion’d so slenderly,
     Young, and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly,
     Decently,—kindly,— Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close
     them, Staring so blindly!
     Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring
     Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity.
     Perhishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity,
     Burning insanity, Into her rest,— Cross her hands humbly, As if
     praying dumbly, Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil
     behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

      The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
      versification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of
      the fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild
      insanity which is the thesis of the poem.

      Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never
      received from the critics the praise which it undoubtedly
      deserves:—

     Though the day of my destiny’s over, And the star of my fate bath
     declined Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so
     many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It
     shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit bath
     painted It never bath found but in _thee._
     Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile which
     answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds
     me of shine; And when winds are at war with the ocean, As the
     breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion,
     It is that they bear me from _thee._
     Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are
     sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To
     pain—it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me:
     They may crush, but they shall not contemn— They may torture, but
     shall not subdue me— ‘Tis of _thee _that I think—not of them.
     Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, thou didst
     not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, Though
     slandered, thou never couldst shake,— Though trusted, thou didst
     not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly, Though
     watchful, ‘twas not to defame me, Nor mute, that the world might
     belie.
     Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many
     with one— If my soul was not fitted to prize it, ‘Twas folly not
     sooner to shun: And if dearly that error bath cost me, And more
     than I once could foresee, I have found that whatever it lost me,
     It could not deprive me of _thee._
     From the wreck of the past, which bath perished, Thus much I at
     least may recall, It bath taught me that which I most cherished
     Deserved to be dearest of all: In the desert a fountain is
     springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in
     the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of _thee._

      Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the
      versification could scarcely be improved. No nobler _theme _ever
      engaged the pen of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no
      man can consider himself entitled to complain of Fate while in
      his adversity he still retains the unwavering love of woman.

      From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him
      as the noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to
      cite only a very brief specimen. I call him, and _think _him the
      noblest of poets, _not _because the impressions he produces are
      at _all _times the most profound—_not _because the poetical
      excitement which he induces is at _all _times the most
      intense—but because it is at all times the most ethereal—in other
      words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is so little of
      the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last long
      poem, “The Princess”:—

         Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the
         depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to
         the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn fields, And thinking
         of the days that are no more.
         Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our
         friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens
         over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad,
         so fresh, the days that are no more.
         Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe
         of half-awaken’d birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The
         casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange,
         the days that are no more.
         Dear as remember’d kisses after death, And sweet as those by
         hopeless fancy feign’d On lips that are for others; deep as
         love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in
         Life, the days that are no more.

      Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have
      endeavored to convey to you my conception of the Poetic
      Principle. It has been my purpose to suggest that, while this
      principle itself is strictly and simply the Human Aspiration for
      Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the Principle is always
      found in _an elevating excitement of the soul, _quite independent
      of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart, or of
      that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in regard
      to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
      elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary—Love—the true, the divine
      Eros—the Uranian as distinguished from the Diona an Venus—is
      unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And
      in regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a
      truth we are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent
      before, we experience at once the true poetical effect; but this
      effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least
      degree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony
      manifest.

      We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception
      of what the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the
      simple elements which induce in the Poet himself the poetical
      effect He recognizes the ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the
      bright orbs that shine in Heaven—in the volutes of the flower—in
      the clustering of low shrubberies—in the waving of the
      grain-fields—in the slanting of tall eastern trees—in the blue
      distance of mountains—in the grouping of clouds—in the twinkling
      of half-hidden brooks—in the gleaming of silver rivers—in the
      repose of sequestered lakes—in the star-mirroring depths of
      lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds—in the harp
      of Bolos—in the sighing of the night-wind—in the repining voice
      of the forest—in the surf that complains to the shore—in the
      fresh breath of the woods—in the scent of the violet—in the
      voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth—in the suggestive odour that
      comes to him at eventide from far distant undiscovered islands,
      over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all
      noble thoughts—in all unworldly motives—in all holy impulses—in
      all chivalrous, generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it
      in the beauty of woman—in the grace of her step—in the lustre of
      her eye—in the melody of her voice—in her soft laughter, in her
      sigh—in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels
      it in her winning endearments—in her burning enthusiasms—in her
      gentle charities—in her meek and devotional endurances—but above
      all—ah, far above all, he kneels to it—he worships it in the
      faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the altogether divine
      majesty—of her love.

      Let me conclude by—the recitation of yet another brief poem—one
      very different in character from any that I have before quoted.
      It is by Motherwell, and is called “The Song of the Cavalier.”
      With our modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity
      and impiety of warfare, we are not precisely in that frame of
      mind best adapted to sympathize with the sentiments, and thus to
      appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do this fully we
      must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul of the old
      cavalier:—

     Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes
     amaine: Deathe’s couriers. Fame and Honor call No shrewish teares
     shall fill your eye When the sword-hilt’s in our hand,—
     Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the
     land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and poling
     crye, Our business is like men to fight.




OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)


      IT should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection
      with which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should
      be-attributed to what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we
      mean to the simple love of the antique-and that, again, a third
      of even the proper _poetic sentiment inspired_by their writings
      should be ascribed to a fact which, while it has strict
      connection with poetry in the abstract, and with the old British
      poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a merit
      appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
      admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their
      productions, would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a
      sense of dreamy, wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say,
      indefinable delight; on being required to point out the source of
      this so shadowy pleasure, he would be apt to speak of the quaint
      in phraseology and in general handling. This quaintness is, in
      fact, a very powerful adjunct to ideality, but in the case in
      question it arises independently of the author’s will, and is
      altogether apart from his intention. Words and their rhythm have
      varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid delight, and
      which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
      source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their
      construction, a very commonplace air. This is, of course, no
      argument against the poems now-we mean it only as against the
      poets _thew. _There is a growing desire to overrate them. The old
      English muse was frank, guileless, sincere, and although very
      learned, still learned without art. No general error evinces a
      more thorough confusion of ideas than the error of supposing
      Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth and
      Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the end-with
      the two latter the means. The poet of the “Creation” wished, by
      highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be
      moral truth-the poet of the “Ancient Mariner” to infuse the
      Poetic Sentiment through channels suggested by analysis. The one
      finished by complete failure what he commenced in the grossest
      misconception; the other, by a path which could not possibly lead
      him astray, arrived at a triumph which is not the less glorious
      because hidden from the profane eyes of the multitude. But in
      this view even the “metaphysical verse” of Cowley is but evidence
      of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And he was
      in this but a type of his school-for we may as well designate in
      this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up in
      the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a
      very perceptible general character. They used little art in
      composition. Their writings sprang immediately from the soul-and
      partook intensely of that soul’s nature. Nor is it difficult to
      perceive the tendency of this _abandon-to elevate _immeasurably
      all the energies of mind-but, again, so to mingle the greatest
      possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good things, with the
      lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as to render it
      not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind in such a
      school will be found inferior to those results in one _(ceteris
      _paribus) more artificial.

      We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the
      “Book of Gems” are such as will impart to a poetical reader the
      clearest possible idea of the beauty of the school-but if the
      intention had been merely to show the school’s character, the
      attempt might have been considered successful in the highest
      degree. There are long passages now before us of the most
      despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of their
      antiquity.. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly
      please us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be
      false. His opinion, for example, of Sir Henry Wotton’s “Verses on
      the Queen of Bohemia"-that “there are few finer things in our
      language,” is untenable and absurd.

      In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes
      of Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout
      all time. Here every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly
      concealed. No prepossession for the mere antique (and in this
      case we can imagine no other prepossession) should induce us to
      dignify with the sacred name of poetry, a series, such as this,
      of elaborate and threadbare compliments, stitched, apparently,
      together, without fancy, without plausibility, and without even
      an attempt at adaptation.

      In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with
      “The Shepherd’s Hunting” by Withers—a poem partaking, in a
      remarkable degree, of the peculiarities of “Il Penseroso.”
      Speaking of Poesy the author says:

     “By the murmur of a spring, Or the least boughs rustleling, By a
     daisy whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed, Or a shady
     bush or tree, She could more infuse in me Than all Nature’s
     beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make
     this churlish place allow Something that may sweeten gladness In
     the very gall of sadness— The dull loneness, the black shade, That
     these hanging vaults have made The strange music of the waves
     Beating on these hollow caves, This black den which rocks emboss,
     Overgrown with eldest moss, The rude portals that give light More
     to terror than delight, This my chamber of neglect
     Walled about with disrespect; From all these and this dull air A
     fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw
     comfort and delight.”

      But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the
      general character of the English antique. Something more of this
      will be found in Corbet’s “Farewell to the Fairies!” We copy a
      portion of Marvell’s “Maiden lamenting for her Fawn,” which we
      prefer-not only as a specimen of the elder poets, but in itself
      as a beautiful poem, abounding in pathos, exquisitely delicate
      imagination and truthfulness-to anything of its species:

     “It is a wondrous thing how fleet ‘Twas on those little silver
     feet, With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me
     the race, And when’t had left me far away ‘Twould stay, and run
     again, and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as
     if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses
     overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little
     wilderness; And all the spring-time of the year It only loved to
     be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft where it
     should lie, Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it,
     although before mine eyes. For in the flaxen lilies’ shade It like
     a bank of lilies laid; Upon the roses it would feed Until its lips
     even seemed to bleed, And then to me ‘twould boldly trip, And
     print those roses on my lip, But all its chief delight was still
     With roses thus itself to fill, And its pure virgin limbs to fold
     In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it lived long, it would have
     been Lilies without, roses within.”

      How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every
      syllable! It pervades all.. It comes over the sweet melody of the
      words-over the gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little
      maiden herself-even over the half-playful, half-petulant air with
      which she lingers on the beauties and good qualities of her
      favorite-like the cool shadow of a summer cloud over a bed of
      lilies and violets, “and all sweet flowers.” The whole is
      redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is an idea
      conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
      artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her
      grief, or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness _of the
      little nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured
      as it lay upon them, and could scarcely be distinguished from
      them by the once happy little damsel who went to seek her pet
      with an arch and rosy smile on her face. Consider the great
      variety of truthful and delicate thought in the few lines we have
      quoted the _wonder _of the little maiden at the fleetness of her
      favorite-the “little silver feet”—the fawn challenging his
      mistress to a race with “a pretty skipping grace,” running on
      before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her approach
      only to fly from it again-can we not distinctly perceive all
      these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,

      “And trod as if on the four winds!”

      A vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character
      of the speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each
      wind. Then consider the garden of “my own,” so overgrown,
      entangled with roses and lilies, as to be “a little
      wilderness”—the fawn loving to be there, and there “only”—the
      maiden seeking it “where it _should _lie”—and not being able to
      distinguish it from the flowers until “itself would rise”—the
      lying among the lilies “like a bank of lilies”—the loving to
      “fill itself with roses,”

        “And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies
        cold,”

      and these things being its “chief” delights-and then the
      pre-eminent beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose
      very hyperbole only renders them more true to nature when we
      consider the innocence, the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the
      passionate girl, and more passionate admiration of the bereaved
      child—

      “Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses
      within.”

      * “Book of Gems,” Edited by S. C. Hall




POEMS


                        TO
            THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX
                  THE AUTHOR OF
            “THE DRAMA OF EXILE”—
                        TO
            MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
                   OF ENGLAND
            _I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME_
      WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND WITH
            THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM
      1845                      E.A.P.




PREFACE


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

                           E. A. P.
   1845




POEMS OF LATER LIFE




THE RAVEN.


 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over
 many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded,
 nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently
 rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “‘Tis some visiter,” I muttered,
 “tapping at my chamber door— Only this, and nothing more.”
 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each
 separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I
 wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books
 surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and
 radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for
 evermore.
 And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled
 me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to
 still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “‘Tis some visiter
 entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visiter entreating
 entrance at my chamber door;— This it is, and nothing more.”
 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,”
 said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I
 was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came
 tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard
 you “—here I opened wide the door;—— Darkness there and nothing more.
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
 fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream
 before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!” This
 I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— Merely
 this, and nothing more.
 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I
 heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I,
 “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what
 thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment
 and this mystery explore;— ‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In
 there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the
 least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But,
 with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon
 a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and
 nothing more.
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave
 and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be
 shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and
 ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy
 lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the raven
 “Nevermore.”
 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
 Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot
 help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with
 seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured
 bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.”
 But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one
 word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther
 then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more
 than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow _he_
 will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said
 “Nevermore.”
 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
 “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast
 and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of
 his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of “Never—nevermore.”
 But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I
 wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then,
 upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy,
 thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly,
 ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl
 whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat
 divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet
 lining that the lamplght gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining
 with the lamplight gloating o’er, _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
 Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
 “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath
 sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth
 the raven, “Nevermore.”
 “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this
 home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—_is_ there
 balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” Quoth the raven,
 “Nevermore.”
 “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By
 that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this
 soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a
 sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant
 maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
 “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked,
 upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian
 shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath
 spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
 Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
 And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On
 the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes
 have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light
 o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from
 out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be
 lifted—nevermore!

      Published 1845.




 THE BELLS.


                                       I.
                    HEAR the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What
                    a world of merriment their melody foretells! How
                    they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of
                    night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the
                    heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline
                    delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of
                    Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so
                    musically wells From the bells, bells, bells,
                    bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and
                    the tinkling of the bells.
                                      II.
                    Hear the mellow wedding-bells Golden bells! What a
                    world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through
                    the balmy air of night How they ring out their
                    delight!— From the molten-golden notes, And all in
                    tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove
                    that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh,
                    from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony
                    voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On
                    the Future!—how it tells Of the rapture that impels
                    To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells,
                    bells, bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                    Bells, bells, bells— To the rhyming and the chiming
                    of the bells!
                                      III.
                    Hear the loud alarum bells— Brazen bells! What tale
                    of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the
                    startled ear of night How they scream out their
                    affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can
                    only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous
                    appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad
                    expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
                    Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate
                    desire, And a resolute endeavor Now—now to sit, or
                    never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the
                    bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells
                    Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar!
                    What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the
                    palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By
                    the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs
                    and flows; Yet, the ear distinctly tells, In the
                    jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks
                    and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the
                    anger of the bells— Of the bells— Of the bells,
                    bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— In the
                    clamour and the clangour of the bells!
                                   IV.
                    Hear the tolling of the bells— Iron bells! What a
                    world of solemn thought their monody compels! In
                    the silence of the night, How we shiver with
                    affright At the melancholy meaning of their tone!
                    For every sound that floats From the rust within
                    their throats Is a groan. And the people—ah, the
                    people— They that dwell up in the steeple, All
                    alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that
                    muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the
                    human heart a stone— They are neither man nor
                    woman— They are neither brute nor human— They are
                    Ghouls:— And their king it is who tolls:— And he
                    rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pæan from the
                    bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pæan of
                    the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping
                    time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the
                    pæan of the bells— Of the bells:— Keeping time,
                    time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the
                    throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells—
                    To the sobbing of the bells:— Keeping time, time,
                    time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy
                    Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells— Of the
                    bells, bells, bells:— To the tolling of the bells—
                    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells,
                    bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the
                    bells.

      1849.




ULALUME


     The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped
     and sere— The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in
     the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year: It was hard by
     the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir:— It was
     down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of
     Weir.
     Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my
     Soul— Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. There were days when my
     heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll— As the lavas
     that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek, In the
     ultimate climes of the Pole— That groan as they roll down Mount
     Yaanek In the realms of the Boreal Pole.
     Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were
     palsied and sere— Our memories were treacherous and sere; For we
     knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the
     year— (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim
     lake of Auber, (Though once we had journeyed down here) We
     remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted
     woodland of Weir.
     And now, as the night was senescent, And star-dials pointed to
     morn— As the star-dials hinted of morn— At the end of our path a
     liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous
     crescent Arose with a duplicate horn— Astarte’s bediamonded
     crescent, Distinct with its duplicate horn.
     And I said—“She is warmer than Dian: She rolls through an ether of
     sighs— She revels in a region of sighs. She has seen that the
     tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And
     has come past the stars of the Lion, To point us the path to the
     skies— To the Lethean peace of the skies— Come up, in despite of
     the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes— Come up, through
     the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes.”
     But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said—“Sadly this star I
     mistrust— Her pallor I strangely mistrust— Ah, hasten!—ah, let us
     not linger! Ah, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.” In terror she
     spoke; letting sink her Wings till they trailed in the dust— In
     agony sobbed, letting sink her Plumes till they trailed in the
     dust— Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
     I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming. Let us on, by this
     tremulous light! Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its
     Sybillic splendor is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night—
     See!—it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may
     trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright— We
     safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright,
     Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”
     Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her
     gloom— And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the
     end of the vista— But were stopped by the door of a tomb— By the
     door of a legended tomb:— And I said—“What is written, sweet
     sister, On the door of this legended tomb?” She
     replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume— ‘T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”
     Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were
     crisped and sere— As the leaves that were withering and sere— And
     I cried—“It was surely October On _this_ very night of last year,
     That I journeyed—I journeyed down here!— That I brought a dread
     burden down here— On this night, of all nights in the year, Ah,
     what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of
     Auber— This misty mid region of Weir:— Well I know, now, this dank
     tarn of Auber— This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

      1847.




TO HELEN


     I saw thee once—once only—years ago: I must not say how many—but
     not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon,
     that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway
     up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With
     quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturned faces of
     a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind
     dared to stir, unless on tiptoe— Fell on the upturn’d faces of
     these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their
     odorous souls in an ecstatic death— Fell on the upturn’d faces of
     these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By
     thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
     Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining;
     while the moon Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses, And on
     thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow!
     Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight- Was it not Fate,
     (whose name is also Sorrow,) That bade me pause before that
     garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No
     footstep stirred: the hated world an slept, Save only thee and me.
     (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two
     words!) Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked- And in an
     instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was
     enchanted!)
     The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the
     meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were
     seen no more: the very roses’ odors Died in the arms of the
     adoring airs. All—all expired save thee—save less than thou: Save
     only the divine light in thine eyes- Save but the soul in thine
     uplifted eyes. I saw but them—they were the world to me! I saw but
     them—saw only them for hours, Saw only them until the moon went
     down. What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten
     Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a woe, yet how
     sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an
     ambition; yet how deep- How fathomless a capacity for love!
     But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western
     couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing
     trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained; They would not
     go—they never yet have gone; Lighting my lonely pathway home that
     night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since; They follow
     me—they lead me through the years. They are my ministers—yet I
     their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle— My duty, to
     be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric
     fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with
     Beauty (which is Hope), And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel
     to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the
     meridian glare of day I see them still—two sweetly scintillant
     Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!




ANNABEL LEE.


     It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a
     maiden lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE;— And
     this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be
     loved by me.
     _I_ was a child and _She_ was a child, In this kingdom by the sea,
     But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my ANNABEL
     LEE— With a love that the wingéd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and
     me.
     And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the
     sea, A wind blew out of a cloud by night Chilling my ANNABEL LEE;
     So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To
     shut her up, in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
     The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me;
     Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the
     sea) That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling And killing my
     ANNABEL LEE.
     But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who
     were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the
     angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever
     dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:—
     For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the
     beautiful ANNABEL LEE; And the stars never rise but I see the
     bright eyes Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; And so, all the
     night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my
     life and my bride In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb
     by the side of the sea.

      1849.




A VALENTINE.


     For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, Brightly
     expressive as the twins of Loeda, Shall find her own sweet name,
     that, nestling lies Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
     Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure Divine—a
     talisman—an amulet That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the
     measure— The words—the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest
     point, or you may lose your labor! And yet there is in this no
     Gordian knot
     Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely
     comprehend the plot. Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
     Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_ Three eloquent words
     oft uttered in the hearing Of poets, by poets—as the name is a
     poet’s, too. Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight
     Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando— Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease
     trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best _you_
     can do.

      1846.

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




AN ENIGMA


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

      1847. TO MY MOTHER

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

      1849.

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




FOR ANNIE


     Thank Heaven! the crisis— The danger is past, And the lingering
     illness Is over at last— And the fever called “Living” Is
     conquered at last.
     Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I
     lie at full length— But no matter!—I feel I am better at length.
     And I rest so composedly, Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might
     fancy me dead— Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead.
     The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted
     now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:—ah, that horrible,
     Horrible throbbing!
     The sickness—the nausea— The pitiless pain— Have ceased, with the
     fever That maddened my brain— With the fever called “Living” That
     burned in my brain.
     And oh! of all tortures _That_ torture the worst Has abated—the
     terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion
     accurst:— I have drank of a water That quenches all thirst:—
     Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a
     very few Feet under ground— From a cavern not very far Down under
     ground.
     And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy
     And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed— And, to
     _sleep_, you must slumber In just such a bed.
     My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never
     Regretting its roses— Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses:
     For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About
     it, of pansies— A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies— With rue
     and the beautiful Puritan pansies.
     And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And
     the beauty of Annie— Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie.
     She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell
     gently To sleep on her breast— Deeply to sleep From the heaven of
     her breast.
     When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she
     prayed to the angels To keep me from harm— To the queen of the
     angels To shield me from harm.
     And I lie so composedly, Now in my bed, (Knowing her love) That
     you fancy me dead— And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed, (With
     her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead— That you shudder to
     look at me, Thinking me dead:—
     But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky,
     For it sparkles with Annie— It glows with the light Of the love of
     my Annie— With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

      1849.




TO F——.


     BELOVED! amid the earnest woes That crowd around my earthly path—
     (Drear path, alas! where grows Not even one lonely rose)— My soul
     at least a solace hath In dreams of thee, and therein knows An
     Eden of bland repose.
     And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In
     some tumultuos sea— Some ocean throbbing far and free With
     storms—but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o’re
     that one bright island smile.

      1845.




TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD


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

      1845.




ELDORADO.


         Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow,
         Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado.
         But he grew old— This knight so bold— And o’er his heart a
         shadow Fell, as he found No spot of ground That looked like
         Eldorado.
         And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim
         shadow— ‘Shadow,’ said he, ‘Where can it be— This land of
         Eldorado?’
         ‘Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the
         Shadow, Ride, boldly ride,’ The shade replied,— ‘If you seek
         for Eldorado!’

      1849.

                     EULALIE
                          I  DWELT alone In a world of moan, And my
                          soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and
                          gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride— Till
                          the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my
                          smiling bride.
                         Ah, less—less bright The stars of the night
                         Than the eyes of the radiant girl! And never a
                         flake That the vapour can make With the
                         moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with
                         the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl— Can
                         compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most
                         humble and careless curl.
                    Now Doubt—now Pain Come never again, For her soul
                    gives me sigh for sigh, And all day long Shines,
                    bright and strong, Astarté within the sky, While
                    ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—
                    While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet
                    eye.

      1845.

      A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
     Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus
     much let me avow— You are not wrong, who deem That my days have
     been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day,
     In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less _gone_? _All_
     that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
     I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within
     my hand Grains of the golden sand— How few! yet how they creep
     Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep—while I weep! O God!
     can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save
     _One_ from the pitiless wave? Is _all_ that we see or seem But a
     dream within a dream?.

      1849




TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)


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

      1847.




TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)


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

      1848.




THE CITY IN THE SEA.


     Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying
     alone Far down within the dim West, Wherethe good and the bad and
     the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There
     shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble
     not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds
     forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie.
     No rays from the holy heaven come down On the long night-time of
     that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets
     silently— Gleams up the pinnacles far and free— Up domes—up
     spires—up kingly halls— Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— Up shadowy
     long-forgotten bowers Of scultured ivy and stone flowers— Up many
     and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The
     viol, the violet, and the vine.
     Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the
     turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While
     from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down.
     There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous
     waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol’s diamond
     eye— Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed;
     For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass— No
     swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea— No
     heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene.
     But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave—there is a movement there!
     As if the towers had thrown aside, In slightly sinking, the dull
     tide— As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy
     Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow— The hours are breathing
     faint and low— And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that
     town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
     Shall do it reverence.

      1845.




THE SLEEPER.


     At midnight in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon.
     An opiate vapour, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And,
     softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top. Steals
     drowsily and musically Into the univeral valley. The rosemary nods
     upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog
     about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest; Looking like Lethe,
     see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not,
     for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies (Her
     easement open to the skies) Irene, with her Destinies!
     Oh, lady bright! can it be right— This window open to the night?
     The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice
     drop— The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber
     in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully—so fearfully—
     Above the closed and fringed lid ‘Neath which thy slumb’ring sould
     lies hid, That o’er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the
     shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thous no fear? Why and
     what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come p’er far-off seas,
     A wonder to these garden trees! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy
     dress! Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all
     solemn silentness!
     The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep!
     Heaven have her in its sacred keep! This chamber changed for one
     more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that
     she may lie Forever with unopened eye, While the dim sheeted
     ghosts go by!
     My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be
     deep! Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim
     and old, For her may some tall vault unfold— Some vault that oft
     hath flung its black And winged pannels fluttering back,
     Triumphant, o’er the crested palls, Of her grand family funerals—
     Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath
     thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone— Some tomb fromout whose
     sounding door She ne’er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to
     think, poor child of sin! It was the dead who groaned within.

      1845.

 BRIDAL BALLAD.
     THE ring is on my hand, And the wreath is on my brow; Satins and
     jewels grand Are all at my command, And I am happy now.
     And my lord he loves me well; But, when first he breathed his vow,
     I felt my bosom swell— For the words rang as a knell, And the
     voice seemed _his_ who fell In the battle down the dell, And who
     is happy now.
     But he spoke to re-asure me, And he kissed my pallid brow, While a
     reverie came o’re me, And to the church-yard bore me, And I sighed
     to him before me, Thinking him dead D’Elormie, “Oh, I am happy
     now!”
     And thus the words were spoken, And this the plighted vow, And,
     though my faith be broken, And, though my heart be broken, Behold
     the golden token That _proves_ me happy now!
     Would God I could awaken! For I dream I know not how, And my soul
     is sorely shaken Lest an evil step be taken,— Lest the dead who is
     forsaken May not be happy now.

      1845.




NOTES


      1. “The Raven” was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in
      the New York “Evening Mirror"-a paper its author was then
      assistant editor of. It was prefaced by the following words,
      understood to have been written by N. P. Willis: “We are
      permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second
      number of the “American Review,” the following remarkable poem by
      Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single
      example of ‘fugitive poetry’ ever published in this country, and
      unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly
      ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of
      imaginative lift and ‘pokerishness.’ It is one of those ‘dainties
      bred in a book’ which we feed on. It will stick to the memory of
      everybody who reads it.” In the February number of the “American
      Review” the poem was published as by “Quarles,” and it was
      introduced by the following note, evidently suggested if not
      written by Poe himself.

      [“The following lines from a correspondent-besides the deep,
      quaint strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of
      some ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was
      doubtless intended by the author-appears to us one of the most
      felicitous specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time
      met our eye. The resources of English rhythm for varieties of
      melody, measure, and sound, producing corresponding diversities
      of effect, having been thoroughly studied, much more perceived,
      by very few poets in the language. While the classic tongues,
      especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, several
      advantages for versification over our own, chiefly through
      greater abundance of spondaic: feet, we have other and very great
      advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is
      nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients had in
      common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of ‘The
      Raven’ arises from alliteration, and the studious use of similar
      sounds in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be
      noted that if all the verses were like the second, they might
      properly be placed merely in short lines, producing a not
      uncommon form; but the presence in all the others of one
      line-mostly the second in the verse” (stanza?)—“which flows
      continuously, with only an aspirate pause in the middle, like
      that before the short line in the Sapphic Adonic, while the fifth
      has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with any part
      besides, gives the versification an entirely different effect. We
      could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
      better understood.”—ED. “Am. Rev.”]

      2. The bibliographical history of “The Bells” is curious. The
      subject, and some lines of the original version, having been
      suggested by the poet’s friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out
      the first draft of the poem, headed it, “The Bells, By Mrs. M. A.
      Shew.” This draft, now the editor’s property, consists of only
      seventeen lines, and read thus:

                       I.
     The bells!-ah, the bells! The little silver bells! How fairy-like
     a melody there floats From their throats— From their merry little
     throats— From the silver, tinkling throats Of the bells, bells,
     bells— Of the bells!
                       II.
     The bells!-ah, the bells!
     The heavy iron bells! How horrible a monody there floats From
     their throats— From their deep-toned throats— From their
     melancholy throats! How I shudder at the notes Of the bells,
     bells, bells— Of the bells!

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

      3. This poem was first published in Colton’s “American Review”
      for December, 1847, as “To—Ulalume: a Ballad.” Being reprinted
      immediately in the “Home Journal,” it was copied into various
      publications with the name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended,
      and was ascribed to him. When first published, it contained the
      following additional stanza which Poe subsequently, at the
      suggestion of Mrs. Whitman, wisely suppressed:

     Said we then—we two, then—“Ah, can it Have been that the
     woodlandish ghouls— The pitiful, the merciful ghouls— To bar up
     our path and to ban it From the secret that lies in these wolds—
     Had drawn up the spectre of a planet From the limbo of lunary
     souls— This sinfully scintillant planet From the Hell of the
     planetary souls?”

      4. “To Helen!” (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published until
      November, 1848, although written several months earlier. It first
      appeared in the “Union Magazine,” and with the omission, contrary
      to the knowledge or desire of Poe, of the line, “Oh, God! oh,
      Heaven—how my heart beats in coupling those two words.”

      5. “Annabel Lee” was written early in 1849, and is evidently an
      expression of the poet’s undying love for his deceased bride,
      although at least one of his lady admirers deemed it a response
      to her admiration. Poe sent a copy of the ballad to the “Union
      Magazine,” in which publication it appeared in January, 1850,
      three months after the author’s death. While suffering from “hope
      deferred” as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of “Annabel Lee”
      to the editor of the “Southern Literary Messenger,” who published
      it in the November number of his periodical, a month after Poe’s
      death. In the meantime the poet’s own copy, left among his
      papers, passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his
      works, and he quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe, in the New
      York “Tribune,” before any one else had an opportunity of
      publishing it.

      6. “A Valentine,” one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood,
      appears to have been written early in 1846.

      7. “An Enigma,” addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewis (“Stella”),
      was sent to that lady in a letter, in November, 1847, and the
      following March appeared in Sartain’s “Union Magazine.”

      8. The sonnet, “To My Mother” (Maria Clemm), was sent for
      publication to the short-lived “Flag of our Union,” early in
      1849,’ but does not appear to have been issued until after its
      author’s death, when it appeared in the “Leaflets of Memory” for
      1850.

      9. “For Annie” was first published in the “Flag of our Union,” in
      the spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue,
      shortly afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the
      “Home Journal.”

      10. “To F——” (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the “Broadway
      journal” for April, 1845. These lines are but slightly varied
      from those inscribed “To Mary,” in the “Southern Literary
      Messenger” for July, 1835, and subsequently republished, with the
      two stanzas transposed, in “Graham’s Magazine” for March, 1842,
      as “To One Departed.”

      11. “To F——s S. O—d,” a portion of the poet’s triune tribute to
      Mrs. Osgood, was published in the “Broadway Journal” for
      September, 1845. The earliest version of these lines appeared in
      the “Southern Literary Messenger” for September, 1835, as “Lines
      written in an Album,” and was addressed to Eliza White, the
      proprietor’s daughter. Slightly revised, the poem reappeared in
      Burton’s “Gentleman’s Magazine” for August, 1839, as “To—.”

      12. Although “Eldorado” was published during Poe’s lifetime, in
      1849, in the “Flag of our Union,” it does not appear to have ever
      received the author’s finishing touches.




POEMS OF MANHOOD




LENORE


     AH broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the
     bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy De
     Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?—weep now or never more! See! on yon
     drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the
     burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!— An anthem for the
     queenliest dead that ever died so young— A dirge for her the
     doubly dead in that she died so young.
     “Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her
     pride, “And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that
     she died! “How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be
     sung “By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous
     tongue “That did to death the innocent that died, and died so
     young?”
      _Peccavimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to
      God so solemnly the dead may feel so wrong! The sweet Lenore hath
      “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside Leaving thee wild for
      the dear child that should have been thy bride— For her, the fair
      and _debonair_, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow
      hair but not within her eyes— The life still there, upon her
      hair—the death upon her eyes.
     “Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, “But
     waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days! “Let no
     bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, “Should
     catch the note, as it doth float—up from the damned Earth. “To
     friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—
     “From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven— “From
     grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”




TO ONE IN PARADISE.


     THOU wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pine— A
     green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed
     with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine.
     Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
     But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, “On!
     on!”—but o’er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute,
     motionless, aghast!
     For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o’er! No more—no
     more—no more— (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands
     upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the
     stricken eagle soar!
     And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where
     thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams— In what
     ethereal dances, By what eternal streams.

      1835.




THE COLISEUM.


     TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation
     left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length—at
     length—after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
     (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an
     altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
     My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
     Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation!
     and dim Night! I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— O spells
     more sure than e’er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of
     Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew
     down from out the quiet stars!
     Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic
     eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
     Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind,
     now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the
     monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by
     the wanlight—wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent
     lizard of the stones!
     But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— These mouldering
     plinths—these sad and blackened shafts— These vague
     entablatures—this crumbling frieze— These shattered cornices—this
     wreck—this ruin— These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they
     all— All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive
     Hours to Fate and me?
     “Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“not all! “Prophetic sounds and
     loud, arise forever “From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
     “As melody from Memnon to the Sun. “We rule the hearts of
     mightiest men—we rule “With a despotic sway all giant minds. “We
     are not impotent—we pallid stones. “Not all our power is gone—not
     all our fame— “Not all the magic of our high renown— “Not all the
     wonder that encircles us— “Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
     “Not all the memories that hang upon “And cling around about us as
     a garment, “Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”

      1833.




THE HAUNTED PALACE.


     IN the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a
     fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the
     monarch Thought’s dominion— It stood there! Never seraph spread a
     pinion Over fabric half so fair.
     Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow,
     (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago,) And every gentle
     air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and
     pallid, A winged odour went away.
     Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw
     Spirits moving musically, To a lute’s well-tuned law, Round about
     a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene) In state his glory well
     befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen.
     And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door,
     Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling
     evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In
     voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king.
     But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high
     estate. (Ah, let us mourn!—for never sorrow Shall dawn upon him
     desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and
     bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
     And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten
     windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant
     melody, While, lie a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A
     hideous throng rush out forever And laugh—but smile no more.

      1838.




THE CONQUEROR WORM.


     LO! ‘tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel
     throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a
     theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra
     breathes fitfully The music of the spheres.
     Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And
     hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At
     bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro,
     Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo!
     That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its
     Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through
     a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of
     Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.
     But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red
     thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it
     writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the
     angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.
     Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The
     curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And
     the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That
     the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

      1838.




SILENCE


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

      1840.




DREAM-LAND


        BY a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only,
        Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns
        upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate
        dim Thule— From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of
        SPACE—out of TIME.
         Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves,
         and Titian woods, With forms that no man can discover For the
         dews that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas
         without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto
         skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone
         waters—lone and dead,— Their still waters—still and chilly
         With the snows of the lolling lily.
         By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and
         dead,— Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the
         lolling lily,— By the mountains—near the river Murmuring
         lowly, murmuring ever,— By the grey woods,—by the swamp Where
         the toad and the newt encamp,— By the dismal tarns and pools
         Where dwell the Ghouls,— By each spot the most unholy— In each
         nook most melancholy,— There the traveller meets aghast
         Sheeted Memories of the Past— Shrouded forms that start and
         sigh As they pass the wanderer by— White-robed forms of
         friends long given, In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
         For the heart whose woes are legion ‘Tis a peaceful, soothing
         region— For the spirit that walks in shadow ‘Tis—oh ‘tis an
         Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May
         not—dare not openly view it; Never its mysteries are exposed
         To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath
         forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul
         that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
         By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only,
         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns
         upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim
         Thule.

      1844.




HYMN


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

      1835.




TO ZANTE


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

      1837.




SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”

      AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.


                                 I.
              ROME.—A Hall in a Palace  Alessandra and Castiglione.
      Alessandra.  Thou art sad, Castiglione.
      Castiglione.  Sad!—not I. Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in
      Rome! A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, Will make
      thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
      Aless.  Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing Thy
      happiness!—what ails thee, cousin of mine? Why didst thou sigh so
      deeply?
      Cas.  Did I sign? I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, A
      silly—a most silly fashion I have When I am very happy. Did I
      sigh?                         (sighing.)
      Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged Too much
      of late, and I am vexed to see it. Late hours and wine,
      Castiglione,—these Will ruin thee! thou art already altered— Thy
      looks are haggard—nothing so wears away The constitution as late
      hours and wine.
      Cas. (musing.)  Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep
      sorrow— Wears it away like evil hours and wine. I will amend.
      Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop Thy riotous company,
      too—fellows low born— Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s
      heir And Alessandra’s husband.
      Cas.  I will drop them.
      Aless.   Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more To thy dress
      and equipage—they are over plain For thy lofty rank and
      fashion—much depends Upon appearances.
      Cas.  I’ll see to it.
      Aless. Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir, To a becoming
      carriage—much thou wantest In dignity.
      Cas.  Much, much, oh! much I want In proper dignity.
      Aless.(haughtily)  Thou mockest me, sir!
      Cas. (abstractedly.)  Sweet, gentle Lalage!
      Aless. Heard I aright? I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage! Sir
      Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming?
      he’s not well! What ails thee, sir?
      Cas. (startling.)  Cousin! fair cousin!—madam! I crave thy
      pardon—indeed I am not well— Your hand from off my shoulder, if
      you please. This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!
                                                     Enter Di Broglio.
      Di Broglio.  My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey?—what’s the matter?
      (observing Alessandra) I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss
      her, You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute! I’ve news for
      you both. Politian is expected Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of
      Leicester! We’ll have him at the wedding. ‘Tis his first visit To
      the imperial city.
      Aless. What! Politian Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
      Di Brog.  The same, my love. We’ll have him at the wedding. A man
      quite young In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him, But
      Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy Pre-eminent in arts and
      arms, and wealth, And high descent. We’ll have him at the
      wedding.
      Aless. I have heard much of this Politian. Gay, volatile and
      giddy—is he not? And little given to thinking.
      Di Brog.  Far from it, love. No branch, they say, of all
      philosophy So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. Learned as
      few are learned.
      Aless. ‘Tis very strange! I have known men have seen Politian And
      sought his company. They speak of him As of one who entered madly
      into life, Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
      Cas.  Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian And know him well—nor
      learned nor mirthful he. He is a dreamer and a man shut out From
      common passions.
      Di Brog.  Children, we disagree. Let us go forth and taste the
      fragrant air Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear Politian
      was a melancholy man?                             (exeunt.)
                            II
    ROME. A Lady’s apartment, with a window open and looking into a
    garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie
    some books and a hand mirror. In the background Jacinta (a servant
    maid) leans carelessly upon a chair.
      Lal. [Lalage] Jacinta! is it thou?
      Jac. [Jacinta] (pertly.) Yes, Ma’am, I’m here.
      Lal.   I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. Sit
      down!—Let not my presence trouble you— Sit down!—for I am humble,
      most humble.
      Jac. (aside.) ‘Tis time. (Jacinta seats herself in a side-long
      manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and
      regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues
      to read. )
      Lal. “It in another climate, so he said, “Bore a bright golden
      flower, but not i’ this soil!” (pauses—turns over some leaves,
      and resumes) “No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—
      “But Ocean ever to refresh mankind “Breathes the shrill spirit of
      the western wind.” O, beautiful!—most beautiful—how like To what
      my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! O happy land (pauses) She
      died!—the maiden died! A still more happy maiden who couldst die!
      Jacinta! (Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently
      resumes.) Again!—a similar tale Told of a beauteous dame beyond
      the sea! Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—
      “She died full young”—one Bossola answers him— “I think not
      so—her infelicity “Seemed to have years too many”—Ah luckless
      lady! Jacinta! (still no answer)
      Here ‘s a far sterner story, But like—oh, very like in its
      despair— Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily A thousand
      hearts—losing at length her own. She died. Thus endeth the
      history—and her maids Lean over and weep—two gentle maids With
      gentle names—Eiros and Charmion! Rainbow and Dove!——Jacinta!
      Jac. (pettishly.) Madam, what is it?
      Lal.  Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind As go down in the
      library and bring me The Holy Evangelists.
      Jac. Pshaw!   (exit.)
      Lal. If there be balm For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is
      there! Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble Will there be
      found—“dew sweeter far than that Which hangs like chains of pearl
      on Hermon hill.” (re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the
      table.) There, ma’am, ‘s the book. Indeed she is very
      troublesome.  (aside.)
      Lal. (astonished.)  What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done
      aught To grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry. For thou hast
      served me long and ever been Trust-worthy and respectful.        
                (resumes her reading.)
      Jac. I can’t believe She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me
      all.    (aside.)
      Lal. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me Thou hast not
      spoken lately of thy wedding. How fares good Ugo?—and when is it
      to be? Can I do aught?—is there no farther aid Thou needest,
      Jacinta?
      Jac. Is there no farther aid! That’s meant for me. (aside) I’m
      sure, madam, you need not Be always throwing those jewels in my
      teeth.
      Lal. Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta, I thought not of the
      jewels.
      Jac. Oh! perhaps not! But then I might have sworn it. After all,
      There ‘s Ugo says the ring is only paste, For he ‘s sure the
      Count Castiglione never Would have given a real diamond to such
      as you; And at the best I’m certain, Madam, you cannot Have use
      for jewels now. But I might have sworn it.          (exit.)
      (Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—after
      a short pause raises it.)
      Lal.  Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this? Thy servant maid!—but
      courage!—‘tis but a viper Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee
      to the soul! (taking up the mirror) Ha! here at least ‘s a
      friend—too much a friend In earlier days—a friend will not
      deceive thee. Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
      A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not Though it be rife with
      woe: It answers me. It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
      And Beauty long deceased—remembers me Of Joy departed—Hope, the
      Seraph Hope, Inurned and entombed:—now, in a tone Low, sad, and
      solemn, but most audible, Whispers of early grave untimely
      yawning For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true—thou liest not!
      Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break— Castiglione lied who
      said he loved— Thou true—he false!—false!—false! (While she
      speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and approaches unobserved.)
      Monk. Refuge thou hast, Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of
      eternal things! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
      Lal. (arising hurriedly.)  I cannot pray!—My soul is at war with
      God! The frightful sounds of merriment below Disturb my
      senses—go! I cannot pray— The sweet airs from the garden worry
      me! Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment Fills me
      with dread—thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe!
      Monk. Think of thy precious soul!
      Lal.  Think of my early days!—think of my father And mother in
      Heaven think of our quiet home, And the rivulet that ran before
      the door! Think of my little sisters!—think of them! And think of
      me!—think of my trusting love And confidence—his vows—my
      ruin—think—think Of my unspeakable misery!—begone! Yet stay! yet
      stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer And penitence? Didst thou
      not speak of faith And vows before the throne?
      Monk.  I did.
      Lal. Lal. ‘Tis well. There is a vow were fitting should be made—
      A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, A solemn vow!
      Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well!
      Lal.  Father, this zeal is anything but well! Hast thou a
      crucifix fit for this thing? A crucifix whereon to register This
      sacred vow?                             (he hands her his own)
      Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no!                            (shuddering)
      Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man, Thy raiments and thy
      ebony cross affright me! Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,— I
      have a crucifix Methinks ‘twere fitting The deed—the vow—the
      symbol of the deed— And the deed’s register should tally, father!
                  (draws a cross-handled dagger, and raises it on high)
                  Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine Is written
                  in Heaven!
      Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter, And speak a purpose
      unholy—thy lips are livid— Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the
      wrath divine! Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash! Swear
      not the oath—oh, swear it not!
      Lal. ‘Tis sworn!
                          III.
        An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar.
       Baldazzar.———Arouse thee now, Politian! Thou must not—nay
       indeed, indeed, shalt not Give away unto these humors. Be
       thyself! Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, And live,
       for now thou diest!
       Politian.  Not so, Baldazzar! Surely I live.
       Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me To see thee thus.
      Pol.  Baldazzar, it doth grieve me To give thee cause for grief,
      my honoured friend. Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me
      do? At thy behest I will shake off that nature Which from my,
      forefathers I did inherit, Which with my mother’s milk I did
      imbibe, And be no more Politian, but some other. Command me, sir!
      Bal.  To the field, then—to the field— To the senate or the
      field.
      Pol. Alas! Alas! There is an imp would follow me even there!
      There is an imp hath followed me even there! There is—what voice
      was that?
      Bal.  I heard it not. I heard not any voice except thine own, And
      the echo of thine own.
      Pol.  Then I but dreamed.
      Bal.  Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp—the court, Befit
      thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls— And her the trumpet-tongued
      thou wilt not hear In hearkening to imaginary sounds And phantom
      voices.
      Pol.  It is a phantom voice! Didst thou not hear it then?
      Bal.  I heard it not.
      Pol.  Thou heardst it not!—Baldazaar, speak no more To me,
      Politian, of thy camps and courts. Oh! I am sick, sick, sick,
      even unto death, Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities Of the
      populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile! We have been boys
      together—schoolfellows— And now are friends—yet shall not be so
      long— For in the eternal city thou shalt do me A kind and gentle
      office, and a Power— A Power august, benignant and supreme— Shall
      then absolve thee of all further duties Unto thy friend.
      Bal.  Thou speakest a fearful riddle I will not understand.
      Pol.  Yet now as Fate Approaches, and the Hours are breathing
      low, The sands of Time are changed to golden grains, And dazzle
      me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas! I cannot die, having within my heart
      So keen a relish for the beautiful As hath been kindled within
      it. Methinks the air Is balmier now than it was wont to be— Rich
      melodies are floating in the winds— A rarer loveliness bedecks
      the earth— And with a holier lustre the quiet moon Sitteth in
      Heaven.—Hist! hist! thou canst not say Thou hearest not now,
      Baldazzar?
      Bal.  Indeed I hear not.
      Pol.  Not hear it!—listen now!—listen!—the faintest sound And yet
      the sweetest that ear ever heard! A lady’s voice!—and sorrow in
      the tone! Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
      Again!—again!—how solemnly it falls Into my heart of hearts! that
      eloquent voice Surely I never heard—yet it were well Had I but
      heard it with its thrilling tones In earlier days!
      Bal.  I myself hear it now. Be still!—the voice, if I mistake not
      greatly, Proceeds from yonder lattice—which you may see Very
      plainly through the window—it belongs, Does it not? unto this
      palace of the Duke. The singer is undoubtedly beneath The roof of
      his Excellency—and perhaps Is even that Alessandra of whom he
      spoke As the betrothed of Castiglione, His son and heir.
      Pol.  Be still!—it comes again!
      Voice        “And is thy heart so strong (very faintly)   As for
      to leave me thus Who hath loved thee so long
              In wealth and woe among? And is thy heart so strong As
              for to leave me thus? Say nay—say nay!”
      Bal.  The song is English, and I oft have heard it In merry
      England—never so plaintively— Hist! hist! it comes again!
      Voice            “Is it so strong (more loudly)    As for to
      leave me thus Who hath loved thee so long In wealth and woe
      among? And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus? Say
      nay—say nay!”
      Bal.  ‘Tis hushed and all is still!
      Pol.  All is not still!
      Bal.  Let us go down.
      Pol.  Go down, Baldazzar, go!
      Bal.  The hour is growing late—the Duke awaits use— Thy presence
      is expected in the hall Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
      Voice           “Who hath loved thee so long (distinctly)       
      In wealth and woe among,
                          And is thy heart so strong?
                               Say nay—say nay!”
      Bal.  Let us descend!—‘tis time. Politian, give These fancies to
      the wind. Remember, pray, Your bearing lately savored much of
      rudeness Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember
      Pol.  Remember? I do. Lead on! I do remember.
                                                  (going.) Let us
                                                  descend. Believe me I
                                                  would give, Freely
                                                  would give the broad
                                                  lands of my earldom
                                                  To look upon the face
                                                  hidden by yon
                                                  lattice— “To gaze
                                                  upon that veiled
                                                  face, and hear Once
                                                  more that silent
                                                  tongue.”
      Bal.  Let me beg you, sir, Descend with me—the Duke may be
      offended. Let us go down, I pray you.
      (Voice loudly) Say nay!—say nay!
      Pol. (aside)  ‘Tis strange!—‘tis very strange—methought the voice
      Chimed in with my desires, and bade me stay!
                                     (approaching the window.) Sweet
                                     voice! I heed thee, and will
                                     surely stay. Now be this Fancy, by
                                     Heaven, or be it Fate, Still will
                                     I not descend. Baldazzar, make
                                     Apology unto the Duke for me; I go
                                     not down to-night.
      Bal.  Your lordship’s pleasure Shall be attended to. Good-night,
      Politian.
      Pol.  Good-night, my friend, good-night.
                           IV.
             The gardens of a Palace—Moonlight Lalage and Politian.
      Lalge.  And dost thou speak of love To me, Politian?—dost thou
      speak of love To Lalage?—ah, woe—ah, woe is me! This mockery is
      most cruel—most cruel indeed!
      Politian.  Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears Will
      madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage— Be comforted! I know—I know it
      all, And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest And
      beautiful Lalage!—turn here thine eyes! Thou askest me if I could
      speak of love, Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
      Thou askest me that—and thus I answer thee— Thus on my bended
      knee I answer thee.                    (kneeling.) Sweet Lalage,
      I love thee—love thee—love thee; Thro’ good and ill—thro’ weal
      and wo I love thee. Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
      Thrills with intenser love than I for thee. Not on God’s altar,
      in any time or clime, Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
      Within my spirit for thee. And do I love?                
      (arising.) Even for thy woes I love thee—even for thy woes- Thy
      beauty and thy woes.
      Lal.  Alas, proud Earl, Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
      How, in thy father’s halls, among the maidens Pure and
      reproachless of thy princely line, Could the dishonored Lalage
      abide? Thy wife, and with a tainted memory- MY seared and
      blighted name, how would it tally With the ancestral honors of
      thy house, And with thy glory?
      Pol.  Speak not to me of glory! I hate—I loathe the name; I do
      abhor The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. Art thou not Lalage and
      I Politian? Do I not love—art thou not beautiful- What need we
      more? Ha! glory!—now speak not of it. By all I hold most sacred
      and most solemn- By all my wishes now—my fears hereafter- By all
      I scorn on earth and hope in heaven- There is no deed I would
      more glory in, Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory And
      trample it under foot. What matters it- What matters it, my
      fairest, and my best, That we go down unhonored and forgotten
      Into the dust—so we descend together. Descend together—and
      then—and then, perchance-
      Lal.  Why dost thou pause, Politian?
      Pol.  And then, perchance Arise together, Lalage, and roam The
      starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, And still-
      Lal.  Why dost thou pause, Politian?
      Pol.  And still together—together.
      Lal.  Now Earl of Leicester! Thou lovest me, and in my heart of
      hearts I feel thou lovest me truly.
      Pol.  Oh, Lalage!
                                       (throwing himself upon his
                                       knee.) And lovest thou me?
      Lal.  Hist! hush! within the gloom Of yonder trees methought a
      figure passed- A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and
      noiseless- Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
                                             (walks across and
                                             returns.) I was
                                             mistaken—‘twas but a giant
                                             bough Stirred by the
                                             autumn wind. Politian!
      Pol.  My Lalage—my love! why art thou moved? Why dost thou turn
      so pale? Not Conscience’ self, Far less a shadow which thou
      likenest to it, Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night
      wind Is chilly—and these melancholy boughs Throw over all things
      a gloom.
      Lal.  Politian! Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the
      land With which all tongues are busy—a land new found—
      Miraculously found by one of Genoa— A thousand leagues within the
      golden west? A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
      And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, And mountains,
      around whose towering summits the winds Of Heaven untrammelled
      flow—which air to breathe Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom
      hereafter In days that are to come?
      Pol.  O, wilt thou—wilt thou Fly to that Paradise—my Lalage, wilt
      thou Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten, And
      Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. And life shall then be
      mine, for I will live For thee, and in thine eyes—and thou shalt
      be No more a mourner—but the radiant Joys Shall wait upon thee,
      and the angel Hope Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee And
      worship thee, and call thee my beloved, My own, my beautiful, my
      love, my wife, My all;—oh, wilt thou—wilt thou, Lalage, Fly
      thither with me?
      Lal.  A deed is to be done— Castiglione lives!
      Pol.  And he shall die!                                (exit)
      Lal. (after a pause.)  And—he—shall—die!—alas! Castiglione die?
      Who spoke the words? Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian!
      Thou art not gone—thou are not gone, Politian! I feel thou art
      not gone—yet dare not look, Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst
      not go With those words upon thy lips—O, speak to me! And let me
      hear thy voice—one word—one word, To say thou art not gone,—one
      little sentence, To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate My
      womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone- O speak to me! I
      knew thou wouldst not go! I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not,
      durst not go. Villain, thou art not gone—thou mockest me! And
      thus I clutch thee—thus!—He is gone, he is gone Gone—gone. Where
      am I?—‘tis well—‘tis very well! So that the blade be keen—the
      blow be sure, ‘Tis well, ‘tis very well—alas! alas!
                            V.
                 The suburbs. Politian alone.
      Politian.  This weakness grows upon me. I am faint, And much I
      fear me ill—it will not do To die ere I have lived!—Stay, stay
      thy hand, O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers Of Darkness
      and the Tomb, O pity me! O pity me! let me not perish now, In the
      budding of my Paradisal Hope! Give me to live yet—yet a little
      while: ‘Tis I who pray for life—I who so late Demanded but to
      die!—what sayeth the Count?
                    Enter Baldazzar.
      Baldazzar.  That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud Between
      the Earl Politian and himself. He doth decline your cartel.
      Pol.  What didst thou say? What answer was it you brought me,
      good Baldazzar? With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
      Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day, Or one more worthy Italy,
      methinks No mortal eyes have seen!—what said the Count?
      Bal.  That he, Castiglione’ not being aware Of any feud existing,
      or any cause Of quarrel between your lordship and himself, Cannot
      accept the challenge.
      Pol.  It is most true— All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
      When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid Ungenial Britain which
      we left so lately, A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free From
      the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say?
      Bal.  No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir: The Count
      Castiglione will not fight, Having no cause for quarrel.
      Pol.  Now this is true- All very true. Thou art my friend,
      Baldazzar, And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do me A piece of
      service; wilt thou go back and say Unto this man, that I, the
      Earl of Leicester, Hold him a villain?—thus much, I prythee, say
      Unto the Count—it is exceeding just He should have cause for
      quarrel.
      Bal.  My lord!—my friend!-
      Pol.  (aside.) ‘Tis he!—he comes himself? (aloud) Thou reasonest
      well. I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message- Well!—I
      will think of it—I will not send it. Now prythee, leave me—hither
      doth come a person With whom affairs of a most private nature I
      would adjust.
      Bal.  I go—to-morrow we meet, Do we not?—at the Vatican.
      Pol.  At the Vatican.                                     (exit
      Bal.)
                    Enter Castigilone.
      Cas.  The Earl of Leicester here!
      Pol.  I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest, Dost thou not?
      that I am here.
      Cas.  My lord, some strange, Some singular
      mistake—misunderstanding— Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast
      been urged Thereby, in heat of anger, to address Some words most
      unaccountable, in writing, To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
      Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware Of nothing which might
      warrant thee in this thing, Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am
      I right? ‘Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we all Do err at times.
      Pol.  Draw, villain, and prate no more!
      Cas.  Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee then at once, Proud
      Earl!                                   (draws.)
      Pol.  (drawing.)  Thus to the expiatory tomb, Untimely sepulchre,
      I do devote thee In the name of Lalage!
      Cas.  (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of
      the stage)
                      Of Lalage! Hold off—thy sacred hand!—avaunt, I
                      say! Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed I dare
                      not.
      Pol.  Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count? Shall I
      be baffled thus?—now this is well; Didst say thou darest not? Ha!
      Cas.  I dare not—dare not— Hold off thy hand—with that beloved
      name So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee— I cannot—dare
      not.
      Pol.  Now by my halidom I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe
      thee!
      Cas.  Ha!—coward!—this may not be!
       (clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but his
       purpose is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his
       knee at the feet of the Earl)
                             Alas! my lord, It is—it is—most true. In
                             such a cause I am the veriest coward. O
                             pity me!
      Pol.  (greatly softened.)  Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee.
      Cas.  And Lalage-
      Pol.  Scoundrel!—arise and die!
      Cas.  It needeth not be—thus—thus—O let me die Thus on my bended
      knee. It were most fitting That in this deep humiliation I
      perish. For in the fight I will not raise a hand Against thee,
      Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home—
                                                     (baring his
                                                     bosom.) Here is no
                                                     let or hindrance
                                                     to thy weapon-
                                                     Strike home. I
                                                     will not fight
                                                     thee.
      Pol.  Now, s’ Death and Hell! Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously
      tempted To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir, Think not to
      fly me thus. Do thou prepare For public insult in the
      streets—before The eyes of the citizens. I’ll follow thee Like an
      avenging spirit I’ll follow thee Even unto death. Before those
      whom thou lovest- Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain,—I’ll
      taunt thee, Dost hear? with cowardice—thou wilt not fight me?
      Thou liest! thou shalt!                                     
      (exit.)
      Cas.  Now this indeed is just! Most righteous, and most just,
      avenging Heaven!
  {In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29.
  —ED}

      NOTE

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

      Duke. Why do you laugh?
      Castiglione. Indeed
  I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not On yesterday we were speaking
  of the Earl? Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday. Alessandra,
  you and 1, you must remember! We were walking in the garden.
      Duke, Perfectly. I do remember it-what of it-what then?
      Cas. 0 nothing-nothing at all.
      Duke. Nothing at all! It is most singular that you should laugh
      ‘At nothing at all!
      Cas. Most singular-singular!
      Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind As tell me, sir, at once
      what ‘tis you mean. What are you talking of?
      Cas. Was it not so? We differed in opinion touching him.
      Duke. Him!—Whom?
      Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
      Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes!—is it he you mean? We differed,
      indeed. If I now recollect The words you used were that the Earl
      you knew Was neither learned nor mirthful.
      Cas. Ha! ha!—now did I?
      Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time You were
      wrong, it being not the character Of the Earl-whom all the world
      allows to be A most hilarious man. Be not, my son, Too positive
      again.
      Cas. ‘Tis singular! Most singular! I could not think it possible
      So little time could so much alter one! To say the truth about an
      hour ago, As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo, All arm in
      arm, we met this very man The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,
      Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered! Such an
      account he gave me of his journey! ‘Twould have made you die with
      laughter-such tales he told Of his caprices and his merry freaks
      Along the road-such oddity-such humor— Such wit-such whim-such
      flashes of wild merriment Set off too in such full relief by the
      grave Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth, Was gravity
      itself—
      Duke. Did I not tell you?
      Cas. You did-and yet ‘tis strange! but true as strange, How much
      I was mistaken! I always thought The Earl a gloomy man.
      Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here? It
      can not be the Earl?
      Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! ‘Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and
      leaning Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!
  (Enter Politian and Baldazzar.) My lord, a second welcome let me give
  you To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio. Father! this is the Earl
  Politian, Earl Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows
  haughtily.] That, his friend Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has
  letters, So please you, for Your Grace.
      Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome To Rome and to our palace, Earl
      Politian! And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you! I knew
      your father well, my Lord Politian. Castiglione! call your cousin
      hither, And let me make the noble Earl acquainted With your
      betrothed. You come, sir, at a time Most seasonable. The wedding—
      Politian. Touching those letters, sir, Your son made mention
      of—your son, is he not? Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of
      them. If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here— Baldazzar!
      ah!—my friend Baldazzar here Will hand them to Your Grace. I
      would retire.
      Duke. Retire!—So soon?
  Came What ho! Benito! Rupert! His lordship’s chambers-show his
  lordship to them! His lordship is unwell.     (Enter Benito.)
      Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian.)
      Duke. Retire! Unwell!
      Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me ‘Tis as you say—his lordship
      is unwell. The damp air of the evening-the fatigue Of a long
      journey—the—indeed I had better Follow his lordship. He must be
      unwell. I will return anon.
      Duke. Return anon! Now this is very strange! Castiglione! This
      way, my son, I wish to speak with thee. You surely were mistaken
      in what you said Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!—which of us said
      Politian was a melancholy man?    (Exeunt.)




POEMS OF YOUTH




INTRODUCTION TO POEMS—1831





_LETTER TO MR. B—._


                                  “WEST POINT, 1831.

      “DEAR B......... Believing only a portion of my former volume to
      be worthy a second edition-that small portion I thought it as
      well to include in the present book as to republish by itself. I
      have therefore herein combined ‘Al Aaraaf’ and ‘Tamerlane’ with
      other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor have I hesitated to insert
      from the ‘Minor Poems,’ now omitted, whole lines, and even
      passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and the
      trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they may have
      some chance of being seen by posterity.

      “It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written
      by one who is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and
      _mine _of poetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the
      critic, the less just the critique, and the converse. On this
      account, and because there are but few B-’s in the world, I would
      be as much ashamed of the world’s good opinion as proud of your
      own. Another than yourself might here observe, ‘Shakespeare is in
      possession of the world’s good opinion, and yet Shakespeare is
      the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world judge
      correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable
      judgment?’ The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word
      ‘judgment’ or ‘opinion.’ The opinion is the world’s, truly, but
      it may be called theirs as a man would call a book his, having
      bought it; he did not write the book, but it is his; they did not
      originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example,
      thinks Shakespeare a great poet-yet the fool has never read
      Shakespeare. But the fool’s neighbor, who is a step higher on the
      Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his more exalted
      thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or understood, but
      whose feet (by which I mean his everyday actions) are
      sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that
      superiority is ascertained, which but for them would never have
      been discovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great
      poet—the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion.
      _This neighbor’s own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted
      from one above him, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted
      individuals who kneel around the summit, beholding, face to face,
      the master spirit who stands upon the pinnacle.

      “You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American
      writer. He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and
      established wit of the world. I say established; for it is with
      literature as with law or empire-an established name is an estate
      in tenure, or a throne in possession. Besides, one might suppose
      that books, like their authors, improve by travel-their having
      crossed the sea is, with us, so great a distinction. Our
      antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops glance from
      the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the mystic
      characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
      many letters of recommendation.

      “I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I
      think the notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his
      own writings is another. I remarked before that in proportion to
      the poetical talent would be the justice of a critique upon
      poetry. Therefore a bad poet would, I grant, make a false
      critique, and his self-love would infallibly bias his little
      judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is indeed a poet, could
      not, I think, fail of making-a just critique; whatever should be
      deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced on account
      of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we have
      more instances of false criticism than of just where one’s own
      writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than
      good. There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton
      is a great example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect
      to the ‘Paradise Regained’ is by no means fairly ascertained. By
      what trivial circumstances men are often led to assert what they
      do not really believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended
      to posterity. But, in fact, the ‘Paradise Regained’ is little, if
      at all, inferior to the ‘Paradise Lost,’ and is only supposed so
      to be because men do not like epics, whatever they may say to the
      contrary, and, reading those of Milton in their natural order,
      are too much wearied with the first to derive any pleasure from
      the second.

      “I dare say Milton preferred ‘Comus’ to either-. if so-justly.

      “As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch
      slightly upon the most singular heresy in its modern history-the
      heresy of what is called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some
      years ago I might have been induced, by an occasion like the
      present, to attempt a formal refutation of their doctrine; at
      present it would be a work of supererogation. The wise must bow
      to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and Southey, but, being
      wise, have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically
      exemplifled.

      “Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
      philosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to
      pronounce it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the
      end of poetry is, or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism
      that the end of our existence is happiness; if so, the end of
      every separate part of our existence, everything connected with
      our existence, should be still happiness. Therefore the end of
      instruction should be happiness; and happiness is another name
      for pleasure;-therefore the end of instruction should be
      pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion implies
      precisely the reverse.

      “To proceed: _ceteris paribus,_ he who pleases is of more
      importance to his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility
      is happiness, and pleasure is the end already obtained which
      instruction is merely the means of obtaining.

      “I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
      themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed
      they refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case,
      sincere respect for their piety would not allow me to express my
      contempt for their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult
      to conceal, since their writings are professedly to be understood
      by the few, and it is the many who stand in need of salvation. In
      such case I should no doubt be tempted to think of the devil in
      ‘Melmoth.’ who labors indefatigably, through three octavo
      volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls, while
      any common devil would have demolished one or two thousand.

“Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study-not a
passion-it becomes the metaphysician to reason-but the poet to protest.
Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in
contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination-intellect
with the passions-or age with poetry.
     “‘Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search
     for pearls must dive below,’

      are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater
      truths, men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the
      top; Truth lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in
      the palpable palaces where she is found. The ancients were not
      always right in hiding—the goddess in a well; witness the light
      which Bacon has thrown upon philosophy; witness the principles of
      our divine faith—that moral mechanism by which the simplicity of
      a child may overbalance the wisdom of a man.

      “We see an instance of Coleridge’s liability to err, in his
      ‘Biographia Literaria’—professedly his literary life and
      opinions, but, in fact, a treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam
      aliis. _He goes wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of
      his error we have a natural type in the contemplation of a star.
      He who regards it directly and intensely sees, it is true, the
      star, but it is the star without a ray-while he who surveys it
      less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
      useful to us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.

      “As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth
      the feelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of
      extreme delicacy in his writings-(and delicacy is the poet’s own
      kingdom-his _El Dorado)-but they _have the appearance of a better
      day recollected; and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of
      present poetic fire; we know that a few straggling flowers spring
      up daily in the crevices of the glacier.

      “He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with
      the end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his
      judgment the light which should make it apparent has faded away.
      His judgment consequently is too correct. This may not be
      understood-but the old Goths of Germany would have understood it,
      who used to debate matters of importance to their State twice,
      once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that they might not be
      deficient in formality—drunk lest they should be destitute of
      vigor.

      “The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
      admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they
      are full of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his
      volumes at random)—‘Of genius the only proof is the act of doing
      well what is worthy to be done, and what was never done
      before;’-indeed? then it follows that in doing what is unworthy
      to be done, or what _has _been done before, no genius can be
      evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets
      have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pickpocket,
      in point of genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with
      William Wordsworth, the poet.

      “Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
      Ossian’s or Macpherson’s can surely be of little consequence,
      yet, in order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended
      many pages in the controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds
      descend to such absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down
      every argument in favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags
      forward a passage, in his abomination with which he expects the
      reader to sympathize. It is the beginning of the epic poem
      ‘Temora.’ ‘The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills
      are covered with day; trees shake their dusty heads in the
      breeze.’ And this this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where all is
      alive and panting with immortality-this, William Wordsworth, the
      author of ‘Peter Bell,’ has _selected _for his contempt. We shall
      see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:

     “‘And now she’s at the pony’s tail, And now she’s at the pony’s
     head, On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with
     her bliss,
     A few sad tears does Betty shed.... She pats the pony, where or
     when She knows not.... happy Betty Foy! Oh, Johnny, never mind the
     doctor!’

      Secondly:

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

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

      “But there are occasions, dear B-, there are occasions when even
      Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have
      an end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion.
      Here is an extract from his preface:-

      “‘Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modem
      writers, if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion
      _(impossible!) will, _no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of
      awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha!
      ha! ha! ha!), and will be induced to inquire by what species of
      courtesy these attempts have been permitted to assume that
      title.’ Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

      “Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a
      wagon, and the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore
      toe, and dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.

      “Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His towering
      intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by
      himself, _‘Tai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont
      raison dans une bonne partie de ce qu’elles avancent, mais non
      pas en ce qu’elles nient,’ and _to employ his own language, he
      has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has erected
      against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a
      mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes,
      waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that man’s
      poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious
      from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and
      the light that are weltering below.

      “What is poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
      appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! ‘Give me,’ I demanded of
      a scholar some time ago, ‘give me a definition of poetry.’
      _‘Trèsvolontiers;’ _and he proceeded to his library, brought me a
      Dr. Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the
      immortal Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your
      spiritual eye upon the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major.
      Think of poetry, dear B-, think of poetry, and then think of Dr.
      Samuel Johnson! Think of all that is airy and fairy-like, and
      then of all that is hideous and unwieldy; think of his huge bulk,
      the Elephant! and then-and then think of the ‘Tempest’—the
      ‘Midsummer-Night’s Dream’—Prospero Oberon—and Titania!

      “A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by
      having, for its _immediate _object, pleasure, not truth; to
      romance, by having, for its object, an _indefinite _instead of a
      _definite _pleasure, being a poem only so far as this object is
      attained; romance presenting perceptible images with definite,
      poetry with indefinite sensations, to which end music is an
      _essential, since _the comprehension of sweet sound is our most
      indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a pleasurable
      idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the
      idea, wi thout the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.

      “What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in
      his soul?

      “To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B—, what you, no
      doubt, perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most
      sovereign contempt. That they have followers proves nothing-

     “‘No Indian prince has to his palace More followers than a thief
     to the gallows.




SONNET—TO SCIENCE


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




AL AARAAF (*)


     PART I.
          O!  NOTHING earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers)
          of Beauty’s eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs
          from the gems of Circassy— O! nothing earthly save the thrill
          Of melody in woodland rill— Or (music of the passion-hearted)
          Joy’s voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in
          the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwell— Oh, nothing of
          the dross of ours— Yet all the beauty—all the flowers That
          list our Love, and deck our bowers— Adorn yon world afar,
          afar— The wandering star.
             ‘Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for there Her world lay
             lolling on the golden air, Near four bright suns—a
             temporary rest— An oasis in desert of the blest.
     * A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared suddenly in
     the heavens—attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that
     of Jupiter—then as suddenly disappeared, and has never been seen
     since.
          Away—away—‘mid seas of rays that roll Empyrean splendor o’er
          th’ unchained soul— The soul that scarce (the billows are so
          dense) Can struggle to its destin’d eminence— To distant
          spheres, from time to time, she rode, And late to ours, the
          favour’d one of God— But, now, the ruler of an anchor’d
          realm, She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm, And,
          amid incense and high spiritual hymns, Laves in quadruple
          light her angel limbs.
              Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, Whence
              sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth, (Falling in
              wreaths thro’ many a startled star, Like woman’s hair
              ‘mid pearls, until, afar, It lit on hills Achaian, and
              there dwelt) She look’d into Infinity—and knelt. Rich
              clouds, for canopies, about her curled— Fit emblems of
              the model of her world— Seen but in beauty—not impeding
              sight Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light— A
              wreath that twined each starry form around, And all the
              opal’d air in color bound.
              All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed Of flowers:  of lilies
              such as rear’d the head *On the fair Capo Deucato, and
              sprang So eagerly around about to hang Upon the flying
              footsteps of—deep pride— **Of her who lov’d a mortal—and
              so died. The Sephalica, budding with young bees, Uprear’d
              its purple stem around her knees:
          * On Santa Maura—olim Deucadia.
          **And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam’d— Inmate of highest
          stars, where erst it sham’d All other loveliness: its honied
          dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously
          sweet, was dropp’d from Heaven, And fell on gardens of the
          unforgiven In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower So like its own
          above that, to this hour, It still remaineth, torturing the
          bee With madness, and unwonted reverie: In Heaven, and all
          its environs, the leaf And blossom of the fairy plant, in
          grief Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head,
          Repenting follies that full long have fled, Heaving her white
          breast to the balmy air, Like guilty beauty, chasten’d, and
          more fair: Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light She fears
          to perfume, perfuming the night: **And Clytia pondering
          between many a sun, While pettish tears adown her petals run:
          ***And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth— And died,
          ere scarce exalted into birth, Bursting its odorous heart in
          spirit to wing Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
     * This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The
     bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.
     ** Clytia—The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
     better-known term, the turnsol—which continually turns towards the
     sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes,
     with dewy clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the
     most violent heat of the day.—_B. de St. Pierre_.
     *** There is cultivated in the king’s garden at Paris, a species
     of serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large and beautiful
     flower exhales a strong odour of the vanilla, during the time of
     its expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards
     the month of July—you then perceive it gradually open its
     petals—expand them—fade and die.—_St. Pierre_.
     *And Valisnerian lotus thither flown From struggling with the
     waters of the Rhone: **And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
     Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante! ***And the Nelumbo bud that floats
     for ever With Indian Cupid down the holy river— Fair flowers, and
     fairy! to whose care is given ****To bear the Goddess’ song, in
     odors, up to Heaven:
        “Spirit! that dwellest where, In the deep sky, The terrible and
        fair, In beauty vie! Beyond the line of blue— The boundary of
        the star Which turneth at the view Of thy barrier and thy bar—
        Of the barrier overgone By the comets who were cast From their
        pride, and from their throne To be drudges till the last— To be
        carriers of fire (The red fire of their heart) With speed that
        may not tire And with pain that shall not part—
     * There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
     Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or
     four feet—thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of
     the river.
     ** The Hyacinth.
     *** It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen
     floating in one of these down the river Ganges—and that he still
     loves the cradle of his childhood.
    **** And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of the
    saints. —Rev. St. John.
          Who livest—_that_ we know— In Eternity—we feel— But the
          shadow of whose brow What spirit shall reveal? Tho’ the
          beings whom thy Nesace, Thy messenger hath known Have dream’d
          for thy Infinity *A model of their own— Thy will is done, Oh,
          God! The star hath ridden high Thro’ many a tempest, but she
          rode Beneath thy burning eye; And here, in thought, to thee—
          In thought that can alone Ascend thy empire and so be A
          partner of thy throne—
     * The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having a
     really human form.—_Vide Clarke’s Sermons_, vol. 1, page 26, fol.
     edit.
     The drift of Milton’s argument, leads him to employ language which
     would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine;  but
     it will be seen immediately, that he guards himself against the
     charge of having adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the
     dark ages of the church.—_Dr. Sumner’s Notes on Milton’s Christian
     Doctrine_.
     This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could
     never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was
     condemned for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning
     of the fourth century. His disciples were called
     Anthropmorphites.—_Vide Du Pin_.
     Among Milton’s poems are these lines:— Dicite sacrorum præsides
     nemorum Deæ, &c. Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine Natura solers
     finxit humanum genus? Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo, Unusque
     et universus exemplar Dei.—And afterwards, Non cui profundum
     Cæcitas lumen dedit Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, &c.
          *By winged Fantasy, My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall
          knowledge be In the environs of Heaven.”
          She ceas’d—and buried then her burning cheek Abash’d, amid
          the lilies there, to seek A shelter from the fervour of His
          eye; For the stars trembled at the Deity. She stirr’d
          not—breath’d not—for a voice was there How solemnly pervading
          the calm air! A sound of silence on the startled ear Which
          dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.” Ours is a world
          of words:  Quiet we call “Silence”—which is the merest word
          of all. All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things Flap shadowy
          sounds from visionary wings— But ah! not so when, thus, in
          realms on high The eternal voice of God is passing by, And
          the red winds are withering in the sky!
          ** “What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run, Link’d to
          a little system, and one sun— Where all my love is folly and
          the crowd Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud, The
          storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath— (Ah! will they
          cross me in my angrier path?) What tho’ in worlds which own a
          single sun The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
     * Seltsamen Tochter Jovis Seinem Schosskinde Der
     Phantasie.—_Göethe_.
    ** Sightless—too small to be seen—_Legge_.
          Yet thine is my resplendency, so given To bear my secrets
          thro’ the upper Heaven. Leave tenantless thy crystal home,
          and fly, With all thy train, athwart the moony sky—
          *Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night, And wing to other
          worlds another light! Divulge the secrets of thy embassy To
          the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be To ev’ry heart a
          barrier and a ban Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!”
              Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, The single-mooned
              eve!—on Earth we plight Our faith to one love—and one
              moon adore— The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
              As sprang that yellow star from downy hours Up rose the
              maiden from her shrine of flowers, And bent o’er sheeny
              mountain and dim plain **Her way—but left not yet her
              Therasæan reign.
     * I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies;
     —they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common centre,
     into innumerable radii.
     ** Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca, which,
     in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished
     mariners.
                         Part II.
          HIGH on a mountain of enamell’d head— Such as the drowsy
          shepherd on his bed Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
          Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees With many a
          mutter’d “hope to be forgiven” What time the moon is
          quadrated in Heaven— Of rosy head, that towering far away
          Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray Of sunken suns at
          eve—at noon of night, While the moon danc’d with the fair
          stranger light— Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile Of
          gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’d air, Flashing from Parian
          marble that twin smile Far down upon the wave that sparkled
          there, And nursled the young mountain in its lair. *Of molten
          stars their pavement, such as fall Thro’ the ebon air,
          besilvering the pall Of their own dissolution, while they
          die— Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. A dome, by
          linked light from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these
          columns as a crown— A window of one circular diamond, there,
          Look’d out above into the purple air,
     * Some star which, from the ruin’d roof Of shak’d Olympus, by
     mischance, did fall.—_Milton._
          And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallow’d
          all the beauty twice again, Save when, between th’ Empyrean
          and that ring, Some eager spirit flapp’d his dusky wing. But
          on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this
          world:  that greyish green That Nature loves the best for
          Beauty’s grave Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave—
          And every sculptur’d cherub thereabout That from his marble
          dwelling peeréd out Seem’d earthly in the shadow of his
          niche— Achaian statues in a world so rich? *Friezes from
          Tadmor and Persepolis— From Balbec, and the stilly, clear
          abyss **Of beautiful Gomorrah!  O, the wave Is now upon
          thee—but too late to save!
          Sound loves to revel in a summer night: Witness the murmur of
          the grey twilight
     * Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, “Je connois bien
     l’admiration qu’inspirent ces ruines—mais un palais erigé au pied
     d’une chaine des rochers sterils—peut il être un chef d’oevure des
     arts!” [_Voila les arguments de M. Voltaire_.]
     ** “Oh! the wave”—Ula Degusi is the Turkish appellation; but, on
     its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There were
     undoubtedly more than two cities engluphed in the “dead sea.” In
     the valley of Siddim were five—Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and
     Gomorrah. Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo
     thirteeen, (engulphed) —but the last is out of all reason.
    It is said, (Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau,
    Maundrell, Troilo, D’Arvieux) that after an excessive drought, the
    vestiges of columns, walls, &c. are seen above the surface. At
    _any_ season, such remains may be discovered by looking down into
    the transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the
    existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the
    ‘Asphaltites.’
          *That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, Of many a wild
          star-gazer long ago— That stealeth ever on the ear of him
          Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim. And sees the
          darkness coming as a cloud— ***Is not its form—its voice—most
          palpable and loud?
              But what is this?—it cometh—and it brings A music with
              it—‘tis the rush of wings— A pause—and then a sweeping,
              falling strain And Nesace is in her halls again. From the
              wild energy of wanton haste Her cheeks were flushing, and
              her lips apart; And zone that clung around her gentle
              waist Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. Within
              the centre of that hall to breathe She paus’d and panted,
              Zanthe!  all beneath, The fairy light that kiss’d her
              golden hair And long’d to rest, yet could but sparkle
              there!
              ***Young flowers were whispering in melody To happy
              flowers that night—and tree to tree; Fountains were
              gushing music as they fell In many a star-lit grove, or
              moon-lit dell; Yet silence came upon material things—
              Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings— And
              sound alone that from the spirit sprang Bore burthen to
              the charm the maiden sang:
     * Eyraco—Chaldea.
     ** I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the
     darkness as it stole over the horizon.
     *** Fairies use flowers for their charactery.—_Merry Wives of
     Windsor_.  [William Shakespeare]
           “‘Neath blue-bell or streamer— Or tufted wild spray That
           keeps, from the dreamer, *The moonbeam away— Bright beings! 
           that ponder, With half closing eyes, On the stars which your
           wonder Hath drawn from the skies, Till they glance thro’ the
           shade, and Come down to your brow Like—eyes of the maiden
           Who calls on you now— Arise!  from your dreaming In violet
           bowers, To duty beseeming These star-litten hours— And shake
           from your tresses Encumber’d with dew The breath of those
           kisses That cumber them too— (O!  how, without you, Love!
           Could angels be blest?) Those kisses of true love That
           lull’d ye to rest! Up!—shake from your wing Each hindering
           thing: The dew of the night— It would weigh down your
           flight; And true love caresses— O! leave them apart!
     * In Scripture is this passage—“The sun shall not harm thee by
     day, nor the moon by night.” It is perhaps not generally known
     that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to
     those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, to which
     circumstance the passage evidently alludes.
          They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart.
          Ligeia!  Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will
          to melody run, O!  is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or,
          capriciously still, *Like the lone Albatross, Incumbent on
          night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the
          harmony there?
          Ligeia!  whatever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy
          music from thee. Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleep—
          But the strains still arise Which _thy_ vigilance keep— The
          sound of the rain Which leaps down to the flower, And dances
          again In the rhythm of the shower— **The murmur that springs
          From the growing of grass
     * The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.
     ** I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now
     unable to obtain and quote from memory:—“The verie essence and, as
     it were, springe-heade, and origine of all musiche is the verie
     pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they
     growe.”
          Are the music of things— But are modell’d, alas!— Away, then
          my dearest, O!  hie thee away To springs that lie clearest
          Beneath the moon-ray— To lone lake that smiles, In its dream
          of deep rest, At the many star-isles That enjewel its breast—
          Where wild flowers, creeping, Have mingled their shade, On
          its margin is sleeping Full many a maid— Some have left the
          cool glade, and * Have slept with the bee— Arouse them my
          maiden, On moorland and lea— Go!  breathe on their slumber,
          All softly in ear, The musical number They slumber’d to hear—
          For what can awaken An angel so soon
     * The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight.
     The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has
     an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W.
     Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro—in whose mouth I admired its
     effect:
                O!  were there an island, Tho’ ever so wild Where woman
                might smile, and No man be beguil’d, &c.
          Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, As the
          spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rythmical
          number Which lull’d him to rest?”
          Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, A thousand seraphs
          burst th’ Empyrean thro’, Young dreams still hovering on
          their drowsy flight— Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the keen
          light That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds, afar O Death! 
          from eye of God upon that star: Sweet was that error—sweeter
          still that death— Sweet was that error—ev’n with _us_ the
          breath Of science dims the mirror of our joy— To them ‘twere
          the Simoom, and would destroy— For what (to them) availeth it
          to know That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe? Sweet
          was their death—with them to die was rife With the last
          ecstacy of satiate life— Beyond that death no immortality—
          But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be”— And there—oh! 
          may my weary spirit dwell— *Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and
          yet how far from Hell!
     * With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell,
     where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that
     tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be
     characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.
            Un no rompido sueno— Un dia puro—allegre—libre Quiera—
            Libre de amor—de zelo— De odio—de esperanza—de
            rezelo.—-_Luis Ponce de Leon_.
     Sorrow is not excluded from “Al Aaraaf,” but it is that sorrow
     which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some
     minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passionate excitement
     of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are
     its less holy pleasures— the price of which, to those souls who
     make choice of “Al Aaraaf” as their residence after life, is final
     death and annihilation.
          What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, Heard not the
          stirring summons of that hymn? But two:  they fell:  for
          Heaven no grace imparts To those who hear not for their
          beating hearts. A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover— O! 
          where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) Was Love, the
          blind, near sober Duty known?
     *Unguided Love hath fallen—‘mid “tears of perfect moan.”
          He was a goodly spirit—he who fell: A wanderer by
          moss-y-mantled well— A gazer on the lights that shine above—
          A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: What wonder?  For each
          star is eye-like there, And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s
          hair— And they, and ev’ry mossy spring were holy To his
          love-haunted heart and melancholy. The night had found (to
          him a night of wo) Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo—
          Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, And scowls on
          starry worlds that down beneath it lie. Here sate he with his
          love—his dark eye bent With eagle gaze along the firmament:
          Now turn’d it upon her—but ever then It trembled to the orb
          of EARTH again.
          “Iante, dearest, see!  how dim that ray! How lovely ‘tis to
          look so far away!
     * There be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in
     Helicon.—_Milton._
          She seem’d not thus upon that autumn eve I left her gorgeous
          halls—nor mourn’d to leave. That eve—that eve—I should
          remember well— The sun-ray dropp’d, in Lemnos, with a spell
          On th’Arabesque carving of a gilded hall Wherein I sate, and
          on the draperied wall— And on my eye-lids—O the heavy light!
          How drowsily it weigh’d them into night! On flowers, before,
          and mist, and love they ran With Persian Saadi in his
          Gulistan: But O that light!—I slumber’d—Death, the while,
          Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle So softly that no
          single silken hair Awoke that slept—or knew that it was
          there.
          The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon *Was a proud temple
          call’d the Parthenon— More beauty clung around her column’d
          wall **Than ev’n thy glowing bosom beats withal, And when old
          Time my wing did disenthral Thence sprang I—as the eagle from
          his tower, And years I left behind me in an hour. What time
          upon her airy bounds I hung One half the garden of her globe
          was flung Unrolling as a chart unto my view— Tenantless
          cities of the desert too! Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
          And half I wish’d to be again of men.”
          “My Angelo! and why of them to be? A brighter dwelling-place
          is here for thee—
    * It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot in Athens.
    ** Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white
    breasts of the Queen of Love.—_Marlowe._
           And greener fields than in yon world above, And women’s
           loveliness—and passionate love.”
           “But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft *Fail’d, as my
           pennon’d spirit leapt aloft, Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but
           the world I left so late was into chaos hurl’d— Sprang from
           her station, on the winds apart, And roll’d, a flame, the
           fiery Heaven athwart. Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased
           to soar And fell—not swiftly as I rose before, But with a
           downward, tremulous motion thro’ Light, brazen rays, this
           golden star unto! Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
           For nearest of all stars was thine to ours— Dread star! that
           came, amid a night of mirth, A red Dædalion on the timid
           Earth.
           “We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us Be given our lady’s
           bidding to discuss: We came, my love; around, above, below,
           Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go, Nor ask a reason
           save the angel-nod She grants to us, as granted by her God—
           But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl’d Never his fairy
           wing o’er fairier world! Dim was its little disk, and angel
           eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al
           Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o’er the
           starry sea— But when its glory swell’d upon the sky, As
           glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye,
     * Pennon—for pinion.—_Milton_.
           We paus’d before the heritage of men, And thy star
           trembled—as doth Beauty then!”
           Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that
           waned and waned and brought no day. They fell:  for Heaven
           to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of
           their hearts.




TAMERLANE


     KIND solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my theme—
     I will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
     Unearthly pride hath revell’d in— I have no time to dote or dream:
     You call it hope—that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire: If
     I _can_ hope—Oh God! I can— Its fount is holier—more divine— I
     would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of
     thine.
     Know thou the secret of a spirit Bow’d from its wild pride into
     shame. O! yearning heart! I did inherit Thy withering portion with
     the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the jewels of my
     throne, Halo of Hell! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear
     again— O! craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my
     summer hours! Th’ undying voice of that dead time, With its
     interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy
     emptiness—a knell.
     I have not always been as now: The fever’d diadem on my brow I
     claim’d and won usurpingly— Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
     Rome to the Caesar—this to me? The heritage of a kingly mind, And
     a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind.
     On mountain soil I first drew life: The mists of the Taglay have
     shed Nightly their dews upon my head, And, I believe, the winged
     strife And tumult of the headlong air Have nestled in my very
     hair.
     So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell (Mid dreams of an unholy
     night) Upon me—with the touch of Hell, While the red flashing of
     the light From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er, Appeared to
     my half-closing eye The pageantry of monarchy, And the deep
     trumpet-thunder’s roar Came hurriedly upon me, telling Of human
     battle, where my voice, My own voice, silly child!—was swelling
     (O! how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry)
     The battle-cry of Victory!
     The rain came down upon my head Unshelter’d—and the heavy wind Was
     giantlike—so thou, my mind!— It was but man, I thought, who shed
     Laurels upon me: and the rush— The torrent of the chilly air
     Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires—with the captive’s
     prayer— The hum of suiters—and the tone Of flattery ‘round a
     sovereign’s throne.
     My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurp’d a tyranny which men
     Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power; My innate nature—be it
     so: But, father, there liv’d one who, then, Then—in my
     boyhood—when their fire Burn’d with a still intenser glow, (For
     passion must, with youth, expire) E’en _then_ who knew this iron
     heart In woman’s weakness had a part.
     I have no words—alas!—to tell The loveliness of loving well! Nor
     would I now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose
     lineaments, upon my mind, Are—shadows on th’ unstable wind: Thus I
     remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering
     eye, till I have felt The letters—with their meaning—melt To
     fantasies—with none.
     O, she was worthy of all love! Love—as in infancy was mine— ‘Twas
     such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine
     On which my ev’ry hope and thought Were incense—then a goodly
     gift, For they were childish—and upright— Pure—as her young
     example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire
     within, for light?
     We grew in age—and love—together, Roaming the forest, and the
     wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather— And, when the
     friendly sunshine smil’d, And she would mark the opening skies,
     _I_ saw no Heaven—but in her eyes.
     Young Love’s first lesson is—the heart: For ‘mid that sunshine,
     and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing
     at her girlish wiles, I’d throw me on her throbbing breast, And
     pour my spirit out in tears— There was no need to speak the rest—
     No need to quiet any fears Of her—who ask’d no reason why, But
     turn’d on me her quiet eye!
     Yet _more_ than worthy of the love My spirit struggled with, and
     strove, When, on the mountain peak, alone, Ambition lent it a new
     tone— I had no being—but in thee: The world, and all it did
     contain In the earth—the air—the sea— Its joy—its little lot of
     pain That was new pleasure—the ideal, Dim, vanities of dreams by
     night— And dimmer nothings which were real— (Shadows—and a more
     shadowy light!) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so,
     confusedly, became Thine image, and—a name—a name! Two
     separate—yet most intimate things.
     I was ambitious—have you known The passion, father? You have not:
     A cottager, I mark’d a throne Of half the world as all my own, And
     murmur’d at such lowly lot— But, just like any other dream, Upon
     the vapour of the dew My own had past, did not the beam Of beauty
     which did while it thro’ The minute—the hour—the day—oppress My
     mind with double loveliness.
     We walk’d together on the crown Of a high mountain which look’d
     down Afar from its proud natural towers Of rock and forest, on the
     hills— The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers And shouting with a
     thousand rills.
     I spoke to her of power and pride, But mystically—in such guise
     That she might deem it nought beside The moment’s converse; in her
     eyes I read, perhaps too carelessly— A mingled feeling with my
     own— The flush on her bright cheek, to me Seem’d to become a
     queenly throne Too well that I should let it be Light in the
     wilderness alone.
     I wrapp’d myself in grandeur then, And donn’d a visionary crown—
     Yet it was not that Fantasy Had thrown her mantle over me— But
     that, among the rabble—men, Lion ambition is chain’d down— And
     crouches to a keeper’s hand— Not so in deserts where the grand The
     wild—the terrible conspire With their own breath to fan his fire.
     Look ‘round thee now on Samarcand!— Is not she queen of Earth? her
     pride Above all cities? in her hand Their destinies? in all beside
     Of glory which the world hath known Stands she not nobly and
     alone? Falling—her veriest stepping-stone Shall form the pedestal
     of a throne— And who her sovereign? Timour—he Whom the astonished
     people saw Striding o’er empires haughtily A diadem’d outlaw—
     O! human love! thou spirit given, On Earth, of all we hope in
     Heaven! Which fall’st into the soul like rain Upon the Siroc
     wither’d plain, And failing in thy power to bless But leav’st the
     heart a wilderness! Idea! which bindest life around With music of
     so strange a sound And beauty of so wild a birth— Farewell! for I
     have won the Earth!
     When Hope, the eagle that tower’d, could see No cliff beyond him
     in the sky, His pinions were bent droopingly— And homeward turn’d
     his soften’d eye. ‘Twas sunset: when the sun will part There comes
     a sullenness of heart To him who still would look upon The glory
     of the summer sun. That soul will hate the ev’ning mist, So often
     lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known
     To those whose spirits hearken) as one Who, in a dream of night,
     _would_ fly But _cannot_ from a danger nigh.
     What tho’ the moon—the white moon Shed all the splendour of her
     noon, Her smile is chilly—and her beam, In that time of
     dreariness, will seem (So like you gather in your breath) A
     portrait taken after death. And boyhood is a summer sun Whose
     waning is the dreariest one— For all we live to know is known, And
     all we seek to keep hath flown— Let life, then, as the day-flower,
     fall With the noon-day beauty—which is all.
     I reach’d my home—my home no more— For all had flown who made it
     so— I pass’d from out its mossy door, And, tho’ my tread was soft
     and low, A voice came from the threshold stone Of one whom I had
     earlier known— O! I defy thee, Hell, to show On beds of fire that
     burn below, A humbler heart—a deeper wo—
     Father, I firmly do believe— I _know_—for Death, who comes for me
     From regions of the blest afar, Where there is nothing to deceive,
     Hath left his iron gate ajar, And rays of truth you cannot see Are
     flashing thro’ Eternity— I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in
     ev’ry human path— Else how, when in the holy grove I wandered of
     the idol, Love, Who daily scents his snowy wings With incense of
     burnt offerings From the most unpolluted things, Whose pleasant
     bowers are yet so riven Above with trelliced rays from Heaven No
     mote may shun—no tiniest fly The light’ning of his eagle eye— How
     was it that Ambition crept, Unseen, amid the revels there, Till
     growing bold, he laughed and leapt In the tangles of Love’s very
     hair?

      1829.




TO HELEN


     HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That
     gently, o’er a perfumed sea, The weary way-worn wanderer bore To
     his own native shore.
     On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy
     classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory
     that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome.
     Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I me thee stand,
     The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
     Are Holy-land!

      1831.




THE VALLEY OF UNREST


     _Once_ it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell;
     They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
     Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers,
     In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay. _Now_
     each visiter shall confess The sad valley’s restlessness. Nothing
     there is motionless— Nothing save the airs that brood Over the
     magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That
     palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no
     wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet
     Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that
     lie In myriad types of the human eye— Over the lilies there that
     wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:—from out their
     fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep:—from off
     their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.

      1831.




ISRAFEL*


     IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell “Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
     None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars
     (so legends tell) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his
     voice, all mute.
     Tottering above In her highest noon The enamoured moon Blushes
     with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid
     Pleiads, even, Which were seven,) Pauses in Heaven
     And they say (the starry choir And all the listening things) That
     Israfeli’s fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings—
     The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings.
  * And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lut, and who has
  the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.—KORAN.
     But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty—
     Where Love’s a grown up God— Where the Houri glances are Imbued
     with all the beauty Which we worship in a star.
     Therefore, thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An
     unimpassion’d song: To thee the laurels belong Best bard, because
     the wisest! Merrily live, and long!
     The extacies above With thy burning measures suit— Thy grief, thy
     joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute— Well may the
     stars be mute!
     Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our
     flowers are merely—flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is
     the sunshine of ours.
     If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He
     might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note
     than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.

      1836.




TO ——


                     1
     The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The wantonest singing birds
     Are lips—and all thy melody Of lip-begotten words—
                      2
     Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin’d Then desolately fall, O!
     God! on my funereal mind Like starlight on a pall—
                       3
     Thy heart—_thy_ heart!—I wake and sigh, And sleep to dream till
     day Of truth that gold can never buy— Of the trifles that it may.

      1829.




TO ——


     I HEED not that my earthly lot
         Hath-little of Earth in it—
     That years of love have been forgot
     In the hatred of a minute:—
     I mourn not that the desolate
         Are happier, sweet, than I,
     But that you sorrow for my fate
     Who am a passer-by.

      1829.




TO THE RIVER——


     FAIR river! in thy bright, clear flow Of crystal, wandering water,
     Thou art an emblem of the glow Of beauty—the unhidden heart— The
     playful maziness of art In old Alberto’s daughter;
     But when within thy wave she looks— Which glistens then, and
     trembles— Why, then, the prettiest of brooks Her worshipper
     resembles; For in my heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply
     lies— His heart which trembles at the beam Of her soul-searching
     eyes.

      1829.




SONG


     I SAW thee on thy bridal day— When a burning blush came o’er thee,
     Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee:
     And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be) Was all
     on Earth my aching sight Of Loveliness could see.
     That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame— As such it well may pass—
     Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame In the breast of him,
     alas!
     Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush _would_ come
     o’er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love
     before thee.

      1827.




SPIRITS OF THE DEAD


                                 1
     Thy soul shall find itself alone ‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey
     tomb-stone— Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of
     secrecy:
                                 2
     Be silent in that solitude Which is not loneliness—for then The
     spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In
     death around thee—and their will Shall then overshadow thee: be
     still.
                                3
     For the night—tho’ clear—shall frown— And the stars shall look not
     down, From their high thrones in the Heaven, With light like Hope
     to mortals given— But their red orbs, without beam, To thy
     weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to
     thee for ever:
                               4
     Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish— Now are visions ne’er to
     vanish— From thy spirit shall they pass No more—like dew-drop from
     the grass:
                              5
     The breeze—the breath of God—is still— And the mist upon the hill
     Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token— How it
     hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries!—

      1827.




A DREAM


     In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed— But a
     waking dreams of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted.
     Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On
     things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past?
     That holy dream—that holy dream, While all the world were chiding,
     Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding.
     What though that light, thro’ storm and night, So trembled from
     afar- What could there be more purely bright In Truths day-star?

      1827.




ROMANCE

     ROMANCE, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded
     wing, Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some
     shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been—a most familiar
     bird— Taught me my alphabet to say— To lisp my very earliest word
     While in the wild wood I did lie, A child—with a most knowing eye.
     Of late, eternal Condor years So shake the very Heaven on high
     With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares
     Through gazing on the unquiet sky. And when an hour with calmer
     wings Its down upon thy spirit flings— That little time with lyre
     and rhyme To while away—forbidden things! My heart would feel to
     be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings.
     1829.




FAIRY-LAND


     DIM vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose
     forms we can’t discover For the tears that drip all over Huge
     moons there wax and wane— Again—again—again— Every moment of the
     night— Forever changing places— And they put out the star-light
     With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the
     moon-dial One, more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial,
     They have found to be the best) Comes down—still down—and down
     With its centre on the crown Of a mountain’s eminence, While its
     wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls,
     Wherever they may be— O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea— Over
     spirits on the wing— Over every drowsy thing— And buries them up
     quite In a labyrinth of light— And then, how deep!—O, deep! Is the
     passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony
     covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss,
     Like—almost any thing— Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon
     no more For the same end as before— Videlicet a tent— Which I
     think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever,
     Of which those butterflies, Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so
     come down again (Never-contented things!) Have brought a specimen
     Upon their quivering wings.
     1831.




THE LAKE —— TO——


     IN spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide earth a spot
     The which I could not love the less— So lovely was the loneliness
     Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that
     tower’d around.
     But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon that spot, as upon
     all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody— Then—ah then
     I would awake To the terror of the lone lake.
     Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight— A feeling
     not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define— Nor
     Love—although the Love were thine.
     Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave
     For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining— Whose
     solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake.
     1827.




EVENING STAR


     ‘TWAS noontide of summer, And midtime of night, And stars, in
     their orbits, Shone pale, through the light Of the brighter, cold
     moon. ‘Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on
     the waves.
        I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold-too cold for me—
        There passed, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to
        thee,
        Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar And dearer thy beam shall
        be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in
        Heaven at night., And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that
        colder, lowly light.
     1827.




“THE HAPPIEST DAY.”

     I
     THE happiest day-the happiest hour My seared and blighted heart
     hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath
     flown.
     Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween But they have vanished long,
     alas! The visions of my youth have been But let them pass.
     III
     And pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may ev’n
     inherit The venom thou hast poured on me Be still my spirit!
     IV
     The happiest day-the happiest hour Mine eyes shall see-have ever
     seen The brightest glance of pride and power I feet have been:
     V
     But were that hope of pride and power Now offered with the pain
     Ev’n _then I _felt-that brightest hour I would not live again:
             VI
     For on its wing was dark alloy And as it fluttered-fell An
     essence-powerful to destroy A soul that knew it well.
     1827.




IMITATION


     A dark unfathom’d tide Of interminable pride— A mystery, and a
     dream, Should my early life seem; I say that dream was fraught
     With a wild, and waking thought Of beings that have been, Which my
     spirit hath not seen, Had I let them pass me by, With a dreaming
     eye! Let none of earth inherit That vision on my spirit; Those
     thoughts I would control As a spell upon his soul: For that bright
     hope at last And that light time have past, And my worldly rest
     hath gone With a sigh as it pass’d on I care not tho’ it perish
     With a thought I then did cherish. 1827.




HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS


      Translation from the Greek

                I
     WREATHED in myrtle, my sword I’ll conceal Like those champions
     devoted and brave, When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
     And to Athens deliverance gave.
                II
     Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam In the joy breathing
     isles of the blest; Where the mighty of old have their home Where
     Achilles and Diomed rest
                III
     In fresh myrtle my blade I’ll entwine, Like Harmodius, the gallant
     and good, When he made at the tutelar shrine A libation of
     Tyranny’s blood.
                IV
     Ye deliverers of Athens from shame! Ye avengers of Liberty’s
     wrongs! Endless ages shall cherish your fame, Embalmed in their
     echoing songs!
     1827.




DREAMS


     Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream! My spirit not
     awak’ning, till the beam Of an Eternity should bring the morrow:
     Yes! tho’ that long dream were of hopeless sorrow, ‘Twere better
     than the dull reality Of waking life to him whose heart shall be,
     And hath been ever, on the chilly earth, A chaos of deep passion
     from his birth!
     But should it be—that dream eternally Continuing—as dreams have
     been to me In my young boyhood—should it thus be given, ‘Twere
     folly still to hope for higher Heaven! For I have revell’d, when
     the sun was bright In the summer sky; in dreamy fields of light,
     And left unheedingly my very heart In climes of mine
     imagining—apart From mine own home, with beings that have been Of
     mine own thought—what more could I have seen?
     ‘Twas once & _only_ once & the wild hour From my rememberance
     shall not pass—some power Or spell had bound me—‘twas the chilly
     wind Came o’er me in the night & left behind Its image on my
     spirit, or the moon Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon Too
     coldly—or the stars—howe’er it was That dream was as that night
     wind—let it pass.
     I have been happy—tho’ but in a dream I have been happy—& I love
     the theme— Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life— As in that
     fleeting, shadowy, misty strife Of semblance with reality which
     brings To the delirious eye more lovely things Of Paradise &
     Love—& all our own! Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath
     known.
         {From an earlier MS. Than in the book—ED.}




“IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE”


     _How often we forget all time, when lone Admiring Nature’s
     universal throne; Her woods—her wilds—her mountains-the intense
     Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_
                             I
     IN youth I have known one with whom the Earth In secret communing
     held-as he with it, In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
     Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit From the sun and
     stars, whence he had drawn forth A passionate light such for his
     spirit was fit And yet that spirit knew-not in the hour Of its own
     fervor-what had o’er it power.
                            II
     Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought To a fever* by the
     moonbeam that hangs o’er, But I will half believe that wild light
     fraught With more of sovereignty than ancient lore Hath ever
     told-or is it of a thought The unembodied essence, and no more
     That with a quickening spell doth o’er us pass As dew of the
     night-time, o’er the summer grass?
                                   III
     Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye To the loved
     object-so the tear to the lid Will start, which lately slept in
     apathy? And yet it need not be—(that object) hid From us in
     life-but common-which doth lie Each hour before us—but then only
     bid With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken T’ awake
     us—‘Tis a symbol and a token
                               IV
     Of what in other worlds shall be—and given In beauty by our God,
     to those alone Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven Drawn
     by their heart’s passion, and that tone, That high tone of the
     spirit which hath striven Though not with Faith-with
     godliness—whose throne With desperate energy ‘t hath beaten down;
     Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
          * Query “fervor”?—ED.

      A PÆAN.

                         I.
     How shall the burial rite be read? The solemn song be sung? The
     requiem for the loveliest dead, That ever died so young?
                         II.
     Her friends are gazing on her, And on her gaudy bier, And
     weep!—oh! to dishonor Dead beauty with a tear!
                        III.
     They loved her for her wealth— And they hated her for her pride—
     But she grew in feeble health, And they _love_ her—that she died.
                       IV.
     They tell me (while they speak Of her “costly broider’d pall”)
     That my voice is growing weak— That I should not sing at all—
                        V.
     Or that my tone should be Tun’d to such solemn song So
     mournfully—so mournfully, That the dead may feel no wrong.
                       VI.
     But she is gone above, With young Hope at her side, And I am drunk
     with love Of the dead, who is my bride.—
                      VII.
     Of the dead—dead who lies All perfum’d there, With the death upon
     her eyes, And the life upon her hair.
                     VIII.
     Thus on the coffin loud and long I strike—the murmur sent Through
     the grey chambers to my song, Shall be the accompaniment.
                      IX.
     Thou died’st in thy life’s June— But thou did’st not die too fair:
     Thou did’st not die too soon, Nor with too calm an air.
                       X.
     From more than fiends on earth, Thy life and love are riven, To
     join the untainted mirth Of more than thrones in heaven—
                      XII.
     Therefore, to thee this night I will no requiem raise, But waft
     thee on thy flight, With a Pæan of old days.




NOTES


      30. On the “Poems written in Youth” little comment is needed.
      This section includes the pieces printed for first volume of 1827
      (which was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first
      and second published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already
      been given in their revised versions, and a few others collected
      from various sources. “Al Aaraaf” first appeared, with the sonnet
      “To Silence” prefixed to it, in 1829, and is, substantially, as
      originally issued. In the edition for 1831, however, this poem,
      its author’s longest, was introduced by the following twenty-nine
      lines, which have been omitted in—all subsequent collections:

     AL AARAAF
     Mysterious star! Thou wert my dream All a long summer night— Be
     now my theme! By this clear stream, Of thee will I write; Meantime
     from afar Bathe me in light I
     Thy world has not the dross of ours, Yet all the beauty-all the
     flowers That list our love or deck our bowers In dreamy gardens,
     where do lie Dreamy maidens all the day; While the silver winds of
     Circassy On violet couches faint away. Little—oh “little dwells in
     thee” Like unto what on earth we see: Beauty’s eye is here the
     bluest In the falsest and untruest—On the sweetest air doth float
     The most sad and solemn note—
     If with thee be broken hearts, Joy so peacefully departs, That its
     echo still doth dwell, Like the murmur in the shell. Thou! thy
     truest type of grief Is the gently falling leaf! Thy framing is so
     holy Sorrow is not melancholy.

      31. The earliest version of “Tamerlane” was included in the
      suppressed volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the
      poem as now published. The present draft, besides innumerable
      verbal alterations and improvements upon the original, is more
      carefully punctuated, and, the lines being indented, presents a
      more pleasing appearance, to the eye at least.

      32. “To Helen” first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also
      “The Valley of Unrest” (as “The Valley Nis”), “Israfel,” and one
      or two others of the youthful pieces. The poem styled “Romance,”
      constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume, but with the addition
      of the following lines:

     Succeeding years, too wild for song, Then rolled like tropic
     storms along, Where, through the garish lights that fly Dying
     along the troubled sky, Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
     The blackness of the general Heaven, That very blackness yet doth
     Ring Light on the lightning’s silver wing.
     For being an idle boy lang syne; Who read Anacreon and drank wine,
     I early found Anacreon rhymes Were almost passionate sometimes—
     And by strange alchemy of brain His pleasures always turned to
     pain— His naiveté to wild desire— His wit to love-his wine to
     fire— And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with
     melancholy,
     And used to throw my earthly rest And quiet all away in jest— I
     could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty’s
     breath— Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny, Were stalking between her and
     me.

     But now my soul hath too much room— Gone are the glory and the
     gloom— The black hath mellow’d into gray, And all the fires are
     fading away.
     My draught of passion hath been deep— I revell’d, and I now would
     sleep And after drunkenness of soul Succeeds the glories of the
     bowl An idle longing night and day To dream my very life away.
     But dreams—of those who dream as I, Aspiringly, are damned, and
     die: Yet should I swear I mean alone, By notes so very shrilly
     blown, To break upon Time’s monotone, While yet my vapid joy and
     grief Are tintless of the yellow leaf— Why not an imp the
     graybeard hath, Will shake his shadow in my path— And e’en the
     graybeard will o’erlook Connivingly my dreaming-book.




DOUBTFUL POEMS




ALONE


     From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not
     seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common
     spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could
     not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—_I_
     lov’d alone— _Then_—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy
     life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which
     binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red
     cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ‘round me roll’d In its
     autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me
     flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that
     took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my
     view—

      {This poem is no longer considered doubtful as it was in 1903.
      Liberty has been taken to replace the book version with an
      earlier, perhaps more original manuscript version—Ed}




TO ISADORE


             I
     BENEATH the vine-clad eaves, Whose shadows fall before Thy lowly
     cottage door Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves— Within thy snowy
     claspeèd hand The purple flowers it bore.. Last eve in dreams, I
     saw thee stand, Like queenly nymphs from Fairy-land— Enchantress
     of the flowery wand, Most beauteous Isadore!
              II
     And when I bade the dream Upon thy spirit flee, Thy violet eyes to
     me Upturned, did overflowing seem With the deep, untold delight Of
     Love’s serenity; Thy classic brow, like lilies white And pale as
     the Imperial Night Upon her throne, with stars bedight, Enthralled
     my soul to thee!
                 III
     Ah I ever I behold Thy dreamy, passionate eyes, Blue as the
     languid skies
     Hung with the sunset’s fringe of gold; Now strangely clear thine
     image grows, And olden memories Are startled from their long
     repose Like shadows on the silent snows When suddenly the
     night-wind blows Where quiet moonlight ties.
              IV
     Like music heard in dreams, Like strains of harps unknown, Of
     birds forever flown Audible as the voice of streams That murmur in
     some leafy dell, I hear thy gentlest tone, And Silence cometh with
     her spell Like that which on my tongue doth dwell, When tremulous
     in dreams I tell My love to thee alone!
              V
     In every valley heard, Floating from tree to tree, Less beautiful
     to, me, The music of the radiant bird, Than artless accents such
     as thine Whose echoes never flee! Ah! how for thy sweet voice I
     pine:— For uttered in thy tones benign (Enchantress!) this rude
     name of mine
         Doth seem a melody!




THE VILLAGE STREET


     IN these rapid, restless shadows, Once I walked at eventide, When
     a gentle, silent maiden, Wal    ked in beauty at my side She alone
     there walked beside me All in beauty, like a bride.
     Pallidly the moon was shining On the dewy meadows nigh; On the
     silvery, silent rivers, On the mountains far and high On the
     ocean’s star-lit waters, Where the winds a-weary die.
     Slowly, silently we wandered From the open cottage door,
     Underneath the elm’s long branches To the pavement bending o’er;
     Underneath the mossy willow And the dying sycamore.
     With the myriad stars in beauty All bedight, the heavens were
     seen, Radiant hopes were bright around me, Like the light of stars
     serene; Like the mellow midnight splendor Of the Night’s irradiate
     queen.
     Audibly the elm-leaves whispered Peaceful, pleasant melodies, Like
     the distant murmured music Of unquiet, lovely seas: While the
     winds were hushed in slumber In the fragrant flowers and trees.
     Wondrous and unwonted beauty Still adorning all did seem, While I
     told my love in fables ‘Neath the willows by the stream; Would the
     heart have kept unspoken Love that was its rarest dream!
     Instantly away we wandered In the shadowy twilight tide, She, the
     silent, scornful maiden, Walking calmly at my side, With a step
     serene and stately, All in beauty, all in pride.
     Vacantly I walked beside her. On the earth mine eyes were cast;
     Swift and keen there came unto me Ritter memories of the past On
     me, like the rain in Autumn On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
     Underneath the elms we parted, By the lowly cottage door; One
     brief word alone was uttered Never on our lips before; And away I
     walked forlornly, Broken-hearted evermore.
     Slowly, silently I loitered, Homeward, in the night, alone; Sudden
     anguish bound my spirit, That my youth had never known; Wild
     unrest, like that which cometh When the Night’s first dream hath
     flown.
     Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper Mad, discordant melodies, And
     keen melodies like shadows Haunt the moaning willow trees, And the
     sycamores with laughter Mock me in the nightly breeze.
     Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight Through the sighing foliage
     streams; And each morning, midnight shadow, Shadow of my sorrow
     seems; Strive, 0 heart, forget thine idol! And, 0 soul, forget thy
     dreams!




THE FOREST REVERIE


     ‘Tis said that when The hands of men Tamed this primeval wood, And
     hoary trees with groans of woe, Like warriors by an unknown foe,
     Were in their strength subdued, The virgin Earth Gave instant
     birth To springs that ne’er did flow That in the sun Did rivulets
     run, And all around rare flowers did blow The wild rose pale
     Perfumed the gale And the queenly lily adown the dale (Whom the
     sun and the dew And the winds did woo), With the gourd and the
     grape luxuriant grew.
     So when in tears The love of years Is wasted like the snow, And
     the fine fibrils of its life By the rude wrong of instant strife
     Are broken at a blow Within the heart Do springs upstart Of which
     it doth now know, And strange, sweet dreams, Like silent streams
     That from new fountains overflow, With the earlier tide Of rivers
     glide Deep in the heart whose hope has died— Quenching the fires
     its ashes hide,— Its ashes, whence will spring and grow Sweet
     flowers, ere long, The rare and radiant flowers of song!




NOTES


      Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar
      Poe, and not included among his known writings, the lines
      entitled “Alone” have the chief claim to our notice. _Fac-simile
      _copies of this piece had been in possession of the present
      editor some time previous to its publication in “Scribner’s
      Magazine” for September, 1875; but as proofs of the authorship
      claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from publishing
      it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been adduced,
      and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to guide
      us. “Alone” is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of
      a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and
      the facsimile given in “Scribner’s” is alleged to be of his
      handwriting. If the caligraphy be Poe’s, it is different in all
      essential respects from all the many specimens known to us, and
      strongly resembles that of the writer of the heading and dating
      of the manuscript, both of which the contributor of the poem
      acknowledges to have been recently added. The lines, however, if
      not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of his early
      mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one well
      qualified to speak, “are not unworthy on the whole of the
      parentage claimed for them.”

      While Edgar Poe was editor of the “Broadway Journal,” some lines
      “To Isadore” appeared therein, and, like several of his known
      pieces, bore no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and
      in order to satisfy questioners, an editorial paragraph
      subsequently appeared saying they were by “A. Ide, junior.” Two
      previous poems had appeared in the “Broadway journal” over the
      signature of “A. M. Ide,” and whoever wrote them was also the
      author of the lines “To Isadore.” In order, doubtless, to give a
      show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known works
      in his journal over _noms de plume, _and as no other writings
      whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of “A. M.
      Ide,” it is not impossible that the poems now republished in this
      collection may be by the author of “The Raven.” Having been
      published without his usual elaborate revision, Poe may have
      wished to _hide _his hasty work under an assumed name. The three
      pieces are included in the present collection, so the reader can
      judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be by the
      author of “The Raven.”





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